#wife content™️

[spurious]

what was the moment where you said yes to McShep?

OKAY SO.

Obviously you, audioletter my beloved wife know all this but. I’m not sure I’ve talked about how I got into SGA/mcshep on my tumblr so.

After finishing the x-files in 2022, my wife’s Zaddy Husband Mitch Pileggi beckoned us to watch Stargate Atlantis (because we couldn’t stomach Walker Texas Ranger). We’ve both been in fandom for a Long Time and thus remembered the years that McShep reigned supreme, and starting the show we said to each other “haha wouldn’t it be funny if we became ride-or-die mcshep shippers?”

……..yeah.

From the very start of the show, basically every single time John and Rodney were on screen together we’d go “haha mcshep lol”

So now I’m like. trying to excavate my memories to figure out when it Became Real for me.

I do tend to love buddy slash pairings and ships where one person is shrill while the other is chill so it’s not, like, surprising to me in hindsight that I did end up shipping mcshep? And then the SGA fandom being so friendly and active just…allowed my fixation the space to flourish.

But anyway, let’s see what the first McShep thing I saved to my camera roll was!

*drumroll*

It’s this art by the amazing @luluxa:

So at this point I think I was still at the “no no, I’m saving this fanart to my phone ironically” stage.

Now, this was October 30th. By November 3rd, I have photos of a trip to mandarake where I was really hoping to find SGA doujinshi cause I SWEAR I’d seen it before (I’ve not managed to find it yet. Japanese fans why. You guys love generic white guys mcshep should be massive here)

The first fic I have bookmarked is from November 2nd with the note “oh no I have feelings about McShep now” and it is Counting Down by @alienfuckeronmain, which is a post-trinity fic.

HOWEVER. I also have a Grace Under Pressure coda bookmarked from a day or so later, and this tracks with my impressions: this is the episode that most intensely sticks out in my mind as being emotionally memorable and something I needed to be reading fic about. Soooooo I guess it was Rodney that got me, and the need to process my emotions about episodes by reading other people’s processing, and, uh, now here I am almost two years later!

SO. To get to the actual question, several paragraphs and approximately a day later, I don’t know that there really was a single moment that put me there, as opposed to a series of moments enacted onto an already-primed pump? Because truly I should know by now that the danger of doing something ironically is that you end up doing it ronically, but. I remember devouring the fic I could find that was non-spoilery as we were watching (lots of episode tags) and it definitely shaped my perspective on John and Rodney’s interactions.

But essentially, this is a ship archetype I tend to like, and Rodney McKay is absolutely the type of horrible little gremlin man I tend to like, and the fic was good, and. Here we are lmao

[maybebi47]

sometime i sit there and think, will anyone ever love this body of mine? will anyone touch this body of mine before it rots away? will anyone ever look at it with love? desire? and see what i do not see in it? will i never be this lucky?

[jacaerysgf]

Unexpected Surprise

Summary: While attempting to gain the support of the vale, jeyne arryn has plans of her own for the prince.

r.q: Everyone forgets house Arryn😔🤘🏻 baddies of the vale Can you write something w Jace and an Arryn maybe lady Jayne’s little sister or daughter or something? Not a totally unreasonable alliance !! They have the coolest castle and knights also Ms Aemma Arryn ™️ like hello!! (I’m impatient as hell for more Vale coverage in season 2)

w.c: 900+

c.w: baela and jacaerys are not betrothed, arryn!reader jenye’s daughter, FLUFF, just a very cute fic, drabble, not proofread

a.n: IVE HAD THIS DONE SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR NO REASON OMGGGG but with the recent jeyne content i felt inspired to write this !! just something super simple <3 HOPE YOU ENJOY !! LOVE UUUU GUYS

masterlist - requests open

“Im sorry, what my lady?”

“I wish for you to marry my daughter.”

This is not how jacaerys thought this would go. When he arrived in the vale he thought he thought he would have to make simple small talk, present some of the benefits, hells even throw some complements her way in order to convince her. This however had not been in his cards.

“I'm sorry my lady i do not understand.”

“My daughter, y/n remains unmarried, around your age, a sweet girl, agree to wed her and me and my men will bend the knee.”

He blinks. He has no clue what to say to her. Jeyne stands after a moment, “I shall go fetch her.” He watches as one of the guards tries to stop her and tells her he will go retrieve the girl but Jeyne seems determined to go herself and he moves letting her leave. Jacaerys stands awkwardly in the middle of the room unsure of what to do.

He is not too sure he can just flat out agree to a proposal without his mother position, it is not like he is a second son, he is the heir to the queen. The next king, his wife to be the next queen. Yet when he sees you walking into the room, wearing a long dress in your house colors with your mother trialing behind with a pleased look on her face he finds himself wanting to agree to the marriage right away.

You are stunning. Easily the most beautiful women he’s ever seen, sure he hasn’t seen that many women but it doesn’t matter. He watches as you bow and mindlessly nods in acknowledgment, unable to take his eyes off you.

Jeyne looks between the two of you with a satisfied look. “Why don’t you show the prince around?” She gives you a pointed look to which you nod, “Of course i would be happy to.”

He walks over and offers you his arm with a smile on his face and you graceful take it before you begin to walk off with him. Jeyne stays behind and smiles to herself.

“My mother is very forward i apologize to you.” He simply shakes his head, he finds himself look at you instead of the halls he’s supposed to be looking at. “It is not an issue my lady, I rather appreciate it.” You look at him curiously but turn away once you notice he is already looking at you. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Many people speak in riddles, not saying what they mean or truly want, your mother is a rare gem.” You smile at the praise of your mother, “She truly is.”

You lead him outside and begin to tell him about the different plants and different sculptures around the courtyards. He is so charmed by you. The way you light up when you spot something and you begin to tell him of a memory you have, like how your mother scolded you for jumping around in the fountain, or when you almost fell out of one of the window's when you fell asleep.

“You truly love this place.” He can tell. The way you smile at the guards as they walk by or the way you know every detail about everything in the walls. But he sees the way you falter slightly at his words, “Am i wrong?”

You shake your head vigorously, “no no i do, its just i have never been away from here. My mother is a very protective woman, she waves away any suitors, she never even lets me leave the eyrie it is ridiculous!” You realize you're letting your emotions show too much and bow your head, “i am sorry that was out of line.”

He grabs your hands and you look at him with wide eyes. “I understand my lady, my mother is similar, i have truly never traveled to far, i wish to explore, once my mother has her rightful throne i believe i will take the time to see westeros a little bit,” He pauses before he speaks again, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, “I could take you with me? if that is what you wish my lady.”

He watches as your eyes begin to glow and you beam at him, “truly? oh nothing would make me happier.” He nods and grips your hands tighter, “I shall take you everywhere.”

He does not expect you to throw your hands around his neck and pull him into a hug. He wraps his hands around your lower back, pushing his head into your neck and breathing in your scent. “I will accept your mothers propsal at once. You will fly with me to winterfell.” You pull back and give him an eager look. “Winterfell? Truly?” He nods, “I am to go meet lord cregan stark.”

You can barely contain your excitement at the thought of seeing something that was not the eyrie, especially a place as grand as winterfell.

Jeyne watched you two smile at one another from a window above with a small smile on her face. She does not hear the guard approaching her from behind, “You seem pleased my lady.” She says nothing to him for a moment, simply continuing to stare at the two of you. “Tell my men to ready themselves for war. It seems he will accept my proposal.”

perm jacaerys taglist <3

@tyronesien @itsbookworm987 @cruelworldlana @smurfelle @ireneispunk @hxtd @venmondiese @urmomsgirlfriend1 @aegonswife

[levmada]

every—lesser known—canon fact about Levi Ackerman.

infamously over the years, there have been countless false rumors about Levi in particular out of the cast. many of them have become popular, even ubiquitous, and it's annoying!

and also disheartening when you find out it's not true....

and hurtful when you realize it was - sometimes - made up by trolls.

so i'm making this post<3

credit to @levisfavoriteacup for the idea!!

*disclaimer: i'm not perfect, so this may not be Everything™️ but I am confident that it's the majority of information available, and that it's trustworthy. :)

First the most populars. There is no evidence across interviews nor other content over the years that:

Levi is ugly, and is considered ugly in AOT.

Nope. See here: (tumblr link), or:

Isayama finished his first sketch of Levi mostly on a whim, but the moment he drew his face, he had a sense it would work well / he knew he had something good. Something told him: "the yaoi fangirls are going to like this one".

As time passed and his popularity grew, Isayama caught onto this and wanted to portray him more attractively (in multiple ways) to the viewer/reader.

But from the beginning, this was something of the goal. He is short because Isayama had in mind what young women/fangirls in Japan consider attractive: a man with a higher-pitch voice; has a small face; and who is "short but strong".

In the world of AOT, he (in a nutshell) is mostly considered plain or awkward, but combined with his reputation and style, he's very charming. "He cleans up nice." Overall, it is positive :) But more importantly, realistic I think.

He's also something of a celebrity. People who advertise their product as being used by him are more successful; when he's seen in a shop, this by itself is considered "advertising" and more people come in. Quote: ""the tea that the hero bought”".

He's definitely not a 2/10 at any rate😇.

—the 24th episode of Naoki Yoshida's Anime Plan, 2013 / Interview with Frau Magazine, 2013 | Hajime Isayama x Hikaru Suruga (2014) | AU Smartpass - Erwin & Levi Close Up Interview Part 1 | Taking shelter from the rain reprise: Levi and Peaure

Levi’s type would be someone who’s "tough, feminine and sensual".

Levi's type "might" be tall people. But context matters, because in multiple translations "don't you think?" and "might be" are thrown around a lot. Isayama isn't known for his clarity. When asked, he practically said the question right back. —fan Q&A from a festival in Betsumaga, Aug.2014

What this quote might have come from is a statement by the author of an article Isayama was likely involved in. I can't say this is 100% canon, but in my opinion it's a little less canon than the Smartpass AUs; if those are sub-canon, then this is sub-sub-canon:

Levi's romantic type is someone who walks three steps behind him, and likes cleaning.

In the past, in Japanese culture, for a wife to walk three steps behind her husband implied highly traditional gender roles. What this is much more likely to mean is that Levi's romantic type is someone who will let him protect them, or will run away and survive even if it costs his life. (And they have to like cleaning.)

—the article is from 2013, and no longer exists. but the link was used as recently as 2021 as a source in this post by a reliable translator. I've found this quote also in varying qualities of translation across Japanese and English forums, so to the best of my knowledge, it's reliable.

Levi's cravat is a piece of his mother's dress + he was wearing her dress when Kenny found him.

This is a popular rumor that Isayama has never confirmed (i think it is true, tho.)

December 25th was chosen by his comrades because he doesn't know his actual birthday.

The guidebook only states that it is his birthday. I can't find any more context on this. —AOT Guidebook; p.256

His character profile:

—AOT Guidebook; p.78–79

His name is Hebrew, and means "attached" or to be "joined".

Isayama came up with Levi's name after watching American documentary "Jesus Camp". (It's about a summer camp-type program where evangelical Christian children are taught extreme beliefs. One of the children was named Levi.) Isayama heard it and thought it sounded cool. —Hajime Isayama x Hikaru Suruga (2014) | 2010 blogpost by Isayama

Levi is in his early 30s (in s3/RtS/volume 19). –Interview, Universal Studios Japan’s SNK THE REAL exhibition, 2016 | confirmation

If Kuchel was still alive, Levi would want to make sure she had an easy life. This means specifically filial piety, a concept exclusive to the East: he would fulfill his duties as a son for her. (tldr he's a mama's boy :3) —Bessatsu Magazine, 2019

Levi would have thin facial hair, but he prefers not to, so he shaves frequently. —January 2020 issue of Bessatsu Magazine (chapter 124)

He doesn't like coffee milk or coffee jelly. They're out of the question even.🤐 —July 2018 issue of Bessatsu Magazine (chapter 106)

He just gets depressed when he drinks coffee. Maybe he loves tea that much? He stopped calling Hange names like 'shitty glasses' since they became commander because he "seems" to respect their position that much. However, a Smartpass story delves deeper into this (and states as I suspected): [After Hange makes a joke] "Since becoming the commander succeeding Erwin, they’d toned down on their past speech and behaviour that had a touch of tomfoolery; Levi understanding that they were nevertheless trying to maintain the self “that was the case then”, also loses the will to curse at them." + "In the past, Hange had a Hange-type dream, and should have been progressing to that purpose. That lately, was it the weight of the office of commander, or was it due to the reality that is “all the world was our enemy”, their manner had changed considerably." —May 2017 issue of Bessatsu Magazine (chapter 92) | Goodnight. Sweet dreams, dear. Act II: Levi

If he and Kenny had fought one-on-one, Levi would've won. —December 2016 issue of Bessatsu Magazine (chapter 87)

intermission: all about tea

His favorite "food" is black tea. No actual food.

He doesn't add sugar or milk to his tea because he considers it too expensive—which it is canonically. Despite this, he will share his tea with his comrades (his original squad as far as is seen).

Even though he's Captain, he'd rather drink it straight (the implications of which are he's a hardworking man, like that of a farmer. aka, this makes him seem humble).

If a time of peace ever came, Levi wants to open a black tea shop (he said in a dreamlike way, not so much based in reality).

He also knows a good amount of facts and history about it. He's a tea enthusiast!!

Levi receives pilfered tea in shipments monthly, thanks to Erwin.

—AU Smartpass - Erwin & Levi Close Up Interview Part 2 | Part 1 | Taking shelter from the rain reprise: Levi and Peaure | Bessatsu Magazine, Jan.2014 | September 2016 issue of Bessatsu Magazine (chapter 84) | AU Smartpass My First Time Around: Levi Ackerman | The Case of the Corps Tea Party - File No. 09 Levi's Side (3/3) | sugar and milk in tea from the Japanese perspective

Levi, out of his original squad, found Petra cute/sweet in the general sense of the word "kawaii". Like Levi's romantic type however, this was sort of a non-answer to the question (of whether Levi thought she was cute). —2014 interview

After RtS, Levi seems to consider Hange and the 104th his family. —AU Smartpass My First Time Around: Levi Ackerman

He wears a cravat because Isayama based part of his design off Rorschach from the movie 'Watchmen'. He looks "delicate" because of his size and weight, but he's so powerful because [in issues before the reveal of the Ackerman bloodline] of "invisible power" at work. —January 2016 issue of Bessatsu Magazine (chapter 76)

The best way to describe the way he thinks is to compare him to the main character from the movie The Hurt Locker (2008). His character was born from Hiei from the manga 'Yuyu Hakusho', and Rorschach from the movie 'Watchmen'. The former was the basis for his appearance (especially his eyes), and the latter was the basis for his personality. Firstly though, Isayama had an image of a small man being the strongest.

—Hajime Isayama x Hikaru Suruga (2014) / Brutus Magazine (2014)

He is something of a protagonist (especially in s3p1). — Animedia, June 2018

His favorite tool (in general...?) is microfiber cloths (for dust I guess. Levi has no need for weapons :3) —July 2015 issue of Bessatsu Magazine

He will usually laugh/smile when he sees convenient cleaning goods (i.e., vacuum cleaners? feather dusters? ((cuz he's a shorty?❤️)) —Bessatsu Magazine, Dec. 2013

He does want to be taller sometimes. He gets eager to clean up after meals rather than cook at all. He can cook, though. —Bessatsu Magazine, Aug.2014 | fan Q&A in Oyama, Oita, Mar.2018

Levi mostly couldn't adapt to the changes that came about after the truth was discovered. Only he wears mostly the same uniform, cape, and blades.

After RtS, Levi personally retrieved Erwin's remains himself, for whom there was a special memorial service. After Eren (inadvertently) called him a "tiny old man" in season 3, Levi didn't care, but when he thought of it by himself later, he was hurt (unclear exactly why). Levi's father, most likely one of Kuchel's customers, is an insignificant man who's short. That's where Levi's height comes from. His face comes from his mother. At the start of season 4, Levi didn't change much compared to the 104th because he's turning into an "old man" who'd rather stick with his flip phone so to speak. He "doesn't break out into cold sweats". AKA he's always calm under pressure. He considers prostitution to be an ordinary job because of his childhood. Levi's vision is very sharp, way above average. He thought Eren's new look beginning season 4 was unclean/dirty (in more ways than one perhaps). —fan Q&A in Oyama, Oita, Mar.2018

He has slight bouts of insomnia. He never snaps/explodes when he's angry. But he does get angry or grumpy a lot, in general. He doesn't sing. It's more likely he would dance. If he was a fan of Momoiro Clover Z (jpop girl group), his favorite would be Momoka. When/if he drinks, he has a high tolerance, but he can get a little drunk :) One thing he highly hates and fears is mold. He is the one who ordered Armin to dress as Historia during the uprising. His blood type is A. Blood types are much like horoscopes in Japanese culture, and Levi's is as such: kichōmen, or well-organized; he likes keeping things neat, but can be stubborn and stressed out easily.

Whether he eats enough or has a good diet? He is "a bit lax". Maybe he forgets to eat sometimes, or has a low appetite. When Levi bathes, he goes for a quick shower then soak in hot water, which takes about ten minutes. Like a bird :')) He on any given night gets about 2-3 hours of sleep. He thought Eren was the best at cleaning (in season 3 / uprising arc). Because of his childhood in the Underground, Levi has a preoccupation/obsession with cleaning (specifically to ward off disease). He also doesn't have any pajamas, mostly keeping day clothes on when he goes to sleep - which is in "his" chair. Levi cuts his own hair using clippers. (Something like:)

He's aware Oluo imitated him, and found it annoying. Levi's horoscope (in general) as a Capricorn: Humanity’s Strongest Soldier - Levi. He possesses warmth in the midst of a dispassionate nature, and he is capable of leadership without verbal expression – both of which are special qualities of a Capricorn. Capricorns tend to hold certain levels of authority, even if they must carry out somewhat unreasonable tactics while in such positions. But when such authority is backed up with actual abilities, a Capricorn can gain Levi’s type of confidence and also be put on a pedestal by those around them. However, Capricorns won’t be dependent on others, much less trust them easily. They don’t hold high expectations and thus never feel a sense of failure. Levi’s faults include the inability to express himself clearly.  Even though he wants to encourage his companions, he always speaks in a roundabout way, and without Hanji’s translation it’s nearly impossible to understand Levi’s intended meaning. Even though he is dependable in most situations, when it comes to love/romance, he expresses himself clumsily/awkwardly. —FRaU Magazine, Aug.2014. | fan Q&A in Oyama, Oita, Mar.2018 | Levi: Close-up Report (Part One) | Translator *the horoscope wasn't written by Isayama, but was published alongside canon information, and it's also not factually wrong, so I'm including it.

The dark circles under Levi’s eyes are to convey the “self-destruction” he takes on to reach the “standard” of Humanity’s Strongest. —Interview on the topic of Levi, May 2015

His 'liege'—as Eren is to Mikasa, and Uri is to Kenny—is Erwin. He is afraid of making deep relationships because of the cruel world he lives in; he can't know when someone he cares for will die or how soon. That 'gap' left in Levi's heart by Kenny's death was filled by his squad (the 104th). If Levi hadn't joined the Survey Corps, he would've been a "very irresponsible person". Risky with his life perhaps? As a kid, Levi used to make himself stronger in order to receive praise from Kenny. When he abandoned him, he wondered what his strength was even for. He was able to find peace with Kenny after his death. In CH72, the reason Levi kicked the shit out of Eren and Jean is because of his argument with Erwin earlier.

He knows he's a slave to his own strength, aka the idea of being a hero. He realizes it when Kenny asked what he's a slave to in s3/ch69. —Answers Guidebook, Aug.2016

If he ever changed his appearance, the one thing Levi couldn't be able to give up is his undercut :') He would grow out the top and tie it up :3 —Oyama homecoming event Q&A in 2014 | 2 | 3

Levi knows how to use a gun, but he "places more trust" in knives. —Bessatsu Magazine, 2019

Levi tolerates saunas. But instead of enjoying himself he seems to see it as a test of endurance. (LOL) —Bessatsu Magazine, 2020

Levi has newspaper-level handwriting that he practices often. He's very conscious of it and being connected back to the Underground. —AU Smartpass TEXT: Levi’s Signature

Isayama had considered killing Levi around the time of the thunderspear explosion. (As always) Isayama deliberated with his editors whether or not it'd be meaningful if he died, and they decided it wouldn't be. —Kawakubo interview, 2021

Specially, Levi holds his swords in a reverse grip "his own way" since he wasn't officially trained. —Illustrate Note Magazine, 2017

Levi forcefully bathes Hange by knocking them unconscious. —AU Smartpass - Erwin & Levi Close Up Interview Part 1

Levi is 4 at the time that Kuchel dies. —What the director informed Kamiya Hiroshi of on set

His character song is called "Dark Side of the Moon", found on YouTube here. Translated lyrics here.

how to draw Levi:

—AOT Guidebook; p.229 | +Illustrate Note Magazine, 2017

[spacecowboyhotch]

Again

about this: nathan bateman x f!reader. contents: 18+/nsfw/minors dni, smut, wife kink, oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, nathan the asshole simp™️. wc: 1031. an: my brain plagued me with this thought at like 12 am. here it is.

oscar issac characters masterlist

This is not how you anticipated your time in the garden would pan out. The sun hangs high in the sky, a soft breeze swirling in the air. You’d been halfway done with your task of weeding and watering the garden when Nathan sauntered down the steps of the front porch.

“Can I help you?” You ask, glancing over at him.

He holds up his hands, rounding his eyes with innocence. “Can’t a man ogle his wife?”

You should’ve known then and there that he was up to no good. Slowly but surely, Nathan gets closer and closer. With each step your blood rises, your heart thumping steadily in your ears. Until his lips are ghosting your temple, beard tickling at your skin.

Now, despite that cooling breeze, you are warm. There’s pure, overwhelming heat coupled with sparking pleasure. You’re surrounded by it, drowning in it and there’s no place you would rather be.

“Nathan,” You breathe, the sound of your voice feeling miles away.

You hear a deep hum, the scratch of his beard against your thighs, and then an inhaling breath. When you sit up on your elbows to gaze down at him, Nathan’s dark brown eyes glitter back at you. His mouth and beard shine with your slick as his lips curl into a smirk.

He wags his eyebrows, voice so soft and sweet as he asks, “What is it, honey?”

“I was doing something,” You huff, still out of breath though his work has stopped momentarily.

It’s not lost on you how this would look from another point of view. Your panties in a heap in the grass, sundress bunched around your breasts. Nathan rutting into the ground as he sips from between your legs like it’s the fountain of life. There are tools and weeds spread about, dirt smeared on skin and clothing alike. You two are the definition of a dirty, horny mess.

Nathan’s smile widens into something as beautiful as it is arousing, sending a shiver up your spine. “And now, you’re doing me. Lay back, I’m making my wife cum.”

You don’t have the discipline to object, not that you want to. Nathan had brought you to the precipice of your peak just to tease you down more than once, and now you’re wound tight, ready for release.

Nathan slides into you with practiced ease, bending to capture your mouth with his own, moans melting into each other’s. His hips move against yours, gently but relentlessly, withdrawing completely before pressing in as far as your body will take him.

You let your legs fall open wider, clutching at his shoulders to stay as steady and still as possible, wanting it just like this, just how he’s giving it to you. He dusts kisses on any part of you he can reach as he continues to fuck you— your cheeks, jaw, neck, coveting every inch of you.

“That’s it, baby, let me fuck you. Let me make you feel good like I’m s’pose to. That’s what I’m for, hmm? To make my wife cum. Give her whatever she wants.”

“Nathan, please. I need you, need more,” You beg softly.

He gets two of his fingers wet, snaking them between you so that he can rub softly at your clit. “I need you too, honey. C’mon, I know you can cum for me. Can’t you?”

“Yes. Mhmm, I can,” You nod, eyes wild with lust when you gaze up at him.

“Your pussy’s so fucking good, baby. Perfect fucking wife with the perfect little pussy. Gonna make me fill you up,” He groans, his voice growing more hoarse as he slowly unravels.

His cock, his praise, his filth— they wind you tight, tight, tight, until you cum, clenching around his cock as you call out his name. Nathan lets out a breath gasp and then he’s filling you to the brim, whispering into your ear how much he loves you.

He kisses you until you’re both breathless and only then does he pull out to clean you both up. Nathan helps you into your panties and smooths your sundress back into place before refastening his jeans and snaking an arm around your waist. The two of you lay in content silence besides the occasional chirp of a bird and your mingling breath.

Suddenly he asks, “Do you wanna get married?”

You nearly choke on your laughter, turning your head to look over at him, “We are married, you made it very clear in the filth you were spewing at me.”

He ignores your teasing, his brows are drawn together so you know he’s serious. “Again. Do you want to get married again?”

“Nathan, that wedding was a fortune.”

“Who gives a fuck how much it costs,” He scoffs, pulling you more firmly onto his chest. “I don’t mean like that. I mean just me and you. The guy who guides the bullshit.”

“The bullshit, huh?”

“You know what I mean. What do you think?”

You frown, leaning back a little bit to look him in the eye. “I thought you liked our wedding.”

“Honey, I fucking loved our wedding,” He reassures you easily, smoothing a hand over your cheek.

“Then why again?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to marry you again?”

His answer completely floors you. Your heart melts. Soft and gooey, completely pliable and completely his. You’d ask him to marry you if he wasn’t already yours if he hadn’t already asked you for the second time. You can see that your speechlessness is starting to get in his head, and he opens his mouth to say something.

You quickly cut him off with a kiss, murmuring against his lips, “I love it when you get all sentimental.”

There is no denying the soft flush in his cheeks, “Hush.”

“Yes, Nathan, I’ll marry you again. Can we do it here?” You gesture around to the garden.

“Can I do you here?” He asks suggestively, that charming smirk gracing his face again.

“You already did.”

“Again,” He whispers into your ear before he starts to suck kisses into the skin of your neck.

“Again,” You breathe in agreement, blinking up at the blue sky once more.

nathan taglist: @missdictatorme, @runa-falls, @campingwiththecharmings, @toracainz, @steven-grants-world, @clemdango04, @jdbxws, @crispysublimecupcake, @sub-aro, @faretheeoscar, @cupidysm, @whentheskyispinkandabitblue, @nova-ivy541, @sparkypantelones, @veritable-trash, @mangoslushcrush, @thhriller, @tenderhornynihilist, @queerponcho, @redcake333

[toaster-trash]

THOSE Frankenstein fans when both Victor and the Creature have positive and negative qualities, and the story is a tragedy where both characters involved are flawed and it’s not a morality battle between who’s the innocent one and who’s the Bad Guy™️ (and then get pissed at anyone likes one of those characters and labels them as problematic like we’re in the fucking 2020 Danganronpa fandom):

Just while we’re at it, Frankenstein is not a weak whiny bitch and the Creature doesn’t have no moral compass and didn’t emerge from the operating table murderous

Frankenstein IS vastly immature and incapable of communicating his emotions and considering the consequences of his actions bar a few instances and the Creature is basically an incel serial killer

Now shut the fuck up with the “who’s the victim, Victor or the Creature?” bullshit arguments and agree they’re both pathetic morally flawed babygirls and collectively up the fan content for our best girl who deserved so much better Elizabeth Lavenza my beloved wife

[vagabond-umlaut]

Mercury x Sulfur

Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader; Arranged Marriage; Childhood Friendship To Complicated Feelings™️; Fluff, Angst, Explicit Smut [Oral Fem!Receiving; P-In-V; Loss Of Virginity; Praises]; Angst With A Happy Ending; Porn With Plot & Feelings™️; Contains Manga & Anime Spoilers. This is 18+ Content -> Minors & Ageless Blogs Please DNI!!!

Oneshot From Series: One Day, Three Autumns [Can Be Treated As A Stand-Alone]

THE WEDDING NIGHT FIC NO ONE ASKED FOR YET I WROTE FT. PATHETIC GOJO & PATHETIC READER & THEIR BLURRY PATHETIC FEELINGS FOR EACH OTHER... [I'VE NEVER WRITTEN SMUT BEFORE, SO PLEASE BE KIND TO ME 🥹🥹]

Gojo Satoru is much too similar to fire, you suppose— so vivid always, so warm always, so protective always– yet not without the promise of destruction simmering within the sweet blue blaze of his eyes — Very much the reflection yet the contrast to how you resemble the air— so empty, so hollow, so fucking void.

Nice thoughts to think of yourself on your wedding night, aren't they?

Certainly not, you scoff inwardly, toying with the band of sapphire on your left hand. Yet... you cannot, or rather, do not do anything to stop them from sneaking past the defenses you've guarded yourself with– into that twisted, sick, pathetic mess of neurons and darkness you're ashamed to call your mind nowadays.

The noise of the shower tumbles into a sudden hush. An equally quiet sigh escapes you, fingers moving from your jewellery to trace the tiny floral design on the off-white gown– your brain somewhat registering the bathroom door being opened then shut.

"Y'know, mint ice cream might've be— whoa, is that my wife crying?"

Less than one nanosecond elapses before you find your perch on the edge of the bed being crowded by six-feet-three-inches of white hair, chiselled face, toned abs and worry— Oh My Fucking God, the worry swirling in those damned eyes of his— Mustering chuckles and grins, you move to scoot away from him, ready to brush your husband away with some half-baked something, when you feel him draw you closer and place two warm palms on the apples of your cheeks– both gentle and firm in the fashion they cradle your face— they cradle your entire being in this moment.

Cheer trickling away from your countenance, you hear him whisper in an unbelievably contrite tone, "You're mad because you did not get to eat the last piece of cake– because I stole it away, isn't it so? Y'know... we can always visit the bakery we ordered the cake from and I'll order the same flavour we chose for our wedding cake, and you can steal as many bites as you want from my plate— guess, that will make us kind of equals, huh?"

Equals, huh? Equals, huh? Equals. Huh?

"No," you snap, betraying the smile you've been struggling to keep on your lips, "We'll never be equals, Satoru. I mean, yeah— in dumb stuff like these, we might be equals or whatever you believe in. But, in life– do you really think we're going to be equals, huh? Do you think there'll ever be a reality, ever be a world where we might be equals, huh?"

Thumbs stilling over the tear tracks they were oh-so-very insistent on wiping away, he blinks at you. Once. Twice. Thrice— You groan, trying to remove yourself from the man whose mere presence is fermenting your inside. Searing your skin. Twisting and turning your mind into an even greater mess than it's ever been– One you know you cannot find yourself from, if once lost to.

Large fingers curling round your left ankle stop you in your attempts.

"I think so," Satoru offers softly, the unblemished smooth porcelain of his skin streaked with gravitas, you've seldom seen in the many years you've known him yet know becomes him too perfectly– You chuckle, shaking your head.

"This isn't only you and me. This is the world I'm talking about. This is our world I'm talking about. Do you really think they'll ever let a lady— married, that too— stand beside her husband, and not behind him?"

The grasp on your ankle loosens for a beat.

Something cracks and splinters and shatters within yourself.

Something you never knew existed before now— something you wish to ignore, so fucking desperately, now that you know it exists.

Shaky whoosh of pain leaving, you kick your foot free of the hold on it and scoot backwards on the mattress, screwing your eyes shut – as if them being closed will make you blind to the response your query has gathered by not gathering any at all— every iota in your body loathing the way your emotions well over and down your dusted cheeks— way too much, way too quick for your liking—

Large fingers curl round your left knee this time, preventing you from your retreat by pulling you towards their owner yet again — Little that does to dampen your efforts, though.

Or, the scald in that tender part in that tender mess of muscles and blood– pulses and impulses– you've never liked lots, for that matter.

"Let me go," you growl, legs shifting and flexing and extending to free themselves. The soft covers on the bed crinkle and crumple from the fight you put up against the forces reeling you in. "Let me go, Satoru," you snarl one more time, trying your best to keep your desperation in the cloth you've wrapped it in, not letting its pus leak into your words, "Let go of me, now. Satoru. Or, I swear— Gojo!!"

"Sweetness."

Some other reality and you think you might find this enticing. Loving, even, if you're being particularly, delusionally sappy then.

Yet, in this reality, in this moment, as you find yourself on the edge of the bed, legs hanging off it whilst your husband traps the rest of your body beneath him, one good foot between him and your supine form — and he calls you that horrid nickname with that horrid smile– as if you're sweet like those kikufuku mochis he loves eating– and not the most sour, the most salty, the most bitter person he has ever met—

You let the fight seep from yourself into the horrible rose-scented air of the room, wretched wails clawing out instead of growls and snarls.

"I can't do this anymore, Satoru," you sob, chest heaving beneath the bodice of your gown, the pearl necklace snug on your skin stifling, "It is just so difficult— This world. This life. Everything is so fucking very difficult. And confusing. And demanding. And difficult— I cannot do- I cannot live this way with the entire world's eyes trained on me," you cry out; the stinging in your eyes, in your throat, in your soul growing worse with every other word you utter, "I simply cannot live with my–"

"And what if only my eyes are trained on you?" Satoru interrupts you, mouth set into thin lines; though the concern and affection sparkling in his gaze is unmistakeable, you note, peering up through your thick curtain of tears and emotions— being close friends since you were a pair of kids learning to read and write, does have its perks after all —

"Tell me, sweetness," A finger hooks under your chin to lift it up; your suffocating pearl necklace comes off within the next instant– "What if I told you, proved to you: you don't need to worry yourself with any person; anyone, anywhere, anytime in your life; not when they aren't a part of your world—" A sturdy arm hooks under your back this time, lifting you with ease off the bed, until you're in your husband's strong grip: loose to not give you any degree of discomfort yet tight enough for you to be assured he won't be dropping you—

You wrap your arms gingerly round his neck. He asks, dropping his voice to the lowest, to the gravest you've ever heard him, "What if I showed you, your world can consist only of us— only you and me— will you..."

He trails off suddenly, gaze darting to the side before it returns to you again— it's burning. Burning, burning, burning – Stoking a fire in your nerves, in your veins, in the pit of your lower belly, perhaps in the area nether to it too— Your husband's lips curve in the gentlest shape ever seen on him, quite betraying or, maybe, complimenting the hints and clues of that something, evident from the way his fingers flex on your back for the tiniest moment or the way the shadows of the night shift and morph in the brilliance of his gaze—

"You wanna prove to me w-whatever you said right now," you state in what Satoru calls your 'weather-reporter' voice. A brow rises before it returns to its place again– the man addressed nods. Solemn. Certain.

The muscles in your shoulders relax, opposing the muscles tautening elsewhere in your body– not from fear, no. Perhaps from anticipation, you reckon. Or, maybe it is from fear– except it isn't a fear of the man in front of you— The Strongest Sorcerer, capable of turning anything and everything, anyone and everyone, into dust if he so wishes to—

Except he doesn't. Never has. Not without a solid good reason— Oh, this sweet, sweet man— For once in your life, you decide not to stay dwelling on your thoughts, on your twisted, sick, pathetic mind— all for the sake of your husband, him looking at you as if you really are a delectable mochi he wants to devour.

Oh, what a sweet fool your husband is, isn't he?

Moving your hands from where they were resting on his nape to your front, wedging into the little space between Satoru's and your bodies, you inquire, choosing your words soft yet solemn, "And... are you sure you wanna do this tonight? That you won't be regretting—"

"I can do this tonight and every other night," Satoru replies, without letting you complete your query. Then grins, loads like that shy boy, you remember, attempting to befriend you with a pebble– blue and white and blue, years back when you still pronounced 'star' as 'tar'.

You let your palms face away from your chest to rest on his— still, so warm and uncovered from the shower he took— still so, so open and vulnerable to you, in spite of the slashes and gashes dear friends like you, like that damn boy, have only ever given him— He asks, "Do you wanna let me do this?"

A slow yet sure nod is the only thing you manage to offer him in reply.

That slow yet sure nod's also the only thing remaining crystal-clear in your mind— besides, obviously—

Those kisses, so shaky yet so fiery, pressed onto your lips, your chin, the hollow of your neck, the valley between your breasts, down down down, until they reached your thighs— And they grew less of adoring and more of wanting– with muffled moans and withheld whimpers— your lips constantly forming the syllables of your husband's name, as the man himself suckled purple splotches of his desire onto the flesh out there— Besides, obviously—

The sharp gasp of breath your husband made when he tasted you for the first time and you felt shame flood every nook and cranny of your naked body — how the gown or the lingerie were removed from your torso, you've no clue...—before the shame swelled into something far different, far pleasurable, with every lick, every nibble, every hum and every groan muffled into your sensitive tissue and bundle of nerves— steady in the beginning but rapidly growing in intensity, frequency or must you say ferocity, with every moment he spends with his head in between your legs—

And you came. Embarrassed. Ecstatic. Experiencing everything lying on the spectrum between them. Onto his waiting tongue, over his—

"Ah! S-Satoru–"

You're ripped back to the present by the feel of him entering you.

The stretch hurts— as much as you've read in books, as much as you have been told in extremely discreet terms by the older women in the clan— but never once has this feeling been described to you to be- so fucking perfect, so fucking right— as the one flooding your senses in this very instant—

Two blue eyes lift from where they were squeezed close against your forehead, slick with the sheen of sweat, blinking down at you with so much care, you think you may burst from how much of it you note in them hues— the dams holding your tears back sure do, increasing in the degree they allow your emotions gush out, courtesy of the palms mapping your flushed cheeks, caressing your flushed cheeks, almost as if you're some porcelain doll.

"Hey, hey, hey," Satoru croons, pausing himself entirely– despite the toll it takes on him, visible from the way his face scrunches for a tiny moment before wrinkling into lines of worry and apology again– "It's hurting, isn't it?" he asks, then lowers his voice to a whisper, directed more at himself than at you if its rambling quality is anything. "Fuck," he curses, removing his palms from your face, and curling them into tight fists on either side of your face, "This was my first time. And I— I, I know I should have been more careful, still I went and fucked up–"

"Satoru," you say, blinking your tears away, splaying your fingers onto the smooth planes of his cheeks, hoping he'll quieten on noticing the small smile on your lips.

"– caused you pain, oh fucking hell–"

When is he going to shut up?

"Satoru," you try again, tone growing more insistent than the previous time, fingers moving up to scratch the backside of his ears — to trace the shell of his ears.

"– I was so fucking ignorant, selfish–"

Is he ever going to shut up?

"'Toru!" you exclaim with a mild tug on his hair. That seems to be your trick in shutting him up— though you don't miss the way the muscles in his arms flex nor the way his fists grow tighter at your action. Smile widening on your lips, watching him train every bit of his attention on you, and only you; you pull him down for a small kiss— a desperation you've been trying to ignore for a while now– blooming in the motion of your mouth against his, with his—

Perhaps, from the way you hate him blaming himself for doing totally nothing wrong. Perhaps, from the way you detest the lack of friction, his irrational rambling has created down there where you want it, you need it the most— Perhaps, from a mix of both these reasons.

Removing yourself a touch from him, you whine into the plushness of his lips, breathless, dizzy, needy, "Move, Satoru. I think I can take it— Oh, that's it, Satoru," your words taper off into a breathy sigh, "F-fuck—"

In retrospect, you reckon you'll be mortified, probably to death, when you'll let your mind drift back to tonight's events in the future– to how messy you sound with your moans, how messy you possibly look with your makeup smudged from tears and sweat— yet, now— in this very second, you deem you're having the best time of your life.

With Satoru's constant grunts and moans of "Fuck, you're taking me so well, sweetness" and incessant chants of "This– you, you're mine– only mine, as I'm yours"— With him drowning your skin in long, lavish kisses and suckles— With him toying with your hardened nipples and giving your breasts a deliciously painful squeeze—

But, mostly, with the way your husband fits you– so snug, so tight, so warm– every drag of his hip against yours sending a jolt of electricity through your nerves, making your heels dig deeper into his back, and your hold tighter round him, nails raking across his undercut, eliciting a pleased groan from him– though, they're no match for those noises you make when he hits that spot inside, again and again and again, a rapidly growing precision in every next thrust—

"'T-Toru– I'm close- sooo close," you whimper, nuzzling your nose into his neck, breathing in his scent— musky, sweaty, sultry— "Just a little more, sweetness," Satoru begs, keeping an arm beneath your back to pull you even closer to himself— as if that is possible anymore— "You are squeezing me so well— oh fuck."

Your walls clench round him particularly tightly, signalling to you that you're indeed very, very close— despite the haze of pleasure steadily building over your gaze, you wear a fond smile at the half-lidded look he pins on you, his mouth hanging open, whilst his palm presses into your lower back. Subtly trembling, yet so anchoring.

You decide this is your new favourite look of The Six Eyes, the former being the staggered look he gives your smug grin whenever you best him in a fight.

He really is sweet, isn't he?

Another moan permeates into the air, into your thoughts, punctuated by your husband brushing his lips with yours. They are soft— as does every other facet of him feel to you. Movements growing sloppier yet faster, he heaves a husky sigh into your ear, teeth grazing its shell.

"You're really perfect, y'know," he all but whines with a rather dragged out snap of his hips with yours— Eyes fluttering close from the action tightening the coil in your lower belly, you force out a weak chuckle. "I know that I'm per— Oh Sato— mmph!"

Your climax hits you.

Hard, harsh and unforgiving— the wave of euphoria it wreaks through your body is, streaking your vision with nonsensical streaks of colours and cloaking your ears with a deafening ringing— your only tether the soft pair of lips gently coaxing you to dance with it to a melody you've never heard— but hope can hear and learn in the years left in your life— until you're back in the large bed of your hotel room, body sore and and tingling, but in a pretty satisfied and happy way— at least, till you notice your husband scooting away from you to the edge of the bed.

Wha–How–When did he get from being inside you to there—

"Hey, no!" you protest, dragging him down to lie on top of you. Satoru looks at you, shock evident in the way he slowly blinks— You plaster a mighty frown on yourself, asking him, worried, "Where are you going? You haven't fini—"

"But I have finished," your husband answers your incomplete ask with a frown to match yours— before a confused moment passes and you find his frown slowly melt away into a million-watt beam, him asking, "Didn't you feel me come too then, sweetness? Or, did I give you that good an orgasm that you were numb to everything else then, huh?"

Embarrassment flushes through your body at your husband's teasing remark. Ignoring it, you clear your throat to hum back with a smile, "I guess that was the case, yeah. You were really nice tonight— thanks." Then add, watching him open his mouth, the familiar gloom of regret threatening to dim his happiness, "And don't worry about then— I too— This was my first time too, and, um," you wish you could look away for a beat to regain your composure but the sparkles gleaming in the blue eyes gazing at you, are so magnetic— you continue with a laugh, sheepish, staring back at him, "I might have overreacted to the pain."

Whatever chuckle you were expecting never comes; rather, a tender kiss arrives on each of your eyelids, and on the tip of your nose. Your lips part in a content smile, widening on hearing the query sent your way.

"And was I just as great at proving to you what I promised to, huh?"

Your mind races back to then— the dark hollow plaguing you before he arrived. You pull it back to now— the radiance of your husband in every minute portion of your soul, filling it with a cosiness you know only he can impart to you.

"You so were," you're quick to hum back your agreement, paired with a peck to his lips, as he positions himself to lie comfortably atop you. He's quite a bit heavy, what with being so buff and tall– but you think you don't really mind it— not when he's incomparably better than the weighted blankets you've always liked sleeping with.

A hand rises to card through your tangled hairstyle, separating every strand from the other, carefully and gently— you wonder if he knows he does the same to your tangled thoughts too, unknotting them via few select words and few select gestures—

"You've the 'philosopher' face on," your husband's entertained remark interrupts your cloud of thoughts– you drag your eyes from that scar in his throat– one which never fails to throttle whatever sense of safe you might've developed– to the hues before, far more gleaming than the sapphires sitting on your fourth finger can ever be—

Satoru smiles. That annoying, understanding, endearing smile of his, which only serves to show just how much he has been forced by life to be matured. And murmurs.

"We're really equals in this partnership, y'know? You can always share with me whatev—"

"Is it wrong of me to compare you to fire and me to air?"

Your simple question catches The Strongest Sorcerer off-guard- you gather from the way his eyes widen and his heartbeat stutters a little over the bare flushed skin of your chest— you wonder if you must be happy at this silly victory or be worried, you have such a hold on him—

Something tells you, he won't mind either one of them — taking each into stride with a pitiful pout or a cheerful chuckle — the exact same way letting your inquiry settle into him, he responds with a grin in too short a span of time.

"Nope! Not at all!" Satoru exclaims, grin growing and digging dimples into his cheeks. "Obviously I'm fire! Have you seen me? I'm so fucking sizzling hot!" Despite the fondness swelling in your heart, you make a big show of rolling your eyes and moving to scoff — except that scoff remains lodged in your throat and gets swallowed by a gasp of shock as you find yourself being flipped over, so that it's you who is lying on the top now.

Grin growing freer and truer, your husband pulls you impossibly close to himself – so much so that the bounderies separating you from him begin to blur in your eyes; and resumes—

"And you, sweetness, of course, are air– without whose 21% oxygen, the fire cannot even be ignited in the first place."

I do not own the characters or the image used. Divider is by @cafekitsune. Please do not plagiarize or translate or repost this. Hope you enjoyed reading this! 😊

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Masterlist

SINCE THIS IS AN EXPLICIT FIC, I'M NOT TAGGING MY USUAL TAGLIST. INSTEAD, I WANNA MENTION FEW PPL [TAKING A LEAF OUT OF UR BOOK, SEL]— WHO HV SHOWN AN INTEREST IN THIS FIC WHILE IT WAS BEING WRITTEN, & HAVE ALSO ENCOURAGED AND MOTIVATED ME LOADS!! TYYY SM U AWESOME PPL!!!! 🥰🥰 [AND ALSO TO U, DEAR READER, FOR REACHING THE FOOTNOTES OF THE FIC!!]

TAGLIST: @moniheartz, @shotorus, @sukunassuka, @ancient-vivarium, @saenora, @avatarofstars!!!! ❤️❤️❤️ [THERE ARE MANY OTHERS TOO, WHO HV LIKED MY RAMBLING POSTS– I PROMISE I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN Y'ALL. ILYSM 😭😭😭]

[sunspearesque]

Forbidden Fervor

Summary: Douse the fervor raging within, bestow upon me the forbidden release, frigid and honed, dripping with crimson... Let it carve through my dread as relentlessly as time erodes the vigor from an aged soul.

A/N: yo, idk what happened here.. i saw the inspo and we dove headfirst. i’m so very sure old man nasty spirit possessed me or something cause idk how i wrote this.. but yeah enjoy the filth i guess? lmfao.. also, i did use some of the famous lines from the show/books—specifically the scene where he stabby stab the pink little man at the brothel just because :3 the rest tho are the whispers of my little brain hehehoho

Pairing: Oberyn Martell × OFC from WoV

Rating: E (18+ only)

Content: established relationship (marriage); canonical racism (against dornish people); threat of assault (nothing happens); we hate Lannisters in this house; protective!Oberyn; depiction of injury/attack; use of weapons (dagger); Wet and Wanting™️; primal urges, kinda sorta; a hint of possessive!Oberyn; inappropriate use of weapons; dagger riding (don’t look at me); unprotected p in v; creampie (the man has a breeding kink what can i say?); quoting mr. darcy

WC: 1.9K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

A grand retinue accompanied Prince Oberyn Martell and his wife Nala on their journey north to attend the wedding of Lord Stark's eldest son. The journey was replete with delightful surprises and, regrettably, some less pleasant ones. One of their travel days found them lodged in an inn nestled amidst the forested lands of the North. The weather was cold and crisp, the air dry and biting, causing Oberyn to grumble about the layers of clothing encasing his form. Nala found his discomfort amusing—this man is averse to decency.

As they were enjoying their meal in the inn, a trio of golden-haired men strode in, their disdainful expressions evident as they cast disparaging glances at the other patrons. Murmuring curses under their breath, they took a seat at a nearby table, much to the discomfort of those around them. Nala sensed the tension in the air, recognizing the unmistakable look of Lannisters. She knew all too well her husband's scorn for them. Desperate to diffuse the situation, she attempted to divert his attention away from them, whispering softly, “My love, look at me,” noticing his gaze fixed upon them with obvious contempt.

The Lannister men, oblivious to her attempt to diffuse the tension, noticed her caress on his thigh and exchanged mocking remarks amongst themselves. “Why does such beauty consort with that Dornish bastard?” one of them jeered, his laughter echoing loudly in the room. “This whore should try to get with a real cock... a Lannister one,” another added, patting his bulge and leering at her. “Just give him a shaved goat and an olive oil bottle and be done with it,” the third chimed in before all three joined in uproarious laughter.

Nala could feel the blood charring beneath her skin, her heart pounding in her ribcage as she dreaded her husband's reaction to the insults. She observed the vein running through his neck pulsating beneath his golden skin, indicating the rage boiling within him. Despite his efforts to conceal it, a smirk tinged with bitterness adorned his face, masking the fury that simmered beneath the surface.

With graceful poise, he rose from his seat, his hand drifting toward the dagger secured at his hip—a weapon fashioned in the likeness of two intertwined vipers; its smooth, golden surface gleaming in the dim light of the inn. Slowly and deliberately, he approached their table, his gaze locking onto the perpetrator who had called his wife a whore.

Oberyn's tongue clicked disapprovingly as he addressed the men, his tone dripping with mockery. “Do you know why the world despises a Lannister?” he quipped, his words laden with scorn. “You believe your wealth, your lions, and your gilded pride make you superior to all.” The Lannister men exchanged smug glances, sharing a condescending chuckle amongst themselves. One of the trio stealthily reached for his sword, attempting to draw it from its sheath without detection. Yet, unbeknownst to them, he noticed—he always does.

“May I tell you a secret?” Oberyn continued, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “You're not a golden lion. You're just a pink little man who is far too slow on the draw.” With a swift motion, he unsheathed his dagger and plunged it into the hand of the man who had insulted his wife, the same hand he had earlier used to pat his cock. Piercing between the carpals of that hand, it now lay on the table. The man let out a guttural wail, paralyzed in his place as the dagger twisted amidst flesh, bone, and veins.

“When I pull my blade, your friend starts bleeding,” Oberyn stated calmly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Quite a lot, I'm afraid. So many veins in the wrist.” He observed the man writhing in pain before turning his gaze back to the other Lannister. “He'll live if you get him help straight away,” he added mockingly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Decisions,” Oberyn remarked, his head tilting slightly as his gaze shifted to the bleeding man again. “And when you speak of a dornish princess—my wife—you will address her as ‘your highness,’” he continued, his tone carrying a dangerous edge. “Lest you wish for me to sever your tongue at its root.”

He withdrew his dagger from the man’s hand, the Dornish soldiers surrounding him, swords and spears at the ready. One of them addressed him, “What shall we do with them, Your Highness?”

“Nothing,” Oberyn replied calmly, wiping the blood from his dagger with the end of his shawl. "I reckon they've learned a lesson or two about manners from the Dornish, and I expect they'll find their own way out.” With a dismissive wave, he turned to walk toward Nala, who stood frozen with fear, wide-eyed, and breathing shakily.

“Apologies, my love,” he said tenderly, encircling his arms around her waist and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. Nestling her gently in his embrace, as though she were the most delicate of blossoms.

Ever the viper; deadly, dangerous, unpredictable... and mine.

A familiar primal heat stirred within her, much to her chagrin as she cursed herself for succumbing to it.

Gods be good, this shouldn’t ignite a fire within me and make me crave him and the dagger he wielded in my defense.

She kissed him with fervor, her hands caressing his face, yearning to melt into him and merge with him completely. As they parted, both breathless, he chuckled softly. "I see you enjoyed that, princess?" he whispered, prompting a blush to bloom across her cheeks—was I too obvious?

He pulled out the chair for her to resume her place at the table, a gallant gesture amidst the chaos caused by the departing Lannisters, who left mutilated and humiliated.

Throughout the meal, Nala’s gaze remained fixed on Oberyn, her desire for him evident in her unwavering stare. Yet, her eyes also flickered occasionally to the dagger sheathed at his side, her longing palpable. Catching her subtle glances, Oberyn couldn't help but tease her with a smirk. “My love, you are eyeing that dagger as if it were your lover,” he quipped, his tone playful and suggestive.

She regarded him incredulously, her expression stern, before a laugh escaped her lips, unable to resist his irreverence. “What? People engage in all forms of pleasure,” he remarked casually, a hint of mischief in his tone. “I’d be curious to witness you attempting one of these forms, my love,” he added, raising an eyebrow, his smirk unyielding—the infamous smirk that both infuriated and delighted her.

“How in the Seven Hells would I engage in such forms, Oberyn?" she retorted, her tone a blend of amusement and exasperation, unsure whether to marvel at his wit or roll her eyes at his audacity.

He chuckled, unfazed, and resumed his meal, prompting her to shake her head in bemusement before following suit, both indulging in their food as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

—

As they retired to their chambers, the earlier unpleasant encounter and their playful banter lingered in her mind, unable to shake off the eagerness she felt for him.

Not surprisingly, he seemed equally consumed by their earlier conversation. Upon entering their room and securing the door behind them, he immediately closed the distance between them, kissing her hungrily. His hands roamed over her body, gripping her ass firmly, igniting a fire within her and causing desire to pool between her thighs.

Breaking away from their passionate embrace, he strode to the bed and plunged his dagger into the mattress, securing it firmly in place. Only the gleaming, serpent-shaped handle remained visible.

"What... what are you doing?" Nala inquired, perplexed by his actions.

“I long to see you mount it," he declared simply, taking a seat on the wooden chair facing the bed.

"Mount it how?" she questioned, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"Like you mount my cock every night," he replied with a crooked smile.

She stood in stunned silence, her thoughts swirling with a mixture of surprise and anticipation. The unexpected request from her husband both startled her and ignited a flicker of excitement deep within her. It was not uncommon for him to embrace unconventional pleasures, to seek out new experiences in their intimate moments together.

She offered a gentle smile before beginning to shed her dress, letting the fabric cascade down her form like water, revealing the delicate curve of her clavicle, the supple swell of her breasts and their hardened peaks, her glistening cunt between her thighs, before finally pooling at her feet.

His gaze lingered upon her with a hunger that seemed to devour her, as if he yearned to possess this beauty solely for himself, to adore… to pleasure and treasure... wholly and entirely his.

She moved with grace toward the bed, settling and facing him, her eyes fixed on the dagger embedded in the mattress before her. It was the very same dagger he wielded to protect her, a silent warning to any who dared to show her disrespect.

She lifted herself slightly before sinking into it, feeling the cold metal filling her searing flesh. Her eyes closed, lips parting as she relished the peculiar sensation, the ridges of the handle gliding against her inner walls, deliciously. It was unfamiliar yet pleasing, strangely fitting. She quickened her pace, with each rise and fall, soft moans escaping her lips and filling the room. Her breasts bounced with each movement, a testament to the pleasure coursing through her.

Oberyn watched her with an insatiable hunger, enchanted by her allure. She accepted his offerings eagerly, with devotion, her yearning unwavering as she sought to be filled with everything that was his. Whether his fingers, his cock, or even his dagger, she embraced it all, an extension of him in every way.

He felt the bulge in his breeches grow bigger, his cock throbbing painfully with desire, yearning to pierce that sweet cunt of hers, to fill her with his seed over and over again til it takes. He longed to hear her soft moans as he pushed her to the brink of bliss, feeling her warm, wet, and wanting in his embrace.

He freed his hardened cock, his hand beginning to caress it with slow, deliberate strokes, as she mounted his dagger with unyielding ardor, deriving her pleasure from it. Her gaze met his, lethal and luring, eyes that could have felled him had she not been his.

Her movements became erratic, her moans blending into strained whimpers. She slipped her hand down frantically to circle her soaked clit, driving her closer to her release. Collapsing onto the mattress, she murmured his name, her thighs trembling with pleasure.

Rising from his seat, he approached her, cradled her languid form, and moved her to the center of the bed, laying her on her back. He spread her thighs apart, watching her clenching sex seep her release, delicately. He nudged the head of his cock to her entrance. Her cunt sucked him in effortlessly, eliciting a soft whine from her lips as he filled her. He laid atop her, his weight offering a comforting warmth she had always longed for, drawing her closer to him before thrusting into her fervently.

Mine, my love, mine… all fucking mine, the Others take them all.

He nipped at the tender flesh of her breasts and shoulder, his warmth flooding her as he spilled his cum deep within her, his breath ragged.

After their heaving chests stilled, she gently raised her hand to brush the damp curls from his forehead, meeting his gaze. “I love you most ardently, my fierce viper,” she whispered.

[netherfeildren]

FEAR OF GOD : Chapter III : Your bitter heart, heals my heart

Series Masterlist ; Moodboard

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: The damp dew of morning, as dawn broke across the sky the next day, had taken on a biting frigidness, and with it everything was different.

A/N: Let’s play spot the Fiona Apple reference 😁

I’d planned to wait until Sunday to post, but I just couldn’t help myself. I love this chapter a lot. I hope you guys do too. The song Good Guy by Julia Jacklin fits it quite nicely, I think.

Art is Rotting Plums by Rachel Bess.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: character death; brief, non-graphic descriptions of illness; discussions of grief; internal angst; rough sex; choking; brief impact play; after care; soft! Joel™️

Word Count: 6.4k

Read on AO3

CHAPTER III : Your bitter heart, heals my heart

Something in my soul was rising, rising, ceaselessly, painfully, and refused to be still.

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground

The mystery of Teddy continued and his health worsened. There were no objective indices of a malignant source to explain his symptoms, and yet, nevertheless, they persisted, intensified. The boy was fatigued, withdrawn, sensitive, losing weight, prone to bouts of what could be characterized as a cold or flu. You and Connie suspected the worst, but there was not much to be done to prove your theories without imaging or blood tests, not readily available to you. The best you could do was manage the child’s state symptomatically, and hope for the best until a more concrete plan was assembled. 

-

One night in late October, you and Connie decide to bid farewell to the passing fall with a consolation dinner. The months of Teddy’s ongoing illness had fallen harshly on both of your shoulders and spirits were low. The air outside had taken on the true chill of deep fall, the threat of winter near. You were worried the cold would bring tragedy with it. The child’s constitution was weak and despite good shelter and food and the two of you caring for him, winter was harsh and difficult to endure, even at one’s strongest.

Joel had gone on a good hunt earlier that day and had brought back a nicely sized rabbit. He’d refused to join you and Connie for dinner. Withdrawn and sullen throughout the day, he’d told you to enjoy your evening with a soft kiss pressed to your mouth, before he’d wandered off. You could picture him now, sitting on his porch, guitar in hand, drink at his side, brooding at whatever was plaguing him. The image chafed. His inability, or lack of desire, to tell you what was wrong hurt. 

You and Connie talked shop over your rabbit and greens, roasted potatoes in garlic and sage, and the braised plums Dina had brought you a few days before. It was a lovely meal, a veritable feast, lit by the warm candle light of the beeswax sticks Maria had traded with you. He told you about his wife, stories you’d heard dozens of times, that he never tired of repeating and you never stopped wanting to listen to. Stories of his training, the toils of residency, the great accomplishments of fellowship. Your favorite ones were of when he was younger, in his twenties, young and fresh and ravenous to learn everything he could. Eager for freedom and experience and knowledge. To hear of his life was to know him, and you loved nothing more than learning about the man who had become your greatest mentor and friend.

Connie died in his sleep that night. After you’d finished the last of the scavenged wine, he laughingly said he’d had it for years, and had been saving it for a special occasion – that now felt as good a time as any – like he knew this would be the last chance. He’d said good night to you, gone upstairs to bed and passed away peacefully. The damp dew of morning as dawn broke across the sky the next day had taken on a biting frigidness, and with it everything was different, would forevermore be different. For how could anything continue to exist as it had when the man who had given you a vocation, who had shared with you the greatest gift in his arsenal, his knowledge, was gone. It was a devastating blow for you, for the whole of Jackson. Beth and your parents took up space in your mind constantly in the days that followed, the memory of them a heavier weight than you usually carried. Their lives and their deaths, a constant loop of replay behind your eyelids at night, in your dreams. But you trudged on. Tried in vain to smother your grief as best you could. Hide it from Joel and Maria and Ellie and all your considerably disconcerted patients. 

The weight of the wellbeing of an entire community, that you dearly cared for, now rested on your shoulders, and the responsibility was a formidable and daunting one. Sometimes, you wished you had it in you to rid yourself of the whole thing. To wash your hands of it. Too gripped by the terror of failure and inadequacy to hold on to your courage. Your fears called forth Connie’s past words, how you’d not chosen this for yourself, would not have chosen it if you’d been given another option. But those moments passed eventually, and you did what you must, what was necessary. However great the burden of responsibility felt on your shoulders, you had no choice but to bear them as you may. Choices, always choices; more than conviction of character, more than desires, or hopes, the choices you made were what determined who you were. 

And then there was Joel. Joel who understood this grief of a lost loved one better than anyone else, who understood you better than anyone else. He’d taken your despair in stride, planted his feet in the ground and said to you with every action, every comforting embrace, every night where you cried yourself to sleep in his arms, in his bed, when you sought out the distraction of his mouth and his hands and his cock, with all of it he told you: here I am, use me as you will. Let me help you carry this burden of grief and responsibility, and if you cannot carry it at all, then I will carry you. And he did, with everything he did, he eased your pain. It was like he could read your mind, your heart, as if he’d studied that intrinsic understanding that had always existed between you and Connie under a magnifying glass and applied himself to taking it on himself, doing the same. 

You loved him so much in that time of painful grief after Connie – felt the weight of it so poignantly within your heart, it was like a second presence you carried inside your body now, a second soul. His fist wrapped tightly around your heart, your very life blood held in his hands – his to wield as he chose. It was a terrifying, maddening ordeal, that of losing everything you were to a man. Of giving it to him. And yet, you saw your life in the strangest new light now. What did it matter if the world was vast and cruel and terrifying, if you had him? Very little, it mattered very little. 

-

“Birdie.”

You’d been hunched over your desk for the better part of the afternoon. Late into the evening now, and you were still at it, only a small desk lamp illuminating the strewn catastrophe of papers and books in a wash of warm light. Your eyes stung, your back aching and strained. You couldn’t remember the last thing you’d eaten. “You’re back…”

“How’d it go today? How long’ve you been in here, baby?” You knew that stern tone. You listen to him set down something heavy on the table by the door but don’t turn, too caught up in what you’re currently reading.

“Teddy’s bad again…” you murmur, “There’s – I – I can’t figure this out. It’s driving me insane. If – if I knew more or – or had more equipment…” you trail off. “It’s bad… This is impossible with so little at my disposal.” Your hands clutch your hair, hunched over one of Connie’s old journals, one you’ve read probably a hundred times. “Something’s fucking wrong…” you mumble under your breath. He was weaker and weaker every day. The bruising you’d first noticed a few weeks ago appeared more often, and you had a pretty good idea as to what it was that was wrong with him, but you were terrified of sharing your fears with his mother. Of being wrong. You told yourself you couldn’t be certain without proper testing. That until you’d found something beyond textual evidence to support your theories, that you should keep your conjectures to yourself. After all, if you were right, there was nothing to be done, but keep him comfortable. You told yourself that to hold off was the right thing to do, but you weren’t sure. Had never been in this position before. And alone, with only yourself to count on, with no one to consult with who had experience in something like this, there was only your gut to follow. It was Joel, who’d ultimately soothed your anxieties. He’d said that if it was him, if it was Sarah in this position, the threat of an incurable cancer plaguing her and no sort of cure or treatment closely available, then he’d not want to know the truth of it. The closest FEDRA outhold was hundreds of miles away, and Teddy would never survive the journey – not with the cold of winter starting to set in, he was too weak, too fragile, being eaten alive from the inside out. You felt so fucking useless, so desperate and hopeless, and you didn’t know what to do besides make him comfortable, try and be there for Susanna as best you could. And she knew, she knew something was interminably wrong with her child. She knew you were at a loss, beyond your depth of resources. You could see the understanding and resignation start to settle in her eyes as the days passed. 

“C’mere, Birdie. Come look at this.”

You’re still murmuring to yourself, lost in thought, but you turn to him suddenly, and the look on your face – you feel so young, so lost – “If Connie was here it’d be better–” you say. And you feel so angry at your father suddenly. This is all his fault. He cast you into this role before you’d been old enough to have the sense of foresight to understand all that would come with it. Angry at Connie, for furthering it, for dying, for leaving you alone. Your eyes fill with tears, and he comes over to you, cradles your upturned face in his palms, your fingers twisting in his clothes. “Joel–”

“I found something for you – come see.” He says it so gently, pulls you from the chair, strong hand cupped around the bend of your elbow. Your legs feel as shaky and weak as a newborn fawns, and your vision swoops, dark stars appearing behind your closed eyes. “Head rush,” you whisper. 

“Damnit, Birdie. When was the last time you ate somethin’?” You clutch at his arms tightly as you feel your balance stabilize. 

“I– it’s okay… I’m okay.” 

You turn towards the table then, and sitting on it is a microscope. You turn to look at him, wide eyed, your threat of tears from before immediately becoming reality. “Where did you find that?” 

“There’s a house about five hours west. Me ‘nd Tommy decided to check it out. Someone had a whole damn laboratory in the basement.” There’s a small duffle sitting next to the machine. “Don’t know if it’ll work, if it’s any good to you, or– or if you even want it… I brought all the other stuff I thought went with it–” he unzips the bag, peers inside. “Not sure it’s what you need… if it’s any good. But I thought–” He’s ranting, tongue tripping over his own words, and there’s a fierce blush washing over his cheeks. “I just–” he sighs, “I just saw it and thought of you. Thought it might be something you’d like or find interesting… Something to distract you.” And he’s so endearing and so sweet and so understanding and you’re pressing yourself to him, tears spilling. His breath whooshes out in a small huff with the force of your chest thumping against his, your arms sneaking around his neck like vines, feet scrabbling against the floor, stepping on the toes of his boots to boost yourself up higher, press harder. Your heart, your heart, it hurts, it pinches and burns, and oh, you love him.

He is undoing you.  

His hand weaves through the long threads of your loose hair, presses your streaming eyes and hot face to his neck. You mouth messily at the skin of his neck, too overwrought for words. Trying to convey everything you’re feeling in this moment into his skin through the press of your own. And you know, with the gentleness of his hands over your hair, your face, your back and waist, that he knows, he understands.

“I knew you needed something – hoped this could help in some way.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you, you breathe into his neck. 

This small action, him going out on patrol and bringing back something for you, seeing something that reminded him of you and hauling it all the way back here, just to make you happy, just because he thought it might entertain you – it’s everything. To know that he knows how much this would mean to you, how much this would help you, how much you needed this – it tells you more about the state of the two of you now, in this moment, than anything else that has transpired before. 

You hug yourself closer to him, wet face soaking his shirt and he just holds you, let’s you bask in him. And his tallness and warmth and aliveness — it makes you forget that cowering animal you’d felt like these past few days. He brings back to life your own warmth, your own aliveness, pulls out of you the desire to share it with him. It’s like a damn breaking, a rush of despair and love and grief so overwhelming it punches the air out of you. 

Gasp escaping in a loud, breathless sob,“I’m alone, I’m alone now,” you press your hot eyes into the space beneath his jaw, “I don’t have anyone anymore. Connie, Connie – I – I don’t – don’t know h– how–” It’s uncontrollable, breath hitching and hiccuping. Somewhere in the rational recess of your mind you know you shouldn’t be telling him all this. That maybe he doesn’t want to hear it, or maybe even more unlikely, that it’ll hurt him to hear you claim this aloneness. That being without Connie now was almost like being without Beth – out there, in the wilderness, alone and desperate; that facing the responsibility he’d left you with felt like that vast wilderness from before. That without him you felt so, so lost. Your anchor to this world, your guiding light, your friend, your teacher was gone; and even with Joel physically beside you, the encroaching sense of familiar loneliness was overwhelming. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t swallow this hurt. It was too heavy to be repressed. 

You pull back to take in his face and he splays his hand over your cheek, gently brushes away the wet under your eye, your bottom lip, the delicate wing of your cheekbone – his eyes: concerned and grave and slightly lost – like you’re breaking his heart, like he’d do anything in this moment to bear your pain for you. You look at him and think of all the times he’s pushed you away, held you at arms length, refused to let you in. The small hurts and the pinch of your heart in the space where you hold him inside of you, your recurring thought that: I know none of this will matter in the long run — but while we’re here — I want you to love me. 

But with this, with this, he was showing you. He was telling you with his actions, with his pain and concern for you: I know of the things you need, of the things you want, and I’ll try and give them to you the best I can. I’ll try and take care of you the best I can. This is me trying; this is me telling you, I love you. 

“You’re not alone. I’m here, Birdie. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.”

You push your face into his large, warm palm, nuzzle the rough skin, and you wonder what will become of you if you cannot be close to him anymore — if he were to one day take himself away from you. Because you know that’s the only way this would ever have a chance of ending, if he were to decide to leave, to go away some place he’d not allow you to follow. Nothing else would ever rip you from his side. 

“Thank you,” you whisper into his palm, press a small kiss to the center of it. 

“Hell, baby. If I knew the damn thing’d pull this reaction out of you I’d have left it where I found it.” You laugh a watery little laugh. And you think that it really does feel like the world’s ending, a terrible thing, when you feel the love you have for someone settle within you, when you realize the depth of it. 

You press up high on your toes, seeking out his mouth, a kind of frantic buzz filling your limbs as you reach for him. You twine your arms around his neck and your fingers into his hair. He understands you and he’s here and he’s going to take care of you and you love him so much. None of the things that had been plaguing your mind these past few weeks, none of the anxieties matter in this moment. Just the feel of his warm skin, his rough hands passing over your clothes and then gripping, twisting in the back of your shirt to press you up higher. He peppers open mouth kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, sucks on your neck sharply. “What do you need, Birdie? Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

You can’t think, can’t put into words this frenzied desperation you’re feeling. All you can do is claw harder at his clothes and hair, try to climb the length of his body, get as close as you possibly can. You let out a high little whine, and he winds his fingers through your hair, grips tight and gives a sharp tug. “Need me to be the only thing in that pretty head right now? Huh?” He jerks your head back sharply, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat. His teeth latch onto the delicate line of muscle there, and you’re sure he can feel the rapid fluttering of your pulse against his tongue, a staccato of morse code telling him all your secrets, can taste the distressed need seeping out of your pores. You try and hitch your knee around his hip, grind your aching cunt into him. You can feel your arousal seeping into the gusset of your panties, and you claw at his back to try and find purchase, to rock yourself harder into him. His mouth moves down to the soft junction of your shoulder, and his bite there is harsher, claiming. You’ll have a red blossom of a bruise there tomorrow you’re sure. “So fucking desperate for me, baby.”

His words make something satisfied coil low in your belly. Yes, yes, you moan. You’re glad he knows. You want him to feel how much you need him, how much you want him. You want your desperation to incite his own. You want, need, him to need you as much as you do. He’s clutching your ass then, fingers squeezing your flesh tightly and hoisting you up into his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist, lick into his mouth as he walks the two of you towards the sofa against the wall. 

He lets your feet drop to the ground and sits heavily on the couch, knees spread wide and he’s ripping your leggings down your thighs without preamble, clasping the bend of your knee to slip your shoe off and pull the fabric of your pants and underwear off one foot. He pulls you onto his lap then, and you’re clawing at his belt, pulling his already hard cock free of the confines of his clothes. It’s late into the evening now, but anyone could walk in at any moment. Nancy had gone out earlier, but she could come back, come looking for you. None of that matters right now. All you can think about is getting him inside of you now, now now. He grips the back of your thigh to spread you wider across his lap and fists the base of his cock, jacks it once, twice.  The tip is gleaming with precum and flushed so red it’s almost purple – your mouth waters at the sight of it. He hasn’t even touched your pussy yet, but you can feel how soaked you are. Your sex tight and aching, and you wrap your own hand around him, pressing up a little higher on your knees to position him at your entrance, and then you’re sinking down, down and you both let out twin ragged groans of relief as you take him inside of you, watching the place where he disappears inside. It’s too much, painful, without having him make you come before, and exactly what you need. His eyes on yours are wide, as if he’s shocked. As if, even after all the times the two of you have done this, he still can’t believe it can feel like this. His neck is flushed red, you can see the hammering of his pulse in the thick vein of his neck, and it makes the walls of your cunt flutter in response. You’re going to come already, just with this. Just at the feel of taking him within you, your orgasm is there. You start to throb and pulse around him and your womb clenches and twists tight like a cramp. “Jesus fucking christ,” he grits out through clenched teeth, large palms gripping your ass to start to move you. And you’re orgasming fully now, cunt clamping down hard around his throbbing length. “Shit, shit–” you bury your face in his neck, tears, a slow, uncontrollable stream from your eyes at the intensity of it, “you’re coming already – Christ– you’re coming already.”

He starts to thrust his hips up into you, the blunt head hitting deep at the mouth of your cervix. “Good girl – good, fucking take it.” All you can do is moan and sob into his neck. Nothing will ever feel like this. Nothing else in your whole life will ever be as good as this is. He’s subjugated you with the feel of his cock pounding inside of you, and if you weren’t in love with him, you’d probably resent him for it. For having such a hold over you. No one person should have this much power over another. You yank on his hair hard. There is a fist around your heart in the shape of him, and it fucking hurts, and you want more and less, all at the same time. 

“Harder, please, harder,” you whisper into his ear, let it slide through him, over him. And then he’s flipping you over, your entire weight cradled briefly in his arms as he presses your back into the cushions, and spreads your knees wide, one hooked over the back of the couch, and the other held open by his hand. “You want it harder, little bird? Want me to wreck this cunt?”

“Want it to hurt. Make it hurt, Joel, please.”

Your words set off a deep red flush in his chest that crawls up his neck and into his cheeks. His eyes go slightly glazed and feral, and he snaps his hips so hard into you your teeth click. He hoists your knee in his grip higher and you press your bare foot into his shoulder as he sets a brutal pace. He makes it hurt. Hand wrapped around your throat, angling your head back into a stretch that pinches. You arch your back, deepening the angle so that he’s fucking up into you and hitting something that makes dark spots flash in your vision. Oh, it hurts, it hurts, it feels so good. His hulking form over you, teeth bared in a snarl, would be terrifying to anyone else. But you think that even with his hand on your throat and that savage look in his eyes, there is nowhere you’d ever feel safer than right where you are. Beneath him, surrounded by him, held in the palm of his hand. 

“Like that, baby? This what you needed?” He rips the collar of your t-shirt down, then the cup of your bra, and slaps your breast harshly, once, twice, three times, rips a high pitched keen out of you. 

Yes, yes, yes. Thank you. 

“You’re gonna take all of my come like a good girl, but first I need you to give me one more. Need you to come on my cock one more time.” The hand on your throat moves to your clit, circles it over and over again. You can feel the wet slap of his balls heavy against your ass. There’s sweat beading at his temples and your eyes never leave each other. Your heavy pants and the sounds of your fucking filling the room like some sort of lewd song. You start to throb around him, the pounding of his cock pulling your orgasm from deep in your pelvis so that it’s fluttering out, up your back and through your limbs like electricity. You pull his chest to yours then, and he lets his heavy weight crush you into the cushions beneath, grinds his cock deep, his pubic bone pressing harshly on the bud of your clit and eliciting another pulsing wave of your orgasm, and then he’s jerking inside of you. The heat of his come filling you. “Take it, take it all, every last drop.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

His hips grind slowly, and he lets your knee drop. You wrap your leg around him and push your foot into the base of his spine, pressing him harder into you. He pulls back a little after the last jerk of his cock, gentle thumb ghosting along the arch of your eyebrow, your cheek, then down across the wing of your collarbone, he lowers his head to press a long kiss to your shoulder. When he looks at you again his eyes are soft, a little concerned, “That was okay? I wasn’t too rough?” You nuzzle into his chest, press a kiss over his heart. 

“No, no, that was what I needed. It was perfect.”

The two of you lay there for a long while afterwards. His head on your breast and his heavy weight pressing you deep into the sofa. The heat rolling off his body is almost overwhelming, sweltering like a furnace, and it wrings exhaustion out of you. There’s an ache settling deep in your pelvis, and the skin of your throat and thighs smart where he gripped you so hard. It’s bliss.

You run your fingers through his hair, nails dragging along his scalp, and then in long, languorous strokes down his back. He practically purrs, like an oversized and needy cat.

Perhaps this necessity is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. I need you so much, Joel. Isn't that the worst thing you’ve ever heard? Like an addiction, some sort of disease. For him to be the thing in the world to best soothe you, to best comfort you, but also be the one thing that sometimes hurts you the most. The dichotomy of all he brings out in you – the almost overwhelming love you feel for him, the fear of needing him so much you’d die without him, the desperation to be close to him at all times, for the two of you to be more connected, to know each other better than any two people ever have in all history. You could set fire to the two of you wrapped around each other like you are now with the intensity of all your feelings, let your skin meld together as one. And then also: the hurt, the sadness, the feeling that there’s always something small but magnificently significant missing between the two of you. All the unspoken words that hang heavy in the air. That one piece of him he always manages to keep hidden and tucked away from you no matter the intensity of what transpires between you, no matter how wide you spread his ribs to peer within him. It’s like a neverending stabbing to the depth of your heart, over and over and over again. You think you might have become addicted to the way it hurts. So much so, it manifests physically. You think that perhaps the more it hurts the more content you feel because at least you still have him here with you, at least he’s still in your arms. 

There is a part of yourself that realizes that you need something to hurt, to be difficult, to feel worth it. Like if there isn’t some seed of pain at the root of the thing, then it isn’t worth fighting for, isn’t worth the dedication, and you can’t understand why. Perhaps because the start of your life was so easy, so peaceful, despite the world you’d been born into. Perhaps because after your parent’s death everything was suddenly so jarringly difficult, from one blink to the next, life threatening at every turn, that it made the before not seem real anymore. Didn’t seem like it’d ever be attainable again if you didn’t hurt yourself in the process of obtaining it. Perhaps it was just martyrdom, or stupidity, or a subconscious inclination to make everything in your life infinitely more difficult than it actually needed to be. Like that girl who’d always done as was expected of her needed to find some way to counteract her obsequiance with a little bit of rebellion. Some small way within yourself to rail against always being good. Perhaps these small hurts were that form of rebellion. 

And then, well really, how could you not resent him after all that? Even if that resentment is overshadowed by how much you love him, how much you need him, still, still you’re angry with him at the same time for keeping that piece of himself away from you when you’ve spilled your blood at his feet. And yet, despite all this, despite all these thoughts running through your mind as you feel his breath press into your chest, as you feel the strong, steady thump of his heart echo into the cavity of your own, you understand him. You understand the motives behind every one of his actions, read the feeling in his eyes like a book, and so how could you not continue to endure all this ache? Continue to crave it. How could you not offer him your understanding, at the very least? If he won’t let you give him anything else but that, then this is all you’ll offer him. A place he can shuck away the fear he holds gripped around his heart, a place to come and be accepted as he is. Whatever is missing after that can be endured, if only he continues to rest his head here on your heart, let you breathe him in, let you feel him. 

And oh, you think, it is such a terrible thing to love someone so much. A terrible thing. 

-

Ellie liked to say that time healed all wounds. And sometimes that was true. Sometimes it was not a healing, but merely a scabbing over. Eschar over a festering of hurt still alive beneath the surface, but lived with so long it becomes customary. The bearer becomes complacent – used to it. Parts of you felt like that. Different pockets of painful memory across the surface of your skin. Pushed to the back of your mind in a plight for the preservation of your sanity.

Joel liked to be contradictory and say it was never time. But people, it was people that helped you heal your wounds. Serious, stoic old man that he liked to pretend to be, but you found him incredibly soft and sweet the day he told you that. Trying his best to piece together words to comfort you. You’d shown him exactly how sweet you found him afterwards, on your knees, your mouth wrapped around his hard cock. 

And you found they were both right in their own ways. At his side, surrounded by him, the stain of your grief dissipated little by little every day. And as time after Connie’s death passed, the clinic became your priority. The perfect distraction. The patient’s and the people of Jackson were tended to by you and Nancy, who’d become indispensable, with a dedication and hyperfocus, Tommy said, rivaled that of any soldier he had ever served with before. That thought made you quite pleased to think about. For others to recognize the strength in you was cathartic in a way you’d not known you needed.

-

“There’s been word of a group of travelers – about ten of them.” Maria tells you and Joel. You’re at your office desk, a strew of case notes and charts before you. Joel’s already scowling, shaking his head, arms crossed against his chest. His hair is getting too long again, dark curls streaked with gray, messy and sticking up in all the places where you’d tugged your fingers through earlier when he was kissing you. “A teenage girl found her way to the gates – patrol’s bringing her in now. She’s barely speaking, but we managed to get a bit out of her. Says there’s kids with them, a baby. Says they’re sick, hurt – been traveling a long time.”

Joel looks at you, a forbidding look already building in his eyes, “Absolutely not.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you.” You turn your nose up at him and look back at Maria, he feels his blood boil at your bratiness. “What else did she say, Maria? Is she hurt?”

“I said no, Birdie.”

“Not from what we could tell. Wouldn’t let us get too close– Joel, if they’ve got kids with them–” Maria tries.

“I don’t give a damn. And since when’ve you gotten so fucking lax with the safety of this place? What happened to floatin’ anyone who got too close down the river?”

“Joel–” you admonish sharply. But he isn’t listening to this shit. There’s no way in hell he’s letting you go along with this nonsense. “She ain’t going out there. Absolutely not… With just some unconfirmed story to go on? You think I’d let her–”

“Let me?” Your voice is incredulous.

“It isn’t safe. There are too many people here who need you–” I need you, he thinks, I need you so much, I’ll die without you, I need you safe, “People who rely on you. You’re not gonna put all that in jeopardy for a group of strangers.”

“I’m not completely helpless, you know.” You stand now, crossing your arms beneath your breasts, and fucking hell, now is not the time for him to be ogling your tits. You prop your hip out, the sassiest look he’s ever seen, set on your delicate features. “If I’m out there, if it’s necessary, I can take care of myself.”

“Birdie, you’re not hearing me. The answer is no.” There’s no room for argument in his tone, and he sees your temper flare in your eyes, bright hot and seething at him. 

“Joel, I’m not asking your permission. This is what all this has been for – what everything I’ve learned and practiced for was always meant for.” You splay your palms wide, your voice cracking a little in your fervor, and he feels a terrible sense of premonition begin to creep up the back of his neck. His hair standing on end. “There may be only one of me, but that makes my skill all the more necessary to share. There’s only one of me and lots of people who need help – and I’m gonna do everything I can to help everyone I can. Strangers or not. You cannot stop me.” 

He turns away, his heavy boot accidentally colliding with the chair beside him and jostling it violently. “Fuck–” he spits, “Fuck,” runs a hand through his hair, grips hard and tugs. The thought of you out there, in danger, vulnerable, sets his teeth on edge. Goes against everything howling inside him to keep you safe, protected. To hunch his body over yours and bear his teeth like an animal at anyone who’d dare get too close, horde you only for himself. At the same time, his own sense of self preservation rears its ugly head. The thought of you hurt so abhorrent in his mind he shies away from it – wants to run far away, avoid witnessing such a thing.

He pivots sharply back in your direction, brandishing a threatening finger at your chest, “If we do this, we do it how I say. Exactly as I say. No questions asked.” He turns his glare on Maria, “And we’re taking a good group with us. None of those idiots who can barely handle themselves. I want Pablo, Kenneth and Ben.” You and Maria share a look. Jesus, fucking incompetent, the lot of them, he thinks and paces, but they’ll have to do. “And Tommy’s fucking coming. If you’re gonna risk mine, then you’ll risk yours.”

“Fair enough,” Maria says, holding up her palms at him. Her face is serious, not letting his provocation rattle her. “I agree.” 

“Fucking better,” he grumbles under his breath, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye. You sidle up to him, run a soothing palm up his belly to his chest. He has to suppress a shiver. “You’re gonna rip all the hair out of your head, baby,” you croon, soft and appeasing, small palm wrapping around his wrist to gently pull his hand away. The glare he levels at you would send a grown man running. You scrunch your nose at him, and fuck the fact that he wants to kiss you senseless right now. No one person should be this beautiful, this appealing. It surely must go against some law of nature, for one cruel little creature to be so unbearably beguiling, so hard to say no to. Unable to hold on to his annoyance at you for anything longer than a few seconds, he wraps your small hand in his and tugs you further into him. “You’ll do as I say. We’re going to be extremely careful out there. I sense anything even slightly off, and we’re coming back. Understood?” he murmurs into your hair. You look up at him, eyes wide and falsely guileless, oh he knows all your tricks, you can’t fool him with that look. You nod in confirmation, soft pink cheek smushed up against his shoulder. Jesus.

Read Chapter IV

Netherfeildren Masterlist

End Notes: I kind of want to mention some things (and don’t know really know how to put it), but I realize there are parts of Birdie’s thought process in this chapter, and really in the story going forward, that some people might not agree with all that much, or find like idk misguided, unhealthy, etc., and yes, most definitely acknowledged. But really, the whole point of this story is that she’s working through some things, they’re both working through things. So… I know her point of view is perhaps not very well adjusted, but I think she’s going to get better eventually. They’re BOTH going to get better eventually. At least, that’s where I hope I’m able to lead them both to, and I hope you all don’t judge her too harshly or think too poorly of her before this is all over. My goal when I started writing this was to examine the grace we all sometimes need others to give us when we’re our worst or weakest selves. This is a very personal chapter for me, and perhaps my favorite of the entire story. 

I’m sending lots of love to you all. Thank you for reading. xx

[trafficjamupthere]

People talking about Bobby dying forget this show doesn't kill people. They just almost kills them, kills them for a short time or just gives them a major injury illness for one episode Drama ™️.

Plus considering what Buck and Chimney have been through (Buck got major character development and multiple episode arcs from his) it's about time Bobby got hit with some kryptonite. I mean his injuries so far are:

Radiation exposure (weekly blood test trauma + Buck trauma)

Shot in the abdomen (nada - wonderful Bathena content though)

Had the entire floor of a building fall on him (nada - still had the wonderful worried desperate 118 and May content)

Fell off, then had an overpass fall on him (nope, tricked ya - FINE)

Went on a cruise, was ignored by his wife (loss of major heart points there) then highjacked, blown up, hit by a hurricane, hit by a rogue wave, capsized (not a mark, snogged the wife, all good)

I mean the man has SUFFERED with his past (and looks like will continue to) but I'm more than happy for him to be 9-1-1 killed/injured, mainly for the drama it will create for all the other characters who love him.

I'm an angst Queen and I make no apologies.

P.S - Oliver Stark you big little shit, I love you.

[spurious]

What is a headcanon you have about Rodney that may be controversial?

SO I’ve been thinking about this since you sent it while I was cooking dinner last night and I stopped and walked into our room and went “DO I?” But uh. Anyway. I don’t know that my Rodney opinions are super controversial but like.

I definitely think that he’s unfortunately something of a misogynist? I think he was fed a lot of toxic patriarchy bullshit growing up (the whole thing with Jeannie telling him he’s lucky to find a nice girl who puts up with him says a LOT about their upbringing) and he accepted it uncritically as, like, the way the world works™️. I think he calls Sam Carter sexy and a dumb blonde because he’s insulted she doesn’t want to be his friend so his first lashing out instinct is to Treat Her How Men Treat Women.

Do I think he learns and grows during SGA and starts treating women as people much more often? Yeah. I mean, thank fucking god right? Lmao

Anyway a good portion of Live Oak 5 is just…Rodney being something of a misogynist and (as I’ve expressed at length to you my beloved wife audioletter) well I am a little bit worried people will hate me for it lol! But like. This is who he is.

[avatar-anna]

can we have some content of the twins relationship with each other?

sure!! maybe i can do a profile on all of the styles children

Young dad!Harry x Young mom!Reader

Julian and Maeve for sure give off that unhinged, middle child energy.

Y/n loved dressing them up in matching clothes when they were babies like this, this, or this. But as they get older, she lets them develop their own style, as is the Styles family way. And for no other reason than to make their parents heads spin, Maeve and Jules switch clothes from time to time—shoes, jackets, shirts, etc.

Maeve is the first one to call Julian JuJu.

Simone loves playing dress up with the twins and painting their nails. And when she's old enough to drive, she picks them and Collette up from school to get ice cream right after she gets her license.

The first time they join Harry on tour, they wreak havoc. They run around during rehearsals, sometimes in just a shirt and a pull-up, or whatever Y/n was able to finagle them into before giving up and tossing clothes at Harry when she sees them and says, "Good luck," before walking off with the rest of her kids.

Harry holds Maeve and Julian on either side when they go to the beach. The water is a little choppy and cold and they're afraid to go in, but Harry holds them and jumps with each wave and lets them down when they feel better. Then he helps them dig for crabs and shells and build sand castles.

And then they bury him in sand.

When Harry comes home from the separation, the twins are little (about two) and he takes it upon himself to be Superdad™️. One of the things he does is sing to the twins every night before bed (he reads to Simone and Collette). And it's usually the same song, so when they're old enough they sing along with him.

For their seventh birthday, the twins desperately want a trip to Disneyland with the whole family. Harry and Y/n of course are unsure because that's just asking for trouble. They have to sit down with the twins and tell them that Daddy can't go because too many people would crowd them and it wouldn't be safe. Jules and Maeve are obviously upset, but Harry promises that they can have whatever they want at Disneyland and even though he can't go, he takes the day off so he can call and FaceTime the entire day. It's not perfect, but it's the best they can do, and the twins grow to appreciate how Harry did so much for them with their unique situation.

Maeve definitely gets sent home from school one time for punching a kid that was teasing Julian.

The twins are also unironically fans of One Direction, and they beg Harry and their uncles for a reunion. They are spearheading the movement for the reunion tour.

Speaking of 1D, Y/n sends an invite to the twins' baby shower. She's already done the "just girls" party and thinks it's a load of crap because it should be a party for both parents and all that. 2/4 come (I'll let you pick who went).

After the documentary comes out, the world obviously knows that Harry has a family, which means a lot of press. One time they're all out as a family, and they use their usual tactics to hide their whereabouts, but everyone is on high alert to see Harry Styles out with his wife and kids. And there's a big crowd when they leave a restaurant and the twins are terrified and since Y/n is dealing with shielding Natalia and Geneva, so Harry tells Simone and Collette to hold hands while he picks up Julian and hugs Maeve close to his side.

It's safe to say after that incident Harry hires security for whenever they go out as a family, or just for when Y/n and the kids go anywhere. They have a family bodyguard, who the twins love to make laugh. Or try to, anyway. He's very big and very stone-faced, but Maeve and Julian make him play with their stuffed animals and wear princess crowns and hold their hands when he walks with them.

The twins have separate rooms at home, but sometimes (especially when they're little) they have sleepovers in each other's rooms).

Julian is the first person Maeve tells anything, and he's the same. She tells him when she has her first crush, who she got for Styles Family Secret Santa, when she fails a test and she's scared to tell their parents, when she kisses a boy for the first time, when she kisses a girl for the first time. Everything, they tell each other everything.

All they ever need is each other, and sometimes Y/n and Harry worry that their other kids feel left out, and sometimes they do, but all the Styles kids have different relationships with each other, like all siblings do.

[lasats-are-lovely]

Now that we got to see Zeb, I’m foaming at the mouth at the possibility of seeing Kallus because now we need to see him.

But like… there is genuine fear™️ that they’re going to mess up Zeb and Kallus’s ending, like in the sense of them not being friends/close anymore — bc I know they would really have to go out of their way to no-homo them, and I don’t really see why Filoni would do that. I would be genuinely surprised (and furious) if they just randomly gave Zeb or Kallus a fucking wife and kids.

So just… Star Wars gods, I am more than content with them just being “close friends” in Ashoka and then interpreting that how I want because I really don’t want them to mess this up 🥲 pls

[thatsrightice]

The Tannoy Incident ™️

I was taking a shower in my quarters. It was about seven o'clock, 1900 hours, too early for the field order.

The Bennett voice. "Captain Crosby will report to Group Ops."

What's going on? I had a phone in my room. Why didn't the son-of-a-bitch use it? Why the hell blast my name all over the base? He was calling to me on the Tannoy, the public address system with the British name, which had a huge loudspeaker in every section on the base.

Quickly, because I tried to be a good officer, I turned off the water, toweled myself, and started dressing.

The damned Tannoy again. The voice. Texas and Princeton. "I repeat. Captain Crosby is wanted immediately at Group Ops." Hair still wet, no tie, jacket in hand, I tore out to my jeep and fired it up. Just as I screeched my wheels at the end of the WAAF site, I heard it again.

"Captain Crosby will run, not walk, to Group Ops."

I was furious. I covered the distance to Ops in nothing flat. I jumped over the sideboard of the jeep and into Ops. Two squadron commanders, Group Ops, some other officers, and Bennett were huddled in some kind of talk

"Colonel Bennett," I said, boiling, "I got here as soon as any man could."

I had more to say and I wanted to say it, but he held up his hand, like a traffic cop, stopping me.

"Captain, come into my office."

Into his office we went, he all prim and straight, me steaming, the other officers and the enlisted men white and silent, hurting for me.

They watched us go into the office and they watched through the huge front glass, Lieutenant Colonel John Bennett, sitting at his desk, talking, stern. Captain Harry Crosby, angry, standing at attention, braced, before the desk.

"Captain," he said, his face fixed, firm. "How's your wife?"

Surprise on my face. "What?"

"Your wife, Captain, your wife? I hear you have a nice wife back in the States who gets letters through to you every day." What in the devil was this guy up to?

"I wonder if the good work you do here on the base and in the air is helped by the support you get from home?"

I started to relax a little. I looked around for a chair.

The ice and the steel came back. "Captain," he grated, "you will remain at a-ten-HUT!" Snap. Back in the brace.

And so, for the next ten minutes, the onlookers sweated for me. Old Croz was really getting it.

I finally did get it. This SOB was making an example out of me.

And who better? If he demanded this much of Straight Arrow Crosby, the rest had better shape up. That guy Bennett even chewed out one of the originals. We better pop to.

His expression never changed. What I suspect was on my face was pure wonderment and awe. We talked about Jean, the University of lowa, and, finally, just a little, about his dreams for the 100th. He told me what I had been feeling.

"The leaders of the 100th think they are making a movie, not fighting a war. We have to get serious." He finished the conversation. We went back to the other men.

"Captain Crosby," Bennett said, "has been ordered not to divulge the contents of our conversation.”

The other officers looked at each other and shivered in their seats.

— Harry Crosby in his memoir, A Wing and a Prayer

[butch-reidentified]

I apologise for the christianity talk, but at church today (my family I’m staying with force me to go) the leader was talking about generosity and how the people he saw most happy, satisfied and content with their lives, are people who are generous and give knowing they can’t take it with them when they die. It reminded me of you and got me thinking of ways to be more generous to the ladies around me Xx

this is actually very sweet of you, I didn't realize that I'd actually posted enough about the irl work I do to give that impression, but it is 100% how my wife and I choose to live (2 of our best friends live in our home for free - not just rent but we pay for everything including most of their food, phone bills, medications when sick, etc., and are working on getting them medical insurance). it's weird bc We Live in a Society and Society tells us that speaking/posting about this sort of thing serves no purpose except trying to make yourself look good... but how exactly are you supposed to encourage others to do these sorts of things if you can't hold yourself to that standard of setting an example? example setting is SUPER important to me, as I've said on here a few times (mainly regarding why representation of happy, relatively successful in life, female gender nonconformity is so crucial to me). I'm not trying to brag or looking for recognition; I'm trying to start a trend of kindness, sisterhood, and solidarity. and it sucks that Society™️ is so intent on trying to make people feel like their good deeds are only good if they're a secret. fuck that, please share your good deeds and inspiring stories far and wide. we NEED your stories. like, raise your hand if you DON'T want to hear more stories of kindness and especially of female solidarity! lmao

[vagabond-umlaut]

Honey & Maple Syrup

Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader; Arranged Marriage; Childhood Friendship To Complicated Feelings™️; Flangst; Explicit Smut [P-In-V; Switch!Gojo]; Angst With A Happy Ending; Porn With Feelings™️; Brief Mentions Of Reader Being Mildly Injured In A Mission. This is 18+ Content -> Minors & Ageless Blogs Please DNI!!!

Oneshot From Series: One Day, Three Autumns [Can Be Treated As A Stand-Alone]

Satoru Is So Emotional While Making Love To His Wife. Said WIfe Too Gets Really Soft Very Quickly For Her Husband— Albeit She Knows To Mask Her Emotions Behind Her Incredibly Dumb & Mildly Yandere-ish Jokes. She's Such A Tsundere, ISTG!! [Gojo Has No Problem With That Aspect Of The Reader, Though. Sweet For The Reader, IG...]

Uh-huh, sex with Gojo sure is something else but do you know what's even more of a something else?

Sex with Gojo on the floor of your living room at three in the night— those clothes of yours scattered over the tiny distance from the front door while your husband pounds into you in a frantic rush, tears filled in his blue eyes as his lips slot against yours messily– the moisture on his long lashes dripping onto your wet warm cheeks.

The mission you returned from wasn't too difficult; the blood on your clothes weren't much of yours either. Yet... all it takes this man is one look at you from head to toe, before his sleepy gaze switches into an extremely worried gaze and he pulls you into the safety of your home and into the safety of his arms, then tilting your chin up and claiming your lips in a fiery needy kiss—

Though nowhere as needy as the moan he lets out now, on your legs tightening round his waist and driving his shaft even deeper into the trembling, throbbing, leaking mess you've become down there.

"Nngh, sweetness– p-please!" he whimpers into your ear, sharp nose nuzzling into your temple, as he delivers yet another powerful thrust, drawing a garbled version of his name from your mouth– making the muscles in your body relax yet tense, ache yet tinge in pleasure– "It's so, so tight, fuckk-" he drawls out, rolling his hips against yours. Eyes squeezing tight shut. Lifting his head from beside you, his lips part in yet another throaty moan. "'s sooo good- yea, perfect f'me– aren't ya made for me, my love?"

"Am I?" You inquire softly, relishing in the way he reaches you deep in your walls, filling the hollow; though you keep your eyes wide open to drink in the ethereal glow your man is radiating, in the dim moonlight through the curtains. "I'm makin' you cry— ah, 'Toru—" your guilt gets washed away in a wave of unadulterated pleasure– Gojo's fingers flex around yours on one side of your head, whilst his free hand brushes a tear rolling down your cheek into the cold marble below.

In reverent affection. In adoration, your pleasure-hazy mind whispers.

Two plush lips press into yours before retreating an inch away. "You're perfect, sweetness," Gojo says, slowing his motions a little– an action which makes you move to buck your hips upward, only to be stopped by a large palm covering your waist and holding it in place, "And don't feel guilty for anything– you're too good for me, too precious for me– 'm always scared I might lose you. I... don't want anyone– anything to take you too away from me— you–" his voice assumes a rare tremble; he resumes, moving his hand from your hip to cradle your cheek.

"You do understand that, sweetness— don't you?"

Some other time and you suppose you'll be busy wondering, how on earth this man has that short his recovery time to be blubbering one minute then reassuring you the next— now is no such time, however.

Fresh tears curtaining the steely determination and tender affections in those azure pools of power. Fingers flexing yet again, as if to grasp and engrave the feeling of your fingers intertwined with them forever. Calloused palm caressing your cheeks, gentler than a rose petal.

Your husband— The One And Only Honored One— looking at you as if the only deity he deems is worth believing in is right in front of him, under him— Every strand of his soul worshipping every atom of your being, as if that is the only means he might achieve enlightenment—

You don't know how to deal with the storm of emotions your sudden realizations wreak through your body [one disadvantage of marrying your childhood best friend is how easily you can read him, during an emotionally charged moment, further increasing the weight on your emotions-weary self...]— You do know how to deal with the storm of emotions wreaking havoc in your husband, though. [Count this as an advantage of marrying your childhood best friend— you take quite a great deal of pride in knowing none can read Gojo the way you do.]–

Pulling him down, until his well-defined chest collides with the soft flesh of your breasts, you take advantage of the sudden loss of grip he has on you to flip him onto his back — and lean down, your nose bumping into his and your lips separated in small huffs, being mere yet too much an inch away from his, open in a small shocked circle.

Notwithstanding the dull ache in your calf nor the stinging pain at the apex of your thighs the abrupt change in position has brought along– you smile.

Too much drunk on the emotion you know one must never allow their ridiculous hearts to experience in your line of work; though, you think you can be a hypocrite for tonight– the first and only time in your life.

You press a swift kiss to the corner of his lips. "I'm here, 'Toru and I'll be here, worrying you and annoying you to your wits' ends, till death does us apart– maybe after then too, I'm going to haunt you and the next woman you marry, till she runs away and you're left all alone for me to monopolize again— Heh, sounds like one hell of an antidote to your insanely stupid worries– doesn't it, Satoru?" you ask with a grin.

A huff of a laugh sounds from the addressed man. Raising yourself a little, you narrow your eyes, ready with biting retorts— only to pause on catching the upwards curve slowly forming on his lips— so small yet so blinding in quality, as it grows and stretches, bringing out the adorable dimples in his cheeks, eclipsing the fear and concern in his features by its priceless beauty, you know no fake smile can possess— no matter how bright, how wide, how well-practised they are.

Heart thundering within your chest, you brush away a tear clinging to his eyelashes with a thumb, moving to plant your lips to his face once more.

Ah, well— you tell yourself with a happy little sigh— perhaps, you can be a hypocrite for a bit longer than tonight.

I do not own the characters used. Divider is by @cafekitsune. Please do not plagiarize or translate or repost this. Hope you enjoyed reading this! 😊

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