#emotions rather than outright thoughts

[shikai-the-storyteller]

I'm not a huge fan of the Tazercraft mental link headcanon (it's just not my cup of tea personally), HOWEVER—

I can't stop thinking about Pac in Alcatraz with his back to the wall as Cell approaches him with a cold smile on his face and a bloody knife in one hand, and Pac completely blocking Mike out because he knows something terrible is about to happen, and if he can't save himself then maybe he can at least spare Mike the graphic gory details.

And even when he’s lying on the cold concrete floor in a pool of his own blood, Pac is still trying to block everything out so he doesn't project his pain to Mike through their mental link. But ultimately, that's what scares Mike the most — the sharp flash of Pac's terror for an instant, and then silence.

#i talk #qsmp talk #I wonder if he thought Pac was dead #I wonder if Mike did the same thing when he was kidnapped and tortured by the Federation #Something about phrasing the mental link like THAT makes the idea a tiny bit more appealing to me #emotions rather than outright thoughts #but idk the whole concept of having someone else in your head is a personal squick of mine. I'd hate that. #The only exception is like frickin. The drift compatibility thing #But even that is a bit iffy. I still personally would never do that #As far as fan work or stories in general go - it depends entirely on how people write it #but as a whole I'm pretty '' :/ '' about the concept #This idea wouldn't leave my head though #tw blood mention #blood mention #ask to tag #you know the drill #fic talk

[2kmps]

vampire x reader one-shot | 16.1k

story summary; you're a crime scene cleaner who happens across an advertisement for a mansion housekeeper in exchange for room and board. it's close to work, close to your university, and an easy job. the ultimate package. right away, you notice the owner's beauty as well as his eccentricities, but decide to commit to it. the spiral into depravity and debauchery begins when you're tasked with cleaning the site of a savage murder, solidifying you as a irreplaceable treasure.

story warnings; bloodplay, extreme dubcon, explicit noncon, cigarette burns, wounds inflicted on mc, implied masochism, extreme sexual sadism, hypnotism, graphic violence, gun violence, body gore, graphic details, heavy prose, unreliable narrator, religious themes, exploration of morality, obsessive + possessive behaviors, implied stalking, choking, murder, graphic depictions of crime scenes, manipulation/emotional manipulation, this entire oneshot is an allegory.

read the warnings! mdni under any circumstances! the events within this one-shot are not indicative of my personal viewpoints

thank you, @ceruleansol for the excellent proofreading.

this is a repost from my deleted blog, cardeneiv. please reblog/interact with this piece!

Another internet search bore fruit.

The image bouncing back at you from your phone had been hastily taken with a tremble in your hand, all the while launching a few too many cautious looks across your shoulder to either end of the dim, long hallway making up part of the second floor. There wasn't any particular rationale for your apprehension and busy eyes but the belief the mansion owner wouldn't be too pleased to see you taking pictures of his valuables rather than cleaning them.

That fear hadn't stopped you from reverse image searching a good couple of curiosities over the widening gap of time you had been living there.

Tonight was a Chalmette table vase displayed on a pedestal in the hall; brassy gold gilding cradled a somewhat drab white bloom that reached high and sprouted open to a hollow inside. Similar surviving articles went for thousands.

You totaled the prices of everything so far as enough to outright buy a house on the more modest side of town.

There was a daring thought that loomed in the back of your mind, an ugly little thing that told you one or two missing antiques wasn't any big deal. He wouldn't miss them, let alone even notice they were gone, because he was the strangest man you had ever met.

Four months ago, he had only ever introduced himself by the name Montague, letting an anticipatory stillness hang in the air while you waited for him to finish. He never did, handsome features lifting as his dark eyes thinned and smile inched higher. He had you in a tight handshake.

"I enjoyed reading the resume you sent in with your response to my advertisement." He had traces of an accent intact but had cleverly adapted to one more common to the area. "You're the first person I've come across wanting the room who's done that. It really stood out to me. A crime scene cleaner? Must be a difficult job."

"I know it was probably overkill, but I think this will be perfect for me." You were led to a suede armchair, his hand anchoring onto your shoulder to lower you into the seat. He sat across from you in something similar, one leg crossing. "I recently had to move out of my other place, and the university will be about an hour closer. My work won't be as far of a drive, either. I—I, uh, clean some gross stuff, so taking care of your house won't be anything."

Even after that spiel, Montague never let his smile slip. Rather, it seemed to widen as though delighted by your oversharing. He looked like a man basking in glee over a rare find, an offer he couldn't possibly turn away.

"All amenities in the house are yours." This was after he showed you to one of the rooms on the second floor: a capacious, well-dressed space behind a red door at the end of the hall. "As long as you listen to a few rules and keep things clean, we should have a very amicable... cohabitation."

You thought it was an odd choice of wording. "Okay. Well, what do I need to know?"

"No guests." It was immediate, his tone suddenly a touch edgy, razored, unyielding. "Not unless I give you explicit permission beforehand. I keep many important valuables; they're very dear to me. Also, do not invite anyone in unless I am there."

Again, odd, but it was his house.

"Sure," you said agreeably, having half the thought to write down these peculiarities of his. "What next?"

He was set on your shoulder, reaching out to pull a thin, frayed thread off of your jumper. "The downstairs—as in, the basement—is my personal space. If I need you down there, I will ask you for you to go down. You can go anywhere else in the house, on the property. None of it concerns me."

"Why the basement, though?" It felt damaging to press a question like that so early on, but you figured it was innocent enough. "This house is so big that we could be on the same floor and hardly see each other."

The muscles around his mouth twitched slightly, only once. You still noticed it. Noted: he didn't like to be questioned. "Sorry, I'm not trying to-"

"It's cold downstairs." he injected, shifting to look around the room as though taking in the newness of it as well. "I make sure it stays comfortable all year, all throughout the house, but the cold suits me best."

With how downright frosty his skin felt in that handshake earlier—on a mild day in mid-spring—you thought that explanation checked out. He must have only just come up to greet you at the front entrance.

You tried to forget the feeling. "Alright. Next?"

"Oh," he restrained an unseemly laugh, using one hand to crowd into a pocket on his dark blazer, "there is nothing else, at least nothing pertinent. It's my understanding that we're both quite busy, so this would be the current arrangement unless something changes."

What changes? You wanted to ask, thwarted to silence when he revealed some sort of silver thing pinched between his fingers with a thick handkerchief. It was a dainty-seeming contraption with chains linking several old skeleton keys at the end. The fabric he used to hold the clip concealed all of the elegant tracery that made up its shape.

"Traditionally, this is called a chatelaine. It’s something I’ve modified for you to get around the house. It’ll be easier to clean." Montague said, fast to force the mess of cold silver and chains into your palm, rubbing down his fingers with the handkerchief afterward. "The smallest key is to your room. The largest one opens the doors to go outside, so don't lose that. One of them is meant for doors in the basement—can't recall which."

He could see the wariness behind your eyes, a worrying crease forming in your brow. "This house has been around for a long time. I've just never gotten around to modernizing the locks."

Other questions came to you, but he hardly acted interested in entertaining them. You let him swivel on black soles, stopping him just as he reached the doorway.

"Why haven't other housekeepers worked out?"

Montague let his fingers rest on glazed woodwork framing the threshold, drumming out a soothing rhythm while considering an answer for all of two seconds. "In short? They couldn't follow the rules. Now, let me show you to the yard."

Afterward, the so-called cohabitation had become a seamless blend for you both. You had learned right away that Montague wasn't one for idle chatter and niceties without purpose. He had deviated from it once, on move-in day, to reassure you that the mysterious nature of your life schedule and odd hours you were called to a clean scene wouldn’t be a source of concern.

Shortly after settling your things around the house, the reason for his amenable attitude was a little more apparent. Several times a month, you would be pulled from your forensics projects to the landing at the end of the hall, piqued by fresh voices always indistinguishable at first, and folded your waist over the railing to see down.

The top of his head, hair short, impeccably styled, and ash-brown, was the first thing you noticed, followed by someone on his arm. Sometimes a woman, sometimes a man—always conventionally attractive, always utterly enraptured by him. It struck a nerve with you once or twice, finding your thoughts swimming bitterly: Of course a man who looked like him would go for types like that!

Why did he act so much differently with them than you?

He wasn't nearly as friendly and affable as he was making himself out to be.

You stopped peeking down on him after an instance where his eyes shot straight up, pinning you where you stood. He simpered at you before leading his companion away to the basement, and that was it. You never saw them leave and never bothered to ask.

Tonight was different, however, both in the way you nearly toppled the two-figure Chalmette vase off its pedestal with flighty fingers and a duster, and the echo of a scream piercing the hollow halls to you. It stayed in one spot on the first floor, luring you down the center staircase with your duster clutched to you like a sword. At that point, your heart bursting in your ears was louder than the agonized cries resonating around the corner.

You looked around, spine wrapped in dread as another scream, weak, garbled, and wet, came from the basement, and then nothing at all. It was soundless in the house. Distantly, one of the clocks mounted in the kitchen archway toned onward. You followed its beat with the shuffle of your feet.

Hello, hello? Those words clung tightly in your throat, yet you were too afraid to announce yourself like that. Still, nothing came as you slowly pulled at the basement doorknob, brass and freezing and unlocked. The stairway plunging down inside was filled with inky black, so dark you couldn't get your eyes to adjust to it.

Is everything okay down there? Hello? Hello? You ran the imaginary chatter through your mind, lips sealed but trembling during your slow descent, the path now illuminated by white glow from your phone. At the bottom, the stone stairs turned into seamless gray marble and red wetness crawling toward the soles of your slippers.

"What–" You gasped, taking a step back while flicking the flashlight higher, deeper into the basement. The vivid red puddle glistened in your light, widening around a motionless figure with pale skin—a blonde woman you didn't know. Her face pointed up at the ceiling, twisted in terror, black tracks of mascara curving along her cheeks.

She was naked on the floor, surrounded by her own blood, something you didn't have to look at twice. Your breaths grew harsh, taking in the sight of her neck, or lack thereof; there wasn't much left of it. Only a few stringy bits of sinew and muscle kept it from a full decapitation, and blood still pulsed out in spurts from mangled arteries and veins.

A motion nearby made your nape prickle. It was like feet padding across wet pavement after a fresh rain, except this smell carried the malodor of rust and something sour under your nose.

You settled a pillar of light on the source, capturing the view of Montague standing amid the bloodbath, sickly skin bare and saturated in rich crimson.

Something was wrong with him, came an instantaneous, instinctual reaction the moment his head spun toward you, catching pale eyeshine in the white light.

The bones in his jaw cracked as the length of it began to recede into the semblance of something more man to you, rows of jagged teeth retracting into the depths of his throat until only a pair of long incisors remained.

Montague skimmed the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, smiling at you affectedly, saying as though it were some trife thing, "She started screaming."

You were gone and out of the basement after that, clearing the woman's body and kicking away the slippers on your feet when they squelched with blood. Montague said something after you when shrieks ripped out of your lungs and reverberated through the house. You winced as the basement door let out a hollow rattle when he collided with it, heart matching the rhythm of the skin on your feet slapping against old marble, thoughts disarrayed, frantic the closer you got to the front door.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! You were panting in unison with the vicious chants.

The doorknob was in your hand. The door was open—and it was thrown shut with the force of your body thrust against it, fingers wrenched off of the handle and enveloped in Montague's cold fingers as he pushed himself flush into you.

You felt his palm clamp around your mouth, whittling your screams into panicked whimpers, nostrils flaring with your ragged breaths.

"Ah, no, no." He had to stoop his neck to talk into your ears. "Shh, shh, shhh. Far too loud. I don't like screaming. Shh, shh, shhhh."

Tears seared red behind your eyes, making you think you could follow the warmth down your face as they filled the crevices in his hand. "It's really, truly a pity. She was a pretty one but far too smart. I'm usually decent at picking out the ones who wouldn't suspect anything or, at least, catching them before they try to scream.

"You'll have to forgive me. I swear to you I'm not ordinarily that messy. I prefer to keep everything tidy, especially so you don't have to go down there. After all, you're already so busy. You're already doing so much. I can't recall when I last saw you relax."

The weight of his palm softened, a wordless agreement that you honored with continued silence as he used that arm to lean against the door. His voice shifted around your head to your other ear. "That's it. Just wonderful. There's no need for screaming, is there? It's only the two of us."

"Are—are..." You couldn't get it out, lips and throat suddenly sucked dry. "Don't kill me, please. Please. Please."

His chest quaked while a subdued, eerily delighted laugh hissed through his lips. "Kill you? Oh, no, no, no. Never. How could I ever kill you when you're so remarkable? My home has never looked so beautiful and lived in. I'm enjoying how it looks with you in it."

You wilted away from his lips sinking to a spot below your ear, now taking far too much notice of his erection curving up along your lower back. It felt disgustingly wrong to wonder whether the violence and blood turned him on, or it was you and your fear. The man wasn't even human; that much was clear.

"What are you?" There was no shortage of daring questions in your arsenal. Montague was beginning to find the charm in them.

"That's quite difficult for me to answer." He let his chin lay on your shoulder. "I've been called many things over the centuries. I suppose the closest anyone has ever gotten is vampire, but even that's not quite right. You're free to guess as much as you'd like, though."

He was satisfied when you didn't, freeing the weight off of his arm to slide his hand under the hem of your shirt, fingertips still slick with that woman's blood as he explored your navel. You were too aware of the roundness of his fingernails stepping across your flesh, sometimes pressing deep, and other times a light touch you needed to scratch. His throat vibrated against your shoulder.

"What are you thinking? I'd love to hear it." He wanted to devour your fear in more ways than just feeling you wince. "Well? Tell me."

"I want to go." Go? Where could you possibly go that he couldn’t find you? If he ripped out the side of a woman's neck, he could track you down.

He leaned his cheek into your ear again, relishing the warmth that spread into him. "Where would you go? Who would you tell? Humor me, where is the first place you'd go?"

"The police," you said.

Montague let out a pleased hum. "Of course. It only makes sense to report a terrible scene such as that to them. Forensics and the police play together often, don't they?"

Your nod was weak.

"I know how hard you've been studying, how much stress you're under to commit to your degree, your work—to me." His hand crept along to your stomach, fingers splaying wide across the protective layer of skin and fat. "Let's say they were to find something I left behind. Who becomes a suspect in their eyes when they learn that I have someone who tidies up after me? Who knows the dirty insides of cleaning up anything and everything?"

You were starting to panic, fitfully struggling against his body. It's like he was made of stone. "They wouldn't accuse me of murdering anyone."

"Haven't you seen the news lately? Are you so sure?" he said derisively. "No, perhaps you're right. Maybe you'd be fortunate, and they wouldn't have your head for murder, but they would certainly try to peg you with something else. As an accomplice, maybe? And that's assuming that I don't disappear and let rip you apart.

"Can you imagine it? Can you feel your heart break at the very thought of losing it all? Your degree? Your job? Safety? The world is cruel, darling. You'd never have another moment of peace or anonymity. Anywhere you'd go, you'd be found, every alias sullied with your sins. All because you decided to speak up about it."

You knew he meant to send you downstairs to do something about the mess, spend hours scrubbing and mopping until what had once been there was a secret that thickened your tongue and made it hard to swallow.

No one would ever find out, but you would carry it in every waking thought until, one morning, the cute barista on Market Street had an eerie semblance to that dead woman, and the light roast in your hand suddenly looked so red.

"Thump. Thump. Thump." Montague mocked the heavy thrum of your heart behind your ribs, his cold fingers skimming your nipples before resting over your sternum. "You can go if you'd like, but I'll find you. I'll hear your little heart until it bursts and drag you right back here. You're mine."

The push of his body gradually faded away, giving your chest the room to expand, leaving you to gulp quivering, greedy breaths that didn't stop even as the pads of his feet grew distant.

He called back to you, "Give me ten minutes or so, and then come down."

You were already partway through the front door with your car keys to pop the trunk when, floating like a spectre's moans in still night air, his voice reached out once more, "You may want to clean up yourself first. You have blood all over your face."

༺ ♰ ༻

A damp towel came before your descent back into the basement. In tow on your shoulders were three bags of absorbent, the fancy stuff hospitals liked to use to throw on puke and piss and anything else they just lazily wanted to sweep around. It worked for blood in smaller quantities, blood that was still wet, anyway.

The woman hadn't been dead long enough for her body fluids to dry, so you didn't anticipate needing anything except the basics stowed in your car trunk.

You weren't sure what you expected to see down there, noticing the lights were turned on high, fully illuminating the gray marble, the furthest reaches of the blood puddle with your slippers saturated dark red and ruined. What came as a shock was the woman's dead eyes and shredded neck being nowhere in sight.

Montague had moved her body but to where?

For some reason, you were drawn to ridiculous spots like the walls, ceiling, and tiny cramped corners that he could have feasibly stuffed her in. There was no sickly trail of blood leading any which way, droplets only reaching as far as the stairs and first landing where you had been pursued—nothing else.

Where did he take her?

Part of you was ready to turn a blind eye to all of this because you knew you would have to in order to keep everything. If you kept your head low and groveled a little bit, maybe he'd get bored and leave you alone, biding you the time you needed to finish your degree. But, that'd be two years of this.

You weren't sure you could stomach it.

As you moved granules of absorbent through blood with coarse bristles from the kitchen broomstick—shifting the puddle more than the actual absorbent—you wondered if he could hear your heart now from wherever he was.

You thought about a lot of things while letting your eyes roam the space. It was enormous, taking up the entire underside of the house, outfitted impressively with mahogany accents, sprawling bookshelves, armchairs, and loveseats pulled tight in leather and velvet. Across the room was a disheveled bed, creamy sateen sheets in a luscious heap but otherwise undisturbed.

To the adjacent end of this expanse were two doors you didn't notice at first, one a little taller than yourself in height, about as wide as any normal arm span, and looked old, so old that everything else was too new. Even from where you stood, you knew it'd take a skeleton key. The other door was more coherent with the rest of the basement, cleaner but certainly still part of the house's original construction.

By the time Montague had returned, you already had much of the ordeal pitched into a biohazard bag with some trace remnants putting you on your knees to scrub away. You hadn't realized he was even there until the tips of his shoes—brown leather loafers with a scalloped tassel near the toes—appeared in your peripheral, sending you launching back onto your hocks.

"This work is spectacular. I knew I had a good feeling giving that room to you." he said with a beguiling smile. All of the blood was gone; he was clean in a dark dressing robe with black trousers, a look you hated that you saw as alluring. "Don't forget to clean the floors upstairs. We made quite a mess there as well."

"What happened to that woman?" You were asking your pesky questions again. Montague wasn't so sure he found them as charming now, but you were still a prize.

You leaned away as he crouched in front of you, nearly risking the soles of his shoes in the blood and hydrogen peroxide. For the first time since meeting, you kept eye contact and saw that his reached a depth you didn't think could be possible for a human. He wasn't touching you, yet it felt like he had you caged, trapped in a vise that held you tight.

He did touch you then, grazing the side of your face with a thumb. Suddenly, he brought it to his lips and licked it as he rose to full height.

"You still had some blood just there on your cheek." There was an armchair a few feet away that he dropped into, withdrawing a gold compact from a chest pocket on his way down. "Don't worry. I wouldn't ask you to carry away the bodies. I'm not that Roman."

"That's not what I asked." you rejoined.

Montague tucked a cigarette between his lips, igniting it with a match he kept inside the compact. His first few puffs looked like they calmed him as he crossed a leg and settled deeper into the leather. "You shouldn’t expect answers to things you don’t need to know—or want to.”

But he humored you with a slight lean of his head towards the old door far away. "The original owner of this house was ingenious and built tunnels that were used to shuffle people in and out. Mistresses. Servants. More unsavory things—you must remember the era. At any rate, it stretches beyond the house and some ways off. I do not recommend ever going inside."

You understood now why you never saw any of the dates he brought home leave. And you believed every bit of his warning.

It inspired you to move away from the grim reality dwelling beyond that old door. You hovered over the same spot, drenching the floor with more of the disinfectant, grasping for a distraction. "I didn't know vampires could smoke. Isn't blood enough for you?”

Montague flicked his cigarette over an ashtray beside his chair. "Well, we all have our vices. Mine just happens to be five or six of these a day. Keeps enough of the edge off so you get to sleep at night."

Something about that comment made the entire stretch of the basement feel so confining—claustrophobic, even. Your back was wide open to it, to his ravening gaze and leather toe turning fluid circles as though to pace himself before lunging.

"I have class in six hours." You finished the job by tying off the bag. "I'd like to get the upstairs done and take a shower."

"Of course. Try to get some sleep, you've had quite a night." He didn't move to see you out. "Oh, and leave the bag. I'll dispose of it."

༺ ♰ ༻

Meredith Nimu died approximately twenty-three days ago after a stroke left her immobilized in her favorite armchair. Her body wasn't peeled away from the murky-green polyester until day twenty-four, following enough neighbor complaints about a bunch of rats dying in the vents.

Getting rid of the chair was half the battle in this case, something that Meredith's overzealous, recently divorced daughter spouted off as sacrilegious. She insisted that the carpet cleaner she used for her obese dogs with raw patches on their legs could do it all. Your supervisor had been inflectionless when telling her it didn't work like that.

One of your teammates, a middle-aged black man affectionately nicknamed “Hoss” had unceremoniously slammed the apartment door shut and flipped the lock so the daughter's rancorous eruptions were somewhat contained outside. The other half of the duo responsible for pitching the chair, T.J., a white man who could never tan, wheezed out a laugh as he labored a hard bristle brush through the gunk left behind from Meredith's decay.

"Boss ain't gonna be happy about that." T.J. couldn't commit to the act of a brownnoser even if he wanted to. A couple more chortles rattled through his respirator. They were infectious, ridiculous sounds that coaxed similar from Hoss when he rejoined the effort to get the job done and over with.

You could still hear the daughter on the other side of the door, never once allowing your supervisor a word in edgewise. A part of you wanted to pity her, perhaps conjure up a shred of empathy for someone so completely enmeshed in the throes of grief and anger. She was clearly spiraling, her entire life yanked out from under her—and she was free-falling with nothing to catch her, no thin wire she could snag in the bend of her fingers and watch as the velocity of that cruelly, cleanly severed white tendon and bone.

Where would she fall after that? You didn't know. You didn't care. She could regain control over her life even without fingers, but what about you? No one understood how disconcerting it was to know that your survival depended on a vampire's good mood.

An old woman was meant to expire, but you were young and had aspirations—yet that could be stolen from you just as quickly as a clot could kill the brain.

It wasn't fucking fair.

Hoss had called out to you repeatedly until the hard brushes stopped scratching the floor, and he and T.J. were settled back on their heels, staring at you. You were used to leveraging your commitments in life as a means to get them off your case, but even they could tell this was different.

"You've been real spacey lately." It was enough to gently reel you back to the moment, eyes unstuck from remnants of putrid matter hidden under a deluge of chemicals and soap. Now you were thinking that the landlord would probably have to replace this entire spot in the flooring. It would be an expensive fix.

"Everything okay at home?" Hoss tried again, emulating fatherly concern in his tone and sidelong stare. It was something he couldn't help since you were so similar in age to his adult kids. "I don't think I've seen you eat today. We oughta finish up here up and grab somethin' quick on the way back.”

"Sorry, yeah, it's just the usual things." They didn't know what that meant to you, but readily accepted with dour expressions masked by their respirators. "I think I saw a gyro truck down the street."

As many times as you had regurgitated the same thing when they pried into your well-being, you were surprised they still asked at all. That made it hard to wave after them as you pulled the lever to the trunk, waiting to be left alone once the job was done to stack half your weight in absorbent until the back bowed to it.

It was just past two in the morning when you were locking the front door of Montague's sprawling estate behind you. Every time you did, a part of you hesitated to seal it the whole way, as though if you did, your final traces of freedom would be stripped away entirely.

"Welcome home!" Montague came out from prowling somewhere in the shadows, seeming to materialize from the darkest parts your eyes couldn't adapt to. He was in a dressing robe again, this one forest green with gold embroidery and a burgundy handkerchief tucked away nicely in his breast pocket.

He already had a cigarette lit between his knuckles, fussing with the little stick as he went to an open window, sucked in, and expelled pungent gray smoke. "I apologize. There's a bit of a mess for you tonight. It's unlike me to be so untidy, but it shouldn't take you too long—oh, darling, don't make that face."

"Why can't you get blood from other sources, like a blood bank?" It's been on your mind for a while, but Montague had a habit of turning petulant if you asked him too much.

He was in good shape tonight, though, despite still puffing away antsily. "Where's the satisfaction in simply being given what I want? Blood banks are a finite supply, but out there"—he gestured through the open window—"there is an infinite supply from any walk of life that I so choose. Did you know that not all blood is equal?"

You sensed him at your back, awash with that same vulnerability as the night on your knees in the basement. He strolled along with you while you collected your things, examined his leftovers, which fortunately wasn't as sensational as before. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot almost, purple-red and pristine, obviously untouched for some time.

Just like that dead blonde woman, there was nothing left behind of the victim except what Montague was too careless to handle himself.

"The worst blood is what you find in hospitals or on the streets. It doesn't matter their type; it all tastes like shit." he continued, even while you worked. Just like before, he sat himself nearby and observed your process with gross fascination. "In a pinch, though, I do what I must. It doesn't matter if a man is homeless or a woman is looking for a night out. When I hear their hearts dance, that thump, thump, thump—oh, I have to have it. I can taste them through their skin, even before I sink my teeth in.

"The fear in their eyes. The ragged breaths I see in their chests, watching their bellies pulse. I like to think in those moments they know exactly what's going to happen, like little flies in a spider's web."

Montague let more smoke slither out from his lips in skinny, swirling wisps that dissipated once it touched the air. The haze of it remained, just traceable to your eye. "I always find it interesting that they all struggle, even as they're writhing in their own blood. Sometimes I'll count how long it takes for them to die."

These weren't confessions of a madman because that would imply he was human. He was treating you akin to the way an old man recounted the fondness of his flawed, flickering memories. There were sensations of joy and affection in the work he did, a true love and visceral desire for carnage and suffering that made it hard for you to stomach.

A few times throughout his soliloquy, you needed to bear your weight on the kitchen broom to keep yourself from toppling from nausea.

You shouldn't have been curious. "Has anyone ever survived?"

The surrounding space grew darker, not from loss of light but from the way his lower face sunk behind the hand wielding the cigarette. You saw his smile widen through sickly appendages and faint smoke.

His response pierced straight through you. "I'm looking right at it."

Suddenly, the urge to run rushed forefront in your mind, an instinctual reaction that you had trouble wrestling over with logic. The broomstick was easily pulled from your fingers and discarded onto the floor with a reverberating clatter that made your spine race with cold needles as Montague stepped into your proximity.

You shivered against the hands slowly climbing your neck to the underside of your jaw, cradling your face as he lifted it to meet his eyes. Something was so wrong with how black they were; you didn't see a pupil, nor did your reflection stare back at you in them. It's almost as though there was nothing there at all, the dark of them growing into an abysmal chasm that made your vision cross and blur, eyelids weighing like lead when you felt him kiss you.

His lips were the same kind of cold as the rest of him but full and unrelenting, never granting you the chance to mold the kiss in any other way. Surprisingly, the taste of stale smoke on his breath was just slight, a mediocre vexation you overlooked the moment his hands started groping you under your clothes.

And you didn't think much of it when your back settled into the clean linens on your bed, skin flushed with the crisp evening air and lips mapping their way south across your stomach and navel, delving lower to your core. It was too dark in your room to see down your body at the top of Montague's head, but you felt him with your fingers, coiling pieces of his ash-brown hair to your knuckles while he pushed your thighs wide open for him.

An anxious patter swelled in your chest, a vague understanding that something was horrible about this, but you were too wrapped up in a dreamy fog to think about it. More than the resounding boom of your heart, you heard your own breaths dissolve into lewd moans and slurred pleas for him to do more, more, more.

It didn't sound like you.

It didn't feel like you despite knowing that build-up in your abdomen better than most things in your body.

The hands in his hair, the back bending off of the mattress like an archway, the shaking limbs, and the cries begging for more were someone else entirely up until the very moment rapture fluttered behind your eyes in searing white, body deluged in hot release that left your scalp tingling and toes curling and spend on your sheets.

"Give me more." You tasted him again, his tongue pushing hard into your mouth where those salty notes of yourself lingered on your cheeks. His silhouette melded with the rest of the room, tangible only in the way he roamed every surface of you.

Montague had shucked the clothes from both your bodies earlier, preferring to lean into the flush of heat you radiated. Everything was only skin-deep away from him; he could feel your pulse throb on his lips when he teased himself against your carotid, your radial, trailing all the way to the powerful beat of your femoral nestled there in your groin.

His teeth came close many times to piercing you, allowing him a sliver of a taste like a parched king waiting for a drop of golden wine. But half the thrill of having you around was denying himself of you, knowing well that if he were to start, then he'd never be able to stop, and he'd fully hamper your dreams of escaping.

The air smelled like you now, heavy and like damp skin and your fluids soaking into the linens. He watched your face bunch and fall apart when he split you open with his cock, hips colliding, your skin sure to bruise as his thrusts turned savage. There wasn't much left in his heart anymore. Most of it had atrophied over the centuries, and yet the sound of yours spurred him on.

He could follow the path of your blood through your body, an extensive subject he had studied and dissected at length in his lifetime. The most vulnerable spots were gorged and worked the hardest, almost glowing red through your skin for him. When he thrust a little bit harder, a little bit faster, and felt your fingertips pushing against his chest, he heard your heart be the loudest it ever had been.

"That's it. That's it. That's it." His own breaths were ragged now. The sheer exhilaration of pushing his lips deeper, hot sweat leaving a slick layer on them, and that one big artery in your neck pounding out was doing everything for him.

Your frantic pants were a close second. He could feel you unraveling, tightening around his cock until you were soundlessly writhing on the mattress, clutching anything you could bunch together. The final few thrusts he made were purposeful; they were forceful and jolted your body, a show to make sure you wouldn't forget the feeling of him inside of you.

The clean linens were sodden with cum, some still dripping out of you while you lay there, legs splayed enough so you wouldn't feel it stick to your thighs. Whatever haze had been hanging over your eyes before lifted away, leaving you ruined and exhausted on the sheets but not alone.

"You've got class in a few hours, don't you?" Montague said from above, shoulders nestled in your headboard while one leg hung off the side of the bed. He was smoking again, acting the calmest you had witnessed him. "I don't really think you're in any shape for that. Why don't you stay home today?"

You were too spent to respond to him, somehow using the occasional breaths he blew out into the vast room to lull you into a dreamless sleep.

༺ ♰ ༻

Shin Nakamura had been a selfish man in life. Mid-fifties, thinning hair, and twice divorced from women who knew better—his tenants did not. He had built a reputation on the north side of town for hidden costs and faulty appliances that were never fixed. Once or twice in the past four years you had cleaned up scenes, they came out of Nakamura's buildings in the summertime, stuck to the floor and infested with maggots and flies in different orifices.

Everyone had asked at one point, yourself included, how he was able to get away with that level of blatant cruelty and disregard—and the answer was as simultaneously simple, complex, and terrible as poverty. The north end was an area notorious for local crime and violence, but more than that, it was forgotten in favor of gentrifying other areas of the city—pretty little boutiques that'd make a splash on social media and a couple of upscale dining spots, all of those meant to change the online scales deeming an area's walkability, and therefore, profitability.

The blind eye most city commissioners turned to the north end made it an easy life for Shin to do as he pleased without many consequences despite living in the area himself. Most of everyone found it an odd sort of justice when he was discovered in his office, unrecognizable from how badly the dozens of stab wounds had disfigured his face and body. One look was enough to know that it was personal, a tenant who had received their condemnation via a neon-pink eviction letter hastily taped to an off-white door.

Only, this time, Shin chose a person backed into a corner at their breaking point. There wasn't much left to lose, yet Shin had ultimately lost it all. Rumor had it that no one sold out the tenant who committed the crime, something even the more moralistic part of yourself could fathom.

These were the cases that painted a grim picture of your future in forensics and often speared to the front of your mind at the worst of times—could you really be part of the reason why a person shattered by the powers of society goes to jail?

Shin Nakamura was a terrible man, but were his crimes punishable by that sort of torture? What about the tenants who probably heard Shin screaming for help, crying in agony—were they any better than murderers themselves?

What did that mean for you? An accomplice who quietly scrubbed clean murders at a monster's behest, you allowed those people to be swallowed up by Montague under a guise of fear, or was it selfishness?

That discomfort lasted you your entire shift, like an incredibly nauseating pill with a bad smell that sat in your nose for hours. You couldn't wipe away the thoughts like you could dried blood on smoke-stained walls or lumps of serrated flesh and fat wedged between slabs of wood on the floor.

"Man, he coulda been cleaner about this." T.J. had his feet planted solidly on the middle step of a ladder, well at work with a long-handled brush pushed flat to the ceiling. The splatter had gone that far, earning a few awestruck coos from him and Hoss earlier. "It would've made our lives easier."

It was a normal joke.

You'd laughed at the exact same one many times before, even finessed your own commentary in there on occasion because the dead can't sue, and a murderer had no rights—but now, you thought it'd taste bad on your tongue.

The two hulking men noticed, far sharper than you gave them credit for. Or maybe you were just worse at hiding things than you thought. They didn't allude to anything until everyone was packed up in the van, dried from the sweaty protective suits and summer heat by the AC.

"Listen, it ain't my business, and I swear I've been trying my best not to ask." There was a furtive look linked between Hoss and T.J.; it was something they had talked about when you weren't around. "That guy you're living with. He isn't doing anything to you, right? You used to talk about him all the time in the beginning. Haven’t heard a peep about him in ages. God, you're not living in your car, are you?"

From the outside in, you weren't doing much to try to embellish fancy stories and reasons onto your drastic change over the months. You simply let it be and navigated every day with the hope you'd remember where you were going with your head down. It probably didn't look too good to a paternal man like Hoss, and to T.J., who had several younger siblings.

"No, it's not him—" But, of course, it really was and everything surrounding his cruelty, everything he made you do, and what you never refuted. "I'm just perpetually exhausted. I'm sure you've heard that from Sylvie and Deshaun while they've been in uni."

"All the damn time." Hoss beamed, chest perked a little higher with the mention of his children. It wasn't enough to diffuse the tension lingering in the van, however. "Just know, I'd do for you what I'd do for my babies—put the fear of God in that man. If he puts a finger on you, you let me know."

T.J. gave an agreeable hum, fingers sticking to the steering wheel as he moved them around, making a turn down some street. "We'll catch him by surprise and everything. I'll call in a couple favors, grab a few shovels and bags of cement from my dad's place. It's all good."

For some reason, their entire spiel only spiked your uneasiness, and suddenly you were far too aware of your bladder. It was enough initiative for T.J. to floor the gas and get back to headquarters, giving you the chance to break away and race the remnants of daylight all the way home.

༺ ♰ ༻

It had never happened before, but you managed to catch Montague by surprise when he walked through the front door to find you standing there in the foyer. The kitchen broom wrapped in your hands was a nasty ploy, along with the look you cast between him and a young man not any older than yourself.

Again, just like all the others, you didn't recognize him. Montague's victims were fast, fleeting fixations for him, none worthy of names or an identity in his eyes. You suspected this guy was much the same.

Montague's bewilderment was swept away by a smile and laxing posture. He had settled back into his element. "You're home early today. I didn't expect to see you until much later. Not much to the scene, I assume?"

"It was pretty bad." A certain stiffness trailed on the end of your words, letting them echo through the hall and hang in the cool evening air.

The young man was fast to perceive that tension: the tightness in your shoulders, fingers subtly wringing against the cracked wooden broom. Montague's anticipative smile climbed higher the longer he looked at you.

Would it be such a bad thing to turn around and pretend you had never seen him come home with that other man? You considered doing it, hiding upstairs and using your headphones until everything seeping through turned into an amalgamation of ambient noise that meant nothing to you, and you willed away the guilt like you'd always done.

In that moment, you thought about Meredith Nimu's apoplectic daughter, a woman so embittered by her own suffering that she was foul and relentless to anyone she crossed paths with. You thought about Shin Nakamura, a greedy, pitiless man who'd rather let coroners scrape up his tenant's remains rather than grant them mercy while they were alive and had been left in pieces because of it.

You thought of them and all their wickedness and edged your gaze towards the young man still standing in the doorway with his hand holding it ajar, clean fingernails picking at chipping paint, just steps from outside. "I think you should leave."

Run! Run! You'd better run away as fast as you can! Nothing would stop Montague from keeping his prey there, if that's what he chose to do.

He did the opposite of that, and that was, simply, nothing at all. No pretty blandishments, nor a mouthful of teeth. Rather, now, he was particularly piqued by what you were trying to do.

To the young man, he had meddled into something rather egregious, probably convinced it was extramarital. You battled a surge of pride blooming inside you, shifting your chest a little higher, anchoring your spine back into your body.

"Don't come back here." You didn't need to say anything else. He was gone after pinching out a look of disgust towards Montague, tutting at him with his upper teeth showing through a curled lip.

Nothing happened for a while, not until the front door was secured after his departure. You were left to that responsibility, triple-checking the lock, while Montague ambled deeper into the house, but not too far away as you could follow the leisurely path by his heel strike. There was a rhythm in how he moved. It was deliberate, as though mimicking something.

It took you five paces to figure out he was miming your heartbeat, and he only stopped once it quickened in your chest. He appeared from around the corner, still taking his time reaching you, toying with some trinkets displayed on shelves built into alcoves throughout the lower floor.

You couldn't explain what you were feeling at that moment. Of the thousands—maybe millions—of victims Montague had taken in the previous times, you had just deprived him of one. That man would continue living, and he would tell his friends tomorrow about the weird night he had, and he would never have to be grateful that you saved him from a hellish death.

Yes, oh yes. Even as Montague approached you, carried by his deft gait with both halves of his gold compact open in his palm, you couldn't help but be in complete awe of yourself.

A life continued outside of this mausoleum, and it was all because of you. You were entirely different from Meredith Nimu's daughter and Shin Nakamura, and, for once, your hands weren't sullied by bleach, blood, and body matter.

All that heaviness you had been carrying was suddenly so much lighter, and you felt like your chest could open up as wide as the room where you stood. The breaths you took were dry and cold in your throat, yet fresh as though you were walking outside in wintertime.

Montague must've seen something he didn't like on your face because he sucked down on his cigarette for a while, winding his wrist with it at his side once he was adequately calm.

"Did it feel good? I've only seen you this happy while I was fucking your brains out." It was jarring to hear him talk like that. He took another quick drag and let it out slowly as he rounded you. "Truthfully, darling, I didn't think you were the type to break the rules—on purpose, anyway. But I suppose we all get a little wound up every now and then, right? I've already forgiven you."

And then, you watched him drop the cigarette to the marble and snuff it underfoot until the weak ember was turned to soot. A black smear was left behind when he took his foot away. His stare into you was unwavering.

"Clean it up."

You figured this was how a frightened animal felt when it wanted something within reach of an observant predator because you were trying to think of all the ways to get close without getting too close. It was a pitiful, humorous sight to him, seeing your steps forward so light and on the verge of bolting. But he showed no intention of doing anything more.

Still with the broom in hand, your knuckles turned stark around the handle while sweeping the remains towards you. It would take more elbow grease to get up that smudge, and he knew that just as well.

He reached for the broom and snapped it to a halt, making you jump, jaw clenching. A noiseless gasp lurched in your throat, his fingers wound tight into the hair at your crown as he yanked your head back to show all the fleshiness of your neck.

"What will you do about it, darling?" His lips were already cold and flush to the artery dancing in the curvature built of skin, muscle, and tendon.

Your teeth chattered as the wetness of his tongue followed that intricate, breathtaking network inside of you as far as the neckline of your shirt would let him.

"A man has to eat. Have you ever seen it? A man near starvation and the sorts of things he'll do to survive? Why, I've heard stories of desperate, little men eating their own lovers—their children—themselves just to claw around for a little longer. It's inspiring, I think."

He dragged you away then, up the stairs and through the hallway on the second floor to your bedroom, fingers still nested your hair until the moment you were shoved down onto fresh linens. There wasn't anywhere for you to go once he joined you on the mattress, feeling it bend towards his weight.

"Don't be afraid." he said this with all the fond familiarity of a lover, blunt fingernails digging crescents into your thigh through your clothes. In the waning moonlight that filtered through the dusty window over your bed, his pale eyeshine snared you like roots bursting from somewhere within your busy sheets to keep you there—keep you tame. "That's right. Come to me. Come to me."

There was a new drowsiness behind your eyes, one you couldn't stave by blinking. Montague's face was closer now, and you were struck with just how beautiful he actually was. The longer your gaze lasted, tips of your fingers exploring every shape and edge of his exquisite features, the less you were convinced he was a threat to you—that he couldn't have possibly been all that you'd feared up until now.

"I want you." His lips inched up like he expected you to say it. He felt your hands rest on the sides of his face, guiding him down into a soft kiss that he returned, that he kept clean and let you command until he was bored with it. You chased after him, lower lip pulled between both of yours and eventually out of reach. "Don't you want me too?"

"I wish you could understand just how much I do." He rummaged his pocket for the gold compact, losing it somewhere in the sheets, and then busied himself with stripping himself and you of clothes.

Each piece discarded showed a greater expanse of your skin, a delight in his eyes because he could see that gorgeous webbing of arteries and veins throughout you, even in the darkness, through every defense your body created to protect you from every bacteria, virus, infection—from him.

He didn't need the breath, but he took one and held it anyway.

You withered against his touch, those freezing, lithe fingertips traveling down all the areas where he wished his teeth could be, clear down to your groin. His smile stretched, feeling you search eagerly for a fistful of his hair with his lips smoothing across your inner thigh and then going higher.

There was warmth between your legs, a colorless glisten that leaked out onto the thin sheets, darkening a spot on them that tempted his tongue out for a taste. He came close to entertaining the notion of giving you that glimpse of heaven, allured by your hips leaping off the mattress and against his face.

"You really do think this is all about you." Montague kept you still by pressing down into your abdomen as he rose onto his knees, erection fitting tight between your bodies in the moments before he guided himself lower and hitched up into you.

The sharp motion knocked a startled gasp out of your throat, where it quickly dissolved into a slew of filth and breathy panting. Your nails clawed into your palms, a sight he thought to make worse by digging himself deeper into you.

Montague had no issues biding his time this way, looming over the sprawl of your body beneath him, manipulating parts of you until he saw your face flinch and the first moans of discomfort shake all the way from your chest, up, and through your teeth. They matched the pace of his hard thrusts, smothered by sharp slaps of skin that carried in the inky air.

Indeed, I can wait. That thought of his unsatiated hunger melted in the back of his mind with the precedence of arranging the course of blood in your body. The drum of your heartbeat was deafening to him, but it wasn't enough.

It wasn't loud enough.

He wanted to be able to envision the arteries and veins bursting in his teeth, saturating the sheets and walls and both your bodies in hot red. He wanted it to paint his skin while he fucked you to absolution.

"It really, truly, is all about you in the end, isn't it?" He could still speak clearly, despite you being unable to utter noise beyond the air being forced out of your lungs. "You really are magnificent. How could I ever think to let you go? Not after everything you've done for me, how beautiful you look next to all of my things."

His hand shifted away from your abdomen at last, tracking across the soft span of your stomach and the muscles spasming there under his fingertips.

All he would have to do is dig through you a little bit, and he could bury himself in those twitching fibers and insides. But he continued on his path to your pert nipples that he rolled against his palm a few times, higher still to fold his fingers together against your sternum where he felt your heart thundering there against your ribs.

"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump," came his mocking chant that cracked into raspy moans as he lingered there. It had been a long time since something had made him feel this good. He had forgotten what bliss was truly like.

He reached your neck before long, trapping the underside of your jaw against his knuckles, forcing you to see him as his weight bore down on your throat. You both heard the cartilage and muscle in your neck shift, a subtle crack that sent your limbs flailing. You were thrown out of the rhythm of his thrusts in an attempt to grab at him.

"You really are despicable, aren't you?" He let out a gleeful laugh, letting your fingers turn ashen while you wrung his wrist. You weren't able to do much with your legs except use them to plant your heels into the mattress, vaulting your hips in the air to try to wrench yourself free. His cock slipped out of you, but he was hardly bothered by that.

"Does it feel good that you chased off my guest? I could get him back, you know. You're aware of this. I know you are. But righteousness just feels so… rewarding, doesn't it? You couldn't resist. Desperation must've been eating you alive."

Strings of saliva glistened in your mouth, breaking apart the further your jaws spread. You were convinced, in that moment, that you would die like that in a silent scream. None of the words that Montague spoke truly reached you, not as your chest quivered and lungs burned as though swallowed in an inferno.

"Every misdeed in life vastly outweighs the good, you know? The scales have never been leaned in our favor—not I, and especially not for you. If that's the sort of thing you believe in. Isn't that what you're taught? Goodness for the sake of salvation at the end of a short life of inhibitions? How miserable." Montague took his hand off of you and let you breathe.

You sucked in crisp air, gasping from your side through wet coughs and the sourness of vomit spat out on the floor.

Your respite was brief, weight on the mattress shifting as the hair on your scalp was used to lever you to your knees, body suspended upright only by his fingers tangled at your roots.

"This is all I can see." Montague loosened his hand from your head, moving south along your spine to your ass. He kneaded the bruised parts of your hips for a while after, lips ghosting their way along your neck up to the ear. "All I can see is what's right in front of me. And how it tastes. All that matters is that I have my fill—and that I feel good."

He smeared slick into the heel of his palm, rolling the head of his cock in that mess as he instructed you with every bit of lewdness how he wanted you to bend against the headboard, how far apart for you to spread your legs for him.

Every bit of it was humiliating for you, while he wished he could memorialize that moment of sinking back inside of you as your breaths broke into stifled sobs, face warped by anguish.

"Does it hurt? Tell me, I have to know, what does it feel like?" He enjoyed the suspense of not receiving an answer, listening as your fingernails dug tracks into the wood headboard and the dark room filled with obscene wetness that grew louder as his thrusts turned wild.

"Mmm—" He hinged forward, bracing his weight on top of your hands with his own. You shied from the surge of coolness that came with his cheek pressing yours. "You and I aren't so different. It makes me wonder if you actually like this. Isn't there something so freeing about it?"

"Mer—mercy, please." It was a coarse whisper from your dry throat, so much of your time having been spent with your mouth agape. The idea of having you that way was as tantalizing as all the others he thought up. "Montague, please—mercy."

Oh, now you were begging.

This was more than what he deserved. He managed a few more thrusts, spilling over into you by the third with a moan that he felt no shame to leave ringing in your ear. "Every part of you, every single part—I'll burn myself into your skin and your bones. You'll feel me in your veins, your blood. I'll make for certain that I'm all you remember—forever."

The vastness of your bedroom had grown warmer, permeated with the thickness of sweat and salt that left your palms slick against the headboard. You let your body slump against it, skin sticking to the wood. It didn't offer you the relief you wanted at that moment: a glass of ice water, all the tenderness of a soft bed to lull you into a blank dream—you just wanted to rest.

Montague knew this just as well, fishing his compact out from a muddled heap of linens and clothes. He checked inside to grab one of the two cigarettes left, making a mental note he'd need to replenish again tomorrow before lighting it and savoring it. At this rate, he anticipated he'd be empty before the end of the night.

For a while, he sat there cushioned on his haunches, admiring the way the smoke coiled towards the ceiling in dainty wisps and mingled with the stench of sex.

"It's not enough." he said, barely eliciting more than a glance from you. His current cigarette was already burnt to the filter, forcing him to pull the last and light that one too. "This is my last one. Such a shame."

You smelled the smoke strongly now, just seconds passing before you were yanked across the bed onto your back, the soreness in your scalp near excruciating as you yelped. Montague made a place for himself between your thighs again, leering down the length of his nose at you.

If he wanted to, he could trace the dread etched in your features with a finger, feeling all along your hot skin, into all the cavernous lines he wished he could preserve—right there, just like that. There had never been a more gorgeous visage than the one you wore right now. Only your gleaming, glowing, pink insides were more beautiful.

He watched your lips twitch while he teased a fistful of his hard cock against your sorest spot. You were swollen and bruised, and he could only imagine what it felt like when he bottomed out in you again.

The curve of your spine arched off the mattress, fingers frantically raking the air at him, reaching for any part you could sink into to get him out. Even your body seemed determined for the same, wonderfully stimulating walls squeezing around him.

It made a shiver roll all along his spine to his tailbone, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, with his first thrusts feeling positively divine. Especially when you jolted, an almost exaggerated response amplified by jagged cries and wet gasps you couldn't seem to swallow back down into your chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" You sputtered around the mucus piled in your throat. "Montague, I'm sorry. Please, stop."

He had burned away half of his last cigarette when he leaned over you, his body eclipsing what poor light had managed to illuminate the room for you. You could only follow the dainty mesmerizing glow that worked away from his mouth—his exhale barely masking a moan that he blew away with the smoke—and towards you.

"Keep doing it." His other hand was crawling up your neck, forcing you to suck in a hard breath. "Beg me again. Keep doing it."

All sound but the steady pulse of the headboard striking the wall had deadened, lasting well until the moment the cigarette touched your skin—and you screamed. Your throat vibrated, suddenly stopping when his palm closed around you again, silencing all your noise, his thrusts sloppy and rough while you thrashed under him.

This time, he kept you pinned by his chest, letting your feet dig for traction and slip and slide on the sheets. The bright smolder turned dark as he twisted it into your neck, taking all the remnants of restraint he had not to drill into you as far as it could go. He curled his tongue behind his jaws, keeping them tight.

Montague let go of your throat to allow you the grace of a stifled wail before that same hand sealed your lips. "Ah, ah. You know better than to scream. Shh, shhh, shhh. It's such an ugly sound."

He rubbed the cigarette into your skin until it crumpled, leaving him to lament for a moment once flicking it away to the floor. For him, it left behind a beautiful burn: raw, mad, red, and enticing. As his hand fell off of your mouth, daring you to do more than whimper and cry, his tongue was already flat against your wound.

"Oh, God," you wheezed, voice hoarse and jarring with the force of his hips knocking into you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Stop, stop, stop! I swear I'll never do it again! I swear. I swear!"

Montague caught the wrist you swung at his head, giving the taste of your seared flesh time to settle on his palate before turning towards the pulse in your thumb. He tried to match how he was fucking you out to how it throbbed on his lips.

"Oh, I'm well aware that you won't do it again. That much is a given." His strokes into you were suddenly languid and intentional, so achingly deep that your eyes rolled back. "I've already said that you're forgiven, haven't I?"

You could barely speak over the depth he reached. It didn't feel right. "Th-then, why?"

A smile flourished across his face, but your eyes couldn't pierce that dark veil to see it. You could feel the damp path he left on your wrist, how the muscle writhed all around the sprawl of your veins, going as far as to wind your fingertips before it receded back behind his lips.

"Because I'm enjoying myself." There was a weight of finality to those words before his mouth engulfed the side of your wrist, away from your fragile network of bluish-purplish channels. And when he bit into you, it was the incisors that sank through.

You didn't know what it was. A clamp seized you by the neck like his fist, steeling itself there and robbing you of a scream. The pain was unlike anything else—paralyzing and deep, like a pair of sharpened, narrow skewers made of molten fire piercing you with such an agonizing ache that you could do nothing but lay there.

But you still felt everything he was doing.

His thrusts had grown truly vicious, chasing a high that came as the warmth of your blood seeped from a pair of punctures he had created. The steady flow he fed from was something he lapped on at his leisure. Enough of it streaked the length of your arm and dripped onto your bedding, onto your naked, warm skin when he guided the fall over your neck and chest, south to your stomach and abdomen. He let it fill and pool the seams of his fingers while smearing it with the fluids between your bodies.

At last, breaking the trance to speak, feebly, in between intermittent pockets of pain and numbness rolling through you, you asked with some hopefulness, "Are you going to kill me?"

"You? Kill you?" Montague dropped your wrist. It felt like a limp, dead thing that didn't belong to you. He dove at your neck for those drops he teased himself with, nudging your chin high with his nose to reach it all. "Death would mean letting you go. You're all mine, darling. Whatever other existence waits beyond death will never have you."

His tongue wet a trail to your chin, collecting a watery essence of blood and spit that he pushed into your mouth. Your lips were sealed by his ravenous kiss, relenting to the thickness of his tongue swirling the taste into your cheeks and down your throat, a nauseating intermix of iron and stale smoke that lingered and made you pucker.

And then, you heard him back in your ear, craning his neck only as far as to aggravate the cigarette burn with his breath. It gave several angry throbs. The weight of his body was almost flush on you, spreading the blood around as though your skin together was a single canvas.

To his eyes, it bloomed breathtakingly, seeping into every crevice, pore, and scratch that made up your design, an impermanent stain that he could saturate you in again and again and again. The things he whispered in your ear were vile and wicked, all on unlabored breaths while his strokes turned sluggish and stayed seated deep inside you until the final hitch of his hips left you full of him.

"I don't think you should go to work today."

You were only scarcely coherent of him—or anything for that matter—eyes unmoving from the black void above and unfeeling of how he chose to manipulate your body, still, hours later. All you could think about was the flutter of your lashes weighing down heavily over your eyes and how this world only survived on suffering such as yours.

༺ ♰ ༻

A small pile of things was arranged fussily in a duffle bag Hoss had given the day you returned to work after an impromptu leave of absence. It had only lasted three days, just enough time to acclimate to the pain that seemed to synchronize to every part of your body, throbbing everywhere, all at once, and at times with sharpness so great it toppled you to the ground. You could only lay there—wherever you dropped, on whatever cold slab of marble or concrete until it dissipated, unfurling from your limbs and organs to a rapturous wave of relief that melted the tension out of you.

It had only happened once while at work on a scene amidst a balmy summer night and came out of nowhere like an electric shock surging to your fingertips and toes, a hammer landing on your bones and leveling you on the sidewalk leading back to the company van. And that was all it took to incur a ruinous sort of anger in the two hulking men.

"You're going to take this bag, pack some shit, and you're leaving. Tonight." Hoss had to shake out the dust on the old duffle bag he pulled from somewhere in his car. "You ain't gonna tell me the reason, but I know he did something to you. T.J.'s calling in a favor."

"No. Don't—don't do anything. Don't try to come to the house—" There was a bandage around your wrist that you couldn't stop fiddling with. "I don't know what'll happen if you do. Just fucking don't."

"Nah, not us." T.J. slapped his phone back into the clip on his belt loop, eyeing the motions of your fingers on your wrist uneasily. "One of my old buddies—name's Roscoe—said he wants to handle it. Apparently, he and your guy have a history of some kind. He says to be ready to go by three."

The meaning behind what he said was left nebulous and concerning to you, even after you returned home with the duffle bag and started pulling things from your closet. Some ways across your room, high up on the wall and out of your reach was a clock. Its monotonous ticking brought your eyes over to it.

It was just after one-thirty, still enough time to change your mind if you wanted to. There was something so effortlessly easy about following along to the whims of other people. It felt safe, reassuring—their confidence was infallible. Not once in four years had T.J. or Hoss given you a reason to doubt their intentions, but right now, it boiled over in your mind.

But where will I go? What am I going to do? He'll find me. He'll find me. Montague would find you, but he wouldn't stop you from leaving. You could see it with clarity—him perched on the armrest of a chair, watching you walk through the door. He'd give you a headstart, a few days, maybe a few weeks.

You weren't sure you knew what to do without him. There was nowhere else in the world you could go, no one you could confide in that wouldn't be destroyed. He would keep your heart beating all the while breaking you apart until he had his fill, reminding you that this was how it was meant to be. This was how he showed you how you belonged.

And you—silly little you with your consciousness floating on the fringes of inscrutable ecstasy and some personal purgatory built on agony in your bones and blood—would believe him.

"Going on a trip?" His voice drifted to you from the doorway, far sweeter than it usually was. "I wish you would've told me. I can't imagine what it'll be like without you here in this house. You breathe life into it."

He was lured over by your silence, fitting his fingers between your shoulder blades to push along your spine, easing away the discomfort that had settled there. It was hard not to lean into that relief, a misstep that shattered any lasting hold of willpower when he stooped his neck to sweep you into a kiss.

"Why don't you stay instead?" He knew you wouldn't be coming back, not without dragging you back himself. "Stay with me instead. Right here. In this bed."

"Montague, stop—" He pressed down harder on your lips so those words withered into guttural frustration in your throat.

The duffle bag was flung far away, opening space on your bed for him to lay you out and begin to unravel the bandages around your wrist. Once he had access, his mouth was already full against the two puncture sites.

"Stay." He wasn't playing coy now. "I'll take care of you. It wasn't enough before. I can see that now. What can I do? It'd be too easy to break your legs. What if I chained you to this bed? What if I locked you up in this room? I wouldn't mind keeping you downstairs with me, but it would be too cold for you, I think."

"I want to leave." you said, mustering your composure through tight lips while he teased the infected purple holes with his flatter teeth. "Let me go."

He smiled derisively. "I don't think you know what you want."

"I—" You balked at him, reiterating with a stumble, "I—I just want to leave. Get off."

"How will you ever survive without me?" You didn't know if you'd be able to. "You'll be all alone, all alone in a world that's just ready to tear you open and spit you back out. I've told you before: Society doesn't reward virtue over vice—only those who play along. You won't last, not after you've known and tasted me."

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, whereas he swelled like a man who had salvaged a victory, lying himself down to kiss you again—

And then, the doorbell rang with an immense melancholic echo that you could feel vibrate up your arms and legs. Nearly a year later, you were hearing it for the first time and grasping onto the lapels of his suit vest, keeping him still when you remembered T.J.'s promise.

"Ignore it." you said.

"We have a guest—" Something in his tone made your stomach clench. "It's not polite to leave them waiting, especially at this hour."

Montague had untangled himself from you and was gone before you could stop him. Another wave of pain put you on the floor when you moved. Drool piled from your mouth. An ache so unreal pounded in the wrist he had played with. The crawl to your duffle bag was far, arduous in that every inch felt like carrying stones on your back.

I'm going to die. I might as well already be dead. You didn't have any more time to wait, so you slung the strap over your shoulder and used the wall to guide you along the quiet hallway, bumping into every pedestal and display where Montague's most treasured things had stayed undisturbed.

You were one of them, something he could keep on the second floor with the rest of his stuff, but unlike brittle porcelain and fraying embroidery—he could break you as much as he wanted, again and again and again, and fit you back whole. He could do it forever while you wasted, longing for an end he would never give you.

But as you crept along the bleak wallpaper and all of his curios, you were so gentle with them, steadying any wobbling base or piece as you went. The central staircase was close, voices at the bottom of it faint and unintelligible, drifting alongside you as though part of the house—

The air exploded.

Just once.

A single gunshot brought back all the alertness to your body, neck and shoulders at full length, pain dulled to where you could shuffle faster and look off the bannister at the landing below.

Montague was staring back up at you from the floor, entirely still and soundless. His jaw was unhinged, askew, frozen in a position that should've been impossible. A black hole gaped between his eyes, but didn't bleed.

"If you're not ready, that's going to be bad news." Another man stood nearby sheathing a gun, unfamiliar and yet with sameness in the way his gaze felt hollow and reached through you. "I'm repaying my debts. I'd like to make good on this one."

You were slow descending the stairs, even slower while you rounded Montague's body and denied yourself the chance to stop. Something invisible wanted to pull you to him, plow your knees into hard marble and weep over his chest. However, your insides bending in disgust and twinges in your bones kept you onward.

This man, Roscoe, was just as sickly-seeming and gray as the other, every slot of space on his arms and neck filled with images of religious iconography and portraits of saints—Mary being the only one you recognized with just a glance. It was tempting to touch him, something he noticed and stepped out of your reach.

"Is there another way out of here?" He made a weak motion towards the front door just ajar, but his eyes were stuck on the wrist wounded and unusable to you now. "We need to go. Now."

You were racking your brain for an answer, turning half-circles in place before pointing to the archway with a clock. "There's a backdoor, but the yard is fenced in and there's nothing but forest for three miles. There's also—"

Roscoe waited expectantly, ushering you to continue when he went for the gun in its holster. "Start moving, we'll figure it out." He unloaded another round into Montague's head, a near indecipherable twitch in the fingers made the hair on your neck shoot straight out. "Silver only keeps him down. It won't kill him. Go!"

"Th—there's, there's the basement." You smacked your lips, trying to swallow around a bulge in your throat. "There's an old door. He said there are tunnels, but I don't know where they go. I don't know if he was telling the truth. I don't—"

He threw a hand into your back, thrusting you forward at least three feet. You almost didn't catch your footing. "Then that's where we're going."

"Not a friend of yours then, I assume, darling?" Montague's voice from the floor was as much of a relief as it was terrible. The silent gaps of air all around were disturbed by sharp snaps and cracking bones as his jaw moved back into place and he sat upright over his thighs. You were transfixed by the silver bullets being sucked into his skull, holes shrinking until they closed completely. "I'm not surprised you're still fraternizing with the wrong crowds, Roscoe. You and that entire Society have always been a fucking eyesore."

Roscoe readied his aim. "Parasite."

Montague laughed all the way to his feet, tugging at the edge of his vest to make it neat again. He opened his mouth just enough to let his tongue roll out, shards of silver bullets tinkling as they hit marble underfoot. "You can't take what's mine."

He looked to you, stepping closer every time Roscoe moved you back with his arm. "Come here. Come back to me, darling. This is where you belong. This is your home. You belong here with me, here with everything that you know."

"He doesn't mean that."

Another gunshot snapped you to attention, blinking out of a stupor you hadn't realized you were in.

The bullet landed in Montague's forehead, teetering his balance in such a way that his back curved towards the floor, arms hanging like useless instruments, yet he still somehow kept his soles planted. "Time to go. Get to the basement."

Roscoe didn't fail to reach you this time, running tight on your heels through the house to the basement floor. He stopped partway to the old door to help you scour the duffle bag for a key—one attached to the chatelaine Montague had given you the day you accepted to move in.

Your breaths were ragged, heart ablaze and beating against your ribs. In that moment, as you flipped through the assortment of keys with an unsteady, slippery grip, you wondered if Montague heard your blood racing in your veins, if he could follow the suffocating drumbeat your heart made in your ears.

Just above, fast approaching the locked basement door, came a thunderous roar so inhuman and reverberating that it scared the clip of keys out of your hands into a clattering heap on the floor. Time was up.

"Move!" Roscoe shoved you aside, illuminated by the hectic flare of your phone as he fit his fingers through a gap in the door and ripped the entire thing off its hinges. He pulled you by the scruff of your shirt and heaved you inside the tunnel. "Go! Go! Go!"

The first thing to hit you was a putrid smell intimately known but always through protective equipment and a respirator. And as you went deeper into the tunnel, led by a single route and the light off your phone, the dirt packed under your feet turned soft, sinking to the tops of your shoes.

And then, you saw bodies.

Numerous—countless corpses in varying stages of decay with twisted faces reflected your terror and pain right back at you. Most were intact with missing limbs or dark red chasms in their abdomens that had been scraped hollow and dry under the white light.

A few had been fully decapitated, briefly reminding you of the dead blonde woman from that night, but most of what lay stacked against the tunnel walls were emaciated figures with skin pulled so taut to their bones you could still make out their faces.

You were doubled over your knees, sucking in fetid mouthfuls of air and retching them back out on the ground. It burned in your throat, in your nostrils, and behind your eyes, but stifled your sobs as Roscoe dragged you alongside him.

"What did he do? What did he do?" You were crying, wheezing out those words on every shallow breath you took all the way to an end just ahead.

The more you thought about it, the more you smelled the rot, tasted the bitterness of your own vomit, the more came out. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"

Roscoe had to let you rest in the grass once you both surfaced. One of the exits turned out to be near the house, less than half a mile. But the tunnels kept going and so did the bodies. You suspected that there wouldn't be any reach of that underground labyrinth that didn't have some form of decay along it.

The thought brought the tears back, but now you could relish the sticky summer night humidity and touch dewy tendrils of grass under your hands.

"Can you drive?" Roscoe had a pair of keys hanging from his index finger, giving you a long moment to take them. He saw confusion in your watery stare. "I'll tell you where to go, just drive."

That's how it had been for hours at this point. You kept your hands locked around the steering wheel, one stronger than the other, gnawing the inside of your cheek while ruminating everything—tonight, the night Montague had bitten you, every other night before that, and your decision to have ever trusted him.

"How long ago did he bite you?" Roscoe had the seat reclined, arms over his eyes to shield them from oncoming headlights. "It doesn't look good."

You tested your grip on the steering wheel, but you couldn't do much without a sharp sting in your wrist. "I don't know—a couple weeks ago? I've tried everything short of going to the emergency room."

"That won't help," he said. "Modern medicine can fix a dog bite, antibiotics can kill an infection, a vaccine can protect you from a virus. Those aren't going to do any good."

Solemnly, you asked, "Am I going to die?"

Roscoe didn't sit up but had your wrist in his hands, turning it in little ways that didn't aggravate you. Besides the occasional glare from passing vehicles, there was no light in the car, and the holes in your skin were hardly distinguishable, though they had gotten darker. You weren't able to move it with any ease now.

"What you need to know right now is that he's never going to stop following you." He put your hand back on the steering wheel, careful as he enclosed your fingers around it. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, what you do, where you go—a parasite finds a host, and it latches on. And it doesn't let go."

You glanced between him and the road several times, tongue wetting the dry parts of your lips. "He's a vampire—you're a vampire. There's got to be something—"

Roscoe finally sat up in his seat, now cramped sideways with his shoulders flat to the window. The car veered a bit into the other lane. "You need to understand something. What you're saying would imply he ever had any humanity. Vampires are created." He paused for a beat, waiting for the realization to strike you. "Montague was never created."

"What—what the hell is he, then?" A horn abruptly blared by, prompting you to yank the car back onto the correct side. "He drinks blood. He has teeth. He—he hunts. He doesn't like silver. His eyes are the same as yours."

Roscoe lowered his gaze, but remained in that uncomfortable position. "There's a story I heard about him once. I don't remember the details except for one: ‘If the devil exists, they're one in the same.’"

You kept your eyes on the road, counting every car that flitted on past. They were probably going to work at this hour—green numbers on the dashboard showed it just after four—and they'd be able to have a place to return to at the end of the day. Now, you didn't belong anywhere, and twenty-four hours from now you still wouldn't.

The town where you had lived with Montague for a year was long behind you, backtracking would take hours, and you wouldn't know how to get back from the direction that Roscoe had told you to go. Dim streetlamps and cozy houses with spruced yards had morphed into an endless network of concrete, signs, and off-ramps to places you'd never heard of.

It was scary how everything could change in one night, and how it did. The only semblance of normalcy to you right now were the aches throughout your body, which had returned the moment you fully comprehended that you had escaped that house.

"Why…" Roscoe looked up at you, seeing your lips shake and eyes turn red. "Why do I want to go back to him?"

He fixed himself right in the seat, tousling a hand through his hair while looking out through the windshield. "You shouldn't do that. But you'll never be able to stop running."

You never saw Roscoe again once the car ride ended several thousands of miles later, mentioning something about how he repaid his debt to T.J. and had disappeared from a restaurant you both walked into. When that happened, you sat paralyzed at your little table for most of the day with a soul-crushing realization that you were truly alone with nobody in the world—

Just like Montague said you would be.

And, for the sake of others, you'd never be able to have anyone else in your world.

It stayed that way for close to two years. The hardest part hadn't been the homelessness or constant vigilance, not the door revolving each person to come into your life since, but the fact that you still yearned for what you once had. Everything so awful about what you experienced sometimes looked like heaven when you thought about it, like soft, cloudy nostalgia from a time where the throes of agony were all you had ever known.

You were capable of thinking soberly as well, and with that came the understanding that a part of you would always want that time back—want him back. He had left you with a permanent scar and neurological damage that could never be corrected. It was anticipated you'd lose that wrist at some point in the future, but for now, you could still hold a cup and brush your teeth with enough conscious effort.

The pain never went away either, but you refused to let it impede your work in the field. And your two roommates were a couple of engineering geniuses who'd managed to make the flat more accommodating to your needs. They'd been patient with you during every step of your transition into a new life, calling you an enigma because you had nothing to your name except a dusty duffle bag and a "strange-looking dog bite" on your wrist when you first met them.

Sometimes, especially on the weekends after clinking together enough shot glasses, they tried to probe your brain for some clue as to who you were, who you had been historically. You had decided it was better that they—that no one—knew about it or what actually existed out there in the world.

And when you returned home from the lab late that Saturday night, you were surprised to find the lights off and the flat immersed in the kind of soundlessness that made your ears feel clogged with cotton.

You were slow in lowering your backpack to the floor, keeping the front door slightly ajar so a slither of light from the residential corridor slipped inside. "Jordan? Felix?"

No answer. You didn't hear anything from their bedrooms upstairs either.

"Jordan?" The nearest light switch didn't work, neither did the one after that, or any others you hunted down with the diffused beam from your phone screen. "Jordan? Felix? Are you guys home?"

It was possible they had gone out somewhere for the night and just hadn't mentioned anything to you, as unsound as that logic actually was, considering it simply wasn't their personality. But as you wandered through different rooms checking the switches, you knew you were rationalizing to keep yourself in check.

The light from the hallway still piled inside like a narrow pillar, raising all the hairs on your neck and arms, knowing that it wasn't a building-wide outage. They had never left you in a situation like this before. Something was wrong.

"Jordan! Felix! Whe—" Your foot nearly shot out from under you when you slid through something slick on the laminate. After a moment to fix yourself, bracing the edge of the countertop with a clammy palm, you steadied the white glow of your phone at the floor.

There, glistening back at you, was the vast richness of blood in a tall puddle that spread like long winding tendrils through grout in the flooring. It looked almost black under your light at a certain angle, estimating it had been there for several hours—untouched.

You held in a breath and grit your jaws together as the more you moved, the more you saw. And when the top of a head came into view, silky hair shining like fine thread before clumping together at the base where the blood had pooled the most, it was everything you could to keep yourself from hitting the floor.

Both of them were there, perfectly out of sight of the front door and completely unrecognizable. Their bodies had been left in one piece, though where their faces had once been were cavernous holes with pale, pink ribbons of flesh and fat left behind. The roundness of their skulls let blood fill inside it like a vessel. What little pieces of brain matter remained had floated to the surface.

You staggered back from them, phone loosening from your weak hand and returning them to the maw of darkness, while groping the wall behind you as far as your arm could reach. This wasn't a result of crude knife work or even bludgeoning; no, it was a slow kill, one meant to steep someone in torment so immense that you prayed to whatever was out there that they succumbed immediately.

"Help…" Your voice was trapped in your throat, barely registering as a whisper even to yourself as you sidled along the wall. "Someone—anyone, please help."

The patter of your heartbeat was torturous. Your every step back to the entrance was leaden with fear. You couldn't get your legs to move fast enough, and the light reaching in through the gap seemed to stretch on forever—further, further, and further still.

You thought back to that day you met Montague and shook his hand, noting how unnaturally cold it had been despite it being a nice day in spring. You remembered the dead blonde woman with mascara tears, and the bodies he used to decorate the tunnels, and the young man who was able to walk away that night believing it was all some shallow quarrel—never knowing he had sealed your fate.

You regretted all of it.

The door was in your reach now, and you could get out, call for help, and go back to running. This time, you wouldn't be tricked into false satiety or let anyone too close. You would see mountains and forests and oceans a thousand times over before you stopped again.

Two years hadn't been enough time for you to accumulate many things, you thought. It wouldn't be hard to leave most of it behind, just like you had before. You would unpack that old duffle bag from the back of your closet, fill it to the brink, and that would be enough.

You had your hand over smooth metal, but that cold reached greater depths in you as the door was pushed shut from behind, light shrinking away through the slot until you were swallowed whole in the dark.

"Hello, darling. I've missed you." He sounded the same against your ear. For a split second, you felt relieved. "Don't worry about cleaning up. We're not staying long."

He clamped damp fingers over your mouth before you could scream.

a/n; I hope this scratched some awful itch for you. onto the story notes:

on montague: what he is exactly is open to interpretation. tell me your theories! his character has been around in my arsenal for a very long time, but as a human cannibal in those days. he's been resurrected into something worse imo. he exists in my vampire universe more as a side-character, and, surprisingly, is not the central antagonist. he is meant to more or less be the embodiment of depravity and the consequence of a being without internal moral compass.

on mc: represents the fallacy of man and how unreliable the narrative of morality actually is, and how we as people have tendencies to twist and turn the meaning of it for our own benefit. mc in this story is not meant to be a good person, but did they deserve condemnation to a personal purgatory?

so, while this is a monster story, I wanted to parallel the treatment mc endures + mindset to the horrors of trying to escape abuse. I wanted to explore this through the lens of a monster story, though. if you suspect you are in an abusive relationship, please reach out to people to help get you out.

what's funny is that this story was originally supposed to be a dark comedy that moved towards something a little darker, and eventually turned into this. montague was initially going to just be a nuisance to mc by inserting himself into friend hangouts because "it's my house".

divider by; @/anlian-aishang

dc divider by; @/benkei-bear

if you read and enjoyed it, please share your thoughts and reblog!!

#vampire #vampire romance #vampire story #vampire x reader #vampire x you #vampire x human #monster x reader #monster fiction #monster fic #monster x human #monster story #tw monsterfucking #monsterfkr #monster fucker #eldrich horror #origonal character #original writing #original work #2k writes #monsterfucking nsft #monster romance

[ddarker-dreams]

mini love report — gojo satoru

relationship health diagnosis — 70%*

symptom one — permanent honeymoon phase

he's obsessed with you an (ab)normal amount and makes it everyone else's problem. satoru loves seeing how many compliments he can get in before you're swatting him away from embarrassment. he'll capture your wrist, smother your pulse in kisses, then continue his praise. it's not always suave either. he alternates between having decent game and coming off as cringe. you have no idea how he says half the things he does.

satoru gushes about you to everyone. poor ijichi, mortified higher-ups, the elderly lady sitting next to him on the train; no one is safe. his chest swells with pride every time he remembers that he managed to pull you. it doesn't matter if you're teenagers sharing your awkward first kiss or if you've been married for decades, he'll be singing your praises until the end of time.

symptom two — weirdly possessive

satoru isn't possessive in the traditional sense. when others encroach on you, what troubles him runs deeper than simple jealousy. his smile becomes strained and he physically inserts himself between you and the offending party. you're then whisked away, regardless of how rude the abrupt departure comes off. this isn't limited to instances where you're being flirted with outright.

it's actually amplified when the other person holds some unique position in your life that's exclusive to them. satoru prides himself on the fact no one knows you better than he does. so it's disconcerting when another person has access to information and memories entirely detached from him. he's overwhelmed with the urge to prove you belong to each other — no one can come close to the bond you share. this acrimony lingers even after the interaction ends.

gojo satoru is a greedy man. he might not be the type to insist you cover up if your outfit is revealing, but he does experience this antipathy toward people who fulfill a niche he can't.

symptom three — obnoxious

you deserve a reward for putting up with him honestly. he wasn't wrong when he described himself as having a terrible personality. while it's rarely malicious, he isn't the most considerate person when it comes to others. he'll speak what's on his mind without a second thought. zero filter. if you're around, he's a stunning 10% nicer so you'll chew him out less. the number could be higher but he finds that disciplinary side of you hot. this is a direct admission from him.

he likes your attention and will pursue it relentlessly. as he grows up, he slightly improves this habit. or, to be more specific, he hides it better. he feels he's way more interesting than whatever book or video game you're playing. shooing him off so you can get stuff done is a commonplace occurrence. on the upside, when trudging through chores, he helps with the passion of a thousand suns if it means having you all to himself sooner.

primary area of concern

satoru's seemingly infinite (heh) supply of pep often doubles as a shield to deflect uncomfortable emotions. he isn't one to linger on negative events, the pace in which he seemingly moves on is concerning. the innerworkings of his mind are shrouded in mystery for such an open individual. getting him to open up about his fears or past hurts is almost impossible. he won't dodge your inquiries outright, that'd prove too suspicious. he'll throw a few crumbs your way and hope that's enough to satiate your worry.

the word vulnerability isn't in his vocabulary. this isn't owed to a lack of trust on his part — if anything, the care he holds for you makes it tempting at times. however, taking that first step toward opening up is daunting. you'll have to be patient with him. if it doesn't pertain to your relationship, it's unlikely he'll have an extensive heart-to-heart about the specters haunting his mind. rather, those aforementioned crumbs become more substantial. a late-night conversation will unexpectedly veer toward a sensitive subject.

it'll be fleeting. you don't have to shower him with platitudes, simply grab his hand and squeeze. it's an unspoken message that he isn't as alone as he sometimes feels.

prognosis

gojo satoru can be too blunt, he struggles with emotional intimacy, and he's shameless in getting what he wants from you. he's a mess but he's your mess. you don't revere him like a god among men, you make him feel human. you're his best friend, his soulmate (he keeps the latter description to himself, it's one of the few sentiments that embarrasses him). he'd do absolutely anything for your sake. when you enter the room, it's like everyone else ceases to exist. he brightens up and chases after any laugh, smile, or flustered expression he can get.

he believes meeting you altered the balance of the world more than his own birth.

*the universe has tried (and failed) to wrench you apart (0-20) your friends are praying that you'll break up (21-40) 'well it could/has be worse' bargaining mindset (41-60) a lil messiness as a treat (61-80) pure and wholesome (81-10)

#i wrote this with golden girl in mind but it isn't exclusive to the story . #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #gojo brainrot #mini love reports #valentines 2024 event

[lovebugism]

OMG BUG I READ YOUR FICTOBER EVENT AND GOT SO EXCITED!!!

"I’ve been crocheting this throw blanket for four years and it’s finally finished. Please pretend it’s big enough and cuddle under it with me." I read this prompt and I think it would be amazing with sunshine/dizty reader x steve, its totally ok if you dont feel inspired so don't feel pressured to write it, ok love you, bye!! ♡

ty for requesting lovie :D — you make steve an anniversary present and the big softy almost cries (ditzy!reader, established relationship, fluff, 1k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

“Happy anniversary!” you squeal, clutching an ambiguously wrapped gift in your hand. 

It’s not actually your anniversary today. You can’t be sure when it is, really. You and Steve were already four months deep before you realized how official things had gotten, without either of you outright making them that way. So you both just decided to celebrate the day you first met, which you thought was pretty fitting. It feels right to acknowledge the day your lives changed forever.

You stand in front of Steve where he sits on the couch and plop the present into his waiting hands. The red glitter from the sparkly hearts gets all over his golden palms. It’s rather sloppily wrapped, like there’s no real shape to whatever you had gotten him.

He thinks it might be a blanket, or maybe a beach towel you liked so much you had to wrap.

Steve holds it up to his ear and shakes it anyway. “Is it a puppy?” he jokes with a crooked grin and sparkling honey eyes.

You pout, a frown pinching your brows. “No. There’s no airholes, Steve— that’d be so dangerous.”

Steve nods. He tries to be as serious as you are, but you’re so damn cute it’s impossible not to smile. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he concurs with a squint. 

He tears through the pink wrapping paper with glitter coating his fingers. He’s not surprised to find a blanket inside, but the fact that it’s handmade takes him for a loop.

It’s made of rainbow-colored square patches with different colored hearts on the front of each one. Some look more like blobs and bits of yarn straggle from a few rounded corners, but it’s the prettiest thing Steve’s ever seen. Mostly because he knows it was made by your hands.

He loves it so much he could cry.

“Holy hell, babe,” he scoffs out a laugh as unshed tears burn the backs of his eyes.

Unsure of how to gauge the reaction, you shift your weight on your feet and wring your clammy hands together. “Do you like it?" you wonder with brows furrowed in muted concern.

He drags his eyes away from the fuzzy blanket in his hands and up to you. His honey gaze glitters when it finds your own. “I love it, babe— what the hell? How long did it take you to make this?”

You shrug, innocent and sparkling. “I don’t know… ‘Bout a year, I guess.”

Steve gapes at you, eyes wide and pink mouth softly open. “You’ve been making this since we started dating?” he wonders when the words finally catch up to his reeling brain.

“Yeah…” you waver with a scrunched nose. “Is that weird?”

Too overwhelmed with a billion emotions, Steve just laughs. 

He figures he must look insane, getting all emotional like he’s never seen a blanket before. One hasn’t meant this much to him before now. Nothing has, really — ‘cause it wasn’t made completely and utterly by you.

He shrugs and beams at you, wider than you’ve ever seen. “Only if it’s weird that I wanna kiss you stupid right now,” he teases, only half-joking.

“That’s very weird,” you nod, then purse your lips to the side in a futile attempt to hide the smile threatening to take over.

“Get over here, weirdo,” the boy laughs, sitting the blanket beside him and reaching for you. 

His palms spread across the backs of your laughs when he’s close enough to touch you — a wide, warm, and all-consuming touch. You brace yourself on his shoulders when you lean in to kiss him, giggling against his smiling mouth when he drags you onto the couch beside him.

He smacks a more intentional kiss to your lips before pulling away from you completely. He keeps one arm around your back while his other reaches for the blanket. He shakes it out to unfold it entirely, then tries to wrap the two of you in it. 

The crocheted thing only covers half of you.

Steve’s eyes are light-heartedly wide as they flit to you. “I hate to say it, babe…”

“What?” you waver, made unsure by his feigned seriousness.

“I don’t think we’re both gonna fit underneath it…”

“Yeah, we can!” you argue with a scoff, shifting closer to him. “We just gotta get real close, see?”

It doesn’t fit until you’re halfway sitting on his lap — arms wrapped around his neck, chest pressed to his. It doesn’t change how tiny the blanket is, but he’s certainly not complaining. If Steve had it his way, you’d be this close to him all the time.

“Ah, I see,” the boy nods with a poorly hidden grin. You’re so close, the tip of his nose traces up and down the bridge of yours.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him in a whisper. Your smile is quieter now, bordering on serious, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in your eye he doesn’t miss. Steve nods again with raised brows, and you continue. “What if I told you that this was all intentional?”

“…Making the blanket three feet too small?”

You nod.

Steve thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Then I’d say that you’re an evil genius. Or a total poet. One of the two, definitely— but both are equally hot.”

“Well, I was lying. It wasn’t intentional,” you confess to a crime he already knew you were innocent of. You light up again a second later, eyes sparkling just like your smile does. “But at least we get to snuggle, though, right?”

Steve laughs, high and boyish. It fills the living room with sun rays and makes your chest feel all warm. It’s like he put sunshine where your heart’s supposed to be. 

He just nods and holds you closer. He’d tell you that he hopes he has a lifetime of snuggling with you if he could find the words to say it. You’ve got him tripping head over heels for you that he’d stutter too horribly for you to understand him.

But you get it, though, without him having to say a single word.

‘Cause if you could have a lifetime with him, cuddling under this exact blanket (that you accidentally knit way too small), you’d die the happiest person that’s ever walked the goddamn planet.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #st drabbles #stevie drabble #event: fictober!

[soapoet]

What makes you different...

...from their previous partners?

requested by anon.

like & rb if it resonates ♡

01.

Your person has been through it, and you may have too, which for many of you forms a deep understanding regarding fears of repeating the type of betrayal you have both seen. In comparison to their past rendezvous, they find your relationship very secure. They feel free to voice their thoughts and feelings without guilt or shame, or outright fear of retaliation as they've grown to expect misunderstandings and gaslighting. For many, they have been cheated on, so your honesty, integrity, and loyalty sets you apart from their prior experiences.

I see them taken aback quite often. Their previous relations may have trained them to always anticipate the worst, so the clarity in your communication and how you handle conflict takes them by surprise. They're used to shouting matches and slamming doors. You express yourself when you are hurt in ways that does not tear them down. There's no eye for an eye with you because you're not as spiteful as their past lovers. Really, they simply put don't need to fear you.

They could have remnants of a jealous streak, though it transforms into a protective nature over time as they come to find that they truly can trust you. You play no games made for them to lose, and you do not go out of your way to cause them jealousy or fear the end of the relationship. You're understanding even when you air your grievances, and wish to solve problems rather than create new ones and make it worse and make them regretful they every said anything at all.

They feel safe to allow you much further into their internal world than others before you because you are respectful of what lies beyond the surface and beyond. You're neither judgemental or cruel, petty, and neither are you a bully. The way the two of you are able to relate to each other's history and defining moments inspires an unspoken promise to keep each other safe, and never trespass against boundaries or breaking any agreed upon rules.

Passion, they'll find, holds hands with love, not just with hate. They find your unquenchable thirst and will to engage with and pursue your desires intoxicating. You inspire them where others have knocked them down or ridiculed them. You encourage their passion and make them feel appreciated, even admired. Others have forced them to turn cold, but you reignite their emotional expression, awakening it from its hibernation so that it may come out to play in your spring weather.

02.

Your person has often resorted to selective hearing just to keep themselves both calm and sane. Friends and family would tell them frequently how poorly they choose their partners. They are not quite certain how or why they wound up repeating patterns in the past. Acting on impatience infused impulse they would take prospective partners at face value and believe their facades, exaggerations, and lies. Then before they'd know it, they'd find themselves in commitment with someone falling short of their ideals and what they thought they were signing themselves up for based on promising beginnings which quickly turned sour.

I see them in the past dealing with people first seemingly so deserving of worshipping, only for the tune to change to simply entitled and bratty very quickly. You are clear in your expectations and standards, but you're not loud in your demands, and to them it is refreshing that you rarely make them. This causes them to really take the demands you do make to heart and try to give you what you want or need, or try in earnest to find compromise where needed. After so many partners chewing them out and complaining about this and that at a constant flow of negativity, you're a shocking change of pace.

You're not needlessly argumentative and choose your battles wisely. They're used to practically carrying their partners away from conflict and praying to higher beings they won't even start when they'd just like a peaceful outing or a nice afternoon. The only drama you bring to the table is gossip shared for the two of you to joke about together like best friends, not the kind where they are expected to end fights you started.

By comparison to past lovers, you are mature and ooze worthiness, the kind you don't need to be so loud about. What comes to mind is the demands of princess treatment vs. earning queen treatment. Their past is full of rather immature partners who rarely pursued their own goals, and your ambition, self awareness and sense of self worth rather than ego and chasing empty applause makes them view you as an equal who is truly worth their time, money, effort, and devotion. You're on the same wavelength and it makes the whole power couple thing come so much more naturally.

Not to mention you're much better received by their friends and family. They really have no concerns about bringing you home to meet their family because they know how you carry yourself with grace, and how your charm is genuine. You're very natural and likeable, and don't try too hard. Loved ones may very quickly tell them not to screw this up, and make sure you're always comfortable and feel welcome in their homes, and begin nudging your person very early on to put a ring on it.

03.

Your person has very little experience before you, possibly none for some, at least nothing serious enough to write home about. You fit their idea of love very well, however, and they can feel surprised by how well things go with you. They've heard horror stories from friends and read the reddit posts about wildly tumultuous relationships, and be shocked by their first serious relationship with you.

It's just so easy. You compete only with their solitude, and always seem to win. They find themselves at peace with you more than they ever expected to when sharing so much time and space with another. Things weren't supposed to work out so well in this day and age, and the romcoms were exaggerations, right? Yet they find your relationship so sweet, and stable in its simplicity.

They have a past with some kind of toxicity aimed at them. For some this is family, for others it's a friend. Either way they've been used to making themselves small and to take on burdens of others by force. Emotional labour performed with a gun to their head. They have no qualms about caring for you, and are in fact more than happy to be at your beck and call because you're encouraging of them too. It's quite sad to say, but it seems that either in their family or amongst their peers they've often wound up with a target on their back solely for, well, being an easy target.

You help them stand up for themself, and help them overcome a lot of things which cause them anxiety. They're able to share their thoughts and feelings, express their excitement about their interests and feel heard when they're with you. You may very well share quite a few interests in common, which to them is an entirely new concept as they're used to others finding their interests dumb, childish, or useless. You seem to make equally amazing friends and lovers.

They're very clever and you're one of the first to give them credit for it. You're able to gently coax them out of their shell, and their otherwise cautious nature shifts to a more adventurous and daring one. And this all by no means require great efforts on your part, as by simply being your usual self makes them feel safe enough to be themselves too. You're quite similar in many ways, though you differ in how you come to the same conclusions on different topics, and these variables are small but delightful surprises for the two of you to rejoice over and discuss. You're a very healing and brightening connection in their life, and as thanks they'd fetch you the moon if they could.

04.

There is a lot of chemistry between you and your person, much more than they have experienced in previous relationships. That's not to say they have necessarily all been bad, they just lacked this kind of easy yet electrifying, "meeting of the minds" -type of chemistry. Their past lovers have been drama-free and they've enjoyed very stable relationships, albeit very milquetoast in comparison to you and the relationship you provide. Don't take this the wrong way, but they dated "perfect" long enough to realise it is merely good enough, and you with your various hiccups are more interesting and much more worth their attention. Imperfections are needed and challenges are opportunities to strengthen bonds in ways "perfect" cannot.

Though many of their previous partners have, like they themself, been stable and secure, they have also felt taken for granted, and in some instances, taken advantage of. They're a very reliable and caring person, but have not always had the best luck in terms of finding reciprocal love. More often than not, affections quickly grew monotonous and became routine, leaving them under the impression that love is just that, routine. Gifts and attention easily grew to be something expected of them rather than something truly appreciated and met with gratituse and adoration.

They're dutiful in all areas of life, but find a new pep in their step regarding their romantic duties thanks to you. They find you delightful and full of surprises. The latter being something they perhaps thought was a bad thing for a long time. You keep them on their toes a little. Enough to excite them and keep the sparks flying, but not to the point of making them nauseous. You're different from them, and as they previously dated people much too similar to themself, you're a welcome breath of fresh air, like coming face to face with the sea and its breeze for the first time.

They feel a sense of freedom with you that they never found in their past relationships. Sometimes they may have walked on eggshells, but most of all I see them often turning into a shell of their true self. In their pursuit to stick to a comfortable routine and not upset their previous partners with anything too wild or crazy, they held back on things they wanted, and put running the day to day smoothly above their own interests and whims. Through you they reconnect with these things, and you inspire them to reach for new opportunities and tap into their slumbering zest for life.

The nostalgia you evoke by merely daring to stay true to yourself, speaking your mind and pursuing your own adventures makes their efforts of creating stability in your relationship actually feel worthwhile and welcome. You fascinate them, and every day they learn something new about or through you, which makes them feel more alive. They find themselves reminiscing about how they used to be before, until they slowly take their power back and align more with their true self. Their attraction to you never seems to dull down and they more readily show their appreciation and love for you. You inspire a greater sense of romance in them, and have them thinking very differently about love. Where they previously had their linear idea of how a relationship progresses, they suddenly take more risks and stop thinking about things so meticulously and leave some things up to chance. Where once they would've waited 5 years to propose, they no longer feel the need for these arbitrary and restrictive milestones and simply propose when it feels right.

05.

Your person is quite the whirlwind. They've explored many options in love and life, or at the very least had plenty of offers. None of them ever fit quite right, though, and many may have accused them of being too picky or unreliable due to their flighty nature. You're more akin to them, and balanced in all the right places to match their energy. There is a healthy kind of push and pull between you which keeps things interesting in the long run. Many before you have been demanding in terms of commitment and how that commitment is supposed to look like, and how and when things are meant to unfold. Your love isn't like clockwork, and though you have your ideas and hopes for the future of the relationship, you don't make demands and nag them down to the bone when things don't happen on your schedule.

This actually leaves room for their spontaneity, and keeps their interest alive and well, inspiring them to take bigger leaps in love precisely because restraints don't weigh them down. Others before you have been a little too predictable for them. The scheduling types with their plethora of to-do lists and colour coded planners which only makes them anxious and has them running for the hills. You're willing to explore and experience life, and they appreciate your willingness to at least give things a try, even when you're scared or uncertain.

This isn't to say they would push you beyond your limits or cross boundaries. They've simply dealt with a lot of naysayers and those who are never up to the challenge and would rather not invest their time or energy into something unknown. Unlike those before you, you take a bite of that unfamiliar food, agree to watch the pilot of that show, or pack a weekend bag on short notice to get out of town for an impromptu getaway.

Best of all, when you don't wish to leave your comfort zone you allow them the freedom to venture out on their own, without guilt tripping them into staying or blowing up their phone when they're away, freaking out when they don't respond immediately, or otherwise make their free spirit out to be the worst thing in the world. They return the same energy to you and have no qualms about your individual pursuits and are very encouraging of your prospects, opportunities, and ideas.

I see them watching you sometimes as you engage excitedly with something new that's caught your interest, and they wonder why your kind is so rare. From their perspective, as an eternal seeker, they've met and mingled with so many people, and few have truly been so excitable, finding joy in small things and not being so afraid of the unknown and unexplored. Your aversion of uncertainty and change is healthy, not the kind that immediately loses its marbles and makes mere suggestions out to be a big and horrid deal that threatens to ruin the day. They really revel in the trust that you have in them, which in turn makes them choose to be deserving of that trust every day.

06.

Soapy scribbles: If you're not in the right head space to hear mentions of abuse and trauma, I encourage you to leave this reading for another time. Take good care of yourself, ok? ♡

This one is heavy. Your person has a difficult history with abuse and addiction. Their previous lovers have been unstable and caused them a lot of grief. You're the polar opposite of their previous entanglements, and they are in awe of the fact something so gentle could touch their heart. For a long time they may have blamed themselves and thought they deserved these bad memories. They're hard on themselves and have a lot of guilt and shame for their past mistakes, and may have taken their past abuse as punishment they deserved. Of course they are wrong, and you help them see this.

You allow them room to grow. You're patient where others have given up on them or turned to verbal or even physical harm against them when they haven't performed quite to the standards set upon them. They may genuinely be shaken by your genuine kindness towards them and wonder what they did right to find an end to their darkness.

I must honestly say that I view their previous partners very poorly. You couldn't be more different than what they have seen before you came into their life. The difference is like night and day. You do not keep them walking on eggshells and do not shift from peace to war at the drop of a hat. You're generous with your time and you're understanding of their scars. They need not hide their pain from you lest you would use it against them.

Your presence in their life rewires so many things that were previously all tangled up by others before you. They're able to safely work out their difficulties and face their fears with you by their side. They take your advice and apply it knowing that they can trust you. You may fear dependency, but really I'm seeing them growing whole within themselves by your influence and becoming stronger and more independent as a result of your connection. It's much akin to a phoenix rising from the ashes. Like you found faintly glowing embers in the dark, stuck around quietly watching, and got a fiercly loyal and protective beast for seemingly just being a good person.

They're inspired by your own resilience and strength. Many of you may have been through very dark nights and dying embers too, and your survival story helps motivate them to pursue happiness as something they, too, deserve, and will do anything to return this favour to you for the stability you provided them when they needed it the most.

#pac reading #energy reading #intuitive reading #pick a card reading #love pac #tarot reading #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a picture #love reading #tarotblr #cw abuse mention #soapy.post

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Hii, I was wondering if you could possibly write about what kind of p*rn you think Ghost and König like? (And other characters if you want! )it’s just been floating around my head for days and you’re one of my favorite writers. If not, that’s totally fine! 💛💛💛

MW2 and Their P0rn Preferences

Warnings: 18+, Heavy Mentions of P0rn0graphy (none shown), Mention of Poor Mental Health, P0rn w/ Feelings, P0rn w/o Feelings, BDSM, Knife Play, Breeding Kink, Historical P0rn, Mention of Hardcore Lesbian P0rn, Mentions of Masturbation, University Lecturer/Student Relationship, Body Worship, Daddy Kink, Sadism, Mentions of Torture P0rn, Mention of Sex Tape,  Mention of Insecurity, Mention of Alcohol, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’, Profanity, etc.

A/N: Tysm, Anon <3 ! Also, I’ve changed any mentions of the subject material to p0rn as to skirt around any potential censorship issues.

Ghost:

Given the absolute S T A T E of this man’s mental health, I think he secretly watches p0rn for the plot.

No, really. I mean he genuinely watches p0rn for the storyline; though not just any storyline.

It has to have feeling, romance. Love.

Though he’d never, ever, EVER admit it, he watches it to fill an emotional void in his life rather than a sexual one (ejaculation is just a bonus - he sees it as more of a duty to his body’s needs rather than his personal ones).

Definitely favours p0rn where it features a couple who have reunited after a long stretch of time and…well, have at it.

He found that there’s a startling lack of this in the men’s category, though, so he goes and finds it in the women’s because p0rn there is a lot softer, much more sensual, and doesn’t feel as creepy.

Ghost isn’t a fan of typical straight p0rnography; he thinks it’s too violent and unrealistic.

Instead, he watches ones where the couple aren’t just fucking or having sex - they’re making love.

And, really, beneath all the death and decay and bloodshed his life has become buried under, Ghost wants what those couples have.

Maybe if he knows you and likes you, he’ll jack off to the thought of you in those situations with him - absolutely even more so if you’re his partner.

Ghost would NEVER divulge the actual p0rnography he consumes - not even to Soap.

Whenever the guys back at Base would try and draw the truth out of him - Johnny especially - he’d tell them to “Pipe the fuck down” and “Get back to work.”

However, if he were a little loose-lipped via the aid of booze, he’ll cast the 141 a false line.

And when Johnny comes asking him what his preferences are again, Ghost won’t even cast him a second glance as the lie spills between his lips as he, Simon Riley, with all the conviction of a man accused of a false crime, says “Hardcore lesbian.”

And nobody will think to even question it.

König:

If he’s in a dom mood, something hardcore, though nothing outright sadistic; especially if he’s just returned from a mission.

Instead it’ll be, at most, some bondage, maybe some marking here and there - really nothing too wild.

He saves that for when he’s with you.

On the contrary, if he’s feeling a little raw from his time away but still needs to relieve himself, he’ll watch something similar to Ghost in that whatever he chooses to jank himself off to has to have a storyline. And love.

Though, his may be just a smidge more softcore than Ghost’s in that maybe the more dominantly perceived of the couple bottoms on occasion, or there just isn’t as much sex in favour of a richer storyline.

Most of the time, König actually never makes it to the stage of jacking off because he’s so invested in where the protagonists’ relationship is going and starts getting emotional.

This happens if you’re away and not within his immediate vicinity because he can only think of yours and his relationship.

98% of the time, he gets to the end of the video, realises he’s gone half limp, and just decides to go and watch a rom-com instead.

But don’t be fooled.

The second you arrive home, he’ll be on you like a blanket.

And he is not letting you go until both your needs are met.

Soap:

Something conventional yet with a distinct Johnny twist to it.

I can see him reading Playboy mags, for one, though this is more to get himself hard rather than to alleviate himself with.

He goes for something stronger when he wants to get himself off.

Definitely into the whole jealousy/possessiveness trope, so anything where one of the leads gets jealous for one reason or another and just destroys their partner afterwards is his type of media.

Johnny strikes me as a switch with top lean, so he’s much more likely to put himself in the position of the dominant lead instead of the lead receiving punishment.

Soap definitely gets off on some degree of dumbification - more so that, when the dom lead is almost through with their partner, said partner is just a heaving, whimpering, cum-soaked mess beneath them.

That, and body worship.

Soap wants to see a loving relationship wherein the leads truly love each other and find each other physically attractive (reflecting Johnny’s relationship with you), so to see one or the other in these on-screen relationships tell the other what they love about them gets him a little hot under the collar (though the collar may have been long discarded).

That’s the home stretch that gets Johnny off.

He also watches p0rn to improve, in a way.

Occasionally, he gets a little insecure that there may come a day where he can’t meet your needs, so he uses p0rn as a training ground to make sure he’s at the top of his game.

And many practice sessions with you too, of course.

Price:

University professor x Student.

Change my mind.

No clue what brought this on in him; I feel like this may have just been something he experimented with one bored evening and found that it worked, so he just kept consuming it. Or, it phased into his psyche after being so high in the chain of command for so long.

Either way, he usually can only get off to being in a position of dominance and power.

Though, he does have other preferences when it comes to how he asserts this dominance.

Sometimes he’ll watch historic p0rn (stay with me on this) where there’s a couple in the 40’s - one of whom is a soldier, the other the caretaker of their shared house -  who are able to return to each other.

And then they…well, what couples who’ve been separated by war and worry usually do in these circumstances.

I feel like Price may have a preference for the couple being straight, but only for the aspect of one of them being a traditional housewife who the soldier wants to start a family with.

Pretty wholesome concept. Pretty unwholesome execution.

Price isn’t a fan of violent p0rnography, so it’s pretty ordinary and vanilla, but it satiates his breeding kink.

And my god, does this man have a breeding kink.

Not that anyone else on Base knows that.

They know literally nothing about his sexual preferences, and, given he’s their superior, they rarely push the issue when he shuts it down.

Alejandro:

Slow and sensual wins the race.

Man loves a good story – especially if it starts with an argument and one of the leads having to comfort the other by…making it up to them.

Alejandro’s an intense, romantic man, so it would stand to reason that his p0rnographic preferences would match his personality.

Definitely into body worship and praising, both giving and receiving.

The top lead has to be attentive to the sub lead’s needs, to the point that there are slivers of tears running down their cheeks because they feel so good.

Alejandro also has an unintentional preference for edging.

He won’t let himself finish until the sub lead has first; out of habit more than anything else.

If you walk in on him watching it, he’ll be absolutely shameless.

Will beckon you over with a dashing smile and say something to the effect of: “Mi amor, come here. My lap is lonely without you in it.”

Only uses p0rn as a last resort; so if you’re asleep, or away, or just don’t feel like having sex that night, Alejandro will excuse himself and do his business in the next room.

Nothing compares to you, though; these encounters with nameless couples on a screen cannot hold a candle’s light to the flaming glory of euphoria Alejandro feels whenever he is near you, never mind inside you.

And he reminds you of this daily.

Man’s a nymphomaniac, what can I say /j.

Gaz:

For him, it changes.

He’s the youngest in the 141 so he’s more likely than the rest to experiment (the least likely being Price because he’s found his genre lol).

So, really, it is very difficult to pin down his preferences.

However, I will say he takes a liking to p0rn that is very much unexpected.

I mean Hollywood-tier movie twists and turns that would have any outside observer assume that Gaz was just watching an action film the perfect cover.

He did take a fancy to skydiving p0rn once (just people doing it in the air while they’re skydiving - don’t ask how).

But when the crippling reality of how that would work logistically crossed Gaz’s 500 IQ mind, he lost his passion for it.

Let’s just say, whipping your ween out at that altitude with that much pressure against you while falling at a solid 130 mph is more likely to result in the appendage being taken by the wind than anything else.

Aside from that, Gaz has the widest range of tastes in the 141 since he experiments the most.

He has found he has the strongest preference for threesomes.

Only because he’s kind of fascinated by the concept and how much coordination it would take to execute the whole operation.

It genuinely actually started when he couldn’t get to sleep one night and had to go online to read up on the logistics – how these throuples worked and the statistics associated with them.

And now, here we are; crippling p0rn addiction.

/j

I am actually joking; Gaz doesn’t even jack off the most out of the 141.

Graves:

Threesomes, orgies, gangbangs - you name it, he’ll enjoy it.

Superiority complex; he needs to feel in control over as many people as possible.

As most CEOs do.

As such, anything where the lead is in control is his go-to, though he won’t watch straight-up torture p0rn.

However, the lead is typically disproportionately stronger than the co-lead, so you can take that to mean that Graves watches generic p0rn targeted towards the male mass market; so usually something rough with a storyline so flimsy and thin that the terrible acting is made ever more transparent. Apparent.

Graves looks to p0rn only to fulfil himself; if he wants to feel loved or worshipped he’ll just go to you.

When you’re unavailable, however, he’ll just jerk off to the infinite stream of p0rn he has.

Or, considering how rich he is, he’ll get you to make a sex tape with him and just watch that.

Man’s got the money to make it happen; he ain’t janking it to a 144p video of low-quality blocks doing it.

Into body worship (as previously mentioned).

Also really into foreplay.

His favourite’s a kidnapping scenario. No clue why, I didn’t wanna ask. But I get the distinct impression it has to do, yet again, with his superiority complex.

(Daddy Kink Enjoyer; don’t tell him I told you that).

Valeria:

H A R D C O R E  P O R N

Seriously, the amount of sheer sadism and violence it takes to get her off is concerning.

It comes with the territory; you run a cartel, you lose a bit of humanity; it’s the way of the world.

If you’re not around, Valeria will take to watching some of the most toe-curling, gut-wrenching p0rn you’ve never seen.

I’m talking hard BDSM, knife play, blood play - you name it; if it’s violent, Valeria will most likely have gotten off to it.

Has gotten off to security footage of her torture sessions with her victims before now.

However, she isn’t like that with you (unless you want her to be).

If you prefer her to be more gentle, she’ll simply just go and watch p0rn to satiate her more adventurous needs, saving her soft, loving, tender side for you and you alone.

But, if you want to experiment, Valeria will put all that she has acquired through torturing and p0rn consumption and take you on a one-way trip to pound town.

Big fan of lesbian p0rn, regardless of whether she’s actively in a relationship with a woman or not.

For this specific genre, she loves seeing women in strap-ons.

Just does something to her (call it feminism).

Also a big fan of heavy bondage, marking and intimidation.

She simply enjoys dominion over everyone, regardless of gender, identity – it doesn’t matter to her.

And you are no different.

However, she’d never actually hurt you - not in ways you didn’t want her to.

Because, at the end of the day, she loves you more than life itself and would buy the stars to see them sparkle in your smiling eyes.

Rodolfo:

Accidentally clicked on a pop-up for a free iPad once and it was all over from there.

I'm kidding (mostly).

Rudy doesn't jack off very often, what with his work and physical training taking up so much of his time.

As such, his tastes aren't fully developed as of yet, so he's still at the stage where seeing two people sat on the same sofa is too much for him.

Jkjk. But not too far off the mark.

Rudy will watch whatever's popular at the time, but only because he doesn't know what else he likes, and so doesn't actively go searching for it.

He can't stand bad acting.

He understands that it comes with the territory of consuming p0rn, but he doesn't see it as an excuse to be lax when it comes to the believability of the story and the acting.

When he eventually gets sick and tired of it, he'll just go and read an erotic novel.

Has become somewhat of a connoisseur of the erotic book genre; he has favourite authors, authors he wouldn't touch with a barge pole, preferred genres, etc.

His favourite genre at the moment is friends to enemies to lovers reconciliation novels.

Just loves how, no matter how bad things may seem during the book, everything comes together at the end :-).

Everyone gets a happy ending, everything is resolved.

Secretly, he actually enjoys these novels for the story rather than the sexual content.

Please protect him, he's so wholesome <3.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you #mw2 ghost x reader #mw2 ghost #cod mw2 ghost #simon riley #mw2 x reader #konig mw2 #konig x reader #konig headcanons #simon riley headcanons #könig x reader #konig x y/n #konig x you #konig x yn #soap mw2 #soap x reader #gaz x reader #valeria garza x reader #phillip graves x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #rodolfo x reader #alejandro vargas x reader

[gothhabiba]

can i ask for you to elaborate on your issue(s) with those 'male positivity' posts? is it with the whole sentiment, or just with the "you're allowed to be angry" part? i agree w "you're allowed to be angry" being an oblivious at best statement. but i don't see any issue with the first two statements themselves (the "OP says..." and "commenter says...")

yeah so I already talked about some of this in the tags to those posts but sure, let's get into it.

OP says "if you’re a boy with a mental illness, a boy with a disability, a boy with a history of abuse, a boy who has an eating disorder, a boy with trauma, I need you to know that you are not a burden, that you don’t need to 'harden up', that you shouldn’t just have to 'get over it,' and that you are very brave" commenter says "once I transitioned I saw the change in people being like ‘Oh you poor thing I hope you’re coping alright’ to ‘Just get over it and man up’. Men, you’re allowed to suffer."

the implication of the original post is that men with these issues are told to 'toughen up' or 'get over it,' and conversely that women are not. the commenter then makes this subtext explicit by outright saying that people reacted more sympathetically to his trauma when they read him as a woman than when they read him as a man (at which point they switched to "just get over it"). the OP responds favourably to this addition, proving that the subtext "women don't experience this" was in fact subtext that they intended to be there.

I hope I don't have to explain how utterly absurd it is to claim that women have it easier in this regard, or that their emotions are granted more leeway or sympathy in any meaningfully systematic way. that is just MRA logic.

of course people's ideas about suffering, endurance, trauma, & emotion are gendered! people really do say things about how boys and men should just toughen up and not cry, &c. &c. MRAs, like a lot of other reactionary groups (like TERFs and SWERFs, or antisemites / white supremacists / conspiracy theorists who understand that something's not right with the economy but end up blaming 'minorities' instead of capitalists), take an idea with some truth in it somewhere, but twist it around into a conclusion that the idea in question does not entail on its own (here, "women are allowed to express emotion and garner sympathy by doing so") in a way that leads to resentment, disdain, & hatred for a marginalised group.

so, if it's true that (negative) emotion is thought of as a feminine weakness, why doesn't that translate to women being "allowed" to experience and express emotion, while men are not? for one thing, race has a lot to do with this—the myth of the Black "superwoman," for example, praises Black women for being (read: expects them to be) "tough," "strong," "brave," endless wellsprings of emotional / physical / financial support for others while requiring and receiving no support themselves. the assertion that women receive sympathy for their suffering thus reveals a serious ignorance of Black feminist thought on the part of the person making it.

for another thing, displays of emotion (mostly "negative" emotion, such as sadness) being thought of as primarily feminine means that women have to take especial care to avoid them in many circumstances, not that they're able to freely indulge in them! women's supposed heightened emotionality means that they're less likely to be thought of as capable of serious work, less likely to be promoted or hired, more likely to be financially and professionally penalised for any time they do display any negative emotion (or, rather, the other way around—the myth of women's heightened emotionality is used as an excuse to suppress women's earning potential & make them financially dependent on, and thus exploitable by, men).

on an interpersonal level, you're highly likely as a woman (and especially as a woman of colour) to have fairly mild displays of emotion be interpreted as hysteria, extreme anger, irrationality, volatility. you're highly likely to have your allegations of abuse disbelieved.

on an institutional level, you're highly likely to receive disdain and contempt if you engage in disordered eating habits or try to seek help for them, to have a request for help denied or neglected (disordered eating is just, sort of, what women do). you're also more likely to have a request for help turn into involuntary institutionalisation or psychiatric abuse (a lot of work has been done on the relationship between psychiatry and gender).

also on an institutional level, you are less likely to be believed about the pain you are in as a disabled, chronically ill, or otherwise sick woman (again, especially a woman of colour). you are less likely to receive medical care. you are less likely to have anyone give a shit about the pain you're in, since women are so emotional and melodramatic that you are probably exaggerating, and anyway, being in pain is just sort of women's natural state. you are certainly very unlikely to get any kind of medical care if you're a middle-class cisgender white (read: desirable) woman of 'childbearing age' & the extreme pain that you're in would require risk to your fertility to treat.

there's so much more I could go into here. the basic idea is that properly analysing the relationship between emotion, communication, trauma, abuse, race, class, gender, and the uses of rhetoric that references any of the above (e.g. "boys don't cry") is an enormous undertaking. any claim that implies that women (which women?) wholesale receive more sympathy than men (which men?) do for abuse or other pain that they experience, or that they are more free to express that pain, is both inconsistent with reality on a base level, and incredibly irresponsible. the fact (if it's even true) that "girls" are punished less for crying than "boys" does not a whole picture make.

and, like, think about it. we're living in a patriarchy wherein women are expected to care for and sympathise with men, to forgive men for varied wrongdoings in the family & in romantic relationships, to coddle them in order to avoid or appease their anger, to perform (depending on their class position) various kinds of domestic labour and social / planning work for men without recompense, acknowledgement, or thanks (because knowing how to do and plan housework is just, like, women's natural state of being)—a system where the family and the home faciliate and cover for mass amounts of traumatisation and abuse, including sexual abuse, of girls and women—a system wherein trans women are highly likely to be traumatised and yet disciplined out of expressions of anger or upset under threat of social exile—a system wherein cisgender women cannot be allowed to become too wary of or angry at men (read: too unwilling to continue marrying them and performing a significant role in the social reproduction of their class). how on earth could such a system also enable (rather than allowing for occasional escape valves for, but mostly seeking to supress or transform) women's free expression of upset, sadness, trauma, anger...?

this is the same kind of logic that leads people to believe and spread nonsense such as "people believe women who come forward about being abused and not men," which is just demonstrably inconsistent with everything that we can observe about reality.

#Anonymous #questions #gender

[taytjiefourie]

Show Don't Tell: Sadness

Hey there, fabulous folks! I'm thrilled to have you back for another exciting day of my 'Show Don't Tell' series! Today, we're delving into the complex emotion of sadness, and I can't wait to explore this topic with you all.

Let's start by recapping why 'Show Don't Tell' is crucial in creative writing. When we show instead of telling, we allow our readers to truly experience the story firsthand. It's like sharing a delicious slice of pizza with a friend instead of just describing how it tastes. By showing, we can immerse our readers in the story and create a more captivating experience that brings the narrative to life in their minds.

Now, what is sadness?

Sadness is a powerful emotion that we all experience at some point in our lives. It's a feeling of deep sorrow or unhappiness, often caused by loss, disappointment, or failure. Sadness is an essential emotion to portray in storytelling because it allows the reader to connect with the characters on a deeper level. When we see characters experiencing sadness, we can empathize with them and understand their struggles.

Dialogue

Today we're starting off with dialogue! and oh boy, can I tell you a thing or two about dialogue in creative writing! See, dialogue is more than just two characters talking to each other - it's a powerful tool to reveal the inner emotions of your characters without having to explicitly state them. That's right, you can show, not tell, how your character is feeling just by the words they speak and the way they say them.

By carefully crafting dialogue, you can hint at a character's inner thoughts and feelings without spelling them out. You can use word choice, tone, pacing, and other elements to convey emotions that your readers can pick up on, even if your characters don't outright state what they're feeling.

For example, if a character is feeling nervous or anxious, they might speak in short, clipped sentences or stutter when they talk. If they're feeling angry or frustrated, they might use sarcasm or speak in a raised, forceful tone. And if they're feeling sad or defeated, they might use a subdued tone, speak slowly, or trail off mid-sentence.

By showing these emotions through dialogue, you're allowing your readers to draw their own conclusions about how your characters are feeling, rather than simply telling them outright. So, the next time you're writing dialogue, remember that it's not just about what your characters are saying, but how they're saying it.

Here are some ways to show your character's sadness through dialogue:

Speaking softly or in a subdued tone

Using a slow, hesitant delivery

Repetitively apologizing or expressing guilt

Avoiding eye contact

Using self-deprecating humor or dialogue

Asking for reassurance or validation

Using a trembling or shaking voice

Asking rhetorical questions to express confusion or hopelessness

Talking about loss or past regrets

Expressing disappointment or disillusionment

Using passive language, such as "I guess" or "I don't know"

Reflecting on negative feelings, such as shame or worthlessness

Using a quivering or choked voice

Expressing helplessness or powerlessness

Using long pauses or trailing off mid-sentence

Using a resigned or defeated tone

Expressing feelings of isolation or loneliness

Using negative self-talk or dialogue

Avoiding conflict or difficult conversations

Using a monotone or flat voice to convey sadness.

Making self-pitying statements, such as "Why does this always happen to me?"

Using expressions of regret, such as "I wish I had done things differently"

Expressing a lack of motivation or energy, such as "I just can't seem to get out of bed in the morning"

Talking about feeling overwhelmed or burdened by responsibilities

Using hesitant language, such as "I'm not sure if I can handle this"

Talking about feeling lost or directionless in life

Using indirect statements to avoid confronting difficult emotions, such as "It's just been a tough day"

Expressing a sense of hopelessness or despair, such as "What's the point anymore?"

Using figurative language to convey sadness, such as "It feels like a weight on my chest"

Talking about past traumas or painful memories

Using vague or noncommittal language, such as "I don't know how I feel right now"

Talking about feeling disconnected or disengaged from the world around them

Using self-criticism or self-blame, such as "I should have seen this coming"

Expressing a sense of longing or nostalgia for happier times

Using metaphors or similes to convey sadness, such as "I feel like a balloon slowly deflating"

Talking about feeling rejected or unloved by others

Using evasive language to avoid talking about difficult emotions directly

Expressing a sense of frustration or resignation, such as "It is what it is"

Using repetition to emphasize feelings of sadness, such as repeating "I just can't do this" multiple times.

Setting/Scenery

Let's talk about how to use the environment to create and convey sadness in creative writing. One way to use the environment to create a sad mood is through the use of imagery. Imagine a scene where the character is walking down a street on a rainy day. The sound of the rain hitting the pavement, the gray sky overhead, and the slick roads all work together to create a sense of sadness and melancholy. By describing the environment in detail, we can show the reader that the character is feeling down without ever having to tell them directly.

Another way to use the environment to convey sadness is through the use of color. For example, if the scene is set in a funeral home, we might describe the walls as a dull gray or beige, the curtains as heavy and dark, and the lighting as dim and muted. These details can all work together to create a sense of heaviness and sadness.

Using the environment can also be an effective way to create contrast and highlight the sadness in a scene. For instance, describing a bright and sunny day while the character is feeling down can help to emphasize their emotional state.

I've got a fantastic list of ways to use scenery and setting to indirectly show sadness:

Describing the weather as gray, rainy, or gloomy

Using dark or muted colors in the description of the setting

Creating a sense of isolation or emptiness in the environment

Using silence or a lack of sound to create a sense of loneliness or sadness

Describing the setting as abandoned or neglected

Using a stark or barren landscape to create a feeling of despair

Using symbolism in the setting, such as wilted flowers or broken objects, to convey sadness

Setting the scene in a place that is traditionally associated with sadness, such as a graveyard or hospital

Creating a contrast between the beauty of the setting and the sadness of the character's emotions

Describing the setting as chaotic or disorganized to mirror the character's internal turmoil.

There's another way to show a character's sadness - by having them directly interact with the setting:

Tracing their fingers along the rough surface of a wall

Sitting slumped or huddled in a corner

Staring off into the distance with a blank expression

Running their hands through grass or foliage absentmindedly

Letting raindrops fall on their face without moving

Slowly dragging their feet as they walk through the environment

Clenching their fists or gripping objects tightly

Kicking or throwing objects in frustration or anger

Covering their face with their hands or hiding their eyes

Leaning their head against a window or wall with a defeated expression

Tightly hugging a pillow, stuffed animal, or other comfort item

Pulling their knees up to their chest while sitting on the ground

Tearing apart flowers or other delicate objects

Trashing their surroundings in a fit of rage or despair

Moving through the environment slowly or aimlessly with no clear destination in mind.

I've also got some awesome details that'll help you convey sadness through scenery alone:

Weather: A gloomy, overcast day with drizzling rain can create a melancholic atmosphere, reflecting the character's sadness.

Time of Day: A dreary morning or mid-afternoon slump can convey a sense of sadness and lethargy.

Location: Abandoned or empty places, such as an old churchyard or an abandoned building, can create a sense of loneliness and isolation.

Objects: Neglected, dusty, or unused objects can symbolize the character's neglect or emotional emptiness.

Colors: Dull, muted colors like gray, brown, or beige can create a sense of emptiness and sadness.

Noises: Soft, somber sounds like gentle rain or the sound of distant waves crashing can create a sense of tranquility and melancholy.

Crowds: A crowded, bustling place like a shopping mall or a subway station can highlight the character's sense of detachment and loneliness.

Architecture: Decaying, crumbling buildings or abandoned factories can symbolize the character's emotional decay and emptiness.

Nature: A desolate or barren landscape, such as a desert or a frozen tundra, can evoke a sense of desolation and despair.

Animals: Sad or pitiful animals, like a stray dog or a sickly bird, can evoke a sense of vulnerability and sadness.

Action

Now it's time to talk about how actions can convey a character's sadness in a fictional story. Instead of saying, "He was sad," show us his actions, and we'll figure it out on our own. It's like when your best friend tells you she's fine, but you can tell from the slump of her shoulders and the frown on her face that she's definitely not fine.

For example, let's say your character just lost a loved one. Instead of telling the reader outright that the character is sad, show it through their actions. Maybe they're:

Staring blankly at a picture of the person they lost.

Lying in bed all day, refusing to get up or talk to anyone.

Going through the motions of daily life but without any joy or enthusiasm.

Avoiding anything that reminds them of the person they lost.

Crying uncontrollably at unexpected moments.

Losing their appetite or neglecting personal hygiene.

Snapping at loved ones who try to comfort them.

See how much more powerful and engaging that is than simply stating, "He was sad"? It allows the reader to empathize with the character and experience their sadness alongside them.

Here are a few other examples:

Slumping or drooping posture

Avoiding eye contact or looking down

Crying or tearing up

Frowning or looking solemn

Loss of appetite or overeating

Inability to sleep or sleeping too much

Lack of interest in activities they normally enjoy

Neglecting personal hygiene or appearance

Withdrawing from social situations

Clenching fists or tensing muscles

Moving slowly or sluggishly

Hesitating or procrastinating

Avoiding conversations or communication

Self-harm or destructive behavior

Engaging in risky behavior

Substance abuse or excessive drinking

A lack of energy or motivation

Losing track of time or being forgetful

Becoming easily frustrated or irritable

Exhibiting a lack of enthusiasm or passion for life

Remember that if a character is feeling sad and depressed, they might stop taking care of themselves, neglect their hygiene, and lose interest in their hobbies. They may also isolate themselves from others, withdrawing from social situations and avoiding conversations.

Body Language

Body language is a huge part of showing emotions in creative writing, and sadness is no exception! The way a character holds themselves, their posture, and their movements, can all tell the reader a lot about how they're feeling.

For example, imagine a character who has just received some terrible news. They might slump their shoulders, avoid eye contact, and wring their hands. These actions convey their feelings of defeat, sadness, and worry without the writer having to tell the reader directly.

Body language can also be used to create tension and conflict between characters. If one character is sad and another is trying to comfort them, the way they position themselves in relation to each other, the way they touch each other or don't touch each other, can all convey different emotions and create a deeper sense of meaning in the scene.

Here! I'll provide you with a short list of ways body language can convey sadness:

Drooping or slumping shoulders

Hunching over or curling up into a ball

Clasping or wringing hands

Biting or licking lips

Rubbing or covering eyes

Frowning or furrowing eyebrows

Tilting the head downward

Avoiding eye contact or looking down

Crossing arms or legs

Gazing into the distance or staring off into space

Sighing heavily or audibly

Slow or shuffling movements

Trembling or shaking

Fidgeting or restlessness

Wrinkling or rubbing the forehead

Holding oneself or self-soothing gestures

Stiff or tense posture

Lack of facial expression or a neutral expression

Slow or lack of movement

Deep, heavy breathing

A weak or feeble voice

Avoiding physical touch or contact

Shrinking or pulling away from others

Failing to respond or acknowledge others

Refraining from smiling or laughing

Breaking eye contact quickly

Pacing or fidgeting

Yawning excessively

Looking tired or fatigued

Crying or tearing up

Point of view

Let me tell you about the power of using point of view in creative writing to show a character's sadness indirectly. Point of view is all about the perspective from which the story is told, and it allows us to see the world through our character's eyes. By exploring our character's inner thoughts, inner dialogue, and emotional state, we can beautifully convey their feelings of sadness.

A character's sadness can be conveyed through things like:

Negative self-talk, such as self-doubt or self-criticism

Focusing on negative aspects of the environment or situation

Recalling past negative experiences or memories

Expressing a lack of motivation or interest in their surroundings

Having a pessimistic or cynical outlook on the future

Feeling disconnected or detached from others

Feeling overwhelmed or burdened by their emotions

Seeing the world in black and white, without much color or vibrancy

Struggling to find joy or pleasure in activities they used to enjoy

Having difficulty concentrating or focusing on tasks

Feeling hopeless or helpless about their situation

Expressing a desire to isolate or withdraw from others

Being irritable or easily agitated with others

Struggling to communicate their feelings to others

Feeling like they are a burden to others

Expressing a sense of numbness or emptiness

Feeling like they are trapped or stuck in their situation

Being indecisive or hesitant in their actions or choices

Feeling like they don't belong or fit in with their surroundings

Expressing feelings of guilt or shame

Having difficulty sleeping or eating properly

Feeling like they are constantly on edge or anxious

Seeing themselves as an outsider or outcast

Struggling to make meaningful connections with others

Feeling like they are invisible or overlooked by others

Expressing a sense of longing or yearning for something they can't have

Feeling like they are drowning in their emotions

Struggling to find purpose or meaning in their life

Feeling like they are stuck in a rut or a cycle of negativity

Expressing a sense of regret or remorse for past actions or choices.

Sensory Detail

Sensory details can take your writing to the next level! By incorporating sensory details into your writing, you can transport your readers into the world you've created and make them feel like they're a part of the story. Whether you want to evoke sadness, joy, or fear, sensory details are an essential tool for creating an emotional response in your readers.

Specifically, when it comes to showing a character's sadness, sensory details can be particularly effective. By describing their environment using muted colors and soft sounds, for example, you can create a somber atmosphere that resonates with the character's emotions. Additionally, describing physical sensations like a heavy chest or lump in the throat can help the reader understand just how deeply the character is feeling their sadness.

Remember, sensory detail isn't limited to external sensations - sensory detail can also include how the inner turmoil of the character interacts with the outside world, such as associating certain smells with sad memories.

I'll give you guys a few techniques for using sensory detail to show sadness:

Describing the weight of a character's heart or chest

Mentioning the salty taste of tears on the character's lips

Describing the sound of the character's labored breathing or sobs

Noticing the way the character's eyes water or become red

Describing the feel of tears streaming down the character's face

Mentioning the chill or shivers that accompany sadness

Describing the dull ache or pain in the character's body

Noticing the way the character's voice cracks or shakes

Describing the character's inability to eat or taste food

Mentioning the heaviness or stiffness in the character's limbs

Describing the character's difficulty in sleeping or restlessness

Noticing the way the character's hands tremble or shake

Describing the character's detachment or numbness

Mentioning the lack of appetite or desire to eat

Describing the character's exhaustion or fatigue

Noticing the way the character's posture slumps or droops

Describing the character's sensitivity to light or sound

Mentioning the character's lack of interest or enthusiasm

Describing the character's reluctance to leave their bed or room

Noticing the way the character's movements become slower or more deliberate

Describing the way the character's world becomes smaller or more constricted

Mentioning the character's lack of motivation or energy

Describing the way the character's skin becomes pale or sallow

Noticing the character's tendency to withdraw from others or isolate themselves

Describing the character's lack of focus or concentration

Mentioning the character's difficulty in making decisions or taking action

Describing the character's hypersensitivity to smells or tastes

Noticing the character's tendency to cry easily or frequently

Describing the way the character's thoughts become more negative or self-critical

Mentioning the character's lack of interest or pleasure in their usual activities.

Metaphors and Analogies

Metaphors and analogies in creative writing! These tools are like superpowers that allow us to express complex emotions in fun and unique ways. When we use them effectively, we can paint a picture in our reader's mind, making them feel and understand the emotions we're expressing. It's like adding a sprinkle of magic to our writing!

Here's how to use metaphors and analogies to show sadness in our writing! It's like playing a game of compare and contrast, where we compare the emotion to something that's relatable and tangible. For instance, we can describe sadness as a heavy weight on the character's chest, or a dark cloud that hangs over their head. By using these comparisons, we can help our readers to visualize the emotion in a more concrete way, making it easier for them to connect with the character and empathize with their experience.

Let's keep the creative juices flowing and talk about another way to use metaphors and analogies to show sadness in our writing! Instead of just describing the emotion itself, we can also use them to describe the character's actions or behavior. It's like giving our readers a visual representation of how the character is struggling with sadness. For example, we can compare a character who's dealing with sadness to a ship lost in a stormy sea, or a bird with a broken wing. These comparisons not only help the reader to understand the character's emotional state, but also create a sense of sympathy and compassion for their struggle.

Here are some examples for you to look at:

"Her heart was a shattered vase, the pieces impossible to put back together."

"He was a lone tree in the midst of a barren desert, with no hope of ever finding water."

"She felt as if a heavy weight was crushing her chest, suffocating her with grief."

"The sadness she felt was an ocean, deep and vast, with waves crashing over her constantly."

"His sadness was a thick fog, enveloping him in a cloud of melancholy."

"She felt like a bird with broken wings, unable to fly and trapped on the ground."

"His sadness was a never-ending tunnel, with no light at the end and no way out."

"The emptiness inside her was a black hole, devouring everything in its path."

"He was a ship lost at sea, with no sense of direction and no hope of rescue."

"Her sadness was a wildfire, spreading quickly and consuming everything in its path."

It's time to wrap up this post, but don't fret, I'll be back with more writing tips and tricks soon! There are plenty of these post on my tumblr so check them out too! or you can find a more organized version of them all here!

#writing inspiration #writing #writers on tumblr #creative writing #writers #writeblr #writing advice #writing community #writing exercise #writing tips #writerscommunity #writerslife #writersociety #writer problems #writerblr #aspiring author #author #writers of tumblr #writing life #writers community #writblr #fiction #tumblr writing community #tumblr writers #tumblr writing society #tumblr writing prompt #story writing #story ideas #story

[sukimii]

Friend/Boyfriend/Husband! Bakugou HC

Tags: fluff, domesticity, descriptions of sexual intercourse, breeding kink.

Friend!Bakugou will help you with paperwork. He will point out mistakes you're doing, and praise you where you've done a good job.

Friend!Bakugou will complain when you slack off, saying that you can't get stronger if you're not training hard enough.

Friend!Bakugou will drag your ass in the agency's private gym and fight with you until you're sweaty, tired, and can barely stand on your feet.

Friend!Bakugou will listen to whatever is bothering you, and his solution to your problems is to use him as a punching bag. He will let you take out any frustration, or anger you have on him. At first, you're reluctant, he wasn't the source of your problem, and taking it out on him seems unfair. But Bakugou can be persuasive in his own way, pushing the right buttons he knows will make you implode.

Friend!Bakugou cares about your health. He will ask you at least once every three days if you've eaten, if yes, good, you're off the hook, if not, will force-feed you whatever he concocted, because he "can't have you faint like an idiot in the middle of a fight"

Friend!Bakugou is wary of the guys that approach you, he can tell right on the spot if someone has bad intentions. He can see through any façade people put on, and he's not one to shy away from speaking his mind whenever something/someone pisses him off.

Friend!Bakugou will clumsily confess his attraction to you, saying how annoying you are because you keep popping up in his mind at the most inopportune moments.

Boyfriend!Bakugou has little to no experience when it comes to expressing his feelings, or emotions. He wants to tell you, to tell the entire world just how smart and pretty you are, but always chickens out.

Boyfriend!Bakugou who, despite having conversational difficulties, will choose to show his appreciation through actions most of the time. Yet, when worn out from work, too tired to pay any attention to anything, will voice out his thoughts. Those are the rare moments in which he showers you in compliments, but would rather try to extract petrol with his bare hands than acknowledge that such thing happened.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will pay extra attention to your mood swings, over time learning what each and every expression and tic means. If he sees you pouting to nothing in particular, he already knows that something has saddened you. If he sees you constantly touching your neck/shoulder, he knows you had slept in an uncomfortable position.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will lend you his sweaters if you're cold and will feign forgetfulness or aloofness so you can keep them for yourself.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will ask you to take it easy on the training, saying that exhausting yourself isn't gonna lead to any improvements. When you tell him that it's not what he had told you before the start of the relationship, he will pretend to not hear you.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will scowl away any man that tries to get too comfortable with you. Will keep both arms protectively around your waist, back-hugging you, while his chin rests on your shoulder as you keep chatting with them. His eyes are narrowed, telepathically telling the guy to 'back the fuck off'

Boyfriend!Bakugou who will take a run to the nearest pharmacy to buy you medicine. When sick, Bakugou will send you poetic vocals as reminders, just in case you forget. "Take your goddamn pills before I come over and shove 'em down your throat"

Boyfriend!Bakugou will spend an entire night being your therapist after a failed mission, paying extra attention to your body language. And if the problem is way deeper than he can handle, will not hesitate to drag your ass to a proper therapist.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will plant himself into your missions whenever he feels something is a bigger threat. The villain you have to take down is an S Class? He'll be involved, whether asked or not. He wants you safe, he needs to see with his eyes that you are safe.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will outright tell you to just wear his clothes, because he likes how they fit on you. He likes to see you flaunting around wearing his stuff, showing off who's the man that is making you happy. Bonus point if it keeps other men away from you.

Boyfriend!Bakugou is insecure about holding your hand because he sweats. A lot. The first time he holds your hand, he had to wipe them down several times, scared that it will gross you out.

Boyfriend!Bakugou is intimidated by the idea of a kiss. You're his first, and screwing up will only plum down his already insecure self. He's relieved when you tell him that you too are a little nervous, it had been so long since your last relationship you worried about being out of practice and potentially disappoint him. When the first kiss is done, Bakugou will ask for more. It quickly become his favorite thing to do with you, second only to cuddling.

Boyfriend!Bakugou slowly grows bold with his actions. The first time he let his hands slide down your back, placing them on your ass, his heart jumps in his throat, looking at you to see if you were in any discomfort. To his surprise, you arch against him, lacing your arms around his neck.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will explore your body like a pirate does on an island in search of treasure. He quickly grows to love every part of your body, and if there are any insecurities he will make sure to wipe them away. Thighs too big/thin? He will pamper them with kisses, force his head between them, and gropes as if they are his lifesaver. Big/Small tits? He will play with them, his attention will be on the mounds until he's sure you know he loves 'em.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will always put your pleasure first. Even if he doesn't know how to make you cum, he will try anything until you do. He cockblocks himself until he's sure you've at least cum twice.

Boyfriend!Bakugou will keep learning your body. He wants to be number one in anything, and that includes the arts of pleasuring you.

Boyfriend!Bakugou doesn't have a rhythm or kinks yet. Growing up focusing solely on becoming a hero, he never gave himself the time to tap into his turn-ons and offs. So, he learns them with you. He learns that having his hand pressed around your neck makes him hard. He learns that having his nipples sucked makes his mind foggy and his body tremble with pleasure. He learns that having your spongy walls clamp around his girth spurs him on, going harder and faster on you. He learns that hearing your broken 'I love yous' when you cum on his cock, makes him lose the little clarity he was left with. He learns that those three words have the power to make him euphorically come undone within seconds.

Boyfriend!Bakugou doesn't know what aftercare is. But is willing to learn everything about it, for you.

Boyfriend!Bakugou is happy. He's at peace when with you. And every little thing makes him fall in love deeper and deeper with you. He loves the feeling of your fingers in his hair. He loves your attempts at cooking, even if they end up being uneatable. Bakugou loves when you draw him a bath after a particularily rough day, especially if you join him. He loves when you wrap your hands around him and just look at him with nothing but adoration and love. Bakugou loves coming home to you dancing in his kitchen while trying some new recipe you saw on the internet.

Boyfriend!Bakugou realizes that he wants you to be a constant in his life. He realizes how loved you make him feel, whole, complete, and it dawns on him how much he wants to put a ring it.

Husband!Katsuki knows you like the back of his hand. He knows how to make your favorite drink, favorite dish, and favorite dessert. He knows when you want something but won't buy it afraid of unnecessary spending, so he will gift it to you. He knows when you don't like something, may it be furniture/décor item/dress/etc, and he's quick to get rid of it. He even knows your menstrual cycle, and it's almost scary how accurate he is.

Husband!Katsuki puts your own comfort before his. He doesn't care if his arm gets all tingly and numb when you sleep on it, nor how he knows that a certain position will give him back or neck pain once awake.

Husband!Katsuki developes a breeding kink. He loves seeing his cum seep out that pretty pussy, thrills traveling up and down his body at the idea of his seed sticking deep into you, swelling you up with his kid. And the image of you round and cozy, drives him feral. And with two fingers, he gathers his cum and pushes it back into your warm cunt.

Husband!Katsuki wants children, lots of 'em. With the goal planted deep in his brain and heart, he fucks you everyday, spilling all his worth into your tight hole, painting your insides hot white, and stays plugged to you even after his dick softens, making sure that it sticks.

Husband!Katsuki is on cloud nine when you confirm your pregnancy. He will make sure to be present to most of your doctor appointments, and if he's on duty, he'll send his mom with you, or asks yours to keep you company.

Husband!Katsuki keeps the ultrasound pictures. He has several copies of them, some are kept in his drawer, another set in his wallet, even in his agency he had a couple. And when he's not busy, and manages to get a couple of minutes away from his colleagues, he will fondly look at them while talking with you over the phone.

Husband!Katsuki takes many pictures of you pregnant. He took so many of 'em that he decides to print them out and make an album, well, several of them. Because when his children will grow older, starting their own path, he wants to remember everything, he want to see their growth, your growth with them and him.

Husband!Katsuki deliberately cries when you give birth. And it doesn't matter if it's your second, third or fourth delivery, he will never get used to it.

Husband!Katsuki is a doting father. Even if one of his children comes out quirkless, he will love them equally. They are his and your product of love. He will never miss his children's recitals, or school activities, unless he's too busy with work, but he knows you'll be there with them. Still, when he misses a school event, he feels guilty, and to make it up, will take some days off to spend with them.

Husband!Katsuki is a great father. If his quirkless child is bullied he is quick to solve the problem. He now is a spokesperson for quirkless rights, women's rights included. Having both daughters and sons, he wants to make sure that there is minimum danger toward minorities/oppressed groups. He wants to make society a better place for both you and his little gremlins.

Husband!Katsuki is usually the one that prepares dinner, when he can. And if not, will make sure to prepare breakfast for the next day. On the days he has more time available on his hands, will also prepare the bentos for everybody.

Husband!Katsuki is mesmerized and incredibly proud of how far he's come. He's enamored with the domestic lifestyle and relatively big family you created with him, and he won't trade it for anything, not even for the number one spot.

#bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou smut #bakugou imagine #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugou #bakugou katuski x reader #mha katsuki #bnha smut #bakugou headcanons #bakugou x y/n #bakugou fluff #boku no hero headcanons

[microsuedemouse]

hey? hi? I am unexpectedly emotional about TMNT 2003 season 1 episode 9 Garbageman?

the boys are shown to be good friends with their local unhoused population, and they bring them supplies (an effort often repaid with interesting or useful things these folks have found on the streets and think the brothers might like) as well as watch out for their safety

so of course when unhoused people start going missing, the boys begin investigating

also, and this feels significant: there's a sort of leader figure amongst the unhoused population refered to only as 'Professor.' he's a very intelligent and well-spoken older black man, and his outfit includes a colourful kufi cap. he and Donnie talk about science and Donnie offers to lend him an interesting book; he's also later shown teaching his peers about the big bang around a fire

the Professor is also, notably, the character who responds to being kidnapped and told by the Weird Villain that they're all here to Do Labour with the firm proclamation: "I'd rather be a free man, living on the streets, than a slave in your stinking empire."

additionally, the aforementioned villain tells these people that they're "human garbage - no home, no purpose, no value." he claims to have given them new purpose (Doing Labour). the moral of the episode isn't stated outright, but very much argues that these people absolutely do have value and are completely deserving of dignity and respect, like the brothers have been showing them without question from the beginning

after the villain is defeated, the Professor and the other unhoused folks actually decide (by vote!) to stay where they are, because there's shelter and food freely available to them here now, with the Bad Guys out of the way. the 'here' in question is a large waste disposal site, and these folks are accustomed to making do with what others have thrown away, so they feel they can find everything they need right there. it's not perfect but it does reward them the dignity of a safe place to call home!

this is all couched in the corniness and the goofiness you would of course expect from a 2003 TMNT cartoon, but... I feel like there was some very genuine thought, and compassion, that went into writing this episode. I'm feeling Emotions I didn't expect

#TMNT #TMNT 2003 #turtlewatching

[sailing-ever-west]

The Vinsmoke men are misogynistic and it's so narratively important even though it's mostly subtext and never outright stated. None of them ever say anything against women specifically, and they don't seem to discriminate as far as who can be warriors, but their actions reek of it nonetheless and I can't stop thinking about it.

On the surface it seems like Sanji gives thought to treating women differently and the Vinsmokes don't, but it's clear through their actions that the only "equality" they're really upholding is that no gender is exempt from abuse and exploitation.

It's like when people say "well if you want equality, women should get drafted into the military too!" When the problem is that no one should be forced to join the military. That's basically exactly what Germa is doing.

Sanji's view of women is frequently flawed and a bit myopic, but he seeks to treat them with kindness and love and respect, whereas the Vinsmokes make no attempt at philosophy about women and just treat them horribly.

The most glaring example is probably Cosette, who they berated for making food they didn't like and then proceeded to beat unconscious solely to shatter her confidence and upset Sanji. And when Sanji is understandably enraged at their horrible abuse, they assume the reason is that he was physically attracted to her and didn't want the object of his attraction damaged (saying they didn't know he Liked her, and if the busted up face wasn't a dealbreaker they could make her Sanji's personal attendant, which also reaaally sounds like code for something else).

Another aspect is that despite having no emotions, the Vinsmoke brothers still seem to experience attraction to women. But it's not love in any sense of the word, just purely physical. They find Nami attractive, even wanting to arrange to keep her around when the Strawhats are captured by Big Mom (ew), and there's that scene of them and Judge in their private room surrounded by mostly drunken unconscious (and rather scantily dressed if I remember correctly) barmaids that were sent to them. Granted, nothing Happens in that scene, but the undertones are gross and we're only shown a small portion of the night. Whatever the case, it's clear that these women were not sent in to be equal, respectable company, but an objectified distraction to pair with alcohol, and were treated as such.

And then there are the internal family dynamics, which I think are the biggest and most important part.

To start, there's Reiju. On the surface she seems like she has the same status as her brothers, a modified Germa weapon capable of performing as her father wants. But whenever Judge talks about being proud of his children, he always emphasizes the triplets. Often he doesn't even mention Reiju, and his attention to the boys' training seems to be much closer than to hers. Her raid suit is also more sexualized, as though that's expected to be part of her arsenal. And of course, there's her name meaning "zero" while the boys are all numbered. She is the eldest, but she survives by being ignored, and it's clear that her father prefers her emotionless brothers. This feels symbolic as well since being emotional is often seen as a feminine trait, portrayed as a weakness. Judge hates weakness. And so he hates emotion, hates women.

But at the root of it all, really, is Sora. Sora who's choices and body and children were stolen from her for an abusive man's ideals about war and domination. We don't really get to know how much choice she had in her marriage, but given Judge's royal status and the fact that they obviously share zero values I think it would have to be a strategic political arrangement at best, and something she got no say in at worst.

The kids are all named in a numbering system, which also reeks of Judge not letting her into the decisions. And, of course, there is the absolutely horrific experience of being forced into prenatal surgery to genetically modify her children against her will, to the point that the only way she could exercise any agency was to poison herself in an attempt to save even one of them. She was literally just a baby-producing machine to Judge and it couldn't be more blatant.

The violent, self-centered, and misogynistic Vinsmoke brothers are born directly from a woman's choice being taken away from her. Kind, selfless, and loving Sanji is born directly from her one act of defiance, and then later saved by his sister's one act of defiance as well (after which, she was programmed to be obedient).

Basically, the Vinsmoke family is built and preserved on the abuse and exploitation of women, and Sanji is the black sheep for many reasons, but I suspect a rather large one is that he's the ultimate antithesis to that.

#one piece #black leg sanji #vinsmoke reiju #vinsmoke sora #vinsmoke judge #vinsmoke siblings #vinsmoke family #germa 66 #whole cake island #wci spoilers #character analysis #one piece meta #essay #misogny #women in media

[biscuitsngravie]

"time's up."

levi x reader

cw: piv, no prep, blowjob, degradation, orgasm denial, rawwwwww

wc: 2,004

Levi is… irritated. 

Well, that's the closest to describing the mixture of emotions he’s feeling during this “interaction.” 

“Irritated” could best refer to the heat between his legs. The heat that he is praying isn’t visible as he steps behind the desk to sit during the debriefing on the mission. This room is too full of people for you to be such a shameless slut. You wearing that too small top — the one he told you to throw away — and that too small skirt — that he’s sure he threw away — while looking up with… those eyes.

You. 

You. 

Youyouyouyouyo—

“Ah! And that’s how we make the double decoy! Right, Captain Levi?”

To others his face is deceptively neutral, well, as neutral as a resting bitch face can be. But you, Honee, you know better than anyone else. You’re the only one who notices the extra firm grip he has on his teacup, the cool flame that ignites behind his eyes the way he pointedly avoids meeting your gaze. And surely the squirming from the continuous pressing of your thighs has caught his peripheral at least once or twice. 

“Right. That’s it for now. We’ll do a test run in forty-five minutes. Gear up and be ready to leave.” The room empties rather quickly after a quick salute. And of course… you are the last to leave. “Honee.”

You jump out your skin, your back already turned from him, but too far from the door to craft the excuse of not hearing him. Your mouth upturns into a grin that you’re sure would accrue more points towards your impending punishment. So you remain with your back turned to him, answering an all too even voice, “Yes?”

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve.” slow and deliberate footsteps stalk behind you, growing louder than the thrumming in your chest and between your legs. He stops just barely short of touching you, lowering his voice so that it sits as not much more than a gentle purr against  your ear. “I expect to see you in the field. Dressed properly.”

He walks around you out the door, presumably to his office to retrieve his gear. It’s only once you hear the click of the door followed by fading footsteps do you finally breathe. You bite your lip and groan, gripping the hem of your skirt to keep from reaching a hand up it instead.

Your feet move faster than your brain,  flying to his study. It was always this with you two: some seemingly innocuous thing catches his attention, to which he finds stress relief and solace in your slutty little pussy. Though this time his distress lies with the very one he comes to for comfort (of sorts), and the very thought of it is proving to be the bane of his existence.

After three quick raps, an enthusiastic “Enter,” allows you in. He’d be disgusted at your perverted mind if you admitted that his look of disdain had you nearly crying down your legs. That, punctuated by a curt “What?” has you biting back a small whimper. 

“I—” you cut yourself off as you evaluate your best course of action. Outright asking for it has proven effective in the past, but the egregiousness of your behaviour has finally hit you . Before speaking again, you begin racking your brain for a suitable game plan. 

Unbeknownst to you, it draws a long pause, to which he prompts, “I don’t have all day.”

His voice makes you flinch as it snaps you back to him out of your cluttered brain. “I’m sorry!” you blurt aloud without much thought. 

“I hate liars,” he grunts as he tightens the fastenings on his gear. His hands move methodically over the latches, ensuring he doesn’t slam someone in the face with a cartridge of spare blades that come loose. “Hurry up before—”

“I just!” you shrug as you look off to the side, your face tingling with a warmth as you feel blood rush to your cheeks. “I just wanted some attention, I don’t know,” is finally pushed through in a low mumble.

Levi closes the gap between you two, grabbing your face in his hands to turn you back towards him. When your eyes drift away, he follows their gaze until you’re forced to succumb to his intense eye contact. “Are you saying I don’t give you enough attention?”

Your eyes nearly bug out. “No! It’s just that—”

“If you wanted more attention you could just say that. But no, you decided to be a fucking brat, instead,” he grits. Your eyes swell up a bit, your wires crossed between a growing fear and an intense need. 

While you decide which emotion to land on, Levi stalks over to his chair back behind his desk. He spreads his legs and points to the floor. Without even a hint of shame, your feet fold over each other to kneel not too far from the bulge in his pants. Your mouth begins to salivate at the sight, but you will them to make contact with grey ones that hold a cool flame behind their irises. 

Levi is nearly impressed with how quickly you take position: your legs folded under you with your hands folded in your lap. It’s easy to see your shameless cleavage from this angle, and part of him passively wonders if you’re overdue for a tit job. He pushes the thought away immediately. No matter how nice his cum looks painting your skin, he needs to focus. 

“Go ahead.”

The simple command has you clawing at his belt buckle. Your fingers make quick work of it all, grateful in the way he lifts his hips for you to pull them down a bit. You don’t even care enough to bring them to his ankles, only down to the knee as you begin to try and free his still hardening dick from his boxers. You use the hole in the front to let it spring upwards towards his abdomen. It’s only a second before you’re wrapping your lips around the head, suckling at the slit as you lap up the precum that’s already begun to drip there. 

Though he’s silent, the twitch in his cock when he feels you moaning in satisfaction is enough for you. You bob your head a bit, holding the base to keep steady as you swirl your tongue around the shaft. Your neglected clit is only soothed with the feeble rubbing of your thighs. You rock back and forth a bit, feeling the wetness coating your thighs grow. 

“Do what you must,” he sighs in faux exasperation, hiding his own arousal in the fingers gripping his chair, “you have my full attention.”

The purr in his voice as he eggs you on goes straight to your core, just like the hand now playing with your clit through your underwear. Unsurprisingly, you’re met with an undeniable wetness, your own arousal having completely drenched the fabric. 

Two deft fingers massage your aching clit as you work on him in earnest. You pull away to breathe and pool your saliva a bit, opening your mouth to watch it coat the length of his dick. As much as Levi hates a mess, you’re his favorite one to clean up. Watchful eyes follow you as you trace the prominent vein on the left side of his cock. His nostrils flare as the only sign of his arousal he allows through. 

Your own body almost feels as if it’s vibrating with need. Levi’s gaze remains uninterrupted, deceivingly bored if it weren’t for the tension in his jaw. You feel naked under his eyes, for he misses nothing. Goosebumps pimple your skin, the vulnerability that rocks you urges you to cover yourself and incites a newfound search for modesty. The way desperate fingers fight against cotton to finger your leaking pussy definitely doesn’t go unnoticed. 

Whether it’s annoyance with the pathetic display before him, or his other head thinking, he waves you off his cock, much to your  disappointment. You bite back a whine, confused on your infraction, yet trying to avoid another. His voice breaches right through your developing spiral. “Sit.”

Perplexed, you tilt your head and adjust your posture. “I am…”

His facial expression doesn’t change. After a few moments you process the command and excitedly climb into his lap. After a few moments of maneuvering yourself around his gear to properly straddle his lap. Arms cradle his neck in glee, but he lets himself all but be pulled into a kiss. “You have fifteen minutes to get yourself off.”

You begin to open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you kills any argument you could muster. 

Do I make myself clear?

Fifteen minutes. 

How much to spend on prep? On stretching? Is worth it to tease yourself a bit or—

“Fourteen.”

“Levi!” you shriek in a mini panic. A grip on your chin ends your oncoming tantrum. Fix your tone. Your voice gets smaller now, meek. “It’s not fair…” you mumble.

“Now you care about fair?”

“I just—”

“For someone closing in on thirteen minutes, you sure spend a lot of time talking.”

“Levi please,” you start getting worried now. You keep your voice hushed, but maintain your urgency. 

“Please what?”

Bingo. You’ve won.

The poutiest of lips. The truest of doe eyes. The vulnerability found in an unabashedly neediest of voices. “Can you fuck me?”

Levi’s hand is over your mouth in flash. Momentary confusion is interrupted by a burning between your legs, your cry muffled by a thick layer of calluses. Tears prickle your cheeks, your sniffle all but dying in his palm. You clench uncontrollably around him as you register that he’s bottomed out in one swoop.

Running his other hand up and down your back, he lets your mouth go free as he tucks your face into his neck. He saves the comment on the mess you’re making there as he repositions his hands to your hips. He lifts you up and…

“This is what you wanted,” he cooes.

Slam.

“You wanted attention, huh?” he scoffs.

Slam.

“Bullshit.” 

His thrusts speed up, the clanking of his equipment joining the cacophony of sounds the two of you are making; the papping of your asscheeks against his pants; your sniffles twisting into groans; his intermittent grunts as he listens to the wet sounds of your pussy taking him over and over and—

Fuck!

“You’re a fucking riot. Couldn’t survive without it for a week.” he curses to himself when he hears you mewl, every decibel going straight to his dick. “Putting this on. What do you have to say for yourself? Ah?”

He pounds into you from below, his gear rustling erratically as he forces his hips to meet yours. A quick smack to your ass wakes you up beyond your wanton moans. “Ah! I-I…” your mind starts to melt when he comes down to a slow grind, dragging his thick cock along your abused, gummy walls. 

He grabs a fistful of you r hair to pull you back. Puffy and weary-eyed, your lip trembles as you futility try to gather your thoughts. “Don’t cry now. You weren’t crying when you put this shit on.”

“L-Levi, I—”

He stops you with a hand in your face and checks the time. Without much ado, slides you off his lap, not sparing you so much as a glance wen you wince. “Time’s up.”

“Levi!” you shriek, entirely too loud. 

“Volume,” is his only warning as he tucks himself into his pants. He grabs a spare handkerchief to clean where you leaked out and prays it’s not noticeable. 

“What am I supposed to—”

“You were supposed to get yourself off, you understand?” his tone sharp, only surpassed by his gaze. “Not my fault you’re a faulty little cockslut and got distracted.”

He leaves you to yourself, not before smirking when he sees the dripping between your legs. Levi hates messes, but this is one he can get behind. 

an: i tried something new. i'm gonna try again soon. after this is true form s*kuna x reader cause im a monsterfucker first before a fraudkuna hater, so ig ill be putting my whole jordussy into it 😭

taglist: @honeeslust @blkkizzat @arlerts-angel @halobuns

#jordussy #jordussy speaks #levi x reader #levi smut #levi ackerman #aot smut #attack on titan smut #aot x reader #levi x y/n #levi x you

[one-britt-to-rule-them-all]

Jack Howl in heat

Character: Jack Howl [Twisted Wonderland]

Genre: NSFW

CW: | Fem!Reader | Wolf mating behaviour | Jack being in heat |

Format: Drabble

Word Count: 2.5K

Disclaimer: All characters are portrayed as legal adults.

Minors, DNI. NSFW content below.

He finally had you all to himself. He had you away from the two blithering, Heartslabyul morons that were continuously glued to your side, away from your screeching little pet, and away from every student vying for your affection and attention. Tonight, Jack had you all to himself.

In the dead of night, he found himself in your bedroom at Ramshackle, away from Savanaclaw. Over his dead body, Jack would let the other beastmen get a whiff of your potent scent.

Maybe he should have told you of his “predicament” beforehand, but for the reserved wolf beastman, it was an embarrassing thing to admit. But hey, even though Jack hadn’t outright told you what was going on, you had been receptive to every single one of his advances — a good sign. He’d been holding back for a while, but his patience had reached a boiling point, and now was the time to go in for the kill.

Had you been more well-read on wolf behaviour, you would have put two and two together. Maybe you should have done more research on wolves the moment you began dating a wolf beastman, but alas, you did not. Naively, it didn’t quite cross your mind that Jack’s wolf features extended beyond aesthetics.

The night had started simple; just you and your lover in bed, Jack resting on his back as your head laid on his chest. A muscular arm was draped around your neck, holding you. You thought Jack seemed a little tense — stiff and heart rattling against his rib cage, but he was the one to initiate this impromptu cuddle session, so you weren’t quite sure what had him in a tizzy.

And, although very quiet, you were sure you could hear quiet little whines coming from Jack. The sound was so uncharacteristic to hear from him that you’d lifted yourself from his chest, looking at him with a questioning gaze and a tilt of your head.

“Jack…? You okay?” You asked.

He didn’t offer much of an answer, only a grunt as he clenched his eyes shut and tensed his jaw. Unbeknownst to you, Jack was fighting against his instincts. The primal urges in him begged him to throw you down, manhandle you and mount you to ram his aching cock deep inside you. But he wanted to do this right.

Honestly, he’d have to pat himself on the back for the self-restraint he’s showing… especially with your scent invading his senses.

Instead, he sat up, looking you in the eyes with his usual intense and hardened gaze, yet it seemed even more piercing than usual, completely lost in thought as he tried to gauge the right moment. The words ‘Should I?’ were echoing in his mind.

But his patience wavered, and it was now or never to go for it.

Leaning in, Jack pressed his lips against yours in a seemingly innocent, quick kiss that you immediately reciprocated. Then came a second kiss and a third until your lips began melding together in a heated make-out session that grew in fervour and intensity as the seconds ticked by. His arms snaked around your back, pulling you flush against his broad chest.

You let him take the lead, revelling in the passionate affection Jack was offering you.

It wasn’t that Jack despised affection or anything of the like. Coming off as cold and distant, he was reserved and was never one to show much emotion; instead, he chose to keep a rugged exterior and front despite the warmth he held within his heart for those who had earned his respect. You were okay with that, finding his “tsundere” ways rather amusing once you found out just how easily flustered the wolf beastman could genuinely be when called out on his obvious facade.

Needless to say, Jack had you like putty in his hands with this sudden burst of assertiveness, pressing his body against yours and giving you some of the hottest open-mouth kisses you’ve ever received.

Then, you found yourself being lowered on your back, Jack hovering over your body and panting as he looked at you in a way that was comparable to a predator staring down its prey.

He lowered himself closer to your face, opting to rub his nose against yours in a surprisingly cute display of affection that had you laughing softly. The sound caused Jack’s ears to flatten against his head, somewhat embarrassed by your reaction to his behaviour, yet he felt so relieved to finally act on his instincts.

He rubbed his face on yours before dipping lower to your neck, where he continued to nuzzle you. You would have continued giggling at the ticklish sensation, but your laughter was abruptly cut off by a soft moan slipping your lips as his tongue glided against your skin, licking with fervour.

Like an animal grooming his m– oh. The gears in your head began turning, and you had an inkling of what had gotten into Jack.

Against your leg, you could feel the sizeable bulge in Jack’s pants rubbing against you. Slowly rocking his hips, you could feel him humping your leg as he grunted against your neck. You couldn’t fool yourself: you were also aching between your legs.

And oh, you certainly weren’t fooling Jack. Halting his movements on your neck, he raised his nose and sniffed the air. As the scent of your arousal hit him, Jack’s ears flattened as he clenched his eyes closed and grit his teeth, a guttural growl rumbling from deep within his chest.

“… ‘M in heat,” he finally admitted, ears still flat as he refused to look you in the eye. His cheeks flushed a very light red, breaths coming out heavy. 

Ah. That’s what you thought. His behaviour leading up to this moment now made sense.

“Why didn’t you say so? You big dope…” you said. “Come here.”

He sighed in relief as you gave him the green light, whining as his cock jumped when another wave of your scent invaded his senses. Ah, Seven, he needed you bad.

Before you knew it, you found yourself stripped of your clothes, thighs spread and held wide open by Jack’s tight grip. Panting, he stared long and hard at your glistening cunt, licking his lips. Lowering his head between your legs, he pressed his nose against your folds and inhaled your scent — an act of marking for wolves. The sudden act had your cheeks flushing with mild bashfulness.

Fuck — Jack couldn’t get enough of your scent, grunting and groaning with satisfaction as he took in your pheromones. He could smell how ready and willing you were for him to mate with him. His tongue slipped out, sloppily lapping at your slick pussy. He knew from your scent alone that you were ready for him, but he needed a taste of those potent pheromones of yours.

“Mm… J-Jack,” you moaned, gripping his hair.

He grunted in appreciation, drunk off your pussy. He stopped momentarily, inhaling your scent again before licking you again, marking you as his with every lick. You’d smell like him, and every beastman in Savanaclaw would step aside whenever you’d walk by. They’d all smell the unmistakable scent of a wolf’s claim. Even Leona himself would think twice about approaching you. Jack would make sure of it.

When finally satisfied, Jack pulled away from his spot between your legs, making you whine at the loss of contact. You writhed, spreading your legs further in an attempt to entice Jack to come back; your swollen clit throbbed, needy for release.

Jack gripped your hips, a flush of red painting his tanned cheeks as he took a moment to admire his work: your cunt all puffy and needy, dripping with a mixture of your arousal and his saliva. He sniffed the air again, satisfied to smell himself on you.

“Can’t hold back anymore… s’too much,” Jack said in a low tone, almost in a growl.

You yelped a bit as Jack flipped you over and onto your stomach with impressive strength. His large, rugged hands gripped at your flesh as he handled you, placing you in the exact position he wanted you. Maybe a little clichéd for a wolf to want to fuck you in doggy style, but it was instinctual for Jack — the perfect position for optimal mounting.

Not that you were complaining. It wasn’t like you’ve never thought of getting “face down, ass up” for this man.

The tension was thick as Jack’s clawed hands slid along your skin, gripping your ass and spreading your cheeks to get another good look. You could hear the sound of clinking metal as Jack undid his belt, a quiet “fuck” escaping him as he freed himself from the confines of his pants. 

You inhaled sharply as the weight of his large cock – fuck, he was big – slid against your wet folds. Surprise filled your being as you felt a distinct bulge at the base of his dick, causing you to look over your shoulder.

“I… have a knot,” Jack admitted, almost sounding embarrassed. “It’s a canine thing.”

That made sense, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t at all curious to take it. You could hardly wait to try something so… foreign to you. Men back in your world didn’t have knots, after all.

“Jack, please…”

And as needy and desperate as Jack was at that moment, you didn’t have to beg any further. With a steady grip on your hips, he slid his cock into your depths, stretching you out oh-so beautifully. The wolfman was in fucking heaven — your warmth, the tightness of your pretty little cunt pulled a primal growl from deep within his chest, sending shivers down your spine.

Large and rough hands held onto your hips with a tight grip, claws somewhat digging into your skin as if trying to ground himself — to prevent himself from pounding you, instead giving steady and shallow thrusts to ease himself slowly, allowing your pussy the time to adjust and accommodate his size. 

Then came his knot, and fuck, your jaw fell slack as your breath caught in your throat in a breathless moan. If you thought Jack’s cock was thick, then you had no words to describe his knot.

“Almost there, babe…” Jack grunted.

And with one final, hard thrust, Jack’s hips were flush against your ass, knot stretching your walls beyond anything you’ve ever felt before. Ever the caring boyfriend, Jack allowed you a moment to adjust to the sudden, foreign intrusion and to catch your breath — heaven knows you’ll need it for the fucking coming your way.

Because as soon as you gave Jack the go-ahead, the room was filled with the lewd sounds of your wet pussy being ravaged by Jack. With his strength, Jack had no qualms manhandling you, roughly grabbing you by the hips and pulling you back and forth onto his cock, practically using you as a fleshlight – in the heat of the moment, all reservations were gone, and Jack couldn’t do anything but act out on pure instinct.

Fast, deep, making sure to bottom out with every single thrust, Jack was hitting all of your most sensitive spots; all you could do was stay there and take it.

“F-Fuck… that’s good,” Jack groaned. “You take me so well, babe.”

His hands momentarily abandoned their spot on your hips to pull his shirt over his head, discarding it to the floor. 

Incoherently moaning his name, praising the size of his cock, how good he made you feel – that’s all you could do, and oh did Jack revel in the praise. You could practically feel his cock jump inside of you with every moan that slipped past your lips.

“J-Jack…! H-Harder, please!” You begged, wanting him to fully let go and give in to instincts.

“E-Eh…?” Jack said, pace momentarily slowing. “Are you sure you know what you’re asking?”

“Mhm… please,” you said, glancing at him from over your shoulder with watery, widened eyes that screamed desperation.

“… you asked for it. Ain’t no going back after that,” Jack said.

Your breath momentarily hitched before a loud, lewd and prolonged moan escaped you as Jack slid his cock out, only leaving the tip in, before pounding back in with breathtaking force – over and over again, his pace only increasing with every thrust.

Oh, Jack was growling, revelling in the rough, primal fucking. Instincts fully taking over, he lowered himself, warm and sweaty chest pressing against your backside, mounting you.

The only thing keeping you from collapsing from the rough treatment on your body was Jack’s arm, which was wrapped around your abdomen, keeping you upright. His free hand slid up to your throat, gripping it right under your chin to tilt your head up, and with your ear now right next to his mouth, you could hear every deep grunt and feel every puff of his warm breath.

He was all around you, his larger frame easily overpowering yours as he pressed himself against you. Your senses were filled with him – overwhelmingly so – going straight between your legs as the thread that had been steadily building in your core threatened to snap.

And slowly but surely, you began feeling Jack’s knot swelling, growing bigger and further stretching your fucked-out pussy.

“G-Gonna come soon,” Jack grunted, nipping at your ear. “Gonna fill you up, mark you as mine.”

Although holding on by a thin thread of sanity, Jack refused to come before you did, and so letting go of your throat, he reached between your legs to stroke steady circles around your clit.

Planting your face into the sheets below you, effectively muffling your loud screams of ecstasy, the extra stimulation to your sensitive clit pushed you over the edge. Clamping down hard on Jack’s cock as you came, Jack muttered incoherent curses at the sudden tightness.

With a few final, powerful thrusts, the tip of his cock hit your cervix, his knot swelling to its full size as he emptied his load right at the entrance of your womb, growling loudly and throwing his head back.

Panting, sweaty and completely spent, the two of you remained connected. Glancing over your shoulder, you sent Jack a cute smile, paired with your droopy and tired eyes, effectively flustering the wolf man. His ears flattened as a hue of pink decorated his cheeks, looking at you like a deer caught in headlight before looking away bashfully.

Adorable, truly. As if he hadn’t just rearranged your insides.

Still, Jack had some bite left in him as he gripped your body, shifting both of your positions so that you were both lying on your sides, Jack spooning you with his cock still firmly nested inside your warmth.

“… my uh… knot should go down in about thirty minutes. We’ll be stuck together until then…” he says in a gruff but somewhat shy tone.

A half-truth, really. While his swollen knot would normally keep him locked with his mate, you weren’t a wolf beastwoman, and so your walls didn’t clamp down hard enough to remain locked with him. 

Really, Jack just wanted a few more minutes of intimacy with you but was too shy to admit to it outright.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #jack howl #jack howl x reader #twisted wonderland jack howl #twst #twst x reader #twst jack howl #disney’s twisted wonderland #disney twst #kinktober 2023 #savanaclaw #vision of temptations 2023 #nsft #minors dni

[sixosix]

Pls write basketball player girlfail childe asking reader to show up to his competition and he yells out “this ones for you”’only to miss like the pathetic loser he is and get benched for the rest of the gamethx

warnings wc 1.2k feminine russian petname (printsessa) used once (1), THIS IS A BIT OF A MESS IM SORRY ELLIE, second-hand embarrassment btw…

“I said please...”

Laughing, you push his face away with your palm, Childe’s cheek squished against it. “What are you, five? Please won’t get you anywhere.” The way he said it, dragged out and whiny, was entertaining, though.

He draws you closer by encircling your waist with his arm. “School year’s ending, won’t you at least give me this one last dance?”

“It would’ve been sweet if you were asking me out for prom instead of your basketball competition.”

“But our situation makes it even more romantic,” Childe argues, well, childishly. He pouts and brings his face within inches of yours, drowning your gaze in a mesmerizing shade of hauntingly beautiful blue.

“We don’t have a situation.”

“Yes we do, printsessa. There’s no one here to hide your undying love for me. Come to my game to make it up to me?”

He looks stupid in all his long-limbed glory, as he bends down and gazes up at you, his lower lip protruding. But you've always had a weakness for his endearing puppy-dog eyes. They have a way of working their magic, and he's well aware of it.

“We’ll see what happens.”

Childe lights up, pulling away just to give you kisses all over the back of your palm. “Yes, yes. You won't regret a thing, I promise.” You haven’t even said a concrete yes, though he’d probably take anything that isn’t outright ‘no’.

You suppose this means you have a basketball game to attend tomorrow.

“Wear my jersey?”

“You’re pushing it.”

“For real? You’re not joking around? No, wait, don’t tell me—you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

Xiao’s jaw ticks, far from amused, as the boy in front of him grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him back and forth like a snowglobe. Childe would find his piercing glare terrifying if he weren’t a whole head shorter than him. “Do I look like I have time to entertain and joke around with you, Tartaglia? See for yourself. Second row, black jacket.”

Childe’s grin splits across his face like he’s never had to express any other emotion.

Xiao stares at him warily, as one would to a ticking time bomb. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I don’t like that look on your face.”

Childe’s expression turns serious, his dull eyes drilling daggers to the ground. “We will win. I’ll make sure of it, buddy. Wanna know why? I have a plan, and I’ll share it with the team so I can win this competition and Y/N falls in love with me and everything falls into pl— Hey, why are you leaving?”

“Kunikuzushi.” You don’t bother hiding the look of surprise on your face as you spot him on the second row of the courtside seats. “I thought you were one of the players.”

Scaramouche’s face crinkles in disgust at even the implications that came along with it. “I’d rather not participate in anything involving Childe.”

A laugh bubbles out of you as you settle in on the seat on his left. “And here I thought he said you were friends.”

“He’s presumptuous like that,” Scaramouche sniffs, tipping his chin high. 

“And secretive. I didn’t know he played basketball…”

“Are you joking?” At your bewildered expression, Scaramouche’s brow arches in disbelief. “You don’t know. Childe only started playing because you said you might have a crush on one of the varsity players.”

“What? I just I might. And what does that— Oh, no.”

“Yes. You idiot.”

“I didn’t think his crush was this serious,” you murmur, sinking further into your seat. It might be butterflies, it might be mortification.

The whistle blows; the players settle in position. Your eyes never stray from Childe’s figure, even for a second. (He does look good in his basketball jersey.)

“Crush? Don’t make me laugh. You pair act like you’re on your honeymoon every time I see you.”

Wisely deciding to change the subject because arguing with Scaramouche is subjecting yourself to eventual loss, you wonder aloud, “How’d they even allow him to play? He doesn’t know how to aim for shit.”

Scaramouche smirks. “Probably because of his connections. He’s an asshole like that.”

“Yeah.” That makes sense. You both lapse into silence as the game proceeds.

Childe is doing better than you expected. Even Scaramouche looks vaguely impressed.

“I guess he could play after all,” you comment, whistling lowly as Childe skillfully snatches the ball and maneuvers across the field like he’s a stream of water. You’re briefly entranced by the way he grins and a bead of sweat rolls down from his chin.

The ball is in his hands. You shuffle to the edge of your seat.

Scaramouche leans to rest his elbows on his knees. “What’s he doing?” You can’t tell if he’s invested because he’s rooting for him or if he’s waiting for something bad to happen, because he hates Childe like that.

Childe comes to a stop at a specific distance, cradling the ball against his chest. His teammates do the same, creating enough confusion among the opposing players to provide him with an opportunity to attempt what would generally be considered a violation.

Childe’s eyes easily find yours. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s pinned your location down beforehand or if it’s the magnetic force that’s pulling you to him no matter where you try to look. He grins, all boyish charm that makes everyone oblivious that they’re dealing with a devil in the body of a ginger swoon.

“This one’s for you, babe!” he exclaims, pointing at you with a wild grin, prompting the audience to glance at you in bewilderment. Stupidly, your heart flutters at the fact that he didn’t forget you were watching.

He jumps, his body and arms arching in a graceful form. You swear there’s a spotlight framing his entire body at the moment. Childe flicks his wrist; the ball flies off of his grasp.

And the ball also misses entirely.

A stunned silence washes over the court, broken only by Scaramouche later bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, no,” you say, hiding your face in your palms. Xiao, Childe’s teammate, is seen exiting the field.

“Oh my—oh my fuc—king go—od,” Scaramouche wheezes in between breaths, his knees curled up to his chest.

“It’s really not that funny,” you weakly defend, mostly because your embarrassment is overpowering the part of you wanting to join Scaramouche.

However, your words only prompt Scaramouche into laughing harder, tears in his eyes and his breaths coming in short. You’ve never seen him laugh this hard before.

Below, Childe doesn’t even look humiliated. He stares at the ball rolling away with a frown, as if it’s at fault for his god-awful aim.

One of the players—his enemy—pats him on the back. “Hey, man, you can try again if you want to…”

Childe huffs, turning away. “I want a fair one. It’s not worth anything if you just give it to me.” What a miracle he still has his pride after that.

Childe gets benched, pouting in the sidelines. They did win, but it’s not because of Childe, like he told Xiao would happen—not that Xiao was there to see it. Not even a kicked puppy could compare to how pathetic he’s looking. A wet, crumpled paper might be more accurate.

“Don’t tell me you’re into dedicated failure? You into that?”

You pat Scaramouche’s back twice in response. “He’s still cute, unfortunately.” There might just be something wrong with you. “I’m going to go to him.”

“Weirdo,” Scaramouche shoots back, watching as you leave. “No wonder why you and Childe are perfect for each other.”

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact fluff #childe x reader #childe x you #childe x y/n #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x you #ajax x reader #ajax x you #ajax x y/n #childe fluff

[merakiui]

Fwb Riddle with the prompts "You don't have to leave, you know" and/or "Stay the night tonight" 🥺

AAAA YES YES. OTL

(fwb dialogues)

“You don’t have to leave, you know,” Riddle murmurs, watching you pick up your discarded clothes scattered on the floor. He’s sitting up in his bed, the covers draped lazily over his lap. Awkwardly, he wrings his hands out of nervous habit.

You glance over your shoulder at him, stunned. “I thought you didn’t have time today. You told me so—said you’d rather be studying when I texted you.”

“Yes. Well…” He huffs, averting his eyes. “I’ve changed my mind. So… If it’s not asking too much, stay the night tonight.”

You tilt your head, resting your hands on your hips. “Isn’t there some rule about this in the Queen of Hearts’s law?”

Riddle chuckles, regaining slivers of confidence with every passing second. “There’s nothing in the rulebook that says I’m not allowed to share my space with you. We’re abiding by the rules.”

“Most of the time.”

Riddle blinks at you, opens his mouth to question you, and then clamps it shut. His face explodes with color. He remembers the night well—the party at the lounge. He only went for courtesy’s sake, accompanied by Trey and Cater, and he’d planned to make his rounds, greet everyone in turn, and leave before he missed evening tea. Rule 153 — One must only drink herbal tea in the evenings.

But then someone passed a fruity drink into his hand—something that was so very obviously alcoholic from the look and sight alone—and Riddle had thought himself strong enough to decline. Even though his wits were about him, they crumbled at the sight of you, merrily giggling alongside Kalim and indulging in the type of mindless fun he’s never had the chance to know. He’s never needed to rely on liquid courage or anything like it; he derives enough confidence from the ever-present fear of failure and that keeps him going.

But this was different, and it wasn’t very secretive to the keen eyes of his friends and dorm mates.

Cater had nudged Riddle, grinning encouragingly. “You literally never get to see (Name) outside of class. Now’s your chance! Go make Cay-Cay proud and talk a bit.”

Riddle flustered outright. “I’ve no idea what we’d even talk about!”

“The upcoming exam,” Trey prompted with a half-shrug. “Nothing gets people talking faster than when it comes to exams they aren’t looking forward to.”

For once Riddle doesn’t find academics an appealing conversation subject. But he hadn’t had time to deliberate because Cater looped arms with him and skipped over in your direction.

Riddle learned two very valuable lessons that night. One: Never drink wine in copious amounts no matter how delicious it is. Two: Never hook up anywhere near or in the Mostro Lounge.

It’s been months since that party, an irresponsible mistake on his part, and he’s arguably closer with you than he’s ever been. Physically, perhaps. Emotions are…difficult. Neither of you signed up for the emotional benefits. Just the sex. Sometimes he wishes there was more. Rule 53 — One must replace anything stolen.

But how can you do that when you’re not aware of the thing you’ve unintentionally stolen?

Riddle surfaces from that rumination, refusing to dignify that with incoherent, embarrassed sputtering. Instead, he simply says, “Certain situations call for…exceptions.”

“Is that what I am?” you ask, stepping into your underwear. Riddle’s gaze traces the length of your legs. “An exception to the rules? Last I checked there’s no rule saying we can’t kiss.”

“And there aren’t any rules prohibiting you from staying either.”

You pause, half-dressed. “No, I guess not… I don’t want to ruin your study time, though. I may be an exception, but I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“We could study together.”

“You’re the only guy I know who’d study after sex.”

Riddle bristles. “W-What else am I meant to do?”

An amused smile curls on your lips. You cover the distance to the bed and lean over to meet him. He stares at you, swept up in your charm. You’re everything his mother would object to. Your relationship doesn’t suit that of normal, standard love (because it’s not), but it’s his choice and no one, not even the rules or his mother, can influence that. It’s messy and imperfect, but it’s all his.

“You could try talking to me,” you offer, your face within kissing distance. “Not about school or dorm stuff. But about you.”

Oh.

Yeah, you’re right. He could try that.

#twisted chit chat #meraki dialogues

[devotion-disorder]

im so obsessed with ur OCs, they're too cute!!

in the second depiction of Noel, is he streaming or planning to upload the video of him (coercively) garnering his darling's declaration of love? Is he self-aware about his yandere behavior, does he think about how others might receive it?

Is Kuuya aware of how others might consider his behavior strange? Or are one or both of them convinced it's understandable/normal?

Would Noel be inclined to kidnap/trap darling in his house? Or include them in his videos, given that it means they will have an audience? What about Kuuya? Is he content to stalk his darling from afar or will he eventually try to win them over?

I have so many more thoughts and questions!! I love your boys, they're so pretty.

First off thank u v much for liking my silly boyes!!! 🥺🥺 <3333

I would say in that pic you can interpret Noel as doing whatever you think he is doing LOL its entirely possible for him to be streaming, or recording a video, or even recording something just to keep to himself / shamefully delete it afterwards, it kind of depends on what happened beforehand or how far gone he is. I’d say Noel is somewhat self-aware but he just outright refuses to really acknowledge what he is doing. He does has enough social awareness to keep up a decent image of both him and his SO; He understands instinctually that what he is doing is wrong, but he justifies it with excuses and just lets himself be swept up in his emotions.

Kuuya is very aware that his behaviour is strange and thinks of himself as a disgusting creep (which is mostly fair), and its what the people around him have made him internalise waayyyyyyy before he even met his partner. It’s why he would not usually directly approach his SO, choosing to stalk them or breaking into their house etc, because he thinks no one would want to see someone like him.

So i suppose, Noel is actually more delusional than Kuuya in a sense LOL. But then again, Noel is the one with enough balls to actually kidnap his partner (amongst a slew of other things) while Kuuya would much rather fall into a depressive slump than actually do anything.

#ask #anon #Kuuya posting #Noel posting #yandere oc