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cobragardens · 8 months

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The Colors of Crowley

Black is the color Crowley uses to cover himself, red is the color that represents Crowley to himself, and yellow is the color that represents Crowley to Aziraphale. What each color symbolizes and how it's used give us important information about Crowley (and to some degree Aziraphale) and about the ineffable relationship.

I feel kind of dumb writing this post because I'm sure it's glaringly obvious to everyone else, but there's this Metro UK article of all things (the Metro is owned by the hardcore rightwing Daily Mail, btw, so please don't link to it) that mentions the red stitching on Crowley's gloves in 1867, and it made conscious some details I had only subconsciously noted, so fwiw to anybody else, here are my notes on the colors associated with Crowley in Good Omens and their significance in the context of the way each one is used.

I don't think we need to cover black-as-evil in Western color symbology. [And yet here's a long-ass paragraph about it anyway! --Ed.] Light:dark::good:evil has been a thing with Christianity since before Christianity was even Judaism. The Israelites picked it up from the Zoroastrians way back before YHWH had subsumed El as 'God,' which may have been before they were Israelites as well; I mean it was a LONG time ago. Good Omens has been using black and white to represent Hell and Heaven, respectively, long before the show. In the UK, the book was published in paperback with a choice of black or white cover with an illustration of the contrasting character in the contrasting color: Crowley illustrated in black, Aziraphale in white. The current hardcover is grey.

Crowley wears black, and the Bentley is black. At the metanarrative or authorial level this is obviously for the purposes of the black/white demon/angel contrast, but on the intra-narrative level, the Watsonian level, it's interesting to note that Crowley doesn't have to wear black. He's obviously not free to choose from the full color palette, but Furfur's shirt and sash are is dark emerald green, Dagon is in ultramarine (as befits a marine Elder God), and Shax has only been on Earth for four years before she's wearing head-to-toe oxblood. When she shows up later in battle dress she's got a lot of oxblood there, too. And yet Crowley wears black.

Authorial reasons aside, black suits Crowley for a couple intra-narrative reasons. For much of history, black was the most expensive color to dye and maintain in clothing, and as a result it has always been fashionable. And for several centuries in Christendom, wearing black was also a sign that you were in mourning, which was a social and religious obligation when someone close to you died. Whether you could wear other colors with it depended on how long ago that death had occurred.

Again: black is what Crowley chooses to cover himself, and as there is a sharp distinction between how Crowley presents himself to fulfill his obligations and who he thinks of himself as being, there is likewise a distinction between the colors that represent those two quantities as well.

Red is the color the show uses to represent Crowley to Crowley. The most obvious reason is his hair. This is another change from Book Omens, where Crowley is described as having hair that is "dark." A lot of fans in the UK hated the change when S1 came out because fans hate change and the British have a thing against gingers, but Crowley's red hair suits him better than dark imo because the Mother of Demons in Jewish religious literature, Lilith, is traditionally depicted with red hair. Red hair has been associated for more than a millenium in the Middle East and England and Wales with sorcery, witchcraft, demonic influence/possession, and satan-worship.

Crowley wishes his mom was this cool with snakes.

A good case can be made that Crowley genuinely likes the color red in addition to considering it demonically appropriate. I say this for three reasons. Firstly, because when he has a (limited) choice of (again, demonically appropriate) colors, he always chooses red. The marble of the desk in his apartment is not green or grey. He can have any color stitching on his gloves or lining of his jacket collar he wants, but it's always red. Secondly, it's not only red he chooses, it's almost always bright red.

We know Crowley's red isn't supposed to represent blood or violence, because we have another demon character whose use of red represents just that, and it's not the same red:

Compare Shax' oxblood and burgundy to

and

Crowley's red isn't just red, it's lipstick, cherry, crimson red. And in case we weren't sure that we should read this red as symbolizing passionate, romantic love:

Romantic symbolism aside, bright red is also the color of passion (romantic or otherwise), optimism, heat, vitality, life, (hell)fire, and warning.

Red and black says don't fuck with Jack.

The third reason I think we can safely say that Crowley actually likes the color red is that he hides it. It's always tiny little touches, some of which you have to look for to see. (I still don't know where they snuck in the red on his Elizabethan habit, e.g.) And we know this color is a risk for him, and that he is right to hide it, because Ligur, who doesn't approve of any of Crowley's less-than-fully-demonic embellishments and may share Hastur's opinion that Crowley has gone native, comments on one of Crowley's more noticeably colorful items.

And I think the red tells us one more thing about Crowley, too.

Bright red is the colorest of colors, you know? When we can choose only one color to represent all colors, to represent colorfulness itself, we choose bright red (even in cultures where red symbolizes other meanings than it does in Western art).

Remember how Aziraphale gives Crowley's jacket a tartan collar when he swaps bodies with Crowley and impersonates him in Hell because Aziraphale feels the need to maintain some small secret token of his identity, some tiny unremarked sign of something he loves and thinks is beautiful, when he is down there alone in the gloom among enemies?

Crowley is down there alone among enemies every second of every day and night, whether he's in Hell or on Earth. And he's already had his identity stripped from him once. If you were someone who said

about this

and then you got recruited by the fash downstairs bc the fash upstairs threw you out for not being fashy enough and you had to start wearing nothing but dark colors and more importantly had to hide everything that made you feel warmth or softness or joy, and that was it, that was the deal for eternity, but you could add one (1) little touch to everything you wore to remind yourself that there is some beautiful part of you left, something you loved once, that no one has yet been able to steal or brutalize out of you...what color would the stitching on your gloves be?

Lastly, Yellow represents Crowley to Aziraphale. I'm going to skip the chain of evidence for this bc I think it's obvious, but the way it's used also lends itself to some inferences supported in other areas in the show.

Here's where I think changing Crowley's hair to red from Book Omens' dark is a good decision in another way. Crowley always has red hair, and if he has any color in his clothes it's going to be red. Red is eye-catching; it always stands out, but it doesn't stand out as demonic. And yet the color Aziraphale associates with Crowley and calls "pretty" isn't red.

I suspect that when Aziraphale says he can make Crowley an angel again, Crowley hears "You're not good enough for me to accept you as you are, let me fix you" because these are words Aziraphale has said to him many times, and has meant some of those times. But

tells the audience differently. The color Aziraphale associates with Crowley, the color he calls "pretty," is the color of Crowley's only overtly demonic feature. Aziraphale doesn't love the angel he knew who isn't Crowley, he loves Crowley, the demon, the person he is now, his yellow demon irises.

Yellow appears in three other places in S2, and they're all symbolically significant, and in fact serve to establish another symbolic significance to the color yellow in addition to that of Yellow Is the Color of My True Love's Eyes.

One of them is a feather duster:

Crowley reacts to a feather duster like a cat confronted by an unfamiliar object

The other three are private conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley:

The walls that surround Crowley and Aziraphale when they speak openly about their situation and how they will handle it are drenched in yellow, and that is super interesting, because in Western color symbolism yellow is the color of fear. The archangel of whom Crowley and Aziraphale are both (rightly) terrified wields a tool the color of fear. The color of fear saturates the backdrop of conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley when they have to discuss their situation and their actions openly.

Remember how Aziraphale's voice shakes here?

Crowley realizes the crows have just handed an angel evidence the angel can take to Hell and use to have Crowley killed

Even the Bentley, that clear sign of Aziraphale's love for Crowley, is also a yellow coffin enclosing him. For Aziraphale, thoughts of Crowley are always entangled with fear, because Crowley is not just Crowley, he is also Crowley's Fall.

And I think fear is what Crowley's eyes themselves represent. For Crowley, fear is now a fundamental part of his perception, his nature, his identity.

The angel Aziraphale once knew is not Crowley, and yet from what we've seen, the chiefest difference in character between this sweetheart and this mischief-maker--

--is that the Starmaker does not know yet that he should be afraid, and the Serpent does. That knowledge and its fear has, shall we say, colored his view of the world.

Aziraphale learns that fear early by observing others rather than Falling himself, and knows enough that by the first time we meet him in the Before, he is already afraid.

Pink was once symbolically equivalent to red; in modern Western color symbology it is a color of innocence, youth, beauty, and first love. Hashtag just sayin'.

The cruellest thing this suggests to me is that, rather than rebellion or his propensity to ask questions, rather than the knowledge of good and evil, the Starmaker's Fall was caused by his innocence. it wasn't the questions that were the problem: it was that he didn't know any better than to speak them out loud.

Y'all, Crowley and Aziraphale do not suffer from communication problems. Despite both being male-coded and British, they don't even seem to lack emotional intelligence. What they do have is a universe of silence and fear they have to communicate within and around. What they lack is the safety to speak and love freely. The true color of Crowley is crimson, but someone gave him those eyes, and Aziraphale either watched that happen or knew about it, and now Crowley covers himself in black--which btw is also the symbolic color for mystery and secrets--and only lets Aziraphale see him as he really is now, because Aziraphale won't judge him for his yellow eyes (or punish and forsake him for his questions). Because Aziraphale carries that fear with him too.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens analysis #good omens crowley color analysis #good omens crowley color #crowley #good omens colour analysis good omens crowley colour #good omens colour #good omens meta #angel!crowley #starmaker

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restinslices · 4 months

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ALRIGHT ENOUGH SWEETNESS. LIN KUEI BOYS FIRST TIME FUCKING THEIR PARTNER 🎤 (please)

Omg y’all, my brain let me write again😃

I don’t feel like looking for gifs and my storage space is in hell so I ain’t got photos. Sorry twin

Bi-Han

I know I start his parts off with “the haters will tell you” a lot

IDC. Imma do it again

The haters will tell you he won't care and he'll do his own speed and yadyadya. No.

He's an asshole but be fr y'all

I'm gonna write this as you're both experienced but it's your first time together. If that's not what you meant then lmk but until then-

You're both experienced but he's still careful

He's the type to pick up speed fast but he's not immediately gonna be aggressive

You're experienced but not with each other so he's gonna actively try to be slower and softer

Very observant towards your needs and adapts quickly

I think he’s observant in general so I think he’d easily notice how you react to certain things

More of an action guy

What I mean is he won’t verbally say a lot. Like you know how some people will ask “does this feel good?”? (That looks ugly as fuck-) He won’t

He won’t because he’s paying attention to how you react and what gets the best reaction. He doesn’t need to say much

He’s not completely silent but I don’t think he says much in general, so the first time would especially be quiet because he’s focusing

Do I think he’s rough during sex? Yes. For the first time though? Probably not. He still feeling shit out

When it comes to making him feel good, he makes sure to let you know. He’d never be the type to lie about nutting. That’s just not him. He’s gonna make sure you do it right

Very handsy

He’s vocal when it comes to grunting and I think he’d go out of his way to make noise in your ear if it was something you enjoyed

Pays attention to both your needs

I could see him wanting to go a couple rounds before stopping

Leaves tons of marks as a reminder of what happened

Now that you’ve started now, don’t be surprised when he wants to do it consistently

Kuai Liang

Mostly pays attention to what you need

I think he’s way more verbal than Bi-Han so he’d actually verbally ask what feels good and what doesn’t

He goes slow

Lots of emphasis on foreplay and trying to set the mood

His lips are everywhere

Like legit, every part of you has felt his lips or tongue

I get it, you may think he’s very fast and intense because fire but no

Fire can also symbolize passion and Kuai Liang is a very passionate lover

Considering it’s the first time, there’s no need to rush

The type to always be pleasing you. Even if you’re talking or making small comments, his fingers are still gonna be working on you

When it comes to fucking he’s not doing it fast but how hard he’s going makes up for it

Will go faster if you ask

Is also leaving marks

Does frequent check ins to make sure everything is ok

He’s a big dude (in the sense he’s swole as fuck) so he’d probably prefer for you to be on top so he won’t crush you

If I said he pulls on hair will I be booed or cheered?

If you’re bald then ignore that

Offers to give head. Doesn’t matter if you’re laying down or sitting on his face. He’s leaving here with smth-

The ratio when it comes to orgasming is off as fuck because he’s the type to pull out and start eating you out

Extra points if it’s after you came

He’s pulling out all the stops. You’re not going anywhere after this

Doesn’t particularly care how many rounds you go for

Main focus is on how many times you cum. There’s some people that try to be sweet and “I didn’t cum but if you’re tired then-“ don’t piss him off

You’re either stopping because you’re tired or you’re shaking (or you wanting to stop but that’s not a saucy ending)

Tomas Vrbada

He’s always gonna be a sub to me, idc

He would try so hard to be big man on campus and all strong and shit, but bitch one good tug at the hair and he’s folding

Lets you take the reigns for the first time

Don’t think just because he likes being tossed around a lil, he ain’t gonna say how he feels. No

You can be submissive and still assertive. That’s Tomas

Similar to Kuai Liang in the sense that he is really focused on what you want and what feels good to you

Already moans a lot and loud as fuck but he’s especially loud once he’s finally inside you

He wants to go slow but life happens. The wind just kinda blows this way and next thing you know he’s fucking you like he’s saying goodbye. It’s the winds fault fr

Is also verbal with what he wants and wants you to be too

You’d think y’all have fucked several times with how comfortable he is when it comes to saying what he’s into. What do you mean “choke me”?

What do you mean you wanna fuck the cum outta someone or vice versa? Let’s take a breather, calm down, gather our thoughts-

Once he’s horny his brain shuts off and the whore comes out. You’d expect it’d be Bi-Han that would become this bold, but no. He’s bold all the time. Tomas gives mfs whiplash.

Like bro we were just eating dinner 20 minutes ago

Like I said, he’s really focused on what you want since it’s your first time. You gotta leave an impression

Is his brain cells shutting off? Yes. Will them bitches turn back on if he notices you don’t like something or you say something feels weird? Yes

He’s attentive

Probably came before you because he’s sensitive but he’s not the type to roll over and be like “welp, guess it’s a wrap”

He wants your brain to be as fuzzy as his and he’s determined to make that shit happen

Idk why I changed my profile to this Fear Street aesthetic when I never write for them but here we are. I wanted to change it and this is where I landed.

#mk1 #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat 1 #bi han sub zero #bi han #bi han smut #subzero smut #bi han x reader #kuai liang scorpion #kuai liang #kuai liang mk1 #kuai liang smut #scorpion smut #tomas vrbada smut #tomas vrbada #tomas vrbada x reader #smoke smut #mk1 smut

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notmyneighbor · 17 days

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Special Delivery - Doppelganger Francis Mosses x Female Reader

Word Count - 3.3k

Rating - Explicit

CW - masturbation, oral sex

Also available on AO3

You’re being followed.

You’re out later than you’d intended, but there had been a lot of requests that day. Word was spreading. You were getting quite the reputation among the doppelgängers.

Imagine, a human who was betraying her own kind, making forged documents to help the invaders into DDD restricted areas.

You don’t even feel guilty about it, either, because what has any human ever done for you? You’ve been on your own since as far back as you can remember, dealt a bad hand early in life. This scheme you’ve concocted pays well. Better than any of the other less savory things you’ve had to do to supplement your income, and it came with an added bonus: you knew how to write in the alien’s language as well, the symbols you inscribe on the frame of your apartment door and workspaces guaranteeing you’ll be exempt from harm.

Maybe you could’ve done something with your artistic and linguist skills if you’d had the opportunity, but alas, this was your lot in life. Making the best of a less than ideal situation.

You deviate your course a few times, just to make certain you’re still being pursued. Yes, he’s still trailing you. You’re certain it’s male but you’re not pausing long enough to discern more than that. Well, fuck.

You take another detour. Perhaps not the best decision in hindsight. You’re further away from home now. You don’t recognize the street you’re on. There’s a delivery truck parked on the side of the road. Dairy. Should you try to hide inside? The door was open. Where was the driver? You consider your options. No one would admit you into their house at this hour, and why should they, when you’ve been selling out all your neighbors? The truck, then. Your stalker’s footsteps still sounded a fair distance away. It was your only chance at this point. Maybe you could find something to mark the symbols. If there was still time.

The step to enter the truck is high. You have to ungraciously hoist yourself inside, clinging desperately to the sides to balance your weight. Made it. Your nose wrinkles. There’s a faintly sour smell. Spoiled products. The keys are in the ignition. A feeling of foreboding washes over you. The street lamp nearby barely illuminates the interior of the vehicle. You’re afraid to go into the back. You can’t see anything you can use to write the protection phrase. Your breath saws in and out. Too loud. You’re making too much noise.

A foot on the steel step makes you whirl around. It’s your pursuer. Dressed as a milkman, but you know instantly it’s not. Replicant. Deceiver. The clone of whatever human he’s copying. He’d chosen a handsome one, though you doubt it had anything to do with appearances, more a matter of convenience. Broad shouldered. Narrow waisted. He lifts himself into the truck with practiced ease. You’re so fucked.

Dark eyes and hair. Pale skin. He blocks the light from outside as he crowds you further inside. Well, you couldn’t say you’d had a good run, but you’d done your best. You close your eyes. You don’t want to see the teeth emerge before he devours you.

“What are you doing in here?”

Your eyes fly open again. He hasn’t advanced any further. He wanted to talk? Play with his food before he ate it? Maybe he wasn’t hungry. Mabe you could talk your way out of this.

“I…I got lost on the way home.”

“You’re lying.” No malice behind those words, just an observation.

“I heard you following me. I know what you are,” you admit, then instantly regret it. Stupid girl.

“I know who you are, too. You’re the one who makes the ID’s and entry requests.”

“Business hours are Monday through Friday, 8am to 5pm.” Were you seriously being flippant with a doppelgänger? You give a little chuckle to show you’re joking around, but the noise sounds more like a dying hyena, slightly panicked and hysterical.

“Those hours don’t work for me.”

“Oh.” So he was a prospective customer then? “Cash up front, half in advance, the rest on delivery. Currently working this week behind the abandoned grocery store off of Burke Street. I have to rotate the site to, you know…”

“I’ll pay extra,” he adds. “For the inconvenience of the hour and short notice.”

You lick your lips at the prospect of making additional funds. What would be fair to charge? “You need it right now? What’s the hurry?”

“Are you able to do it or not?” This now laced with irritation. His patience and good graces were wearing thin already. Best not to ire him further. You’re lucky to still be alive.

“Yeah, I can do it.”

“I’ll drive us there, then.”

“Where am I supposed to sit?” You glance around the front of the cabin. There’s only one seat for the driver.

You see his shoulders raise and lower in a shrug before he sits behind the wheel. You suppose your only choice is to sit on the floor.

“Your truck reeks,” you say, that sour smell assaulting your nostrils again as you lower yourself down.

The engine rumbles to life. “Deliveries didn’t get made today.”

“Did you…” You’re wondering what happened to the original, human operator of the vehicle. Had he suffered some grim fate? Were his remains sitting in the doppelgänger’s gut, being digested at this very moment? You shudder at the unpleasant thought.

He glances down at you. “No. I simply duplicated his form and stole the truck. You humans leave your body substances everywhere,” he says, lifting the cap off his head and tossing it onto the dashboard. “This one perspired all over that.”

That was all it took for a doppel to replicate a human. Just a little bit of something from the original. Sweat. Blood. Mucus. Probably other, even more unsavory substances, too.

It’s uncomfortable on the floor. The truck’s suspension jostles you roughly. Luckily you don’t have far to go. The driver eases behind the abandoned brick building, shutting off the headlamps. There are no functioning street lights in this part of town. You’re shrouded in darkness.

The doppel stands and you struggle to your feet, reluctantly accepting the hand he offers you to assist you to your feet. You’ve never touched one of the invaders directly before. It feels normal. Just like a human. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

You’ve been working out of the manager’s office in the rear of the store. You’ve got an actual set of keys, pilfered once you’d broken into the building. Another of your talents, that. Breaking and entering. An additional skill this unfair life has made you adept at.

You’re not used to being here so late. It’s amazing no one’s realized the building is still on the electrical grid. You’re grateful for the mistake, switching on the light in the back hallway after feeling blindly for the switch. The doppel is just behind you. You unlock the office door and hit another light switch, sighing in relief. That was better. Familiar territory. No longer in darkness.

But there’s an anxious invader at your back, and that knowledge is less than comforting. You sit down in the office chair behind the steel desk and he settles into the hardbacked one across from you.

“So, um…about the fee.”

Without a word the alien digs into his pants pocket, extracting several bills from a wallet and sliding them over to you. “Will that be sufficient?”

You’re trying to keep a straight face. Where did he get this much money? “Yes, that’s fine. Do you…do you have a home address for the individual?”

Delving back into the wallet, he now produces a car registration. Francis Mosses. You recognize the area he resides in. A better part of town than the one you’re living in, but maybe someday you could change that.

Although, you’re about to make that area a lot less safe, you think, pulling the necessary tools out of the large bottom desk drawer, including a DDD logo stamp. That had been the hardest item to acquire. The rest were fairly routine.

“I need to take a picture. Do you just want to get that over with now?” He nods. “Can you stand in front of the door? It’s a good blank background.” Another nod as you stand. He closes the office door and positions himself, waiting for you to snap the Polaroid. Damn, he really is attractive. Exactly your type. You don’t even mind the little bend at the bridge of his nose or the shadows under his eyes. You take several pictures, one for the ID card and one for the entry request, with some extras just for…well, maybe just to have options if the others didn’t turn out well.

You’re not used to being watched while you work.

You typically have the doppels come back to pick the forgeries up later. These dark eyes watch your every movement like a hawk, from the way you print onto the request form to the drag of the scalpel blade around two of the photographs(they had all come out fine), carefully affixing them to both documents. You roll the stamp in the black ink pad and press it gently but firmly into each corner, waving a hand over the fresh ink to help it dry.

“You’re skilled at this,” he murmurs appreciatively, and your head lifts to meet his gaze. “I see why you come so highly recommended.”

“It’s not like there’s any competition,” you say, feeling a flush creep into your cheeks over the praise.

“True. Not many humans would betray their own kind, would they?”

Your lips press into a thin line of displeasure. You didn’t need the reminder. Was he mocking you?

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure you have your reasons.”

Somewhat mollified, you glance down at your work. It still looked a little moist. You need it to be completely dry before you apply the lamination to seal it in permanently.

The copycat is still staring at you. You, not the documents you’re working on. You clear your throat. “I want to make sure they’ve dried properly.”

“Of course.”

“It’ll just be a few minutes.”

“I don’t mind the wait.”

You lean back and the swivel chair creaks. Your shoulders are aching. You’d made a lot of forgeries today. Too much time spent hunched over the desk. Your eyes are a little sore, too, dry and burning. You needed a bath and maybe a snack and bed. Forget dinner. That sounded too complicated at this hour.

“You’re tired,” he observes.

“It’s been a long day.”

“I am inconveniencing you greatly, aren’t I?”

He doesn’t sound remorseful, exactly. You don’t know what he sounds like. It’s too difficult to process. You’re exhausted, that post adrenaline rush from earlier really depleting the last stores of energy. You don’t even think you’d protest if he decided to turn on you right now, taking the goods and making a meal out of you before he ran. The symbols are more of a professional courtesy than anything. It’s not like it actually prevented the doppels from physically being able to attack.

The legs of the chair he’s seated in drag across the dirty linoleum flooring, making a loud scraping sound. You watch warily as he comes around the desk, easing past a filing cabinet to reach your side.

“We haven’t really negotiated the full price yet, have we?”

Oh. Was that what was happening? He was going to stiff you. Suddenly that advance amount no longer seemed so generous. That was to be your total payment. Honestly, you should have been more demanding.

“I have more money,” he says, immediately canceling out your previous assumption, “but I don’t think that’s what you need most right now.”

“You’re right. I should be at home in the bathtub. Or better yet bed,” you add.

His hand reaches for the edge of the chair, turning you fully to face him. The abrupt movement catches you by surprise.

“Maybe what you really need is some good old fashioned milk.” His hand closes over your wrist, dragging your hand towards what you’ve somehow missed previously. He’s hard. Like full on, bulging, fit to burst out of his trousers. You should be terrified. You are scared, kind of. But turned on. Stupidly aroused because you haven’t had anyone give you this kind of attention in who knows how long. Sex had just kind of fallen by the wayside for you. There was so much else that needed to be accounted for.

You watch the hand pulling the leather strap of the imposter milkman’s belt in wonder, as if you can’t quite reconcile it’s your own doing this. Its partner joining, thumbing the button of the fly through the slot and parting the metal teeth below into a wicked grin. You shove the waistband of his briefs down and his cock springs free, flushed and thick and oozing precum. You stare at that clear bead of fluid as if hypnotized. Your mouth waters. You want it. You want to suck this creature dry.

Your tongue swipes over the crown of his erection and the doppel hums in pleasure. “Good girl,” he says encouragingly, and the praise sends heat right between your legs, your pussy tingling in response. You’re no longer thinking about your unfinished work on the desk beside you, about how dangerous it is to be alone with a doppelgänger in an abandoned building at night. You’re instead wondering how much of that dark pink length you’re going to be able to voluntarily sample before your gag reflex interrupts and he’s forced to fuck into your throat manually. Your sex throbs again. Time to stop wondering and find out.

Your lips close over the head and begin sliding over the shaft. Clean musk. A better flavor than perhaps you’d anticipated. You take a few experimental bobs, testing. He’s stretching you already. Your lips. The fat head bumping your cheeks, your soft palate. His fingers are in your hair, combing through the tresses with a strange kind of tenderness.

“So good. You’re so talented…”

You whimper a little, trying to reach more of him. There it is. That natural barrier of your body’s resistance. You struggle against it until you’re forced to withdraw, coughing and gasping, leaving a trail of thick saliva behind. You give yourself a brief respite, stroking the slick fluids over his prick. It makes a lewd squelching sound every time you massage the shaft. You can feel your arousal leaking between your legs, saturating your panties. You reach under your skirt, no longer caring about how depraved you appear. It’s a relief when your fingers make contact with your clit, dragging that wetness around the nub in frantic circles.

“That’s a good girl. Touch that pussy. It feels good, doesn’t it? So good…”

Your mouth engulfs his cock again. You roll your lips inward and massage the length in short bursts. Now relaxing and planting soft, passionate kisses on the tip. You spit on it and slurp up the liquid noisily. You like the sounds the doppel is making. You’ve never liked the men who were quiet, reserved. This invader isn’t holding back. He moans and groans and hisses. His teeth catch his bottom lip. His head tips back when the ecstasy of the blow job gets to be a bit overwhelming. And you love every minute of it. You savor every sound and gesture as you perform the obscene act while masturbating, grinding your swollen bundle of nerve endings against your pubic bone.

“You’re hungry, honey, aren’t you? Starving. I’ve got what you need, darling.” The nails of the hand you have curled around his hip dig into the cotton and polyester blended fabric of his uniform pants as you push yourself even further down his length, this time bruising your throat. You ignore the discomfort, grateful when the hand in your hair finally tightens and you feel him begin to fuck your mouth, battering the rear of that moist cavern over and over. “You want a drink, baby? You ready for it?”

You hum in agreement and he eases up, withdrawing until just the head of that thick phallus sits on the tip of your tongue. You’re panting, moaning, frantic for his release perhaps even more than your own.

“Here you go, sweetheart.” A couple of swipes along the shaft and that brief pumping is enough to send him over the edge, thick pulses of cum now spraying the inside of your mouth, pooling on the wedge of muscle his dick rests against. There’s a lot. An absurd amount. You can feel it leaking from the corners of your mouth. Bitter, but not the worst you’ve tasted. Sheer coincidence your body decides to shatter the instant you swallow that load, forcing that creamy baby batter down your gullet while your pussy spasms against your relentless finger.

“There you go, baby. Good girl.”

The milkman’s doppel bends to kiss you, surprising you with the gesture, now of all times, licking your face clean before thrusting his tongue between your lips and you crash right into another orgasm, moaning and twitching while the imposter fucks your mouth with his tongue.

Truly wrung out now, you collapse against the back of the chair, your chest heaving. The doppelgänger refastens his pants, but not before you notice it looks like he could go another round soon, and oh, doesn’t that make your cunt throb again in spite of being so recently satisfied, twice no less.

It takes great effort to smooth your skirt and your mussed hair back into some semblance of order, returning your attention to the documents that are certainly ready by now, the ink well set. The doppelgänger doesn’t return to his seat, instead remaining beside you, watching as the final protective layer is applied.

“There you go. Finished.” You glance up to see the doppel’s gaze fixed on you again, the money forgotten in his hand.

“Maybe…maybe we could work out a deal for the remainder of the payment.”

Your heart speeds up a little. “I’m listening.”

“Maybe I could make special deliveries. To your residence. For as long as it takes to cancel the debt.”

You hum, pretending to consider the offer even though you already know what your answer will be. “What happens after that?”

“We can renegotiate the terms when the time comes.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting as in you want to think it over, or…interesting as in you definitely want more?” He bends to kiss you again. Gentler this time, but no less appealing.

“The latter.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that.” He sets the cash on the desk. “Consider that a tip then, for a job well done.”

You’re not going to argue with that. You hurriedly put everything away and lock the office again, soon finding yourself back outside next to the truck.

“Are you walking home, or do you want a ride?”

You weigh the discomfort of being on the floor in the smelly vehicle against walking home alone at an even riskier hour, where an encounter with another doppel would most assuredly not go as pleasantly.

“I’ll take the ride. But you need to clean the truck out.”

“I’ll do it in the morning.”

“The real milkman must have caught hell losing all these orders and the company car,” you murmur as you return to your former position inside the vehicle.

“Not my problem.”

“Every man for himself, right?” You can hardly condemn the attitude, given your current career choice.

“Exactly.” A flash of teeth in the darkness. He steals another kiss before starting the engine, bending low to capture your lips.

You’re delivered safely to your apartment building minutes later, personally escorted by the cloned milkman.

“I’ll bring you your next delivery tomorrow night, hmm?”

“Okay.” He’s standing so close. It takes just the slightest lean for him to kiss you again.

“Unless, of course, you wanted another advance…”

You shove the door you’ve already unlocked open, inviting the doppelgänger inside.

#francis mosses x you #francis mosses x reader #milkman x you #milkman x reader #francis mosses smut #thats not my neighbor #francis mosses #milkman #the milkman #that’s not my neighbor #doppel francis #tnmn francis mosses #tnmn smut #tnmn fanfic #divider @cafekitsune

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quotidianish · 4 months

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ANOTHER human au art compilation! Here’s the first! More info about the AU and their cultures under cut ~

Groundwork:

-Abilities which stem from things inherent to dragon biology (fire, venom, frostbreath, gills, etc.) aren’t present. More traditionally supernatural gifts (mindreading, oracle, animus magic, etc.) are still present. In retrospect this makes the Nightwings completely op but shhh

-Each tribe is inspired off a mishmash frankenstein of different real-world cultures

-Dragons are an endangered species, just a hum in the background and nearly hunted to extinction. They’re hardly considered a threat, especially when most humans haven’t even seen one in their lives. Once the centre of each people’s culture and civilisation, they’re now nothing more than Bigfoot sightings or exotic pets.

Culture:

-Sandwings are the least homogeneous tribe and take inspiration from various cultures in the Indian subcontinent and Arab nations (most largely India and Palestine). Many subcultures exist within the larger Sandwing kingdom. Common identifies (not present in them all, but there will usually be at least one) include gold accented accessories, darker skin, and clothing with light, desaturated, yellow/orange tones. They’re renowned for their abundance of poison, excellent street food, musical talent, and stereotypically maliciously intelligent. Regardless of class there’s a nation wide pattern (you can find the reference for it by Qibli’s headscarf) symbolising trade routes, oasis waters and dunes. It’s a symbol of national pride (included on thorn’s dress, and ostrich’s headband/headscarf).

-Nightwings are, on the contrary, the most homogeneous tribe due to their small population. They’re based on Japan (spanning multiple eras). I like to think the Nightwings lost a lot of their culture after migrating to the volcano, for they were once the most religious tribe, worshiping the moon alongside the Icewings, which I’ll get to later on their cultural similarities. I promise it’ll make sense. By now, all their deeply religious traditions have been relegated to superstitions. It was said they were blessed by the moons, but the connection has been largely severed. Only old dresses follow the tradition of embroidering in the moons they were born under. Moonwatcher’s dress is something akin to a hand-me-down, as are her silver earrings, it’s by coincidence it lined up with her actual birthday. Moon’s family was an exception because she came from a long line of seers (or alleged seers) who have done their best to preserve a crumbling culture. Common identifiers include near pitch black clothing and skin as pale as the moon.

-Icewings have some of the largest populations, however, are surprisingly homogenous. Most sub-cultural differences are as a result of class. They’re based on Mongolia and Manchuria. Like Nightwings they are also deeply religious, maintaining their beliefs through rigorous scholarship. Hair has intrinsic religious value as a gift from your family- therefore it cannot be cut. The same goes for ear piercings and any other physical alterations to your body. IceWing jewellery as a result is very distinct because of its lack of need for an ear piercing, hooking around the back of the ear instead. Common identifies include long/braided hair, and light, cool-colored clothing suited for the cold.

-Skywings are loosely Scottish inspired, and I do not have a lot to say about the rest of the tribes. Most of their clothing have feathered accents. The peregrine is a sign of luck and wealth, with their feathers being adorned on the upper classes. Geese and chickens, being common farm animals, are found adorned on working classes. The second richest tribe, employing silver, gold, lazuli, and about any gem they can find in their clothing. Common identifies include curly orange/red hair, taller statures, feathered accents, a tartan like pattern, and clothing ranging from yellow to magenta.

-Seawings are loosely based on various Polynesian cultures, most prominently that of the Māori. The sea has an intrinsic religious value to them, with all children learning to swim, sail, and/or fish. They live off the sea’s resources, rarely consulting the surrounding land for supplies. On rare occasions albatross birds and seagulls are plucked for headdresses. These are reserved for high ranked royalty. Their clothing is loose and well adapted for the warm beach setting. Common identifiers of Seawings include ta moko like tattoos, olive skin, and clothing ranging from lime to purple.

-Rainwings are loosely based on Thai, Indonesian, and Cambodian cultures. They’re colourful and have the second largest poison reserves (bested by sandwings). Having once been a trade centred tribe, now they’re isolationist, albeit not intentionally. They have many history records, almost as detailed as that of Icewings, but the art has been lost to a changing cultural atmosphere. Once too religious, now their intrinsically religious practices are more cultural. Their clothing is similar to sandwings in the fact they cover as much of the body as convenient but remain loose and breezy. Common identifiers include bronze tan skin, vibrant pigmented clothing, and flower motifs. Nightwing villages don’t follow that guideline, they build on the ground as a tribe with a focus on hunting. I’m assuming everything in this universe is made proportional to dragons, hence why the trees are so large. This assumption is based off that specific panel of Bandit in the book six graphic novel eating a blueberry as big as his head.

-Mudwings are sooo underdeveloped in my au (following in the steps of Tui herself) but they’re based on southern Chinese and Vietnamese cultures! They live in cities akin to Chinese floating villages, Vietnamese floating markets, and Tulou (architectural style of the Chinese Hakka) made of mud bricks. They're a very agricultural based people. Many of their villages are isolated communities- their emphasis on family extending to their towns. Common identifiers include umber skin, straw conical hats, and practical clothing in shades of brown.

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lilislegacy · 3 months

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an analysis: piper calling percy unimpressive

(warning: i wrote this at 1 am)

so basically

remember how we all despised piper mclean when she had the audacity to call our beloved percy “unimpressive” and we all lost our shit on the inside a little bit?

i truly don’t think she meant it in the way we think she did. i think we’re all just defensive of our boy.

piper clearly states that she is comparing percy to jason. first of all, jason is her boyfriend, so of course she’s biased. second of all, hera was manipulating piper to be obsessed with jason. so other guys and girls are automatically unimpressive to her.

and here’s the big thing: piper does not call him unattractive. she does not call him ugly. she simply says he’s not her type. piper is clearly attracted to the “good boy” look. jason is literally your all-american boy. he’s tall with light skin, a sturdy build, neat blonde hair, and blue eyes. part of why annabeth doesn’t trust him is because she is unsettled by his “perfect” appearance. jason is also obedient and well-mannered. he’s your standard good boy.

and the fact of the matter is: percy looks like a “bad boy”. and often, he acts like one too. him and jason are contrasts of each other. a symbolic representation of this: their features. percy has a darker complexion, messy black hair, unique green eyes, and a “sarcastic troublemaker smile.” he’s muscular, but in a leaner and more trim way. he’s tall, but he’s not a towering muscleman by any means. not that jason is either, but don’t forget, percy is a whole one. inch. (GASP) shorter than jason (which to me isn’t even noticeable, so her pointing it out as a flaw just proves that she’s so incredibly biased towards jason.) their other big contrasting feature: their personalities. jason is respectful and well-mannered. very obedient and under control. percy, however, makes jokes during inappropriate moments, talks back to people of power and authority, gets angry quickly, and loses control easily. i mean, literally right after she says this, percy starts insulting the roman god Bacchus and rapidly escalates a situation because of his natural instinct to be disobedient. piper is horrified by him doing this, especially because jason would never. does it make US all love percy very much? yes. but piper isn’t us.

THAT SAID, even she can’t actually call him unattractive. she even went as far to state that she can see why annabeth likes him, which means even her magically-obsessed-with-jason brain can still recognize his attractiveness and see why girls find him appealing. she calls him “cute in a scruffy way,” meaning she thinks that he’s got a disheveled attractiveness to him. she also once said that his pleading eyes are like a cute baby seal’s - even she can’t deny that his eyes are wonderful. so even though piper calls him unimpressive, i think rick put in a lot of clues here showing us that she acknowledges him as a conventionally attractive person, even if she’s not personally attracted to him.

let’s sum it up, shall we?

what does it say about percy? absolutely nothing. piper calling percy unimpressive is an inaccurate and unreliable source when it comes to analyzing percy’s physical appearance, especially if you don’t consider the context. this was rick’s way of showing piper’s clear preference towards jason, just like annabeth has a clear preference towards percy. and even though she said this, rick also made her give us several hints that percy is handsome, just not in a way she’s inclined towards. rick wanted love triangles to be completely out of the question with these 4. he wanted to make it very clear that annabeth had no interest in jason, and that piper had no interest in percy. so since piper is so drawn towards jason, percy had to be very different from him in her eyes.

jason is your a superman, percy is your batman

jason is your captain america, percy is your iron man. some even say spider man.

so put yourself in piper’s shoes: after hearing percy jackson’s name non-stop for 6 months, hearing him compared to jason, hearing of all his accomplishments and how heroic he is - i mean, the guy was literally honored on olympus and offered godhood - she was expecting a stereotypical good-boy hero. a hercules. a superman. your standard muscular blinding-white-teeth-smile hunk. the conventional, well-mannered good boy. and instead she got a wild and untamed, trouble-making bad boy. percy has an edge to him. he’s intimidating and unpredictable. he’s sarcastic and witty. he just looks like he’s up to no good. she wasn’t expecting any of that. that’s not what we’re taught a hero is supposed to be like or look like.

jason is appealing in a “he’d be a respectable and sturdy husband” way.

percy is appealing in a “he’s gonna fuck up my life but i so badly want him to” kind of way. (even though once you get to know him, you see he’s literally the world’s best boyfriend. piper even gets jealous of how loving he is towards annabeth.)

she had this exact idea of what he would be, and he wasn’t that. hence her calling him “unimpressive.” but it says nothing about his attractiveness.

i rest my case, your honor.

thank you for coming to my ted talk

disclaimer: i am not saying percy is actually a bad boy or a bad guy. he is a sweetheart. he has the biggest heart ever. he’s a cute little cinnamon roll. i am simply talking of first impressions from outsiders, and how he appears if you don’t know him.

#don’t worry #percy is hot #analysis #this is so disorganized lol #late night thoughts #you guys asked for it #percy jackson #jason grace #mark of athena #heroes of olympus #percabeth #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #annabeth chase

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tangibletechnomancy · 5 months

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The (Personal) Is (Political)

~7 hours, Dall-E 3 via Bing Image Creator, generated under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

Or, Dear Microsoft and OpenAI: Your Filters Can't Stop Me From Saying Things: An interactive exercise in why all art is political and game of Spot The Symbols

A rare piece I consider Fully Finished simply as a jpeg, though I may do something physical with it regardless. "Director commentary" below, but I strongly encourage you to go over this and analyze it yourself before clicking through, then see how much your reading aligns with my intent.

Elements I told the model to add and a brief (...or at least inexhaustive) overview of why:

Anime style and character figures - Frequently associated with commercial "low" art and consumer culture, in East Asia and the English-speaking world alike, albeit in different ways - justly or otherwise. There is frequently an element of racism to the denigration of anime styles in the west; nearly any American artist who has taken formal illustration classes can tell you a story of being told that anime style will only hinder them, that no one will hire them if they see anime, or even being graded more harshly and scrutinized for potential anime-esque elements if they like anime or imply that they may like anime - including just by being Asian and young. On the other hand, it is true that there is a commercial strategy of "slap an anime girl on it and it will sell". The passion fans feel for these characters is genuine - and it is very, very exploitable. In fact, this commercialization puts anime styles in particular in a very contentious position when it comes to AI discussions!

Dark-skinned boy with platinum and pink [and blue] hair - Racism and colorism! They're a thing, no matter how much the worst people in the world want you to think they're long over and "critical race theory" is the work of evil anti-American terrorists! I chose his appearance because I knew that unless I was incredibly lucky, I would have to fight with this model for multiple hours to get satisfactory results on this point in particular - and indeed I did. It was an interesting experience - what didn't surprise me was how much work it took me to get a skin color darker than medium-dark tan; what did surprise me was that the hair color was very difficult to get right. In anime art, for dark skin to be matched with light hair and eyes is common enough to be...pretty problematic. Bing Image Creator/Dall-E, on the other hand, swings completely in the opposite direction and struggles with the concept of giving dark-skinned characters any hair color OTHER than black, demanding pretty specific phrasing to get it right even 70% of the time. (I might cynically call this yet another illustration against the pervasive copy-paste myth...) There is also much to say about the hair texture and facial features - while I was pleased to see that more results than I expected gave me textured hair and/or box braids without me asking for it, those were still very much in the minority, and I never saw any deviation from the typical anime facial structures meant to illustrate Asian and white characters. Not even once!

Pink and blue color palette - Our subject is transgender. Bias self-check time: did you make that association as quickly as you would with a light-skinned character, or even Sylveon?

Long hair, cute clothes, lots of accessories - Styling while transmasc is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation, doubly so if you're not white. In many locations, the medical establishment and mainstream attitude demands total conformity to the dominant culture's standard conventional masculinity, or else "revoking your man card" isn't just a joke meant to uphold the idea that men are "better" than women, but a very real threat. In many queer communities, especially online, transmascs are expected to always be cute femboys who love pink (while transfems are frequently degraded and seen as threats for being butch), and being Just Some Guy is viewed as inherently a sign of assimilationism at best and abusiveness at worst. It is an eternal tug-of-war where "cuteness" and ornamentation are both demanded and banned at the same time. Black and brown people are often hypermasculinized and denied the opportunity to even be "cute" in the first place, regardless of gender. Long hair and how gender is read into it is extremely culture-dependent; no matter what it means to you, if anything, the dominant culture wherever you are will read it as it likes.

Trophies and medals - For one, the trans sports Disk Horse has set feminism back by nearly 50 years; I'm barely a Real History-Remembering Adult and yet I clearly remember a time when the feminist claim about gender in sports was predominantly "hey, it's pretty fucked up that sports are segregated by sex rather than weight class or similar measures, especially when women's sports are usually paid much less and given weirdly oversexualized uniforms," but then a few loud living embodiments of turds in the punch bowl realized that might mean treating trans people fairly and now it's super common for self-proclaimed feminists - mostly white ones - to claim that the strongest woman will still never measure up to the weakest man and this is totally a feminist statement because they totally want to PROTECT women (with invasive medical screenings on girls as young as 12 to prove they're Really Women if they perform too well, of course). For two, Black and brown people are stereotyped as being innately more sporty, physically strong, and, again, Masculine(TM) than others, which frequently intersects with item 1...and if you think it only affects trans women, I am sorry my friend but it is so much worse and more extensive than you think.

Hearts - They mean many things. Love. Happiness. Cuteness. Social media engagement?

TikTok - A platform widely known and hated around these parts for its arcane and deeply regressive algorithm; I felt it deserved to be name/layout/logodropped for reasons that, if they're not clear already, should become so in the final paragraph.

Computers, cameras and cell phones - My initial specification was that one of the phones should be on Instagram and another on TikTok, which the model instead chose to interpret as putting a TikTok sticker on the laptop, but sure, okay. They're ubiquitous in the modern day, for better and for worse. For all the debate over whether phones and social media are Good For Us or Bad For Us, the fact of the matter is, they seem to be a net positive-to-neutral, whose impacts depend on the person - but they do still have major drawbacks. The internet is a platform for conspiracy theories and pseudoscience and dangerous hoaxes to spread farther than ever before. Social media culture leaves many people feeling like we're always being watched and every waking moment of our lives must be Perfect - and in some senses, we are always being watched these days. Digital privacy is eroding by the day, already being used to enforce all the most unjust laws on the books, which leads to-

Pigs - I wrote the prompt with the intention that it would just be a sticker on the laptop, but instead it chose to put them everywhere, and given that I wanted to make a somewhat stealthy statement about surveillance, especially of the marginalized...thanks for that, Dall-E! ;)

Alligators - A counter to the pigs; a short-lived antifascist symbol after...this.

Details I did not intend but love anyway:

The blue in the hair - I only prompted for platinum and pink in the hair, but the overall color palette description "bled" over here anyway, completing the trans flag, making it even more blatant, and thus even more effective as a bias self-check.

The Macbook - I only specified a laptop. Hilariously ironic, to me, that a service provided through Bing interpreted "laptop" as "Macbook" nearly every time. In my recent history, 22 out of 24 attempts show, specifically, a Macbook. Microsoft v. OpenAI divorce arc when? ;) But also, let us not forget Apple's role in the ever-worsening sanitization of the internet. A Macbook with a TikTok sticker (or, well, a Tiikok sticker - recognizable enough) - I can think of little more emblematic of one of the main things I was complaining about, and it was a happy accident. Or perhaps an unhappy one, considering what it may imply about Apple's grip on culture and communications.

Which brings me to my process:

Generated over ~7 hours with Dall-E 3 through Bing Image Creator - The most powerful free tool out there for txt2img these days, as well as a nightmare of filters and what may be the most disgustingly, cloyingly impersonal toxic positivity I've ever witnessed from a tool. It wants to be Art(TM), yet it wants to ban Politics(TM); two things which are very much incompatible - and so, I wanted to make A Controversial Statement using only the most unflaggable, innocuous elements imaginable, no matter how long it took.

All art is political. All life is political. All our "defaults" are cultural, and therefore political. Anything whatsoever can be a symbol.

If you want all art to be a substance-free "look at the pretty picture :)" - it doesn't matter how much you filter, buddy, you've got a big storm coming.

#ai art #generated art #dall-e 3 #bing image creator

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ginnsbaker · 10 months

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In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (15/22)

Chapter summary: You make a decision about Vision, the video, and your lingering feelings for your ex-wife

Chapter word count: 6.6K | Warnings: None | Ship: Wanda x Reader, Yelena x Reader

Author's note: If you decide to yell at me after this chapter, I guess this is a good time to tell you that I'm smol.

AO3 | Masterlist

Next chapter: Sixteen

Fifteen

Two sinners can't atone from a lone prayer - David Kushner "Daylight"

"Will you let me know once you figure out what you'll do?" Wanda asks, her voice wavering as remnants of dried tears cling to her cheeks, leaving faint trails in their wake.

You respond with a subdued sound of agreement, but deep down, you harbor doubts about your ability to follow through on your promise. The thumb drive still burns in your palm, and your clenched fist refuses to release it.

Alone in your apartment, hours after Yelena has departed for work, you find yourself replaying this memory time and again. Having taken the week off, your days are largely spent fixated on a particular file on your computer screen. That’s the last time you’ve heard from Wanda. Neither of you has made any effort to reach out since then.

“He recorded us having… having the affair.”

Your face involuntarily twists into a grimace of raw pain. Each breath feels heavier than the last, like you're dragging them from a place deep within you that you've been desperately trying to avoid. Your gaze remains fixated on the screen, eyes glassy, as if staring longer could somehow give you the answers you so crave.

A small, dark corner of your heart wishes you had gone further than just cracking Vision's skull with that vase, now knowing that he did more than violate a marriage.

You hover your mouse over the file.

"I’d take it all back if I could.”

Blinking rapidly, the strain in your smile grows more palpable, etching lines of tension across your face, until you’re gritting your teeth in an effort to maintain some form of control over your emotions.

But in the end, the tears well up and they spill over.

In the end, you can’t bring yourself to watch how Wanda chose to break your heart.

You delete the file from your computer, erasing any trace of the painful reminder. As you empty the trash bin, it feels like a symbolic act of letting go, even though the ache in your heart remains.

***

“Wanda? Did you hear what I just said?”

Wanda blinks, appearing slightly disoriented, as if she had been drifting away, coming back and forth to the present like a restless ghost. Calliope regards Wanda with a gentle caution, noticing that she appears different from her usual self this morning. There is a noticeable absence of her usual active engagement in conversation, with Wanda providing only succinct and dismissive replies to her questions.

“Hm?” Wanda's gaze focuses on Calliope, a flicker of apology crossing her features as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry, could you repeat that? I... got distracted.”

“Wanda, I was asking about how you spent Y/N's birthday last week,” Calliope repeats with a soft smile.

Your birthday. It had been one of the best days in recent memory, a rarity considering the limited number of such occasions. And unfortunately, the joyous feeling it brought her was short-lived, lasting only two days before Yelena shattered the blissful bubble she was in.

"I, uh, baked her a cake, but it was more for my own enjoyment and for my customers,"

Wanda shares, and though her expression becomes slightly dreamy, it’s still tinged with despondency. “And then in the evening, we ran into each other by chance, and she treated me to dinner. All in all, it was better than I imagined."

“That sounds wonderful, Wanda,” Calliope says. "But how come you don't seem as happy about it now?"

“A lot has happened between then and now,” Wanda explains. “Her birthday isn’t the last time we saw each other. It’s actually just three days ago, and we, uh, didn’t exactly end that meeting on a good note.”

The only indication that Calliope looks slightly concerned is the eleven that appears in between her brows. Otherwise, her face remains soft and void of tension. “Can you tell me more, Wanda? But of course, only if you’re comfortable to share them.”

Wanda takes a moment to weigh her options. On one hand, there is legal information that she would need to disclose, but on the other hand, she can sense the possibility of her spiraling down if she keeps these things to herself. Ultimately, she decides to place her trust in her therapist and rely on the foundation they have built together, telling Calliope everything. She begins by recounting Yelena's visit and the subsequent confrontation with Vision. Then, with regret she describes the following morning when she visited you to give you an option to fight Vision back another way.

Calliope listens attentively, and though she usually maintains a professional demeanor throughout these sessions with her clients, she couldn’t help but inwardly sigh in relief that Wanda chose to talk to her about the crucial week she’s had.

There are at least a dozen emotional and mental implications for someone who had gone through what Wanda did in the recent days. As someone who lives and breathes science, Calliope doesn’t believe in good or bad luck, but this is one of those rare occurrences that she’s handling someone who’s gone and continues to go through a multitude of life-changing storms in just a year. Wanda's resilience is a force to be reckoned with, refusing to bow to the hardships she constantly faces.

“It must be beyond overwhelming to be confronted with such things at the same time,” Calliope says. She retrieves a pad and a pen from her desk and looks up at Wanda. “Do you mind if I write some of these things down? So we can go over them one step at a time?”

Wanda gives her a short nod, placing her complete trust on her therapist. Calliope proceeds to write on the pad and then suddenly, she stops and looks up at Wanda who’s chewing on her lip.

“When you learned that Vision filmed your trysts without your consent, how did that make you feel?”

Wanda feels the familiar coil of anger tighten in her stomach at the mere mention of his name.

Her response slips out slowly. “Violated. I–I know I’m half of that affair, and I have no right to feel like a victim–”

“Wanda,” Calliope quickly cuts her line of thought, dispelling right away the notion that just because she agreed to something, she agreed to everything. Even though the sex was consensual, the act of recording it without consent was a violation of trust and not to mention, a breach of the law.

“Your role in the affair does not negate the fact that you can still feel violated by this type of invasion to your privacy. You have the right to acknowledge your own feelings and experiences, separate from the affair itself." Calliope tells her.

Wanda presses her fingertips against her temple for a few seconds. “I feel like a victim to my own stupid decisions. I’m angry at Vision, but mostly I–I’m angry with myself.”

“Blaming yourself may be a natural response, but the responsibility for the violation lies with Vision. It's not a reflection of your worth or intelligence. You trusted him that time, and he betrayed that trust.” Calliope says.

Wanda is silent. It’s been a long time since she felt like none of Calliope’s words make sense. None could make her feel better at the moment.

Sensing that she’s not getting through to her, Calliope continues, “You don’t have to believe me right now. All of it is new, and you can take as much time as you need to face your feelings.”

"You know what else troubles me the most? I find it very difficult to reconcile myself with the married woman who slept with a kid all those times. Who is she, Calliope? And by asking this, I'm not trying to absolve myself of responsibility because she was me, but I simply can't comprehend how I allowed it to happen. If you were to ask me now why I entered into that affair, I honestly wouldn't have an answer for you.”

Calliope nods in understanding. It's not unusual for individuals to struggle with recognizing the person they used to be, even if it was just a year ago or even a week ago. Personal growth and experiences can drastically change people’s perspectives and actions, often leading them to question their past choices.

“We are always changing. You're a different person today than you were yesterday, even if the change isn’t that significant. There’s always something in us that’s changing, progressing, growing.”

“Why couldn’t I have grown back then,” Wanda mumbles in regret. I should’ve been able to prevent it. Things would have gone differently.

Calliope smiles, understanding Wanda's inclination to obsess over what could have been. “We only realize what's wrong within us when the signs become apparent, like having a fever. A doctor wouldn't say you're sick with a fever alone; it's just a symptom. There's an underlying cause. But the fever serves as an important indicator that your body needs treatment.”

Wanda sighs; she can’t think of any argument to that. “Maybe you’re right.”

And as she replays the memories of that day in her mind, a sudden realization strikes Wanda. There was a vivid detail from her conversation with Yelena that she had almost forgotten.

“Yelena said something,” Wanda begins, her fingers idly toying with the wedding band now adorning her necklace. “Something about Y/N not being completely hers.”

“Go on,” Calliope encourages.

“Do you think she was indirectly telling me that Y/N still has feelings for me?” Wanda's voice is tinged with uncertainty, yet her eyes shimmer with hope.

“Interpreting someone else's words can be subjective," Calliope says. “I want to be honest with you, Wanda–it’s always best not to read too much into it. Yelena's perception of the situation differs from your own, and her words might not necessarily reflect the true feelings or intentions of Y/N.”

Wanda's hopeful expression wavers slightly, a hint of disappointment flickering across her face. She nods, understanding the need to approach the situation with caution.

“I know it's easier said than done. Believe me, I struggle with it too, sometimes…” Calliope trails off as if reminiscing her own experiences, before continuing, “But whether or not Y/N still has feelings for you, your well-being should remain a priority. Overthinking and making assumptions can be detrimental to our happiness.”

Happiness. It’s elusive, and she wants nothing more than to hold onto it longer than a fleeting moment.

***

“Are you certain about this? Once we send this letter to his attorney, it cannot be retracted,” your lawyer states as she neatly organizes the pages of the counter demand letter into a folder.

“And if they agree to the terms, will it finally be over?” you inquire, seeking reassurance.

“Yes. I have drafted every clause to safeguard you from any future legal actions regarding the same matter,” she assures.

You take a moment to process the information before a new concern arises. “You mean, he won't be able to sue me in the future if he decides that $800,000 isn't enough?”

“No,” she says with a confident smirk. “If he does that you can sue him for double the amount.”

“That’s quite impressive.”

“It's what you hired me for,” she replies with a hint of pride.

After your lawyer leaves, you pick up your phone and dial Natasha's number. The ringing persists until a recorded voice message greets you.

“Hey, Nat? It’s me. Uh, when you get this call can you please call me back? I–” Your voice breaks, and you close your eyes, envisioning Natasha's stoic expression as she listens to your message. This silence between you is uncharacteristic, as you have never gone this long without talking to each other except when she's working. It pains you to realize the strain in one of the most important relationships in your life right now.

“I’m sorry, okay? I hope we can talk soon and I’ll explain everything. Please, Nat,” you say. “I don’t think I can handle losing you.”

***

“It’s a send off party for those who are racing the New York City Marathon this year.” you explain to Yelena as you stuff your socks into a duffel bag.

Since joining Valkyrie's running club, you have mainly trained alone, only joining the group for runs on two occasions. However, you've come to realize the benefits of running with others who are faster than you. It pushes you to increase your pace during tempo runs and has led to a faster rate of improvement in your performance. Wanda has chosen not to join the weekday runs with the club, and you secretly appreciate the opportunity to focus solely on running and enjoying the company of other people. Wanda never fails to catch at least some of your attention. It’s one of your more serious flaws.

“Yeah, I get that it's a party,” Yelena mutters, gathering toiletries from the bathroom to pack in her own bag. “What I don't understand is why the party is being held at a park.”

“You know athletes–we need some form of activity first before we drink the booze and eat the cake.” you say.

Yelena wrinkles her nose. That doesn’t sound like the parties she’s familiar with and knows how to enjoy.

“When’s the NYC Marathon anyway?” Yelena asks.

“It’s this Sunday,” you reply, organizing the items on your packing list. You realize that among all the things you need to bring, a pair of shoes and sunblock are the only essentials. The rest are optional.

“Are you running in it?”

“Nope. I wasn’t picked in the lottery.” you say.

Yelena's expression shifts to one of surprise. "There’s a lottery?" she exclaims, clearly unaware of the selection process. The idea of so many people willingly participating–and paying–to tire themselves out is baffling to her. Yelena tried jogging one time and only thought of it as a grueling experience. So this interesting trivia about marathons just leads her to the conclusion that people must truly have a fondness for pain and suffering.

That causes a laugh to bubble up your throat. "If you don't feel like coming, it's completely fine."

Initially, you hadn't planned for Yelena to join you, but since she expressed a desire to spend the day with you on her day off, you casually suggested she could come as your plus one. And since you knew how she felt about the sport that you do, you assumed she’d turn you down.

“How about we just stay in?” Yelena mumbles, wriggling her eyebrows in suggestion, making you laugh harder. “You know… Netflix, and the other thing.”

“As tempting as that sounds,” you reply, still chuckling, “I can't. I'm responsible for bringing a damn good apple pie for the potluck. People are expecting it.”

Yelena pouts playfully, feigning disappointment. “Well, I guess I'll have to settle for cheering you on then. Just make sure that apple pie is worth it.”

“I'll do my best. And hey, there's always Netflix and 'the other thing' waiting for us when we get back.” you say.

Yelena grins, satisfied with the compromise. “Deal.”

***

As you and Yelena arrive at The Great Lawn in Central Park, the sight of tables and chairs being set up in preparation for the event greets you. Shaun, the closest friend you made from the running group, approaches you, dressed in a similar fashion of running shorts over a base layer, dri-fit shirt and the latest Alphafly. Introductions are made, and Shaun takes the dessert from your hands, ushering you and Yelena to a table near the spread of food and drinks.

Yelena makes a quick remark about feeling a bit overdressed for the occasion, but you dismiss her concerns with a smile, complimenting her appearance, which prompts her to lean in and give you a long, tender kiss.

A kiss that your ex-wife witnessed as you catch her looking at you and Yelena from afar when you open your eyes at the end of it.

You’re unable to hide the look of surprise from your face because you weren’t expecting Wanda at this party. While everyone else confirmed their attendance, Wanda remained quiet, never participating in the conversations. Had you known Wanda would be here, you wouldn't have invited Yelena.

Yelena follows your line of sight, and then seeing Wanda, mirrors your surprised expression.

“Why is she here?” she asks, her voice holding a hint of accusation though she tried to hide it.

“I... don't know,” you mumble absentmindedly as your attention is drawn to the person Wanda arrived with.

Valkyrie.

“And why didn’t you tell me that Wanda also belongs in the same running group?”

You shift your focus back to Yelena as Wanda and Valkyrie engage with the other runners, their presence quickly absorbed into the conversations and exchanges happening around them.

“I honestly didn't think it was important to mention,” you admit. “Wanda hasn't been actively involved in the group–she never joins our runs.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow, and says, “Well, I think it's worth mentioning.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was coming today. We all confirmed in the group chat and she never said anything.” you say.

“I get it, just remember, be open with me, especially about her,” Yelena says, her face softening. “I don't want to be 'that' girlfriend, but trust takes time. You not telling me the whole story about her doesn't help.”

“I'm sorry. It won't happen again,” you promise.

Yelena nods, pulling you in for another kiss. This one feels more intense, more insistent. Just as Yelena's tongue finds its way into your mouth, Wanda happens to glance your way. The sight causes her to promptly look away.

As Yelena's lips leave yours and she steps back, Valkyrie saunters over, her hands nonchalantly tucked into the pockets of her vest, a cheeky grin playing on her lips.

“Glad to see you again, Y/N,” Valkyrie greets, her gaze shifting to Yelena. “Who's this?”

You offer Valkyrie a tight smile and proceed to introduce Yelena as your girlfriend. Valkyrie extends her hand to Yelena, their handshake lingering a moment longer than necessary, with Valkyrie's thumb softly brushing the back of Yelena's hand before letting go. And then she excuses herself, winking at you both as she returns to Wanda’s side.

It might just be your intense dislike of this woman, but you can't help but worry about Wanda trusting someone who evidently likes to flirt.

As you slide an arm around Yelena, you both find a quieter spot, away from the buzz.

“You don't seem too thrilled about her,” Yelena notes.

With a small scoff, you try to dismiss it. “Valkyrie?”

"Yeah. Right there, when you say her name... It's like you'd rather jump off a cliff," Yelena remarks, noticing your disdain.

“She's just... too full of herself for my liking.”

Yelena gives you a knowing look. “You sure it's not because she showed up with–”

“Of course not,” you retort, a bit too quickly. Feeling the conversation veer into uncomfortable territory, you quickly reroute. “There's beer in the cooler, want one?”

Yelena is momentarily taken aback by the sudden shift, but she nods and replies, “Sure.”

They decide on a casual game of Ultimate Frisbee, as suggested by Valkyrie.

You find yourself on one team, while Valkyrie stands on the opposing side. In the sidelines, are your ex-wife and your girlfriend, both seemingly enthralled by the competition that’s about to unfold. You've never played this game before, but Shaun takes the time to show you the ropes of throwing a frisbee with a backhand and a forehand. He explains the rules, which turn out to be fairly easy to understand, given their similarity to soccer. The objective is to get the disc to the other side of the field and avoid turnovers.

The frisbee soars through the air, hurled by none other than Valkyrie to signal the start of the game. Adrenaline courses through your veins, as a fierce determination fueled by the seemingly permanent smirk on Valkyrie’s face propels you forward.

With every throw and catch, you channel your frustrations into the game. It's no longer just about Valkyrie, but also about Vision and the money he managed to extort from you. It's about Wanda and how closely she's watching your every move with something akin to regret and longing in her wide, green eyes. It's about the video you chose not to watch, yet its very existence continues to haunt you.

Valkyrie, agile and naturally athletic, matches your intensity on the field. Each time she catches the frisbee, you feel a surge of anger ignite within you. It's as if every point she scores is a personal affront to your pride. You relentlessly pursue her with a goal in mind to outmatch her every move.

The crowd cheers and gasps with each spectacular play. Wanda's eyes lock with yours, her expression caught between concern and admiration, and you return her gaze with a look of spite as you try to block the movements of the person you’re guarding.

In a pivotal moment, Valkyrie sprints toward the end zone as the disc flies in the similar direction. Taking this window of opportunity, you charge after her, consumed by a desire to tackle her to the ground.

With a surge of strength, you lunge forward with an aim to bring her down.

But fate has a different plan.

In the chaotic collision that ensues, you crash into Valkyrie with all your might. But the strong and sturdy body she’s paraded around for weeks proves to be impenetrable. As the dust settles, you find yourself sprawled on the ground, nursing a deep gash on your elbow. Valkyrie, remarkably unscathed, stands tall, a defiant smirk on her face.

Both Yelena and Wanda rush to your aid, much to your chagrin.

“What the hell was that?” Yelena yells as she leans over you with worry.

Wanda, keeping a cautious distance, chimes in, “Y/N, are you okay?”

Valkyrie, offering you a hand to help you up, dismisses the incident casually. “Oh, she's fine. It happens often in these games.”

Reluctantly, you reach out and steady yourself on Valkyrie's arm, disliking the fact you need her help in that moment. You take a couple of steps back from Valkyrie as soon as you find your footing and grab Yelena’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I’m okay,” you tell Yelena.

"You're bleeding," Wanda points out, eyes fixed on the wound on your elbow.

“It’s just a small scratch,” you argue, even as the blood drips from your skin and onto the grass.

“Sorry, but it's a general rule to sub out a wounded soldier,” Valkyrie cuts in.

You sneer inwardly at Valkyrie’s flowery choice of words.

“Come on, babe. I'll help you clean that up,” Yelena says, placing a hand on your lower back as she leads you back to the sidelines.

“I’ll get the first aid kit.” Wanda says. Yelena looks at Wanda over her shoulder and you hold your breath, anticipating their exchange. But your girlfriend simply offers your ex-wife a small smile and thanks her.

The night approaches rather quickly after the game.

Everybody helps pack up the picnic spread before the sun sets, as the group collectively agrees to move the party to a pub that Valkyrie claims she managed to reserve at the last minute. The bar she picked is also unbelievably convenient, only being a few minutes away from the park by foot. So, now, everyone looks at Valkyrie with a sense of awe, seeing how effortlessly she can organize a good time. You remain skeptical, however, suspicious that she’s planned everything in advance.

“This Valkyrie–is she some kind of socialite?” Yelena wonders aloud as the two of you enter the bar. Taking in its classy interior, you can tell almost immediately that reserving the entire area must have come at a hefty price.

You shrug in reply, walking straight to the bar to order a double right away.

Valkyrie hasn’t left Wanda’s side all day after the game. Your only interaction with Wanda so far was when she returned to where you and Yelena sat as your girlfriend tended to your wound. Although she didn't utter a word, a small smile graced her face as she handed the first aid kit to Yelena.

“Are you okay?” Yelena asks, rubbing your shoulder, trying to ease the tension she finds there.

“Just tired,” you answer, knocking down your drink.

“May I have everyone's attention, please?” Valkyrie's voice cuts through the blaring music, drawing everyone’s attention towards her.

“I'd like to take a moment to express my gratitude to each and every one of you for joining us at this event. Your presence is invaluable, and it greatly contributes to the success of this gathering,” she states, and you stifle the urge to roll your eyes. Valkyrie lifts her beer can, prompting everyone else to raise their drinks in unison. “Here's to our courageous participants of this Sunday's NYC Marathon. May you conquer the finish line with strength and surpass your own expectations. Cheers!”

With the toast complete, the assembled crowd joins in, raising their glasses and cheerfully clinking them together. Just like that, the party that Yelena is more amenable to officially begins.

Yelena mingles with the group of people who have come to support their partners' interests, all sharing a similar confusion about the appeal of waking up early to cover long distances that, typically, should not be covered by foot. You relax at seeing her chat with them animatedly, looking like she’s enjoying herself so far.

With Yelena occupied, you allow yourself a moment to sulk in a corner of the bar. As you look around the room, you can't help but think about how your lawyer hasn't given you any updates about the counter demand letter. You think about Natasha, who still hasn’t called you back. It makes you feel uneasy, not knowing where things stand.

You try not to think about Wanda, who currently has her head thrown back, laughing at something Valkyrie said. It strikes you that you haven't seen her so carefree in quite some time.

“Hey,” Yelena taps you on the shoulder, pulling you out of your thoughts. "Me and some of the girls want to go check out this band playing a couple of blocks away. It won't take long, just a few songs. Is that alright with you?"

“Sure,” you respond. “I'll be ready to leave when you get back.”

“Great,” Yelena replies, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you later.”

You observe Yelena as she happily leaves the venue with her new friends, while you catch the bartender's attention and order another drink.

An hour passes by swiftly, and there is still no sign of Yelena or any message from her. You take a break from alcohol and sip on water, trying to sober up in case Yelena gets back. Shaun tries to engage you in a conversation about World Marathon Majors and his aspirations to qualify for Boston, but your lack of interest is evident, and he eventually excuses himself to join Valkyrie's group. You notice that they are now playing a drinking game, and Wanda receives a shot glass from Valkyrie.

“Truth or drink, Wanda?” Valkyrie teases, hovering a bit too near Wanda for your comfort.

“Truth,” Wanda responds.

“Got anyone you're into at the moment?”

A laugh escapes Wanda, followed by a nervous gulp. “Actually, I think I'll take that drink,” she deflects.

Valkyrie's expression drops, clearly let down by the missed chance to pry into Wanda's love life.

“Since you dodged the truth, you're up for two shots,” she announces, her lips curled into a roguish smile. Wanda obediently follows, and you observe her wince as she slams back the tequila shots. A delicate flush on her cheeks hints that this isn't their first round.

You remain an onlooker as a series of questions are effortlessly answered by various individuals until Wanda is in the hot seat once again.

“Can I pass? I think I've had enough.” Wanda says.

“Oh, don't quit on me now. We're just warming up.”

Wanda offers a weak smile, then capitulates, “Alright. Just one more round, okay? Uhm, truth.”

Someone from the group throws the question. “Have you ever cheated on someone?”

Wanda's smile evaporates almost immediately. She forces a feeble laugh as she once again backtracks from her initial selection. Her gaze flickers towards you before darting back to Valkyrie, finding you already watching her closely.

“I think I want to drink for this one,” Wanda declares, going ahead to down two more shots in line with the game rules. The group cheers her on while Valkyrie, laughing, refills the emptied shot glasses.

Valkyrie finds herself intrigued. Wanda could've simply said 'no' if she hasn’t. She only becomes more fascinating in Valkyrie’s eyes knowing that she’s not as saintly as she looks.

The game continues, everyone takes their turn and it lands on Wanda once more. This time, she dismisses the drink pushed towards her. “I really should pass this time.” Wanda says.

Yet Valkyrie keeps pushing the drink towards Wanda, seemingly blind to her discomfort. Seeing this, you feel the urge to step in.

“She said no. Didn't you catch that?” you squeeze yourself in between Shaun and another girl who looks stunned at your sudden interjection. “Because I could hear her just fine from way over there,” you add, thumbing back at your former spot, some distance away.

“Chill out, we're just having a good time.” Valkyrie shrugs.

“Fucking respect her boundaries, okay? She’s had enough. And she has good reasons to avoid it, trust me.” you assert, your eyes narrowing slightly as you emphasize your point.

Almost immediately, Wanda stands, her lips clenched and her face flushed with annoyance.

“I’m gonna go get some air,” Wanda says to no one in particular.

“Need me to come along?”

“Just stay here, Val, okay?” Wanda interjects, her voice softer as she deftly maneuvers past you.

Your heartbeat quickens as you trail after her.

“Wanda, wait!” you shout, pushing through the crowd.

She pays no heed, her steps resounding heavily as she marches on. Her shoulders are stiff, her movements terse. You can almost sense the anger radiating off her like a dark halo. Chasing after her, you weave through the throng of nosy people who are all looking at you openly, as they watch the commotion continue to unfold before their eyes.

A second later, the door shuts behind you, effectively muffling the music from inside.

Wanda has made it a good distance from the pub, her silhouette illuminated by the soft glow of the moon.

“Wanda!” you call out again, your voice softer this time, carrying a note of desperate concern.

At your call, she finally stops.

She stands frozen for a moment before turning to face you. Her face, usually so tender and kind, is etched with an unusual hardness now.

“Why did you do that?” she asks, her tone unexpectedly steady.

“What are you talking about? It was clear she was pushing you into drinking more than you wanted. I simply backed you up there–for which, by the way, some gratitude wouldn't hurt,” you snap back, irritation seeping into your tone.

Wanda's empty laughter rings out in the quiet night. “You practically just implied to everyone that I have a drinking problem!”

“Don't you?” you hiss through a sneer. “I remember getting a call from the person you cheated on me with because you were almost passed out on the street after a night of excessive drinking.”

Wanda visibly flinches, her body recoiling as though she’s just been slapped. The instant your words escape your lips, remorse floods over you, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. Watching the shock on Wanda’s face slowly shift into a profound sadness only deepens your regret.

“Wanda–”

"Thank you... for standing up for me earlier. Good night, Y/N." she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. With those words, she turns her back on you and starts to walk away.

You think about stopping her, but you’re too ashamed of yourself to do anything.

For the next few minutes you just stare at the spot where Wanda stood, haunted by the look of hurt on her face. In the distance, Yelena’s unmistakable voice reaches your ears, signaling her return.

‘Hey, baby!” she slurs, elongating the final syllable, leaving no doubt in your mind that she's drunk.

You approach Yelena, keeping your steps hushed, while she bids farewell to her companions.

“Ready to head home?” you ask in a calm voice.

Yelena's face lights up with enthusiasm as she eagerly nods. Taking her hand into yours, you signal a passing cab.

Later, a little before midnight, your pretense of sleep is broken by the piercing ring of your phone. The truth is, you haven't slept a wink, instead lying still with eyes closed, the happenings of the day replaying ceaselessly in your mind. You pick up the call immediately, taking care not to disturb Yelena's peaceful slumber beside you.

“Y/N?” Wanda's voice comes through the phone, quaking with fear. “I came home and there's… there’s sick all over. Sparky... he's…” Her words fragment into inconsolable sobbing.

“Hey, hey. Just stay calm, okay? I'm on my way," you reassure her before ending the call. You turn to Yelena, sprawled unconscious on the bed. With delicate motions, you snugly wrap the comforter around her and carefully place a pillow under her arm that was previously draped over you. You plant a kiss on her temple before dressing up quickly to meet Wanda.

Around 1:30 in the morning, the veterinarian steps out of the examination room to announce that Sparky is now stable. Wanda's eyes are puffy and bloodshot from crying, but she pays careful attention to the doctor’s report on Sparky’s condition. The situation was critical, but thankfully, Sparky has rallied, his vital signs settling back into normal ranges. Despite this, the vet recommends keeping him under observation for an additional 48 hours to ensure his continued recovery.

You settle the bill out of your own credit card and escort a grief-stricken Wanda back to her apartment. You instruct her to get comfortable on the couch as you move around the kitchen and prepare yourselves a cup of tea. As you re-enter the living room, you notice Wanda remains in the same position, her gaze fixed on Sparky's dog bowl, a few kibbles still left untouched.

“Do you remember when Sparky first became a part of our lives?” Wanda asks suddenly.

You nod solemnly, settling down beside Wanda as you hand her her tea. She accepts it gratefully, cradling it in her hands to soak in its comforting warmth.

“It was on your 25th birthday, and he was my surprise gift for you,” you recall with a hint of nostalgia.

“Your sneaky way of adopting him without telling me,” Wanda retorts, finally managing a small smile.

The fond memory brings a soft chuckle to your lips. Wanda had never been keen on having a pet, especially in your small Manhattan apartment. But Sparky quickly won her over within just a couple of days. She would serenade him with renditions of "You Are My Sunshine" every day for a week, until she eventually grew tired of the song and moved on to another tune to sing to him.

“I always knew that we would outlive him. But it's just too soon,” Wanda sniffles, new tears welling up in her eyes. “He deserves more years. I want him to stay with us for as long as a dog possibly can.”

“Me too,” you sigh.

Before you know it, you’re gathering Wanda into your arms. She instinctively nestles her face into the crook of your neck, tears dampening your skin. Your hand gently rubs soothing circles on her back, while your other hand softly strokes her hair. In a hushed voice, you whisper reassurances, telling her that everything will eventually be alright.

When Wanda’s trembling subsides, you feel her shift in your arms. And as you begin to lean your head back from where it’s resting on her shoulder, a magnetic force seems to hold you in place, and you find yourself unable to completely let go. Your forehead ends up resting against hers, watching her calm face in silence. Her eyes stay closed a bit longer, and when they eventually flutter open, you're captivated by the most perfect shade of green, and in that moment it becomes perfectly clear to you that you love her and you never stopped.

Not even then.

A hint of worry appears in Wanda’s deep, emerald eyes as she meets yours. “Y/N–” she starts.

But her words get lost as your nose delicately grazes against hers, and your lips find hers in a clandestine kiss.

She responds to your kiss instinctively, and you merge in a manner that's both wonderfully familiar and refreshingly new. Your fingers trace a soft path across her neck before firmly cradling it, eliciting shivers that ripple through Wanda, right to her core.

The need for breath brings an end to the kiss, and you part from Wanda's lip with a slight wet sound. You take in as much air as you can, ready to lean in once more. But before your lips can meet hers again, she gently places a hand on your chest, giving you a gentle push.

“This... this isn't right,” Wanda stammers, pulling herself back from you. The spot on her neck where your hand rested is warm, the embers of your touch still smoldering as she tries to extinguish the fire you had sparked within her. “We can’t do this to Yelena.”

“Wanda, I–”

“You’re better than me,” she reminds you. “I’m sorry.”

It feels as if you're being jolted awake from a surreal dream, and you instinctively distance yourself from Wanda. Her eyes, filled with worry, attempt to meet yours, but you evade her gaze, the gravity of your actions slowly sinking in.

In a heartbeat, you find yourself bolting from her apartment, your feet pounding the pavement beneath as if trying to outrun the harsh reality of what you’ve done. You just betrayed Yelena. You'd just kissed Wanda. And you don’t know what was more frightening: your actions, or the fact that part of you didn't regret it.

In the waning hours before dawn, sleep proves stubbornly out of reach. The lingering taste of Wanda's kiss and the guilt eating at your conscience keeps slumber at bay. You had done to Yelena the very thing that ruined your life. You spent these hours looking at Yelena’s sleeping face, knowing that this may very well be the last few hours you get to be this close to her.

And just as your eyelids begin to droop, Yelena stirs, slowly waking up.

Yelena hums as she stretches like a cat, and then blinks up at you, a smile already working its way to her lips. Your heart is ringing loudly in your ears by now, making it impossible for you to mirror the delight on your girlfriend's face.

“Hey, is something wrong?” Yelena asks, concern creasing her forehead as her hand lifts to cup your cheek.

“Yelena, I–” Your gaze drops, focusing on the unforgiving reality of the mattress beneath you, avoiding her piercing eyes as you muster the courage to confess. “I… I relapsed–”

“Don’t,” Yelena's voice cuts through your racing thoughts, her intuition already piecing together your next words. "Don't say it."

The silence that looms over your heads is oppressive and suffocating.

“This has gone on for long enough,” Yelena finally declares, her tone resolute. “I have to go.”

“Wait, Yelena–” you stutter, your mind scrambling to string together a sequence of words that might lessen the blow of your betrayal. “Where will you go?”

“Somewhere far away from you,” she replies, her words carrying a frosty undertone.

It stings. And you deserve it.

With that, she gets up and leaves the room, leaving you to the wreckage.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction

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miwhotep · 1 month

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7 REASONS WHY MILVERTON CAN STILL BE ALIVE

Reading @diveintovortex 's recent post, I again, got inspired to make an analysis why Milverton can still be alive. I already did one like this before, related to the main antagonist of the James Bond universe, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, but today's post will rely heavily on the manga. Here, I will raise seven points why Milverton might not gone yet and we can suspect to see him again.

1, CHARACTER DESIGN

Milverton is one of the most detailed, most bothersome to draw characters of Yuumori (especially with that hair). If we look more deeply into the manga, we can see that the characters who only appeared for a few chapters - like Whiteley - are always designed in a more simple way. Milverton's character design has too much work in it, it wouldn't worth it if this was all the storytime he got. Milverton's distinct look suggests that he was meant to be much more than just a plot-device overall, he is a character on his own who still has hella lot of potential in him.

2, EYE COLOUR

Yes, I can list it under the point above as well - but I wanna focus on this a little more. Only three characters has unnatural, symbolic eye colours in the series: William, the main character, his brother, Louis - who gets important later on - and Milverton. Considering this tendency, his eye colour - beside it referencing snakes - also implies that Milverton is an important character - again: a character, not a plot-device - but Milverton was mostly just a plot-device yet, whose role was getting Sherlock and William face each other. Maybe, just like Louis, he gets important later on.

3, THE LITTLE TRIVIAS

Milverton has some, for the plot, seemingly irrelevant trivia the manga just casually drops at us - like his branch firm in New York. This New York connection gets interesting since Sherliam also ended up in New York. Was this just a coincidence? Or we will come back to this in Part 2?

4, THE RUSKIN SCENE

Ruskin, unlike Milverton was never meant to be an important character - his character design got re-used from The Adventure of One Student and we didn't even get to know his first name - but the manga still gave him a little focus at the end of Two Criminals, where we can see him searching for Milverton instead of saving himself from the burning house. He most likely survived and I'm sure there was a reason his love for Milverton got some attention in that chapter. I used to speculate that it was to forecast that he will get back to get revenge for his boss later - but again, his character design doesn't suggest he is an important character. On the other hand, that scene could be also to hint that Ruskin will save Milverton. Ruskin is not stupid - he could suspect what happened from the open door where Milverton jumped out - and that door could also provide the fastest way for Ruskin to leave the about-to-crash house. Not much time passed since Milverton got shot who could survive if Ruskin gets him out of the water in time. If he jumped into the water to escape, he might've found Milverton as well.

5, THE WATER PARALLEL

This point was suggested by @shreddedleopard during one of our talks whom I fully credit the idea to. Milverton keeps paralelling William in poses, methods - and even in "death": William "died" by falling into the water, too. If this was meant to be yet another parallel between the two, that also suggests that Milverton as well, might turn out to be alive.

6, SHERLOCK AND THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS MURDER

Milverton's body was never found what let Sherlock escape from the consequences of the murder. However, this might not be the true reason why his body never got found - Milverton's death was actually too bothersome if it was meant to be only for this. It would've been simplier if he just got shot, dying inmediately and his body getting burned with the house and Sherlock could've get away with the murder in this case, too. Milverton also didn't got shot in the heart, but suffered injuries what he could survive if he gets treated in time. If the writer truly wanted us to fully believe that Milverton is dead, it could've been done easily with a heartshot.

7, YUUMORI IS A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADAPTATION

Despite that Moriarty the Patriot gets inspiration from other places than Sherlock Holmes stories - like the James Bond universe or The Dark Knight movie - it's still a story focusing on Sherlock Holmes characters - and the most iconic Sherlock villain beside Moriarty, Irene Adler or Moran is Charles Augustus Milverton... who still has lot of potential. And beside him, who could be the next antagonist in Part 2? The other Sherlock villains who didn't get used yet aren't as much of a big names. That's another point what can suggest that Milverton's arc is still unfinished.

Milverton not getting enough attention in Part 1 despite he clearly implied to be an important character was due to putting too much focus on him could complicate or even get the attention away from the Moriarty Plan what was the main theme of the series in Part 1. Maybe what we saw about Milverton yet was just an introduction and now, that we already know how dangerous and evil he can be, we can see more of his evil in Part 2. Because I'm sure if he is alive, he is ready to commit even bigger atrocities what we could imagine.

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #charles augustus milverton

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tallteenturtle · 1 month

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Nancy Drew: Curse of Blackmoor Manor

I fell down a bit of a heraldry rabbit hole recently and decided to spend several hours compiling info about the Penvellyn family off the wiki and then used online heraldry resources to analyze their individual coat of arms. Did the game devs intend the shields to be interpreted this way? Probably not. But if I dont over-analyze 20 year old childrens computer games what else am I going to do with my life??

Here are all the people whose portraits hang in the great hall along with info we learn about them from Jane (and occasionally Nigel), their coat of arms, and my amateur interpretation of the symbolism.

Randulf ( - 1401)

“Randulf the Red, so named for his bright red hair, was considered a hero at the Battle of Poitiers. For his heroism, King Edward III awarded him with the lands in the region called "Penvellyn". That's how we got our name.”

Randulf's coat of arms says "IN HOC SIGNO" which translates to "in this sign (you will conquer)"

Comet; unknown in heraldry but refers to the family treasure

Red; Military might, warrior.

(putting the rest under the cut to save you much scrolling)

Odo (1354 – 1404)

“Yeah, he isn't very exciting, really. Liked farming and cows. His son Milo is much more interesting.”

“Those Manuscripts are very old and brittle. They date back to the 14th century. Odo Penvellyn collected most of them. His father Randulf and son Milo were rather more interested in military victories than in book collecting.”

Odo's coat of arms says "PROSPERITAS" which translates to "success".

Milo (1376 – 1423)

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

Deer/hart; One who will not fight unless provoked, peace and harmony

“Milo inherited not only his grandfather's red hair but his military prowess. Milo was instrumental in the Siege of Caen and was awarded even more lands by Henry V.”

Milo's coat of arms says "VICTUM INVIDEO SILENTE" which translates to "the conquered shall envy the dead".

Hugo (1401 – 1466)

Comet; unknown in heraldry

Red; Military might, warrior

Teardrop; “One who has endured torrents”

“Um, he had a lot of kids, and his dates were 1401 to 1466.”

Hugo's coat of arms says "CITO FIT QUOD DEI VOLUNT" which translates to "what the gods want happens soon".

Albert (1427 – 1508)

Bee; Industrious, diligent

Acorn; Antiquity, strength

Red; Military might, warrior

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

“He was very mysterious and the people of Blackmoor were afraid of him because he knew all these scientific things. No one knows much about him, though.”

Albert's coat of arms says "TIMENDI CAUSA EST NESCIRE" which translates to "ignorance is the cause of fear".

Edmund (1447 – 1499)

Book (open); Manifestation, knowledge

Blue; Truth, loyalty

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

“He was into cows. He did a lot of breeding of cows and sheep and got some kind of award from the King.”

Edmund's coat of arms says "UT SEMENTUM FECERIS ITA METES" which translates to "As you sow, so shall you reap".

Charles (1478 – 1553)

Hawk (Falcon): One who does not rest until objective achieved, purpose, goal-oriented

Red; Military might, warrior

Blue; Truth, loyalty

"Ooh, ooh - Charles was a very famous judge and wrote very important books on law. But his boy, Garrett, drowned when he was really young.”

Charles's coat of arms says "MINIMA MAXIMA SUNT" which translates to "The smallest things are the most important".

Thomas (1526 – 1584)

Rainbow; Good times after bad

Moon; Serene power over the mundane

Sun; Creativity and enlightenment

Blue; Truth, loyalty

“He was Charles's grandson and wrote a lot of poetry. He also had 3 wives: Catherine, Anne, and Mary. But not like at the same time. They died and he just remarried.”

Thomas's coat of arms says "AGE PRO VIRIBUS" which translates to "in all that you do, do your best".

James (1560 – 1650)

Eagle (2 heads); Joining 2 strong forces

Purple; Nobility and justice

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

T is presumably for Thomas, no heraldic meaning

“He never married but one day, when he was very old, a baby was found on the doorstep to the manor. He took her in and raised her as his own. That was Elinor.”

James's coat of arms says "ARS LONGA" which translates to "art lives long" (from the phrase, ars longa vita brevis - art is long, life is short).

Elinor (1626 – 1650)

Maltese cross; Blessings, protection

Red; Military might, warrior

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

Blue; Truth, loyalty

Purple; Nobility and justice

“Just that she was burned as a witch but it wasn't true and her father, James, died when he saw her die and then the family fled to France. I don't want to talk about this.”

Elinor's coat of arms says "AUDACES FORTUNA IUVAT" which translates to "fortune favors the bold".

Corbin (1670 – 1741)

Lion rampant; Courage, integrity, strength

Red; Military might, warrior

Purple; Nobility and justice

“Uh…I dunno. He doesn't have a coat of arms in the Great Hall because he didn't live here; wasn't even a British subject. That's all I know.”

Corbin's coat of arms says "NUNQUAM DEDISCEO" which translates to "never forget".

This shield is notably absent from the great hall, and also is the only one to feature decoration on the outside of the shield.

Sun; Fountain of life, intelligence, innovation, creativity, enlightenment

Wheat; Faithful

Vines/Ivy; Strong and lasting friendship, academia

Philippe (1689 – 1777)

“He made a fortune in the New World and bought back most of the lands that were confiscated by Cromwell.”

Philippe's coat of arms says "NOVUS MUNDUS" which translates to "a new world".

Penelope (1714 – 1783)

Fleur de Lis; Symbol of France

Purple; Nobility and justice

Blue; Truth, loyalty

“I don't know very much about her, except that she was very loved by practically everyone in England, and there were a million poems written about her.”

“Those are mainly Penelope Penvellyn's collections of French novels. She was a patron to a raft of artists, and her salon was quite popular. She was quite the libertine, even kept her maiden name after her marriage.”

Penelope's coat of arms says "PULCHRITUDO IN OMNIA" which translates to "there is beauty in all things".

Martha (1739 – 1791)

Pegasus; Poetic genius and inspiration

Fleur de lis; Symbol of France

Lion rampant; Courage and integrity

Wheel; fortune, cycle of life

Purple; Nobility and justice

Red; Military might, warrior

“She was completely daft - she'd wear really bizarre outfits and she was one of the first women to ride on a steam train.” (This is particularly impressive as the steam train did not exist until 10 years after her death. Oops!)

Martha's coat of arms says "SINE SCIENTIA ARS NIHIL EST" which translates to "without understanding, art is nothing".

Brigitte (1759 – 1833)

Unicorn; Extreme courage, virtue, strength.

Teardrop symbolism; “One who has endured torrents” gold means generosity or elevation of the mind.

The gear and atom are not traditional heraldic symbols but can represent progress and science.

Red; Military might, warrior

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

Blue; Truth, loyalty

Purple; Nobility and justice

“She never married and was bonkers for astronomy; she adopted her sister's son, Richard, who later got killed at Waterloo."

Brigitte's coat of arms says "LUDI SINE GAUDIO LUDI NON SUNT" which translates to "sport without fun is not sport."

"Brigitte with her eyes so bright, looks toward heaven at midnight on the longest night of year, that's the one she holds most dear. 'Starry friends,' she's often heard to say, 'how I wish that I could make you stay.' She knows though they can't remain, time will bring them 'round again."

Only shield to have white decorations on the colored background

Star; Divine quality from above

Dove; Loving constancy and peace

Compass; Direction

Purple; Nobility and justice

Richard (1787 – 1815)

“He died in Waterloo fighting against Napoleon.”

Richard's coat of arms says "SI SIC OMNES" which translates to "if only this could last forever".

Edward (1809 – 1904)

Banner down center shield (the Pale); Military or defensive strength

Star; Divine quality from above. The specific star (nautical star) is not traditional heraldry but symbolizes finding way home.

Red; Military might, warrior

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

Purple; Nobility and justice

“He was a big explorer and went all over the world. He wasn't very close with his son, who was also an explorer. They'd only see each other by chance in weird remote places like Samarkand or Walla Walla.”

Edward's coat of arms says "BIS VIVAT QUI BON VIVAT" which translates to "Whoever lives well lives twice".

Knight (especially on horseback); The soul guiding the body; man’s journey through life

Lightning Bolt: Swiftness and power; spiritual enlightenment.

Unicorn; Extreme courage, virtue, strength.

I dont know what the warrior with the spear and sword means

Scepter; Emblem of Justice

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

Blue; Truth, loyalty

William (1833 – 1901)

“He was an explorer, just like his father. He was kind of a whiner, so I heard.”

William's coat of arms says "DIES PERDIDI" which translates to "another day wasted".

John (1873 – 1954)

Bend Sinister (the band across the shield); Sometimes used to indicate illegitimacy. If that is the meaning here that would be very interesting and explain why he wasnt close with his father

Red; Military might, warrior

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

“He was this huge naturalist and did a lot of exploration in the Amazon. I think there's a plant named after him. Or maybe a monkey; I forget.”

John's coat of arms says "PER AURES AD ANIMUM" which translates to "through the ears to the spirit".

Malachi (1894 – 1972)

Parrot and mouth not traditional symbols but probably represent interest in wildlife and linguistics.

Green; Hope, joy, loyalty

Blue; Truth, loyalty

“He was a doctor of medicine and did a lot of research on icky skin diseases.”

Malachi's coat of arms says "NUMEN LUMEN" which translates to "divine light is my guide".

Alan (1923 – 1993)

Sun; Fountain of life, intelligence, innovation, creativity, enlightenment

Purple; Nobility and justice

“He was my grandfather but I didn't know him because he died when I was little. I guess he was nice.”

Alan's coat of arms says "PURGAMENTUM EXIT" which translates to "garbage out" (referencing part of a programmers' saying "garbage in, garbage out").

Serpent; Wisdom

Red; Military might, warrior

#nancy drew #curse of blackmoor manor #nancy drew: curse of blackmoor manor #nancy drew PC games #her interactive #Penvellyn family #heraldry #fandom deep dive #nancy drew games #her interactive games #this is very niche content and i will not apologize #blackmoor manor spoilers

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brucewaynehater101 · 29 days

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Read a fanfic a while ago where Red Robin gets Surgeoned by (OC? Canon? Idk) the villain The Surgeon to have wings that are hinted to work

Now imagine this; Everybody in the Batfamily has bat and bird wings and bat and bird instincts, minutes the token human Timmy

And Tim suddenly has wings thanks to a villain Playing Doctor + God and the Batfamily's bat/bird brains are going crazy going stupid because one of their flock members has wings now!!

Except Tim got wings, and nothing more.

Tim doesn't have the instincts to act as a bird should, he can act, he can pretend, but it can only go so far

He doesn't have any other traits of a bird person, be it Talons, feather sin his hair, natural chirping, etc

He can register that hey, his wings will need to preened but his subconscious doesn't register the gravity unhealthy wings can have

Furthermore energy and blood flow and more has to go into maintaining those wings like he rest of his body. The Surgeon gave him wings and wings only, no other modifications.

Tim's body is only equipped to maintain a human body not a human body with wings

He has to eat for more body mass and feathers and bird bones than his body is made for and—

Yeah Tim is not having a good time and nor is the rest of the family

There's probably ideas I've missed

Feel free but not pressured to expands/explore/etc with this idea as you wish

Hmm... All of the batfam members? I do think it could be interesting if Alfred was human too. This could be a representation of the emotional disconnect he often displayed throughout Bruce's childhood. Not only does Alfred employ a professional distance between him and his charge, but he doesn't understand the instincts (and overwhelming needs).

Besides that, this is a super interesting concept! I love the idea that the instincts the Bats have support their ability to take care of themselves and their wings. I bet finding flock members is part of that end goal. I'm also curious about the dynamics pre-wing transition.

So Tim, as the token human, has never felt any of the flock needs that the others do. Since he's human, would their instinct be similar to a human's adoption tendencies for cute animals? Would Tim treat it as a cultural difference? Like, Tim gets invited to cuddle in the nest, something he doesn't feel the need for and has never done himself, so he politely declines at first. From what he knows (and has researched about hybrid cultural needs, behaviors, traditions, etc.), this is a ritual done with close loved ones.

When does he get invited to the first one, and who invites him? I don't see Bruce, who is at first pushing Tim away, as the one to invite him. Because it is such an intimate moment, it would take Dick awhile too. Even if he saw Tim as a brother, the difference in species, instincts, the grief of just losing a brother, and living in a different city (meaning less quality time over a period of time) probably combined to Dick needing a while before his bird brain could allow it.

I like to imagine maybe Cass, who has less notions about safe flock connections (aka not imprinting on people immediately), saw Tim and immediately invited him to the nest. It's a small point of contention for Dick cause he's been trying the entire time to work up to it (by combing Tim's hair, offering him small gifts, showing his back [a lot to the point Tim becomes concerned] to the younger one, and offering customary greetings in chirps). Dick has been putting in the effort, and then Cass's instincts immediately grab onto Tim.

Tim being human could also explain some of the tension between him with Damian and Jason. Bruce was already breaking some of the typical hybrid standards of conduct by mixing hybrid of different types (prey birds, bats, predator birds, etc.). Then Bruce just throws in a human and claims he's flock despite him not having the instincts at all.

I also love the symbolism of Tim being considered an outskirts member (as maybe not truly apart of the family) until right before he gets his wings. I think we can tie Jason into this as well (like maybe his death fucked with his wings and/or instincts. As he slowly gets integrated into the flock again, he starts to heal or get those instincts back).

Basically, everything is settling down with the batfam dynamics. Then Tim gets his wings.

It's symbolic of him finally feeling accepted in the family, but it also fucks him over. The others see him as a hybrid, their instincts are desperately reaching out, and they unintentionally feel hurt because Tim doesn't reciprocate. Tim is trying, by the gods is he trying to deal with everything new, but he just doesn't have those instincts.

Thus, the family has to rework through their dynamics as the hybrids battle their instincts and Tim has a mental breakdown about his identity.

#dc comics #dc universe #tim drake #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #thank you for the ask!!!!#sorry it took so long I was drunk and sleep deprived when I received it and couldn't give it the attention it deserved #this concept is really cool too!

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certifieddilfenjoyer · 1 month

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Why is Haarlep so different from Raphael - a theory

Hello! Welcome to another theory of mine.

"I am Haarlep. Raphael's personal incubus. Glamoured and transfigured to look like him. I'm a perfect copy(...)"

Hold your horses, sir Wait, they are nonbinary: Hold your horses, noble.

Haarlep states that they are a perfect copy, however there are some major differences in their appearance that could not be caused simply by the visual age difference.*

Haarlep's face has a few major differences:

Lack of darkened skin around the facial hair area (they appear a lot smoother).

The nose is straight and while the tip is shaped similarly, there is no bump across the bridge. They don't even have the cute-angry wrinkles in between the eyes! (Female form has them wrinkles, but the bump is softer)

Maybe it's just me but I was thinking that the upper lip appears to be a bit plumpier.

The face is shorter and because of that, the cheekbones are a lot sharper, Haarlep looks like they had some botox done 💀

The ears appear to be less sharp and shorter (aging hits ears quite hard, but they usually sag and the difference here is with the tip.

Archduchess form does have the roman nose, however the lips are plumpier.

See for yourself below:

And in comparison to Raphael (even to his EA model that has the famous bald spot):

But where is this leading, you may ask?

Well, I am proposing two different perspectives on that:

Haarlep's 'tweaks' point to Raphael's insecurities (a version of theory that my friend @shutexco proposed)

Raphael's devil form resembles MEPHISTOPHELES and he can't stand looking at the actual accurate depiction of his cambion form. Also, if that's the case, take a moment to consider how F-ed up it really is to have Haarlep gifted to him if his father was completely aware of the resemblence. But it would make sense, wouldn't it? Raphael left Cania at some point, but his father made sure he will haunt him all the time.

Have you noticed how Raphael has two portraits of himself that also don't look like him at all?

The second portrait has two horns, so it could be made during the EA, but there is no other similarity.

The first portrait looks like it's wearing some kind of variation of the Helldusk Armor, you can spot the 'Teeth' across the chest, but apart from that and 4 horns, it doesn't look like Raphael at all.

To sum up: the portraits are some kind of a 'vision' of Raphael. For a narcissist he really seems to be avoiding an actual perfect (as in 1to1 accurate) copy of himself.

Also, a few fun facts/smaller theories I'd like to include!

I think he made his own portraits. There are two easels in House of Hope. One behind the Archive (with brushes and cup at the ready and some paint stain spilled below them) and second is on the right hand side of the bed in the boudoir.

Now, the paintings on both easels can be found across Faerun, but the devil portraits are exclusive to HoH and I believe (please fact-check me if you know) that the painting inside Raphael's safe, right above the hoarded treasure, is also exclusive. Raphael is very talented. His diaries are like poetry, full of symbolism, bro is literally a composer, so why not an artist as well? I wouldn't put it past him. And because HoH was made by the head of Mason's Guild, then I guess he had the major influence on the design and I've heard someone say that it's Italian baroque and it's just beautiful.

Here's the Magic the Gathering card of Raphael (I think it was issued in 2022??). It looks more similar to the Statues at House of Hope than the portraits or Haarlep. Oh, btw, I've seen many people saying (mainly on YT and tiktok) that House of Hope is full of Raphael's statues. Not true, those are just cambions

Statues are present not just in HoH but inside Devil's Fee (yes, with both the belt and kneepads)

That's it! Thank you for reading all the way over here, appreciate it so much <3 <3

*Some aging research, specifically for bone structure changes: "As we age we all lose some bone which means that our cheeks flatten, our jaw bone shrinks and our eye sockets get larger. The structure of the face changes so the tissues above the bones will sit differently and so look different." Source "Facial bone loss can lead to retraction of the jawline, which emphasizes jowls and an unstructured neck. Widening eye sockets give your eyes a more sunken appearance and make you look tired. The angle of the bones beneath the eyebrows decreases, which contributes to frown lines on the forehead, droopy eyelids and crow’s feet at the corner of the eyes." Source

So as we can see, Raphael doesn't really suffer from any of those, besides the crow's feet that are imo so gorgeous that I lose my shit, AHFAIHFAJDSKSHA

#raphael bg3 #bg3 raphael #baldur's gate raphael #raphael the cambion #bg3 theory #raphael theory

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alcorianight · 1 month

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I did not realize this got so long, so rambly word vomit under the cut

I do think more attention should be paid to the absolute horror Jason must have felt after coming out of the Lazarus pit like a foot taller and built like a damn fridge.

Like he died at 15, tiny, still small due to malnutrition and then the leading theory is that the Lazarus pit cures that and beefed him up. For one, that's gotta mess with his motor control a ton, especially when you consider that normal growth spurts cause a period of clumsiness (think jarring steps, toe stubbing, knocking your elbow on doorknobs or whatever), so a total body overhaul -Lazarus Edition™ - might be enough to keep him from even walking properly, let alone fight skillfully and gracefully.

Even if you say he got his coordination back from training or comic book science meant the pits didn't fuck that up, being small was probably a major part of his identity. Consider Jason before Bruce. He was tiny, but still resourceful and strong enough to jack tires. But being tiny was useful. Being tiny meant more hiding spaces were available. It meant he was unassuming. It meant people's eyes skipped over him. It meant avoiding attention. It meant safety.

And sure, Jason probably complained about being small when he was Robin. Probably even dreamed of being big as a street kid because being big meant having power, but being big on the streets meant being noticed and he knew that. It was something to dream about when he was older but not what he needed then.

I've also seen people headcanon that Jason is claustrophobic from the coffin, and I kinda vibe with that, and being bigger also screws with that because things feel so much bigger when you're small. If you think about it, elevators and the like probably felt a lot more spacious when you were a kid. So not only has his body been drastically changed without his consent (and I haven't really touched on that here, but also consider how it has to affect Jason Todd (who champions consent and autonomy and personal safety of the little guy) to have experienced nonconsensual body modification first hand like that) but it can actively cause him more mental distress.

And I think, coming out of the pit, the memory of his death still fresh in his mind, and stuck in the League of Assassins, maybe being small would have been comforting. He could still access all the same hiding places he would immediately clock. And while the image of a big man hiding somewhere clearly too small for him might be funny, it's also heart wrenching because he's lost so many safe places in a single moment.

Of course when Jason does go back to Gotham he's learned to use his new body and the fact that it makes him intimidating as hell, but I think there's another negative there as well. Because as Robin he comforted people. No Robin is ever soft but they are all almost definitely better at comforting victims than Batman (maybe not Damian, but he's a baby which is simultaneously more and less comforting) and a big part of that is because they're kids. Kids just aren't as intimidating as giant ass adults and I can imagine that this probably messed with Jason when he first got back to Gotham and tried to talk to the street kids or the working girls because those are groups of people who are going to be suspicious of men built like a goddamn fridge. He can't come up to them like he did as Robin, and I'm sure over time he's won their trust and they find him a symbol of safety, but the first few interactions have to hit hard because it feels like he doesn't belong in a place that's been his first home. That somehow he no longer fits right where he always did before.

I also can't imagine how disconcerting it must be to not recognize your reflection for like every part of yourself. Like, this one time I had makeup done for an event (not my idea) and it was so heavy that I didn't recognize myself and I felt so uncomfortable with that and that was just my face. My hair, my height, my build - all of that was still familiar, comfortable, but can you imagine being unable to recognize even that? And if he avoids mirrors to avoid seeing his reflection, he might not even be able to recognize himself in pictures and videos. (There's a fanfic with this idea and it definitely inspires this post because I honestly never considered this before and I thought it was so well written and such a good point that we don't pay enough attention to. You should totally check it out if you got this far.)

The last point I have for this post has to do with his relationship with Bruce. So typical timeline (I think) for Jason is he dies at 15, crawls out of his grave about 6 months later, is catatonic for 3 years, and then spends a year mentally present training with the League of Assassins on his world tour or whatever. I am fuzzy on the details here but basically from his birthday, Jason can't be older than 19-20 when he comes back to Gotham (I think 19 is the accepted age) but mentally he's 16 and for some fucking reason DC artists like to draw him like he's over 30. THIS IS A PROBLEM! Like this is an extremely fucked up 16 year old kid that should be trapped in a 19 year old's body but instead it's so much worse because (and I've seen someone describe him like this before) he's actually trapped inside the body of a 35 year old divorcee AND THAT IS NOT OKAY! Like even if we're gonna say that the Lazarus pit alters the body to peak physical health that would be like 22 or some shit. Past 30 is not a physical prime. You can be fit for sure at 30 but that doesn't change the fact that your ability to build muscle and heal and whatever else are probably better in your early to mid 20s and hey guess what that's still younger than Dick's accepted age (or maybe about the same (I have stayed up too late writing this to keep proper track of numbers)). But Jason looks older than Dick more often than not (the Gotham Knights game will never be forgiven for whatever the fuck happened to Jay's character design).

Okay sorry for the sidetrack, but Jason looking older is gonna fuck with Bruce because Bruce is gonna have a real hard time seeing his tiny, malnourished, never gonna top 5'4 Jaylad in this giant hulk of a figure, especially when the age is so off. Like imagine you have a kid who goes to college and does a ton of internships or research so you don't really see them for 4 years, you're still gonna expect your kid to look like they're 22-23. If they look like they're 35 you sure as hell are not gonna pinpoint that as your kid. So Bruce sees Jason and it makes sense that he doesn't think that's his kid BECAUSE THAT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE HIS KID! (I'm ignoring the moral differences in this post) So Bruce doesn't see a kid when he looks at Jason but Jason is mentally 16 and, despite everything he says to the contrary, he sees his dad when he looks at Bruce. Jason doesn't see an equal, someone who is just another adult. This is his dad, an authority figure in his life, someone whos opinions and words hold power over him whether he wants them to or not. But Bruce can't see that. Because Bruce doesn't see a kid. He doesn't see his son. He sees an equal and that's tragic because you're always supposed to be your parents' baby. Even when you're 50 with your own family and nearly adult kids, you're still gonna be your parents little baby. Because parents see their kids at all the ages they've ever been and it's the fact that Jason doesn't have someone who looks at him and sees him how he was when he was 2 and 7 and 10 and 13 and 15 when he still feels 16 that makes this so sad. Because no one's been his parent for long enough to really build that and Bruce can't see Robin!Jason in the Jason that came back.

Wow, uh, I'm really sorry to anyone who reads this. This really got away from me and it's super unorganized and I just kinda word vomitted all over this. This was just supposed to be about how his body was different. How did Bruce end up in this?

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posletsvet · 9 months

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A Somewhat Messy Exploration of the Concepts of Purity and Impurity in Satosugu, and perhaps some more

The yin and yang symbolism in Satosugu (here I'm using 'Satosugu' as a short way to refer to the relationship between these characters, not necessarily a ship dynamic) has been brought up and discussed a lot in fan analyses lately, and by those who have mental capacity to express it far better than I ever could. However, there is one more thing I would like to talk about in relation to Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo's dichotomy, and perhaps some more.

As much influence as Chinese philosophical concepts (such as already mentioned yin-yang) have on Japanese cosmology, religious views of the people of Japan are actually an intricate and complex amalgamation of various teachings and beliefs, with Shinto being numerically the most prominent faith of the country. I was curious as to how the ideas found in Shinto could be applied to Gojo and Geto's relationship, and I guess I've stumbled upon some inkling of a thought in this regard -- so please bear with me while I rant.

Before this gets too long, I'm putting my rambling below the cut.

To begin with and give a little bit of context, the core teaching of Shinto is to have profound respect and reverence for nature. As a polytheistic and animistic religion, Shinto is defined by its belief in the kami, who are stated to inhabit all things, including objects of the surrounding landscape and various natural forces. Due to such elemental qualities of the faith, purification takes place as one of its central aspects and a widely followed practice, as well. There is a great emphasis laid on spiritual and physical purity and cleanliness. That being so, the moral categories of good and evil (or virtue and sin), so important in the western worldview, give way to a different outlook on things: the world is perceived in terms of 'clean' and 'dirty' rather than 'good' and 'bad'.

This concept finds a reflection in Gege's writing primarily through Tsumiki as someone who's essentially an embodiment of the virtue of being innocent and pure at heart. When she's brought up in the narrative, the image is frequently accompanied by flowers -- and more often than not, especially when it comes to Megumi's perspective, those flowers are white lilies. And those are one of the most common and prominent symbols of purity. When Tsumiki's innocence is symbolically destroyed with Yorozu taking over her body, white blossoms are depicted as thrashed and stained in the background. Her purity is further defiled by her death as everything related to death and decay is considered foul as it desecrates the world's natural state of cleanliness, fertility and life.

I'm only bringing this up to show how Gege incorporates this religious framework into the body of symbolism in his story. And the further you search with these concepts in mind, the more you are able to uncover.

Satoru Gojo as purity and perfection

Satoru Gojo is a character whom you can't help but read as a perfection within the context of the world he exists in. He's the absolute strongest, wielding the power to bring all the knowledge of the universe and the forces which shape it under his control, he's repeatedly elevated by the narrative as someone unreachable and untouchable whereas nothing seems to be beyond his reach. He also has an extraordinary appearance, matching vibrant aquamarine eyes with fair hair, so rarely found among full-blooded Japanese people. He embodies an ideal for his society.

Satoru is associated with white and sky blue -- the colours most widely believed to represent purity, innocence, perfection, serenity and safety. Those are lofty, noble, airy and spacious hues which also bring in mind vast open spaces and immeasurable and unreachable heights and depths, symbolizing Gojo's detachment from the mundane world where corruption and putrefaction take deep root. Not to mention Satoru's noble background as an heir of one of the Big Three Sorcerer Families.

Actually no, forget this, I do want to mention it and expand a little on my thoughts regarding Satoru's family and upbringing. It's highly likely he was overprotected and sheltered as a child, and along with a teenage-years rebellion on his part which such a childhhod brought about, it also thwarted his ability to make connections with people around him as he basically lacks common experiences and/or interests with them. He's somewhat sterile when it comes to displaying empathy and emotional intelligence, which results in a peculiar sense of innocence about him. For the lack of any better way to articulate this idea, I'd say he's pure in this regard: clean and untouchable and spotless, devoid of nearly everything that comprises a regular person's experience.

This shows even in the way Gojo chooses to cope with his trauma in the aftermath of the Star Plasma Vessel Incident. That traumatic experience seemingly barely leaves a mark on him because he opts for pushing it aside and moving forward, while going out of his way to make sure there's a safe distance between him and the source of his vulnerability by improving his technique. He fixates on bringing his Infinity technique to perfection, and as a result it leaves no opportunity for anything to touch him if he himself does not want it to. Yet again, it leaves him stainless.

Not only that: he becomes emotionally detached from the cruelty and filth of the jujutsu world, becomes numb to it, with little to no emotion ever reaching his core to shake it. He's neither angry nor vengeful on Amanai's behalf after her death. He does not allow for hatred and spite to poison his mind, neither does he feel any doubt. He stays clean from all the negativity at the cost of coming off as cynical and unsympathetic.

He masks this by putting up a front of an emotionally immature individual with childlike mannerisms and an attitude resembling that of a teenager rather than a fully grown man. He also nurtures a somewhat naive belief that Suguru still can be trusted, that there's some hope for him turning away from the path he's chosen. In this regard, he still bears the innocence of a child.

Last but not least, shedding away the more humanly parts of himself, Gojo instead becomes more attuned to the natural world through his ascension -- the main source of purity, as Shinto has it. Moreover, he basically rejects death by coming back from the dead after finally grasping how Reversed Cursed Energy works. And I've already explained the importance of something like this when talking about Tsumiki's passing.

Gojo Satoru's mind is free from resentment and hate, his body unstained by death. He's a character who represents complete spiritual and physical purity.

Suguru Geto as impurity and corruption

Where Gojo's character exhibits perfection, Geto shows abruptly stunted growth and degradation gnawing away at him bit by bit; where Gojo stands to symbolize cleanliness and purity, Geto presents desolation and decay and that filth which is left in their wake. Geto is a character whom the narrative treats as a symbolic foil to Gojo, starting from him being expelled from Jujutsu High and ending with his death being described in the light novel as a curse purged from existence. If Gojo serves as an example of a perfectly fit cog in jujutsu society and sets up a desirable ideal, Geto, named the worst of all known curse users, represents everything that the very same society fears and despises.

Starting with colour symbolism again, such colours as black, dark brown, warm beige and mustard yellow are the most common colours to be associated with dirt and a filthy, dingy appearance. And while I'm not saying Suguru himself has such an appearance (although he does forsake taking care of himself at some point), those all are the colours found in his palette. Black is also considered to be the hardest colour to keep clean, even more so than white, as it shows all the stains and grime so well. Which is quite interesting if you consider that Suguru's downfall and defection ultimately bring out, both to the audience and to Satoru, everything not only malfunctioning, but straightforward cruel, vile and despicable in the existing system.

Geto's deeply empathetic personality is the basis for his own corruption, his inability to set boundaries between his own emotions and the suffering of others leaves him extremely vulnerable in a society which actively punishes people for being unable to extract emotion from their duty and caring too much. The thing is, Suguru is elbow-deep in emotion. For instance, if Satoru managed to shove his feelings aside in order to put together a plan of action when Kuroi got abducted, Suguru immeadiately plunged into self-blame. His own empathy is what's clouding his vision, his feelings pile up within him without any healthy outlet until they start rotting him from the inside.

Geto lets the rot in by caring too deeply, vile emotions that he feels on behalf of others festering in his mind. He can't stand the sight of atrocities commited by Jujutsu society and finds them nauseating, while the rest of the world he exists in treats those abominations as a norm. And even so, he dives deeper into all this by trying to make a difference and save ordinary people.

This is symbolically represented by Geto's Curse Manipulation, with him consuming curses which are basically a corporeal manifestation of all the negative emotions people vent into the world in their daily lives. The more curses he absorbs, the more doubt and resentment he lets inside and the more they consequently stain his once pure ideals and aspirations with bile building up inside of him. His very sense of self is twisted by the weight of the unsightly hideous reality, and while he stays true to his strict set of ideals he is forced to adapt by the trauma of his experience as a sorcerer and the 'realisation' which it brings. Because if one endures such severely traumatic events, one must sooner or later come to the conclusion that there's something inherently wrong and malfunctioning -- either with you or the world you live in. Geto chooses to stay true to himself by assuming it's the latter, and this choice results in his corruption in the eyes of those who run that very world.

There's also something to be said about the intimacy of the act of consumpton: you let the thing you consume nurture you and become a part of you. Cursed spirits taste absolutely foul, and what that means to put this despicable thing in your mouth and swallow it is unimaginable. Geto's absorbtion of curses is supposed to represent how he basically desacrates himself by letting himself experience everything at such a deep emotional level, inevitably tying himself to putrefaction of the world.

And of course, the last thing that plays its role in the defilement of Geto's character is his death.

Brief wrap-up thoughts

I could honestly ramble on and on about this for ages, but I guess it all just boils down to my admiration for Gege's ability to break the mold with his writing. He takes a trait which is largely associated with protagonists of their stories and shapes his villain's whole personality around it -- and vice versa, with Gojo and his seemingly egotistic tendencies.

Once again, Japanese religious beliefs organically encompass so many elements originating from so many cultures with no coherent systematization existing up untill late 19th centuary, and I find it absolutely fascinating how Gege's story reflects that. It leaves us with such an interesting controversy of an emotionally detached hero dwelling in a morally grey area alongside with a deeply empathetic antagonist whom both other characters and the audience find deserving of sympathy and pity.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk analysis #geto suguru #gojo satoru #satosugu #tsumiki fushiguro #she gets mentioned as well #and i still do not know how to tag properly #jjk meta #for some reason it took me so so long to finish this #are words exhausting sometimes #it seems the more i think the more scatterbrained I get #i am once again telling you #i'm sorry for how messy it is #and also #welcome to a new episode of how i'm so not normal about the religious symbolism in fiction

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chokchokk · 11 months

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𝐧𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐞 [𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬] | choi san x fem!reader

PART ONE of : have your way with words, be my people pleaser

“San, what else do I have to do? Draw it out? Do I have to beg?”

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : You’ve always been able to read him like a book, but for some reason you still fold for San.

"You've never begged."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : fluff, smut

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 6.9k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : teasing, painful attempts at flirting and joking, vaginal fingering, no usage of y/n (forgive me), vaginal sex, pet-names

𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜 : considered for revision

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : this was like the first choi san smut i've ever written and i was trying to find my tone and omg i actually don't want to re-read it it's probably SO CRINGY omfg. i'm sorry for any icky moments i did not know any better 2 months ago LMAO this is also the only part that's pure "fluff" just fyi because i hadn’t planned this to be a series yet !!!!

He’s biting his lip, rolling his head to the back, trying his very best to stay focused on the paper he’s working on, all while you look at him in awe from the other side of the table. His glasses have slid dangerously close to his nose tip and the hair clip you’ve put into his hair to hold it together has lost all of its strength already — you really have to pull yourself together to not carefully slide one of the locks away from his eyes.

Yes, San is a complete mess, and undoubtedly failing at hiding it. He probably doesn’t want to ruin the late library ambience, being the thoughtful Sannie he is, or at least not destroy the study sessions by not focusing on work, but the infuriated tapping with his pen against the wooden table isn’t covering any of his angry grunts.

But even if you’ve noticed his desperation an eternity ago and have been deeply distracted by it ever since, you can’t bare to tell him that you’ve already given up. You guys have promised each other at least one is going to get this session done, so San be it, you tell yourself. If you have counted correctly, there are just ten minutes left on the clock, he should be able to do that, no matter how stressed he is.

And usually, you’re optimistic he’s able to do it, but you’ve never seen San’s eyes darken like this before. On normal days, he’s all smiley and giggly, squeaking words of helplessness at tasks that overwhelm him, covering up his frustration very well. Of course you can still look through his façade and say things like “San, let’s take a break” or similar things, but that’s only when he’s smiling still.

Maybe it’s because you’re both studying for finals that there’s a lot of competitiveness or ego involved. Anyhow, you don’t want to get yourself involved in that, no, don’t want to resolve it at all, actually.

Let’s say it like this; San is scaring you, yes, but he is also being incredibly hot and turning you on so much without knowing it. You can’t help but watch his dissatisfaction being gulped down his freckled, thick neck, and observe his Adam’s apple moving up and down. You draw a trail along his jawline and the loose black T-shirt he’s wearing with your eyes, following his neckline until the rhythm of his heavy breathing is revealed by his moving breast.

San knows a lot, yes, but what he doesn’t is that he’s a walking sex symbol with his broad shoulders, narrow waist and intimidatingly friendly face. He’s biting his lips with just no idea what his looks are doing to your privates this exact moment and his soft voice is not helping.

He’s at his last task now and you catch yourself be a bit disappointed, when he takes his hand to balance his head and covers his face with it. You could feel guilty now for not interrupting or lending him a helping hand, but being attracted to your designated study buddy for the longest time with a painful amount of allusions to it is way more straining you on an emotional level than the stalker-behaviour you’re showing. How San hasn’t caught up is baffling to you, and the amount of times you’ve tried to make a move only for him to be oblivious is painful. (Let it be known you were never forced to answer Seonghwa’s question of “would you fuck San?” with the honesty that you did, but his little sheepish smile after your nod is enough to confirm that he should know, but just doesn’t. Sure, it’s unclear until this day if he even understood the question or the answer correctly, but it just feels like you have done most of your part.)

“I’m almost done,” San murmurs— breaking the silence between you two in the library— his voice comparing to nothing more but a sigh. He’s tensed up, eyebrows furrowed, and he’s scrunching his nose a little bit to sniff his agitation away.

“Take your time,” you try to say as nicely as possible, attempting to calm him down. It does help, it seems, because San is straightening his back to take a deep breather, his eyes finally wavering away from the paper. You smile at him and get a head nod in return.

Sharing this short moment of just acknowledging each other’s presence, you confirm that San, regardless of how socially (sexually?) stupid he can be, is an intelligent guy after all, not to be shaken up by this little bit of studying. Straight A’s, perfect GPA, teacher’s favourite — you’re lucky professor Kang has put you in so many group assignments together, or else you would have never been able to meet with San like this on a Friday evening, studying for your finals.

“I feel like I ran run five miles or have to commit arson,” San jokes half-heartedly in a breath and you giggle, looking around to not disturb the other students with your laughter. “What’s stopping you?”, you ask playfully, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” San answers and touches the backside of his head with both of his hands. “What’s stopping you, hm?”

You frown, the once raised eyebrow coming right back down, your amusement wearing down.

“What’s supposed to be stopping me?”

San pouts innocently and fetches the clip from his hair, black bangs falling to his face, but he doesn’t set his glasses, making him look at you with squinted eyes. They look even heavier now, eyelids covering most of his irises when he leans forwards to you: “You haven’t touched a single task since an hour now, why didn’t you tell me you were done?”

You don’t know why you pant in panic— it’s an understandable question, San probably noticed you stared at the man during the whole time he was the only one committed to the studying— and you’re afraid there’s this tension again, but not driven to the paper, but you.

“You, lemme think, looked too..”

You know your sentence can’t be finished in any way that would be positive. You would’ve liked to end it with “concentrated” or “in the zone” to give him credibility for his hard work, but San has been way too obvious struggling to hold on, and you’re not a good liar.

“… Handsome.”

It’s not a Freudian slip, if it’s on purpose, yes.

“You looked to good to be true, San. If you weren’t wearing the baggiest shirt from three days ago, you’d coin dark-academia realness.”

You always make jokes like these, it’s your expertise. They usually make San enormously embarrassed, which is the best part of it all: He, who was growling his frustration away, is now giggling, expression softening, as he scrunches his face together with a wide smile. The high-pitched noise awakens your motherly instincts— it’s these moments you could just melt away in adoration.

“You’re lucky you’re not a professor, because that look you gave that paper right there isn’t going to help anybody concentrate on their studies. People-pleaser? Teacher's pet? I wish."

“Ugh!”, San moans quietly, his dimples revealing that he’s deeply touched. He will never get used to your overly specific (and usually sexually connotated) compliments, but it’s better that way. San cracks his fingers to recover, but then covers his mouth to hide his blushing smile once more. Take that for two people-pleasing and validation-seeking students, one more focused on studies, one more trying to fuck than the other. He barely goes to parties, which robs you of the little chances of opportunities to make a move on him.

“Okay, I won’t lie to you, I was done long before you, but someone’s gotta be valedictorian this year.”

“Really nice of you”, San sighs— he’s gathered himself now and has put on his friendly smile again, “But I’m really done now as well.”

“How done?”

“To go home-done.”

“My home, I assume.”

“Of course.”

With his finishing sentence, you hold a staring-match again, which you lose, as San takes his pile of paper and stacks it vertically to organise his stuff.

From here, the procedure should be simple. He drives you to your place (safe), maybe he’ll eat a midnight-snack with you (very likely), and maybe watch a movie (unlikely today) to then leave, if he doesn’t fall asleep during that. You already have the night schedule written out in front of you, and all you’re left is whether you’ll convince San for another study session tomorrow.

But then, in the car, San grabs the steering wheel but doesn’t start to drive.

You think he must be too tired and decide not to ask him. Honestly, you feel quite dizzy as well, but mostly because San has opened his mouth half-way now, audibly breathing in and out — it sounds like he’s panting. His tongue has also runned along his upper lip, making it glisten reddish pink under the parking lot-lighting. It’s unbearably arousing you. “Give me just a second,” he murmurs.

“Does your head hurt? We can just walk, you know,” you suggest, but San shakes his head: “No, that’d be inefficient and really dumb.”

“You’re the one dozing off, San, not me!”, you scoff and turn yourself around to face him, elbow placed on the radio. San opens one eye — it looks like he’s winking, his tongue pressed against this upper teeth. “And you’re being quite sassy, aren’t you?”, he grins and you swear you’ve never wanted to not shut up more in your entire life.

“If being sassy is what keeps you awake, I don’t see anything wrong with it, San,” you fight back, even more playfully this time, lips pouted to emphasise your mocking tone. There is a clear, lustful intention you’re trying to project, and secretly, you hope San notices it, but there isn’t any indication he isn’t already, which you find strange.

“Oh, you think I must be real tired, huh?”

San begins to grin and all of the sudden, things are happening very fast: His hands aren’t placed on the steering wheel anymore, one of them has moved to your chin, holding (and keeping) it up, after you try to back away out of reflex, the other is placed dangerously near to your hip — he’s propping himself against the seat, you can feel him breathe against your nose tip. His whispers expand like flames on your face. What has ignited this man?

“San?”, you ask carefully, every bit of playful confidence inside you crumbling down to your guts. It’s not like you aren’t enjoying this still, in fact, you feel like you’re going to go savage and clash your face against his any second, but San’s finger is pressing so delicately, yet so firmly into your skin, it’s messing up your projected image of the cute little — unfortunately sexy — nerd in your head. You don’t want to admit you’re intimidated, but San has been extra scary since he said he wanted to light buildings on fire. At the same time, you’ve been waiting days, no, weeks for this and a tingle between your legs signals you that you’ve been prepared ever since.

“Can’t go home yet, can we?”

His eyes are still dark, when you look at them through his glasses and there’s a bit of shine left on his lips, when you glance at them longingly. San’s breath is shaky, and you’re not sure whether yours is as well. You’re too focused on imagining the next scene. San has finally reached his burning point, it appears, and you’re too stunned to react verbally to his question. Are you seriously going to do it in the car, in the library parking lot?

“Buckle up.”

It is only now that you notice you haven’t put your seat-belt on. The sound of the plug clocking in takes you out of your reverie.

“San, screw you. Oh my god, screw you so much.”

He laughs a dirty laugh, even more so devilishly, when he returns to his seat and immediately begins to drive out of the parking spot. Has he been acting? Fuck this. Hastily, you have to get into your original position and buckle yourself up as he has told you. This bitch, you think to yourself and stare holes into the car window, this motherfucking bitch.

“Just a little revenge for making me work alone because you wanted to make me valedictorian? Or what, because I’m— what was it? Too handsome?” His voice has turned softer immediately, teasing you with a sweet undertone.

“Okay, we’re even now!”, you laugh sarcastically, trying to not become sulky. You’ve subconsciously crossed your legs and arms already, and your whole body is turned away from the driver’s seat.

“Sure,” San answers and you can hear him press some buttons. “Music?”

You throw him a side-eye and take the AUX.

“I could violate your ears so good right now,” you snap and search for a fitting playlist for this frightening night.

“You could try.”

When has San become a bully? How has it come to this? San is playing with you, more obviously than ever before — toying with you in the game you started.

But let it be known you could never be offended by this man.

Because when you play the first song that came to your mind— it’s «Sexbomb» by none other than Tom Jones — it becomes clear that you are more than happy to be his gaming companion, levelling up the tension to the max, though it's not a sensual song per se.

It’s petty, but provocative at the same time. You’ve never gotten what you wanted, have never expected to get it, and the surreality of the scenery just a few seconds ago is enough to keep you stimulated for the whole drive, ignoring San’s big grin on his face, as he safely gets you home.

And of course San joins in for the midnight meal. Without having spoken a word for a quarter hour now, you open the fridge and cram out anything eatable. You should’ve went grocery shopping, there’s barely anything left.

“Not so prepared, I see?”

“San, if you say one more word, I will—“, you shut the door of the fridge, revealing a San who’s leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, head thrown to the back to squint at you.

“You’ll what?”

He’s the worst and heaven knows he should know that as well. Every attempt to overthrow him fails, because nothing seems to break this man — you can’t animate this man for you own good, even when he’s try-harding to look cool.

“You’re being a bitch today and I hate it.” Biting your lip, you rethink your sentence and shake your head, eyes not swaying away from the black-haired man. “Actually, scrap that, I hate that I like it way too much,” you hiss, ridiculing yourself and taking of your sweatshirt, leaving you in a sheer top. It’s warm, you’re hot, this situation be very easy to understand.

He doesn’t know what to do. Or maybe he does, and he’s just being a pain in the ass again: both could be absolutely true, when he moves his head and musters you from bottom to the top, a huff leaving his nose. It seems as if he’s mocking and checking you out at the same time, licking his lips and biting his tongue.

“San, what else do I have to do? Draw it out? Do I have to beg?”

You whine and you’re not one bit embarrassed about it, though San doesn’t even take it in the desperate way you clearly are.

“You’ve never begged.”

San is scratching his neck, acting like an innocent brat, much to your obvious disapproval.

“Come on, you can’t be that dumb, San, can you?”

“How would I be?”

“San, what the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s simple,” and San is pushing himself from the wall now, taking heavy steps towards you, “I can’t give you an answer to a question you’ve never asked.”

“I,” you begin to think of your next line argument, but noticing how he’s pulling his eyebrows together to throw you an almost belittling look through his lowered glasses, you give up, baffled about the reality. Replacing the next words, you pant.

“I’ll give you an answer, alright?”, San encourages you, taking one last big step. He’s standing in front of you now, in your little kitchen, next to the counter, looking down at you, free and available as he can be.

“Whatever it is; yes,” he whispers, accepting something you’ve never offered him directly.

Of course San isn’t dumb. How could he have been, when you’ve been so obvious? There’s a shameful heat driving up your stomach and you bite your lip.

“Baby, I’m all yours.”

You could have kept teasing him for the way he was obviously lowering his voice to sound more authoritative or sexy or something , but no, it’s just too much. Being cornered by San, hearing him surrender to you with his words, but still in a way that made him dominant over you — that is just way too much.

Seriously, all yours? Where did he get that one from? Wattpad?

“Fuck right off, San.”

It feels like your brain splits in half, your conscience leaving the second you throw yourself at San, hands grabbing every piece of hair you can get to pull him down to your face, whispering insults into his mouth, as your heads meet. He just grins and licks over your teeth, tongue slicking against yours.

“Happily,” he murmurs into the kiss, his hands grabbing you by your hip and waist, pulling you towards his muscular body. He must think he’s being so funny and yes you would have loved to argue with him, but you’re weak in his grip, ruffled by the pure tension that has been brewing all those days. There’s wet noises and sucking to be heard and it’s all sending urgent signals to your privates. You will, no must fuck him, and you're going to fuck him better than whatever he’s expecting from you, just to blow his mind.

You let his hair go and tug at the seam of his shirt, prompting him to raise his arms and have his clothing be slid off his body. Eagerly, you come back to his lips while throwing the shirt to the side and take steps forwards, leading San to your bedroom. Entrusting you with the guidance, he walks backwards and falls onto the bed, breaking the kiss. With a grunt, San props himself with his elbow, but before he can tower over you, you reach your arm over his shoulder, grabbing the bed frame, trying your best to keep his broad silhouette under your eyes.

Your lips already feel numb and you swear you can feel something pulsating inside your pants, when you slowly slide onto his lap and let the warm fabric touch. After a bit of movement, you and San are both shuddering and whimpering, lips meeting again in the snake-like maneuvering. He’s becoming harder with every little suck at his tongue, twitching even, and in addition, you’re becoming too impatient as well to edge yourself like this.

Your hands move to the zipper of his baggy jeans, and San is trying to take this as a sign he’s allowed to take off his pants, but you give his palm a little slap. He smirks and returns his hand to take a pillow, stuffing it behind his neck. You wanted to take control, but he’s way too comfortable with it, it’s annoying you, yet at the same time, you wouldn’t even know what to tell him at this point.

Opening the zipper and sliding a hand in, you trail the outer side of San’s shaft through his boxer-shorts with your finger to identify with what kind of girth and length you’re working with and comment “bigger than I expected”, as if you have imagined it before, which would be the truth, yes, but not smaller than the absolute unit he is possessing.

“Ah, really?”, San gutters, voice shaking with each little touch of yours, but never letting his guard down completely. You anchor his boxer-shorts and tug it down just until the point when his shaft jumps out. He gulps and opens his mouth to pant again, when you spit into your hand and palm his shaft to give it a nice stroke from the very bottom to the top, admiring the shine of it. You pump his penis, feeling the skin inside your hand slide with every movement, and make it grow to its final length that way. It’s fascinating, really, but you’re too busy to contemplate about reality. You take the initiative and get a taste of the wet mixture that is your own saliva and his pre-cum. You pump the part you can’t reach with your throat and in no time, San’s eyes are rolling to the back.

“That’s good,” he comments, going through your hair, which motivates you to go even deeper. Hitting the back of your throat, his girth makes you tear up, but you sit through it, since San is tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, caressing your head softly. You try your best to suck and slide your tongue over his tip, to which he immediately reacts. “Hmnh~”, he hums and you bathe in his pleasure-lorn breaths, until you kind of get a hunch of what he likes the best and continue to drive him this way. “That’s good… Hnnh- heek!”

Was that a weep? You thought the whines were high enough, but San is definitely hiding his high moans, trying to cough them out. You continue to bop your head and watch his aroused expressions with amusement; his eyebrows are pushed together to form a needy frown, teeth biting down on his lower lip, inflicting pain on himself. From what it looks like, he’s pretty close, his hand weakly lying on top of your head, hesitating to push you back, once you remove it.

“Don’t cum yet!”, you demand, and San sighs helplessly.

“You’re edging me?”, he manages to choke out with a smirk, and San wipes away your tears from your cheeks. “As if I couldn’t get hard immediately after from just looking at you!”

You scoff, his directness has caught you a little bit of guard. You’re still trying to return to normal breathing after quite literally having been choked by his dick, not be attacked by his sudden strike of confidence.

“Can I undress you?”, he asks and you nod, all the hair he’s put away falling back in front of your face.

Once your shirt and bra is off with quick seconds of his hands at your back, San is taking his view all in, his plump lips parted and never to be closed again. Before you can wipe the grin from his face, he storms at your dekolleté, swinging his arms around you. His sucks are tugging at your nipples, after he pushes himself forward, one arm fully around your back, the other finding his way to your other breast to massage it. Moan after moan leaves your mouth and your head becomes heavy, falling to the back: his hand effortlessly catches it, finding safety in your hair. As you scratch his neck, grabbing it to pull him closer to your upper body, you repeatedly pant his name.

“Hm? What?”, he reacts, circling your skin with his tongue.

It’s so erotic, you think you’re going to cum untouched, pants on and all. San is leaving kisses everywhere on your torso, some wetter than the others. He is leaving a trace of saliva on your neck with his tongue, gliding against your chin with it, ultimately meeting your lips once again. It’s filthy, but just so, so erotic.

He’s still holding your breast in his hand, stimulating your nipples while filling your mouth with a mixture of spit and rhetoric (and very provocative) questions.

“Feels good?”, San asks with a raspy voice, his nose scrunched amusedly, when he sees how messed up you are. Strands of hair are sticking on the wet spots of your skin, drops of sweat are dripping down to your collarbones. You’re already so disheveled. “Want me to continue?”

“Yes, pl—,” You can’t find the words, as they get lost somewhere in San’s mouth, once you give him confirmation. His tongue is exploring the inner space of your mouth, and his hand has become busy with taking off your pants. You kneel, making space to let your jeans slide off your thighs and you have to raise your legs to finally get rid of it. Your panties are still on, when he lets his hand slide between your legs. His hand feels warmer than the heat that you have become, and when San finds your clitoris through the fine fabric, you spasm to the front. You bury your face into his shoulder and bite a small inch of his skin, when he begins to stroke that spot with two of his fingers and nibbles at your ear and whispers sweet nothings into it.

“So wet.”

Sharp breaths escape your breast, as he begins to play for your swollen clitoris.

“Come on, tell me what to do. There must be some things on your mind, right?”

San is luring you into a false sense of control and you’re stupid enough to obey his command. It’s just like he said; you need him, you need San, and if he doesn’t stop acting like he doesn’t know, you’re going to combust.

“Fuck, San, just make me feel—“, and though you can’t exactly hear yourself whine out from all the licking happening at your ear and his callous finger caressing your most sensitive area through the fabric, you still know you’re sighing, “so good.”

Your eyes lose focus, when you feel your panties disappear from your pussy, the cold air surprising your sensitive spot.

San sneers and finger-guns you, but before you can sneer, he sticks it into your mouth, lubing his digit up with your spit to carefully ease it to your pussy.

He groans and moves around the moisture for a short moment. San has always had quite thick fingers, but it feels even more robust now, when it slides into you. You clench around him and move your hips to the painfully slow pace of his pumps.

“Be patient. We don’t want you to hurt, do we?”

That he’s staying the nice little Sannie even in this situation makes you want to go insane, but not more than the slight scissoring to confirm your stretched innards.

“Patient enough?”, you hiss and grind against his hand again, to which San only coos, “Patient like the good girl you are.”

By then, his words and movements are almost like magic, when he angles his finger a little bit and finds your g-spot, which sends you into a short moment full of sparks and bliss, but a long, aching eternity, when it’s only repeated in the unbearably long intervals after a little bit of pulsating. You’re feeling every movement in such a detail, as if his one singular finger is becoming one with your body, one with your senses.

“Is this enough for you?”

You’re whirring and your mind is babbling nonsense from all the possibilities San is presenting you. Mushy and messed up, you move against his finger, which slips with ease through your wetness, while you try to figure out what you want more: San’s dick or San’s face.

“I’m waiting for an answer, you know,” San whispers, softly kissing your forehead, as he continues to finger you.

“Th- then eat me out,” you whine under your breath and something inside you churns, when he giggles and removes his finger. He raises you by your legs, pushing you by the hip at the same time. You’re on your back now, breathing heavily as San is aligning his face in front of your entrance.

“With pleasure,” he hums and spreads your legs with his elbows, putting you on full display. It’s much too late to feel embarrassed now. You’re not shaved, you basically haven’t done anything, but maybe the rawness of it all is what intrigues you as well.

He stretches the skin a bit with both of his hands, making it get used to the position, while he peppers soft kisses on each of your thighs, that tickle each spot of your skin. You relax into his hands and naturally, you exhale the tension out of you.

His tongue feels soft and hot compared to his finger, when he slides it from the very bottom to the top, sending a shiver to your spine. It’s sensual and slow, and it does appear to you that San is savouring the taste, pushing his whole tongue against your labia to get the full picture of it. You shudder, a mixture of your own pulsating muscle and his humming vibrating between your legs.

He sucks on your clit and you notice immediately how pleasured are, already grabbing your sheets and curling your toes, pushing your legs against his hands he’s using to keep you opened. “Fuck,” you whine and move your head to the back, yearning for more stimulation. A slight chuckle leaves San’s mouth, until he plunges his tongue into you whilst continuing to suck all the sex juice that leaks out of you. The breath leaving his nose warms your privates and you quite figuratively melt into his mouth.

This time, he doesn’t need a lot of searching for your g-spot with his fingers and you weren’t prepared to immediately be sent back to pleasure-haven. He slides through the rough walls from the inside of you and doesn’t leave any spot go untouched, while he catches anything leaving out of your pussy with his mouth, creating squelching sounds all around.

The pleasure at your clitoris and the pitter-pattering inside you is slowly tying the knot, and you shut your eyes with unavoidable whines leaving your lips. It’s all happening way too fast for you to react to each and every motion.

“Fuck, San, don’t stop, I’m— Oh, fuck—!”

The wet sounds of San’s saliva being mixed with your sex fluids, and his fingers moving in- and out of you again, they’re all adding onto the roller-coaster drop of your orgasm, but San thirstily panting “cum, cum for me!” against your vulva —while his tongue is busy pleasuring you—, his hot breath condensing against your own heat, that’s got to be one of the many significant factors that finally sends you over the top.

You moan and drive your lower body against his face, thighs closing down on him to squeeze his head.

San doesn’t even think about stopping there though and keeps you up there: He thunders his finger to push your button continuously and get every remaining squirt into his mouth, his tongue shovelling it all in.

“San, I— fuck! Please, San,” you beg, though it’s not a plead for him to stop, but rather make this moment last forever. You’re shaking, your pelvis is trembling towards his sharp nose that’s dug into your private hair, before you collapse onto your mattress and San eventually stops, grinning pridefully.

His lips are swollen pink, eyes covered with a desirous veil and San has to swipe his bangs away from his face to look at your exhausted expression that’s still recovering from that hell of a heavenly orgasm. He swallows whatever’s left inside his mouth and leans over to you in order to bathe in your bliss. Out of pure gratitude, you cup his face and kiss him.

“You look all messed up already,” he admits, and enjoyment can be heard in his voice. Returning the kiss, San prompts: “Can you handle a second round? Or want to handle a second round, that is.”

Still panting, you nod eagerly, your lips grazing against his repeatedly.

“With words, lovely.”

You whine at his mendacious, know-it-all smile and give him a slap. "Quit it with the fucking-, ugh!" With an airy voice, you groan: “Yes, San. Please. I can handle, want to handle— want you to handle me, right fucking now."

San pats your head, pressing another kiss on your forehead and crams through the night stand cabinet next to the bed, probably searching for a condom and finding an untouched package full of it.

“Freshly-bought or just unused?”, he asks jokingly, putting the hand on your cheek as if he was pitying you for your minimalistic sex life that he’s assuming. The other hand is occupied opening up the box. “When did you buy these?”, he lisps, holding the condom in his mouth to rip it open, “I hope these aren’t expired.”

“Expire my ass!”

Oh, he better know you were keeping those for a good reason every time he came over. (Though you’ll keep it a secret it took half a year to get them to use.)

“You should say how fortunate that there’s so many, San.” You sniff. “’Cause hell knows this isn’t going to be—“

San slips into the latex layer with ease and doesn’t hesitate to enter your hole with one big, smooth slide. His finger is nothing compared to the thickness you’re experiencing; you just feel full, the stretch inside you making you feel like your body is being turned inside out. Before you can finish your clap-back, a wrecked and whole-hearted moan leaves your mouth.

“Isn’t going to be what?”, San asks, lowering his upper body and ultimately pulling out a little bit, sticking a thumb into your open mouth, “The last time? Is that what it is? You know you’ll want this again? Really, sweetheart?”

You don’t even want to form words anymore and just nod eagerly, sucking at his finger that tastes slightly acidic.

“It’s so dangerous to say that, you know that?”, and he’s pressing his forehead against yours, his dark, deep eyes staring into you with suffocating concentration. His hand is buried deep in your scalp. “Because you don’t know how happy that would make me”, San purrs with a raspy voice, and an airy moan leaves his mouth the second he thrusts right back into you. “So, so, unfathomably happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I’m going to make you my little happy whore.”

It has already occurred to you that San had taken it as a challenge to call you every pet name that exists, but for him to degrade you like that, after every single word of of his sweet-talk has entranced you into numbing euphoria, has now just taken you to another state of pure bliss. With every creak of your bed and tug at your hair, your vision gets more blurry. You can see San and only San, piercing through you with his genitalia and eyes.

“Did you get that?”

“Y- yes!”

"I don't think so."

Your forehead cools down, when San gets his body back up again and installs his hands at your hips to get a good grab and also drive himself even deeper into you.

This has been your wet daydream for the longest of time— and even if you apparently could have been fucking him already during all those hours, which is frustrating, yes, but so, so fucking hot— listening to San’s sounds of pleasure, seeing his vision get all hazed from it and watching his eyes moving to the back of his, makes it all worth it.

He pulls in and out again, finding a steady pace to really feel your inner space expand and close down on him again.

“Are you going to fuck me stupid?”, you lisp into his finger, your saliva sliding down your lip, cooling your fever down.

You can feel he’s sweating as well, as your fingers search through the cold wetness of his hair. "Do you want me to fuck you stupid?”

“Yes! Yes, please. Fuck me stupid, San!”

And with that appellation, San removes the thumb from your mouth and collars your throat with an almost animalistic growl and thrusts with ridiculous precision and force at the same time, a loud clap echoing through your bedroom. You’re not sure whether you’ve made a mistake, but San is absolutely blinded by pure desire now. With a slight choke, you try to moan, his shaft moving in and out of you mindlessly.

As he pounds into you, you notice once more that San’s breaths are being cut short because he’s still trying to stay as quiet as possible and you stare him down, his fingers collaring your neck.

“I, I want you to—“, you stutter, gasping for air and trying to catch up with your shaken body, “‘want to hear you moan. Moan for me, San, please!”

He laughs a little bit, panting along your plead and places his lips against your earlobe, letting you breathe freely for the short moment he's roaring things into it, his hand tangled in your hair.

“You, hah, feel just as delicious as you taste. You feel so good around my big cock. I bet you’ve never, unnh, had a big cock like mine, haven’t you? Never had someone like me, shit, fuck you out like this. How, ah, fuck, long have you been fantasizing this, huh? Days? Weeks? Months? Stupid little girl, thinks I didn't know, haha."

His breathy moans are absolute angelic, and that’s all you can comprehend, when you slowly feel your mind drift away. He’s hitting the spots just right, pressing your buttons with aligned movements. His thrusts are becoming sloppy, your moaning more strained. You don't even care that San is showing you that everything you knew was a lie, or at least an act he's kept up to mock you, because if your obliviousness has led to this moment— his cock crashing through you with a pace that makes you fear the next morning— then yes, again, it was all really worth it.

"I'm gonna—", you whine, and you're cut off by his hand again. Your eyes can barely perceive his sex-drunk expression, when you feel the knot inside you preparing itself for explosion.

"You're gonna cum?", San asks, his heavy breathing making it sound like he's gasping, "Are you going to cum for me?"

"Yes, I am!", you grunt and the male licks his whole palm to lube it up in order to rub it around your clitoris for maximum pleasure. You shiver, your legs trying to free themselves from the heavy weight that is Choi San, and screams for mercy leave your mouth, your second orgasm sending you to heaven, hell and back to earth, when he pulls out and continues to slide his hand over your clitoris until you spasm away from his touch. In the meanwhile, San has taken the collar off your neck and resumed jacking himself off, moaning your name and other pretty words to himself.

"You're so pretty like this, fuck," he cusses, the squelching sounds in his hands becoming more inaudible. "So fucked-out, because of me— shit .. I'll—"

He grabs you by your head, pulling his own face closer to yours to meet your lips for the last time, quickly removing the condom. Sharing a deep kiss, he ejaculates onto your abdomen, moaning from his own release into your opened lips. You lay there, wordlessly, your brain both foggy and clear as it has never been. You feel your warm sweat dry refreshingly on your skin and San shuffles away from the bed, walking to the bathroom with practiced steps to discard the empty condom and return with a towel to get you clean.

"And?", he asks, as you search for your pillow to clench onto it, feeling the stretched skin inside you. Sure, San has somewhat prepared you for the fucking, but no metronome could replicate the cruel rhythm he made you cum with.

"What, and?", you ask him back, your voice a bit raspy from the loud moaning.

"How was it?"

San looks completely innocent again and it baffles you that you're falling for it again, even when his hair is forming unholy strands, immoral sweat dropping from his chin as he speaks. It's a cringe-worthy question and you would have dismissed it, if it wasn't for the cuddle you got from him.

"Come on, was it up to your imagination?", San begs you to answer, burying your body between his heated-up arms.

"Yes," you answer weakly. "Sannie, you’ve.. You've done your job. That was S-Level people pleasing, really."

San grins, placing multiple kisses over your temple and forehead. "You have such a way with words," he comments, "good thing that it really brings you far in life, hm?"

Was this the right time to make dad-jokes?

No, but nobody has fucked you out like San, so you'll let it slide. Even the corny "eating you out for breakfast" quip he makes in the morning, when you both notice that the fridge is still very much empty, or the "from study- to fuck-buddies" monologue he holds on your drive back to campus, you'll all let it slide.

(And maybe you're stating the obvious here, but poor Seonghwa is never going to forgive you for San's laugh after you say something sensational with "letting it slide" used in another context, this time in the narrow space of his residency-bedroom, his roomie having listened to all the sounds coming out of your mouth behind the thin walls.)

part two: “into it, too deep”

#ateez x reader #ateez smut #choi san x reader #choi san smut #choi san scenarios #choi san x you #choi san x y/n #haveyourwaywithwordsbemypeoplepleaser #chokkiwa

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