#this musical has very dark undertones

[wigglys-dikrats]

I Wanna Be and Super Friends are my all time favourite starkid songs

[super-clearlysaltybouquet]

The One With the Blouse (1/2)

Part 1/2

Wolfstar x reader      Sirius Black x reader      Remus Lupin x reader      Sirius Black x Remus Lupin      Sirius Black x reader x Remus Lupin 

Established couple (throuple)

Summary: Reader cares about how people see her, tensions boil over when the group get ready for a Gryffindor party

Warnings:

Angst (argument)

Hurt (and minimal comfort…)

Lots of insecurity, feeling disposable in a relationship

my first fic ever so please be kind…will potentially write a part 2 if people like this one (feedback is welcomed)

word count: 1.8k

Sirius looks so pretty in his white blouse. The silk brings out his dark hair perfectly, and the fabrics warm undertones complimented his pale skin. “Is all the fuss really necessary?” Sirius asked, bothering with the bow neckline of the blouse.

“You want to look good, don’t you?” You respond stiffly, tying, and re-tying the bow, unsatisfied with how it sits around his neck. 

“You forgot to Iron it.”, you say, Tying, untying, re-tying. Completely zeroed in.

“Does it really matter?” Sirius responds, completely exasperated.

Remus watches on from the armchair by his bed. It’s standard routine at this point. Before every common room party, Remus is ready by dinner - always a plain top and trousers, today a white T-shirt with blue jeans. “Very James Dean”, Sirius had said. He's been sitting there entirely patient on the same armchair for the past two hours, reading only half attentively as you and Sirius get ready.

“Sweetheart, the bow is fine”, Remus advises gently. He’s not in a rush, but he can tell that as much as you usually enjoy it, today the up-doing process is stressing you out. 

“No..no, not yet”, you respond absentmindedly, still fixated on Sirius’s blouse. 

Tying, untying, re-tying the bow. Sirius huffs out a humourless laugh and takes a quick step back turning completely away from you. Your hands are still held up, frozen where his neck would be. Your eyebrows furrow, and Remus looks up from his book.

“It’s the same every bloody time!”, Sirius suddenly cries out, you’re completely taken aback. 

“Sirius”, Remus warns.

“Godric, Forgive me! I didn’t iron my fucking blouse!”, he feigns, “You’re suffocated me” he finishes, coldly, glaring daggers straight through you. He’s still so beautiful, with his ebony hair hanging long and dark over his face, but the pit in your stomach is somehow darker. 

Remus is stood to his full height now, book abandoned. “You’re out of line”, his anger still somehow contained. And Sirius has the gall to let out a laugh. The party in the common room seems to have started. You can hear music and laughing below the bluestone floors. You try and divert your focus to that lively sound and take it off the painful bob in your throat. 

“I’m out of line? You’re kidding Moony”, Sirius laughs. his lack of sincerity is incredibly unnerving. “The bitch is vapid”, and your heart nearly stops, you can feel the sick climbing up your throat. Remus is seething, but you’re not sure he knows exactly what to say anyway. 

“What?”, is all you can muster hopelessly. 

Sirius takes a step towards you, and you all seem to move at once. You take one step back at the same time Remus steps between you and the shorter boy.

“Cut it out Sirius”, Remus warns, towering above the both of you with his height, and his domineering demeanour. But Sirius is undeterred.

“You. are. entirely. vapid”, he repeats, now looking over at you past Remus’s shoulder. “you’re just like my mother” he whispers to himself, like some sort of secret revelation, and you just want it all to end. “Completely superficial, shallow, and entirely vapid” he seethes, before turning back away from you again, taking in a slow deep breath. You think you can hear his heart beating nearly just as quick as yours.

Sirius’s accusation sits inside you. You can’t deny that you do like nice things. Your jewellery was all made custom, you shopped at the best boutiques on Diagon Alley, and you kept up appearances. 

Your parents have always been devastatingly high-achieving. You were no stranger to the odd charity gala, or pureblood ball. So, for you that meant endless expectations to live up to. Making sure clothes were ironed, hair was done right and shoes were all polished was just second nature. You pay attention to these things because you have to. Your label as a “washed-up-witch” in Witch Weekly’s coverage of the Macmillan ball in 72 serves as a reminder. Filtered through pre-teen public humiliation, these things stick. As deflated as you felt regarding Sirius’s outburst, you could feel an equal anger bubbling just below the surface. 

“You did not just compare me to your draconian fanatic of a mother”, is the first thing that leaves your lips. Your eyes are wide, and that anger is bubbling over. Yet, your voice is so level that you think you just might have the upper hand. You can tell that Sirius was expecting you to respond with equal fervour, he wanted a fight, and your composure has caught him off guard. You think for a second, maybe he didn’t even mean to hurt you. 

Remus would back you up if you needed him to, but he knows you really don’t need him to. You’d like to say your piece, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze in support.

“Just because you can afford to reject tradition and expectation doesn’t mean we all have that luxury” you seethe.

Sirius has always had the reputation of a Black Sheep, but it made him shine nevertheless. Every act of rebellion on his part was praised and admired by your peers. But as a woman in the 70s, and the only child in a pureblood family - you were often subject to incomparable scrutiny.

“Maybe I’m too much sometimes” your voice breaks, and the tears have started to flow of their own accord now. Rushing like silent broken faucets, or shower heads. Sirius’s eyes flash with regret. You look up at the ceiling to blink them back, and Remus gives your hand another squeeze, silently shaking his head and biting his tongue. He’s glaring at Sirius with a healthy mixture of disappointment, and something akin to fury.

“I can’t help but care about how I look”, you whisper to no one in particular, “This is usually fun, getting dressed up together”, and Sirius looks completely in despair. That almost cocky, goading aura that surrounded him has been evaporated by your undeniable heartbreak. He’s fidgeting with the hem of the blouse now, and his fingers move hesitantly up to his neckline, where your hands sat only moments ago. He’s palming at the skin there, as it slowly turns pink from the pressure.

“I’m only fussy because I care, Sirius”, you say wavering, lip quivering as your crying takes both your eyes, and your voice. He can’t look you in the eye.

The subtext isn’t missed by either of the boys, you care because you love them. You enjoy dressing them up because you want them to look good and enjoy themselves. To protect them from any anxiety associated with landing on a worst dressed list, even informally among the Gryffindor party-goers three flood below.

You look down at your disco boots, perfect stockings and shift dress. It all feels so silly now, wearing the outfit you picked out three days in advance. You want to crawl out of your skin, and you really don’t feel like dancing. Sirius is still palming at his collarbones, staring with dazed and shallow eyes at his feet and the floor below them. You can’t see his face properly behind his hair, but you know him well enough to think he might be crying too. “I hope you’re proud of yourself Black” Remus chimes in, and you wince at the use of that last name. Remus’s hand rubs small circles around the back of your neck, you can't help but want his hot skin off you.

“I-I didn’t-”, Sirius starts, but you walk from the room with Remus quick at your heels before he can finish. 

The stairway down to the common room is empty, with the party building up below. It’s just you and Remus standing still on the stairs. “You know he didn’t mean that”, Remus says kindly, more for your sake than Sirius’s. He’s brushing the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs, and gently pushing the hair back from around your face. “He gets like this when he’s stressed, it’s not your fault”, he reassures, kissing the top of your head. 

“I stressed him, I should have just let him be”, you whisper, and Remus is silent. This is the first big fight you've had as a couple. You’re a slightly more recent addition to their pairing. Quips and little disagreements have never been an issue. Even when you were all just friends these things were always resolved in a matter of minutes - or a few hours at most, but this is the first time a spat has ended in tears. 

You wonder if this was a mistake. You hope to Godric that Remus isn’t thinking it too. “I think I’ll go to bed”, you say finally, and you can feel him frown. 

“But you were so excited for tonight” he says sadly, more of an acknowledgment, you know he doesn’t mean to change your mind. You’re all hardly in the mood for a party.

“Maybe you and Sirius can still have some fun”, and you hope it doesn’t come across as bitter, but Remus’s solemn expression suggests otherwise, he lets it go.

“I’ll talk to him”, Remus assures, as he molds his body around yours in a much-needed embrace. Having him so close stirs a vulnerability within you, and you’re sure that if you could see his face, you wouldn't have the courage to open your mouth. 

“Maybe we were wrong”, you whisper into his chest, scared. 

Remus is burning 20 degrees hotter.

“What makes you say that?”, he responds measured, but the unease in his voice is palpable. He’s pulled back to look at your face now, and you fidget under his gaze. You give him a look to say without words, ‘are you kidding?’.

“But you know we love you”, Remus says desperately, more of a question than a statement, gripping the sides of your head firmly, so as to say, ‘please believe me’. You just shake your head between his hands. “You heard him, didn’t you?”, you start, “Completely superficial, shallow, and entirely vapid” you quote, and Remus cringes. 

“I’ll talk to him”, he repeats.

“No, no its okay, I’m going to bed”, you say, almost completely defeated by the tidal wave of self-doubt flooding through you.

“Dove-”

“How about you talk to him, and you two can decide what we do from here”, Remus looks heartbroken at the implication.

“Surely you don’t think we don’t want to see you anymore?”, There seems to be something sparkly welling in his eyes too, Godric, what a horrible evening.

You’re so in your head you hardly register Remus’s question. When he goes to pull you close again you take a small step back, your fingers still interlinked. The moonlight shines in through the stained glass, and the sparkle of salt in Remus’s eyes begins to fall. You can hear Diana Ross’s smooth voice echoing off the stone from downstairs, tonight could have gone so differently. You can’t help but feel you’ve caused all this. Whatever animosity Sirius seems to have been harbouring towards you, you’re sure it lives inside Remus too, even if you can’t see it yet. You turn around before you have the chance to look back.

“I’m going to bed”.

[xob1tchs]

going quietly - ethan landry

a/n; she’s here!!! thanks for waiting, i love u 🫶🏻 also there’s def bound to be spelling errors, and grammar or punctuation mistakes even after reading it a billion times- I wrote on my phone this time 😭

pairing; e2l nongf!ethanxfem!reader

warnings; smut! mentions of stabbing, blood, violence, mentions of killing/death, bickering, stabbing, brief panicked hospital, ghost face attack, smut, kissing, making out, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex (do not try this irl), cream pie, sub ethan undertones

taglist; @elinanova @fanboyluvr @ghswlz @bajadotcom @oscarisdaddy69 @nuhteyam @certifiedpussyeater @lunaoieoie @hotweeb @beautyb1ade @vivianbay @doingurmomma @multishippinghoe @luvmara @lilluna @jaysarchiv3 @iovemoonyy @shaylaaaaa16 @nini123 @bloodyv7mp @inlovewmikewh33ler @karacaroldanvers @nishinoyastoes @zxvcq @luv-4-jj @sluttt444slashersss @fuaq

music

Big round puppy dog eyes are staring down at you, a sense of faux innocence masking the curly headed boy you swear you hate right now. You can’t stand him, really. In all his good boy, golden retriever, dork glory. You don’t believe it for a second.

So why do you have this feeling in your stomach, a warm heat that sparks when he’s this close. When you can smell the cologne on him, and the musky sweat from running all over New York. The dark bags forming beneath his shiny eyes that make him look almost dead, the purple and red bruise on his cheek bone, the dark blue long sleeve that’s far too form fitting. Why do you stare at his biceps, watching the way his long thick fingers run down the side of his pretty face.

He could be a murderer. He could be plotting to kill you at this very moment. Maybe he looks at you that way because he wants to make it hurt. Why do you want him to make it hurt? Why does the thought of him behind a mask you’ve come to hate have heat pooling between your legs? Maybe the lack of sleep, and the inability to escape this killer has finally gotten to your head. Maybe you’re actually going insane.

“Hey! Are you listening?” Sam draws you out of your thoughts. Your eyes land on her, suddenly a pounding in your head, and a pain from your side that has you grimacing. You mutter a ‘what?’ pressing your palm into the stab wound, blood seeping from your side, through the material of your black tank top, running down the cracks of your fingers down your wrist.

She frowns at you, eyes looking at Ethan before they land on you again, as if she’s already regretting what she’s about to say “Ethan should take you to the hospital- you’ll bleed out” she does regret it. Knows that if Ethan is the killer that he’ll leave you to die in alley somewhere, but if he isn’t and he doesn’t take you to the hospital, you could die after getting away a third time. Knows you’d haunt her if she let that happen.

You glare up at Ethan through your lashes, can feel the tears gathering at your lash line, but reach up to grab his shoulder anyway “if you kill me and survive, I’ll haunt you for the remainder of your sad life Jack ass” you threaten, and he hums, slipping his arm round your waist, placing his hand just above yours.

You limp down from the apartment, loosing strength by the minute, forced to lean more into Ethan as he tried for a cab. When one finally pulls to the side you slide in, ethan sliding in a little too close next to you.

“When I save your life, I better get the greatest thanks known to mankind” he mumbles, lifting your shirt a little to asses the damage, “I hope that hurts” he tacks on, whispering it bitterly into your ear.

‧ ⨯ . ⁺ +. ✦ ⸝⸝ ✧ 𓂂 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🪩 ﹅ ੭

When you walk through the ER doors, you’re bombarded with a flock of nurses, ushering you to the nearest bed. Ethan trails behind, lost like a puppy, stumbling after the nurses as they scurry around, asking them what they’re doing or how long it’ll take. You roll your eyes, scoffing at his idiocy. The boy has clearly never even scraped his knee falling off a bike, much less been in an ER with someone who’s been stabbed. It makes you anxious.

“Ethan! Just sit!” You whisper yell, whipping his head as you call his name, his features falling as you scold him. He slumps into the leather chair not far from the bed you’re sat on, cradling his cheek in his palm. He just watches you, eyes fleeting from your wound, to your face, clearly trying to decipher what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling.

You roll your eyes again “Quit staring creep” you press your lips into a flat line, trying not to laugh as the nurse coming closer side eyes him hearing your words, your spin straightens, a hiss escaping your lips as she begins rattling on about what’s going to happen.

You already know of course, the scar on the back of your left shoulder a reminder, you’ll need sedated, an iv drip, stitches, blah blah blah. This time you’ll have to leave earlier, no way you can afford to stay for 48 hours, don’t care how much blood you’ve lost or how weak you are. Ethan can see it in your eyes as the lay you back, what you’re plotting, the way you don’t even flinch when they stick your side with whatever, or when they stitch you up. You do look at him when they cut your shirt off, and he doesn’t look away for once.

When they’re done, eleven stitches later, and you’re laying back in the bed with an IV in your arm the small secluded area becomes flooded with an awkward silence.

“We need to leave” you sigh, eyes glancing to the clock, you’ve only been gone two hours max. Unfortunately you know well enough a lot can happen in two hours.

Ethan sits up stripping in his chair, shaking his head with drawn brows “If something happens we’ll know” he stands, coming to the edge of your bed “you need this though” his fingers thrum against the needle in your arm, the small touch has your skin breaking out in goosebumps, fingers tightening their grip on the sheet beneath you.

“Why are you being so fucking sweet to me” you grimace, face forming a scowl. You sit up just enough so that your eyes are closer to his, but he’s obviously taller than you, leaving you forced to glare up at him. His brows draw together and he crosses his arms over his chest, the muscle of his biceps bulging beneath the dark blue shirt, from the angle he looks less boyish. Dark eyes staring you down, jaw clenched in clear aggravation, lips forming a hard line instead of a cute pout.

“Why are you always such a bitch to me?” He shoots back, voice low so that nobody hears, but loud enough that you can tell he’s clearly angry.

“Maybe I’m just a bitch” you shrug.

“Maybe you’re just a liar” he cocks a brow, shrugging back.

Before you can jest back, the fire alarm rings through the hospital, water spraying down from above, lights dimming down so that the flash from the alarms is evident.

You’re ripping the iv from your arm and slipping on Ethan’s jacket, zipping it up, and yanking him quickly towards the exit before a nurse can even reach you. As you make your way through the panicked crowd, your fingers lace together, tightly wound so you don’t get separated.

The ER of a New York City hospital is hard enough to get in and out as is, fire alarm only added stress and the halls flood and become to crowded to even see the nearest exit. Bodies are pushing against and in between the both of you, shouting and babies crying, water blurring your vision as you try and tunnel a way out.

“Ethan, we need to get out now! There are no coincidences in our movie!” You warn, hoping he gets the message, your spine going rigid when your fingers are forced apart and the start of a reply is muffled as your bodies are pushed apart. You spin on your heel, pushing through bodies, wincing in pain when someone elbows your stitches. A shoe catches your boot, loosing balance you stumble to your feet, people don’t bother helping you up as they pass.

You crawl, the rips in your jeans leaving skin visible to bruise against the wet hard floor, someone steps on your fingers and you yelp out, forcing yourself to your feet with your hand cradled to your chest. Your fingers ache, unbendable, your curse under your breath, squinting as people push past you, trying your best to find Ethan’s face in the crowd.

You fail to see him, ready to give up and call out for him, when you see it. The white mouth, faux mouth smiling menacingly, looking directly at you. They tilt their head, knife waving in the air in front of them, teasing you with a fake stab motion the their chest. You frown, looking to your left and then right, and when you look back they’re gone. Panic sets in, and you bolt to the door on your right, shaky hands twisting and pulling at the knob. Locked. You curse under your breath, looking over your shoulder, before you fall to a squat, walking along the edge of the wall.

Your eyes are frantic, watching the feet you pass for the end of a black cloak, heart wild in your chest. Your palms are sweating, fingers and hands shaking, knees aching as you creep around a corner, escaping the crowd. You slump against the wall, knees pulled tightly to your chest, erratic breathing. The sprinklers have stopped now, but the water makes your mascara run, eyes aching, body now cold, your side aching. You’re alone, Ethan had to have gotten out, but the ghost face is here and you’re alone.

What if the ghost face got to Ethan first? The thought has your stomach twisting, nausea crawling up your throat, you slump forward onto your palms, breakfast spilling all over the floor. Tears have now crept past your lash line, falling down your cheeks to the ground, legs shaking as you stand. You press your palm to your wound, blood seeping through Ethan’s jacket, staining your skin. A stitch must’ve broken.

You peek around the corner, the last of crowd escaping through the exits, and then look the opposite way. Deciding that the ghost face couldn’t have gotten far, you begin jogging towards the exit you’d originally intended leaving out, foot steps heavy against the damp ground.

Before you can even get half way there, a scream echoes through the halls, a guy clearly. The thought of it being Ethan has you stopping in your tracks, spinning around to see where it could’ve come from.

“Ethan! Ethan where are you!” You shout, greeted by the screech of sneakers on the ground, you flinch, head whipping around in the direction of the sound. The bed you’d been at, curtains pulled closed, a figure looming in the distance “shit” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you run in the direction of the figure.

Your hands are shaking, fingers hesitant as you reach to yank the curtains back, and when you do large hand wrap around your shoulders, sending you tumbling backwards. You scream in protest, staring up into the eyes of the mask, one of your hands meets the side of their face, knocking them in the jaw, rolling of of you with a grunt. You scurry to your feet, eyes searching for the knife, failing to see as they stand up far too quickly, gripping the hair at the base of your neck, yanking you backwards into their chest.

You protest “let me go you motherfucker!” you shout, elbowing them, lurching across the bed falling flat onto your face into Ethan’s chest. You gasp, palms flat against his chest, straddling him as his eyes struggle to stay open. Blood touches your fingertips, his shirt open revealing a stab to his shoulder, and then you notice the blood pooling his curly head.

You’re about to say something when his arms wrap around you, your bodies rolling to the right, you look to the left- ghost face mere feet away. You and Ethan are now quick to your feet, him still slowly moving behind you as you start down the hallway, getting closer and closer to a room that hopefully has a lock.

You usher him inside first, slamming the door just as the ghost face spots you, locking it hurriedly, moving the filing cabinet closest to block it.

You look at you me surroundings, assessing the windows, a way out. Then you remember Ethan.

He’s sat slumped against the front of the desk, palm pressed to his wound, grimacing. You fall to your knees, fitting yourself between his, carefully moving his hand away. He flinches when your fingers dance along the wound, unable to tell how deep it is, you grip the tear already made by the knife, pulling with all your strength to rip the shirt off him.

He stays silent, watching as you use the fabric to wrap across his chest and shoulder, hoping it can suffice enough for you to get out of the window and to your apartment.

“We need to leave now.”

‧ ⨯ . ⁺ +. ✦ ⸝⸝ ✧ 𓂂 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🪩 ﹅ ੭

It had taken you longer than expected to reach your apartment m, several weird stares and concerned police officers later, you’re now sat with Ethan on your couch as you dress his wound. Finishing off you lean away with a sigh, tossing your first aid kit onto the coffee table, cradling your head in your palms.

“It hurts doesn’t it?” You mutter, looking at him through the cracks in your fingers, frowning when he quietly nods. His knee knocks against yours, and his fingers wrap around your wrists, tugging your hands away from your face gently.

“Are you okay?” He asks, voice quiet and raspy, wavering a little. Your chest stutters, stomach doing that stupid thing, finger tips twitching in his palms. His hair has dried, but it sticks to his face because of sweat, sweat that makes his face glow, lips parted and swollen from biting them. His eyes are wide, a little red from irritation, searching your face, dropping to your mouth, then looking away when he realizes you’re staring back.

It’s slow, silent, as your faces inch closer. You can feel his warm breath on your upper lip, the stubble on his jaw when your fingers slip up his face into his hair, the heat from his hands that are now on your hips like an open flame, searing the feeling of his skin on yours into your body like muscle memory.

Then you’re kissing, lips moving in sync, tongues brushing. It’s messy and inexperience, your teeth even clashing, breathing becoming hurried. He tastes like watermelon chewing gum, and also blood, the coppery taste bitter but no unwelcome at all.

You crawl onto his lap, straddling his thighs, sighing into his mouth as his hands travel up your spine, tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tugs very slightly, just enough for you to feel it, making your core ache. You start grinding down against his bulge subconsciously, desperate for friction between your legs, your mouth falling open against his when you get it.

“Oh fuck ethan” you whine, brows drawing together as you press down harder, he presses his forehead to your temple. Panting out against your cheek, his hand creeps around your body, down your stomach and to the button of your jeans.

When his fingers slip into your panties, very quickly finding your clit, your eyes roll to the back of your head. His fingers make circles on the bud, whispering into your ear as he plays with your pussy “Does it feel good?” he asks, and when you can’t seem to respond he worried he’s doing it wrong “Please I want to make you feel good baby” he mutters, switching techniques, flicking your clit side to side.

You squirm, hands digging into the skin of his hips as you pull away to look him in the eyes “I’m gonna cum” you whine, and your jaw goes slack when his fingers suddenly plunge into your heat, stretching you out deliciously.

“You’re so tight, and fucking wet” he coos, fingers thrusting in and out of you quickly, while his thumb abuses your clit. You rock into his touch, open mouth panting against his jaw, eyes rolling back as your orgasm creeps up “You look so pretty, so so pretty cumming on my fingers, Jesus fuck” mumbling the words into your hair has your thighs shaking, cumming dramatically, cursing under your breath. You clench around his fingers, grinding into his touch, wetness ruining your underwear, even soaking through the crotch of your jeans onto his.

“Can you give me another one? Wanna feel you on my cock please?” He whines, slipping his hand out of your pants, bucking his hips up into your core, stiff cock pressing to your core through the layers.

“I don’t know Ethan” you pout, nose knocking against his, a blush covering your cheeks when he pecks your lips. When you look at him, face flushed and sweaty, eyes begging silently, you feel heat between your legs once again, sighing in defeat “Has to be fast, need to get back to sams” you mumble into his mouth, and he nods in agreement.

He’s quickly, almost ripping your pants off, panties as well. When his cock is free, you think you’re actually salivating. He’s big, as to be expected, long and girthy, tip slapping against his belly button; angry and red, leaking with pearly beads of precum. A vein runs up the underside, prominent. You’re staring at his cock, like you’re ready to eat him alive.

“Is something wrong?” He interrupts your gaze.

Your quick to cradle his face in your palms, shaking your head quickly, pressing your mouth against his. You hover above his tip, grabbing him by the base, letting the head gently protrude at your entrance, shuddering at the stretch that already begins to burn as you slowly sink down. He moans into your mouth, and you accidentally bite down on his lip too hard, breaking the soft skin. Once he’s fully inside you find it hard to breathe, completely stuffed full of cock. Full of Ethan’s cock, feeling it twitch and pulsate inside of you, clearly begging you to move.

“So fucking tight” he practically growls, shoulders shuddering when you rise up again, ass slapping against his thighs when you fall back down. He wraps a stepping arm around your waist, carefully avoiding your wound, then begins fucking up into you a a gentle pace.

“Feels so good, love it so fucking much” he whines, eyes wide open as he looks between your bodies, speeding up with no warning “never want to leave, live in this pussy” his babbling has your heart fluttering, a drunk smile taking over your face as you moan out, nodding at his every praise.

He reaches so deep, deeper than any guy before, you’re almost sure he’s in your cervix, literally rearranging your guts. You chuckle at that, recalling threats from six months ago over the phone. When you laugh slightly, you clench around him, and that has him moaning out, head falling against the back of the couch.

The noises he makes are pretty, whiney and shameless, a contrast to the dirty words he’s letting out; and to how he looks, tall and muscular, drilling into you at an inhumane pace.

“I’m gonna cum again baby” you let out, slumping into his chest, spent, letting him fuck into you as he pleases. Your thighs are burning, sweaty everywhere, eyes barely open. The cord in your stomach is winding so tight your cunt aches, seeping wetness around the base of his cock, making obscene wet noises every time the skin of his thighs meets your ass.

He hums “yeah, yeah I’m close” he mumbles into the top of your head, fingers digging into the skin of yours hips so hard you know it’ll bruise “want you to cum on me, but- but can I cum inside?” he babbles, whiney, bordering on begging.

You nods frantically into his chest, heaving out a breathy string of ‘yesyesyesyes’ until you’re cumming around him, your body stilling, clenching around him as he cums as well. It’s the most intense orgasm you’ve ever experienced, white hot burning through your veins, your eyes rolling so far back you can see your skull, nails digging into his biceps so harshly you make him bleed. The way he pulses, twitching, loading you completely full of himself. It almost feels like it’ll never stop, creaming out around the base of his cock, covering your raw puffy lips in a mix of his seed and your wetness.

As if on cue, pounding comes from your door, making the both of you jump, heads whipping to it in panic “We’ve got serial killers to kill!” Tara’s voice shouts, and the both of you face each other in surprise, bursting out into a fit of laughter.

rebloggers are the best <3

[veryaren]

i'm so genuinely obsessed with this particular scene actually.

(excessive blab belowbthe cut)

DEROSS SIBLINGS HOW MANY TEARS WILL I SHED OVER U.... look at his face. like.orpheus' expression is just so genuine, more genuine than we've seen him throughout ALL of aom (imo at least) . he has not made a face so solemn and melancholy in nearly ANY OTHER PART. (which plays into why I'm largely subscribed to the theory that NIGHTMARE is "fronting" through a major portion of aom. while "nightmare" also happens to be described as gloomy, similarly to how Orpheus is melancholy, he's also said to be "cunning and mad". which seems to match the behaviors of orpheus in situations like kreiburg racecourse. orpheus, on the other hand, is differently described to be "arrogant and sensitive.") anyway. WHILE on the subject of deross siblings

TELL ME THIS ISN'T SO SWEET. this anniversary letter really makes me fall for Alice as a character. Alice is such a beautiful character (appearance wise and personality wise. she is VERY HIGH as one of my favorites.) She has such a strong drive and a wholehearted attitude and (aa a contrast to everyone else in aom) doesn't seem to let her trauma define her. I noticed how her trailer video kind of echoes that. Hers is very focused on the present, on her in the now (likely because memory already exists, but memory is quite literally an imaginary friend LET ME HAVE THIS) while a majority of everyone else has little more than a bitter rumination of their past. BUT!!!! ALICE APPROACHES WITH A MUCH BOLDER OUTLOOK! Her scenes, as dark as they get, grow brighter and more saturated as they go. which is q huge switch up from the usual bluish greys in other character trailers. the music feels much more lively, much less grave as others. (norton/fg for example. his music is ominous, foreboding. And when there's no music, it's almost eerie silence. Not even just because he's a hunter--melly, orpheus and Frederick support that. all of them have a tonal shift or a constant dark undertone to their piece. in addition to cuts in sound) Alice's music feels very forward, driving. There's an abundance of music. And even when it cuts like the others, it restarts from the beginning, not ending with a sharp chord, and even the ending note sounds lacks that same dread to it as anyone else. hopeful almost. IDK. I JUST LOVE HER MAN. AUGHHHHHHH

can you tell I'm starving for a new aom update (give me hunter melly give me hunter melly)

[pennyellee]

preview

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, smut, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, yandere, threatening, kidnapping, partial religious behaviour, graphic violence, graphic depictions of torture, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, implied non-con, minor character death, spanking, blood, gaslighting (more to be added)

word count: 655

author’s note: yaaaaaay!! can't believe I actually made it to post a fanfic I desperately wanted to write for two whole years now. I am very much excited to share this preview from one of the chapters ♥ I'm rising from the dead when it comes to writing fics, so excuse any ridiculous mistake I make, I'll always try to look into it backwards. Lastly a big thank you goes to Bex @chaoticpuff17 who not only inspired me to write but constantly showed me love and support, therefore I would love to express my unending gratitude and admiration, love you baby ♥ lots of love, 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

m.list CHAPTER I

“You crave the throne don’t you?” she asked cocking her head and chin defiantly, her narrowed eyes fixed on him. “I want you too.” She chuckled at his response. “I'm merely a convenient excuse, am I not?” Y/N smiled too sweetly. “You’ll kill m—” he rose from his chair, not even letting her finish. Grabbing her by her shoulders in steel grip with a penetrating gaze.

The fragile cup slipped from her trembling hands and shattered on the floor, a nearby maid prepared to clean up the shattered shards. “Leave us!” he barked at the startled girl, his voice filled with anger. Y/N's eyes widened. He was even more aggressive and intimidating than before.

“I could—” his voice seething with fury, “— I could gather man and slaughter your entire clan keeping you as a trophy, a symbol of my power.” The threat hung in the air, and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. Fear was coursing through her, yet she resisted letting it control her.

“Matter of fact—” he continued, his grip tightening on her shoulders, eliciting a whimper of pain from her, “—you will be a symbol of the magnitude my power has, no matter if your father and family remain alive. So it’s on you. The fate of your kin rests in your hands. Their survival hinges on your decisions and how well you’ll cooperate.” He tightened his grip again, eliciting another whimper of pain from her.

“But I will never dispose of you.” he growled through gritted teeth, his tone a mixture of possessiveness and frustration. Gathering her courage, she managed to speak again, her voice trembling but filled with resolve.

“You cannot manipulate me like this. You think I’ll fall for this fucked up scheme? I have spent my entire life under the orders of others, forbidden from making choices for myself! And you have the audacity to use my innocence thinking I will willingly crawl into your bed and love you like a devoted lover.” Venom in her voice and the desperate tone made fall for her even more.

“I've only recently met you, so spare me your attempts to deceive me that you’re being my saviour.” Y/N has enough fire to still conquer and fight him back. “I refuse to be a passive participant in this game.” She shall not take it lying down.

“I'm giving you a choice—” he asserted, his voice laced with a dangerous undertone “—either you’ll walk down the aisle to me or there will be a bloodshed. I won’t send you back to your father nor will I relinquish you easily.” His eyes locked onto hers, and she could see the darkness consuming his pupils when anger consumed him.

“Call it love, obsession, or whatever you please, but no matter what imbecile attempts you make to fight or flee, we will inevitably end up together nonetheless," he declared with conviction. Was this the fate God had laid out for her? Her faith wavered, and if he didn't provide assistance soon she shall forbid him altogether.

“You just want to fuck m—” he cut her off abruptly, his voice low and seductive.

“I can either fuck you hard or I can make love to you,” said he, whilst setting her left arm free and sliding his to her thigh, caressing it sweetly.

Breathing started to become harder for Y/N. Unfamiliar sensations welled up in her lower belly whilst his touch was sending shivers through her body. Was this attraction? Excitement? Mother told her this is how love is supposed to feel like. Butterflies in her stomach. But she certainly wasn't in love with her captor.

He sensed her confusion and distress. Leaving her fall back to the chair. Finally letting her breathe freely. Yoongi sat back to his chair, collecting himself and his three peace suit he wears today.

“Loss of words, innit?” He chuckled.

.

.

.

.

coming soon CHAPTER I

©pennyellee. please do not repost

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

taglist: @chaoticpuff17 @honsoolgloss

[sassenach77yle]

|| COUNTDOWN || SEASON 1 EPISODE 03 || THE WAY OUT ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

"Oh, aye " Jamie sat forward a bit in anticipation, then realizing that he blocked my view, insisted that I sit on the other side of him, displacing Laoghaire down the bench. I could see the girl was not best pleased at this arrangement, and I tried to protest that I was all right as I was, but he was firm about it."No, you'll see and hear better there. And then, if he speaks in the Gaelic, I can whisper in your ear what he says."Each part of the bard's performance had been greeted with warm applause, though people chatted quietly while he played, making a deep hum below the high, sweet strains of the harp. But now a sort of expectant hush descended on the hall. Gwyllyn's speaking voice was as clear as his singing, each word pitched to reach the end of the high, drafty hall without strain.

"It was a time, two hundred years ago… "

He spoke in English, and I felt a sudden sense of déjà vu. It was exactly the way our guide on Loch Ness had spoken, telling legends of the Great Glen.It was not a story of ghosts or heroes, though, but a tale of the Wee Folk he told."There was a clan of the Wee Folk as lived near Dundreggan," he began. "And the hill there is named for the dragon that dwelt there, that Fionn slew and buried where he fell, so the dun is named as it is. And after the passing of Fionn and the Feinn, the Wee Folk that came to dwell in the dun came to want mothers of men to be wet nurses to their own fairy bairns, for a man has something that a fairy has not, and the Wee Folk thought that it might pass through the mothers' milk to their own small ones."Now, Ewan MacDonald of Dundreggan was out in the dark, tending his beasts, on the night when his wife bore her firstborn son. A gust of the night wind passed by him, and in the breath of the wind he heard his wife's sighing. She sighed as she sighed before the child was born, and hearing her there, Ewan MacDonald turned and flung his knife into the wind in the name of the Trinity. And his wife dropped safe to the ground beside him.

"The story was received with a sort of collective "ah" at the conclusion, and was quickly followed by tales of the cleverness and ingenuity of the Wee Folk, and others about their interactions with the world of men. Some were in Gaelic and some in English, used apparently according to which language best fitted the rhythm of the words, for all of them had a beauty to the speaking, beyond the content of the tale itself. True to his promise, Jamie translated the Gaelic for me in an undertone, so quickly and easily that I thought he must have heard these stories many times before.There was one I noticed particularly, about the man out late at night upon a fairy hill, who heard the sound of a woman singing "sad and plaintive" from the very rocks of the hill. He listened more closely and heard the words:"I am the wife of the Laird of BalnainThe Folk have stolen me over again."So the listener hurried to the house of Balnain and found there the owner gone and his wife and baby son missing. The man hastily sought out a priest and brought him back to the fairy knoll. The priest blessed the rocks of the dun and sprinkled them with holy water. Suddenly the night grew darker and there was a loud noise as of thunder. Then the moon came out from behind a cloud and shone upon the woman, the wife of Balnain, who lay exhausted on the grass with her child in her arms. The woman was tired, as though she had traveled far, but could not tell where she had been, nor how she had come there.Others in the hall had stories to tell, and Gwyllyn rested on his stool to sip wine as one gave place to another by the fireside, telling stories that held the hall rapt.Some of these I hardly heard. I was rapt myself, but by my own thoughts, which were tumbling about, forming patterns under the influence of wine, music, and fairy legends."It was a time, two hundred years ago… "It's always two hundred years in Highland stories, said the Reverend Wakefield's voice in memory.

The same thing as "Once upon a time," you know.

And women trapped in the rocks of fairy duns, traveling far and arriving exhausted, who knew not where they had been, nor how they had come there.I could feel the hair rising on my forearms, as though with cold, and rubbed them uneasily.

Two hundred years. From 1945 to 1743; yes, near enough. And women who traveled through the rocks. Was it always women? I wondered suddenly.Something else occurred to me.

The women came back. Holy water, spell, or knife, they came back. So perhaps, just perhaps, it was possible. I must get back to the standing stones on Craigh na Dun.

I felt a rising excitement that made me feel a trifle sick, and I reached for the wine goblet to calm myself.

Cap 8 An Evening's Entertainment ~Outlander

[sheepispink]

Let me be everything you’ve wanted

tags: alhaitham x reader, intended to be fem reader but no pronouns used (girly perfume mentioned but thats it tbh), academic rivals to lovers, fluff, so much damn fluff, this is literally just comfort, lots of teasing, sharing a bed 😈, entirely sfw, probably cringe um

work count is like 3.6k BRO

Masterlist

notes: for those unaware with akademiya stuff: house of daena is the library, amurta is the study of flora and fauna (biology)

this is probably ooc but do i care? no.

12am. House of Daena.

Tucked away in your own little corner, your desk is sprawled with books, blueprints, singed scrolls—anything you could get your hands on.

Ironically, your palm is now the only support your head has now as you near closer and closer to the slumber your eyes long for. Exhaustion clouds all rational thoughts, and you find yourself longing for something you swear to hate the most.

Those familiar footsteps are like music to your ears, and you’re suddenly grateful for those shoes you’ve teased him about never changing.

He slides a chair out, stealing the very same seat as those many nights ago.

“What are you still doing up? It’s almost closing hours.” That cold expression never leaves his face, his piercing eyes narrowing at your state. It’s a trademark of a sort.

“I could ask you the same thing, Al-Haitham.” You retort with a little ‘hmph’. You’re already cramming for next week’s exams, and you do not want to deal with your rival too; he’s a handful as it is.

“I’m not the one who can’t even turn their head to face me because that’s too much of a strain on their tired brain.” His expression remains the same—cold and stern—and so does his attitude with the constant insults. Though this time they hold an undertone of concern and he looks a little… weary.

It confuses you so much. You always wear a smirk on your face around him, especially when you finally get under his skin. You take pride in your efforts, feeling successful that you managed to beat his cold exterior. He, however, remains the same, even when he one-ups you countless times. No happiness, no pride, not even a hint of amusement. Are you really just another annoying nuisance to him? You shake that thought away quickly; you’re sitting beside him, and you cannot let this opportunity pass to break that shell. After all, you’ve done it countless nights before; it won’t be hard to do it again.

“Really? Because you look as tired as I am.”

You speak firmly, ready for his inevitable rebuttal. The piles of work is the last thing on your mind now, mentally pushed to the side as soon as he had walked in.

“I’ve taken many breaks while studying, actually.” He scoffs, but you notice the way he suddenly seems interested in the scattered notes in your folder, turning his face as if to hide his fatigue.

You slam the notebook shut and smirk; this is your time to shine.

“Are those dark circles under your eyes from the smudge of ink then? Perhaps from the number of times you’ve rubbed your eyes to stay awake?” You shift in your chair to face him better, your gaze forcing him to meet your eyes now.

“Your hair has flattened from the number of times your hands have run through it, and you can’t even keep up your glare longer than usual.”

The cross of your arms indicates the end of your mini-counterargument, and you look at him proudly, waiting for how he’ll try to get out of this.

You think you catch a hint of surprise flickering across his features, but he’s already shadowed it with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re oddly perceptive today; perhaps you’ve taken a liking to admiring my face.”

His lips curve slightly for a mere second; your stern, cold, ass of a rival is teasing you. “What’s wrong? Did I catch the mouse?” His tone is still harsh and blunt, but he lacks the bite he always has when conversing with his rival.

“I only admire you when you’re asleep in my bed.” Your voice is smug, and you’re leaning in, closer and closer, breaths away now. “Come on, we’re both tired.”

You plead in your most convincing tone. He cant deny it; it has been a long time.

He freezes as you gently take his hands, his pride shattering with remembrance of two weeks prior. Al-Haitham narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want to deal with his rival more than he needed to. But… the library is vacant right now. It’d be so easy to slip off. No prying eyes and a chance of rumours. Just two sworn rivals, tired and sleepy, desperate for a long rest before they have to remember all their duties for tomorrow.

He scoffs, “I’d rather not. You know exactly what happens each time, and I’m not spending 8 hours in bed with you again.”

He could see the pleading in your eyes, and if he were being honest, he wished he could’ve stayed longer last time.

“You make it seem like it’s a crime.” A grumble and then a small huff— you’re clearly adamant about this. His eyes lock onto your enticing ones, but he knows your tricks all too well.

“You’ve got some nerve asking me again after last time.” He scoffs again (you wonder if he can go a day without doing that), pulls his hands from your grasp, and gets up from his seat.

“Oh, come on, last time wasn’t that bad. You’re exaggerating.” A roll of your eyes, and you’re already starting to pack up your papers. Even if he doesn’t allow that, he will drag you out if you decide to keep studying instead of sleeping.

“I had a lecture at 8:30am, and your body clung to me until 8am. Your room is 20 minutes from the campus, and I hadn’t even a chance to eat breakfast because of you weighing me down.” A heavy sigh escapes his mouth as he remembers the glances he got from the presenter and the other students. Being late was a rare thing for Al-Haitham, but being late, dishevelled, and having to ask for paper and a pen from other students? They thought he must’ve gone insane.

On the other hand, your jaw has found a home on the floor. Yes, you vaguely remember him shoving you off and muttering a string of not-so-nice words, but you swear it wasn’t as bad as he described! Clinging to him—you? never.

“Ha, as if I’d ever-“

“Cling to me? I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Your pride is shattered in a matter of seconds, never to be rebuilt again, you would say. The evidence is shown before you, and even worse, it’s in photo form. Your arms are slung tightly around his shoulders, your legs are intertwined with his, and worst of all, your cheeks are smushed against his neck.

“I..” Nothing can save you now; there’s no coming back from this one.

“Exactly.” He’s got a smug look in his eyes now as he glares at you, knowing you’re very much stuck.

Well, when you can’t agree or deny it, just change the entire subject. At least that’s your newfound motto.

“The point is, you don’t have classes until 1p.m. tomorrow, and you know I never wake up that late-“

“How do you know my schedule?”

“…”

The silence is deafening. Well, congratulations on changing the subject. How do you even know his schedule? You don’t remember specifically trying to find it.

“Did you seriously remember the days when I left the room without a fuss and worked out my schedule according to that?”

That’s exactly what you did. Of course, you’d never outright look at his schedule or snoop at his things (he’s crazy observant, he would know). But you find yourself figuring him out more and more each time. On Thursdays and Tuesdays, he’d leave with no fuss, even giving you a small ruffle of your hair (which you never admitted to being awake for). Naturally, as his rival and for only that purpose (obviously), you decided to look up each and every class for that day and slowly work out his timetable based on the subjects you had seen him study for.

Stalking? No. One step ahead of your rival? Yes.

You sigh and place the pile of books you had borrowed earlier back in their rightful places. You’d be going home regardless. ‘I don’t need him. He’s useless, and i can sleep perfectly fine on my own. I’m going to go home and get all cosy and have a long, peaceful sleep.’ Convincing yourself isn’t as hard as you thought, unlike trying to keep a neutral look on your face.

“I can see you sulking.” Al-Haitham remarks, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Will you shut up? Ahem, if you have nothing useful to do here, I suggest you leave too.” The monotone sound surprises him, one brow raising at you. He puts a hand down on the table in front of you, stopping you from moving any further. His eyes narrow, scanning your features.

“Stop using your student council voice with me; I’m not some troubled first year.”

“For further support, you may talk to-“

He lets out a reluctant groan and picks up your tote bag, slinging it over his broad shoulder. It sits perfectly, just like every other time. Calloused skin connects with your soft palm as he interlocks his freehand with yours.

“Fine. We’ll have a sleepover. Happy?” He finally gives in, though not without an exasperated sigh. You both know it’ll end this way, and you also both love the little game you play.

“Very.”

He lets you pull him towards your dorm room. A smug smile is permanent on your face, free to roam in the silent corridors as if it existed just for your leisure. You fiddle with your pockets, eventually pulling the keys out. The door swings open after a bit of lazy fumbling, and he follows in beside you. One hand rests on the small of your back after noticing your sudden sleepier state.

“Are you hungry? I have bagels.” You glance back at him, already zooming into the kitchen for a late-night snack. He sets your tote bag carefully on the floor, careful not to crush the notes within.

“You’ll burn it again.”

“Hey, I adapt and move forward, you know!”

You prepare him a bagel as he takes a seat on your plush couch. His eyes scan over the shelves, which are filled with all sorts of trinkets and mementos he’s almost begun to miss. On the other hand, his dorm is plain, with nothing more than the essentials. Is that the reason he always ends up sleeping over at your place? As if the answer wasn’t obvious from the countless times he’s laid awake in an empty bed, he finds himself questioning his emotions once more.

A ceramic plate is swiftly placed in front of his face, interrupting his thoughts. A toasted bagel is placed at a certain angle with extra sesame seeds scattered on the plate and butter spread fancifully on the side. Azure eyes meet your wide ones as you smile cheekily down at him.

“Who are you trying to impress? Gordon Ramsay?” He couldn’t help but let it slip out of his mouth. They were sworn rivals after all, and they’d have to be imposters if they went a day without getting a quip at one another.

“I could make Gordon Ramsay beg for my food.”

You watch eagerly for his reaction as his teeth bite into the soft, warm bread of the bagel and into the filling.

“Fine, I suppose it’s decent. Still overdone by about 20 seconds.”

“Oh, shut up!”

He cant help but let a smirk rise on his face as you storm into your bedroom, leaving him to eat the bagel in the quietness of your living room. He won’t admit it, but there was something about tasting something you made that satisfied him more than his favourite food usually did. Perhaps it was your focused look as you layered the fillings, or maybe it’s the way you proudly presented it before him. Regardless, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You’re dressed in a plain t-shirt and plaid pyjama trousers when you return, a pile of clothes in your hands. “You left these at my place last time.”

“You didn’t wear them, did you?” His eyebrows raise as he looks at you suspiciously.

“Ew.” Disgust forms in your expression, and you roll your eyes at his accusation.“I washed it for you; be grateful.”

The neatly folded pile of clothes is taken in his hands, and he is surprised by the kind gesture. Or maybe you’re just a germaphobe, which seems slightly more likely. He slips on the freshly washed garments, closing his eyes as he inhales the sweet scent. It’s wonderful; like he’s sitting in a field of flowers at this very moment. It overcomes all his senses, being subdued by the comfort of your perfume—Wait. His eyes widen at the sudden realisation, and he lifts the thin fabric to his nose.

He was right; it is your perfume.

Of course, only you would practically drown his abandoned clothes in your most girliest perfume just to piss him off. Well, his cheeks are rather pink now after it had the complete opposite effect than intended. He supposes he should consider this a warning to ensure he takes his clothing with him next time.

The vanity light illuminates your soft skin in the dim bedroom. In front of you, bottles, tall and small, are laid out. Each cream,serum, and cleanser is chosen specifically for each of the steps of the routine. His crossed arms prop him up as he leans against the doorframe, trying to avoid disturbing you with your rather cute ministrations. You’ve changed a few of your products, even going so far as to change some of them to his that you had tested at his dorm. He mentally notes the new additions, already planning for when you next stay over.

If he were being logical like always, he could’ve kept it all in a drawer or a bag in his closet, but your little corner of things in his dorm brings colour and life to the dull room he’s never once considered his home. Something stirs within him—the reflection of his ‘spare’ bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door, a smudge of lipstick on the hand towel, an empty coffee mug that is waiting in the cupboard. He can’t forget the box of vitamins on the dining table as he eats his breakfast. You insist they will keep him healthy (they’re kiddie gummies).

He blinks, returning to the moment. A content sigh rumbles through his chest as he watches you in awe for a moment longer before finally taking a seat on his side of the bed—something he had unintentionally claimed not too long ago. His hands settle on the soft linen of your floral bedsheets,which only ever seem to change colours and never lose the embroidery of your beloved plants. Despite your incessant complaining, the Amurta major in you always seems to shine through in the smallest things, or perhaps he’s the one constantly looking for it. Just now, he had seen the water droplets on your pyjama shirt, signalling that you had just watered all the plants that hang across the walls of your bedroom. He wonders which sage you coerced into allowing you to have this.

He watches you from behind—the way your soft fingertips rub the serums into your skin and the focused look on your face as you look into yourself in the mirror. It makes him feel warm as you admire your face in the reflection. He thinks you’re perfect, and he wants you to think it too. But he’s also getting a little impatient.

“Begged me for a sleepover but won’t even join me?”

Despite the annoyance held in his words , his tone is calm and soft; he’s never been the same Al-Haitham when in your room. The soft fairy lights illuminating the adorable polaroids littering the walls soothe his mind; it makes him think of you in a different light. He could never be so cold towards you now that he’s seen so much of you, and now he intends to lay himself bare, without his armour.

“Just a moment..”

You give up on your witty comebacks as you succumb to what you’ve craved for far too long now. Your warmth encases him as the bed sheets rustle once again in your presence this time. He brings his face closer, not wasting a moment until he coaxes you closer, an arm wrapping around your waist to pull you into his side.

“You need to rest.”

He states, but its more of a question of whether you’ll listen and sleep or defy your needs to tease him a little longer.

“Oh, I’m the one who needs to rest, do I?”

You say it slyly, giving him a playful grin as you enjoy how his arms feel around your torso. Your hands sneak up to his hair, ruffling it out of its flatness.

“Yes, you. Who else?”

He rolls his eyes at you, and pushes your hand away from his messy locks. One hand reaches up to gently thumb the dark circles under your eyes. “No skin care routine is going to fix this, so you better sleep on time for whoever you’re always trying to impress.”

You hold your mouth shut. Think about it.

Sure, you can argue that you do all of it for yourself. But it’s a complete lie. All of this, this rivalry, this overworking yourself, these antics. They’re all to one up him, all to be smarter than him, in hopes that one day you will beat him. Or maybe something else. Maybe you want him to acknowledge that you beat him. Maybe you want him to acknowledge you.

A small scoff is heard as you rest your head near the crook of his neck, one arm over his chest as you tuck yourself into his side.

“ ‘m not tryna impress anyone.”

The words are mumbled as the dim room gets to you, coaxing the tiredness out of you. His hand moves to your head, running his fingers through the strands of soft hair.

“Did you know if you sleep earlier, then you’ll actually retain more information? If you did that, maybe you’d beat me.”

His voice is low, lulling you to rest as you begin to doze off. He can feel your head growing heavier and his gentle strokes growing slower as he watches you drift off. Your responses turn into inaudible mumbles, which he lets out a small chuckle to.

Maybe, deep down, you do yearn for his attention. Perhaps you do yearn to be better, wish that one day this pretense will be broken and you can love him without holding back.

His gaze is fixed on the way your hair falls around your face, stray strands on your cheeks. He can’t understand why you push yourself so hard. He’s seen your efforts, everyone has, its clear as day. But its rather amusing to see you try so hard to prove yourself to him. You just need to step back and look at your achievements and you’ll realise it all.

“Maybe you’ll see that you already have everything you’ve wanted here already.”

He whispers the words softly. And who knows, maybe one day he’ll say it when you’re wide awake.

[nerdanel01]

Here's an ask about Agnes and Emmrich that I hope leads to a slutty little drabble: we know Agnes has fantasized about Emmrich, but is the reverse also true? What would that look like for Emmrich? When would it have happened in their relationship: before or after she left? How awful did he feel about it?

*laughs nervously* the short answer is… a lot?? And in the most Catholic way possible??? 4k+ below the cut very NSFW

9:48 Dragon

Though he would never admit it to Agnes, the truth of it was, Emmrich found the opera to be just fine. Catching a performance with Agnes was a lovely way to spend an evening, but by no means did that make Emmrich himself any kind of aficionado. It was Agnes’ avid interest that first brought him to the theatre, and Agnes’ continued fervor that kept him coming back: he went, not to see a performance, but to see her —so engaged, so happy.

This opera, in particular, he was finding impossible to enjoy. Agnes had practically begged him to take her to The Marriage of Figaro, and by the title alone, Emmrich had thought it would be innocuous enough. Another light, romantic comedie, like the Donizetti works of which she was so fond. 

It was most definitely not that. If the opera was humorous, Emmrich found it to be a dark, almost sadistic kind of humor. The plot centered around the titular servant Figaro and his bride-to-be, Susanna… and their escalating attempts to prevent the master of the house, Count Almaviva, from asserting his droite de seigneur. Emmrich could not fathom how it was that Agnes could so breathlessly throw herself into a plot that all too well reflected what little he knew to be true of her own conception; of the cruelty and the violent torments Agnes’ mother had suffered at the hands of her father. And yet, she seemed unperturbed.

As if that were not bad enough, he could not help but feel (irrationally, of course) that the entire premise of the opera was pointing an accusing finger directly at him. Agnes was not his servant, of course—she was far more than that—but he could not help but feel that his longing for her shared a similar, lecherous undertone to Almaviva’s licentious pursuit of Susanna. Certainly he held professional power over Agnes, as the Count did Susanna; the fact that he was often reluctant to wield it did not wish that fact away. And just like the Count, his advantage of age he held over Agnes was… considerable. 

And so, by the second act of the opera, Emmrich had more or less mentally checked out of the performance entirely. Pleasant as the music may have been (when it was not pulsing, throbbing, thrumming with anxiety; imminent danger; repressed sexual desire) Emmrich found his eyes wandering across the theatre: at the orchestra playing below, at the audience seated at the level of the stage, at the wide balconies where even in the dim performance light he could make out figures packed in the seats. He had never been a particularly devout man, but sometimes, when the mood was just right, being in the opera house reminded him of the most peaceful moments he’d ever spent in a Chantry. He would give Agnes that: there was something special about all these people—strangers—gathered in the dark, assembled in the worship of a great piece of art. It was peaceful, to look upon all those dark faces. Something almost holy about it. 

Which made what Emmrich saw next all the more upsetting. 

As the adolescent servant Cherubino took to the stage, preparing to sing his invented love song for the Countess Almaviva (with whom, Emmrich had gathered, he was hopelessly infatuated), movement drew his eye to the theatre box opposite his, on the lefthand side of the stage. 

At first Emmrich blinked, resisting the impulse to shake his head—surely he was seeing things? Were they—? They couldn’t be—! And yet, they were: cozied up in a balcony box all to themselves, a young woman had snuck her hand into her companion’s lap and, by the white flash of her arm in the dim light, Emmrich could tell she was pumping that hand up and down quite enthusiastically. Though her date had taken care to conceal his lap from view by fanning his performance program wide across his legs, it was all too clear exactly what was going on from the open-mouthed, slack expression on his face and the way he was tilting his head back against the chair. 

This late in life there was not much that could still shock him, but Emmrich’s jaw fully dropped. At first he merely sat there, stunned, staring… before his senses returned to him, and he snapped his eyes (wide with disbelief) back to the action on the stage, thoughts an absolute whirl. What should he do? Agnes’ attention was fixed on the stage, deeply engrossed by the drama unfolding (though he still could not really understand why); he did not want to draw her focus to the absolutely debased act that was happening just across the room. Should he excuse himself? Rise from the box and alert one of the theatre’s ushers? Was this even something they were trained to deal with?

Perhaps they had stopped; perhaps he had imagined it. But when Emmrich let his eyes slide, as innocuously as he could manage, back to the opposite box, he saw not only that their public affair failed come to a conclusion, but that the man had thrown his arm around the woman’s shoulders, and was rather obscenely squeezing at her breast over her bodice. 

´Andraste have mercy!’

Never in his life had he witnessed such indecency, and as one of the most senior members of the Mourn Watch, his presence had been requested at some extremely indecent parties hosted by the noble class. His face was burning with shock and embarrassment. Trying to get ahold of himself—hoping that if he ignored it for long enough, they would cease or (Maker’s breath!) reach the natural conclusion of such affairs and settle down. He turned back to the stage, watching over Agnes’ shoulder at the scene playing out in the Countess’ bedroom, the teenage Cherubino, all hot-blooded and virile, singing at center stage:

“You women who know what love is, Look and tell me if it is within my heart?”

Truly, they were no better than teenagers, those two nobles in flagrante delicto across the theater. Certainly if he, Emmrich, had endured the past three years of his increasingly inescapable (and increasingly inappropriate) desire for Agnes, they should have been able to keep their hands off of each other for three hours. 

And yet, as if summoned, he felt the tickle of those depraved imaginings in the back of his mind. He watched the stage at Agnes’ side, over her shoulder; his eyes slid away from Cherubino to trace the delicate black lace of the blouse she wore over her bodice—the woven pattern of the fabric offering a rare, tantalizing glimpse at the bare skin of her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck… the tops of her breasts, straining against her bodice as she took in the aria with ecstatic, rapt attention.  

“Let me tell you what I am feeling: It is new to me, and I cannot understand it.  I feel affection, I am full of desire, A desire both delightful and miserable…”

He wanted to brush tenderly at the lock of raven-black hair that had escaped her chignon, curled and coiled charmingly tight by the summer humidity. He wanted to lean in close, to breathe hot against her neck, to take the lobe of her ear between his teeth.

“I sigh and lament without wanting to…”

Intrusive thoughts of what it would be like to pull off his dress gloves, to put his hand on her knee. To draw, slowly, inch by inch, her skirts up over her leg, revealing calves clothed in deliciously sheer stockings, the clips and straps of the garters that kept those stockings secure… to round his hand around her knee, for fingertips to creep past the band of her stockings and along the soft skin of her thigh…

“I tremble and I throb without knowing why…”

…and climb higher. To find her swollen? Wet, already? Slick with anticipation at the promise of his touch—

—and at once, the sudden, mortifying tightness in his trousers brought Emmrich back to reality. He pulled the inside of his cheek between top and bottom teeth and bit down hard, trying to anchor himself with the pain and will away his arousal. Agnes, thank the blessed Andraste herself, kept her eyes glued to her opera glasses; she did not turn to see, and so he did not have to excuse, the flush across his cheeks and his ears, nor the far more conspicuous evidence of arousal tenting his trousers. 

He did not know what would be worse: if Agnes assumed, rightly, that it was her own presence that had pitched him into the throes of desire, or if she assumed, wrongly, that it had something to do with Cherubino, a woman in men’s clothes playing as an innocent, virgin, teenage boy on the stage below them. 

“Though I find peace neither day nor night, Still, I cannot get enough of the feeling.”

Inconspicuously, taking a queue from the deviant across the theatre, Emmrich laid his paper program over his lap. Focused his eyes on his hands. Picked idly at his nails, willing away his desire. 

Knowing pettily, venomously, that if he happened to encounter the couple in the opposite box on his way out of the theatre that evening, he would do everything in his power to trip them on their way down the opera house steps. 

But of course, in the sudden throng of activity as the curtain fell and the theatre emptied, the offending exhibitionists were nowhere to be seen. Probably gratifying themselves further in the powder room, Emmrich thought with disgust (and though he would never admit it to himself, even under pain of torture or death: envy.) 

He wanted nothing more than to get back to the Necropolis, to put the evening and the terribly obvious handjob and horny little Cherubino behind him. But when Agnes threaded her arm through his and tugged him towards the champagne bar, he was as incapable as ever of refusing her—though he almost certainly should have. Though he knew it was ill-advised, he tried (and failed) to put the memory behind him with drink. By the time he had finished his second glass, Agnes was still sipping politely at her first. 

But all the drink in the world could not break the spell of her beauty. In the walk from the opera to the bar, more tendrils of hair had shook loose from her bun, and the flyaways curled like tender pea shoots around her head. He loved her most like this, he thought, when the facade of perfection and rigor and discipline she worked so hard to maintain began to fall away. His eyes lingered too long on the crimson print her lips had left on her apricot-colored coupe glass.

Desperate to shake himself out of it, Emmrich confided in her, at last: “Nessa, you will not believe what I witnessed at the theatre tonight.”

She lifted her glass to her mouth, and her bright grey eyes met his, full of curiosity and innocence. “What?”

But he was not even sure how to politely say it. He licked his lips, a wry, disbelieving grin tugging at his mouth as he told her at last, “A noblewoman in one of the balcony boxes opposite ours… manually stimulating her companion under the cover of his paper program during the second act.”

Agnes’ eyes widened; she set her coupe down forcefully enough for the glass to clink on the table top, covering her mouth politely as she coughed up the drink she had accidentally inhaled in surprise. 

“You saw what?”  

A lovely, delicious color was rising in her cheeks, red to match the stain on her lips. 

“Should I repeat myself?” he asked, full of dry humor. “Believe me, I was not sure myself, but when he started groping her over her dress that more or less quelled any lingering doubts I had in my mind.”

Agnes lifted her glass to her mouth once more, her eyes boring holes into the table before her. Whispered, lowly, “Andraste have mercy.” 

“That’s exactly what I thought!” Emmrich said, pleased to see her scandalized, to have his own reaction to what had transpired mirrored and confirmed. “I mean, really. It would have been perfectly easy for them to step deeper into the recesses of the box, into the cover of darkness where no one could see them. But did they? No, and I do not believe for a minute that is because concealing themselves did not occur to them. I think they wanted to be exposed. To be witnessed, to be seen.”

But as he continued to speak, Agnes’ blush receded. She watched him, too keenly, over the rim of her glass; she was neither as outraged nor as scandalized as Emmrich wanted her to be. Needed her to be, to draw a line: to stand in firm opposition to the Agnes he had all too readily conjured in his mind: the fictive siren that would gasp at his touch, that would part her legs all too willingly for his hand, without regard for the risk, without a care for who might see them.

“It bothered you quite a lot, didn’t it?” was all she asked him, softly, probingly, when at last he had finished his tirade.

He blinked at her a couple of times. His fingertips found the stem of his third glass of champagne, and he spun it back and forth between forefinger and thumb. “Well—yes,” he managed, at last. A terrible, traitorous heat rising in his cheeks, in his ears. “Did it—does it not bother you?”

Agnes only shrugged and offered him an indifferent smile. “I did not see it,” she said, at last, “engrossed as I was in the music. I am sorry, however, that you found it so distracting.”

“You think it was merely distracting?” Emmrich prompted, in a state of disbelief. “Not… not shameful—nor disrespectful? To the performers, to the rest of the audience?”

The blush had returned to her cheeks. With a nervous smile, she confessed, quietly, “Perhaps I am not as disciplined as you.” She was not looking at him now, staring into the fizzing depths of her coupe glass. “Perhaps… I understand how easy it is, to be suddenly overcome. By the music, by… by desire.” 

Obscene scenarios clamored for attention in Emmrich’s mind. An arched back, a cry of pleasure—how beautiful she would look, how desperately he wanted to see her overcome, to be the one responsible for bringing forth such pleasure and desire within her—!

Without looking at him, Agnes lifted the glass to her mouth and drained the rest of it in a single sip. Placing the coupe down with something like a grimace, she raised her hand, motioning for the waiter to bring her another. As soon as he did, she took a second generous gulp.

“But enough of that,” Agnes said at last, reasserting her control over herself, redirecting the conversation. “What did you think of the music?” she asked, then teased him: “The parts of it you were not too distracted to pay attention to, that is.”

The music? She was just going to drop that explosively erotic phrase into the conversation, and then she wanted to talk about the music? Emmrich fumbled for something intelligent to say. “I thought the basso who sang Figaro had a very fine voice.”

“Oh, did he not?” Agnes effused; and then she was off, chatting a million miles an hour about everything she knew about that particular Rivaini singer, his training, the roles he had performed in other venues, the lyrical quality of his singing. Emmrich nursed his champagne, happy to simply listen to her as he fought to subdue the heat in his face.

By the time they returned to the Necropolis at last it was late, the halls silent. Agnes had held his arm the whole way back—not, he feared, out of affection for him, but out of concern that he had drank too much, that without her support he might stumble and fall. He had drank too much, which was both embarrassing and most unbecoming. Worse still, the drink had done nothing to dispel the ludicrous fever those idiots in the opera had set in his blood; it had only fanned the flames. When they had reached the door to his bedroom, Emmrich had stopped for a moment, hovered awkwardly in front of Agnes as he debated, then decided against, pressing a grateful kiss to her brow. He did not think, in his current temperament, he could manage to keep it appropriately chaste.

Indeed, as soon as the door had closed behind him and he was left to his privacy, all the intrusive thoughts he had fought in the theatre and the in the bar and on the long walk home returned to him, tormenting him: the light rasp of his nails along the inside of her thigh; the fine hair of her legs standing on end in the wake of those touches; the damp warmth of her smallclothes as he’d push them aside; her anxious little whisper, aroused, anticipatory, cautious: “Emmrich, your nails…” and how he might respond, lips brushing against her ear, “I will be most careful with you.” Throbbing and freezing and burning like poor Cherubino, like a young man a quarter of his age as he imagined her wetness, the slickness of her beneath his fingertips as he circled her bud—

(There was nothing for it now but to see it through. Only one way to truly relieve himself, to exorcise the thoughts that haunted him so at last he could rest. Hastily, inarticulate drunken fingers stumbling over buttons, he unfastened his trousers and dropped onto the edge of his bed.)

—her parted lips, the little hitches in her breath, the pleasure sounds she would try to stifle as (carefully, so carefully, true to his word) he would slip middle-and-forefinger deep into her hot wet heat—

(Ragged edge to his breath like torn parchment as he closes his hand around himself and begins to stroke. Delicious tightness in his core, feet arching against the floor.)

—placing a kiss on her neck. Breathing hotly against her ear. Agnes’ hands trembling, her opera glasses shaking in her hands as her satisfaction builds, mounts; a keening cry; the way her back would snap, her hips driving his fingers into her, grinding against the palm of his hand—her cunt tightening reflexively around him—

(Free hand white-knuckling, twisted in his bedsheets. A gasp and low groan as fist tightens over the slick head of his arousal. It’s rotten, it’s foul, it’s wrong in a thousand ways to imagine her this way—but it feels much too good to stop.)

—would she follow him back after? Rise before the curtain had fully fallen, before the applause had concluded, racing with him back to the Necropolis, creeping into his room? The blush of her face in the champagne bar: “Perhaps I know how easily it is to be overcome by desire.” To hold her in his arms, to kiss her in this room—! Loose the buttons on her blouse and slide the lace past her bare shoulder, bare neck, bare clavicle… lifting her skirts, sinking into her—

(“Hha—ahh! Nessa—!”)

—with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her hands clawing across his back for purchase, enveloped in the smell of her, by her warmth… here, in the privacy of the bedchamber, where she would not have to hide her pleasure sounds but could pitch his name upon them like a storm-tossed ship, scream it as she reached the height of her pleasure—

Tension in his body snapping white-hot, shooting sparks through his limbs and coiling in his core, Emmrich held the back of his hand firmly against his mouth to stifle his own obscene, satisfied groan as he spilled into his hand. He came so hard it left his toes curling; thighs shaking; short of breath.

The next day, he did not arrive at their study until nearly noon. 

He had woken hungover, head pounding, light-sensitive. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the agonizing guilt and shame that washed over him when he recalled the events of the night prior. Why couldn’t he have minded his own business? He should not have let what he saw in the theater get under his skin; it was inconceivable to him in the sober light of morning that he had thought telling Agnes about it was a good idea. Had he really used the words ‘manually stimulating’? How uncomfortable had he made her? He recalled how quickly Agnes had changed the conversation, cringed at how long he had lingered over it. Fighting through the hangover to shower and shave did nothing to cleanse the pervasive filthiness he felt. 

He could not remember the last time he had attended Chantry service—but some habits were difficult to break. Seeking even the slightest reprieve of absolution, he left the Necropolis shortly after dawn, heading towards the Chantry in Nevarra City. But even among the incense and the singing Mothers, he could not escape from his regret, the Canticle of Threnodies echoing among the vaulted ceiling in accusation:

Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven And doom upon all the world. 

He had something beautiful—a partner to stand by him, to protect and care for him—and he was going to spoil it, desecrate it as thoroughly as the Tevinter Magisters of old had corrupted the Golden City of the Maker. Every lurid imagining he indulged in, he knew, brought him closer and closer to doing irreparable harm to the thing in his life most precious to him. 

When at last he returned to the Necropolis, Agnes was already in the study, waiting for him. The smell of lavender oil was thick in the air; she must have spent the morning cleaning, a task which he had repeatedly told her she need not take upon herself, and one to which she repeatedly insisted upon undertaking nevertheless. Now she stood at one of the tables with Wilfred at her side, watching him with scrutiny as he clumsily tried to grind down some fresh herbs, his bony hands struggling with the mortar and pestle. 

She looked up at him the minute he entered, her bright eyes full of anticipation—and was that a hint of concern?

“Where were you?”

Beaten down by his excessive drinking and shame alike, Emmrich did not have the willpower within him to lie. “In Nevarra City. I attended Chantry services this morning.”

Agnes smiled, like it was a joke. “No, really, where were you? You missed breakfast. I was not sure you’d want to eat after last night, but I saved you a bit of toast, just in case.”

Emmrich took a deep breath, following the slender line of her arm to the table near the hearth, where four slices of toast were stacked on a plate beside an artful dollop of jam and a pat of butter. Though his stomach still felt wretched, he knew eating would probably help. “Chantry services, really,” he repeated, again, in answer to her question, his tone resigned. He walked to the table, tore a slice of toast in half and lifted it to his mouth without bothering with the  ornamentation of butter or jam—he did not think his stomach could endure the grease nor the sweetness. “Thank you, dear, for saving me something to eat.”

“Seriously?” Agnes asked. Emmrich did not have to look up to know the look of incredulous disbelief on her face. It was plain by the tone of her voice.

Emmrich chewed through the dry toast, swallowed. His stomach gave a discontented growl, awakening at the prospect of food. “Quite seriously,” he answered at last. “Though I am far from the most devout among the Mourn Watch, old habits are difficult to shake. Every once in a while, it’s like an itch that needs to be scratched.” Not that the debasement and self-flagellation he frequently associated with Chantry service had done him any particular good this morning. 

Agnes gave a low huff of amusement. Without needing to be asked—knowing, as she knew him so well, that the toast would go down easier with a bit of tea to help it—she crossed the room, cast iron teapot in hand, and bent before the heart to suspend it over the fire.

“So did it?” she teased him. “Scratch your itch?”

With her back turned to him, she did not see the ugly grimace he made, the way his lips curled into a frustrated scowl at his own lack of discipline. Nor did she see, blessedly, the way his eyes were fixed upon her: her narrow waist, the pert swell of her backside as she bent over the fire. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” Emmrich said, tearing his eyes away to stare at his toast. “Not this time.” He recalled to himself the verse from Threnodies, repeated it in his mind, beating himself against it until it obliterated the image of her (legs spread, back arched) that had begun to resurface in his mind:

Those who had once been mage-lords, The brightest of their age, Were no longer men, but monsters.

[moodymisty]

Everyone wants Lorgar carnally until he says grace before giving head. Or when he recites verses that describe the world’s beauty while he gently caresses your body. Or when you’re having sex and he starts whimpering prayers upon prayers about how wonderful you are, how much he loves you, how he wants you so badly, how he’s utterly yours (he’s not even doing it deliberately, it’s like singing your praises is second nature to him). Or after you’ve finished, when he lies down on your bed and looks at you with complete and total reverence. You can see that in this moment, to him, you are the only thing that’s real. The lamp on his desk is illuminating you like a halo, or maybe it’s not even the lamp at all, maybe it’s just you. Lorgar wouldn’t even question it if that was the case, because who is he to question what true holiness is?

In his gaze there’s more than just a lovers adoration. To him you’re not a mere mortal. He looks at you as if you’re the sun itself, like you could fly up to the very heavens and rip the stars from their foundations. His trust placed in you so wholeheartedly that if you decided to smite him for the simple crime of existing, he would let you, he would even thank you for it.

But you love him far too much to even think those thoughts. You cup the side of his face and feel as he leans into your touch. You don’t know it, but if in this very moment you told him to renounce his faith, renounce his loyalty to the emperor, and worship you and only you. He would, without a doubt, say yes.

… Well. I think I might’ve gotten a little too carried away here lmao

Oh hey thanks for the fucking feast, excuse me while I go apeshit with my religious undertones/trauma kink

also @thevoidscreams thanks for the inspo as well fam

Warnings: NSFW, Religious undertones, Body worship

The desert becomes so cold at night, the sand sometimes freezes with little sparkles of dew, reminding you of the snow of your distant home planet.

But despite the frigid air of a Colchis drowned in dark you couldn't feel hotter, skin aglow with the sheen of sweat- lips parted in a pant.

"Lorgar, Lorgar..."

Sometimes his name leaves your mouth as a whisper, sometimes a yell, but it seems as if he can hear neither. It's like he's in a trance, head between your legs for what's felt like and more than likely has been hours.

Your thighs are covered in lovebites, little scratches, redness where he's gripped too tight in his enthusiasm and you've had to pry at his hands and plead for him to stay gentle with you, remind him that you're fragile, as his eyes look at you with reverence.

Sometimes the way he looks at you is almost too much; Too much like worship, the way he lowers himself to press his head between your thighs and whisper so many sweet nothings. So much of it is incomprehensible, speaking in tongues as he presses you into the massive ocean of a bed meant for someone far larger.

You’ve never felt as bared as you have in these moments, like he’s taking every bit of you and some from somewhere beyond.

“By the gods, you look so beautiful… No art, writing or tapestry could ever hold a candle to you like this…”

He could do this for hours, sometimes he has, and while you know he has to in order to prepare you for what’s to come, he takes more than plenty of pleasure in it.

His creation didn’t consider something as frivolous of this; His body wasn’t meant for yours. But you’ve made it work nonetheless, forced it to.

He hears your pitiful whine and hoarse cry as you come against his mouth, desperately grabbing at his hand smothering your stomach and keeping you pressed down in place. He whispers and praises like you’re singing a song just for him, music to his ears.

You could stop here and be satisfied, more than so, but you know that he has so much more he wishes to give you. These moments are rare, but when you manage to steal them he indulges in you until the sun rises and you’re begging for rest. At least a days worth, usually no one sees much of you for a few days after such an evening.

His mouth pulls away from you, his body rises to hover over yours and the difference in your bodies has you swallowed in his shadow, though he only sees you surrounded in light. Your skin glows, lips parted and seemingly beckoning him in.

There’s been nothing more beautiful to him in his life than you, in this moment.

He doesn’t know why he resisted this for so long, though perhaps he should’ve, because now there’s nothing in the galaxy he wants more.

“My love, my little goddess, please, let me…”

You grit your teeth as he presses his way inside of you, a balance teetering just before true pain as you feel the threat of his body weight against your hips and thighs. There isn't much space for your legs to go, they can't truly part wide enough for someone as massive as Lorgar, and so they press into your stomach like he's going to fold you in half.

Throughout it all he speaks as if you’re his gift, as if you’re a beautiful star made manifest.

His whispers his prayers his pleading becomes more desperate until he finishes inside of you, feeling his hot skin against your own.

When his body lays beside yours, he’s looks upon your tired form with reverence. With the same shine in his eyes when he reads his gospel or writes a verse. You wonder if one day it will ever become too much, or if you’ll come crashing down from the pedestal he’s put you on.

“I love you, my dear. More than any other man that has spoken those words. I will pluck any star you desire out of the sky, conquer any planet, or bring anyone to heel just for you.”

You might wish to tell him not to, but the words don’t leave your lips. He kisses you, takes those words from you and leaves you breathless as his hand cups your jaw, and he begins to pray to you once more.

[ermesskiss]

what music I think jjk adults would listen to

✧ ft: satoru, suguru, nanami, shoko, choso, higuruma, toji, sukuna, and kenjaku ✧ a/n: been thinking about this for a minute, and I decided to write out my opinions/hcs

jjk student version here + jjk character playlist works here

· · ───────────── 𖥸 ────────────── · ·

✦ gojo

➥ Gojo is a very laid-back and fun guy, so I think he would listen to music that has that same energy

➥ He kinda reminds me of those moms who listen to the overplayed songs on the radio and always sing them, I don’t know to explain it, but that's him

➥ I think that he gets his song recs from his students in a attempt to bond with them

songs

♪ Heaven To Me: Tyler, The Creator ♪ Chanel: Frank Ocean ♪ Died and Came Back: Lil Uzi Vert ♪ Pop Style: Drake ♪ Wake Up in the Sky: Gucci Mane ft. Bruno Mars

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✦ geto

➥ I think Geto listens to a little bit of everything, alternative, rock, rap, R&B,  and hip-hop. I can’t really picture him strictly listening to rock and alt. It doesn’t feel right

➥ As Geto got older, I think his music taste changed. He still likes everything, but he leaned towards one genre rather than several

➥ When Mimi and Nana show Geto their favorite music, he adds the one he likes to his own playlist, and vice versa

songs

♪ Sextape: Deftones ♪ Passion Fruit: Drake ♪ Rental: Brockhampton ♪ 3005: Childish Gambino ♪ Even Flow: Pearl Jam

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✦ shoko

➥ I think the music that she listens to is very mellow and relaxing but might have some sad undertone to it from time to time

➥ She gives me older music vibes from the 70s to the 90s. Like Fleetwood Mac, ABBA, and Sade. I can’t see her listening to newer music

➥ I think she listens to more female artists than men; it’s not intentional. She does enjoy songs from men, but it’s a pattern. I also think that Shoko is a big fan of The Cranberries; I am a soul believer in this

songs

♪ Sunday: The Cranberries ♪ Bette Davis Eyes: Kim Carnes ♪ Fade Into You: Mazzy Star ♪ Landslide: Fleetwood Mac ♪ So Far Away: Carole King

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✦ nanami

➥ Student Nanami was emo, so he definitely listened to My Chemical Romance

➥ He started listening to more rock when he grew out of his emo phase. He prefers light rock rather than heavy

➥ When he gets sick of music, he puts on a podcast about business/the economy, or world events OR OR audiobooks

songs

♪ Helena: My Chemical Romance ♪ I Miss You: blink-182 ♪ Dust in the Wind: Kansas ♪ Dancing In the Dark: Bruce Springsteen ♪ Rocket Man: Elton John

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✦ choso

➥ He’s giving off rock and metal vibes, also like sub-genres of those

➥ His go-to music is rock, but I definitely think he listens to other music, something like R&B and hip-hop

➥ Like the great sibling, he is, he always gives Yuji the aux and listens to his song recs

songs

♪ Granite: Sleep Token ♪ Generation Dead: Five Finger Death Punch ♪ Enter Sandman: Metallica ♪ Chop Suey!: System Of A Down ♪ War Inside My Head: Suicidal Tendencies

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✦ higuruma

➥ Similar to Shoko, I think he also listens to older music rather than newer stuff, but it’s not because he doesn’t enjoy new music; he is just too busy and stressed to figure out what artist he likes and just stays to what he knows

➥ He’s a big Radiohead fan, and maybe The Smiths, too? Music that's kind of sad and angst, yk?

➥ Genre-wise, I think he would like a little of everything if he could sit down and enjoy music.

songs

♪ Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now: The Smiths ♪ Karama Police: Radiohead ♪ Wild Sex (In The Working Class): Oingo Boingo ♪ Eyes Without A Face: Billy Idol ♪ What’s Up?: 4 Non Blondes

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✦ toji

➥ Definitely listens to divorce dad music

➥ Drinks a nice cold beer while listening to Nickelback

➥ I think because Toji doesn't think highly of himself, I can see him listening to self-loathing music and music that relates to anger or internal turmoil

songs

♪ How You Remind Me: Nickelback ♪ Pancake Land: Element Eighty ♪ The Man Who Sold the World: Nirvana ♪ It’s Been Awhile: Stained ♪ Crawling: Linkin Park

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✦ sukuna

➥ So, at first, I was sure he would listen to heavy metal and rock because he has such an aggressive personality, but after I gave it some more thought canon, Sukuna would hate it. Music or noise that loud and obnoxious would annoy him.

➥ Acknowledging the fact that he was born in the Heian era and during that time, they listened to Gagaku (court music), which is either instrumental or vocal. It’s calming and relaxing in contrast to his persona

➥ Or he hates music altogether, idk; he's a grumpy old man. Everything pisses him off

songs

♪ Menace: Five Finger Death Punch ♪ Monster: Skillet ♪ Bullet With Butterfly Wings: The Smashing Pumpkins ♪ Push: Matchbox Twenty ♪ Geisha: Anthony Davilio

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✦ kenjaku

➥ Since he's over a thousand years old, imma say he has a very diverse taste of music and probably listens to a little bit of everything. If I were to choose what genre he likes most, I would say rock, both light and heavy

➥ Kenjaku enjoys listening to Marilyn Mason and Oingo Bingo. Marilyn Mason because he’s Marilyn Mason (derogatory) and Oingo Bingo because of their surrealist music, which I think Kenjaku would find them entertaining

➥ Listens to music that feeds into his delusions, motivating him to continue with his vision of the world he wants

songs

♪ Weird science: Oingo Boingo ♪ Aerials: System Of A Down ♪ Break My Stride: Matthew Wilder ♪ The Beautiful People: Marilyn Mason ♪ Everybody Wants To Rule The World: Tears For Fears

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✧ I currently have over 1.9k liked songs, so hopefully, there is enough diversity in songs and artists. i was going to do yuki, but it was stressing me out. Maybe in the future, I'll add hers. There is definitely more I wanted to add but my mind can only contain so many thoughts, unfortunately. ✧ Anyway, I want to hear other people's opinions and/or if people agree or disagree!!

[alwaysxlarrie]

harry is louis’ baby fic rec masterlist part 2 :)

hi hello, so, i actually started putting together this masterlist at the end of april (since then, ‘ain’t that a kick in the head!’ has been deleted, which was on the original list. big rip) but then life just kept getting in the way. & i have like 57485 fic rec masterlists that i want to get out but i wanted to post this one first, so. here i am. i usually do 50 fics per rec list, but this is 25. so it seems i can do a (semi) shorter fic rec list. who would’ve thought? anyway, enjoy!!

a million roses (bathed in rock n’ roll) by deLILAh

i’d come across this fic a number of times before i actually read it because i don’t listen to lana del rey (thank you jennifer & @hlkings for showing me the wonders of her music) so i wasn’t sure if i’d be able to follow the storyline. but!!! worry not. that knowledge isn’t required. amazing strangers to lovers, good smut, 10/10 relationship development & individual character development 

and the truth shall set you free... by @jaerie / jaerie

jaerie knows i love this fic. my friends know i love this fic. i’m pretty sure most of the world’s population knows too. the relationship development in general & portrayal of inexperienced!harry/experienced!louis is top tier. it’s interesting reading harry going through his journey, in a generally pretty accurate way (from the perspective of someone who grew up religious), so i love that it’s in harry’s pov. i love how louis goes from teasing to soft to guiding so naturally, as well.

a rose, by any other name by @canonlarry / iwillpaintasongforlou

this fic portrays protective louis so well while harry’s still independent & in charge of his own autonomy. there’s some mentions of violence in this, just a disclaimer, but it’s veryyyyy minor! really good (dark) plot twist at the end too!

a cage for every ugly spirit by sarcasticfluentry

listennnnnnnnnnnnn. this fic??? & it’s sequel???? amazing. top tier. i just love how all the different elements of religion, kink, romance, smut, etc connect

be my little good luck charm by 100percentsassy

the flirting!!!!!! my heart!!!!!!!!!! i know larry hitting it off right away is a canon trope & all that but it’s not always easy to write in a way that doesn’t feel rushed & this fic depicts that perfectly. there’s so much wonderful humor, fluffy moments & lots of domesticness.

baby we could be enough (i’ll make this feel like home) by orphan account

i am an absolute sucker for fics where either harry or louis is a single father & the other one just swoops into their life & fits. & that’s exactly how this fic is. i’m not an angst person at all, but i also love how there’s realistic angst/concerns that a single parent would have about bringing another person into their lives. other than that bit, there’s still a whole lotta fluff !!

breathless for eternity by cabinbythesea

wow another fic where they’re strangers, hit it off immediately & have the cutest dynamic!! i’m a walking cliché atp but listen, although this is mostly pwp imo, the way louis picks up on harry’s mannerisms, what he needs as a sub, how to tease, etc is beautiful???? that takes talented writing!! we love to see it?? thank you for this???

boy for sale by @ohpleaselarry / ohpleaselarry

i mean, listen. do be mindful of the tags & what not, but. at the very core, harry is simply louis’ baby & you will not be convincing me otherwise. i would absolutely die for a prequel or a sequel. the undertones throughout this fic are *chef’s kiss*

baby thinking of you keeps me up all night by ballsdeepinjesus

i am nothing if not consistent with loving famous!louis/fanboy!harry fics, alright? you gotta give me that at least. the internal struggle louis goes through throughout the majority of this fic is so funny but also so real of him??? plus, we love thigh fucking here, so. a winner in my book!

do not falter (there’s a star ahead) by @londonfoginacup / ladylondonderry

all you need in life is harry feeling safe surrounded by louis’ scent. shit, me too, harold. there’s so much cuteness in such a short lil fic & altho it’s open ended, we all know they got together & lived happily ever after, thank you v much

gotta get (me) outta my head by @parmahamlarrie / parmahamlarrie

i have severe adult adhd & the way bee wrote this is phenomenal at making anyone who has adhd feel so seen & understood. i dream about writing my struggles w adhd as wonderfully as she did. & the way louis helps harry & is there for her in just the right ways so, so fantastically done. top tier fic for sure. 

heartbeat (fire on fire) by @larryficwriter / theifinlife

this fic was written for my @notjustsmutficfest & i adore it. louis being so vulnerable to comfort harry, louis’ family being so supportive, the check ins during the smut, the way harry makes sure louis is okay too??? I’M CRYING PEOPLE (also, there’s great smut, too)

i love this feeling (but i hate this part) by @lululawrence / lululawrence

i love the crack mixed with cute dynamic mixed with dealing with very real life situations. & the teasing at the end????? i cry!!! give this a read asap rocky

i’ll crash until you notice me by @aliensingucci / stylinsoncity

i love the pacing & how it brings in realistic elements of a boss/employee relationship while not taking out you out of the fic. top tier smut & dirty talk. the bar + bathroom scene??? that shit was art. also i love how much harry went to bat for the natives & kept coaxing louis to respect the culture of the buildings & all that. (like it’s the bare minimum really but i do like the fact that the fic went into that aspect & acknowledged it!)

late night talking by @kingsofeverything / kingsofeverything

this is simply just me continuing to not let lauren forget how much i love this fic. i could talk about this fic for hours & i’ve included this on a masterlist before but idc bc listen. the sneak dating?? the flirting?? the tension building?? there were a few plot points that kept me on my toes (everett, i’m looking at you & how long you managed to stick around for) & i respect that. i have so much more i could say about this fic but i’ll stop here so i don’t spoil anything lol.

my pleasure (to make you mine) by @zanniscaramouche / zanni_scaramouche

i don’t think i’ve let zanni have a moment of peace about this fic since i read it. for that, zanni, i’m sorry. but i’m also really, really not. the way their dynamic right off the bat is so seamless & louis does his best to make harry feel comfortable is what we in the industry like to call cinema. prior to this fic i didn’t really care one way or the other about nipple play in fics & now i don’t understand why it doesn’t occur more in fics?? zanni, you’ve changed me as a woman thx bb

meow or never by velvetnoodle

as a cat lover who has attempted to discreetly bring cats home before & a louis lover, i understand harry’s dilemma. i would also do exactly what he did if given louis’ offer. i will leave it at that & will let you bask in the magic that is this fic.

no bunny but you by @crinkle-eyed-boo / crinkle-eyed-boo

this is another fic i will simply never shut up about. louis is smooth as shit??? like. i WISH a guy would do for me what he did for harry in this. there’s just so much to adore in this from the flirting, the teasing, the relationship developments, the softness, all the little plot twists. 10/10, top tier, no notes

promise not to fade away by @nobodymoves / you_explode

i adore the way this toed the line of angst & fluff so well. it’s so sweet & cute & hot & has an open/ambiguous ending that still gives you a sense of closure imo. as someone who typically is not an open/ambiguous ending fic fan, i absolutely endorse this fic. 

stood up by panda_bear21

the pop punk!louis/popstar!harry (or the bad boy!louis/good boy!harry) trope will always give me the will to live. i love this fic bc it’s cute & does sexual tension well & while it does bring up closeting & general hollywood shittiness, it does a good job of making you feel like it’s not the actual focus of the plot & still leaves you with some hope, if that makes sense & i appreciate that v much

three french hems by 100percentsassy & gloria_andrews

idk if it’s because i started reading fan fics on wattpad (i mean, really my journey started w fanfiction.net & the fics that had the actual fic in the youtube description box & the video was a slideshow of pics but i digress) but i have a soft spot for smaus. & they can be....tricky (the wattpad homies know) but this is done so well & i need someone to get louis some perfectly cooked prawns pls!!!! also louis having a thing for harry’s thighs rly makes this baby a winner imo

to be a better man by @thedevilinmybrain / devilinmybrain

i have a weak spot for fics where harry or louis cheat on their significant other w each other. it’s my guilty pleasure. sue me. jen is so good at describing feelings, actions, etc to make you feel like you’re in the fic watching it happen. i adore the changes in larry’s dynamic, how smoothly it all happened, how much louis cared & understood exactly what harry needed, how easily harry gave in &let louis take care of him. i would absolutely read a part 2 of this w harry & louis together

wrapped in light, in life, in love by orphan account

i will never not be obsessed w fics that have the louis is gemma’s best friend & harry’s in love w him trope. that mixed w how easily & instantaneously harry & louis get along even after not seeing each other for years? add a dash of harry having louis’ baby & how obvious they are about their feelings for each other? GIMME

when we were young by @allwaswell16 / allwaswell16

ok so this is a series, not a fic B U T i feel like  you can read the fics stand alone & you can feel the vibe from each fic, but i think since they both have the ~vibe~ you just feel it all so much more when you read them together. ANYWAY. they’re so obviously smitten w each other & of course everyone else can see it but them. harry is an oblivious shit but we love him (&so does louis).

you took my heart by surprise by @loveislarryislove / livelaughlovelarry

it takes a while for harry & louis to warm up to each other, but once they do, it is just...so, so good. annika’s writing will make you feel like you’re actually experiencing the same emotions as the characters are. louis’ protectiveness & how adamant he is to not let anything get in the way of protecting harry, including himself is so heartbreakingly sweet. i cry. i adore how annika describes the emotionally conflicting emotions & situations while keeping the undertone of how much they care about & want each other. annika does not play when it comes to angst & that is a warning (although this is def not her most angst-filled fic by any means)

your heart can love again by sloganeer

this fic speaks to the famous!louis/fanboy!harry stan in me. a shocker, truly, i know! it’s so cute. i love how their relationships transitions in a way that’s quick but doesn’t feel forced & just makes sense -- the way they get domestic so quickly is simply *chefs kiss*

**friendly reminder to please leave kudos & comments on any of the fics you end up reading from this !! show the writers some love :)**

[decaying-words]

The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires. 

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin. 

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course. 

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares. 

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings. 

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point. 

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose. 

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem. 

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue. 

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate. 

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life. 

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent. 

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace. 

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

[ditttiii]

omg I’m in love with your writing 🥰 can you maybe write a singer!reader with Charles or Max where he goes to her concert for the first time and is mesmerized by her??

MAX VERSTAPPEN X FEMALE READER

summary: she is beautiful in a quiet sort of way. Hair unbound and flowing with the night’s breeze, her skin shimmers under the light, glitters like a thousand stars have scrambled down to adorn her.

a/n: this fic and all future f1 updates will be posted onto my side account @rosegasly only.

The season was over another championship in the metaphorical bag for Max and a champions trophy for Redbull. After the worst possible start, things had really picked up for the team. Post sleepless nights and long hours put in by everyone on track as well as back in Milton Keynes, it had been a double landslide win. 

When finally, after what may very well have been the best season of his motor racing career, his friend and fellow Dutch musician had proposed joining him for a three-day music festival, well agreeing was a no-brainer for Max. 

He is weaving through the sparse but busy crowd backstage, a VIP pass hanging from his neck, letting him through uninterrupted. Contrary to the image the media had painted of him, Max was pretty outgoing. He didn’t spend time with the drivers off track as much as maybe Pierre or Charles did, but it was all because of the complicated and competitive nature of the sport and not at all because he didn’t enjoy being around people or as the media was fond of portraying–a surly grump. 

Max is straightforward, sometimes abrupt, and while he leaves most of those heated feelings back on track, he isn’t quite comfortable enough to play jolly best pals with the other drivers, either. 

“Max!” 

He swivels, eyes roving over the people until he finally spots the Dutch DJ and nods, making his way over. 

“Hey man, glad to see you are up. Didn’t think you would be after last night.” 

Max decides not to mention the persistent pounding hurting the left side of his face and jaw. He’s felt worse over the years training for races. 

“Yeah, just a little tired. When’s your set?” 

“It’s the last one bruv. Not for a while.”

He absently nods and with a promise to catch said man later disperses back into the crowd. 

It’s a few hours later when it’s dark out and he’s walking back with a drink from the food stalls built further away from the stage that he sees her. Max doesn’t recognise her, can’t even see her clearly from how far back he is, but he hears her voice, that raspy, low undertone, the slow, gentle sway of her hips as she sings and it captivates him. Something about her, the way she sings, her tone, the words, so vulnerable with her voice stripped bare. She is talking to him, spilling all her secrets in confidence under the hush of the night and not in front of thousands of people amidst the loud yells and cheers. 

Max walks closer and looks for a screen because he knows there isn’t a way he can push past the screaming crowd. He wouldn’t budge if he was in the front too, and it’s easy to get lost again now that he can see her clearly. 

She is beautiful in a quiet sort of way. Hair unbound and flowing with the night’s breeze, her skin shimmers under the light, glitters like a thousand stars have scrambled down to adorn her. It’s a sad song. She is talking of heartbreak and wanting to let go, being unable to and her voice dips, grows raspier, like she wants to cry, is on the verge of before it lifts, becomes crisp and clear and so so sweet. 

He doesn’t know her name, still can’t recognise her, but when she opens her eyes, his breath seizes. Twin pools of midnight skies gaze back at him through the screen and he feels naked. Like a word from her would crumble all his walls, the stranger in the gray bar whom he’d tell all of his world to, the fears that keep him from sleeping, the things that make him happy, the parts of him he is ashamed of, the ones he has worked years to build. 

The song ends, the cheers grow louder and so does her set because she goes back in and doesn’t come out, though he stays rooted where he is. Breathless, his pulse races under his skin with an itch to be closer to her. He wants to know her, touch her, bury her under thoughts of him as she has and be her muse. 

If his friend notices the slightly crazed look in his eyes when he asks him to introduce her, he is kind enough not to say anything. 

Max waits, impatient in a way he has never been. He isn’t used to falling apart like this. He is usually steel and calm, forged under the relentless rain of his hometown, aged on the racing track where a possible death lurks at every corner, every wrong inch of a move, yet here he is, tripping over his own feet, anxious over a girl. He doesn’t need his father to be a witness to feel his disapproval. 

 She comes out of her room backstage, ironically enough, tripping on her own feet and if anyone asks, he would chop it up to the years of developed reflexes but he feels the truth in his gut. Even if he weren’t an f1 driver, he would still have felt her losing her footing before anyone else. 

She lands in his arms and the way his hands clench around her waist tighter is entirely unconscious. She breathes an embarrassed laugh near his ear and he suppresses the shiver that wants to wrack his whole frame when it washes over him. She smells of mint and sugar, like the sweetest of things and he aches to have this woman he barely knows. 

Jokingly she wraps her arms around him too, making a pun about this being how she meets new people and introduces herself and Max feels her touch more acutely than he feels his car midrace, senses attuned to every bit that is she. Soaking all the words and breaths and glances like a man parched. 

He doesn’t remember introducing himself, unsure if he even said anything but soon she is ushering them into her room and he tails behind her, still spellbound like a child, amazed by her zest for her craft as she discusses her performance with his friend. It’s a foreign feeling, rare, the way he feels right now. Almost undeserving of her attention since he didn’t know who she was before, hasn’t heard her music, doesn’t know what’s the right thing to say. 

Max is all sharp edges and brusque words and is afraid to say the wrong thing. Come across as harsh and inadvertently drive her away. He feels no parts a two-time world champion and all parts an awkward teenager tongue-tied in front of his first real crush. But then she turns around, looks at him and smiles, cracks a joke, leans over at some point to lightly grab his arm, like she is letting him on a secret, including him in her own little bubble, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the joy from bubbling over in his heart.

a/n: all my f1 fanfics have been moved onto here 💕

here's to hoping ferrari can catch up this weekend and I ll have more people than just max to write for 🤌😩

thankyou to the anon for sending in the prompt and aww I m so happy to hear u like my writing 🥰🥰 happy reading 💕

[rosegasly]

you came out of the blue.

MAX VERSTAPPEN X FEMALE READER

⇢ summary: she is beautiful in a quiet sort of way. hair unbound and flowing with the night’s breeze, her skin shimmers under the light, glitters like a thousand stars have scrambled down to adorn her. ⇢ genre: fluff ⇢ pairing: max verstappen x female reader/oc

The season was over another championship in the metaphorical bag for Max and a champions trophy for Redbull. After the worst possible start, things had really picked up for the team. Post sleepless nights and long hours put in by everyone on track as well as back in Milton Keynes, it had been a double landslide win. 

When finally, after what may very well have been the best season of his motor racing career, his friend and fellow Dutch musician had proposed joining him for a three-day music festival, well agreeing was a no-brainer for Max. 

He is weaving through the sparse but busy crowd backstage, a VIP pass hanging from his neck, letting him through uninterrupted. Contrary to the image the media had painted of him, Max was pretty outgoing. He didn’t spend time with the drivers off track as much as maybe Pierre or Charles did, but it was all because of the complicated and competitive nature of the sport and not at all because he didn’t enjoy being around people or as the media was fond of portraying–a surly grump. 

Max is straightforward, sometimes abrupt, and while he leaves most of those heated feelings back on track, he isn’t quite comfortable enough to play jolly best pals with the other drivers, either. 

“Max!” 

He swivels, eyes roving over the people until he finally spots the Dutch DJ and nods, making his way over. 

“Hey man, glad to see you are up. Didn’t think you would be after last night.” 

Max decides not to mention the persistent pounding hurting the left side of his face and jaw. He’s felt worse over the years training for races. 

“Yeah, just a little tired. When’s your set?” 

“It’s the last one bruv. Not for a while.”

He absently nods and with a promise to catch said man later disperses back into the crowd. 

It’s a few hours later when it’s dark out and he’s walking back with a drink from the food stalls built further away from the stage that he sees her. Max doesn’t recognise her, can’t even see her clearly from how far back he is, but he hears her voice, that raspy, low undertone, the slow, gentle sway of her hips as she sings and it captivates him. Something about her, the way she sings, her tone, the words, so vulnerable with her voice stripped bare. She is talking to him, spilling all her secrets in confidence under the hush of the night and not in front of thousands of people amidst the loud yells and cheers. 

Max walks closer and looks for a screen because he knows there isn’t a way he can push past the screaming crowd. He wouldn’t budge if he was in the front too, and it’s easy to get lost again now that he can see her clearly. 

She is beautiful in a quiet sort of way. Hair unbound and flowing with the night’s breeze, her skin shimmers under the light, glitters like a thousand stars have scrambled down to adorn her. It’s a sad song. She is talking of heartbreak and wanting to let go, being unable to and her voice dips, grows raspier, like she wants to cry, is on the verge of before it lifts, becomes crisp and clear and so so sweet. 

He doesn’t know her name, still can’t recognise her, but when she opens her eyes, his breath seizes. Twin pools of midnight skies gaze back at him through the screen and he feels naked. Like a word from her would crumble all his walls, the stranger in the gray bar whom he’d tell all of his world to, the fears that keep him from sleeping, the things that make him happy, the parts of him he is ashamed of, the ones he has worked years to build. 

The cheers grow louder, the song ends and so does her set because she goes back in and doesn’t come out, though he stays rooted where he is. Breathless, his pulse races under his skin with an itch to be closer to her. He wants to know her, touch her, bury her under thoughts of him as she has and be her muse. 

If his friend notices the slightly crazed look in his eyes when he asks him to introduce her, he is kind enough not to say anything. 

Max waits, impatient in a way he has never been. He isn’t used to falling apart like this. He is usually steel and calm, forged under the relentless rain of his hometown, aged on the racing track where a possible death lurks at every corner, every wrong inch of a move, yet here he is, tripping over his own feet, anxious over a girl. He doesn’t need his father to be a witness to feel his disapproval. 

 She comes out of her room backstage, ironically enough, tripping on her own feet and if anyone asks, he would chop it up to the years of developed reflexes but he feels the truth in his gut. Even if he weren’t an f1 driver, he would still have felt her losing her footing before anyone else. 

She lands in his arms and the way his hands clench around her waist tighter is entirely unconscious. She breathes an embarrassed laugh near his ear and he suppresses the shiver that wants to wrack his whole frame when it washes over him. She smells of mint and sugar, like the sweetest of things and he aches to have this woman he barely knows. 

Jokingly she wraps her arms around him too, making a pun about this being how she meets new people and introduces herself and Max feels her touch more acutely than he feels his car midrace, senses attuned to every bit that is she. Soaking all the words and breaths and glances like a man parched. 

He doesn’t remember introducing himself, unsure if he even said anything but soon she is ushering them into her room and he tails behind her, still spellbound like a child, amazed by her zest for her craft as she discusses her performance with his friend. It’s a foreign feeling, rare, the way he feels right now. Almost undeserving of her attention since he didn’t know who she was before, hasn’t heard her music, doesn’t know what’s the right thing to say. 

Max is all sharp edges and brusque words and is afraid to say the wrong thing. Come across as harsh and inadvertently drive her away. He feels no parts a two-time world champion and all parts an awkward teenager tongue-tied in front of his first real crush. But then she turns around, looks at him and smiles, cracks a joke, leans over at some point to lightly grab his arm, like she is letting him on a secret, including him in her own little bubble, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the joy from bubbling over in his heart.

thankyou to the anon for sending in the prompt and aww I m so happy to hear u like my writing 🥰🥰 happy reading luv 💕

[northopalshore]

Celebrity Birth Chart Analysis: Matty Healy

✦•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•✦

I found him to be very interesting recently, especially after the amount of female celebrities singing about him that has flooded my reels. I thought, why him? So here we are:

Please note that I am unfamiliar with him & The 1975 outside of the realisation that many songs I liked were actually written about him & shallow research i.e a couple Google searches. I will be using a lot of may & could be(s) to describe him.

Planetary placements:

12th House stellium

I'm presented with the answer immediately. So Matty has a very confusing, soft & almost unreachable aura. He himself is a very spiritual person, or at least he finds himself reflective of the more transcendental part of life. He may be living in a constant state of enlightenment, fear, & isolation. His life may be surrounded with a lot of illusions and mysticism. He is also extremely prone to struggle with a lot of substance abuse i.e alcoholism, drug abuse.

ex: I've started listening to some of The 1975s' songs and they have this theme of being dreamy, hazy & slightly out of touch with reality. There is also a slightly depressing undertone in their songs. He himself has had an unhealthy streak with mental illness & drug abuse until entering rehab in 2017. He has since been abstinent of drug use but still drinks & smokes.

Sun (18° virgo) in Aries 12th house

He is someone very talented in the realms of artistry & music. He may have gone through multiple periods of isolation or dark periods of depression & pessimism. He may have attachment issues. He uses his music as an outlet to vent the feelings he feels strongly & those he can't contain/control (aries). He may have issues with boundaries too i.e people invading his privacy. He may dislike feeling like a separate entity from his lovers. He wants to be fully a part of their being.

Venus (19°libra) in Aries 12th house

He could have very idealistic views on love and romance especially with the libra degree & 12th house placement. He may have an unhealthy expectation of how love, s*x (aries) and intimacy is supposed to be like. He is forever searching for something unattainable. Forever running through his own fantasies, hoping to indulge in his idea of true love.

Mercury (22° capricorn) in Aries 12th house

He works with his voice, and his career involves a lot of thinking, writing, creativity, romance & fast-paced movement i.e moving from city to city & town to town. Long distance travel (12th house) is a part of his career. He is never in one place for that long to sing or write.

Lust (6° virgo) in Taurus 12th house

He could be very s*xualised throughout his career (virgo/6th house). People may fantasize about him endlessly, his s*x appeal is very intriguing to women, and they may use him as a s*x symbol. People may have their assumptions on his s*xuality & s*xual nature in general.

Moon (18° virgo) in Taurus 12th house

He feels very deeply, and I think deeply is an understatement. He is able to feel every layer of himself, others and the universe. He is very empathetic, pessimistic and may have abandonment issues. His mother may have been absent in his life, or he has always felt very distant from her. The way he channels his emotions is through work. He will bury himself in work, or his writing to cope with any overwhelming feelings he may have. Taurus adds a lot of attachment and stubbornness. Most of his troubles or his feelings will relate to other people & his close/romantic relationships. He may vent about all his frustration through writing (virgo, hands) or music (12th house).

AC (20° scorpio)

He has a very s*xual, and intense image or something about him is considered very s*xually appealing. People may have trouble parting with him. People could be easily obsessed with him.

Jupiter (4° cancer) in 1st house

He could attract a LOT of women into his life. He may be seen as very attractive to women. He has a soft, romantic & approachable appearance. People will feel immediately comfortable when they are around him.

ex: Taylor Swift & Halsey both reference him as a soft boy, a tattooed golden retriever if you will.

Mars (17° leo) in Gemini 2nd house

He will attract a lot of lovers through his work (mars). Many women (2nd house) will see him as a s*x symbol or at least very s*xually appealing. He could go through a lot of romantic relationships pretty quickly. A lot of his early romances may be quite short lived because of his work or his drive/ambition.

Boda (17° leo) in Gemini 2nd house

He may attract a lot of marriage potential partners. He may attract a lot of admirers, idealising marriage or a commitment relationship with him. He may marry twice or have more than one marriage or engagement. His is very much in love with love. Romance is a big part of his life & he is very loyal to any lover he currently has.

Part of fortune (19° libra) in Gemini 2nd house

He is very lucky with romance, money & relationships. He attracts a lot of female admirers & love interest through his work or through making money. He is able to live in luxury, or at least attain a lot of money in this life.

Chiron (2° taurus) in Cancer 2nd house

He heals through his voice, people may think he has a very soft, & emotionally healing voice. People can connect with his emotions through his voice. He may have trauma surrounding women, food, his voice , money or his mother.

Eros (11° aquarius) in Cancer 3rd house

Women (cancer) on the internet (11°) may find him very s*xual, very hot & may find it easy to fantasize about him in an almost maternal or clingy intimate way. He also may be an avid adult video enjoyer. He could like to have unprotected s*x or emotionally driven s*x. Might have a mommy kink.

note: I won't go any deeper than that here.

Cancer 4th house, moon in 12th house

Again, he may feel very detached from his mother. His mother may have been very dismissive of him, or he may feel unimportant & even invisible to her.

Union (18° virgo) in Leo 5th house

He may meet his future spouse/romantic relationships through his career or while working in the entertainment industry. She (future spouse) may also work in this industry, although she doesn't seem to be a singer.

Alma (19° libra) in Leo 5th house

His soul is a lover. Longing for a romance with full devotion & one that never ages. His soul is also very artistic, music, art & entertainment is a part of his life purpose & journey. His art may be his true love as well.

Juno retrograde (25° aries) in Leo 5th house

It may be a while till he finds his true love. He may have a lot of lessons or karmic debt surrounding love & romance especially under the age of 20-25 that he must overcome before being able to be truly in love & united with his spouse. His early 20s and teenage years were probably filled with a longing for true love that he searched for in many women.

6th house virgo

His career involves writing and singing. It could also involve a lot of planning & organising. He's a singer, having to organise songs & tour dates so that checks out lol.

Vertex (19° libra) in Libra 6th house

Romantic relationships could play a role in his career. Perhaps he is very affectionate or romantic in his work/day to day life. He may show a lot of affection to his coworkers, bandmates & his partners.

ex: he writes a lot of love songs, dates a lot of other artists & is known to be very generous with his kisses lol.

Groom retrograde (0° ) in Scorpio 6th house

He may have the thought of being a husband in the back of his mind often. At the end of the day, he'll think about how his life could change if he were ever to settle down and find that true love of his. He could also sing about being an intense lover often. He might be a very obsessive/possessive spouse.

Pluto retrograde (14° taurus) in Scorpio 6th house

He could attract a lot of toxic or intense relationships through his work. They may be very attached to him & feel very connected to his darkness. He may incorporate very dark or deep issues & themes in his work i.e his songs (taurus). A lot of these themes play out through energy and thought rather than physically.

Great Attractor (14° taurus) in Sagittarius 7th house

He may attract a lot of diverse lovers. He may date a lot of people from a different country. He could sign a very big contract with a foreign (sagittarius) or local (taurus) company for his voice or his writing & may work with/attract a lot of international people (as fans). He attracts a lot of romantic interests.

ex: His record company, Dirty Hit is a local (to him) label based in London with a very diverse genre of music production. A lot of his exes were from another country or state. He has no particular preference for race either. If he loves them, he loves them.

Fama(22° capricorn) in Sagittarius 8th house

He may be known internally for his work & his 'wild' lifestyle. People may be very critical of his love life or his ill life choices. They may think he is too hedonistic and that 'ruins' him. People could be reminded of other celebrities that share his lifestyle and think 'he's doomed'.

ex: In the song 'Colours' Halsey sings the line " I love you make it till you're 28 years old". Perhaps referencing the 27 club (celebrities that died at 27) i.e Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison & Amy Winehouse.

9th house stellium

He could have a very open mindset. He is very accepting and understanding of people from different walks of life. He may be very philosophical & street smart/witty. He could be very introspective & intuitive as well.

Uranus (5° leo) in Capricorn 9th house

He travels a lot to perform in different countries. Many countries may have very different beliefs from him however, perhaps a lot of them will be quite traditional & strict. Most of the times he may add a lot of change or eccentricity in his art & add excitement wherever he travels. However, his eccentric nature could also cause trouble for him & the people around him.

ex: In July 2023, he kissed a male bandmate while performing in Malaysia as a protest against anti-LGBTQ laws. It caused the music festival to be shut down & the band was briefly imprisoned.

Neptune (12° pisces) in Capricorn 9th house

Similar placements to what I've written before; working with illusion, dreamy & obfuscating presences. He could have been absent from school life or he was never keen on pursuing higher education. He could also have very differing views on religion or spirituality i.e not be raised in a religious household (capricorn). His relationship with the religious world could be very complicated. Could be very introspective about it too or have reservations on the topic.

Vesta (6° virgo) in capricorn 9th house

He may have very conservative friends, people who aren't relatively religious per say. His friends are usually people that he works with. He could relate to a lot of his friends through their shared philosophies or views on religion/god.

Saturn (13° aries) in Capricorn 9th house

Same as Neptune in 9th house. He may have very strict feelings regarding religion or God when he was younger (aries).

ex: In an interview, he mentions he was once an ATHEIST *angry face*, now he's just mildly so and open to the idea of a god or higher power i.e source of salvation.

MC (22° capricorn) & Capricorn 10th house

He is very career driven & may be known for what he does i.e highly valued in his industry/career.

Aquarius 11th house

He has a very clear humanitarian drive. He could be very protective & invested in the underdogs of society. The outscasts. He may have very unique friends or attracts a lot of different people from different communities into his friend groups. He is very genuine with his approach to communication & community.

ex: He has always been outwardly supportive of the LGBTQ+ community.

North node (4° cancer) in Pisces 11th house

He is very community driven i.e very close to his community & his fans. His focus in this life is to enter a state of enlightenment, and total understanding of life (at least the spiritual & karmic side of it). He may have accumulated heavy karmic energy that he must learn to let go. His life will be very intertwined with women & the feminine world.

Some Aspects:

Sun conjunct mercury

He has no issues verbalising his thoughts and opinion. The way he speaks is very genuine to how he feels & what he believes in.

Mercury conjunct venus

He definitely has a way with words. He can be very romantic with the way he conveys his emotions. He seems like the type who has no problems converting his feelings into poems or melodies.

Venus square saturn

He may have trouble getting into a long-term relationship. Most of his relationships may be short-lived i.e less than 5 years. His career may prove quite problematic for his love life as well.

Mars conjunct Part of fortune

His s*x drive, passion, and energy will bring him a lot of luck & opportunities.

Neptune square venus

He idealises love, and devotion. His lovers will also be very attracted to his dark, emotional & dreamy personality. His unhealthy habits may make them feel slightly responsible for him or attached to his tortured artist soul. He has a way of making his lovers feel like they are specially connected to him.

Neptune conjunct MC

He is idealised throughout his career. People may have mixed views over his career or they may have assumptions about him in general.

His birth chart:

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@northopalshore

[randomfandomblabdom]

Fallen Order & Survivor Musical Themes

Has anyone done this yet? Here is a comprehensive list of all of the character themes/motifs found in the Jedi: Fallen Order and Survivor video games for anyone interested. I tried to give several examples of each and also included some of my own thoughts. You can listen to many or as few links as you want. If I missed anything please feel free to add on or let me know.

FALLEN ORDER CAL KESTIS - I'm giving Cal two separate sections because I'm pretty positive he now has two separate themes and in attempts to make it less confusing, I've decided to very creatively refer to them as Fallen Order Cal and Survivor Cal. I'm a genius, I know. Fallen Order Cal is consistently heard all over both games. It's his primary theme. It feels young and heroic and wide-eyed... Remember feeling like nothing could touch you when you were young? That's the sort of feeling I get from Fallen Order Cal. It's not happy per se but it's hope and optimism sprinkled with naive youthfulness and an undertone of solemnity. He's been through some serious shit but he's a kid, he's young. The grief and trauma are there for sure but they haven't encompassed him completely. There's still some hope behind those eyes, there's a healing journey to go on, and there's a chance to take on this Empire. It's only until Survivor that the theme starts feeling a little more grounded just like the transition from childhood to adulthood. Fallen Order Cal in Survivor feels a bit less magical, that youthful spirit has diminished, that hope has dwindled.

CAL KESTIS

THE PATH OF THE THREE SAGES

PEACEKEEPERS

A FRONTIER WELCOME

ABOVE THE CLOUDS

A STEP TOO FAR

SURVIVOR CAL KESTIS - So, I originally thought this was a minor key variation of a section of Cal's theme but I've since realized that it technically is a completely separate theme. That being said, thanks to @foxykatie425 in this insanely detailed reply to my frustrations regarding this theme that put what I was hearing into musical terms way out of my element in terms of explaining, I've realized that I may have been somewhat correct. I don't know if the two themes are actually connected, that would be a question for the composers but at the very least, it's definitely a secondary darker theme for Cal as it only ever plays in reference to him and I'd wager a guess that it's the main theme of Survivor as a whole. Compared to Fallen Order Cal, Survivor Cal feels drained, heavy, tired, burdened, and above all else, dark and foreboding. There is a genuine weight to this theme that just feels sinister. There is a hint of Fallen Order Cal there but as that post says, it almost feels like it's on the verge of falling apart. He's not the same man he was five years ago and the fact that this theme is the first thing you hear music-wise in the game and accompanies your very first view of him is an incredible way of subconsciously telling that to your audience right off the bat.

DARK TIMES

ABOVE THE CLOUDS - note: this theme and Fallen Order Cal switch back and forth constantly in this track and I find that so interesting.

NOVA GARON

NIGHTSISTER MERRIN - Merrin's theme is interesting to me because it doesn't sound anything like the type of music you might use to accompany a witch or magic user. It's not necessarily fantastical or whimsical or anything of the sort. In fact, it sounds more like something you might use for a superhero. It's a little bit timid or unsure or even afraid in Fallen Order but god damn has it built in confidence and strength once Survivor rolls around. The only time you hear that sort of timidness to it again is during the first kiss on Jedha which has such interesting implications for her being a nervous wreck in that moment. I also adore how it sounds as an action cue which you hear several times throughout Survivor. It sounds like it comes straight from the best MCU movies and yes, I do mean that as a compliment.

TO DATHOMIR

PEACEKEEPERS

MERRIN

THE WILL OF THE FORCE

TRIDENT

FLIGHT

CAL & MERRIN'S LOVE THEME - Look, I genuinely did not think they would actually go through with making Cal and Merrin canon, I honestly thought they'd chicken-shit out and I was certainly not expecting them to get any sort of love theme if they did but here we are... and we somehow got both. Cal and Merrin are canon and they got a love theme. Holy fucking shit. It just has all that warmth and sweetness of a friend-to-lovers romance too.

FIELDS OF DUSK - ORCHESTRAL VERSION

CAMPFIRE

A STEP TOO FAR

THE ABYSS

BD-1 - I said in my post regarding my thoughts on the Survivor score that these two video game scores are quite possibly the closest we've ever gotten to a John Williams sound from a composer(s) who is in fact, not John Williams. Not that every piece of Star Wars music has to sound like the big man himself, part of the reason The Mandalorian theme was so positively received was that it was such a different sound for Star Wars but I stand by what I said: this is the closest a composer has gotten to a John Williams sound and they have clearly done their research. Some people might not know this but R2 and 3PO have a very small motif heard throughout the films. It's not played very often and is sometimes not very noticeable but it's there and BD-1's motif is not only similar but definitely sounds like it exists within the same universe. I also love that droids are so often musically presented as very childlike, innocent, and mischievous. BD in particular has a very playful energy.

BD-1 AND THE BOGLINGS

MERRIN

THE WILL OF THE FORCE

TRILLA SUNDURI/SECOND SISTER - Trilla's theme legitimately activates my fight or flight response and when I say that, I mean mostly my flight response cause you won't find me messing with this shit. It's very much in lieu of the famous Psycho violins which were written to heighten your senses by emulating screams. I wish we got more of it cause it's intimidating as fuck and a piece of dark side art.

FIGHT AND FLIGHT

TRILLA

THE WILL OF THE FORCE

CERE JUNDA - Don't hate me but I haven't quite fallen in love with Cere's theme yet. That's not to say it's bad by any means, it's absolutely beautiful. It has such a deep melancholy vibe to it, like an inescapable sadness. It almost has a feeling of failure to me weirdly enough.

THE PATH OF THE THREE SAGES

DESERT RUINS

SIEGE

THE VISITOR

ENO CORDOVA - I've mentioned this before but again, for people who might not know: the music that is widely considered to be the main theme of Fallen Order - so much so it was primarily used during the recap at the beginning of Survivor - is Cordova's theme. It's such an interesting artistic choice because I think many people would've made it either Cal's theme or given the entire game its own theme in general. I listen to this one a lot honestly. It's so calming and safe feeling.

THE PATH OF THE THREE SAGES

FAILURE IS NOT THE END

ENO CORDOVA'S THEME

THE NARKIS ANCHORITES

BODE AKUNA - Yes, Bode does have a theme and you know what? It slaps. I really like it. It's very adventurous and feels quite friendly which is ironic as hell. It does get some heart-wrenching renditions nearer to the end of the game. It's the music that swells when he force-pushes Cal and everyone collectively shits themselves. Oh, it also has some dark renditions as well.

ABOVE THE CLOUDS

A STEP TOO FAR

BROTHERS

THROUGH DARKNESS

RAYVIS - As far as I can tell, Rayvis does not have a set theme but he is usually accompanied by high-playing strings and his boss fight music is the best example of that. I actually don't think a lot of Rayvis moments ended up on the score soundtrack which... how dare they.

WARRIORS CODE

DAGAN GERA - I thought Dagan didn't have a theme for the longest time but it turns out he actually does have a tiny motif that I do wish had been more thoroughly realized in the score because it's so menacing and I absolutely love it. It's most prominently heard during his last confrontation with Cal. He is also usually accompanied by low-playing horns. Not always but usually.

RELEASE ME

TO THE RESCUE

GRAND OCULUS

KATA AKUNA - I'm going to rant about this one for a second, okay? I have spent the last few weeks wondering what the hell the melody that plays throughout the track Through Darkness is. I was sitting here plucking out melodies on a piano app (cause I don't own a keyboard) and was like, "Okay, it's not Cal's theme, it's not Bode's theme, it's not Merrin's theme... what the hell is that series of notes??" Yes, I'm aware that not every note has to mean something but these just felt like they did. It's played at such an emotional point in the game and for two scores that already work heavily around themes and motifs and musical ideas, it didn't make sense to me that this little series of notes would mean nothing, especially at such a poignant moment. Funnily enough, it only just occurred to me while making this post that it's fucking Kata's theme. At least I think it is. Well, motif. It's not a fully developed theme but it definitely has the makings of one. That's not even me making a wild guess either, these notes appear in other places in the story that feature Kata.

NOVA GARON

THE ABYSS

THROUGH DARKNESS

GHOST STAR - I'm adding this for fun because I think it's gorgeous and I love it but it leads me to ask: why has there been no official release of Ghost Star? With or without vocals? This is a genuine question. It does not appear on the Cantina album nor is there even a snippet of its melody on the score album. It makes me wonder if the song was maybe added later into production? Trust me, I love the orchestral cover that has been going around and people are obviously seeking it out cause the track has gained thousands of streams in the months since the game was released. It was at 10k the last time I looked on Spotify and it's currently at 24k as of writing this. I'm just genuinely surprised EA/Respawn or hell, even Lucasfilm hasn't capitalized off that.

GHOST STAR

GHOST STAR W/ VOCALS

Thank you most sincerely if you made it all the way here :)

I liked this. I should do this for more scores lol.