#time flies but i wonder if it's good or bad thing

[sadtonight]

I tried my best to grind for Pomefiore furniture and interior for god knows how long and Epel has audacity to say this?? That's your second home baby, get used to seeing it everywhere because that's the only design apart from Heartslabyul and Diasomnia that I like.

Vil, you are fine the way you are, ily.

[ponderingmoonlight]

Gojo falls ill and reader does finishes his missions and her own missions as well do Gojo doesn't have a pile of work waiting for him once he gets better. Gojo gets better. And finds out. Hehehehe Lobe u babes

omg I love this, let's do it hehe

Reader finishing Gojo's missions when he falls sick and he finds out

Pairing: Gojo x wife!reader

Word Count: 2,3k

Synopsis: When your husband falls sick, you don't think twice about completing all of his tasks in order for him to not be stressed - even if it means multiple sleepless nights for youself. Little did you know that your husband will find out about it and thank you in his own way...

Warnings: pure fluff over fluff so enjoy, Gojo basically being THE husband for y'all, not proofread because it's already darn late here and I'm way too tired

„Oh come on, don’t tell me the honoured one caught a cold”, you playfully tease your beloved husband.

He’s definitely ill, there’s no doubt in that. The way his forehead is covered in sweat, his unusual pale face paired with his heavy breathing. Let alone the sight of his red and runny nose.

You never thought this is possible. After all, Satoru is one of the few people who are able to use revered technique. Isn’t he able to heal himself, to prevent his body from falling sick?

“Looks like I overdid it those last weeks. My body is catching up on my apparently”, he replies weakly along with a nasty sounding cough.

You know all too well these last weeks were like a trip to hell and back for him. This is actually the first time you saw your husband after one whole week of him running from mission to mission and coming home into bad past after midnight. Being two special grade sorcerers, it is your responsibility to prevent the worst things from happening. Especially during summer, the number of curses triples. And that paired with the stinging fact that jujutsu sorcerers die like flies each and every day…

It’s no wonder his body took a toll on him.

“You’ll stay here for the rest of the week, babe”, you instruct him gently while pulling a blanket up his chest.

“Nah, no chance. I’ll have a pile of work when I get back and-AH.”

It’s frightening, the way he almost chokes while coughing so roughly that it vibrates through your whole body. This doesn’t sound good at all. To be exact, you’ve never seen your husband like this despite the fact that you’ve been together for multiple years by now. If he’s feeling this miserable, it’s definitely time for a break.

“Don’t worry about that. I hold the position while you’re gone.”

Little did he know you meant that.

-a week later-

“It’s far past midnight. Why are you still up, (y/n)?”

His hoarse voice rips you out of your microsleep immediately, lids so heavy they feel like closing by themselves if you don’t pay close attention.

“Oh, just work.”

No, it’s not just work. Apart from the daily drama you have to endure, you made it your mission to complete each and every task your husband would face as soon as he comes back. You know all too well he’ll throw himself fully into work again, not thinking about his own health a single second. And to prevent that, you decided to finish his missions as well, to teach his students, to do anything in your power to prevent Satoru from a pile of work.

Including swollen eyelids, constant grumpy mood, no effort to eat and your shoulders hanging down onto the ground.

You hate to admit it, but you are exhausted. You never realized how much work your husband does during the day. Must be easier for him, though. Teleportation sure sounds nice at the moment…

“I’m worried about you, babe. Are the elders bombarding you with work again? Maybe I need to have a serious talk again-“

“No, don’t think too much about it. I’m just hanging on a bit, that’s it”, you lie.

Oh, Satoru knows it is. After all, you’re talking about yourself. You, so disciplined that you’d never leave work unattended. No, it’s absolutely impossible that you’re “hanging on a bit”. But what else is it? The dark circles underneath your eyes look like valleys in the soft light of a lamp, tired eyes failing to focus on the paperwork in front of you. Usually, this is what you’re doing straight in the morning when he’s still asleep. What keeps you so busy these last days? He has to find out, he-

He almost chokes on himself again, earning a concerned side eye from you. It’s been a week and he’s still sick to the brim. Worry lines decorate your face, palm gently resting against his scorching hot forehead.

“Off to bed with you.”

“Don’t stay up too long, okay? All you seem to do is work these last days”, your husband replies worried himself.

You sigh to yourself. That’s because you do. But leaving your husband to a pile of work after he returns to Jujutsu High only to get sick again? You grab the pen in your hand tighter, force your eyes to fully open. Only a few more days and you’ll be done. After all, you’re doing this for him, right?

Satoru is definitely worth the sleepless nights.

-a few days after-

“Turns out I’m fully back at normal again, babe!”, your husband announces proudly.

You blink against the harsh light of the merciless sun, eyes dry like sand. Only a few hours ago, you returned from a village Satoru was supposed to inspect. Well, minutes turned into hours when a special grade curse appeared out of no where and made your life living hell. The sun already began to rise when you carried yourself back into bed.

But still, you can’t help but smile at him. These last days were rough for him. Him, the strongest, passed out because of a cold. He wasn’t himself all this time, weak body bound into bed with his limbs aching.

“So glad to here that”, you mumble while pressing a gentle kiss onto his lips.

“Sleep in for a while, you look exhausted (y/n). I know you just came back a few hours ago and don’t you dare to lie at me.”

Your eyes widen in an instant, cheeks blushing ever so slightly. You were so careful about leaving and returning, his even and long breaths not giving a single hint that he might be awake.

“I’m heading to Jujutsu High, bet work piled up pretty bad. Wish me good luck and have a good rest princess, I’ll kick their asses if they try to call you!”

With one last loving glance at you, he’s gone. And you can’t help but pass out immediately.

“Guess who’s back to save the day!”, Satoru announces proudly into the room filled with his students and Yaga Masamichi who looks at him with the same disinterest as usual.

“You? Didn’t even know you even exist anymore”, Nobara mumbles while filing down her nails.

“How are you? (y/n) told us you were sick”, Yuji interjects.

“I’m completely back to normal!”

“What a shame”, Megumi mumbles under his breath.

“Sooo, what side of earth do I have to save today? I’m sure a lot of work piled up while I was gone. After all, I’m the strongest.”

Satoru stretches himself playfully, waiting for the director to tell him about all different kinds of missions, curses and teachings he has to deal with these next few days. But instead, he just shrugs his shoulders.

“What? Got nothing to say? Okay, let me guess, what about that special grade curse in the village-“

“Done”, Yaga Masamichi replies dryly.

“The combat training with the first year-“

“Done.”

“Any curses that appeared in Tokyo?”

“Done.”

“Taking care of-“

“Done.”

This can’t be true, the man in front of him has to joke. Apart from you, Satoru is the only special grade sorcerer here at Jujutsu High. No one would ever be able to fulfil some of those missions, let alone teach his students just like that. Not even the director himself is capable of dealing with that special grade curse he was talking about just before Satoru got sick. But who…?

“Didn’t your wife tell you she already managed all those things?”

Oh, he was so stupid that it hurts. All these nights he caught you almost falling asleep on your desk, the multiple times you sneaked out of bed far past midnight, the dark circles under your eyes. All this time, you weren’t only busy with your own missions. No, you actually fulfilled all of his work for him as well.

“Just the amount of work I have to do when I come back. Urgh, being sick sucks.”

“Don’t worry, love. I’m sure you’ll be fine.

Yeah, he sure as hell is. But only because you decided to make your own life living hell for two weeks straight.

“Please don’t tell me (y/n) did all of my stuff while I was gone.”

“I’ll never understand how a kind-hearted woman like her ended up with you. She didn’t even stop when I told her to and somehow managed to get information about the missions I prepared for your sick ass”, the director replies dryly.

“Call her in right now.”

Words aren’t enough to thank you for this. No, you deserve way more than that, way more than his mouth could ever give you.

“And let her leave again in about an hour.”

-an hour later-

“Again, sorry for calling you in, (y/n). Now get back home, you’re free tomorrow.”

“Thank you”, is all you’re able to reply, wobbly feet carrying you back into your car and onto the road.

You sigh to yourself. Well, you definitely didn’t expect the director to call you this early when you just returned from an exhausting mission. But who are you to say no to him? After all, it’s your job to do this, it’s your job to protect the innocent.

But…Is it also your job to answer strange questions from your students in the morning?

“Come on, use your brain! You know what the director said!”, Nobara hisses through gritted teeth, the trio sticking their heads together after you were forced to drop your haircare routine to Nobara.

“Ehm...so…well…”

“If you don’t have any further questions, I’ll go-“

“Yes! I have a question!”, Yuji screams so loudly that his voice echoes through your tired brain.

“What is it, Yuji?”, you mutter with your eyes closed.

“How exactly are babies made, (y/n)-san?”

“You’re an idiot…”, Megumi grumbles.

“Really? This is all you have left in your pea-sized brain?”

“What? You just told me to ask her something and that’s what I came up with!”, Yuji defends himself.

“Yeah, but that ‘something’ definitely didn’t include THAT!”

It’s almost as if they were forced to ask you dumb questions. You’ll definitely have a talk with your husband about their strange behaviour when you caught up on sleep. But before that…

You open the door with a swift motion.

Your heart skips a beat, eyes widen.

The usual so modern and clean living-room is now covered in rose pedals and filled with the fresh scent of sakura leaves, your couch unfolded and covered in the most fluffy blankets, pillows and stuffed animals you’re ever seen. And there he sits.

He, your beloved husband, holding up your bathrobe oh so inviting.

“What’s going on here?”, you breathe out.

Suddenly, all the exhaustion you felt earlier disappeared into thin air. Did he really do all of this for you? The candles flickering, the blankets, the strawberries covered in chocolate waiting on the table, him wearing that black t-shirt you love so much.

“Guess what, I found out what you did. Did you really think you’ll get away with stealing my work in silence?”, he teases, love dripping from each and every word he says.

“It was nothing”, you try to brush him off.

But instead, he gets up and grabs your hand in order to guide you into the dim bathroom that is only lightened by a few candles. Again, the lovely smell of sakura leaves radiates from the bathtub filled with bubbles and hot steam. Just the thought of letting yourself sink into that warm water, to finally release the tension in your sore muscles-

Before you’re even able to comprehend what’s happening, Satoru took off your clothes and lifts you off the ground with ease. Your body doesn’t dare to fight back, too weak from all the missions you completed these last days. Just the tip of your toe, relaxing in the water for a few minutes before returning to Jujutsu High…

“Nothing, huh? So you mean doing the stuff I need a month for in two weeks besides your own missions is nothing? Words can’t express how thankful I am to have such a sweet, caring and steaming hot wife”, he whispers against your ear, his fingers starting to massage your back oh so skilled.

You allow yourself to sink into his touch, to rest your eyes for a few minutes. Well, there is no denying in the fact that this was a little too much for you. All the fighting, the paper work, the heart and soul you poured in each and every work.

And then there’s him. Satoru, your beloved husband, who massages your back with his skilled fingers. How lucky you are to call him your husband, that he decided to spend the rest of his life with you. Even though he scolded you ever so slightly for managing his pile of work, you know he’d do the same for you in a heartbeat. What a treasure, how glad you are to know him, how wonderful he is…

“(y/n)?”, Satoru purrs against your ear.

You don’t response, chest rising and falling slow and steady. He can’t help but smile to himself, admiring he beauty of your finally resting face. Carefully, he lifts you out of the bathtub and covers your body in the fluffy bathrobe you love so much. You definitely deserve some rest for all the work you did these last days.

He can’t help but gently caress your cheek, making sure you’re completely tucked you underneath your favourite blanket.

“What a lucky man I am”, he mutters to himself while outlining your parted lips.

“To call someone so wonderful my wife…”

Tags:

 @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @hellkaiserinphoenix 

@lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete

@gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3

@sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @chuyasthighs0 @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly

@froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso  @gojosrealwife  @coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi

@chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain  @risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper

@baku2345 @polarbvnny @ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp

@localhehecat @alicerhr @belovedvamp @wifenanami @dlwlrmas-world

@darkstarlight82 @satoreo @tachiharazsstuff @kentocalls @cheesemachine44

@ryva @komelrebi-san @deezy12299 @okay-it-is-ivy

(this took me forever so if I tagged u be so kind and leave a like/comment/reblog lol)

[asiananeurysm]

.

[koqabear]

congratulations on 2k!! im so proud of you so heres a song equation that i think is so genius

the weeknd, one of your girls + beomgyu + smut and fluff = popular fuckboy!beomgyu x popular sweet!mc

this song is so beomgyu to me😵‍💫😵‍💫

♫: One of the Girls, The Weeknd // [2K Masterlist]

"Beomgyu’s a lot more obsessed with you than he’d like to admit."

beomgyu x fem!reader // wc: 2.1K // genre: smut, pwp, only a bit of fluff sorry <3 MDNI.

warnings: dom!beomgyu, sub!mc, oral (m & f rec), name calling (slut), finger sucking(?), spitting, praise, pet names (pretty girl, good girl, etc.), deep throating, dacryphilia maybe, possessiveness, overstimulation, cumming untouched ig. unprotected sex.. lmk if i should add anything

Notes: 2k followers ended months ago and this bitch is still here

Beomgyu never intended to keep you around this long.

Pretty girls like you were never his type. Saccharine sweet, innocent smiles, bright eyes and an energetic attitude that brought people to you like flies to honey. You had the world in the palm of your hand, opportunities at your feet and friends that were loyal like dogs— you were perfect, untouchable, untainted. 

Everything he was not. 

Maybe that’s how he got where he is now, low lidded eyes observing you carefully, watching as your shining doe eyes plead up at him, careful hands smoothing up and down the rough material of his jeans; you’re so pretty like this, he finds himself thinking, all pliant and weak to him, waiting for his command like a mindless puppy— your throat bobs and your tongue darts across your lips, dainty fingers playing with the loops of his belt as you silently plead for permission to let him feel good.

“My friends were talking about you today,” Beomgyu murmurs, tilting his head and reaching down to caress your face gently; warm hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone, smiling at your head that immediately goes to lean into his touch, “said they couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout the way you looked in the dress you wore to last weeks party.”

Memories flash in your mind; the party your friends dragged you to, only complying because you were aware of who was taking part in hosting it— the pure, innocent image that hung over your head causing heads to turn the whole night— you could hear it, practically, the whispers and comments wondering what you were doing in such a place, all having speculated you the type to hate loud, rowdy environments like these.

They weren’t wrong; you barely lasted an hour in that dark, crowded place, finding yourself having a much better time in the back of Beomgyu’s car, pretty dress bunched at your hips and your makeup smudged by the time he dropped you off at your place, greedy hands refusing to let you go so easily, not one to put up much of a fight yourself; you’ve always been fond of waking up to the sight of Beomgyu first thing in the morning, anyway. 

Beomgyu’s eyes darken; you’re snapped out of your reverie by the feeling of blunt nails digging into your skin, your head tilted back as you’re forced to stare back at Beomgyu’s dangerous gaze.

“They also couldn’t stop talking ‘bout how bad they wanna fuck you,” he seethes, nails digging in deeper at the very thought; your eyes glisten and you shift restlessly on your knees, a shaky sigh escaping your lips at his tone— his thumb quickly reaches over to weigh down at your bottom lip, parting your lips slowly. 

“Would give anything to feel your mouth,” he recounts, thumb pushing into your mouth, a gentle pressure against your tongue as he surveys how easily you obey him; his brows knit together and his thumb hooks down against your tongue, opening your mouth roughly as he hovers over you; his face is inches away from yours as he speaks, his voice barely audible. “Said it’s such a shame they didn’t get their hands on you that night.”

Beomgyu could only sit back in his seat and listen; a spectator to it all, jaw clenched and arms crossed as he took in the way they spoke about you, salivating over you— the very reminder is enough to have his blood boiling. But, who was he to lash out at them? As far as the world was concerned, you were a pure, pretty girl that was expected to marry the son of an influential family friend. Beomgyu was never supposed to be in the picture.

“Wonder what everyone would think if they saw you now,” he mutters, voice patronizing and eyes filled with a sick arrogance as he stares down at you, “a good little slut on her knees for me.”

Without further warning, he spits; you flinch slightly at the action, a whine ripping through you as he straightens back up. Deft fingers smooth down your head, digging into your scalp and forcing your head forward— your hands are quick to undo his jeans, not needing another word from him for you to know what he wants. 

“Fuck,” Beomgyu breathes out, dazed at the sight of your eager actions, quickly undoing his jeans and getting to his leaking cock; your hand is warm and soft against him, and he feels himself twitching pathetically the moment you finally pull him free from his underwear; your pace is familiar and your lips are plush as they kiss at the tip of his cock, doe eyes glancing back up at him for approval.

“So perfect for me,” Beomgyu coos, caressing your cheeks and watching as you take him in your mouth slowly, lidded gaze glued onto the lewd scene like he’s determined to ingrain everything about this moment into his mind, “Know just what I like, such a good girl.”

His voice is soft and deep as he purrs out praise to you, hand wandering down until it’s placed at your throat curiously— you relax instinctively, jaw falling slack as he begins to thrust shallowly, whispered curses and rumbled groans making your thighs clench pitifully— but your hands simply fall down on your thighs, knowing that Beomgyu never likes it when you touch yourself like this. 

Your tearful yet determined gaze has Beomgyu’s pace stuttering— you just look so damn pretty under the dull lights of his room, the feminine and cute outfit you’ve put on today not helping at all; your makeup is already getting smudged from the tears that cling to your lashes and the drool that builds up at the corners of your mouth, taking everything Beomgyu gives you with nothing but a wide doe-eyed look. 

“Shit…” Beomgyu groans, his thrusts a lot rougher than they were moments ago; he’s getting closer, you can tell, your hands balling into fists on your thighs as you continue to let him fuck your mouth just how he likes— his hand is frantic to grab at the back of your head, fingers stinging at your scalp as he pulls you flush against his pelvis; he’s still, and you can feel him throbbing in your mouth— your throat stings and your eyes squeeze shut, hot tears running down your cheeks as you swallow instinctively; Beomgyu lets out a sharp moan at the feeling.

“D–Don’t— don’t… do that,” Beomgyu huffs out, hips grinding subconsciously against you, your lungs starting to burn as you place a frantic hand on his thigh— but Beomgyu pays no mind to you, clearly lost in his head as he lets out a shaky sigh; at the sudden feeling of you placing a slight pressure on him, he looks down at you curiously. 

“Hold it,” he tells you, lips twitching darkly as he feels you swallow again, body tensing as he simply ruts into your throat gently, “just a bit longer… you can take it baby.”

Your throat constricts around him, your eyes sting and you whine on his cock that continues to stuff your mouth— Beomgyu only pulls out once he feels you tapping weakly at his thigh, watching with low lidded eyes as you immediately begin to sputter and cough, a string of spit connected from his tip to your lips; he leans down to get a good look at you, watching you with a deceivingly soft smile as you try to regain your breath— his hand smoothes down your hair fondly, head cocking to the side as he prompts you to look at him. 

“Good?” he asks gently, watching you nod without hesitation; he chuckles, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead before he takes your hands in his, pulling you up and beginning to walk you backwards toward his bed, “Good.”

As Beomgyu hovers over you, your he can’t help but find himself thinking about how fond he’s grown of this sight; of you, your breathless figures and your shiny eyes that catch his every movement, from his gaze that takes you in hungrily to his hands that slowly push the skirt of your dress up. 

“Such a pretty girl,” Beomgyu breathes out, your wide eyes watching as he shifts down to lay on his stomach, slow, warm hands running up and down your thighs— you squirm impatiently at the feeling, hips bucking and lips parting in a gasp as he places a slow kiss onto your clothed cunt; mouth lingering for a moment, smiling coyly at the wet patch that already seems to have formed— and he looks back up at you, fingers hooking under your panties to pull them down as he speaks. “All mine too, right?”

Without thinking, you nod.

“Wouldn’t let anyone else see this perfect body,” he murmurs, fingers beginning to wander up and down your slit, toying with your clit and watching the arousal leak out of you desperately, “It’s all for me.”

Beomgyu always seems to get like this, you think to yourself— his touches are teasing, needy, and his tongue is warm as he licks at your clit, fingers picking up where he left off so he can talk— he’s insatiable, possessive, and his words always make you clench a little tighter against him; you think he must feel the way you react to him, and that’s why he’s taken a liking to running his mouth so much. 

You couldn’t be any more incorrect, though— because as Beomgyu finally begins to use his mouth on you, tongue fucking your hole and nose pressing insatiably against your clit, he can only find himself thinking about how he’d like to spend the rest of his life like this— here, with you, listening to the way you keen and cry and bury your fingers in his hair, whining incoherently into the air. 

“I’m— I’m close,” you stutter, your hips bucking and chasing after Beomgyu’s mouth; he simply hums in response, eyes closed with bliss as he feels your thighs shake and close around his head— your voice is pretty and airy as you stutter out mindless praise, every moan of his name causing his cock to twitch and leak against your mattress, unable to stop the way he grinds against it stupidly. 

“R-right— Right there, oh my god, please don’t stop, please— coming, I’m coming, Beomgyu—!”

Your hips buck up and your back arches— your nails dig into his scalp and pull at his hair, shaky moans falling from your lips as your body tenses up and your orgasm washes over you. Beomgyu remains keen to it all— every sound you make, the way your body shakes and falls limp, he takes it all in, tongue still lapping hungrily at your arousal and hips still grinding into your mattress. 

He helps you ride it all out— your eyes prick with tears all the while, sensitivity sending shocks throughout your body as you feel him groan against your cunt, burying his head further in even after you’ve begun to whine that it’s too much; when his head emerges from between your legs, he looks just as dazed and out of breath as you— if not more so. 

“Gyu…” you mumble out, eyes drifting down to his chest that heaves, down to his stomach and noticing something that makes your eyes widen; Beomgyu follows your gaze, glancing down and looking away with red tinted ears.

“Can’t help it,” he huffs, not ashamed in the slightest as he hovers over you, cupping your face and leaning down to capture your lips, barely parting so he can speak, “you’re so hot when you cum.”

“Am I?” you ask softly, laughing at the immediate nod you get; your hand wanders down between your bodies, fingertips brushing over his cum-stained stomach and on his already hardening cock— your brows jump, and you smile. “Need me to clean you up?”

Beomgyu’s fervent shake of his head catches you by surprise; he’s never been one to deny the feeling of your mouth on him, so to say that this unexpected was an understatement.

“Just wanna be inside you,” he mumbles against your lips, the feeling of his cockhead grinding against your clit bringing about a sigh from both of you, “wanna see you cum again.”

The whine you let out at his words is enough to have him entering you slowly; dark eyes taking in every change of your expression, watching as your brows furrow at the stretch— he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of the sight. 

No other girl has ever managed to do what you have; the man above you feels entirely enamored as he watches the way you cry and clench around his cock, gasping his name and clinging onto him desperately— you drive him crazy, and this only serves to prove it further. 

You were never supposed to leave such an impact on him. But now that you have, Beomgyu will do anything to make sure that you don’t escape his clutches.

[tkingfisher]

So I write all sorts of things (fiction, fanfic, screenplays) and my mind is cluttered garden of flowers and weeds and shiny ideas, and I'm wondering how to form a writing practice to clear it into tidy rows? Is it possible to shepherd untamed ideas into order?

How do you manage all your wonderful worlds, characters and inspiration and not feel haunted by the story bits and pieces in your head? Any practical tips beyond dark magic?

Thank you, you are such a constant inspiration for me, both prose and just your presence. <3

*laugh* Oh god, Nonny, if I ever find out, I’ll tell you! When you read books, you’re getting the Instagram-filtered view of a writer’s brain, all the flowers that grew out of the compost heap, carefully composed and shot in optimal lighting. The real inside of my skull is a magpie nest of Neat Shit I Read/Saw/Thought Up While Lying Awake At 2 AM. There are characters and ideas in there that I’ve been trying to get into a manuscript since I was twelve and typing on an Amiga 500.

But, that said…really, I think it’s okay. Creativity is inherently untidy. The compost heap can be corralled into a very pretty box made of sustainably harvested materials, hand-stained by traditional artisans being paid a living wage by an employee-owned company, but as soon as you lift the lid, it’s all worms and coffee grounds and old potting soil and cow shit and the vegetables you swore you were gonna eat this time before they went bad. That’s what compost is.

Nevertheless, having been in the business for…uh…fifteen years now? (@dduane is snickering at me, I can feel it) and having written nearly forty books, I can offer three bits of something less than advice. It’s what I do. It may not work for anyone else, but it’s what I do.

Un-Advice The First: If you get a shiny idea and you are super excited by it? Go ahead and chase it. Pull up a new page in Word or whatever and slap down a couple thousand words while it’s exciting. I know that this absolutely flies in the face of common wisdom, but quite frankly, my enthusiasm is a much rarer commodity than my time, so if I’m excited about something, I write it down until I’ve taken the edge off.

Then I usually save it into a big folder called “Fragments” and go back to work on whatever I’ve got a deadline on. (Usually. Sometimes the edge doesn’t wear off, and I wind up with another book. Which, y’know, darn.)

There are vast numbers of people who will tell you that a shiny idea is a sign that something is wrong with your current project and the solution is to knuckle down and work! through! it! And those people are probably right for them, and I trust they know how their own brains work. Me, though, I got ADHD like a bat has wings. My hard drive is a vast swamp of story beginnings, neat ideas, random scenes. And that’s okay because I still get books finished.

In fact, it’s better than okay. Not that long ago, my agent sent a novella to a publisher and they said “We’ll take that novella and three more novels. What’ve you got?” And I ended up plundering my hard drive and sending the editor a good dozen random beginnings until we found one that we both liked, and then I wrote the rest of that book. And then another one. If I hadn’t had all those fragments lying around, though, it would have been a miserable experience of writing book pitches and trying to think of stuff I could get excited about. (This may not be how some editors work, but it’s how my editor and I work, anyhow.)

Un-Advice The Second: Trust that everything will find a home eventually.

This one is easy to say and hard to do because sometimes you get that overload that if you’re writing the book about, say, werebear nuns, you aren’t writing the one about the alien crustaceans. Or worse, you feel guilty. If you don’t use that one cool thing, was all that time you spent on it wasted?

Breathe. Be easy. Every single cool thing does not need to go into a single book. There is no sell-by date on the neat character. You will probably write many books in your life and all those random characters will find a home. (Seriously, the werebear nuns were lurking for like a decade.)

For me, at least, when I find the spot where something fits, it often snaps into place like a Lego. Easton’s backstory as a soldier from a society where soldiers were a third sex had been kicking around in my head for a few years, derived from about three different sources, and then I wrote the opening to What Moves The Dead and all of a sudden Easton was there and alive and they had strong opinions about everything and I had ten thousand words practically before I turned around.

You can also stave off guilt by writing some of your ideas in as highly personal Easter Eggs. A couple of my books have references to a white deer woman, a heroic deed done by a saint and the ghost of a bird, and a woman with dozens of hummingbirds on tiny jeweled leashes. Those are all characters and stories I’ve had vague notions about, but haven’t managed to work in anywhere or learn much more about. Still, the passing reference is enough to make me feel like I haven’t abandoned them.

(The advantage to this is that once you DO write those in, the readers are all “oh my god, she foreshadowed this a decade ago, she must have planned this all out in advance!” Then you look really clever and well-organized and no one has to know that you have no idea what you’re doing.)

Un-Advice The Third: Write the kitchen sink book.

At one point, I had so many stray ideas that hadn’t gotten into a book yet—the tree of frogs, the dog-soldiers, the stained glass saint, the albatross and the shadow of the sun, and also I wanted to write something with Baba Yaga—that I hauled off and wrote a book where I just put in everything and the kitchen sink. It’s called Summer in Orcus. There are bits in there that I had been cooking in the mental compost heap for decades, but that weren’t enough on their own to sustain a whole book. The phrase “antelope women are not to be trusted” showed up in my head some time in college. It’s a fun little book and I’m proud of it, but it’s very much a patchwork quilt of weirdness. But it’s also written so that if later on, an antelope woman shows up in another book in another context, that just adds to their mythology, it doesn’t break canon or whatever.

(Pretty sure I’m not the only one who has done this, either. China Mieville has said that he wrote Perdido Street Station because what he really enjoyed was writing all the weird monsters.)

So yeah, that’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Some days I just tell all the fragments and ideas that I promise that I’ll get them a home eventually but I need to write this thing here now. Sometimes I throw down enough words to get the story stabilized and then I’m okay to move on. Sometimes I write multiple books simultaneously.

Any method you use to write the book, so long as it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, is a perfectly valid method. If anyone tells you different, you send them to me.

(…god, I hope that was the question you were actually asking, Nonny, and that I didn’t go off on a completely different tangent when you just wanted to know how I keep track of a plot or something.)

[mercurianchild]

hey love! what does a Plutonian chart look like? i'm not sure if I have one. how would that affect me?

Strong influence of Pluto…

What a strong Plutonian influence of Pluto in the chart could look like:

Pluto in the 1st, 4th, 7th and 10th house

Pluto aspecting inner planets (Mercury, Venus and Mars)

Pluto strongly aspecting the moon and ascendant, especially tight orbs

TW: mentions of s*x and death!!

Being Pluto dominant or having a strong influence of Pluto means that transformations, ego deaths, feelings of death and rebirth will accompany you for a life time. From my experience, this will be especially harsh in the childhood, youth and maybe in your early adult years. As time passes and as you get older, you might develop self care habits and safety mechanisms to protect yourself and your inner peace. Practising self love, meditation and mindfulness could be important to these individuals, as they could underestimate their beauty and their outstanding personality.

I’ve also seen that most traumatic events happen in the childhood, youth or early adulthood. But that’s just my observation.

Feelings of being deeply misunderstood rise while you are young and this feeling might follow you for years. Constantly searching for someone to understand your complex mind and depth of emotions. These people could benefit from searching for a valve to turn pain, bad experiences and any form of built up emotion into art. Be it writing, drawing, making music…

A reoccurring theme for Plutonians is sexuality. There may be blockages in regards of the own sexuality or experiencing it, but once they overcome this, they literally start to bloom in that area. This could turn into being hungry for power in general (or simply being turned on by overpowering the partner) or in being lascivious. They can be pretty much extreme and freaky in bed, actually. Being intimate never gets boring with them.

I know, this is what you read everywhere, but plutonic people are deeply magnetic and will catch your eye with their intense aura. Even if they are not seen as traditionally beautiful, these natives exude attractiveness and charisma. You just can’t ignore them and they will even stand out in a crowd. BUT! A lot of them don’t have the sex appeal like (for example) Megan Fox has. A lot of them have such an innocence to their appearance, but if you take a closer look you’ll see that they’re like fallen angels.

From my experience, plutonic people will have a deep connection to spirituality or the occult and a profound interest in psychology (for good and bad). They usually get into these things after really hard times in their life. They will attract jealousy and hate like flies, unfortunately and this could take a toll in their self esteem. Even strangers tend to be very competitive and mean to them in some way, because most people simply feel challenged by their presence.

Dear plutonic people,

you ALL are wonderful and you deserve so much more. I feel for every single one of you and I hope you will find true happiness and self acceptance. You’ve been through so much and you deserve the world for all that. I’m sending you all the love you might need right now or later! 🩶

[astaroth1357]

Sick Days:

*MC is in the Croytus Hall kitchen, trying their damnedest to keep from coughing their lungs out while carefully monitoring a pot of simmering soup. They hear the footfalls of their housemate, Solomon, as he comes up behind them*

Solomon: Oh MC~! I have everything ready. Thankfully, the Devildom still has TV these days, even if the shows are out of d-... da-....

*a hankerchief flies out of his pocket and quickly covers his nose*

Solomon: ACHOO!!

*the hankerchief does its thing before flying off behind him to go put itself in the laundry, swapping places with a fresh one that finds its way back to his pocket once again*

MC: *keeps their back to him* Bless you.

*Solomon comes up and slings his arms over their shoulders, leaning against them like he's a sagging backpack. His head rests alongside theirs*

Solomon: Is it still cooking?

*he reaches out to lift the lid on the pot but MC, already knowing better, swiftly smacks his mit back down*

MC: Don't touch.

Solomon: Oh! Right, I'm sorry. Forgot the rules for a second. I'm sure it smells good... not that either of us would know.

*he contently sways their bodies from side-to-side while MC clears their throat, grumbling dryily*

MC: Y-ou know, you could cure us at any time, right...?

Solomon: So could you, yet here we are! You're just playing hookie from the brothers right now, aren't you?

*the MC tries to groan, but ends up regretting it as it stresses their already aching throat. They cover their mouth with their elbow to catch their raspy coughs before responding*

MC: U-ugh! Okay, fine... You're right. How about you stop breaking my balls and pick what we're watching...?

Solomon: I already have. Beel told me about this wonderful cooking show the other day! I think we can start with that, then maybe move onto a few movies Leviathan recommended...

Solomon: I have the TV set and heated blankets on the couch. Plenty of water, a few boxes of tissues (mostly for me), your favorite sweater, a plush Asmo bought me-

MC: ...

Solomon: -and anything else we need, I'll have my wand in reach! I figured for dinner, we can order out. It's lovely that you're making us soup, but let's not push-

MC: Sol?

Solomon: -Hm?

*MC wiggles him back until they can turn themselves around and wrap their arms around his chest. They rest their head up against the soft fabric of one of his old sleep shirts snugly*

MC: .... Thank you.

*Solomon looks taken aback by their sudden tenderness, but doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around them further and lightly cage them to his chest*

Solomon: Of course, MC... You take care of so many people. You deserve a break.

*a comfortable silence spreads between them for a minute or so, before MC starts to feel Solomon's cheek rubbing against the top of their head like a smothering cat*

Solomon: Oh, my adorable apprentice, you're just so cute when you're sick~

MC: *snaps their eyes back open and glares at his words, but doesn't let go yet*

MC: Sooool....

Solomon: If I didn't know better, I would almost want to keep you like this...

MC: *snorts* Good luck. The brothers would kill you for it. *they drop their arms from his chest, but he doesn't let go*

MC: Sol?

Solomon: I'm sure they would try, but you wouldn't let something bad happen to your beloved teacher, would you MC?

MC: *rolls their eyes* You wouldn't need my help, anyway. Let go.

Solomon: *squeezes a little tighter* Uh-uh! That wasn't my question.

MC: Sol, I need to stir the soup.

Solomon: And I need to hear an answer.

MC: Solomon, I'm serious.

Solomon: Oh? What's this? I think I'm gonna... ahh...!

MC: Wait, what are you-?

Solomon: Ahhh...!

MC: Solomon, let go!

Solomon: AHHHH....!!

MC: OKAY OKAY, I WOULDN'T LET THEM HURT YOU! Don't you DARE sneeze in my hair!!

Solomon: AHHHH- Just kidding~

*he finally lets them go and they lightly slap his shoulder before turning back around in a huff*

MC: Get out of my kitchen!

Solomon: Then I'll meet you on the couch again?

MC: Only after the soup is done.

Solomon: Then we can cuddle?

MC: Not if you misbehave!

Solomon: What if I steal the blankets~?

MC: *rubs their pounding temples at their teacher's childish antics*

MC: Solomon, I'm serious. Get. Out.

[waitimcomingtoo]

Come See About Me

Pairing: Tom Holland x reader

Synopsis: Tom realizes he got you all wrong and slowly falls as he learns more about you during the press tour

Masterlist

“Oh shoot. I’m press with Y/n all week.” Tom said as he read an email from his team.

“Is that a bad thing?” Harry asked him.

“Not necessarily. I just don’t really know her that well. She was super reserved on set for the few days I shot with her. I wonder why they paired me with her.”

“Well, you’re the same age, right? The movie team probably just want to start romance rumors for publicity.”

“I don’t think that will happen. I barely got to know her during filming. I doubt anyone will see chemistry between us.” Tom replied. He started pacing around his hotel room and felt uncharacteristically nervous for the day ahead.

“Well for your sake, let’s hope you don’t see chemistry between you either.” Harry snorted.

“How do you mean?” Tom frowned.

“You know how messy relationships in the public eye can be. Just don’t go falling in love with this girl, okay? I do not want to watch you pine after your dark and mysterious costar.” Harry warned him.

“Psh. I won’t fall in love with her. That would never happen.” Tom scoffed and continued scrolling through his phone. He ended up on Instagram and saw that you had recently posted a photo. It was just a simple selfie in your hotel room which was probably just a few doors down from Tom’s. He found himself smiling and gave the photo a like. He may not have gotten to know you on set, but there’s no reason he couldn’t get to know you now.

“But if I did, why would that be bad?” Tom asked as he deep stalked your Instagram.

“The way I see it, there are two outcomes if you choose to pursue her. Option one is you get swept up in the excitement of promoting the movie and start reading into every little interaction between the two of you because that’s what the public is doing. So you convince yourself you’re in love with her and maybe she’ll even convince herself of the same thing. But once the press tour is over and you get to be with each other without any reason or purpose, you realize you never actually liked each other. And that’ll just end up breaking both your hearts. Even worse if only one of you realizes you never actually liked the other. God. That would be a nightmare.” Harry shivered.

“Okay.” Tom said slowly. “That was oddly specific. So what’s the other outcome?”

“You fall in love with her on this press tour and then it ends before you get a chance to tell her. So she flies off to film another movie and you’re stuck kicking yourself for not being honest with her sooner. And I’m stuck watching you whine about it.” Harry said simply.

“Or, hear me out, secret third option.” Tom proposed. “I fall for her and she falls for me and we have a great relationship. And maybe it lasts and maybe it doesn’t. But at least we gave it a shot. That could happen, right?”

“Maybe. But either way, she’s getting on a plane at the end of this press tour. And you can’t fall in love with someone who’s worlds away. Remember that.” Harry reminded him.

“I’m not gonna fall in love with her.” Tom insisted.

“Promise?” Harry asked skeptically.

“Yeah. Promise.” Tom said weakly. He looked at your picture one more time before shutting his phone off.

The next morning, Tom got into a black van that was going to take the cast to the building where the interviews were taking place. You got into the car shortly after with a huge smile on your face that Tom had never seen before. You were in a nice dress and full glam already, unintentionally earning yourself Tom’s full attention.

“Good morning.” You said enthusiastically as you sat in the seat beside him. He was slightly taken aback by how friendly you were being since he had only ever seen you being quiet and reserved.

“Oh, hello.” He smiled in surprise. “Good morning to you too, darling. How are you doing?”

“I’m really excited for today.” You admitted. “I haven’t done a big press tour like this before. I know they can be a little boring and repetitive but I can’t wait.”

“Yeah. These tours are pretty crazy. You get to see a lot of amazing places which is really cool. But you also get to answer the same question 100 times a day for a month straight. You’ll learn the highs and the lows pretty soon.”

“I’m ready for it all. But thanks for the warning. I appreciate any tips I can get.” You chuckled.

“You’re welcome. And don’t worry. You’ll get used to waking up at the crack of dawn and having a bunch of people you’ve never met poke you with makeup and hair stuff.”

“When?” You asked through a yawn. “Because I have a full face of makeup on before my brain is fully awake and it feels so very, very wrong.”

“Not soon enough.” He sighed. “I’ve learned to stay half asleep while the nice ladies apply my concealer.”

“Oh, so this complexion isn’t natural?” You teased and pointed to his face.

“Nope. You’re not the only one in full glam right now, darling.” He humored you, making you laugh.

“Careful. You don’t know if you can’t trust me yet. I might sell that piece of bad boy information to a news site and get you exposed.” You warned. It was Tom’s turn to laugh and he felt amazed that he had never seen this side of your personality before.

“I hope you don’t. I was just about to say that I’m glad I can share your first big press tour with you but now I feel we may have begun an enemies arch.”

“No. We can’t be enemies.” You whined playfully. “Because I was gonna say that I’m glad you’re here too. You always seem so relaxed and funny in interviews. I’m really hoping I don’t come off as nervous as I feel today.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t. It’ll feel just like a conversation.” He assured you. He was pleased to know you were a watcher of his interviews and wondered what else he’d uncover about you that day.

“Thank. I really appreciate you helping me with all this.”You said sincerely.

“It’s no trouble. If you have any other questions, just ask. I’ll help wherever I can.” He told you.

“Thanks, Tom.” You smiled at him. He smiled back and suddenly remembered what Harry had said the night before about not falling in love with you. Tom was just one conversation in and already struggling to keep his promise.

Once the van arrived at the building, you and Tom had makeup touch ups and were then sent into the junket room.

“Wow. I haven’t seen the poster yet.” You gasped and touched the poster with gentle fingertips. Tom watched you admiring it and smiled when he saw how proud you looked.

“You look good up there. I hope to see you on more posters.” He said and nudged you slightly.

“Like in Playboy?” You asked and looked insulted.

“What?” Tom gulped. “No, no, no. I didn’t-“

“I’m just messing with you.” You cut him off and nudged him back. He felt his hearts too racing and cracked a smile.

“You really had me for a second there, darling. I didn’t realize you had such a sense of humor. I guess I never heard you say much on set.”

“Thats because I found it hard to shake my character after filming all day. I guess I’m not used to separating that yet. I loved my character and all but I’m so glad to be done shooting her. She’s so dark and dramatic. It really affected my mood on set.” You told him as you both sat down in your chairs.

“Oh, wow. So you’re not quiet? You were just in character?”

“Quiet? I’ve never been described as quiet.” You laughed. “I was just in my emo phase on set because the material I was shooting was so dark. It bummed me out all day.”

“But you’re not bummed out today?” He asked with a coy smile.

“Fuck no. I’m ready to party.” You whispered to him just as the journalist came in. He burst out laughing at the unexpected expletive and earned himself a look from the journalist.

“Well alright then.” He chuckled.

That was the first of many times you made Tom laugh that day. The more interviews you did together, the more he learned about you and your personality. He paid attention to every anecdote and personal story you shared and was more and more fascinated each time.

When it came time for day two of the press tour, he could not wait to get back in there with you. The interviews were in the hotel that day and Tom got to the junket room first. When you got there, you handed him a hot cup of tea.

“For you.” You smiled and sat beside him. Tom looked at you curiously and you gestured for him to sip it. He took a sip and widened his eyes when he tasted it.

“This is exactly how I take my tea.” He said incredulous.

“I know. I was listening when you ordered at breakfast yesterday.” You said proudly.

“Thank you, darling. I really appreciate that.” He smiled fondly at you before taking another sip.

“Well I wanted to thank you for all your help yesterday.” You smiled shyly. “I was really nervous yesterday until we talked in the car. You made my first press day really memorable. So I did the normal courtesy of eavesdropping on you and brought you your favorite tea.”

“That was very kind of you. And you made my day yesterday a lot better than I was expecting so I should be thanking you too.”

“Then I’ll loudly tell someone else my favorite way to drink tea so that you can eavesdrop and surprise me.” You joked as the journalist walked in.

“How are you guys doing today?” The journalist asked to start the interview.

“I’m doing really well now that Y/n brought me tea.” Tom answered and took another sip.

“I’m also doing really well but because Tom didn’t bring me tea.” You said and looked at Tom to see if he found it funny.

“Why would that make you happy?” He laughed.

“Because I hate tea.” You shrugged.

“What? Don’t you know that is the worst thing you can say to an English person? And you just told me you had a favorite tea.”

“That was a joke. I actually hate tea.” You admitted.

“How can anyone hate tea?” Tom asked in exasperation.

“It’s just like hot, flavored water. I don’t understand what’s good about it. I hate soup too.“

“Soup too?” Tom gasped and pretended to clutch his petals.

“I think soup is so nasty. Why would I ever want to eat hot blended food?”

“If you hate soup and you hate tea, then what do you do when you’re sick?”

“I watch Fantastic Mr. Fox under my covers like a normal person.” You answered, making him laugh.

“This is very disturbing information to learn so early in the morning. You’ve surprised me, darling.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this.” You shrugged with a laugh.

The next day, Tom was pleased to see you already waiting in your chair for the interview to start. You were texting on your phone but looked up when he came into the room. Your makeup artists was touching up your lipstick so you couldn’t smile at him and opted for a wink. He found himself blushing at the wink and sat beside you.

“Morning, darling.”

“Good morning. No tea today?” You teased.

“I’ve already had my tea, for your information. I chugged it while I got my makeup done.”

You laughed but he wasn’t actually kidding about getting his makeup done. He was just happy that it made you laugh. Your makeup artists finished up and you checked your makeup in your phone camera.

“You look pretty.” Tom said before he could stop himself. You looked over at him in surprise before smiling.

“Why, thanks. So do you.” You said and shot him another wink. He blushed and looked down at his lap at the compliment.

“God, I’m gonna be thinking about lunch this entire interview.” You whispered to him.

“You didn’t eat at the craft service table?”

“I can’t eat that early in the morning.” You waved your hand. “It makes me nauseous. Now I’m wishing I did though. My kingdom for a cheese stick.”

“I hate cheese.” Tom grimaced.

“What? Even in stick form?” You asked him.

“Even in stick form.” He humored you. “And you can’t judge me because you hate the two most comforting foods on earth.”

“I’m judging you so hard right now.” You mumbled. Tom laughed as an idea came to him.

Before your next interview, Tom made a quick stop at the bakery across the street. You were already in the room waiting to start by the time he got back. He quickly fixed his hair before holding out a little brown paper bag.

“For you.” He said with a bashful smile.

“What is this?” You asked as you took the bag.

“Open it.” He said as he sat beside you. You gave him a curious look before opening the bag.

“Scone?” You gasped and looked up at him.

“Scone!” He smiled proudly.

“You got me a scone? Why?” You wondered and took the stone out of the bag.

“Because it was easier to find than a cheese stick.” He chuckled.

“I love you.” You cupped his chin before taking a bite of the scone. Tom froze and felt his face turn bright red at your words. You realized he had gone quiet and looked over at him.

“Sorry. Was it too soon to say that?” You asked with a mouthful of scone.

“I think so. Aren’t you supposed to wait three months?” He chuckled and touched a cold hand to his burning face.

“Too bad. The introduction of the scone sped up our relationship and now we’re in love.” You shrugged and took another bite. Tom laughed again and looked down at his laugh.

“So, uh, speaking of our relationship. Have you seen the way fans have been shipping us since our last few interviews hit the Internet? How weird is that?” He said and forced a laugh. He didn’t actually find it weird, he just wanted it see how you felt about the possibility of a relationship.

“I was actually deep into the fan edits last night to be perfectly honest with you.” You said through a laugh.

“Were you?” He asked in surprise.

“I was. And I heard that we’ve been secretly dating since May. Did you know that?”

“I did. I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry, darling. It must’ve slipped my mind.” He played along.

“That’s okay. I can’t be mad at you since you blessed me with a scone.”

The journalist came in once you had finished your scone and the interview began. Tom was barely paying attention to the questions and only focused on hearing your answers. He loved that he wasn’t getting to learn new things about you that he was too shy to ask.

“Unpopular opinion?” The journalist asked.

“A lot of people think cats are girls and dogs are boys but the real take here is that all seagulls are boys.”

“Woah, what? What makes all seagulls boys?” Tom asked you.

“A girl would never act like that.” You said simply, making Tom laugh.

“My unpopular opinion is that Y/n’s best movie is Look Mom, No Hands.” Tom said, making you burst out laughing.

“I know you did not just bring up my Disney Chanel original movie from when I was 11.”

“Yes I did. Because I watched it last night and I cried when you made the winning goal even after your glasses broke from the soccer ball hitting you in the face.”

“Oh my God.” You laughed. “The drama.”

“It was! The opposing team totally kicked it into your face on purpose because they knew you were the underdog. But nevertheless, she persisted. You made the winning goal and your team won the championship.”

“Wow. Way to spoil my movie from 15 years ago. And why were you even watching that?”

“Because I needed to know who I was working with everyday. It’s a part of your lore. Now that I know you’ve starred in a DCOM, I know I can trust you.”

“I was not the star. Bridget Mendler was the star. I was just the quirky best friend.” You reminded him, making Tom laugh.

“Well you were the only one I was looking at, okay darling? You were the star for me.” He said as he looked over at you. You smiled at his answer and nodded your head.

“Good answer. Favorite snack?” The journalist asked.

“Oh no. You’re gonna think I’m weird.” You smiled sheepishly.

“What? I could never, darling. What is it?” Tom asked and turned in his chair to face you.

“I put mustard on popcorn.” You grimaced.

“What the hell?” Tom’s nose scrunched in disgust.

“See! I knew you’d think I was a little freak.”

“Mustard? On popcorn? Why would anyone do that?”

“You’re thinking it’s worse than it is. Yellow mustard on lightly salted popcorn is really good, okay? Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“You’re gonna have to make it for me. Because I cannot imagine it’s good.” Tom shook his head.

“If I can get my hands on some mustard during this press tour, I will be at your door in a heartbeat.”

“It’s a date.”Tom replied, making you smile.

“It better be.” You answered, and he returned the smile.

Tom was fully in it now. Every second that he wasn’t with you, you were the only thing on his mind. You started spending your evenings together and grabbed dinner every night after your interviews. He was falling fast and getting worse and worse at hiding it. He posted a photo of the two of you that the paparazzi had taken while you were out to dinner and captioned it “I’d wait out in the cold all night just to take pictures of her too”. He tagged you and it wasn’t long before you were in his comments saying “he’s so obsessed with me it’s honestly embarrassing”. He smiled at the comment and wrote back “yes, and?” before going to bed.

The press tour was coming to an end and on the last day, Tom walked into the junket room to find only one chair in the room.

“Oh. No Y/n?” Tom asked his manager.

“Nope. Solo interviews today.” They replied. Tom faked a smile and sat in his chair. He hoped his disappointment wasn’t as obvious as it felt as he gave the interview alone. He did a few more solo interviews throughout the day and eventually got to his last one. It wasn’t long before the door opened up and you walked into the room with Tom’s water bottle.

“Hi. I’m crashing. Sorry.” You smiled sheepishly and walked into the room.

“That’s quite all right. Do you want a chair?” The journalist asked you.

“I’m good.” You smiled politely and sat on Tom’s knee. He immediately blushed and looked up at you.

“What are you doing here, darling?” Tom grinned.

“I finished early so I brought you juice.” You said and handed him the water bottle.

“What? No way.” He smiled in appreciation and opened up the water bottle to see apple juice inside.

“Juice!” You cheered.

“Juice!” He echoed. “Thank you, darling. What a nice surprise.”

“Well I had to get you back for the scone.“ You told him.

“So Tom, I have to ask about your Instagram post from yesterday. You tagged Y/n in an interesting place, Tom. Care to comment on that?” The journalist asked now that you had joined the interview.

“He tagged me there because it’s where you can usually find me.” You chuckled.

“Wait, I’m lost? Where did I tag her?” Tom asked. You and the journalist exchanged a look before you pulled out your phone to show Tom his own post from the night before. He had accidentally tagged you right on his crotch, making him turn red when he saw his mistake. And when he pieced together what you meant by what you had just said, he turned even redder.

“Oh my God. I swear, I’m just Instagram stupid. I didn’t mean to tag her there.” Tom explained.

“Yes he did. He tagged me in my location. Because that’s where I am.” You kept up the joke just to tease him.

“Where?” The journalist laughed.

“On Tom’s dick.” You shrugged. Tom covered his red face with his hands as you and the journalist laughed.

“People know that about me. If they can’t find me, they don’t ask “hey where’s Y/n?” because they already know where I am. It’s my happy place. My sanctuary. My home away from home.” You continued.

“No. No more. My mum watched these.” He playfully scolded you.

“Hey, you started this.” You reminded him.

“And I’m ending it.”

“Actually, I’m the one who has to end it. That’s all the time we have. Thanks guys.” The journalist said. The last interview was done, meaning the press tour was officially over. You stood up and adjusted your skirt before looking at Tom. He smiled softly but felt his disappointment return. The tour was over which meant today was his last day with you. He knew you’d keep in touch, but it would never be like this again, and that’s made him sad.

Instead of wallowing in his sadness, Tom did something about it. He stopped by the corner store before making his way to your hotel room. In his way there, he ran into his brother Harry. Harry took one look at the bag of popcorn in his hands and knew what was happening.

“You fell in love with her, didn’t you?” Harry snorted.

“Shut up.” Tom groaned. “I can still fire you.”

“You did the one thing you said you wouldn’t do. Now look at you. One your way to eat the most American combination of foods I have ever seen. You’re a disgrace to your homeland.”

“I couldn’t help it, okay? She made me fall for her. It’s all her fault, really. Now leave me alone. I have a girl to surprise with a disgusting snack.” Tom said and went on his way. He took a deep breath before knocking on your door. You opened your door for him and he held up his bag of supplies.

“Hey, you. What’s this?”You raised an eyebrow.

“Mustard and popcorn. You little freak.” He said with a teasing smile. Your lips curved into a smile as you stared at him.

“Get in here.” You instructed.

He went into your room and shut the door behind him as you poured the bag popcorn into two bowls. He did his best to hide his disgust as you squirt mustard over them both.

“Here. You’re gonna love this.” You said as you handed him his bowl.

“It smells like mustard.” He grimaced.

“Well, that’s 50% of the ingredients.”

“Okay. I’m doing it. I’m eating one.” He said and popped a mustard covered piece of popcorn into his mouth. You watched him as he chewed it and could tell he hated it.

“Well?” You asked.

“I’m gonna throw up.” He answered.

“Spit it out.” You laughed.

“No. You like this so I’m gonna force myself to like it too.” He said a begrudgingly swallowed the popcorn. You laughed at him but your smile slowly faded and you looked a little upset.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked you.

“I don’t know. I’m feeling kinda down tonight.” You told him.

“You are? What’s bothering you?”

“I guess I’m just sad the tours over. I don’t like when things end.” You admitted with a sad smile.

“I’m sad it’s over too. They usually exhaust me but I don’t know. I particularly enjoyed this one.” Tom replied sheepishly without meeting your eyes.

“You did?” You asked as you ate your popcorn.

“I did. Mostly because I enjoyed getting to know you.” He admitted and finally looked up at you. You smiled in surprise and scooted closer to him. Tom gulped and looked down at his lap. The tour was officially over so if he didn’t want you to get on a plane without ever knowing how he felt, he was gonna have to speak now.

“You know, before the tour started, my brother made me promise that I wasn’t gonna fall for you.” Tom admitted.

“What?” You laughed softly. “Why would he make you promise that?”

“I don’t know. He said it would only end in two ways.” Tom said and looked into your eyes with a sheepish smile.

“Which were?” You wondered.

“We get caught up in the excitement of the movie so we start a fling and then breakup when the tour ends.”

“Well that didn’t happen. So what was the other option?”

“I fall for you and never tell you. And the tour ends and you get on a plane and I regret it for the rest of my life. But I guess that option didn’t happen either since I told you.” He said as he never dropped your gaze. You stared into his eyes for a moment as you processed what he had just admitted.

“Well, what if there was a secret third option?”

“Secret third option?” Tom asked with intrigue.

“I mean, just because the tour is ending that doesn’t mean it has to be the end of you and me, does it?” You said and leaned in even closer.

“It doesn’t?” He gulped at your close proximity.

“I don’t think so. And look. You bought me food. That makes this is our first date.” You explained as you held up your bowl of popcorn.

“Well I’m happy to hear that but don’t expect a kiss with your mustard breath.” Tom mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

“What was that?” You played along.

“I said you’re so pretty and I have a giant crush on you and want us to be together.” He said quickly.

“Much better.” You smiled and popped some popcorn into your mouth.

Tag List 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

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@ciarahollands

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade @boogywoogywoogy

[klmp11s]

Hey! I really love your writing!! 🧡 I was wondering if you could write malleus, ace, rook, vil, and epel with a m! Reader who smokes cigarettes but tries to keep it a secret because they’re pretty ashamed of it? I completely understand if you’re uncomfortable with this request 🙏

Hello!! Thank you very much 🫶🫶 , I can even understand the reader, because sometimes I suffer from this myself 😶‍🌫️ (English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes)

Summary: reader smokes cigarettes, but tries to keep it a secret because he is pretty ashamed of it Characters: Ace Trappola, Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt, Epel Felmier, Malleus Draconia Warning: male!reader who smokes cigarettes, romantic(?)

Ace Trappola

He definitely came to your dorm room and he LITERALLY DIDN'T KNOCK?? AGAIN?

But as soon as he enters your room, he remains in the doorway in shock.

Uh... are you smoking now? Are you serious? IT'S LITERALLY WORTH THIS: 🧍😦

He admits, you MAY be looking well.. um HOT OKAY right now, but he's still trying to figure out what's going on. At that moment he remembers that he didn’t even fully enter your room and literally slams the door while running towards you

The moment your cigarette flies out of the open window, they start shaking your shoulders.

I don’t know if you know what this is, but imagine that you are trying to cough up the smoke in your lungs and at the same time you are LITERALLY INTERFERRED??

It's very unpleasant, believe me

Okay, now while you are trying to justify yourself to him, they interrupt you and start throwing a barrage of questions at you. FOR WHAT?? Why are you doing this? Why are you ruining your health? Are you okay with your head??

You even cease to understand which of you is more worried. But okay, now you're starting to feel the shame rising from within.

You ask him NOT TO TELL ANYONE AT ALL, to which he agrees with suspicion, but now he is waiting for an explanation from you. Come on, he's listening.

Have you seen the “can you replace your cigarettes with my lips” meme? LMAO IT'S HIM BUT I SWEAR HE WILL NOT TELL YOU THIS DIRECTLY.

Regardless of your reason for smoking, he will most likely try to prevent you from doing it so often.

HE WILL CHECK if you smell like cigarettes, he's serious literally 🧐🐕

Vil Schoenheit

He doesn't even know how to react to this?? He accidentally met you on the street while you were smoking

Okay, now you're going to have to EXPLAIN, YOU UNDERSTAND?

He also obviously doesn't like the smell of tobacco at all and God forbid you dropped ashes on your uniform

You immediately ask him not to tell a single living soul about this, seriously, not to tell ANYONE about this

He understands this. But didn't you think that they could obviously notice you? If it was one of the teachers, obviously you would be out of luck at all.

At one point he even forgot why he was looking for you in the first place. Now, while he is leading you to his dorm, he asks you the reason.

I don’t think he will condemn it if you really have a good reason, but the main thing is not to do such things around him.

Do you also know that smoking not only harms your health, but also your appearance?

Also, at the moment when you say that you are ashamed of this, he will say in a completely calm tone that everything is not as bad as you think, do you understand?

I think he could try to help you quit if that's what you really wanted, but he's not the kind of person who would put pressure on someone with an addiction.

He could offer you alternative options to slow down your bad habit.

Rook Hunt

He is aware of this long before you burned in front of him He will literally stand in front of you and just watch: 🧍🤗

You literally DIED at that moment. First of all, he literally came out of nowhere?? Secondly, REMOVE THE CIGARETTE FROM YOUR MOUTH

The moment you turn to him, he just calmly starts talking to you about something completely different.

Okay, he doesn't care 🙏🙏 . Now you feel calmer and you begin to ask him not to talk about this to anyone at all. Only he and you know about this, understand?

To which he completely calmly agrees and continues to tell you something completely ordinary.

You feel nervous because he agreed so easily and didn’t even ask questions, is there a catch? You carefully ask him about it, and you hear half of the words in French. Okay, if he understands that this is just a bad habit and he doesn’t see the need to tell others about it, that’s the main thing.

He is also ready to reassure you and assure you that there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, because it all remains a secret, right?

Now your secret is kept between you and the hunter. But do you remember that he knew about this much earlier?

Obviously, he might notice that you have a slight smell of tobacco coming from you. (That smell literally gets into your clothes and hair, you know?), I also think he could find a pack of cigarettes in your room and not say anything about it at all.

You are interesting, so many secrets and not a single listener, right?

Epel Felmier

He ran to your room to escape from Vil

As soon as he comes to you, he sees a picture: you are standing in front of an open window and lighting a cigarette. Okay, you've never thrown things out of your hands so quickly.

Looks like you have some explaining to do now, huh?

He may even accidentally scream (more like a squeak and a shocking gasp), are you doing WHAT

You just look at each other for a while, completely silent. At that moment, something clicks in your head and you grab his hands and ask that no one, I repeat, NO ONE, knows except him.

If you also say that you are ashamed, he will jump up sharply and begin to calm you down. Maybe he’ll tell you what Vil did to his appearance before, so that you’re not the only one who feels shame.

This is a SECRET and you don’t want anyone to know about it. He looks at you for a while and carefully turns his gaze to the window where you stood a couple of minutes ago. Well, he might agree to keep quiet about it. BUT

Why are you doing this? Like, first of all, how did you bring them to college and secondly, how long have you been doing this?

Okay, now you sit with Epel and explain that you developed this habit much earlier than you arrived here. Okay, he can understand that, I guess?

But I think he could agree with you that: 1. You try not to do this in front of him, and he is also thinking about helping you get rid of this habit; 2. You don't tell anyone from his dorm that he comes running and hides in your room! 3. Don’t blow smoke on him, it burns his eyes, you know?

I think he would like to somehow help you get rid of your addiction, but he has not yet figured out how to do this.

Malleus Draconia

He was walking at night and was near your dorm when he saw you on the porch. He just wanted to say hello and you literally screamed? Did he scare you? He also cautiously approaches you and looks at you while you are doing something, he literally: 🧍

When you started to fuss, he noticed that you were throwing something aside and hiding another thing in your pocket. I think he might want to know what happened, but if you don't want to tell him, he might understand.

I also think that he has quite a keen sense of smell. Apparently he smelled tobacco from you.

Okay, now he's aware. You begin to ask him not to tell anyone about this. And he calmly agrees, but could he ask why you are doing this?

When you say that this has long become a nervous habit, he could tell you how in his homeland they cope with some kind of addiction.

When you also say that you are really ashamed that he saw you in such a state, he really tries to calm you down. He doesn't see anything so bad in it that you feel shame, you know?

You could also spend most of the night talking to him about it. Congratulations, you have not yet smoked a single cigarette in front of him while you were in such a sudden surge of stress. It is commendable.

You never cease to amaze him. He is really pleased that you shared something so personal with him. Now this is your and his secret, and you don’t even have to worry, because he will keep it safe and sound

The characters do not belong to me, they belong to their rightful owners, please do not edit, translate, repost my works on other platforms, also without my permission and @

[visceravalentines]

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin. 

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck. 

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes. 

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg. 

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking. 

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs. 

.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line. 

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly. 

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose. 

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards. 

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin:  sunburn, bug bites, bite marks. 

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes. 

“What’s for supper?” 

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.” 

He licks his lips. 

Supper gets cold. 

.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry. 

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else. 

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them. 

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale.  “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

.

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor. 

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.” 

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?” 

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get. 

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass. 

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?” 

“Almost.” 

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do. 

You snip them one by one, bittersweet. 

“Done.” 

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.” 

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side. 

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing. 

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones. 

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.” 

Have you always been such a good listener? 

.

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face. 

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands. 

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world. 

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break. 

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry. 

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept. 

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too. 

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in. 

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds. 

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe. 

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit. 

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.” 

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish. 

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have. 

“Get the light,” he says. 

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck. 

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat. 

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him. 

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall. 

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night. 

“Please,” you moan. 

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.” 

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties. 

“Good.” 

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life. 

.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory. 

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here. 

Neither is he. 

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt. 

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap. 

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget. 

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle. 

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles:  a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake. 

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children. 

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet. 

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that. 

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either. 

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk. 

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs. 

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails. 

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak. 

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care. 

.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood:  the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.” 

You frown. 

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair. 

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

.

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You. 

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach. 

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning. 

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?” 

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth. 

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him. 

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television. 

“I killed my mama, y’know.” 

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed. 

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red. 

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling. 

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday. 

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

[kunikame]

the moon and her stars. - lyney

warnings : lyney has zero rizz (clickbait), i made astral references again im not sorry guys, not quite love at first sight but more the steps made towards it, gender neutral, fluff

w/c : 940

the saying "eyes are the window to one's soul" is, in lyneys humble opinion, about as true as it can get.

he would know.

while he performs his magic tricks, while he takes a stroll down the streets of fontaine– whatever leisurely activity you choose, he does it while staring people directly in the eyes.

of course he doesn't stare at one person the whole time, his own lavender gaze flies from one person to another sporadically, yet he never fails to discern the emotions hidden behind them.

are they happy? sad? having a good day? a bad one, perhaps? tired? surprised? excited?

he knows.

he watches childrens eyes light up with joy when he pulls their card out of his hat– he observes the couple arguing a few steps away, notices when the brunette's eyes shift from pure sadness to betrayal.

he sees.

which is why he also notices when someone lacks these qualities. if there is no joy, there is no shine– no life behind a person's eyes.

he wonders why your eyes seem so empty when your smile feels genuine.

perhaps you're like him, hiding burdens you desperately wish would forever stay locked up, yet you yearn for a companion to share your pain.

he has his siblings, but who do you have?

lyney approaches you one time (be it out of sheer fascination or simply seeking a change of pace, he's not quite sure) after an impromptu show he put on for some kids in the middle of the street with a singular white rose in his possession.

"hello there, you seem to be not quite enjoying the show tonight. may the great magician lyney be of any service, perhaps?"

he removes his hat with a flourish and bows, holding out the rose as an offering to you.

you lift your gaze from the book you were reading, surprised he took notice of your presence. upon noticing the rose a pleased hum escapes you, and lyney notices a fragment of what one might call 'entertainment' behind your gaze.

"did you know white roses symbolize young love and eternal loyalty, sir lyney? was your approach made with such intentions to be conveyed on this starry night?"

your tone is teasing and amused, and he is well aware of it, but whatever mirth you might be feeling doesn't quite reach your eyes, and so with a snap of his fingers and an elegant shake of the rose, he produces 8 more of them in an unarranged bouquet he hopes you will accept.

"not quite, i'm afraid. i was more so referring  to the symbolization of new beginnings, but if you so prefer i would not at all mind changing the meaning. or the color, if you wish," he says, brushing his hand over the roses, which have now turned a darker orange.

"'fascination', i see," you hum, "interesting choice. is there a reason for it?" you have now discarded your book entirely, giving the blond all your attention, as if hanging onto each word he says, yet seemingly not quite caring about any of them either. it confused lyney, but it fascinated him even more.

"are you aware of what people say about eyes?" you nod, inclining your head slightly, curiosity piqued, "they are the window to the soul. i've found that claim to be truthful until the day i first met eyes with you."

"is this your attempt at wooing me, sir lyney? i regret having to inform you it's not quite working."

"not yet, no. i simply wished to compliment you. your eyes are one of, if not the most beautiful i've ever seen. but, if i may be so bold as to ask, why must you suppress your emotions from being seen in them?"

your eyes flicker away momentarily and lyney pauses. perhaps he might lose this battle tonight.

"i do not wish for them to be perceived by none other than myself. i believe it's better– nobody can use my emotions against me this way."

"why would anyone do such a thing?"

your eyes meet his then, and the world stops. everyone around him disappears and suddenly it's just you and him in this bubble universe you've created– or perhaps you haven't created it, it was simply made for you. you are the center of it and lyney has to fight to find his place (he chooses the one that's closest to the sun– to you). may he crash and burn if he has to, if the universe decides he's meant to, he simply wishes to be as close as you let him. 

if the eyes are the window to the soul– or to put it differently– to the heart, then lyney is certain what you see in his is the adoration he holds for you. even though he doesn't quite know you yet, you fascinate him to no end and he will not stop at the ends of the universe– he will go further and further, as far as his legs carry him, to know everything about you.

he has come to agreement with these feelings of his, they are the reason he chose to approach you in the first place.

he is, however, rendered speechless when your eyes suddenly seem filled with an affection and longing he can't say he's been looked at with before.

"you tell me, sir lyney. would you do such a thing?"

you smile at him then and may the god of justice strike him down where he stands lest his words are lies, but you put the moon and all her stars to shame.

"to you? never."

ੈ✩₊˚TAGLIST : @sscarchiyo @arkangelee @chrronoir @sleepypengwin @yakshalea @kazemiya @menhwa-pdf @mikctp @gabirii @solxima // ask/comment to be added/removed! (if you're in bold i can't tag you)

[beautification-tales]

The Flight part 1

An Outbreak Story

Holly had always wondered what it felt like to be on a yacht. The white, billowing sails stretched taut against the blue sky, the sea breeze carrying the salty scent of the ocean. As she stepped onto the luxurious vessel, her eyes darted around, taking in the gleaming teak deck, the shiny fiberglass hull, and the well-appointed cabins. She couldn't help but marvel at the sheer extravagance that surrounded her.

She walked confidently on the deck ready to sunbathe her bright blue bikini hugging her curves. As she stretched out on one of the plush loungers, she felt the warmth of the sun on her skin. A cool breeze ruffled her hair, and she closed her eyes, letting the peaceful sounds of the ocean lull her into a state of relaxation. She felt a tap on her shoulder and opened her eyes. Standing before her was the yacht's owner, a handsome, middle-aged man dressed casually in khaki shorts and a polo shirt.

"Hey baby." he asked with a warm smile. "You are looking magnificent as always." Holly smiled as she arched her back looking up at him. “Babe, what did I say about wearing khaki shorts? You’re a millionaire and this is your ship. Now take them off sailor.” He chuckled and started to unbutton his shorts. She watched as they fell to the deck revealing his tan, muscular legs. He climbed onto the lounger next to her and propped himself up on one elbow.

“Did you hear the news about the outbreak?” The man asked in a woman’s voice. “Huh? What outbreak?” Holly shook her head as the man became fuzzy. She closed her eyes and opened them again. A black haired flight attendant was standing in front of her in the galley. She pulled her phone out and showed the story to Holly. Holly sighed as she realized she was no longer in her fantasy but back on her shift on the international flight. Holly held Lucy’s phone and read the article. Holly nervously bit her nails and wiped her uniform off as she read. “It says it’s airborne already.” Holly groaned. “I can’t do another Covid!” She handed the phone back to good friend Lucy.

“Yeah! But it’s like a weird disease. Some people get really sick but others….” Lucy trailed off not knowing how to explain it. “Others.. what Lucy?” Holly asked, her voice tense. “Well they change but it’s like hard to believe what I was reading.” Lucy said nervously, looking around the galley. Holly nodded, feeling a chill run down her spine. They both knew they had to focus on their jobs, but the news was hard to ignore. Holly bit her nails again before asking. “You think it might have reached Australia yet?” Holly asked as they had just left the country on their way to L.A.

Lucy shrugged, looking worried. They both knew it was only a matter of time before they found out. In the meantime, they had to go back to their duties. Holly attended to the first class passengers as she eyed the middle aged man reading from his paper. “Sir?” she said politely, trying to catch his attention. The man looked up from his screen, his blue eyes meeting hers. He smiled warmly.

“Umm, is there anything I can get you, sir? Another drink? A snack perhaps?" Holly asked, trying to catch his attention. The man shook his head, his smile never wavering. "No, thank you, Holly. I'm just catching up on some work here. You know how it is." He chuckled, and she couldn't help but smile back. "Of course, sir. I'm here if you need anything."

Holly brought the cart back to the galley as she found Lucy sitting reading from her phone. Holly wanting to distract Lucy brought up a new subject. “Hey did you see the guy in L6?” She asked, motioning to the business class section of the plane. Lucy nodded, looking up from her phone. “Yeah that’s Brent Book he owns that new tech company. Heard he was a real playboy back in the day. Not bad for his age though, huh? I wonder what he does on these flights...." Holly grinned, imagining the possibilities.

“I bet he still flies commercial because he has a thing for flight attendants.” Holly winked, her cheeks turning a shade of pink. She glanced over at the man in question, wondering what it would be like to be with someone like that. Holly was a sweet competent flight attendant but desired the life Lucy and many of her colleagues had. Holly was a bit average looking and her friends like Lucy got all the attention. Lucy was always glued to her phone because she had over 100 k followers on TikTok. Lucy would brag and show off the hundreds of DM’s she received as Holly read them with envy. Rich businessman and eligible bachelors would take her on amazing dates as Holly spent nights alone in her hotel.

“Oh yeah?” Lucy said as she got up from her bucket seat. “Let’s see if I can get his number.” Lucy adjusted her stockings and breasts as she walked into business class pretending to check on passengers. Lucy reached Brent’s seat and leaned down with a seductive look. Holly looked on with jealousy as Brent laughed and talked with Lucy.

A bell went off and it was a passenger in economy in . “Just great.” Hollly grumbled as she put on her fake smile and went to help them. As she reached the passenger she saw he was shivering and sweating at the same time. His face was pale as he rubbed his shoulders. “How can I help you?” Holly asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “Yes, I’m feeling really cold all of a sudden. Can I get a blanket?” The man asked, his voice barely a whisper. Holly nodded and went to get him a blanket from the galley. As she returned the man coughed in his hand as Holly leaned over to hand him the blanket. The man sneezed violently as fluid hit Holly’s face. “Are you ok sir? Are you feeling sick?” Holly asked, her face now inches from his. “No, so sorry about that. I am just feeling cold. Thank you for the blanket.”

Holly and Lucy exchanged stories when they met in the back again. “So he said he doesn’t go on TikTok but he has one for his company.” Lucy explained. Holly nodded, a little disappointed. Holly continued to wipe her face. “You are so lucky Lucy. You got to flirt with an almost billionaire while I was in the bathroom rinsing snot off my face. Ew I can still feel it. I think some got into my eyes.” She said, rubbing her face with a tissue.

“Yuck…. What if he’s infected?” Lucy whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “ Don’t you fucking go there Lucy!” Holly snapped, her tone harsher than she intended. They both looked at each other, Lucy heard a notification ping from her phone. “Oh my God! His company is following me now! Look!” She showed Holly her phone, Brent Book's company was now following her on TikTok. Holly couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. “Aaagh fuck your TikTok Lucy!” She yelled, throwing her hands up in the air. “Ok? Rude!” Lucy snapped back, crossing her arms. Holly went to her bucket seat as Lucy did the same. Holly began biting her nails as she read about the outbreak on her phone.

The captain's voice came over the intercom, announcing that the flight was halfway over The Pacific Ocean on target for L.A. Holly glanced at the clock, her heart racing. She couldn't shake the thought of the sick man from her mind. Lucy seemed to be oblivious to her friend's distress, busily engrossed in her phone, seeing if any celebrities slid into her DM’s. Holly felt sleepy as she felt her eyes closing.

It was two hours later that Holly woke up in a sweat. She felt her throat was dry and she was shivering uncontrollably. She glanced around and saw that Lucy was fast asleep, oblivious to her friend's distress. Holly struggled to sit up, her head throbbing with pain. As she grabbed a bottle she guzzled it all in seconds. It was then she heard a ping from business class. She forced herself to stand, her legs wobbly, and walked unsteadily to the curtain. Holly felt a bit woozy and heavy. She approached Brent who was deep in his phone. “Can I help you sir?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah Lucy, I was looking at your TikTok and…” Brent finally looked up and adjusted his glasses. “I’m so sorry you’re not Lucy.” He said, his face flushed.

“No, I can get her for you.” Holly said, her voice barely audible. She felt dizzy and her vision was starting to blur. Brent looked at her strangely. He sat up and said. “No, that’s ok but what’s your name?” Holly forced a smile. “Holly sir.” Brent gave a confused look. “Really? I could have sworn there was another flight attendant named Holly on this flight. I haven’t met you. Are you an influencer like Lucy?” Holly felt confused as he noticed Brent looked a bit uncomfortable as his hands were in his lap.

“Umm are you ok Mr. Book?” Holly asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him, and it seemed to intensify the more she stared. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and she could see his face get red at her question. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine and please call me Brent.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out a little strained.

Holly quickly glanced down at Brent’s hands and could see that he was covering a bulge. She could feel her face heat up and her heart start to race. She knew what was causing that bulge, and it made her even more nervous. "Of course, Brent. Is there anything I can get you?” she asked, trying not to stare at his pants. “Not right now but I have a feeling I might need assistance later.” He winked at her, making her blush even deeper. She quickly looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Holly walked quickly to the galley. Lucy was still dozing away. Holly rushed into the bathroom and almost squealed at what she saw. The woman in the reflection was completely different. She was looking at this stunning blonde woman in her uniform. The hair was a bit disheveled but her body was slightly bigger. She looked down and fully realized how her bust was more pronounced. She reached and cupped her right breast, feeling the weight of it. "Oh momma like," she thought with a sly smile. She noticed her nail bitten fingernails were gone replaced by red nails that matched her red lips.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She remembered Brent’s reaction at seeing her. She smiled “So this is what it’s like being hot!” she thought to herself. As she continued to explore her new curves, she noticed something else. There was a strange tingling sensation between her legs. She had never experienced anything like it before. She couldn't help but wonder what it was and if it had anything to do with what was happening to her.

Holly left the galley with a bottle of water in her hand. She made it to Brent’s seat and took the cap off the bottle. “Hey, I thought you could use some water. Oh no! I’m so sorry! I’m so clumsy!” Holly had dropped a few drops onto the crotch of Brent. He jumped a little in his seat but smiled at Holly. “It’s ok… not a big deal really. It’s not that much…” he said, trying to be polite. “No this is my fault! Let me help you clean up.” She quickly ran and got a towel as she began dabbing at Brent’s stain. “It’s ok.. I think it should …ungh.” Brent groaned as Holly knelt in the aisle and began rubbing at his crotch. Brent’s eyes widened as he looked at Holly’s sensual focused face. “Don’t worry Mr. Book. I’ll have you cleaned up in no time.” Her words were dripping with confidence. Holly laid the towel down as she continued to rub at Brent’s crotch.

She looked up at him and smiled, "Like I said. It was my fault so I need to take care of it.” Brent’s became red as he realized what was actually happening. He looked down her cleavage and licked his lips. “Oh no. I think it may have reached your boxers. Let me help you.” Holly said as she leaned over even more to get a closer look. She unbuckled his pants as Brent attempted to stop her. “Shhh, let me do my job.” She whispered, seductively. As she pulled down his boxers, Brent gasped, revealing his throbbing arousal. Holly looked up at him with a wicked grin.

She grasped his member as he shivered. He covered his mouth not wanting to wake the other passengers. Holly continued to stroke him, her grip firm and confident. She leaned closer and whispered, "I know just how to take care of this." Brent's heart raced as she increased her speed. Brent grabbed onto the sides of his seat as the pleasure was immense. “Ungh fuck!” He cried as he could feel himself close to release.

As she continued, Brent felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge. He tried to hold back, but it was no use. Holly could feel him twitching and knew what was coming soon. Brent erupted as almost a river of cum shot out of his cock. He completely relaxed as Holly took the towel and cleaned him. She pulled up his boxers and buckled his belt. “There we go. I’m so glad I could assist you. Remember to buckle your safety belt when the Captain turns on the light.” Brent in complete shock of what just happened nodded and smiled. He felt so relaxed that he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Holly wanted more. She had felt something unleashed in her. She was sexy, she was powerful and she was still horny.

-To Be Continued-

[lazycats-stuff]

Hope you are having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request a Jason Todd x Male reader who is a total bad ass, but finally gets the courage to show Jason. Reader teases Jason with a little belly dancing show, which may have made the night very hot and steamy? (Reader bottom)

I will. I have never really seen belly dancing, so let me know if I wrote it well. I did my research, but you never know.

Summary: (Y/N) finally gets the courage to show Jason that he was a badass. And then decides to tease him with belly dancing. Jason won't have that.

Warnings: (Y/N) know how to fight, (Y/N) teasing, SMUT, bottom reader, top Jason, praise kink, blowjobs, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, nipple play, maybe rough sex, aftercare, possessive Jason. Maybe more, I don't at this point. I tried.

Jason followed (Y/N) through the aisles of the little shop. It was 11 PM and they both couldn't sleep. (Y/N) was also craving ice cream. Jason couldn't say no to his boyfriend. At all.

" Jason, you want anything? " (Y/N) asked, taking the tube of his favorite ice cream out of the freezer.

" Not really. "

" Are you craving anything? "

Jason thought about it.

" How about a craft mac n' cheese? "

" Ooh, I didn't eat that in a long time. Come on. "

Jason followed once more, looking at his boyfriend. He was wearing Jason's shirt and his favorite leather jacket. Jason felt something possessive crawl from within him. He watched (Y/N) converse with the owner. (Y/N) knew the owner very well, he came here a lot if he needed something small, instead going to the big store like Target or Walmart.

" You have your pack? " (Y/N) asked Jason, knowing that he occasionally liked to smoke.

" I have 2 more, don't worry. "

" Okay. Thank you. " (Y/N) thanked the owner.

Then he took Jason's hand and walked out of the store.

" You know, I'm glad you took a night of off patrol. "

Jason nodded and put his arm around (Y/N)'s shoulders. (Y/N) leaned into Jason's embrace. He enjoyed this types of nights. Calm, Jason being home with him...

" Well, well, look here. " Jason and (Y/N) separated when they saw a group of four. They didn't even had to ask. (Y/N) sighed as he gave Jason the bag.

" Hold this. "

Jason was confused beyond belief. Is (Y/N) going to fight them? His question was answered when (Y/N) threw a punch. He stood there in complete shock. His jaw dropped. Since when did (Y/N) know how to fight? Jason knew that he didn't teach him anything about fighting. So who did?

" Close your mouth Jason, you might catch flies. " (Y/N) laughed as he closed Jason's mouth.

" Since when do you know how to fight like this? " Jason asked as they started walking back to the building.

" I have always known how to. Gotham is my blood and every Gothamite in one way or another knows how to fight. "

" That is true. But you still surprised me. How come you didn't tell me? "

(Y/N) just leaned into Jason's side and Jason wrapped his arm around (Y/N)'s waist.

" I was insecure. You and your brothers know how to fight so well and then you have me. "

" Sweetheart, I wouldn't have cared even if you didn't know how to fight. I can give you some pointers later. If you want of course. "

" Maybe. "

Jason nodded, giving (Y/N) a kiss on the cheek.

" How did I land you? " Jason asked.

" I should be asking myself that. "

Jason gave him a slight nudge, smirking at the hey he received in return.

" I'm serious. I'm the lucky one. "

(Y/N) huffed as he unlocked the apartment door and then locked them when they were both inside.

" So, I wanted to give you this surprise later, however, I can't wait for tomorrow. So, sit down on the couch and wait. "

" Can I eat the ice cream? "

" I wouldn't recommend it. "

Jason nodded after he sat down. (Y/N) went to the bedroom, locking the door. Okay. Time to do this. This is either going to be the best thing he has ever done or the worst thing ever.

Jason was getting impatient. What was (Y/N) going to show him? He looked at the door when he heard them opening. It was a good thing he was sitting down. A very good thing. (Y/N) came out in what Jason could only describe as harem pants. They were black and see-through and Jason could see his boxers. He was also wearing a black west. (Y/N) was shy as he saw Jason watching him hungerly. He looked like he wanted to eat him.

" Do you like it? "

" (Y/N), I don't think you realize the amount of self control that it's taking me- No, don't think about it. You look gorgeous. "

" Well, I wanted to find a hip scarf, but there wasn't any. "

Jason wasn't even listening. He was far too gone. Far too gone to focus on anything besides (Y/N)'s smooth skin on display. (Y/N) turned on the music over his phone and started dancing. Jason watched with so much interest. The way (Y/N) moved his hips, his stomach... And the positioning of his arms... Jason was close to loosing it.

(Y/N)'s movements were following the music and Jason was going to find out more about belly dancing. (Y/N) moved closer to Jason, before moving away, still moving his hips and stomach. Jason was not going to last long.

When the music ended, Jason took (Y/N) into his arms and quickly moved into the bedroom. He threw (Y/N) down on the bed and then spread (Y/N)'s legs apart and the he started kissing him like a mad man. His lips moved down to (Y/N)'s neck, kissing and nipping.

" You don't realize what you do to me, do you? " Jason said against (Y/N)'s neck, making sure to leave hickeys in his path. He quickly took off his shirt and then he removed (Y/N)'s vest. He moved to bite at (Y/N)'s shoulders. (Y/N) was moaning beneath Jason, squirming from the pleasure.

Jason started moving downward to his nipples. He took the right on in his mouth. He knew how sensitive they are. (Y/N) was whining, back arching.

" So gorgeous... " Jason mumbled as he continued his way down towards the hem of the pants. He took them off, being careful. They would need to be used later.

He started kissing the inside of (Y/N)'s thighs. He was mumbling gorgeous and mine. He marked (Y/N)'s thighs with bites. (Y/N) was going insane from the bites. That was the possessive Jason, as (Y/N) had labeled him once.

Jason made his way back up to (Y/N)'s mouth, kissing him with so much passion. He really loved this guy. (Y/N) wrapped his arms around Jason's shoulders, bringing him closer. After a while they moved away, completely out of breath.

" I love you Jason. "

" I love you too. " Jason said, removing his pants.

His hands moved down to (Y/N)'s boxers. They were quickly removed and Jason let out a shudder. (Y/N) looked like a master piece. Jason smiled at the marks he left. Some were going to be difficult to hide.

" What are you looking at? " (Y/N) asked, blushing.

" You. " Then he moved between (Y/N)'s legs and took (Y/N)'s length into his mouth. (Y/N) moaned, reaching for Jason's hair. Jason moaned when he felt the pull. (Y/N) was getting closer and closer. Jason bobbed his head up and down, making sure to bring (Y/N) over the edge.

(Y/N)'s hips were moving up, trying to get into his mouth more. Jason pushed his hips down and licked over the slit. (Y/N) moans were getting breathier and high pitched and Jason knew in just a few moments (Y/N) was going to come. And he was right.

(Y/N) came and Jason swallowed it all. (Y/N) thighs were shaking and he had to catch his breath. He was boneless.

" You okay? " Jason asked, moving to get the lube from the nightstand.

" Yeah... "

" Good. Because we are nowhere near done. "

(Y/N) took a deep breath as he felt Jason's lube coated fingers penetrating his hole. There was the burn, but Jason's fingers brushed against his prostate. (Y/N) moaned and moved his hips down to grind on Jason's fingers. He wanted more.

" Patience my boy. Patience. " Jason said, putting a second finger.

" Easy for you to say. "

Jason chuckled as he started scissoring him. (Y/N)'s was hard again once more. And way more sensitive then before.

" I'm ready Jason, just hurry. "

Jason took his fingers out and took his boxers off. He coated his length in lube before pushing in. He was inside of (Y/N) in one swift push. He put his elbows next to (Y/N)'s head. He waited for (Y/N) to give him a go ahead.

(Y/N) moved his hips, moaning at the feeling of being full.

" Come on Jay..."

Jason nodded and slowly started moving.

" More Jay. " (Y/N) whined, bringing him into a kiss.

Jason complied, moving quicker. His pace was now brutal and quick. He was grunting while (Y/N) was moaning. (Y/N) reached down, but Jason didn't want that. He took (Y/N)'s hands and intertwined his hands with (Y/N)'s.

" You are going to come untouched. "

(Y/N) moaned. He didn't think he can do it.

" Jay, I don't think- "

" I know you can. "

Jason was praising (Y/N), knowing it wasn't easy for (Y/N). He was always sensitive after an orgasm. He gave (Y/N) soft kisses around his face.

" Jay, I'm close- Oh! "

Jason felt the tight squeeze of (Y/N)'s ass and with a few more he came too. He could barley move.

" (Y/N), babe, can you hear me? " Jason asked.

(Y/N) nodded in return, taking deep breath. Jason watched as tried to come from his high.

" Okay. Let me clean you up, okay? "

(Y/N) nodded, shuddering when he felt Jason pull out. He closed his eyes and listened to Jason. He was in the bathroom and he could hear water going. Jason stepped out of the bathroom with a wet rag. The coldness of the rag felt great against his body.

" Are you in any pain? " Jason asked, giving (Y/N) kisses on his face.

" No. I just want cuddles. "

" You will get cuddles, I need to clean you up first. "

(Y/N) pouted and Jason laughed. After a quick kiss, Jason went to the bathroom to throw the rag and then he put boxers on both of them. (Y/N) hated sleeping naked and Jason simply couldn't.

Then he got under the covers, covering both of them. He brought (Y/N) closer, making sure to give (Y/N) a kiss.

" Thanks Jay. "

" Don't thank me for doing the bare minimum. "

(Y/N) snuggled closer to Jason and he nuzzled his nose in the junction of Jason's neck.

" And also, whatever you need for belly dancing, I will buy it for you. "

(Y/N) laughed at that, nodding in return. He will use it. Jason wrapped his arms around his boyfriend.

" Love you. " (Y/N) said before falling asleep.

" Love you too. "

[telvess]

Headcanons for all the characters including Jack since it’s based on Hamlet watching The lion king with the reader. (the original animated movie not the live action remake.)

Record Of Ragnarok Characters x Reader watching together The Lion King (headcanons) 🔞

You know, I haven’t watched The Lion King in… well I watched it once when I was kid and that’s it. Mulan, Hercules and Tarzan were my movies. Anyway I ended up watching The Lion King again to refresh my memory.

Qin

A what? Are you involved? Then Qin would agree to do anything.

He’s like a big kid - chill and carefree, even more than usually. Both of you goof around, Mr. Emperor tries to sing without knowing words, popcorn flies around, you pause a movie in stupid moments to make him laugh etc.

You get a stomachache from laughing too much and Qin obviously has to get infected.

Just two morons have time of their afterlife.

The only moment when there is silence is when Simba loses his father. That scene just hits too close to home and remains Qin about Chun Yan. However he doesn’t let it bother him too much.

HAKUNA MATATA

You both loudly encourage lions to battle.

At the end he asks what other movies you like.

Jack

Because he isn’t familiar with the concept of love and how to express it, spending time with you is probably Jack’s way to show his affection. If you ask him to watch an animated movie together, he’d politely agree, even if it’s not his thing.

Expect tea. And cheddar apple pie.

Jack sees Simba’s journey as a lovely and naive story. Deep inside he does compare himself to that lion cub and wonders what kind of person he would've become if he had only received help from strangers. On top of that Jack actually killed his parents, so it’s odd to him to see how much Simba struggles with remorse over Mufasa’s death which wasn’t his fault.

Truth to be told Jack might mentions some quotes from Shakespeare IF you point out similarities between the movie and Hamlet. These resemblances aren’t very visible. But it may be enough to start an interesting conversation.

The ending of the story may seems a bit bitter to Jack. Whoever was meant to be good, stayed good, and whoever was meant to be bad - stayed bad. Kinda depressing outcome for a man who’s trying to change himself, right? You’d have to talk about it and remind that it’s just a simplification made for children.

Now it’s time for a cuddle session.

Loki

Do you really want to do this to yourself? You’re very naive if you expect to have a fun with this guy while watching this kind of movie.

At first it’s just boring to him, but after awhile he amuses himself by coming up with new ways to destroy the show. He makes a loud comment every time the opportunity arises. For example, there is a scene where Zaku tells young Simba and Nala that they’d be married one day, to which Simba replies: No way! She’s my friend! You can hear a loud snort on the side, followed by She’s your SISTER, dumbass!

Loud chewing.

Hey, y/n, do you know that once Simba becomes the king, he will have kids with every lioness? Even his mom?

Do they have to sing all the time?

DON’T YOU DARE mention that you can see a similarity between him and hyenas or forget about chips, popcorn, whatever you two are eating.

Phew! It’s finally over. Wanna do something funny, y/n?

Adamas

Childish entertainment but once he sees that your eyes get wet with tears, he quickly agrees.

A cheerful start bores him but except tactless way of sitting, he doesn’t do anything to ruin your fun.

Even if Mufasa’s death was expected, it still hits hard Adamas. Basically catches him off guard. It remains him about his last meeting with Poseidon: his brother’s pure contempt towards him, that dead, indifferent expression of his face when he pierced Adamas with his trident, then cold surrounding body and Poseidon’s back as he walked away. But while the movie continues, a new digression haunts Adamas. He plays that scene again in his head and it hits him harder, because he realizes that he almost became Scar to Zeus.

So now he sits stiffly on his ass with a very depressed expression. One look at him is enough for you to know that you have to pause the movie and talk to a guy. At first he rejects your attempts, but very quickly ends up letting you hug him tight. Still plays a tough idiot tho…

Beelzebub

Most of the time he just sits next to you with lifeless expression.

Hakuna matata his ass.

Beelzebub secretly enjoys when you sing, but it’s really hard to catch him with a smile on his face. If you manage to do so, he reluctantly admits it. Good luck with convincing him to join you.

He doesn’t have any deeper thoughts about the movie.

If you mention that Timon and Pumba remain you Samael and Azazel, Beelzebub would just give you a dull look. After awhile he starts to notice that too and has mixed feelings about it.

Hrist

She finds this idea very sweet. It’s relaxing and enjoyable.

When Scar kills Mufasa: RAGE MODE ACTIVATION!

Since then you sit with angry Hrist who really does not like phrase hakuna matata. She starts to hate Simba for being so thoughtless.

Screams SHUT UP every time they start singing.

When Simba lets Scar leave, Hrist in heat of the moment chokes you and loudly screams how dumb he is. You wonder if it can get worse and the answer comes very quickly - Simba fights Scar on the TV screen and you fight for every breath on a couch.

Hermes

Hermes approaches the movie from a different angle: he focuses more on a soundtrack. The movie itself is simple story with moral, standard for humans’ approval.

You both consider an improvement of some songs and probably start doing it in the middle of a movie. Sorry, Simba.

Ares

Ares doesn’t care much about Mufasa’s death - it's necessary plot twist to move on with thread… but the ending kinda touches him. It's very climatic in his opinion.

He is NOT crying, okay?

Well you are. Or you pretend very convincingly so he doesn’t have to play tough boy. He has no idea…

Hades

Because he is a gentleman, your wish would be granted.

It’s animated movie but Hades drinks wine. No cola, no popcorn or other snacks. Please, have some dignity.

Hades has weird uncomfortable feeling in his chest when Scar kills his own brother. Scene just awakes something he doesn’t like to mention: conflict between Poseidon, Adamas and Zeus. Hades never could bring himself to blame any of them for how things turned out, so now he doesn’t try to look too deep into Musafa’s murder.

Afterwards he would share his honest opinion with you, almost like professional critic.

Poseidon

No expression throughout the entire movie.

Scar is pathetic.

Mufasa is pathetic.

Simba is pathetic.

Timon and Pumba aren’t even worth mentioning.

That movie proves that humans are lower forms of life.

At least you have chance to hug Poseidon. If he spends time with you, it means he demands it.

After a movie: Y/n, such entertainment is unworthy of the gods.

Leonidas

Books are better than movies. But fine, if you insist, the King of Sparta would spare some time.

The best comforter: Why are you crying? It’s fiction! It’s not even human! By the way - that lion could kill you with a single paw swing. These mfs are huge! Better him than you, hon!

He smokes so much that you have trouble seeing the TV screen.

Stop couching, hon! I can’t hear what they’re sayin’!

The moment Pumba approach, Leonidas starts talking about his love for venison.

You need truly heroic self-denial to not kick him out. The only option to get him to shut up is to kiss him. He doesn’t get why the kiss is angry but he likes it that way.

You two probably miss the ending. Leonidas thinks Simba isn’t worthy of being king anyway.

Apollo

Ah, y/n, aren’t you adorable for loving such innocent enjoyment? Of course he agrees!

You have to feed him snacks.

He sings along with the characters and makes the movie much better. You end up watching him showing off instead of the movie. Your dirty side may bait off a bit more mature show.

He knows exactly what you're doing and doesn't mind at all.

Later you might catch him humming songs from the movie.

Hello, dear. May I be your king tonight?

Rudra

Simba’s and Nala’s childhood brings nostalgia. Rudra spent his entire youth with Shiva and they were both free spirits. Watching these lion cubs brings back many funny memories.

Rudra’s favourite moment is Simba’s reunion with Nala. He gets mad if he notices you smirking.

Parvati, Kali, Durga and Shiva

You decide it’s time for girls’ night out.

None of you is focus on the movie, it’s just an addition. You mostly talk and laugh. Very loud that it may attracts Shiva.

He just sits down between you with Whatcha doin’? then proceeds to eats all the popcorn and other snacks like vacuum cleaner.

[marlynnofmany]

The Ability to Smell Beauty

“Do you smell that?” Paint asked, flicking her tongue out to taste the air, just like the orange-scaled lizard she resembled. “That is LOVELY. Where is it?”

I looked around the forest-lined landing pad. All sorts of plants that I’d never seen before waved on the breeze: tree-things shaped like willows that someone had coated in enough hairspray to make them stand on end, bush-things with leaves that snapped at flies, moss and mushrooms and lumps that could have been frogs or seedpods, or maybe oddly-shaped rocks.

“I have no idea,” I told Paint honestly.

“Help me find it,” she said, striding away from the ship with her shoulder bag held tight and determination on her scaly face.

I glanced back at the captain and several others, who were passing time with an alien card game. The person who was supposed to have delivered our next shipment was late. Nothing else to do but hang around and try not to be bored.

“We’re going to look around a little,” I called, walking after Paint. “We won’t go far.”

Captain Sunlight nodded, her own scaly yellow face focused on the cards. “Scream if you need anything.” Then she triumphantly played a card that made Mur flail his tentacles in aggravation.

I said that I would, and followed my shorter crewmate as she waded into the undergrowth with her tongue flicking madly.

“So what exact smell are we looking for?” I asked, wondering if that was the right word. “Smelling for?”

“It’s kind of sharp, but in a good way,” Paint told me distractedly. “Sharp like a good kitchen knife, like string music, like a poignant memory.”

“Right,” I said, taking an experimental sniff. Everything smelled like alien plants, and not like violins or whatever. “Hm.”

“I think it’s this way. Low to the ground.” Paint scrambled under bushes, getting her bag caught on one of the flytrap mouths.

“Do you want me to carry that?” I asked.

“Yes please.” She held it up, still under the bush. Flytraps slapped at both of us, but weren’t strong enough to do any damage, even to my soft human skin. Paint probably didn’t even notice through her scales.

I shouldered the bag that held Paint’s sketchbook or novel or entertainment screen; whatever she’d brought out for waiting in the sun. I’d been about to go back in for something similar when she’d hared off on this quest.

“Over here!” Paint said, sounding more sure. She rustled out the other side of the bush and made delighted noises. When I made my way around the shrubbery, I found her at the base of a large boulder, gathering walnut-looking things into a greedy pile.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“Yes! Smell one!” Paint thrust one toward me.

I took it and sniffed. Not bad. Kind of like cloves, that sort of spicy sharpness that just felt festive. “Huh. Pretty good.”

“Isn’t it amazing?” Paint asked, holding up a double handful and taking an open-mouthed whiff. “Gimme the bag back; I’m taking these with me.”

“Are you sure they’re safe?” I asked as I handed it over. “Do you know what kind of plant they are?”

“Yeah, it’s that one from the store on the beach back home,” Paint said, shoveling eagerly. “The good one I could never find again. I forget the name. Sunlight will know.”

“All right,” I agreed. They really didn’t smell that special to me. It would be interesting to see if Captain Sunlight also treated the things like lizard-alien catnip, or if this was just something that Paint liked. A lot.

When she’d gathered everything on the ground — a few good handfuls — she looked around for more. I spotted one growing from the spindly sapling that poked out of a crack in the boulder, and Paint happily added it to the rest.

“I wonder if there are any other bushes like that,” she said, standing with the bag and studying the trees.

“We shouldn’t go far,” I reminded her. “Gotta stay in screaming range.”

“Sure, sure,” Paint said. “Just a quick look over this way. I think those plants grow near the beach, and I hear waves.”

Remembering Kavlae’s description of the landing pad as being “within dancing distance of the sea,” I put more attention toward the ambient sounds. That wasn’t all windblown foliage after all.

Paint was already disappearing into more bushes, so I hurried after, not wanting to lose track of her. “Slow down! I’m sure they’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, but they’re so beautiful!” she said from somewhere ahead. “There are whole worlds in that smell. Don’t you think so?”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Okay?? It’s gorgeous! I want to decorate my room with them, and smell these every day! You really don’t think it’s that big a deal?” Paint sounded insulted.

“I think my nose just works a little differently from yours,” I said gently. “I’m sure they’re very nice.”

Paint huffed, pushing through the leaves harder and muttering something uncomplimentary about a nose that couldn’t smell beauty.

I had to laugh. “There are plenty of good smells out there,” I said. “And I don’t need my nose for beauty; I have my eyes for that.”

“Really,” Paint grumbled. “If you can’t appreciate this, then forgive my doubts.” She was still grumping about loveliness and the ability to sense it when she shoved through the last of the bushes. “Well, there’s the beach,” she said. “No trees, crackle it. Let’s go back.”

I ducked under a leafy branch to join her just as she turned to go. The view stopped me in my tracks.

Blue waves crashed against a beach made of glittering gemstones, sprawling as far as the eye could see in either direction. Every color under the sun, fist-sized and head-sized and a fine shimmering sand, washed bright by the waves. I could swear that native birds somewhere were singing a dramatic crescendo of a symphony, though maybe that was just in my head.

“Paint,” I said, not moving. “Can I borrow your bag? I’ll carry it back for you.”

~~~

Further adventures in backstory for this book. More to come!

[onskepa]

Heyyy! What do you think of a shy na’vi reader who’s terrified of flying with Neteyam taking her for a flight on his ikran? Change whatever you want

Lots of love!! <333

Helloooooooooooo darling! This is a cute idea! Hope you enjoy this one~!!

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Tswayon

Ikrans, banshees, predators, dangerous, beautiful, and fierce. They are essential the omaticaya clan. It is part of their world, their life, their need to live another day in the dangerous world of pandora. So when it is time for a young na'vi to claim one, obviously it is a risky thing to do as many have died, But once an ikran is tamed, success.

So why, in the world is this young na'vi girl so afraid of ikrans? Neteyam held his ikran, zeze, named after his mother's first ikran, while his dear beloved was walking back and forth.

"Not even for a little spin?" he asks while grinning. He dear beloved, Tswayon, was not a big fan of flying. Which is odd since they are masters of the sky.

Fidgeting around, tswayon was hesitant to look at neteyam straight in the eye. "I am....not f-fond of flying..." she answers shyly. Neteyam smiles even wider, his beloved was so cute. Yet it wont do him good if she keeps rejecting his invitation. He has something secret in plan. A special surprise. But it cant happen unless she flies with him.

"You are literally given the name 'fly', yet you fear it" neteyam teases. Tswayon inwardly groans, but gets closer to neteyam, taking his hands onto hers. "Please neteyam....I really really don't want to....im scared" her voice cracks and buries herself into his chest.

Neteyam caresses her head, as means to comfort her. Inwardly sighing, he wants to show her around but how when her fear is taking over?

"Tswayon...why are you scared of flying? It is part of our way of life" neteyam says. He always did tease her about the whole flying thing but never truly stopped to think why. Tswayon was playing with her hands, her tail swaying low and ears pinned down.

"....my dad didn't mean to but...one time he took me flying, I was a kid. Was my first time on his ikran. I remember it very clearly, he wanted to show me what is was like. But it was a really windy day, my dad made a sharp turn and his arm around me loosened, thus I feel...."

Neteyam inwardly gasped. To fall at such heights, and a child no less. Tswayon continued, "I feel and got hurt really bad...luckily my dad landed down quickly and carefully took me to get treated. Was lucky but took time to heal all my bones. Ever since that day....I was scared to fly again".

Neteyam hugged Tswayon silently, what she explained would traumatize anyone for life. But then he remembered, his parents always taught him to overcome his fears no matter what. So that is what he wants to do. Help his beloved over come the fear that stops her from fully enjoying flight.

"Let me help you Tswayon. I want to help you over come your fear", neteyam says as he looks into her eyes. Tswayon was ready to say something but he gently placed his finger on her lips. "I mean it, I was to help you. Don't let your fear take over your life. We can do this slowly. I wont rush you, we can do this step by step. Trust me love, I want you to know and love of riding an ikran. To feel the wing against your fact, the thrill of it".

Tswayon was skeptical but was nervous and having doubts. "Trust me my love, I want to fly with you, share the experience with you". Tswayon could resist his charming golden eyes. Who could say no to such a handsome man?

She finally nodded, feeling hopeful, "Alright, lets do it". Smiling and getting excited again, neteyam takes her hand and brings her closer to his ikran. "First, try to get to know zeze. A wonderful ikran I am happy to bond with" he explains while petting his ikran. Zeze nuzzles happily at his touch and turns to Tswayon.

"She want you to pet her" neteyam says, Tswayon was hesitant, so neteyam grabs her hand gently, and guided her to the head center of zeze's. The ikran makes a pleased sound, encouraging Tswayon to pet her more. Neteyam sees this and smiles. "See? She likes you" he comments.

Tswayon smiles, gaining more confident and caresses zeze more. The ikran enjoys the attention she is receiving, likes to be the center of everything. Chuckling a bit, still petting zeze, she comments, "she is very beautiful".

"Yes...very beautiful" neteyam says but was looking at the girl in front of him rather than his ikran. Zeze makes a noise, using her head to nudge tswayon closer. "O-oh! she must really like me" the girl giggles in amusement.

"She wants you to ride on her..." neteyam says, making tswayon look at him with wide eyes. Quickly he goes to her side and places his warm hand on her shoulder. "I promise, I will hold you tightly. Never ever will I let you go" he swears. Looking between zeze and neteyam, tswayon replies, "you promise...?" her eyes looking straight into his.

"With my life" he says with no hesitation. Taking a deep breathe, tswayon nods, "I'm ready".

Neteyam wasted no time, feeling happy he gently grabs tswayon and places her up on zeze, making her release a small squeal in surprise. Getting on zeze and behind tswayon. Gently yet firmly, he wraps an arm around her waist and his tail around her thigh, while holding on to zeze.

"Ready tswayon?" he asks softly in her ear. That caused Tswayon to blush madly, unable to speak at the moment, she nods. Linking his queue with zeze, sharing the same thoughts. "Brace yourself!" he warns and zeze takes a leap.

Tswayon screamed at the top of her lungs. Clinging tightly to neteyam, closing her eyes. Every dive, loop, sharp turns, neteyam chuckles at tswayon screams.

Finally what felt like forever, zeze was flying steadily. "Tswayon, open your eyes, look" gently nudging her. Tswayon slowly opens her eyes and gasps.

The view was lovely. The floating mountains, wild ikrans passing by, waterfalls everywhere, mist hitting her face. And the sun shinning its full glory across the forest. Has pandora looked this beautiful up high?

"oh neteyam......this is beautiful!!" Tswayon shouts out in happiness. Neteyam grins in joy. Success!

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I still didn't like those tricks you pulled" tswayon warns. Neteyam was quick to agree and continues to so steady flights.

"I am so happy you didn't backout. There is something I want to show you, I promise you, you will like it a lot". Without saying much, neteyam in link with zeze, the ikran takes lead to somewhere a bit to the north of the forest. Neteyam knew his beloved would like it.

Night arrived and all na'vi's were preparing for another night to rest. Tswayon entered her home with a bright smile on her face. Her parents noticed and were curious.

"what has got you smiling my child?" her mother asked, giggling, tswayon skips over to her father and hugs him. "Ma'sempu, tomorrow if you are not busy....can you take me to ride on your ikran?" tswayon asks nervously.

Both of her parents were silence in shock. Ever since that accident, their daughter never wanted to be near anything related to flying...

The father smiled wide and happily replied, "yes of course, first thing in the morning!". He hugged his daughter and their mother joined. Laughter filling their home.

AT LAST I AM FINISHED! sorry it took me days for this one! Stuff got in my way! but I hope you all enjoyed it! until next time! see ya!

Tswayon = fly