#that bear trap is the star of the show

[bl-bracket]

Poorest Little Meow Meow - Loser's Bracket

Round 1

Nawin (Laws of Attraction) vs Vee (Love Mechanics)

Shin (3 Will Be Free) vs Tae Myungha (Love for Love's Sake)

Zongzheng Shaoyu (Meet You at the Blossom) vs Chi Soo (Long Time No See)

Atom (The Rebound) vs Ayan (The Eclipse)

Sound (My School President) vs Tian (A Tale of Thousand Stars)

Phob (Something in My Room) vs Nueng (Never Let Me Go)

Jack (HIStory 3: Trapped) vs Han Jiwoo (To My Star)

Zhou Zishu (Word of Honor) vs Chopper (Never Let Me Go)

Achi (Cherry Magic TH) vs Nick (Only Friends)

Thaenthai (Laws of Attraction) vs Han Ying (Word of Honor)

Tomoda Koki (One Room Angel) vs Tharn (The Sign)

Ling Jiu Shi (The Spirealm) vs Tol (Triage)

Zhang Teng (Kiseki: Dear to Me) vs Black (Not Me)

Atom (My Love Mix-Up! TH) vs Zhao Yunlan (Guardian)

Dan (Not Me) vs Nut (The Miracle of Teddy Bear)

Ruan Lanzhu (The Spirealm) vs Tin (Triage)

[sweet-as-an-angel]

MW Reaction to You Leading Them On

Warnings: 18+, Implied Smut, Dark! Modern Warfare, Horny! Modern Warfare, Possessive Behaviour, Territorial Behaviour, Entitled Behaviour, Threatening Behaviour, Incel-Coded! Modern Warfare, Dub-Con Themes, Implied Age Gap (Price), Physical Restraining, Kidnapping, Breaking and Entering, Reader Being Held Hostage, Abuse of Physical Power, Slut Shaming, Pet Names, Profanity, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except You.

Ghost

You’d only just noticed that Ghost stood at the front door of his apartment as if he were guarding it. Perhaps from your attempts at leaving.

You’d tried apologising to him for ‘stringing him along’ as long as you had, but you genuinely believed the two of you were just being friendly, bantering. Nothing more to it.

Obviously, Simon hadn’t seen it that way. You know that now as you watch his hand slip down the front of his sweatpants, palming his erection through them.

“Why don’cha come and show me how sorry you are with that pretty little mouth of yours.” He’s so monotone when he says it that you think he’s joking. His face tells you otherwise.

Of course, you’re speechless. But Simon cares little for your bewilderment. He looks down at you, his eyes narrowing. When you don’t come to him, he steps towards you.

“You know,” he says, coming closer. You step back. “Y’hear about pretty little things like you wandering into a man’s trap. Gettin’ ravaged.”

He’s before you, now, all but chest-to-chest. His eyes are black. Gone is the man you’ve been playfully flirting with these last few months; who you’d tried to push over the edge with your accidental grazes, your unintentional whines, the batting of your eyelashes.

None of that will save you now. His voice carries the weight of a dark star.

“How do you know this isn’t exactly where I want you.”

König

König was eerily silent upon your rejection.

You both stood in his kitchen where, after watching you cook, his heart swelling beyond reason and fathom, König had blurted out that he liked you. A lot.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t return those feelings, only viewing König as a good friend at most.

And now, he stands sentinel over a reaction you can’t possibly predict. Especially as his eyes, usually crinkled with a smile and laughter, seem lighter than usual, as if drained of all their warmth.

“I see,” is all König says. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He leans back against the kitchen counter, one hand gripping its rounded edge while the other remains free.

“I suppose I only have one option, then.”

König stands to his full height, approaching you, invading your personal space. He’s almost chest-to-chest with you, the bulk of his frame, the size of his biceps becoming glaringly obvious to you now as his shirt struggles to contain him, pulled taut over his musculature.

“I’ll just have to destroy you for any other man you try to whore around with.”

The way in which he says it suggests indifference; as if this is something he’s done or thought about a million times before. He presses you into the counter, hands coming to rest either side of you. He bears down on you, jaw clenched and teeth gritted behind straight lips.

“Then you’ll have no choice but to come limping back to me.”

Soap

“Oh aye, Bonnie? You’re gonna drop me, just like that?”

The look Johnny gives you is one of incredulous disbelief. Yet, in some way, you feel that he already knew you weren’t dedicated to the idea of a relationship with him. Even after all the time you’d spent together, the many nights you’d enjoyed sleeping over at his apartment, the many treats you’d baked for him; these were all things one could easily mistake for friendship.

You’d considered that perhaps tonight hadn’t been the best time to let him down, regardless of how gently you did it, considering it was your weekly movie night and it was his turn to host. 

You wish you’d listened to your inner self. Especially now as Johnny watches you, his eyes silver and sharp like a wolf’s. Without warning, he pounces on you, taking your wrists and planting them into the sofa cushions.

He lies atop you, heavy. Unmoving. Struggling only makes him grunt, a spark flashing in his eye.

“Tell you what,” he proposes. “If y’can still remember yer name by the time I’m through with you,” he presses his hips against yours. You gasp at the feeling of something heavy and pointed catching you. 

“We’ll see how willing y’are to try’n lead me astray.”

Valeria

“I see how it is,” she sighs, arms crossed over her front. She has you tied to a chair in her office, mouth gagged as you try to plead with her through your tears, your eyes. “You thought you could have your cake and eat it too. Thought you could have me while trying to fuck every other bitch that crosses your path.”

You’d dared to try and break things off with Valeria – ‘things’ referring to the one-sided pursual of your love by a certain cartel mommy. But alas, your efforts to repel her had only strengthened her resolve – her need – to have you.

“I’ve dealt with your type before,” she says, bringing her face down to your level. You swear her eyes are black, devoid of the slivers of humanity she still possesses – somewhere. The wrinkle in her nose forecasts disgust, an emotion you know first-hand does not bode well with Valeria.

“I thought you were different. Thought you’d know to shut up and take what’s handed to you – especially when you’ve worked yourself so hard to get it.” Valeria’s hand comes down between your legs, her fingers wrapping around the meat of your thigh. Gripping. Tight.

“Maybe the you I’m looking for is buried in there somewhere.” You can taste the venom in her voice as her scrutinising gaze roves over your bound form. She brings her mouth to your ear, intentional and without haste.

“And all I need to do is fuck it out of you.”

Price

You considered for a moment that John hadn’t actually heard you. What, with his lax demeanour and total lack of acknowledgement of your rejection.

Of course, you were glad he wasn't reacting poorly, but to see him not reacting at all worried you.

“I could have you hidden away somewhere–” Price starts, lighting his cigar and not even looking at you, “–where you’d be for my eyes only.”

The fact that he says it so casually almost has you believing that you’ve misheard him. You blink, wait for him to prove you wrong

Much to your shock, he does nothing to quell your growing anxiety. 

“Bet you’d like that – having the attention of an older man. ‘Specially since you’ve worked so hard to get it.”

Now, he looks at you, with eyes hard and sharp as diamond, half-lidded, a glare that could cut glass.

“Sitting on my lap, wearing those tight little shorts around me. Bet you wanted this to happen, didn’t’ya.”

When you don’t respond, too shocked to even conjure a response that could cover even a fraction of what John had said, he spoke for you.

“Well, Love, got anything to say for yourself?”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He took his legs off his desk and stood, staring at you.

“Better say it now since y’won’t be able to say much by the time I’m done with you.”

Horangi

“I just can’t believe you thought this would end well for you.” Hong-Jin paces before you as you sit on the edge of your bed, a hostage in your own home. Clearly, your rejection of his proposal to become his partner hadn’t ended well, hence the lock on your front door now lay broken, your security system disarmed.

“Especially after all I’ve spent on you, after all I’ve done to you – for you.”

His eyes never left you, staring you down. You tried not to shake, tried not to make a run for the door that, while open and tantalising in its beckoning for your escape, a steel model of a man patrolled it, patrolled you. Had you prisoner.

He stops before you, stands just inches from where your knees are jittering. His hands come down to grip them, giving them a squeeze. If it’s meant to be comforting, his intentions are lost in translation.

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with you,” he says. Offers you an out. “Maybe I’ve given you too much freedom.”

At that, he sinks to his knees before you and, without warning, parts your legs. You yelp, trying to pull away, but he keeps you tethered to the spot. His hands shoot to the top of your thighs and you can feel his fingers hooking over the sides of your bed shorts.

You try to reason with him, try to tell him you’ll do whatever he wants, so long as he doesn’t hurt you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Only want to show you–” he pulls the sides of your shorts down– “what you’re missing.”

Alejandro

The instigator of such a cold reception from Alejandro had been your refusal of a date with him. One which, unbeknownst to you, he’d been planning and psyching himself up for for the past week.

“I see.” Alejandro’s face was stern, thunder clouds rolling over him, making his features dark and pointed. The onset of a storm.

You didn’t know what to say, what to do, as Alejandro stood by your front door, dressed as if he was prepared to take you out right now.

You could see his jaw clench, his eye twitch.

“Is there someone else?” he asks.

You know that getting rejected solely because someone favours another over you is bad, but being rejected without competition is worse. You swallow, unsure of which option will infuriate Alejandro more. When you fail to answer, he sighs.

“You know, I always thought you were smarter than this, (Y/N).” His voice is low and intentional, like a plane flying too close to the ground. You look up, only to find him staring down at you, taking up all the space of your doorway with his hand perched on top of it like it’s nothing.

“But maybe I just have to teach you.”

You try to speak up for yourself, try to ask Alejandro what he’s playing at, but he shushes you. Steps into your home.

“I’ll have you crawling back to me by the night’s end, Cariño.” His words carry a weight that roots you in place. “I promise you that.”

Rodolfo

“Oh, I know,” he says with all the certainty in the world. You’re in his apartment, coming to break the news to him that you can’t accept his boyfriend proposal; the one he’d sent you in a five-page-long love letter.

You blink, befuddled. “You…you know?” Your brow raises. “You’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would.”

Rudy gives a hum, a smiling one. He puts his hands in his pockets, leans against the wall behind him.

“That’s because I know you don’t mean it.” He gives you little time to contemplate his statement before he’s descending upon you like a solar eclipse. “I just needed an excuse to get you somewhere we wouldn’t be…” He searches for the right word. “Disturbed.”

Strange, considering how he was disturbing you right now. He went on.

“I mean, how else was I going to get you here? If I’d just text you, you could shoot me down without coming anywhere near me. But now,” he’s close enough that his hands rest on your arms when he reaches for you, pulling him closer to him. You stumble on uncertain legs.

His grip is soft but you feel trapped, even if Rudy is one of the few people you’d feel comfortable being trapped with.

“Now,” he says, voice low. He pulls you into his chest, hard with years of training.

“I can show you how well I can please you.”

Graves

Graves is far more used to being the player, not the played. So when he discovered that you were, in fact, engaging in what could be construed as promiscuous behaviour with him without the intention of falling for his charms, he went silent. His stare hardened.

He’d never admit it, but he’d actually grown to like you in the time you’d been together. A lot.

“So that’s it?” he says. His voice, usually rounded with his southern charm and honeyed words, strikes you like an arrow, ice and sharp. “We have a good thing goin’ and you’re just gonna throw it all away?”

You’d tried to explain to him that no, that wasn’t what you meant when you’d suggested some time apart. You just wanted to explore other options, is all.

He gives a whiplash, humourless laugh.

“Can tell you’re lyin’ from a mile away. I know you want me, need me.”

When you roll your eyes, ready to back out of the conversation altogether, he’s on you, closing the gap between you and gripping you by your shoulders. He presses you against the wall.

“Fight it all you want, but we both know you’re just gonna come crawlin’ back, so why don’t I make this easy for ya.” His breath is hot against your cheeks, a bull on the prowl. His fingers dig into your shoulders and he gives you an impish smile. One that seems to substitute something much more insidious.

“I’ll have you begging me to fuck you by the end of the night,” he promises. “One way or another, whether you like it or not, m’gonna make you all mine.”

Gaz

Gaz has played the nice guy for far too long. This, he realises as he watches someone try to chat you up from across the bar, only to make the fatal mistake he himself had made: leaving you unattended.

Gaz wasted no time. He slithered through the crowded bar to you, taking your wrist in his hand on his way. He dragged you to a small room, dark and out of the way. He locked the door behind him.

“What was all that about, then.”

He faces away from you, but even through the dim light of the one, flickering light bulb above you, you could see his shoulders heaving, his hands clenched into fists as he awaits your response.

A friend, just some guy – it doesn’t matter. Gaz turns and bears down on you, backing you against the wall. Your hands fly up to his chest to try and quell him, to put some distance between the two of you. His heart pounds and so does yours, albeit for different reasons.

“You’re mine,” he says. He pens you in, his form broad and sculpted by horrors unknown. A hand comes to take your chin between its fingers, jerking your gaze to meet his. “Have I not worked hard enough to be able to have you yet.”

His voice cracks, though he shows no signs of crying. No, Instead he presses his front to yours. Something catches your thigh and you gasp.

“Maybe you just need reminding,” he tells you, “of how much I’ve done for you.” He rolls his hips against you, his hands coming to bolt themselves on the wall behind you, caging you.

“How much I can do.”

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[shanieveh]

dangerously yours !

— genshin men as the villain, you're the hero and throw some love in the mix

sacrifices the world to save you— ALHAITHAM, scaramouche, diluc, THOMA, childe, chongyun

He knew you planned to sacrifice yourself. He saw it coming. And he was ready to prevent every bit of it. He loved you. Once from afar, once from a different identity, a falsehood, a lie. He did all of that to see you, to know you and he fell. Hard.

You were a saint, the embodiment of good morality. A hope for the future. The opposite of him. And as you brace yourself for the moment your soul leaves for a new world, all for his arms to be wrapped in your body. You open your eyes and found a new world, the sound of bombs from where you once were. But that didn't matter. Not when his eyes sparkle more than crystals.

let's you defeat them— kaveh, VENTI, arataki itto, AYATO, albedo, xingqiu, cyno, aether, zhongli, tartaglia, heizou

As your blade came so close to slashing his neck you were finally hailed as a hero. A champion, a winner. But that void in your heart, a trophy can't fill that piece of your heart. He told you it was okay, as both of you staged a fight. Now he was tortured, punished for his crimes. He made you defeat him so you'll be once again called a hero.

You visit him almost everyday, always with an anonymous identity. He still smiled even with his tortured frame, one from lashes, some from his couple inmates. How can he sacrifice all his of career for you? It was easy really. No amount of punishment could exceed your cries, and that beautiful pained face he can't bear to see.

you join the darkside— kaeya, AYATO, albedo, pantalone, scaramouche, pierro, dainsleif, tartaglia

He lured you right to his trap. It all started when you met him, it was like Eve drawing closer to the sneaky snake. But just like it, your first meeting was destiny. Your family always wanted you to be a kind loving child. And you grew up as one. But as you learned more about the other side, you realized how wrong the "morally right" actually is.

It started off with a petty theft, to some injuries and then violence. With him at your side, it felt like pure adrenaline rushed to your veins. He taught you reality, away from the fairy tale built by the stupid legends of heroes. He made you feel that pain and hatred all came from love. You made him feel that loving was never enough to show just how much he adores you. Bang.

he becomes good— scaramouche, THOMA kazuha, VENTI, kaveh, tighnari, zhongli, bennett, xiao

He was never really evil. He was hurt. And when you feel him, and touch and be with him you learn how he actually is. How he was supposed to be. He used his power to see you often, maybe battle with you, but with the many chances to defeat you he chose not to. The many chances to destroy your plans, he left.

On quiet nights, away from the prying eyes and evil plans. There lies both of you, one asleep, one awake. He looks at the person lying on the grass and stares at the peaceful sky and saw no difference. You were the shooting star. His wish. He can't be evil, and he never was. And just for you, he never will. He can't stand to lose you, and he would give everything he built for that.

BONUS: he sacrifices himself— thoma, KAZUHA, alhaitham, childe, albedo, diluc, KAEYA

No... it can't be. He cant die like that. Not for you. It wasn't how it was supposed to be. Pleas of you wanting to wake him up. He was supposed to be a foe. But how he loved you so. He made you feel like you had a purpose, that you were more than just a weapon of justice. He made you feel alive and in doing so it killed him.

The war was over. But was it worth it? It wasn't. Killing him, destroyed you, tore you to pieces. He planned all of this. He knew he was... and in the palm of his hand lie the letter. A plan? A story? No.. it only stated three words you were so scared told him. A feeling you now regret.

"I love you."

[bvidzsoo]

Cosmically divine

☆ Synopsis: Olympus, the place where Gods play pretend and do as they wish. Dion, the place where mere mortals suffer and do as the Gods wish. One might wonder, is life ever fair? ★ 

☆ Author: bvidzsoo ★ 

☆ Pairing: Ateez members x female reader ★ 

☆ Rating: nsfw, 18+ ★ 

☆ Genre: Greek mythology, dark romance, violence, smut, gore

☆ Status: on-going ★ 

☆ 1. Choi San x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　Underwater ◖Ares x Naiad Nymph!au◗ 

Summary: You knew that your love would never be fulfilled as the man you loved belonged to another woman. But can you help your poor Naiad heart when San, the God of war himself, seeks you out again and again when he is most vulnerable?

☆ 2. Kang Yeosang x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　Marionette ◖Aphrodite!au◗ 

Summary: Doomed from the beginning, your mother, Hera, only saw a weapon in you. If you had once thought she loved you, she proved you wrong the second she cast you away once you failed to kill her enemy's son. Yeosang, Aphrodite's dearest and most prized offspring.

☆ 3. Kim Hongjoong x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　Color of love ◖Hermes x Iris!au◗ 

Summary: If there was a God everyone feared, perhaps it was Zeus. After the continuous abuse he's put you through, you never thought you'd get to live your eternal life peacefully. That is, until the messenger God shows up and whisks you away before Zeus can see and stop him.

☆ 4. Jung Wooyoung x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　Kingdom come ◖Oread Nymph x Dryad Nymph!au◗ 

Summary: Nymphs were nothing but deities that preserved nature and allowed the Gods to love them in return for their blessings. And when Zeus lurks around, you are labelled as his, never to be touched by anyone in the whole cosmos. But can you help yourself when the man he claims is Wooyoung himself? The gorgeous and warm-hearted Oread that coincidentally returns your forbidden feelings for him?

☆ 5. Song Mingi x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　Dead man running ◖Hades!au◗ 

Summary: You were cursed, at least that's what your family thought about you. After a while, you started believing it too, the shadows that whispered to you convincing you that you were either crazy or just...different. And maybe you were, after all, the God of death himself, wouldn't have just called you his little shadow without a reason, right?

☆ 6. Choi Jongho x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　Nightmare ◖Phobos!au◗ 

Summary: Coming from a family that thrived under pressure and mayhem, it was only a matter of time until your father allowed you to join him on the battlefield. But perhaps what set you apart from other warrior families was the fact that each one of you worshiped a God of war. You just happened to make the mistake of offering yourself up to one in exchange for your dear sibling's life.

☆ 7. Jeong Yunho x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　One Kiss ◖Atë!au◗ 

Summary: Cast out of Olympus because Zeus has had enough of the mayhem and craze you created amongst men, living and meddling with mortals changed nothing. You thrived off of stupid men falling to their knees and begging you for attention, promising things no mortal could offer. But when a pure, untouched, and unassuming boy might just fall into your trap, you can't help yourself and entice him just to the point of madness.

☆ 8. Park Seonghwa x female reader ★ 

༄ ҉ 　Moonlight Melody ◖Poseidon!au◗ 

Summary: You always thought the man of your dreams never existed, would never come and whisk you away from this terrible terrible life that you lived. And perhaps when he starts showing up in your dreams, with promises that he'd soon come and see you, you find yourself hoping for a love that only the stars would bear witness to.

☆ A/N: Hello, my lovelies, I am here with a new story, can you believe it?! Because I can't lol, this wasn't supposed to exist but I thought...why not? Updates won't be too frequent, probably, as I have got quite a few others things to write, but I can't wait for you all to see what I have planned here! ^^ These stories won't be too dark, but I felt it necessary to mention dark romance as we're still dealing with some ambiguous topics. Taglist, as usual, is open and you are all very welcomed to comment on this post if you'd like to be added! Thank you for showing love, support, and interest in my works on here, they mean the world to me! <3 divider ★ 

↳Perm. taglist: @orshii @jjoongstar @tinyelfperson @thestarskiller @zuuhaa

@aaa-sia @gong-fourz @a-tinycarat @sooberryworld @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad

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❀ complete the forms if you're interested! ^^

[chlmtsdoll]

i need some obsessed love sick art with reader…yummyyyyyy <3

Girl yessss. Writing this kinda reminded me of that one lyric from The Bolter by Taylor that’s like “taming a bear, making him care” idk I thought it was sweettt 🫶🏽🫶🏽 love sick Art is my fave

Fluff ! With a little bit of my size kink added 😉

To the world he was an icon. A star. The undefeated Art Donaldson. But away from the court, tour life, all the eyes, he was insurmountably tender. The sweetest as they come, overly caring and cub-like if you will, all for you.

When it had been just the two of you, nothing could take his mind a drift from being as close as possible. And that was as literal as it could be. He was on you whenever and wherever. It didn’t matter. Being their to swaddle you in a warm towel right after a bath, being the first person he ran to after a torment, kissing on your neck even as you read a chapter of your book before bed.

He loved picking you up. Tossing you over his shoulder, carrying you like a baby, whenever he could. Even with his gentle touch to everything and sensitive approach to most situations — it was obvious Art was physically a big guy. And you were in fact the ironic smaller girlfriend to his side, “look at your little toes.” He would chuckle to himself as you perfectly fit snug in his hold when the two of you would cuddle. He also would purposely use the excuse of him being much bigger to lay himself slightly on your lap so you couldn’t escape his hugs or when he’d kiss on your knees and thighs all sweet and cloying. It made you go crazy.

It was quite daunting the man could have had you so love struck by his cling to you when you’d always been the reserved type. Never too good with overtly being in your lovers space, or craving that contact with them every minute of the day — but with Art it was just different. He entranced you. With his sweet gestures and bashful doting eyes you couldn’t help yourself. He was your kind, warm hearted Art.

He loved watching you get ready, leaning on the counter top or lounging on the bed as he observed you from the bedroom while you did your makeup or hair. He was a girls guy after all. Always wanting to know the products you used and how you would do the styles he liked the most.

“Is this okay ?” Art questioned as he touched your locks, hardly, as if it would break if he clamped down too hard on the curling iron when you were showing him how to curl your hair for the first time, your giggle coming from where you sit between his legs.

“It’s fine, your doing great.” Your voice was encouraging, but that only got so far to the man who was a natural over achiever. He just wanted to do it right, impress you. You could tell from the way he looked in the mirror ahead of you, so serious as he pulled his lip underneath his tongue and he twirled your hair in a manner as best as he could. But quickly getting slightly upset when the curl hadn’t been as tight as the ones you showed him prior.

“You make it look so easy, baby… I don’t know how you do it.” His pouty voice matched the one on his lips, which was probably the most adorable thing to you really, you smiled fondly as you patted his hand as he frowned upon his work of your hair.

“You’re learning, with practice comes perfection, Artie.” Your voice was soft with him, and he liked that. Leaning down to leave a sweet peck to your cheeks that warmed up on instant at your blush from the man’s tender touch. He made you feel so loved — occupying all of his free time away from his career to love on you. He couldn’t get enough. He truly was obsessed with you.

Other times when you two would be watching a movie (or more like the movie had been watching you). You’d fallen into Arts trap to really lure you into making out with him, somehow always ending up on his lap as your thumbs caressed the skin of his soft cheek as you smooched and nibbled at his lip. Art groaned into every kiss you laid on him, letting you take control of the way his mouth moved with you. Hands going over your hips, he wanted to feel your angel like skin. Confessing in between kisses “wanna lock you down so bad.” And you’d giggle into the kisses before there had been a knock on your hotel room door.

Pulling away from the blonde as he groaned, “I’ll get it, lover boy.” You joked with a soft grin before getting up from his lap, but Art only lounged after your presence as he held on to your arm with greed not to let you up.

“No, no, no. I’ll miss you too much, princess.” Art whined as he stayed put relaxed against the pillows of the bed.

“I ordered take out for us, baby. I’ll only be a second,” you responded with a soft chuckle at the way his eyes watched your figure, following up the sight of his tongue darting out to lick over his lips at the plain sight of your adorable little bloomers.

“Fine.” The man sighed out and you gave him a sympathetic smile before turning on your heels to grab the food — but not to your much surprise, Art had followed right behind you. Turning around to notice him towering in coyness as he stuffed his hands in his pockets only to walk behind you as you scoffed at his needy response to loosing you for a quick second.

“What??” You laughed.

“I told you I’d miss you too much,”

You rolled you eyes as you opened the door to greet the delivery person and almost immediately after handing you the bags, they notice Art behind your figure, standing hunched against the wall with his attention proudly on you. There was a colossal gasps when they’d really examined who the tennis player was as you’d already known to be prepared by now. “Art Donaldson!” They screeched before you shut the door kindly with a cheeky smile.

“Bye!” was all you noted before locking the door and It was soft chuckles coming from the blonde as you narrowed your eyes at him with a grin before folding your arms. “Was it really worth giving them a near heart attack just to watch me walk down the hall ?”

“Yes. I don’t like being apart from you for too long, sweets.” Art shrugged before his lips curled up into a grin as he reached behind you to squeeze your ass just a bit. “And the sight of this can’t be missed.”

You swatted his hands away playfully even though you would of attacked him with more smooches if your food hadn’t been getting cold. Art smiled and took the bag from you to only catch your lips in a kiss anyways, and your flush grew as you couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness, yet sweetness that Art naturally was in his quality time with you always. Even if it boarded on quite obsessive. <3

[shadowdaddies]

I have another request! Your writing is just amazing.

Would love an Az x reader where she knows they are mates but doesn’t tell him because she can’t have kids and she thinks he will reject it if he finds out. So she starts pulling away or gets upset or something and then the bond snaps for him and he is confused as to why she doesn’t want it.

She finally tells him and thinks he will reject her because of it but it goes from angst to fluff and he’s all cute and says she is all he wants and he doesn’t care. Happy ending

thank you so much lovely! I love your requests, I think they're perfect for Az

All I've Ever Needed

Azriel x Reader

Leaned over the balcony, you swirled the champagne in your glass as the stars began to shoot across the sky, bathing Velaris in ethereal light. The quiet scuff of boots sounded next to you, a smile gracing your lips as you thought about the only person who would wear boots to Starfall.

Glancing up, you were met with hazel eyes, golden in this light as they focused on you. “You’re missing the show,” you nodded to the skyline in front of you.

“Am I?” Azriel murmured, so quiet you hardly heard him. Still, his gaze turned towards the sky, a comfortable silence wrapping around the pair of you like a warm blanket on this cold early Spring evening.

Azriel turned back towards you, inhaling deeply as he opened his mouth to speak when a rogue spirit soared towards him, glowing pale green light splattering throughout his onyx hair. Your laugh echoed loudly through the open night air, bringing a rare, broad smile to Azriel’s lips. His face lit up brighter than the stars that glowed like a halo around him, and the snap in your chest as the universe pulled you towards him was undeniable.

Breathless, you clutched your chest as emotions swirled within you. Mate, my mate, your heart chanted, as Azriel’s hand began to reach for yours. A high-pitched giggle sounded from below, interrupting the moment as little Nyx ran towards you.

“Uncle Azzy!” the toddler squealed in delight, laughter ringing through the air as Azriel lifted his nephew into his broad arms. “You have stars in your hair,” the small boy noted, chubby fingers reaching to tug on Azriel’s wavy tresses. 

Azriel shook his head, Nyx laughing as stardust sprinkled all around the both of them. “There, now you have stars too,” Az murmured, setting Nyx back down for the child to run into Feyre’s arms. 

“Happy Starfall,” she greeted you with a kiss to your cheek before turning to Azriel, a soft laugh leaving the High Lady as Nyx eagerly reached back for Azriel once more. “You are so good with him,” Feyre noted to Az, grinning at the shadowsinger’s blush from her compliment. “I can’t wait to see you with children of your own one day.”

The perfect bubble of this evening burst. Heart dropping, the skies of Velaris now a shattered snow globe as you registered Feyre’s words. Neither she or Azriel knew what you’d learned long ago from Madja, that you would never be able to bear children. 

And now, as you watched Azriel’s blush deepen, your mate smiling while he played with his nephew, you realized how cruel the Cauldron must be for your mate to be someone you could never satisfy. Setting down your flute of champagne, you excused yourself as you abandoned not only the party, but any chance you’d hoped for with Azriel.

Months passed as you ignored the shadowsinger, ignored the way your heart called to him, how much you missed his kindness and friendship. Being the understanding person that he was, Azriel didn’t push you, didn’t try to force you when he noticed you distancing yourself. It somehow hurt more, knowing that the person who understood you most was still there, giving you the space you needed despite how much you wanted to run into his arms. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him, tell him how much you loved him, trap him by telling that you were his mate when you could never give him the children he evidently wanted.

Walking down the streets of the Rainbow, Mor pressured you about Azriel’s birthday. “I know you two aren’t as close, and I won’t push about it, but you are going to his birthday tonight aren’t you?” 

You sighed, running a hand over your face as you deliberated the question you’d been asking yourself for the past several weeks. “Of course I’ll go, Mor. We are still friends,” you promised, knowing that as much as you might dread this evening, missing Azriel’s birthday would cause too many issues among your family.

Mor left you alone, headed to meet Feyre at the art studio. You walked down the street, looking in the windows of art galleries and clothiers when something pulled you towards a small jewelry shop. You heart fluttered in your chest when you noticed the silver ring in the window, a small cobalt blue gem in the center. 

You opened the door without thinking, your feet guiding you to where the jewelry sat in its display. The shopkeeper approached you, her kind green eyes twinkling as she looked between you and the ring.

“That is a beautiful piece. I’ve seen several males pass by admiring it. And we can do same-day engraving,” she spoke, her velvet voice thinly veiling her eagerness to make the sale. 

As the idea came to you, you flashed her a smile. “I’ll take it.”

Hands shaking with nerves, you shyly maneuvered through the doorway to the River House, gift in hand as you made your way to the living room where your family was gathered. Mor approached you first, blonde hair flying as she ran towards you to wrap you in a hug. Handing you a drink, she looped her arm in yours, guiding you to the center of the room where you set the gift on the table.

Hazel eyes bored into you, Azriel staring unabashedly as he approached. “Thank you for coming,” he whispered, a lump in his throat as he looked over the gauzy lavender dress you donned. “You look beautiful.”

Blushing under his attention, you willed your heart to stop pounding against your chest as you spoke. “Of course. Happy birthday, Azriel,” you murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek before turning to greet the others.

Near the end of the evening, everyone was enjoying the beautiful cake Elain had prepared when Mor giddily clapped her hands. “Presents, now!” she demanded, shoving her own gift into Azriel’s hands. Azriel unwrapped the present, pink paper torn apart to reveal a pair of green, fuzzy earmuffs. “They’re to match the scarf I got you last Solstice!” Mor exclaimed, clearly proud of herself for such a thoughtful gift.

Azriel gave her a polite smile and a thank you, moving to unwrap the next gifts. From Cassian and Nesta, a new pair of boots, since apparently once of the Valkyries had thrown up on his other pair during training last week. From Feyre and Rhys, he was given a painting - a memory of the annual snowball fight from the last year, with Nyx included. 

“Who is this from?” Azriel asked, holding up the small box with blue paper and black ribbon. You shyly raised your hand, a nervous smile on your face as Azriel’s eyes softened. “Thank you,” he said, never breaking eye contact. 

“You haven’t even opened it yet,” you retorted with a giggle. Azriel’s eyes sparkled at your laughter, his hands deftly untying the ribbon as he carefully opened the box. He simply stared at it for a moment, silver lining his eyes as he held the box in his hands.

“I know you like to wear rings, and if you look at the side, I had it engraved for you,” you explained. Azriel carefully took the ring from the box, turning it over to see the outline of Ramiel, with Carynth shining above, and Azriel, Rhysand’s, and Cassian’s initials below.

Sliding the ring on his finger, Azriel looked to you, a look of shock crossing his features as he stumbled back, knocking his chair backwards in the process. You forgot to breathe for a moment, the only thought your brain able to process that Azriel now knew that you were mates. Standing up quickly, you uttered a goodbye as you ran out the front door in escape.

You made it halfway across the lawn when shadows swirled in front of you, Azriel towering over you as he appeared, anger swirling in his eyes. “You knew.” 

You didn’t say anything, just held your chin high as you willed the tears not to fall. Azriel didn’t let up though, taking another step towards you. “How long have you known that we are mates?”

Eyes shuttering, you took a deep breath. “Since Starfall,” you eked out in a broken whisper. 

Azriel’s face contorted in hurt and anger, his own voice shaky as he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me? All of this time avoiding me, why wouldn’t you tell me that you didn’t want me?”

Something between a shocked laugh and a choking sound forced its way from your throat as you gaped at him. “Don’t want you? Azriel, all I want is you! It’s been agony trying to stay away, to keep the bond from snapping and trapping you with me. You deserve better, Az. You deserve more than I can give to you.”

Trying to step around him to walk away, Azriel swiftly slid into your path, the ring on his finger cool against your cheek as he guided your gaze to his. “How could you ever think that you wouldn’t deserve me? If anything, I don’t deserve you. You are kind, beautiful, thoughtful... You’re more than I could have dreamed of.”

You allowed yourself to lean into his touch for only a moment before you softly pulled his hand away from your face. You drew his hand up, clutching it in your own, savoring the warmth of his touch. “Azriel, I can’t have children. Madja told me years ago, it’s just not possible for me. And seeing you on Starfall with Nyx, you were so happy. And I cannot give you that. I cannot give you everything you want, can’t give you a family.”

Azriel’s hand wrapped around yours, pulling you into him, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist. Holding your chin between his fingers, he tilted your gaze to him. “You are my family. You are everything I could ever want, and more.” His lips brushed yours, the feeling of his smile against your own sending a burst of joy through you as you leaned up to kiss your mate.

[0livdocx]

Howard Hamlin: illusion of burning sins

Inspired by Better Call Saul S04E01 - Smoke:

“There’s something else that’s still burning after the fire that took Chuck’s life.”

I originally drew this piece at the start of the year, but recently I got back to it and decided to add some spice. Despite some small errors, I like how it looks now. Yum!

My creative process & thoughts for this piece:

It’s originally a self-projective piece partially about my mental struggles, but I won’t be talking about myself here.

Let’s focus on Howard Hamlin in this episode, right after Chuck’s death - Unforgivable as Howard Hamlin thought he was, he was partially a scapegoat for Jimmy McGill’s deeds. I’m putting Howard in the frame, but it is reflecting an aftermath of Jimmy’s self-denial and psychological manipulation driven by his own insecurities. Jimmy told Howard “that’s your cross to bear” while the sentence also serves as a suggestion to the audience that Howard is indeed a sacrifice to Jimmy’s self-loathing and avoidance. Jimmy McGill would be the illusionist who casted this whole “illusion of sins” upon Howard Hamlin’s already conflicted mind. Would you feel pity for this guy? Vince legit made him cry for your pity.

Everything is still about Jimmy McGill, our cunning, venomous perpetrator. Self-loathing and antisocial tendencies are a part of his true nature. Did he see Howard’s distress? Did he see Howard Hamlin’s suffering? He did. But this man closed his heart to them, just like the way he run away from himself. Jimmy McGill’s lack of sympathy is one of the very things that brought Howard into his grave. Just how pathetic Howard is? Grieving for his misplaced error in the dark, this man is oblivious to the fact that he was already entwined by the serpent: a cold blooded creature who would never change its nature - the snake here serves as a symbol of Jimmy McGill’s inherent antisocial tendencies. Howard could never foresee the future of this serpent sinking its teeth into him and pump out its deadly poison, which will finally give him the kiss of death. Even the stars that will guide him on his path cannot save him from this misery. Personally, 401 feels like the beginning of the downfall of Howard Hamlin, and the rise of Saul Goodman.

If we think about the causes of Chuck’s death, it’s not hard for anyone to see that Howard Hamlin, this poor man is overshouldering someone else’s sin - someone who’s unable to face the responsibilities to their own actions, someone who’s in constant denial, someone who’s too much hatred in their heart. (Naw Howard is legit Jesus here💀) it’s why I chose to cover Chuck’s face with the cross too, for how Jimmy mislead Howard into believing that Chuck’s death was all his fault, when Jimmy himself was the main perpetrator.

Anyway, in later seasons of the show, we can notice that Howard was crumpled up and put into somewhere he didn’t belong, he’s forced to face this superficial alienation - his marriage was falling apart too. With this vulnerability, Vince showed that this lead lawyer of HHM was stuck, he was conflicted, his glory was wearing off, he was struggling like every normal person would. He was burning not only because he’s trapped by guilt and sin, but also for the reason that he has the vitality to “burn” and release energy: He is resilient. He has the life inside of him to be burnt.

Compassion creates a sense of closure between characters and audiences. The entire tight spot in Howards life conveyed by Vince makes audiences empathize with him easily - honestly I never felt a thing for Howard Hamlin’s boring ass because I was busy siding with Jimmy McGill in my mind in the first few seasons. What’s interesting about Brba/Bcs is that Vince put us in front of a quandary: who would you side with in a fucked up world with fucked up people? When watching the first few seasons of BCS I put my empathy in Jimmy McGill, but then my empathy slowly detached from him as the show progressed.

As for Howard, I just pity this man as an audience after witnessing his fall presented by Vince in the later seasons: what Howard deserved was anything but a nameless grave with his murderer, a defamation, and a twisted, made-up story stated by his perpetrators on his funeral. Vince made it obvious to the audience. Yes. Let’s make this glorious man suffer. Let him be guilt tripped. Let his life fall apart like a roller coaster so you’ll lay your compassion and love onto him - Howard Hamlin lost everything, he didn’t even have a death with dignity thanks to the people operating the fucked up bullshit in the dark - It’s interesting to notice my “love” for this character is originally out of compassion.

Despite Howard, there are lots of characters who deserve audience’s love. There are Nacho, Mike, Gus, their motives are even noble if you try to look at it from a humane perspective, but anyhow they’re all part of this gut-wrenching predatory game - it’s basically how everything is so complicated in a world depicted in Better Call Saul and Breaking Bad, they create intricate conflicts. I do love how fictions like BrBa and BCS allow us to explore the complexity of humanity in a safe distance.

As Howard Hamlin was buried, Saul Goodman buried Jimmy McGill alongside with him too. And then there’s Lalo Salamanca lying beside Howard Hamlin like they’re doing pillow talk - they are both powerful beings taking high positions in the BCS food chain. As they disappeared, the path for Saul Goodman’s career to ascend is broad and clear. A cucaracha rising to the top, and this time he’s fully embracing the darkness.

In conclusion: Great make-believe, Vince!

[nathscalet]

Another smut from my fanfic that will take forever to post

Minors do not interact please 🙏

Dracula x reader

Warning: Pnv, vaginal fingering, oral sex, creampie, female reader, submissive reader?, biting, drinking blood, small aftercare at the end.

Those who sat around Dracula could feel his possessive gaze on you, exuding an aura of danger. They didn't know if the anger was directed at them or at you. But his aura could certainly be felt from afar.

You didn't do a bourslesque show, which could made Dracula end up destroying the couch and consider kidnapping you from the stage.

Oh but you looked so sexy. Eternal even singing that lovely song. When you smiled at him, he felt his throat close, wanting nothing more than to join you on stage.

But there was no openings for him, you were the star of the show.

At the end of the night you drank more champagne, enjoying the frizzy taste. You went to say your goodbye to the king, but he, as a gentleman, and your friend, decided to accompany you home.

Walking you to your house, seeing how you walked bouncing through the light rain without worrying about getting wet and shaking the older man's hand. He was relieved that you accepted his company not wanting to let your vulnerable side exposed for the rest of those hungry wolfs at the club.

Dracula contemplated the cloudy night listening to you hum a song

Im singing in the rain 🎵 "

What a glorious feeling ...

Hum umm huh huh hum

He hated how your silliness affected him.

"Thank you for walking me home your majesty! The night was fun, you should go out more often." You were saying goodbye to the oldest tho he hadn't let go of your hand. Trapped in thought, wrestling with himself, wondering whether or not he should do this.

That feeling that he cautiously caged inside. Those shameful thoughts. And lonely longings of a grieving heart.

"Y/n... I... think... I like you." Dracula said, feeling his stomach fill with butterflies as he revealed his feelings. Feeling naked before you.

"Haha haha ​​Awww how cute! This is the first time you've told me that. My friendship efforts would bear fruit I knew that deep down inside you had a little heart" you couldn’t help but laugh, so out of character of him express his feelings specially towards you, a human girl, a daring woman that “corrupted” his son. ( you taught baby Alucard compassion)

"..." Dracula just squeezed your hand and looked at you like a puppy abandoned in the rain. And he moved closer to you "Y/n I like you a lot." Dracula tenderly brought his hand to your cheek.

"Ha... Wait- are you serious? like more than a friend?" Your heart dropped

"A thousand times more than a friend or student." The silence of the night allowed you to hear your fast heartbeat. How you felt your cheeks heat up

As the rain fell, drenching both of you, the clouds hid the moon, you looked into each other's eyes and slowly got closer.

Dracula slid his hand from her ribs to her waist, bringing her closer, close enough for their chests to touch and they felt each other's breath, and they both slowly got closer until they pressed their lips together.

The kiss had a strong taste of herbs and dry red wine, almost metallic.

The kiss was sweet, uncertain and curious. It started small to shy and progressed until they were both searching each other passionately, unbothered by the rain that was getting thicker by the moment.

You broke apart, panting, as you felt drops of water running down your skin.

"What are we?" You asked breathless

"Friends definitely don't kiss each other like that." Dracula pulled you into another kiss, a safer, more confident kiss.

Your heart racing as your bodies sought each other more fervently. The vampire picked you up and carried you without difficulty to your room, up the stairs of the inn to your room. They were both soaked leaving a trail of rain across the floor. Dracula kicked the door to his room, which he opened quickly and closed with his heel.

He laid her on the bed, placing light kisses on her face, tickling her lightly with his mustache. The vampire's hands went up to the collar of his shirt, they had an atypical lightness, taking off his wet blouse and undoing the belt of his pants. Leaving her in just panties and bra.

That man's predatory gaze appeared, seeing your body, there was no denial, he was mesmerized, looking at her imprisoned breasts.

You wasted no time, pulling the vampire back into the kiss, pulling him by the neck. 

You could hear a continuous sound, coming from the someone, resembling a purr.

"How adorable Drac! I didn't know you could purr." He stopped, like a child caught in a cat's jump, before relaxing his body and giving in even more. "And you'll find out more about what I can do. If you're willing?" He placed their foreheads together, looking into her soul. "Do you want to move on (name)?"

A lump formed in your throat, not expecting that question. You were even shy to respond, nodding, as your tongue froze.

"Use your words, dear. Tell me how much you want my touch." Your body vibrated, you couldn't identify if it was from the cold or the heat of your belly. "Don't tell me I finally caught cat’s tongue." He gave an even more dangerous smile than the one Astarion sent your way.

You snapped out of your trance "I prefer to use actions rather than words dear." You touched the volume between the vampire's legs

"Hmmm." Dracula ran the tips of his nails down your exposed back, causing goosebumps before unbuttoning the lock of the bra, throwing them on the corner of the room. "Aren't you a naughty one? But I won't touch you until I heard you said it, I want your full consent. For what I'm about to do will forever change our relationship."

It was strange. This whole development has happened before, so why did you feel butterflies in your stomach?

"I want you. I want this." You whispered in the vampire's ear

Your hands unbuttoned the dark-haired man's shirt, which revealed a carefully sculpted chest, the top garment falling, and the pants following shortly after.

Dracula's member was thick and long and with a low bush of hair followed by a happy trail.

Before entering into the main act of the night, Dracula didn't just want a simple night of pleasure, this was special.

Dracula gently slid his hand all over your body, feeling and appreciating you from head to toe. You felt a firm, cold and heavy hand squeeze your breasts while a tongue wet your neck making you let out a ticklish moan.

"Don't hold back your voice dear. I want to hear all your sounds until the end of the night"

Dracula held your hands above your head, leaving your neck exposed to his fangs.

Your neck and chest were attacked by a thirsty mouth, you felt Dracula's fangs passing dangerously close to your jugular.

"Allow me?" Do you trust the vampire enough to offer your neck? Do you trust that it won't transform you? A shot in the dark in this moment

You nodded. 

Dracula licked your shoulder, giving you goosebumps, before piercing your skin and sucking your blood. You could feel his body getting hot and limp, and his mind hazy. Your blood also made Dracula even harder, tasting that delicacy, his mind closing in a curtain of pleasure.

You tried to get out from under the brunette, but he blocked your hips with his thighs and applied more force to your arms.

Stopping drinking blood, he licked the wound, like a dog.

"Not so fast. You're too hurried , you're not even ready to receive me.  Let me prepare you."

Drac let go of her wrists and bent down for well, you know 👅👅😺

Dracula slid his tongue out and teased her hole, sliding up and down her folds before moving up.  Dracula closed his mouth around her clit and ran his tongue along her bundle of nerves.  The sudden attention made her tremble even more with pleasure, her body feeling a current of shock run through it and her hips rotating, seeking more stimulation. 

He wanted to see how much you could take, so he began to suck her slowly, making delicious moans.  Soon his pace began to accelerate, sucking harder.  You spat out muffled curses, covering your face with one of your arms, feeling the blood rush to your head.

"You taste really sweet." The pussy was like new. Pussy tight ! pussy clean! pussy fresh!

Before you could come, he slowed down.  His tongue now slowly circled her clit, teasing gently, giving her enough pleasure to torture you but not push you over the edge.  You let out a small cry of frustration as your back arched, desperate for a release he wouldn't let you have.

Taking advantage of your restlessness, he snaked one of his arms around your thigh, pulling you up, pressing his face deeper, until your legs were wide apart, resting on his shoulder.

He pressed down feeling the walls of her vagina tightening around him, tasting another one of those lovely nectars that women produce.  He moved his finger experimentally, pulling it out and pushing it back in, making you squirm as he slowly stretched you.

"ah! Drac! Faster!"

"Magic word?"

"Please!"

"Please what?"

"P-please, sir."

"Good girl."

Dracula pressed another finger into her, filling her even more and feeling her walls suffocate his fingers. Meanwhile, he brought back her tongue, super heating her insides, her body on fire and her skin tingling, and everything was perfect.

Vlad was doing perfect, sucking and preparing you at a perfect pace. The orgasm started in the pit of her stomach and blossomed outward, clenching every muscle in your body as heat spread through you.  legs shook as he continued to fuck you with his fingers, enjoying your squirming

Dracula removed his wet fingers, admiring his work "Now you are ready to receive me." He licked his fingers clean, looking down at you.

This man would be insatiable. You concluded silently.

He closed the gap between both bodies, burying himself in your hot, wet pussy, going all the way in smoothly.  You groaned, finally feeling the inner emptiness being generously filled. Drac grabbed your shoulders, slipping his arms around your neck to pull you close.

He kissed your collarbone, tasting your sweat on your skin, feeling your pulse beneath your flesh. Your heart was beating like a drum, meaning he was doing a good job, his chest filled with pride knowing that he was the one giving him this pleasure, his heart then beat excitedly, the electrifying euphoria coursing through his body .

Dracula looked at yours expression, with some tears of pleasure, and mouth open, panting. The exact expression that intoxicated his dreams. One that he kept locked out of shame for his filthy thoughts, but now he had the pleasure of seeing it in person.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, her breasts bouncing, and that expression of ecstasy. His expression probably wasn't much different, He hadn't felt intimacy like this in so long, when was the last time he had held a woman so fervently? He was lost in ecstasy in her smell, her touch, her taste and muscles. They were so soft and at the same time hard under his hands, her muscular flesh, her pussy like warm velvet wrapped so tightly around him.

Your body was shaking, the carefully and paced movements with his hips weren't enough, Dracula was torturing you with this rhythm. Those pink eyes were twinkling with sadistic pleasure, but two can play. You slid your arms under your daddy's shoulders, letting out several moans in his ear, before biting his ear.

Vlad let out a hoarse moan, feeling goosebumps run through his cold body, he raised his head and looked into your eyes.  Your expression was one of lust, although the sparkle in your eyes was an emotion that no one dared to look at him, care. His eyes darkened, it was impossible to feel more desire than now, the brunette pressed his lips to yours in a frantic kiss, rocking his body inside you in long, desperate movements. 

Finally the pleasure arrived, you could feel each vein of the member pulsing inside you, crushed against the walls of your uterus.

The pleasure that grew was intense, viceral, it could almost burn him from the inside.  He coveted that feeling.  No one had made him feel this way in decades, since Lisa passing, maybe centuries, he’d never met a crazy lad like you before.  How long has it been since he unwind? How much self-control and restraint? How stressed this war made him? You were taking him so well, the perfect toy for reliving stress.

His balls contracted, an intense pressure building in the pit of his stomach that sent shivers down his spine.  He was so close, so close to release, so close to losing himself in this woman.  You felt a excruciating hug caging you as his thrusts became so desperate and sporadic. 

You pulled your lips away from his and let out a moan so filthy and low, warm breath hit his ear and he heard her.  That velvety, pleading voice... so he doesn't stop. How can he deny you if you ask like that?

Years of pent up lust and frustration released all at once came crashing inside you, his cock throbbing with load after load of hot semen inside your spasming walls.  When he came, he felt her legs tighten around his waist as he came, your orgasm adding intensity to his.  He didn't want to stop. Your walls milking him So heavenly, he beloved that was the closest he would get there.

He pulled out a little, letting the liquid drip out. Both of you were panting, the electrifying current still pulsing. Resting your legs on his shoulder, you looked at his disheveled hair, always so neat, now stick on his forehead and neck.

“Drac-“ bending you over. He pushed back in, his body hypersensitive after cumming, cried out in pleasure.

Once again the rhythm of a samba drum returned, this time much wetter, the air in the room was warm from this activity, the rain outside muffled your moans, while Drac held your leg, using it for support, then buried himself deeply, to discharge more cum, rutting into that mess he made inside.

You moaned in shock and the extra sensitivity. You couldn't believe how much there was.  Cum dripping from your pussy, staining the mattress.  He didn't want to stop filling her again and again. 

“Isn’t Thai what you wanted lad?” He whispered with that horsen voice “now you have all my undivided attention.” He trusted harder as he pronauced each phrase

“Drac” you whined feeling your strength leaving you

“So lovely. You’re just perfect. Taking me so well. How long have you thought about me filling you like this honey?”

“Drac!” You dragged your hands on his back

“Yes! Scratch me. Bite me. Moan for me love.” He held your cheeks as he kissed you in a final moment, reaching his own limit

He collapsed on top of you, breathing deeply and enjoying your touch. In his arms he realized he wouldn't let you go. You completed his broken existence. You had to stay with him.  You needed to stay. How long has it been since he felt alive?

You breathed in for a minute trying to assimilate what happened.  One of the most fulfilling sex you've ever had, you lost track of time, after a long time you were on the bottom of a relationship.

Drac turned around and put you on top of him after a few minutes of recovering. He guided his hips against your pelvis.

"Look into my eyes." Dracula commanded you to look into his eyes as you shared each other.

Dracula had a kinky, corruption fetish, he was euphoric seeing your expression when penetrated,that look of lust and surprise mixed with shame.

You let out weak moans as your bodies met.

"I can't do it anymore! Everything is shaking!" It’s was a mess your sex, his member making space spelling and pushing deeper his cum

"Do it honey, just a little longer! You're doing excellent!" Yours hip was left with marks from the brunette's claws. Dracula's chest was not intact either, looking like a crime scene.

Oh but he loved when you squished his pecs. Flustered, unable to control the pacing. Next time he’ll let you control the pace, use him to impale yourself.

You felt your eyes widen and your body fell forward as you felt him penetrating your cérvix.

“Ohh. Looks like I found it.”

You died in bed. Dracula laid there for a while, catching his breath, with you to laid on his chest.

You put your face on his shoulder, already making your way to the crib.

Dracula was stroking your hair and smelling you.

"I think someone needs a shower."

"Naaum! I'm tired, tomorrow I'll take. Let me sleep, you annoying parasite"

"Can you sleep with all your sweat and this coming off you?" Dracula pointed to the middle of your legs that was dripping with liquid.

"You know, I've slept with a gunshot wound to the rib and bleeding out."

Sigh. "Come, I'll carry you." You were taken like a plincesa to the bathroom

Dracula prepared the bathtub for you.

"What it was?"

"Nothing."

“You got something on your scheming mind. Tell me”

"I know. You're looking at me like a dog.?"

"Dog face? What's that face?"

"That face right there. Those low ears, those droopy eyes." You imitated the dog face for him studying his air cheeks

"Ahahahaha. I look like that, do I?" Dracula hugged you from behind.

"Yes. What are you thinking huh?"

"I was thinking about how I managed to be  with someone like you."

"Fufuf kinda late to regret it. I already took your body muhahaha. You're mine now." You let out Machiavellian laughs as you squeezed the sides of the king's face.

"None. I don't regret falling into that fearsome dragon's lair. She's actually quite cute." Drac said, looking at you with eyes so gentle and full of tenderness that you blushed and turned around, sinking deeper into the bathtub. Which made him laugh.

"Am I yours now? Isn't it the other way around? Since I'm the one who captured the dragon?" Dracula pressed you against his chest, kissing your shoulder

"You may have entered the dragon's nest but- you turned around- don't forget that it has sharp claws and teeth, made to devour you whole."- you pulled the brunette by the neck and gave the Vampire a hickey, pulling his hair of the same forcing him to look up and making a humm in his throat.

"How cruel. I thought the dragon lady was docile and silly."

"She is docile when offered offerings. What do you have to offer?"

"All I can offer the dragon lady is my body and soul."

"Then I'll take both."

"How greedy! What will be left for me if you take both?"

One last request. I can make your wish come true."

"Hmm. Then I want the dragon lady to give me her heart."

"Aren't you asking too high, mortal?"

"I wish for a trade." Drac took her hands and kissed the back of them "an exchange of heart."

"Damn you, what makes you think I would give my heart to you? What makes you worthy of such glory."

"I fell in love with the dragon. I am in love with your beauty and intellect, they are as precise as a painitis, as magnificent as the garden of Eden. I would trade my kingdom to be able to spend a night with you, so I could tell the demons that I was in the heavens without never having set foot there."

"Damn you and your lip service for Shakespearean romance!" You pushed your lover's face

"Miss Dragon would not be interested in this exchange."

"My heart for yours. A dragon for a dark being. The exchange seems irrational. Denied!"

"Then... I'll steal it." Drac pulled you into a fit of kisses and tickles.

"BURGLAR!" You applied foam to his mustache. "You won't steal my heart. It is pure and valuable."

"We both know your heart is greedy and relentless."

"Do you think you can satisfy him?"

"I'll do my best." Dracula sealed his lips on yours

After a long bath, you finally got the rest you wanted. Blacked out in bed. The king was at peace and your mind was racing, going over what had just happened. The seduction plan ended up happening by divine will.

[nonotnolan]

Stories I Love (Part 1)

One thing I've seen other authors from time to time is create a list of stories they really liked. Granted, usually it's limited to stories for the past year, but... historically I've been really bad about showing support to other authors in the past, so I'm not going to limit myself. Presented in a vaguely chronological order, grouped by author, here are some stories which I find to be particularly outstanding. The list is also in two pieces since Tumblr does not like long lists of hyperlinks. Here's Part 2.

Strangers on a Train by @21wanderer

Strange Halloween Head Swap by @strangemaleswaps

Warning: Bear Attacks by @onelittlespiral

Untitled 10/12/23 by @the-tfstation

Insert to Grow by @hotmentransformed

Untitled 9/18/23 by @technicallyhardwombat

Untitled 8/22/23 by @change-your-instinct

Bear Trap by @davenporttf

Through the Pain by @betweenthelinesmtf

Personal Afterlife by @unseenbenefactor

Fucked Silly by @fredwkong

Untitled 4/23/20 by @bodyswap101

To Break In New Clothing by @malebodyexhibit

Pop the Cherry by @captainmalewriter

Untitled 6/20/21 by @sdonovan91

Untitled 12/06/16 by @idesofrevolution

Interpreting Your Desires by @soul-controller

Karma by @swapery

Best Friends by @swapper

Super Soldier by @bodyswapr

Reclamation by @theoldfamiliar

Second Chance by @greyswap

Helpful Gym Buddy by @jakelandry

Untitled 2/09/15 by @piosantaibhseil

Untitled 10/30/23 by @alienpossession

By @bodyswapper : Untitled 12/13/23 Untitled 9/30/22 Untitled 2/28/23 Untitled 12/11/22 Brains and Brawn

By @tristswipaccou : Spat Out A Worker's Body

By @hauntedestheart : A Business Proposition and A Business Opportunity Untitled 9/06/23

By @swappingbryn : Untitled 10/29/23 Five Stars, Would Recommend Untitled 5/10/23

By @hyphyphurray : Untitled 5/21/19 Untitled 7/30/20 Untitled 2/15/15

By @mrwavellswaps : Taking It For Granted Gooey Thief

By @malebodyswap45 : Encounter First Day Tradition Handyman Adverse Effects Lost Memory Initiation

By @manswaps : The Cursed Hunk Part 1 and Part 2 Untitled 12/23/21 Be Careful of Truck Stops Untitled 7/13/21

By @mrcavanaughtf : Nothing Has Changed The Roommate Bet Each Other's Perspectives Gamer Skills Don't Hesitate Betting It All A Trip to the Gym Paid Vacation Time Two Year Turnaround Just Helping You Out

By @mergeman : The Cuffs My New Ride

[calummss]

The Shelter | Eminem—Marshall Mathers

masterlist

summary: you meet eminem at the shelter when your friend drags you along to your first show

pairing: fem! reader x marshall mathers/eminem

words: 1.7k

The night sky across Detroit had stars splattered across the pitch black sky. It was so beautiful that many people that called the 313 their home, momentarily forgot the weight that was bearing on their shoulders, walking across the street towards the shelter with their heads facing the sky. Lauren grabbed your hand so the two of you could sprint across the street to follow a crowd full of people into the Shelter. It was your first time ever going to step foot in the shelter. Lauren was a huge fan of rap and hip hop and had forced you to go since her other friends had planned for the night. You squeezed through a crowd full of people that were waiting in front of the line. ‘Aren’t we supposed to line up?’

‘No,’ she replied, barely looking over your shoulder, still tugging your body until she had reached the bouncers. Neither of them said anything. They gave her body a quick scan and stepped aside, letting her pass into a tight and dark hallway, with flickering lights barely illuminating enough light to see where you were going.It seemed less than a second when she let go of your arm and disappeared as soon as she let go.

‘Lauren!’ You called out, stopping in your tracks to try and find her. ‘Lauren?’ You continued to walk along the hall, no idea where you were going or where it was heading.

It was an eerie atmosphere trapped among the building, filled with people you didn’t know and people double your size. It felt clammy, uncomfortable and you needed space to breathe. Luckily the further you continued down the hall you eventually found a bathroom. Opening the door you took a few steps into the room before you collided with a hard wall, or so you thought. No wall, just a man. He had bleach-blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin and a pointy nose. He was hot. His eyebrows were slightly knitted, his jaw flexed as he stared at you, somewhat intimidatingly.

‘Sorry,’ you said, not moving from your spot.

‘You’re good.’ He replied, his voice laced with drugs that perked up your ears like a deer. He said nothing more than a few words yet they felt like they had sung to your soul, ready to listen to what he had to say. ‘Are you here to watch the show?’

‘Yeah,’ faint smile, lips freshly coated with a sheer red lip. ‘Are you here to watch or perform?’

‘Perform hopefully,’ He adjusted his beanie, his pale skin contrasting the dark washed clothes that hung off his body, barely a silhouette to be seen.

‘Good luck out there.’

‘Thanks.’ He didn’t smile but his face wasn’t as stern as it had been before. Probably one of those men that barely smile or show emotions.

The man you wanted to ask for his name walked past you in a hurry, the whiff of his cheap cologne the only thing that stayed inside the bathroom. Barely getting a chance to mentally go over your encounter you heard the faint voice of Lauren behind you and followed it until you saw her up front before the stage waving you over with a big smile. You walked over and awaited the performance of the mystery man. When he came on stage it was like you were living through his emotions. You could tell he was nervous, maybe you only thought that because he had teased it with you but his eyes looked like there was nothing behind them except rage to rip his opponent to pieces. And that’s what he did. Cypher after cypher, beat after beat, he took majority of the wins and climbed his way to the finale. When the final rappers were announced he had scanned the crowd to look at the people who were cheering on him. His eyes stopped scanning the crown when he laid his eyes upon you, staring at you for so long you were able to flash him a smile and whisper ‘you got this’ which you knew he understood.

The final round demonstrated his flow, speed and creativity on a different level than the rounds before. It was your first show and you knew that second that he had what it took to make a rap legend. When he was crowned winner of the shelter you applauded him like it was only your claps he could hear. When people started to get ready to leave, Lauren had tried holding your hand to not be separated once again but you told her that you wanted to talk to someone and told her you would meet her outside in a few minutes.

‘Hey,’ you walked up to the same blonde boy you had met before. His friends who were talking to him steadily crept away from him and left the two of you alone, knowing that this was a conversation not meant to involve them. ‘I just wanted to say that you absolutely killed it on stage. I know it’s my first time so my comment might not mean much but I just wanted to let you know that you have an incredible talent.’

‘Thank you.’ He replied somewhat dryly. ‘All praise is good.’ His blue eyes stared at you like they had before and before, ready to manipulate you into spilling your secrets. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Y/n.’

‘Eminem. Marshall Mathers.’

‘Nice alliteration,’ you chuckled, earning a small tug on his lip from the monotone face before you. It suited him—a smile. The way his eyes would crinkle. He suited a smile. ‘I hope this won’t be a shot in the dark but can I give you my number?’ Your heart began to race, grabbing the piece of paper with your digits that you had written down right after the bathroom encounter, knowing you wanted to get to know him.

He grabbed the note, roughly inspecting it, ‘I’ll give you a call if I’m interested,’ you gave him an approving smile before he turned around.

Seconds later the sound of your phone rang from your bag, desperately trying to fish out the ringing phone and answering it without looking at the caller. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi.’

‘Who is this?’

‘You know me.’ The voice sounded oddly familiar, you had heard it before but couldn’t recall when.

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘I just wanted to call and say I’m interested.’

The answer popped into your head the same time Marshall turned around with a smirk on his face. Playfully glaring at him you continued to talk over the phone.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Will you take me out then?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s get out of here.’

You hung up the phone and stepped closer to him before you both walked out of the Shelter, walking through areas of Detroit before stepping into a fast food chain to sit down, eat and get to know each other and that night you were already grateful that your life had led you to the shelter.

‘You live around here?’ Marshall asked, taking a sip from his soda, with those eyes that never seemed to stop glaring at you.

‘Yeah,’ you said as you picked up a fry and let it sit before your lips before you had finished your sentence. ‘Born and raised in Palmer Woods.’

‘Palmer Woods?’

‘Yep.’

‘Your family got money?’

‘Why,’ you raised your brows. ‘Is it a problem?’

‘Nah man, I was wondering what a girl like you is doin’ around these parts of Detroit.’

‘Just because I live across 8 Mile doesn’t mean I have to stay there y’know. Most of the people there are stuck up asses anyway.’ You relaxed your back into the booth seat, crossing your legs. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Warren.’

‘Shit neighbourhood.’

‘Tell me somethin’ I don’t already know, Y/n,’ he gave a gloomy reply, taking a bite from his burger, also relaxing into the chair.

‘Do you want to leave?’

‘Nah not really. A nice fucking house would be sweet man but I could never leave the city, you feel me?’

‘Never wish to get away from here? All this bullshit? Crime? I mean it’s fucking exhausting here. We’re all living here never knowing when our last day is our last day.’

‘You scared?’

‘Sometimes but with this in my bag,’ you lifted the handle of a gun only enough for him to see before shoving it away so you wouldn’t accidentally start anything. ‘I feel a lot safer.’

‘That ain’t what I was expecting.’ He chuckled. An actual chuckle. The corners of his lips turned, showing you that faint smile you already loved. ‘You’re kinda different from all the other girls I’ve met.’

‘Positively I hope.’

‘Yeah,’

‘Your house around here?’ You returned the question, not noticing that you had asked him before.

‘Why? Want me to take you?’

‘Just making conversation, Marshall. I’ve known you for less than three hours. Why? Want to take me?’

‘Maybe.’ He smirked, both of your eyes filled with amusement as you finished your food. ‘Not tonight though.’

‘Maybe some other time?’

‘I’ma be honest with you,’ he put his elbows on the table. ‘You’ll probably see my house once but will never go in. My mom ain’t a pretty sight.’

‘I won’t judge you for your house.’

‘I don’t care what anyone thinks but I like you, Y/n, no way in hell am I showing that shit hole so soon.’

‘It’s okay,’ you smiled. ‘I’m more interested in you than your house anyway.’

‘What are you sweet-talking me for?’ Marshall playfully squinted his eyes.

‘Is it working?’

‘Man, you got me good.’

‘Good.’ You bit your lip, ‘Let’s get outta here.’ You got out of the booth and walked out with Marshall by your side as he walked you home, taking the time to get to know each other. At your front door it seemed like neither of you knew how to say goodbye, the two of you standing across each other, the dim entrance light casting a shadow across his face.

‘Thank you.’ You said.

‘No worries.’

‘Call me,’ you took a step towards him and placed a quick kiss on his cheek.

‘I will, Y/n. You won’t be getting rid of me anytime soon.’ He smirked, both his hands balled into the pockets of his hoodie.

‘Good.’

‘Good.’

‘Good night, Marshall Mathers.’

‘Good night, Y/n.’

[pparacxosm]

wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast. 

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy wood-panelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and amused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently. 

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

[apas-75]

I know a lot of people got attached to a lot of ideas about how the Vader scene would go and are wondering what the point of it was if he didn’t even speak, and so my answer to that is: because it’s not about him.

That moment is not about Anakin Skywalker, his feelings about Barriss Offee, or Barriss Offee’s feelings about him. Anakin-as-Vader does not give a shit about her, which is to say he hates her the same way he hates everyone he meets. He puts the blame for Ahsoka leaving him squarely at Ahsoka’s feet, and hates her for it, wants her dead for it. Barriss doesn’t matter to him any more than any other Jedi he knew before the purge does. (If there’s any tinge of personal feeling, it’s more adjacent to satisfaction at seeing her stuck in the same despair trap as him than anything else.) And Barriss doesn’t have a clue who he is.

So: The point of that moment is that Barriss sees that she’s kneeling to a Sith Lord. She sees that things are so much worse than she had ever feared. She sees that she’s completely lost control of her life.

And in that moment, she cannot see the way out. She feels small and afraid and everyone she loves is dead and the entire oppressive structure of the Empire is bearing down on her and saying: If you want to live, this is what you have to be. This is all you can ever be. If you step a foot out of line you’ll be dead and it won’t even do anything to help anyone.

Later, when she gets back out in the galaxy and sees again the effect she can have on people, she’ll rekindle hope within her and see the way out. There was simply NO universe where Barriss “friend to all children” Offee could ever have been an Inquisitor past the moment where she actually had to fulfill the duties of one, and the whole point of this failed attempt to force her into the Inquisitorius was to show that was true; whether she ended that first mission dead or as another rogue Jedi on the run, she never would have been what the Grand Inquisitor wanted her to be.

But right then? Now? Kneeling to Vader, knowing that she’d be dead before she could even draw the new red lightsaber on her back—the one that she hates and that hates her back because she was forced to profane it herself?* When the Grand Inquisitor has kept her isolated and provoked her over and over again so that when she finally lashes out to defend herself he can tell her that’s who she really is? There’s nothing she can do. There’s nothing she can do.

That’s her lowest point. That’s the only moment she ever really was the First Sister.

(*Kyber crystal bleeding is the kind of thing that only really hits if you're a huge turbonerd about the star war lore and know how it works, so I get why they skipped over it onscreen when it's really just a more abstract metaphor for what she was forced to do in the pit fight, but given that we know Iskat and Reva both made theirs themselves there's no way they didn't make Barriss do it too.)

[halfway-house-in-hell]

alastor redesign

click for higher quality (and also to see his antlers tumblr cut them off 😢)

ramblings under the cut!!

-alastor was a famous radio presenter in the 1930's. he was also a serial killer and a cannibal, who died in 1939.

-he wished to be famous in his life, but he could not safely become a tv show host or a movie star because of the racism of the time, so he chose to hide behind radio instead, never showing his face. he was quite poor in his youth and so became obsessed with eating, which led to him becoming a cannibal. he is always hungry. hungry for fame, hungry for power, hungry for flesh.

-he died of starvation. he was chasing a victim through the woods when his foot got caught in a bear trap. he was stuck there for 3 days before succumbing to his injuries. (thats why hes so alarmingly skinny)

-his reputation as a serial killer preceded him when he arrived in hell. major evils dying is always a big event, and he used this to gain power

-he now sits as a major overlord - but none of his empire is real. he doesn't have any major powers, and has lied his way to the top by implying that he has more power than he is letting on. he doesn't.

-he discovers Charlie's hotel through her tv show last-ditch pitch (same as the pilot, except ive now decided that that interview cost them the last of their hotel money, so the stakes to find an investor were higher). he decides to sponsor Charlie's hotel because he wants POWER, real substantial power to ensure his throne of lies is safe, and he figures manipulating Lucifer's weak daughter is the easiest way to get that power.

-he is immediately overbearingly friendly to her, which valtiel & the other guests find suspicious. he begins bending the hotel to his whims, making it more suited to his tastes.

-he has large amounts of money and a popular radio show, which he uses to fund and advertise the hotel

-he tends to disappear when fights start

-his best friend is nifty. they have a very strong bond. he often communicates her worries for her, and in return she spies on the guests for him. he doesn't even own her soul they're just buddies

-he's still aroace but not bc he only cares about himself. thats stupid

-he is intentionally mysterious and speaks in riddles & lotts of 1930s slang

-he is firmly still in the 1930s, to an unusual extent. he has all the dated ideas and mannerisms of the 30's, refusing to become more modern.

-his room in the hotel is entirely monochrome

-he shares Charlie's love of musicals, and often encourages her to sing. whether his like of them is genuine or an act is unclear

-ok thats it thanks for reading

[partycatty]

DUDE THE DARK JOHNNY FICS ARE KILLING ME you ate them up please write more pookie!! It can be any concept but if you can’t think of one I was thinking, Johnny went to go shoot a film and just wanted you sitting at home being pretty, until you decided to pack everything that was yours and leave like entirely(let’s say to a different state or smth) clothes,shoes,bags, everything gone and he goes bonkers trying to find you or whatever LOVE YOU POOKS😘😘😘😘

OOOOHHHHHHH LOVE U MORE POOKIE BEAR

dark star!johnny cage > i'll find you

you hit your limit with johnny and abandoned the life he trapped you in. to say he isn't happy is a major understatement.

warnings: yandere johnny boy, abusive relationship

notes: i love how collectively mentally ill we are, love you babes

part 1* / part 2* / part 3* / part 5* / part 6*

*parts are one-shots, this is not a consistent series.

masterlist &lt;3

• things were going okay, so johnny thought. gifts were pouring in, the media seemed happy, and you were quiet. quiet was good to johnny. it meant you ran out of energy to protest. what he didn't realize, though, was that you were quiet to avoid raising suspicion.

• "i'm locking the doors, baby, so no parties for you," johnny would tease often about you running away or hosting parties while he was gone, but regardless he always remote locked the doors when you were left on your own. to him, you were like a puppy that was raring to leave at the crack of an open door. "they've got me filming a night scene and i told them i'd rather kill myself than film in a fake night studio, so we're gonna be out late. remember the rules?"

• johnny had rules with you, to make sure you stayed in line. you nodded and recited them. no leaving without permission, call before bed, and to not cover the security cameras. johnny nodded with approval, kissed your cheek, and was gone with a quick "good girl. love you."

• your smile faded away when the door shut. you instantly sprinted into the master bedroom, locking yourself in the joint bathroom. it was the only place without cameras.

• he had a habit of searching through your personal spaces and devices. however, one of the places he didn't check was your sink cabinet. he found feminine products gross. remember when i said he was immature? yeah. this was the best time to take advantage of that.

• behind the wall of pads and tampons was a large duffel bag cramped between the sink pipes. in it was all of your necessities and then some you purchased with his credit card. you'd sneak them into the bag using one of the designer purses he once gave you after cheating on you.

• after removing it from the cabinet, you set it atop the toilet and squeezed in one last shower. lord knows when the next one you'll have will be, or if hotel bathrooms are as luxurious as the mansion. perhaps it'd be the one thing you'd miss truly.

• when you get changed, you put on three layers of clothes and stuff the rest in the empty gaps in the bag. the expensive clothes and absurdly elegant jewelry stays behind. nobody needs that to be happy. freedom would make you happy.

•you had been periodically depositing money from johnny's account into your own secret checking account, one you opened without his approval. he needed to monitor your purchases, so he instead just gave you a credit card in his name. over the last year you'd move small quantities over until you had enough to run away and sustain yourself. sure, it was stealing. but is a multi-millionaire going to miss a few thousand?

• when you were sure everything was packed and ready, you squeezed yourself through the small window in the bathroom and took off as quickly as you could, careful to stay in the blind spots of the cameras you'd studied prior. you then climbed onto a long distance bus, showing the ticket you purchased weeks in advance, and you were off.

• it didn't feel real at first. you watched malibu fade from the bus window, glancing around at the ordinary people sitting alongside you. you were so disheveled and definitely not dolled up, people probably wouldn't recognize you. you purchased the first ticket available, one that was taking you to arkansas. hundreds of miles away, and loads of people to blend in with. nobody would think to find you there, since it had nothing awaiting you. you managed to stabilize yourself and recollect your plan you meticulously planned in your head while the hills rolled with you.

• after a couple hours of shooting, johnny sat in his little diva throne and opened his phone to his surveillance app. tapping through his home, panic set in when you didn't appear on a single camera. maybe you were in the bathroom, he thought. after waiting, you never emerged. the house was empty.

• one new voicemail.

• "hey-y-y," johnny's nervous, gritted laughter played through your phone. "i'm not seeing you on the cameras. call me."

• one new voicemail.

• "seriously, woman. where are you? this isn't funny."

• one new voicemail.

• "i'm coming home. you're making me leave work early. i'm gonna call the fucking cops. you think you're so smart? you've got two hours to come home, and if not, i'll find you, whether you like it or not."

• you snapped your phone in half, discarding it at the bus's front trash can.

• johnny arrives home, slamming doors open and turning every piece of furniture around. chairs fly across the room, your once neatly organized closet is torn to shreds. he finds your belongings short of his usual counting and puts it together. you ran away, you—

• johnny sinks to the ground, gripping his hair so tight he's nearly pulling chunks out. he's laughing so hard from mania that drool is rocketing from his mouth with the Textbook Crazy Eyes.

• he texts and texts, probably well over a couple hundred times. the messages remained undelivered, yet he kept barraging the deactivated number in hopes that the next message would come through. surely he couldn't get the police involved. "hey guys, my girlfriend ran away from me because i controlled her entire life!" yeah. that'd end in handcuffs.

• so instead, he lies. it's his specialty. he dials 911, and channels the mania into a false desperation. he sobs into the phone, claiming that you're extremely mentally unwell and must be returned to him ASAP.

• johnny spends the next week posting your face everywhere on social media. you and him become, yet again, the talk of the country, but for once it seems like a genuine concern. with the way he painted things, you were insane and in danger if you were away from him, and you needed him to protect you. johnny painted himself as the savior, making charity campaigns to raise money for search parties. his home is full of gifts in your honor.

• he'd drink and smoke, something he didn't usually do, just to relieve this insane stress. he felt like his other half became untethered, like his entire world was falling apart. as much as he controlled you, he really did love you in his own fucked up way. he needed you, more than you needed him. you were the one person that would agree with him no matter the situation. he loved how you made him feel.

• meanwhile, you're basking in the sun by the hotel pool as you browse nearby apartments. it felt foreign to make your own decisions, and you had zero concern over whether or not the place would be up to his par. it was up to you now, and you loved it.

• you just had to hope that johnny wouldn't find you himself. lord knows what he'd do to you.

[chaostroberry1]

Headcanons If they were on tiktok/social media PART.1

Adam

- posts family vlogs

- or atleast mini videos about his family

- maybe also posts vids about fun things that happened between him and eve.

- I see him as the type to have like 0 haters, anyone who hates on him will get dragged and bashed 💀

- one of the best out of everyone here

- his kids would also have their own accounts, or even a shared account. posting abt the pranks on each other they pulled, or celebrations, and over all just fine.

Adamas

- bro I know he'd be the type to post rant videos, tagging Poseidon and sometimes all his brothers cus he wanna bitch abt stuff.

- but yeah most of it would be towards poseidon

- bro his face whenever poseidon just replies to his videos with the most no-fucks-given comment is so funny

- he'd also be the type to reply to all offensive (or what he thinks is offensive but actually isn't) comments in the comments section

- believe me, bro would stare straight at the camera with so much hate, but in a funny way, before screaming

- last thing the video ends with is his scream that's cut out halfway.

- his content? Reaction videos.

- maybe also pranking videos, like

"pranking my baby brother"

- Poseidon is the baby brother he refers to btw🙂

- the pranks always fail and he just uses the excuse that it wasn't finished yet.

- not too bad ig

Aphrodite

- she probably posts those eerily addicting videos of herself on vacations or out shopping

- incredibly chill

- her pretty privilege has both genders on the ground for her to step on

- probably also reacts to comments too. Just imagine bro.

"please step on me", or, "mommy 🛐🛐"

- she doesn't really mind it, she likes the attention

- whenever there's a hater, she calls them out so politely but also destroying the person's ego with the most humble but ego breaking comment

- but she only rathers to post pictures of herself and all, instead of videos.

Apollo

- Bro has so many fans

- he'd post tease videos of his body to just rile people up and have them begging for more

- zesty af

- most men in his comments section would literally be like "don't let me get behind bro"

- yk what he responds with?

"come behind me"

- also posts about his shopping trips, and maybe parts of his body that has jewelry, like his legs for example.

- he'd Deffo make thirst traps I just know it.

- I also feel like he'd post sexy photos of himself, but act oblivious about it.

- like just imagine scrolling and then seeing some hot looking baddie of a guy in a mouthwatering outfit, with his bear ass out. And all he'd say is-

"does the color suit me?"

- always incredibly teasing when his fans ask him to oil up

⚠️Slight nsfw⚠️

-so yeah he oils up. ON only fans

- he would be famous online for his looks

- and if looks are what we speak of here, he would definitely have an only fans account

- he wouldn't go as far as being a 🌽 star though, he thinks it isn't very like him.

- but he will please his fans, and people pay lots just to get him to do more. But sometimes leaves them hanging with a strip tease or smth. Only the worthy are allowed to lay their eyes on his perfect body.

Ares

- leave the poor man alone

- many people tag him in thirst traps (MOSTLY APOLLO'S THIRST TRAPS)

- he just stares wide eyed in the camera, mouth agape in horror when APOLLO'S literally thrusting into his phone

- pukes afterwards

- apollo makes things worse by tagging him in his own posts, just to mess with him

- I feel like he'd post vids of ranting about people that are mistreating animals

Beelzebub

- he only got into social media cus of his friends

- he's not always online, but he has a big fan base consisting of girls cus he's a hot emo boy

- posts vids of his life, like maybe rants, or photos of his food here and there

- he doesn't always show his face, but he never dissapoints when he does.

-maybe posts lip sync vids too, the songs would be basic teenage depressed shi ykyk

- he wouldn't get hate though, cus like I said, his face was too gorgeous and cute to get mad at.

Buddha

- posts vids of his snacks

- kinda like apollo when it comes to teasing and riling people up with his body. But he doesn't go as far as only fans, or thirst traps

- I think maybe he'd just lift his shirt a little, show his abs a few times, or his muscles. And then looking at the camera with a teasful look and calling the watcher out

"you staring at these things? Ya like that~?"

(I nearly cried writing that)

- it sounds cringe, but many people are into it. I mean, c'mon, it's Buddha.

- also likes to post vids of him trying out the food from different fast food places, and just making people drool at his food, and face.

- probs also likes to do collabs with zerofuko, like going to the arcade and all. Incredibly cute bonding.

[incorrecttowerofgodquotes]

Tower of God S2 OP Analysis (Spoilers)

The opening starts with Bam sinking after being pushed down by Rachel, before eventually being overtaken by a red light, one in which we can see the Thorn hidden in.

In this Wangnan shot, there’s a number of items littered around, with the most important being the ring and crown, signifying his status as the self proclaimed “future king of the tower.” Nia shows up after Lurker bursts in, signifying his true allegiance. There’s also a banner to a ramen place behind him

Bam is wildly reaching for his old Test floor friends as they continue without him. As Bam rips the page, we see a singular star which breaks the rest of the image, showing how Bam’s happiness with his friends was sacrificed just for Rachel’s obsession with the stars. (The lyrics here are “Even if I reach out, I can’t touch it”)

Here we see Horyang, Cassano, and Sophia, as well as the tubes Horyang and Cassano were trapped in when becoming living Ignition weapons. The wings sit upon each’s respective shoulders. (The lyrics here are “getting hurt”)

This is the money shot, so many details. There’s a rip between Khun and Rachel while curtains act as a border, showcasing that everything between the two is an act. Ran, Nobic, Dann, and Gyetang sit on Khun’s side while Apple and Micheal sit on Rachel’s side, hinting at their betrayal. Khun’s side also has an eye watching Rachel, a crown to signify his desire to become the head of his family, and a masquerade mask to show that he’s putting on a mask in front of Rachel, but one she’s able to see through. Rachel’s side has mouths showing how she lies, and a bloody knife to represent her stabbing Khun in the back and Dan in the legs. (The lyrics here are “betrayal”)

Jinsung and Hwaryun stand before a bunch of faceless FUG followers, though we can see Karaka lurking in the background to the left.

Here we see all five princesses we’ve come to know. Yuri, Maschenny, and Repellista are within the boundaries created by Jahad while Anaak and Endorsi are passing the boundary. There’s also a lizard sticker on Anaak’s side and a butterfly on Endorsi’s. (The lyrics here are “it’s painful”)

We cycle through all the important test admins before eventually settling on Hansung and Augusgus as the colors shift and chains in the background disappear. This shows their allegiance to FUG.

This shot (Ehwa) isn’t important I just like it. But we do get to see some important settings such as Repellista’s palace, the 21st Floor Whie Cichlid, and a house (though I can’t quite tell whether it’s Khun’s or S&S’s). (The lyrics here are “Burning red fire, blazing emotions”)

Prince and Miseng pass by, each in monochrome up until they finally notice each other, both giving a small smile towards the other

These shots with Viole are pretty quick but there's a good amount of meaning, so I’ll number them off.

1. The two rings Wangnan and Karaka bear (The lyrics here are “Bonds and a wishing heart, they become the key”)

2. This is Rachel’s wheelchair (thank you @ylge-alt on Twitter). Yellow daisies represent friendship and positivity

3. The scratched off name sheet

4. Nia’s dead body

5. The treasure chest and key containing the sweets from the Floor 28 test

6. This shinsu test machine showing Viole’s number in first place

7. A plate of sweet and sour pork

8. Arkraptor’s earring

9. A bloody knife and an apple with a bite taken out of it, once again referencing Dann getting his feet stabbed

As we reach the chorus, we climb up a pair of stairs as Headon welcomes us and here we go through each arc Viole bears witness to before ending on Khun standing in the entrance to Arlene’s hand.

Finally, we end on Team Sweet and Sour standing together on the stairs that rise even higher, with Wangnan especially excited at continuing his climb.