#if you reblog this can you just tell me if its over saturated in the tags

[werdlewrites]

The Season of the Witch: Allumage

Chapter thirty-three: Playing the Hero

masterlist-about-ao3

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summary: “I’m a piece of shit, I got that. Loud and clear. I came here to apologize t’you - t’Nancy, which,” another scoff with hands held out to her, frantic in their motions before settling. “What a surprise t’me. But whatever her and I are dealing with, is between us. I’ve been living with it, and maybe someday she’ll hear me out. But right now, for her sake, she needs someone that knows what the fuck they're doing.” warnings: wc: 3,513

It’s the summer of nineteen-seventy-five - the sun high in the sky with few clouds to drown out its light. People flee from their homes to enjoy the cooling winds, fresh air to fill their lungs as spring carries away its storms and heaviness. It’s made way for brilliance - the sun kissing flesh as bodies lay out on soft sand, robbing them of moisture as sweat drips from their fingertips. Others find this opportunity to dress for the wilderness, hiking through trails built from tall trees and the flourishing brush. Enjoying the life mother nature gifted - before retreating to the security of tents as exhaustion took over. Children were more lively than ever. The final bell of school ringing to set them free from obligations - worries tossed to the side as they explored life with their friends. Biking down new paths to take in its mystery, playing marco polo at the community pool until their parents called it quits. Maybe they were in backyards to enjoy the quiet together, on the verge of disruption as a glare shoots across the way, a warning that goes unheard. “Don’t you dare, Steve.”

Autumn stares down the barrel of a kinked hose, wound tight in a small fist with a spare thumb resting just over the nozzle. She can hear the churn of water flowing, filling the tube with overwhelming pressure with a few leaks pushing past his skin. Despite her tone, the boy is all smiles. Watching as his friend slowly eases her way back - gaining some distance between the two and the threat in his hands. “What’s the matter? Afraid of water?” There’s a long pause shared - worried eyes darting from the weapon to his face, looking for a telling sign to say he was only joking. That he’d turn the water off to let her bask in the heat. “N-no,” is the girl's hesitant reply, finding something unsettling bubble up inside as his expression becomes more pleased, blissful of what was to come. “Good,” is all he offers, before moving his thumb to hover over a small amount of the opening, turning free flowing water into a gun he aims her way. The peaceful yard is suddenly filled with a scream of terror - running from the offender as the spray acts as nails against her skin. Sharp and embedding. And beneath the chaos, there’s laughter. Feet crash against soaked grass as Steve chases after the victim, arms extended for more reach and successfully soaking her back - then her face as she turns to fend the boy off. There’s a struggle at the center of madness - child sized hands pushing and pulling, digging between fingers until the hose is freed from his grip, and she’s exacting revenge. “How do you like it?” she shouts back, loud enough to drown out his shocking cry now that the warm water has become cold. “I surrender!” “What? I can’t really hear you,” she calls out, pressing the fountain to the back of his head to let it saturate once softly curled hair. He says nothing, only reaching for the attachment to begin a small tug of war, taking turns at tilting it to the other party.

Suddenly, it all comes to a stop. The spray of water dwindles between the pair until it becomes nothing, leaving their feet bare and buried in the muck of wet earth. “Steve?” His mother is calling from the backdoor, drawing attention from the two children as their laughter dissipates. “Could you come here please?” The distance between them is too great for his mother to see the roll of his eyes, the clear irritation. “Sorry,” he grumbles, hesitantly leaving the girl behind with a now empty hose as he jogs across the dampened grass, breaths heaving as he stands beneath his mother. “What?” He practically spits over the threshold, eyeing her through fallen strands of hair to lay in his face. Tanned skin is littered with goosebumps as the chilled air from within spills out in a delicate touch.

His mother shifts in place, ignoring his playful yet annoyed tone for interrupting his joy beneath the sun. “I’m making sandwiches, and I wanted to know if you two wanted some?” At the mention of food, the boy's attitude changes like the flip of a switch. Honey eyes are beaming and his mouth hangs agape with surprise and elation. This reaction is enough to provide an answer - a smile on her face as she pulls back to disappear within the house, hands now busy with extra food for her son and his guest. Though his head pushes through the opening, calling out to her as water drips down onto the tile. “No mustard on hers!” There’s an echo of her acknowledgement, deep and distant inside the home, and he takes it with a satisfied smile as he pulls back from the shadows. The boy is shaking his head like an animal, releasing droplets of water to scatter, evaporating on the hot pavement under his feet. “Mom’s making us food,” he calls out, fingers running through heavy strands to push back the curtain to lay over his gaze. “I told her-” there’s a pause once his vision clears, taking note of Autumn on the far end of his yard with the hose long forgotten in her grip, laid out in the mud. She’s steady, back facing him no matter how many times he calls her name - growing closer with every step he takes with caution. The girl is locked on something he cannot see - something buried within the treeline. Had an animal appeared in the depths? Holding her curious gaze as they tried to understand one another. He worries he’ll scare away the wildlife, breaking the connection and suffer her wrath as she whines and stomps her feet. But he’s there, just at her back. Scanning through the world beyond them and there’s nothing - not even a small squirrel digging up the dirt.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, filled with kindness as his fingers just ghost over her arm, but she’s still stuck - unmoving and unreactive to his presence. “What are we lookin’ at?” he questions, before moving to her side with a squint in his eye - seeing only brush before he turns to his friend. Skin pales as blood flow ceases to a shaken halt, shock striking him with all of its venom. She’s looking beyond him - far through the trees with a hazed look in once innocent and sweet eyes. Lids are heavy, nearly on the verge of sleep as steady breaths pass through lips to lull her into a safe embrace. But danger comes - blood just barely creeping into visibility, forcing Steve to break through the shackles of fear that hold him back. “Aut? Talk to-” There’s a tender touch to the child’s arm, a silent prayer that this had been some cruel joke - that she would jump at him, and he’d storm off in anger before accepting her apology as she pouts. But the connection sends her deeper down, eyes widening as if nightmares danced for her alone. Once calm breaths become stuck in her throat, chest heaving as it fights to push past the barrier - seeking relief from sudden strangulation. Hands are gripping at her, desperation to keep her close - to keep Autumn from fading away. “Hey, hey! You’re okay! You’re okay, I-I’ve got you!” There’s nothing given back in return, only the continued fight for survival and he risks all by letting her go, steps flying across the grass as he calls for his mother. The sound of her surrender draws his attention back - a collapsed body imprinted in his memory for all of time. “Mom, help!”

His knees are aching, pressed deep into the carpet of the Byers home with a familiar weight in tightly wound arms. Autumn lays limp in his hold, head fallen back with the sight of crimson staining the inside of her nose. The chaos she found herself within had all suddenly gone quiet the moment she closed her eyes, though panic and worrisome questions filled the emptiness at his back. “Oh my god,” Nancy whimpers behind a delicate hand, concealing the look of horror to grace precious features. Jonathan is quick to the other boy's side, kneeling with hands hovering in thin air, unsure of what to do and how to help. “What happened? Is-is she okay?” Steve spares the other a look, though it goes unnoticed. He’s full of fear - an expression that reminded him too much of his younger self when he thought the girl had died all those years ago. It’s a telling sign to suggest Jonathan’s never experienced something like this, and while Steve is the more calm out of the trio, his chest is still heaving and a heart racing within it. He’s seen it all - but never a display quite like that.

He adjusts on the floor, shifting her weight so she leans closer into his chest, a spare hand moving to lay flat against her neck - where her pulse beats strongly against his skin. “She’s okay,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Just-just fainted, is all.” “That doesn’t sound okay,” Nancy chimes in from the distance, earning a brief glance over his shoulder to soak in the terror swimming through her eyes. Steve offers a small shrug, face twisted up as he’s unsure of what to say - how to explain it all and if it was his story to even tell. “Here, let me-” Jonathan is inching closer, gaining more security on his legs as he reaches for the back of her shoulders, seeking to assist in carrying her. The brunette thinks nothing of his actions, shifting her body once more until she’s secured against him, arms spread out beneath her for a better hold. “S’okay, man. I’ve got her.” There’s minimal stress as he contorts from the awkward angle, standing strong on two feet with the girl dead weight in his hold. He moves with confidence, like this had come second nature - like he had been here before. And despite the efforts made to help Autumn, Jonathan still holds an uncertain glare as Steve walks right by him, laying the girl out beneath the Christmas lights strung up above the couch. “How can I help?” Nancy’s voice is close, hovering just at her partner's back to assess the situation, hand resting just over her chest to ease a panicked heart. “Uh,” an exhausted breath flies through closed lips, looking out down the hallway into the dim kitchen. “Uh-anything cold, really. Ice? Something.” The girl works quickly - practically running off into the other room in search of aid, leaving Steve to lift Autumn’s knees with a pillow rested just beneath them. Unaware of the gaze still at his back.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Jonathan mutters just under a breath, earning a curious look from the brunette at her side, still checking her heartbeat through a small touch. “Yeah,” the acknowledgement falls in a heavy sigh, continuing to tuck her into better comforts for when eyes open again. “I thought it had gotten better, honestly.” The boy wants to question - wants to pry, lips parting to let the curiosities come forward but is silenced by Nancy’s presence, a watered down plastic bag in hand as well as frozen vegetables. Something Autumn had more than likely brought with her hours ago. The items are offered out, and her boyfriend is moving with care and haste as the vegetables lay nestled up against the sleeping girl’s neck, an ice cube plucked from a pool and pressed to the inside of her wrist. The standing pair share a brief look, the silence broken as Jonathan steps forward. “What’re you doing?” “Cooling her down,” his response is blunt, matter-of-fact, attention focused on his long lost someone, though curious eyes burn into him. And while Jonathan remains oblivious, still seeking answers, Wheeler is more left in awe at the confession - Steve was falling behind in class, yet knew enough to help a fallen girl. “You’re using her pulse points,” it’s not a question, more of a realization made outloud. “How-how’d you know to do that?” A small smile is seen on the freckled boy, crooked and full of amusement at the idea of her surprise. To find flunking Steve actually wasn’t entirely useless, all looks and lips. “You play enough games in the summer, you gotta learn how t’keep cool.”

There’s a long silence between them all, attention focused on the gentle breaths to fill her chest and the twitch of her brow - something to say she was still there, yet far from their reach, captive in her own mind. But in this calm, there’s an uneasiness in Jonathan - watching Steve’s sudden care for someone he lost. Reaching out in vulnerable times in hopes for forgiveness under great distress. So words fall to the carpet, disguised by a feigned confidence as he moves in closer. “Look, I appreciate what you did,” he begins, watching unassuming eyes move his way, forcing him to pause in his approach. “But, I can take over from here. I’m sure your parents-'' Steve lets a small chuckle break through, silencing Jonathan on the spot. “My dad’s an asshole. He’s mad no matter what I’m doin’.” Round and round the ice moves, never lingering too long for fear of pain, no matter if his own fingers burned from the intense temperature. He’s in another world - another time, back to when they were younger, to when they were friends. Taking action when no one else was around to help, yet now dismissing it when it’s offered. And the uneasiness builds, taking the shape of anger as Jonathan’s fist ball up at his sides. “You don’t get t’do this.” Again, kind brown eyes look up in confusion, brow knitted together in confusion before it all spills over the dam. “You don’t get t’just come in and play the hero, hoping it makes everything better.” “What?” The ice is forgotten, held in a fallen grip as his gaze turns towards more disbelief, unsettled by his accusation. “You treated her like shit-'' Steve groans in response, the roll of his eyes evident as he pushes himself up to stand against a force now working against him. “You weren’t there for her.” Arms cross over his gray sweatshirt, a shield against a boy that was only trying to defend Autumn’s honor with hostile words, and it pushes the brunette closer to the edge. Ignoring the cold chill that spilled from his palm, trickling down into his sleeve. “Are we really gonna do this?”

The other teen stands firm, lips pulled to a thin line with a crinkle in his nose, his stare full of the anger he’s consumed from Autumn, listening to her tale of their departure and the constant ache it brought. But Steve doesn’t falter, a fire sparking to tear all down with its fury. “I was there! I was there before you.” A scoff passes through, tongue quick to wet dry lips before his focus is back on Jonathan. “You didn’t even know this shit happened,” he takes a wide swing, arm gesturing out to the still sleeping girl, undisturbed by radiating heat in the small room. “I’m a piece of shit, I got that. Loud and clear. I came here to apologize t’you - t’Nancy, which,” another scoff with hands held out to her, frantic in their motions before settling. “What a surprise t’me. But whatever her and I are dealing with, is between us. I’ve been living with it, and maybe someday she’ll hear me out. But right now, for her sake, she needs someone that knows what the fuck they're doing.”

All falls into silence, eerie as the only company they keep is the sound of a distant clock ticking. Another second of Will being out of reach. Another minute of lying in wait, hoping a monster didn’t plan out its revenge if it had survived. Another hour of an unknown fate for the Police Chief and Jonathan’s mother, walking amongst evil. Steve wants to fall to his knees and grovel, crawl through the wreckage and pray for forgiveness. Instead, he shares an uneasy glance between the two, before taking his place just at Autumn’s side, the cube now melted down to the size of a pebble. Nancy is the first to act, retreating down the hallway without a word - without acknowledging him and for a brief moment, the freckled boy thinks it’s over. From breaking the camera, all the way up to this moment. But she’s quick, moving back out into the light, passing Jonathan to instead kneel within inches of her boyfriend. She plucks another chunk of ice from the messy bag, folding it up in a thin cloth before slipping it into his palm in exchange for the smaller piece. A sweet smile shines beneath the grim situation, helping to curl his fingers over the no longer burning ice. “For your fingers,” she states, earning a lopsided grin from the boy. “Thank you.”

Jonathan begrudgingly lets the subject fall into the background, keeping lips tightly sealed with thoughts pushed to the furthest corner of his mind as he picks and carries the destruction of his home. The bear trap is gone, set down in a box along with everything else they brought for a trap. But it all remains closeby, just in case a familiar face comes back into the light. Glass is picked up with care, solemn eyes occasionally drifting to the couple or to Nancy when she allows herself a moment alone. Wondering if she so easily forgave Steve, or if she simply needed time to process the loss of Barb. Finding her strength in the shadows before reappearing with a gentle smile. This peace is only short-lived in the Byers home, the front door opening quickly enough to cast a breeze across their startled faces, eyes cast towards the frantic man lingering at the threshold. “I told you t’stay, kid,” Hopper mutters, irritation in his tone and tightness in his jaw. But Jonathan pays it all no mind, rushing toward him to peer around his taller figure in hopes to see his mother, yet there’s only darkness. “Where is she? Where’s my mom?” he nearly shouts, dismissing large hands held out to ease down the rising flames. “She’s fine. Your mom’s safe.” “Where?” the boy snaps, eyes locked on his new target no matter the difference in size, no matter the threat he could carry. “With your brother.” The confession is enough to douse embers, his chest filling with the smoke he expels in a questioning breath, “What?” Hands fall to the boy's shoulders, keeping him steady and bracing for the impact of his next few words. It all sounds so simple, sparing the boy grim tales of all he had seen in the darkness. “They’re at the hospital, okay? Everyone’s fine.” Jonathan can hardly process - mouth hung agape in shock, almost disbelieving the pain they’ve suffered was a tragic memory to never recall. Hopper adjusts his jacket, moving past the Byers boy to inspect the damage done - and the other occupants that stood like a deer in headlights, or a child caught where no trespassers were allowed. “I’m just playing chauffeur. What are you doin’ here?” he questions, chin held out in gesture towards Steve - clearly hiding something at his back. “Oh, y’know, just..hanging out.” The Chief tilts his head, a concerned gaze now honed in on a pair of dirtied boots, worn with time just poking out from behind the boy. Boots he’s seen kicked up on his dashboard after offering the girl a ride to school. “Move,” he demands, yet doesn’t give them time to process as he’s barreling forward, pushing the teenagers aside to take in the sight of Autumn Reid, unresponsive. “She’s fine! She’s fine, she just-” “Faints, apparently,” Nancy interrupts, her own eyes moving between the man that hovers over, and the girl he studies with worry.

Ian had claimed she was sick, and with threat lingering at his back he didn’t press on the matter then. Only making mental notes for safe keeping. Seeing her this way deepens the pool of wonder, of curiosities. Like Steve, a tender touch is laid to her neck, unable to hold back the sigh of relief to feel just how strong she was despite it all. So he ignores the chatter of teenagers, folding himself over to rest a hand under her knees, the other squeezing her shoulder to lift and carry. Their voices fall into silence, watching in awe and confusion as he moves with ease towards the front door - barely across the threshold before turning back to the group with annoyance already bubbling up in his chest. “Well? What are you waiting for? Let’s go! Move it!”

#steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x oc #steve harrington x original character #steve harrington ff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jim hopper #stranger things ff #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington slow burn #steve harrington angst

[afuntimepartyy]

★[Introduction post!]★

    Hey, it’s about time I did this huh? anyways, hi!  My name is Mangy/Funtime! I’m a still learning digital artist that’s just trying to get their work out there!  I’m here for a good time, this is NOT a super professional account and currently? that will NEVER be this account’s purpose or intent! 

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ★

  This is mostly, a “post whatever I want” blog, but I’m working on organizing with tags a bit more to make it easier to sort through my stuff that’s art, rambling, what not!  Im a very reblogs > likes person due to me trying to get my art and ideas out SOMEWHERE in the world, any support is greatly appreciated! 

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   I DO appreciate tone indicators or tone tags when talking with me occasionally, I can sometimes understand tone just fine through text, but other times I may need a nod in the right direction to what you’re trying to convey.                                     ミ★[Disclaimer before I get into the pronouns! my preferred ones ARE neos, however! if you for some reason have difficulty using them, they/them IS fine- and so is it/its. I will tell you though there IS websites that help you see how neo pronouns would work in a sentence, use those if possible to help you out!] ★彡 ★List of pronouns, listed most preferred to least preferred (but not disliked!)★ Cat/cats/catself, | kit/kits/kitself,| paw/paws/pawself, |They/them/theirs,|  it/its/itself!| cloud/clouds/cloudself | star/stars/starself!

[If you see mutuals rebloging my stuff with the name kat, that’s for them only. Kat is specific to close friends and mutuals! Anyone else I’d prefer for them to use mangy/funtime!!]

★Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ★

  things I tend to enjoy a lot vary in many different shapes and sizes- I LOVE general weird early internet stuff, those in the early 2000′s and so on. Just the general early 2000′s tend to be a favorite discussion of mine, or the general stuff that came out in that era! I adore bright saturated colors, and in art I love fun and cartoony proportions the most! I also love animations, art, and theater! I love examining writing from other things and analyzing it FAR too much! [ meanwhile, my fixations can come in WAVES, and come and go as they please, so I wont bother noting those! ]   ★Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ★  now we’ve gotten all over that, yeah? I feel this introduction post is far too long but I don’t really have any other websites to shorten in! so hopefully this works. ill update it as I go, as well as shorten it if I can! Everything down below is simply to another site i use and post to, farewell for now! hopefully this all said all that needs to be said about me!  ★Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ★

★Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ★ Other socials you can contact/find me on! ★Twitter! [https://twitter.com/AFuntimePartyy] ★Artfight! [https://artfight.net/~AFuntimePartyy] ★Insta! [https://www.instagram.com/AFuntimePartyy/] (insta desperately needs a bit more cleaning up, maybe alongside some others too. The idea of strictly going by mangy/funtime online when not with friends is new, so I need to update others!) ★More may be added in the future! stay tuned :]

#DONT reblog this #introductory post #pinned post #hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

[koishua]

a conversation by the ruby river.

characters: jay, gn!faerie!reader.

synopsis: a little insight into what being friends with a river faerie is like when you're a simple, curious boy.

length: 0.725k words.

notes: this is the result of listening to a hozier playlist uhh yeah anyways so i have no idea what the rules for writing faeries are, but this is... yeah take this as is idek what i did here haha hopefully you enjoy this brief look into jay and fae reader's cute friendship. this might not even make sense but bare with me here y'all

© KOISHUA 2022, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | REBLOG! FEEDBACK!

Faintly, he hears the songs of the Forbidden Forest lulling the deers awake from their blissful slumber. The leaves rustle as the breeze blows through the sparsely spread out trees, affectionately stroking his warm skin as he treads carefully through the soft grass, mindful of the little critters crawling beneath his feet. He sees the pink clouds floating across the pale blue sky, unseeking of a particular destination. 

The early morning mist settles down by the time he excitedly arrives at a shallow creek, pulling out his sheets of paper all tied neatly down to a worn down leather no wider than the palm of his hand and as narrow as the inside of his palm, perfect to carry around in his secret endeavours in the outskirts of the small town where his house stands, facing the edges of the forest he is now located in.

Jay, carved into the leather bound notebook, is his name. 

He fishes out a wooden handle with a thin piece of metal attached to it, also rummaging through his satchel to pull out a container filled with ink in his favourite shade of blue; dark and azure, just like the eyes of the river faerie the pages of his book is filled by. 

Jay flips the pages to find an empty spot to run the tip of his pen over, already knowing just what he wants to portray. As the songbirds accompany him through each stroke that makes up your face, he waits for his muse to appear before him as always. True to habit, he hears the distinct splash from the river as red as rubies he sits before.

You are there, crouched elegantly over the boulder a little to his right, the stream of water divided into two around the large rock as it continues its journey downwards. Waving a hand at him, you chime a happy “Good morning, boy!”

His eyes train over your iridescent wings, just as mesmerized as the first time he’d seen them. “Hello, Faerie. You look quite ecstatic today. Did you finally get those spotted slippers you’ve been wanting?”

Your laugh rings delicately in his ears, a sweet little tune he adores hearing. To his delight, he hears it quite often whenever he is able to meet you on days like these. The air around you glows a faint yellow when you chuckle, meeting his question with an eager response, “No, but I have got even bigger news.”

Jay leans closer to the riverside, setting his page down with his pen. Equally, you step nearer, magically standing over the calmly running water, not at all disrupting its flow. “Look,” you point at a small insignia on your saturated skin, “I’m now old enough to cross the border. I’ll be able to visit you whenever I gather enough energy!”

“That’s great.” He finds himself hopping onto his feet with joy. “I can show you all of those things I have been telling you about then.”

You nod, dark blue eyes sparkling as though the stars in your irises are swimming in the place called space Jay has heard so much about. “Tomorrow, let’s meet by the Tree of Life, alright?”

Jay nods, pleased by the turn of events. “Understood. Then we can get you some of those pastries I brought with me two days ago and I’ll show you where I live.” 

Your brows set in a worried furrow, “Of course, I’ll have to disguise myself with your help too. I can’t be seen walking around with this hair and these wings.”

Jay, in his buzz, had forgotten about those small facts. Indeed, you’d have to hide your wings, which will be a shame, since he adores the way the light shines through the almost transparent structure. “I’ll see if I can find you some fitting clothes or something to blend you right in with us, but for that, I have to get back earlier, because the shops close soon. It’s a Sunday, so no one works much today.”

“That’s perfectly alright. You can go, I don’t mind.”

“Great, I’ll be back after my lessons tomorrow and bring you the things I could find.” He packs up his little station of items back into his satchel, careful not to smudge the ink that is still drying on the sheet. Sadly, he hadn’t gotten around with much progress on his drawing, but that could wait.

For now, he waves you goodbye and sets off to catch an open clothing shop before the sun fully rises right above his head.

permanent taglist (one). @shekllls @eternallyhyucks @yjwfav @speckled-sunshine @luvningkai @youreverydayzebra @ilandsghost @w3bqrl @candysofthours @moontines @rielleluvs @heefused @squiishymeow @just-uaau @catecita @namjoo-jay @shrutiajit @baekhyunstruly @changmin-wrlds @changminurheart @chewychubchuu @taegicarus @marknaeroni @enhacolor @heelariously @chaebb @nshitae @clarakyunisageek @aeonghaseyo @xiaosimp3 @misah0e @ily-cuz-i @jungwoniics @enha-hwajinna @todorokiskitten @bloom-bloom-pow

#enhypennetwork #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen jay scenarios #enhypen jay x reader #enhypen reactions #enhypen scenarios #enhypen jay fluff #enhypen jay imagines

[sxdmoonchxld]

Operation: Pop The Cherry | JJK

Jungkook x Virgin!Reader

Genre: Smut

Warnings: rough bathroom sex, college au, unprotected sex, teasing, fingering, Jungkook has a virgin kink if you couldn’t tell by he title, lowkey sadistic JK, Gay BFF Jimin, mentions of alcohol and weed, brief mention of homophobia. bIG diCK Jungkook, more belly bulging, and I forgot what else

Word Count: 6.1k

Summary: Against you better judgement and thank to your best friend Jimin. You somehow agreed to let a stranger on campus known as the Cherry Popper, too well..pop your cherry.

Alternatively: You're a virgin. Jungkook has a fetish/kink for fucking virgins.

A/N: I guess i’ll keep putting this note until i stop reposting my old stories. I use to be lizardsocial, and this fic was previously called Game. You may still be able to find it somewhere on tumblr. I edited this fic heavily and it’s honestly a new story, but there are still some elements from the fic it used to be still in there. Unedited so please let me know of any mistakes or typos. Like, comment, reblog, let me know what you think. Enjoy!

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Bass boosted pop music seeped through the dense walls of the energetic room. Strobing bright colored beams danced to the rhythm of the music in mesmerizing synchrony. The musty odor of marijuana, booze, and sex-saturated air shrouded the room in a turbid veil, covering the sea of drunken undulating bodies packed in the cramped living room.  Empty beer cans and other various booze bottles mixed with burnt-out blunts accompanied the young adults. You groaned with irritation and disgust. You didn't want to be here, but to your chagrin, you had a promise to keep.

It wasn't a secret that the college nightlife was unquestionably not your type of 'scene.' You quite frequently elected to willingly engage most of your time in your freshman dorm, wrapped in your weighted burrito blanket. A nightstand stockpiled with all your favorite snacks, lights dimmed low, and lavender incense burning, filling your room with the aroma of relaxation. The perfect setting to binge-watch your favorite show for the umpteenth time, the shifting distorted brightness of your computer screen, projecting the scenes against your face. 

It's kind of funny how you got yourself into this mess in the first place. The one time you decide to take the chance and branch away from the alternate antisocial hermit, your personality had adopted as its own had come back to bite you in the ass. You admit, lately, you've been neglecting your best friend. Your reasonings generally varying from the classic 'oh I was sleep' to deliberately silencing your phone, not wanting to hear the constant shrill ringing of the default ringtone. You loved Jimin, you truly did, but you could only take so much of his eccentric mashup of bubblegum and rainbow sparkles that was his personality. Eventually, guilt began eating away at you piece by piece until you ultimately caved in and invited your friend over for an impromptu movie night in your dorm room. 

Not even 30 minutes into the movie, one that you had been dying to see, might you add, Jimin commenced his drunk and high chattering. He had already started 'pre-gaming' before he came over; Six shots of straight Vodka and 2 blunts. Every day you prayed for this man's liver and brain function; with how much he drank and smoke, you would think he needed it to function. 

"Oh! Oh! Bitttch. Did I tell you about that football player, I fucckked last week!" Jimin started slurring on certain words. You noticed his eyes were glossy and glazed over. 

"No, you didn't, Chim." You sighed, completely giving up trying to watch the movie. You would have to watch it on your alone time. 

"Reeaally?" Jimin slurred, a goofy grin uplifting his lips.

"Yes, really. You haven't told me." Amusement lightly coated your voice. 

"Welll, his name is T-tae, Tae-tae something. Hold on, it's coming to me." Jimin said, rubbing the sides of his temples, trying to remember the guys' name. 

"Taehyung! That's it!" Jimin shrieked, snapping his fingers in victory.

You looked at him startled. You remember Taehyung from high school. You didn't recall him being at this college, though. Well, it wasn't like you paid attention to many things outside your bubble anyway.

"Wasn't he homophobic as fuck in high school?" You asked, genuinely interested.

"Yeah, he was. Buttt I guess he was trying to cover up, that he was actually on the DL." Jimin smiled, whispering the last part.

"DL? What's that mean?" You inquired

Jimin looked at you with a look of betrayal. "It means he's on the down-low, meaning he didn't want anyone to know he's gay. Girrl, I'm too crossfaded to be explaining this to you."

You chuckled, " My bad, Chim. So was it good?"

"Fuck, no! Dick was straight trash. The only thing that saved him a little was that his dick was huge." Jimin said, wiping away a pretend tear from the corner of his eye. 

You laughed boisterously at that. If Jimin wasn't so adamant about becoming a professional dancer. He could seriously take up a career in comedy.

"Speaking of dick. When are you gonna get some?" Jimin asked, turning his body to face you completely. As you looked at him, you noticed his eyes seemed a bit clearer, and his face wasn't as red as earlier. Not only did Jimin drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney. He was somehow able to sober just as fast.

"Oh my god, Jimin. Please don't sta-"

"Mmm, no missy," Jimin said, wagging his finger in your face.

"Don't you hear it?" He said, cupping his hand around his ear as if he was straining to hear something.

"Hear what?" You replied, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms against your chest.

"The cobwebs and tumbleweed living in your cunt."

"Jimin!" You shrieked, slapping the arm closest to you.

"Don't Jimin me! You know it's true, I swear you're gonna be a 40-year-old virgin, and by the time you finally make the decision to have sex, it'll be too late!" Jimin yelled, stumbling to stand up from the couch.

"First off, ouch. I won't be a 40-year-old virgin. That's very insulting. Second, I do plan to lose it soon. I just haven't found the time or the right guy." You said, looking down at your feet shyly. You did want to lose your virginity, but with being an introvert with a mix of social anxiety and just a dash of seasonal depression for added flavor. It was hard even to get out of bed sometimes. Much less going out and trying to find someone to do the do with.

"Oh! Well, if that's all, then I got you covered, babe. Time? Next week Friday at Jihyo's dorm. As for the right guy, I know a dude. He has like a kink for that kind of thing." Jimin answered nonchalantly, now scrolling through his phone, probably on his social media page.

You looked at Jimin, head tilted to the side, confused. "What kind of thing?"

"Oh, you know fucking virgins and shit. Popping their cherries." He said, popping his "P's."

You sputtered, exasperated. What the fuck. You didn't kink shame, that was for losers, but he can't seriously expect you to do something like that.

"What the actual fuck. Jimin, are you serious?"  

"Deadly." He said, looking you square in your eyes. His tone of voice haven dropped an octave lower.

"Jimin no. I-i can't."

"Jimin, yes! Err, I mean _____ yes, you can! Come on, it's a once in a lifetime experience. Plus, it's not like he's a total stranger. I've known him since he was 8 years old. I use to babysit the little shit head." Jimin said, waving his hand in the air, trying to swat away a rogue fly.

"Wow, Chim. You know, now that you put it like it makes me feel a lot better about the situation." You said tone dripped in sarcasm

"Really?" Jimin squealed, a delighted twinkling in his eye.

"Of course not! Don't be stupid!" Offended, you gawked at Jimin. You swear sometimes he could be so dimwitted.

"Come on, please? At least meet him, and if the vibe is not right, then you can leave no harm done." Jimin pleaded, his attention back on you. Was it crazy that you were actually thinking about agreeing to this? Jimin did have a point. It was sort of a once in a lifetime opportunity. He did know the guy, and if you didn't like the vibe, then you could just bounce, right? Right?

Sighing in defeat, your hands dragged down your face and turned towards a pouting Jimin. Grabbing at his deflated shoulders, you shook her lightly, and with urgency in your voice, you spoke, "Alright goddammit! I'll do it, but you have to stay by my side the whole time, no running off, you understand!" 

You watched Jimin's face quirk into a sly smirk. You swore you could see the cogs in his brain churning. Damn, you were going to regret this. You had the tendency to make deals when pressured. Most of the time, those agreements ended up backfiring on you, confining you in the proverbial rock and a hard place. 

"Yay! Operation: Pop _____ Cherry has commenced. Okay, so will meet at the auditorium on the art campus. From there we will walk to Jihyo's dorm, it's only five minutes. Promise me you'll actually show up and won't flake on me." A complacent expression rested arrogantly on Jimin's features, a single pinky finger extended towards you. 

"Don't give this situation a not-so-secret code name. And I can't believe I'm saying this but, I promise." You agreed, interlocking pinky fingers, yours thumbs coming up to press against one another.

"So I'll meet you at the location Friday, don't be late, and wear something sexy. No granny clothes." he chirped, making his way to your front door.

"Wait! You're leaving already?" you frowned, looking at the clock on your wall. He's only been here for an hour, and 30 mins of it were spent persuading you to hurry up and lose your virginity. You didn't even get to finish the movie together.

"Sorry babe, but I have a dick appointment." he shrugged, putting his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.

"Can you at least tell me the name of the guy who's supposed to fuck me?" you huffed, honestly you were done for tonight. As soon as Jimin left, you were heading straight for bed.

"Oh yeah, how could I forget." Jimin slaps the center of his forehead. "He's a real cutie. I would fuck him if he wasn't as straight as an arrow." Jimin looks off to a far wall, eyeing it with jealousy.

"Just tell me his name, please." You pleaded. Oh yeah, that's definitely a headache forming. You could feel it already. Jimin snaps out of his daydreaming and spins his body towards you.

"Jungkook."

Time skip to a week later, and precisely as you suspected, what a mistake that whole conversation was. Now here you were at this fucking dorm party with people you didn't know or care to get to know. Jimin had left you as soon as he saw his next piece of ass. Restlessly you hauled down the short black dress that insisted on riding up your ass, the soles of your feet protesting in the slim heeled shoes. Floundering your way into the packed building, you couldn't help but query where Jungkook was. Jimin was supposed to get around to send you a picture of the mystery man, but that never happened. Funny how now was the best time you decided to question why exactly Jimin was your best friend.

"Well damn, the pictures Jimin sent me doesn't do you justice at all. You're fucking hot." You recoiled from the closeness of the voice, the heated breath sending chills skittering down your spine, and the hairs on the back of your neck ramrod straight. Heat spurred to your face when you whisked around to meet an absolutely gorgeous guy. Like unfairly gorgeous guy. You stared wide-eyed, taking in his chiseled facial features, paired with wide doe eyes and bunny smile decorating his face. Somehow, someway he's mastered looked soft and sexy at the same damn time. And fuck was that a dangerous combination for your pussy. Your heart too, but more so your cunt.

"U-uh, thanks? Who are you exactly?" You watch as he recoils back from your with a look of apprehension on his face.

"A-are you not ____?" he stutters cutely. You think you can see the beginnings of a blush burning his cheeks. You nod your head once to confirm his question. He stared at you a minute longer before you see the recognition spark in his chocolate orbs.

"Jimin didn't send you my picture did he?" Shaking his head with his eyes close, you get the courage the scan his face a bit more. Yeah. He's definitely blushing.

"Sorry. I guess seeing you here, I thought Jimin would have...prepared you better." Shaking your head from side to side because your words refused to come out. You watched as he backed up a bit further from your personal space and thrust his right hand out to you. 

"The name's Jungkook, or J.K. Whatever suits your taste."

With clammy hands, you taking his outstretched hand marveled at how it almost covers your hand. Now that he's moved back from you, you now had to chance to see how tall he really was. Maybe about 6 to 7 inches taller. You look down at his feet and eye his combat boot, perhaps a little shorter but still taller. And big, yeah, definitely bigger. His oversized black jacket did little to hide the broadness of his shoulders and chest. You let your eyes travel down the length of his body. You bet he's hiding some killer abs under his shirt. And holy fuck, his thighs.

"You like what you see, baby girl?" Teasing, he's teasing but God, if his voice didn't make you pussy throbbing pathetically. Whimpering slightly, you let out a meek "Yes." God, you hope he didn't hear that.

Much to your dismay, he did, hear you. How he heard you with the music as loud as it was, was a mystery to you. But you watched his pupils dilate, and his nostrils flare slightly. Jungkook tucks his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes rake up and down your scantily clad body. His heated stare scrutinized across your body, intrigue exerting over him, as he analyzed the way the snug-fitting dress molded to the curves of your shape. He could tell you didn't do this often. His dick twitched in his jeans with enthusiasm. 

It's the increase in pressure of your hand that makes you realize you're still holding his hand. You go to retract your hand from his. However, yelp shrilly as he tugs you closer to his body. Both hands now resting on his chest, and his wrapped around your waist. Fuck, you could feel the warmth and coarseness of his hands through your thin dress. A spontaneous tremor racked your body. The heat-transmitting from his frame mixed with the floral yet musky undertone of his cologne made you somewhat featherbrained.

"Fuck, you're so soft." You squeak as he squeezes your waistline, pulling you even closer against his body. You were now putty in his hands.

"Jimin told you my....preferences, right?" his voice caressed your ear. Just a slight movement or subtle twitch, and his lips would be on your skin.

"Y-yeah, he did." It should be an embarrassment how frail and breathless you sounded, but that didn't matter.

Jungkook hid his smile behind your ear. This was just too easy. Just how he liked it. He almost felt bad- almost. He was gonna ruin you utterly and completely, mold the shape of cock in the walls of your pussy. His name spilling from your lips, voice going hoarse by how loud he would make you scream. Fuck he couldn't wait. He's had virgin's before, a lot of them. That's his whole M.O. The cherry popper, virgin fucker, whatever. Jungkook's heard all the names in the book. But there's just something about you, you just had an air of genuine innocence, and he couldn't wait to defile it. 

Jungkook pulls his head back, enough to where his eyes can trail over the bared skin of your neck, and the sprinkling of perspiration sparkling off the bright strobing lights, no doubt from nervousness. His tongue traced over his thin upper lip, watching the droplets of sweat spiral down the curve of your neck. He wanted to taste you. 

"Alright, then." He jerks his body away from you. You're no longer touching his chest, but his hands are still on your waist. 

"Let's enjoy the party before the fun really begins. Every done body shots before?" Jungkook spoke casually, undeterred by the way you recoiled back or the look of stupor on your face.

"W-what? B-body shots, why?" you squeaked, failing to keep from stuttering over your words. Is this how it's supposed to go? Is this normal? You're bewildered, and just a bit perturbed. Were you just imagining that sexual tension that was going on just moments ago? For sure, you thought Jungkook was gonna throw you over his shoulders and haul you off to the nearest unoccupied bedroom or bathroom. At that instant, you didn't care. 

Jungkook regarded the war of emotions wage across your features, merriment and strobing lights twinkling in his eyes. Fuck, you were cute, so desperate staring up at him with a pout on your face a puppy dog eyes. He could honestly just take you back to the closest room and fuck the shit out of you. But he wanted to play with his prey, a bit more. The wait made it that much more satisfying.

"Don't pout too much, baby girl or I may not be able to contain myself. Follow me. The table is this way."

Jungkook didn't indulge in answering any of your questions you rambled off at him, delighted to see you trailing on his heels like a lost pup. Jungkook directed you further into the dorm, and like a dog on a leash, you followed. In the center of a sparse room sat a scraped up black table. You observed the area. It was devoid of many people. The several that were present made no recognition of your proximity in their intoxicated state.

"So who's first?" Jungkook asked, setting the bottle of tequila, rim salt, and limes down on the table.

"U-uh, I don't know. I guess it doesn't matter." You shrugged hesitantly. You were way out of your element here.

"Perfect then, you first." Jungkook should be ashamed by how excited he was at getting to sample your skin. It looked smooth, felt soft when he had you in his arms, and would no doubt probably taste as sweet as it seemed. You nodded in docility, wandering over to crawl on top of the table, being attentive to your dress. You lay flattened against the table, shiverings racking your body as he began pouring a trail of salt between your cleavage. 

He poured himself a shot in the depression of your throat and tore the lime in half with his bare hands. Smirking at how you flinched when he thumped the liquor bottle down beside your head. Jungkook pushed the other half of the unevenly split lime towards your lips, a silent gesture to take the lime in your mouth. Jungkook watched as your lips curled gently around the hull of the green citrus. A flare of lust stirred in his loins at the action. He couldn't wait to see your lips stretched around the head of his cock. He observed your eyes clamped closed as he began dropping his head forward to your chest. It was adorable and innocent. He noted the way your lips slackened around the citrus in your mouth, your chest heaving in speed, the closer his tongue trailed to your neck.

You tasted splendid, just as sweet as he thought. The salt on your skin did nothing to deter your natural flavor. If anything, it enhanced your sweetness, rendering your skin damn near mouth-watering. Jungkook's ears perked at the breathless moans slipping past the fruit perched against your lips, drawn out by the repeated pass of the wet, pink appendage lapping at the salt line between the valley of your breast. Committing your muffled moans to memory, he lapped persistently at the collection of salt and tequila in the hollow at the base of your neck.

You face flammed in embarrassment as panting moans effortlessly tumbled from your mouth. Who knew your chest and neck was such an erogenous spot. Despite your shame, you couldn't stop wriggling, shifting your thighs together for some form of friction to sate the rising arousal dampening your panties. You yelped at the sensation of blunt teeth nibbling at your skin before soft lips came to suck at the shallow indentations. Fluffy hair with an undercut came into your line of vision as Jungkook lifted his head up to your lips. Your heart stammered tortuously against your ribs, flirtatious eyes stared lidded with searing lust, his head advanced closer to your lips. Your eyes fluttered closed, lips puckering against the bitter hull of the lime.

Jungkook closed the distance, slanting his mouth over the lime, blocking his contact with yours. He sucked against the sour fruit, acidity puckering his lips, residual tartness flowing to your cracked lips. Jungkook withdrew from your mouth, taking the drained lime hull with it. Your saccharine moans were heaven to his ears. It had awoken something inside him, fueled his fire in knowing that possibly no one had ever heard such a sweet sound. He wanted more, craved more. 

"Have you ever been kissed before, sweetheart?" Your eyes followed the movement of his tongue, poking out to moistening his lips. 

"Yeah, once in like 3rd grade." Who hasn't snuck behind a tree or hid underneath the dark coverings of playground equipment to lock lips with a childhood crush?

He grinned salaciously, body moving to rest between your spread legs. Oh, now he was really excited. Your lips were practically untouched. Just another part of your body to claim first. You jumped when palms pressed flat against the revealed skin of your thigh. Gently, Jungkook rubbed lazy circles on your skin, never lowering or furthering than the hem of your dress. He felt you wiggle beneath his hands, observed your eyes, glimpsing―darting about, should you concentrate on his face, or his hand, uncertainty was etched on your face.

"Amazing." He groaned, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, before grinning again. His face inched closer to yours, his lips but a breath apart, warmth flickered against your lips as he talked, level and smooth. " Well, how about I become your second?

And then his lips were on you, the soft muscle mangled itself to your lips, tentative and sluggish to give you a chance to register his mouth slanted upon yours. Jungkook chuckled against your lips at your unresponsiveness. He guesses you were a little shell shocked. It only takes a few more stagnant seconds before you're shyly reciprocating his kiss. Delicate, shaky movements highlighted your inexperience. Increasingly, Jungkook increased the pressure behind lips, his hands spreading to enclose around your waist, dragging you closer against him. One of Jungkook's hands removed from your waist to bury itself in your hair, gently his fingernails scratched against your scalp, an airy moan was his reward. 

Hands completely abandoning your midsection, one gripped the meat of your thigh, pulling you to the edge of the table, flush against the tent of his denim jean encased manhood, the other embedded in your strands pulled sharply on your roots, a loud gasp tearing from you. Jungkook took that opportunity to advance his tongue into your gaped mouth. His tongue wrapped itself around yours, briefly wrestling for dominance before easily pinning your tongue in submission. His hips ground against yours, the heat of your covered core teased him through his jeans. 

He thoroughly explored your mouth, swallowing the now copious cries leaving your mouth. Reluctantly, Jungkook tore himself from your kiss-swollen lips. The ravished looked suited you perfectly. You looked beautiful, thighs brazenly spread, eyes glazed over in lust, your sticky chest heaving from the length of the shared kiss. Even in the dim lights, he could make out the taunt pebbling of your nipples. 

Your mouth gaped wide, flapping about like a fish out of water, trying despairingly to draw air into your lungs. Your first kiss definitely didn't compare to this much. Your wide eyes flicked between Jungkook and the floor, your bottom lip tucked firmly between your teeth, feeling shy as he just stares at you. Releasing your teeth from your lips, you timidly touched your mouth, admiring how plump they've gotten from the intense liplock.

Wordlessly Jungkook hitched you over his shoulder, winded with a grunt as his defined shoulder blades dug into your stomach and what sounded like a growled vibrate up into you. You squirmed lightly in his hold, scared he was going to drop you, and secondly, your panty-clad ass on display for the party-goers, not that anyone was looking. 

You watched the continuous panels of hardwood floor move beneath you as Jungkook carried you to an unknown destination. You couldn't believe you were really doing this. Were you actually going to have sex with a complete stranger? Someone who was known for explicitly fucking virgins. Realistically, you should be ashamed, yet, you conceded full control to him without a second thought. What did that say about you? About your character? Would you now be labeled as 'easy' or a 'hoe' after all this was done? What was going to happen between you and Jungkook? 

The flick of a switch stirred from your thoughts. You shield your eyes with your hand at the bright lights pouring into the room, or rather a bathroom. Jungkook loved the confusion marring your features. He wouldn't fuck you in his bedroom just yet. That was a privilege you would have to earn, no matter how intrigued he had become with you. There's always humiliation to be had in the corruption of innocence, and fucking you in the bathroom was a good start. He planned on making you watch him as he destroyed your body, popping your cherry, stretching your tight virginal hole to accommodate his length, and claimed it as his own. Jungkook shuddered at the thought, his possessive nature taking a turn for the worst. 

Impatiently Jungkook sat you on top of the bathroom sink counter, his lips smashed against yours, the previous tenderness was gone, vanished into a puff of smoke. Teeth banged, and tongues flailed recklessly against each other in the heat of passion, with you struggling to keep up with the demands of his dominating kiss. Thick fingers trailed beneath the hem of your dress, tickling the expanse of your thighs. Jungkook wasted no time in shifting your slick soaked panties to the side, a warm digit gliding effortlessly through your damn folds.

"Fuck, you're already so wet. You're enjoying this a little too much, baby girl." Jungkook growled, panting against your lips. His finger breached your sex, you tensed deftly around the foreigner intrusion, stretching your weeping walls. 

"Ah, Jungkook." You cried listlessly, rocking your hips against his stilled finger. He felt so good inside you, and it was just his finger. Maybe this experience wouldn't be as bad as you heard. Now you couldn't wait to see what his cock felt like embedded deep within your pussy. Jungkook pumped slowly, eventually introducing a second finger to help loosen you up more. You were gonna be a tight fit, very tight, but that just made it even better. You hissed at the slight burn as he began scissoring his fingers apart with each withdrawal. Your hands wrapped around his neck as you buried your head against his broad chest, your mellifluous moans suppressed by the fabric of his shirt. 

"G-go faster, please." You begged, your body adjusting and quickly becoming frustrated by the snail's pace his fingers were pumping. You bucked your hips against his hands, hoping he would ease the growing discomfort boiling in your stomach. 

"Have you ever had an orgasm before, babe?" You nodded eagerly at his question, whining as you bucked against his hand again.

"Oh, really? Who gave it to you." Slow, he was going too slow you wanted, no you needed more friction, more stimulation from him.

"M-me. I-i did." Jungkook loved how you stuttered, it stroked his ego and filled him with arrogance to know it was him, and only that was capable of making you stumble over your words.

"Mmm, and how did you do it? Did you rub this little clit of yours raw?" You cried louder when his thumb flicked at your clit, the stimulation further drawing the appendage from its hood.

"Or did you fuck this tight hole, with these tiny fingers of yours?" At those words, a loud, choked moan, even muffled by your face in his chest, echoed throughout the white bathroom. Jungkook had gone deeper inside, almost to the third knuckle. Another moan left your lips as he twisted his fingers inside you, his palm now facing upwards.

"Though you and I bought know they couldn't possibly reach deep enough to touch the spot you really want." It's euphoric, no better yet orgasmic, the sheer shock of electric pleasure that zaps through your body when he finds the spongy bundle of nerves. Your body jerked heavily, legs go to snap close, only to be stopped by his broad body between your thighs.

He chuckles softly, stroking your thigh with his other hand. Jungkook shifts his head down, bringing his mouth closer to your ear. He exhales quietly, warm air tinged with tequila and lime caresses the light hairs on you around your ear. " I found it, huh?"

You whimper, rubbing your head up and down against his chest.

"You want me to speed up the pace, sweetheart?" Jungkook's voice is delicate now, so gentle. But you're confused, overwhelmed, and scared. It's never felt like this when you did it yourself. Your not sure if you could handle the feeling, so you don't provide an answer to Jungkook's question.

"Don't ignore me ____, that's not nice manners. I'll ask again." You clench around his fingers as Jungkook inches just a bit deeper. 

"Do you. Want me. To go faster?" With each pause, he arches his fingers in a 'come here' motion, pressing deeply against your bundle of nerves, the sensation of having to pee accompanied with each thrust.

 "Y-yes, faster, more. Pl-lease." Fuck, you sounded so pretty begging for him if he wasn't addicted before. You had him sprung now. Jungkook buried his face in the crook of your neck, the sharp smell of tequila and salt still lingering on your skin. He sucked at the junction where your shoulder and neck met. You bucked harder against his fingers, your juices now dripping to coat his palm is sticky cream.

"If you wanted more. Why didn't you just ask?" Jungkook said deviously. Confused, you felt withdraw his sticky digits, walls gripping to stop their departure. Without warning, Jungkook flipped you over onto the counter, your knees buckled at the sudden change in position. Your faced burning at your displayed state, droplets of your essence dribbled from your pussy, slicking up your inner thighs. You yelped as Jungkook grasped at the length of your hair, pulling back pointedly, your neck craned back to observe him addressing you in the mirror.

"You've been wondrous for me ____. Such a sweet girl." He expressed, his empty hand disappearing behind your perked ass to fiddle with the groin of his pants. 

"Truly, you have. Your response and reactions to my touch have really gotten me riled up. It's been a while since I've tittered on the edge of losing control." You wheezed, starting to panic as you felt the thick head of his cock slap teasingly against your slicked throbbing hole. Oh, God, he's huge. Jungkook's cock might just tear you apart. You shifted your hips forward, pressing against the cold marble of the bathroom counters door.

"I-i don't think, I can t-take it Jungkook, you're too b-big. It's my first-time, r-remember?” Your stuttering worse now, but you're scared.

Jungkook pulls your hips back with the hand the was grasping his length, the side of your hip now coated in his pre-cum. His hand lays flat in the crease of your back, forcing you into a perfect arch. 

"You can take it, all of it. And don't worry, of course, I remembered your fragility. I'll go slow, I promise." You plead silently with your eye contact through the mirror. 

"You ready?" You nod once an advert your eyes down to the sink.

Your mouth shakily falls agape as he slowly began pushing the head of his cock into you. It burns, but not as bad as you had anticipated. You take the chance to look back up into the mirror, adamant about giving Jungkook a thankful smile for his gentleness. That vision that greets looks like it jumped right off the page of your favorite erotic story. 

Jungkook's got his head thrown back, the edge of his t-shirt clenched tightly between his teeth, your eyes trail the drip of sweat that follows the curve of his jawline. You have a clear view of his abs all the way down to the v-cut of his hip, to the happy trail that leads to a neatly trimmed bush of pubic hair. You clench tightly around him, efficiently aroused by the view. You feel his cock throbbed heavily inside you, even getting bigger if possible.

"You like that, sweet girl? You like seeing me struggling to contain myself because you're so tightly around me. This little pussy trying to milk me for all I can give you." You love it. You feel powerful in a way. Do you really feel that good around him?

"Yes." Jungkook draws out the 'S.' 

"You feel amazing, so warm and wet. I wished you could see how coated in white you've got me, and I'm not even all the way in yet."

You scream soundless as he bucks into you, shoving in half of his length. It doesn't hurt anymore. You just feel stuffed full. Lifting a trembling hand, you take the chance a feel the lower part. You noticed swelling that wasn't there before, intrigued; you push down against it, moaning in shock you realize it's Jungkook's cock. 

"Yeah, baby girl, that's all me, well, most of me. You ready to take the rest?"

"Yes! Please!" That's the clearest you've been all night. You don't get an answer as Jungkook immediately picks up his pacing, thrusting into you faster. He wastes no time pumping deeply into your tight pussy, his tip smashing against the entrance to your cervix as you pant and grit your teeth in slight discomfort, overshadowed by pleasure. The burning sensation is back as he fucks in deeper with each brutal and swift stroke. But you don't care cause it still feels amazing. You can hear yourself, sloppy and soaking wet, echoing throughout the bathroom. You're drooling down his pistoning cock. You can feel it dripping down your inner thighs. Your head jerks violently against your shoulders, to weak support your head from his menacing thrust. 

Tightened vocal cords released strained shrieks of praise; from your mouth, drool dripping from your lips, into the sticky cleavage of your breast, and sweat coated your skin. The coil in your stomach was quickly tightening, never had you felt anything so deep inside you. If you ever had sex with anyone else, they would never compare to Jungkook.  You were fucked both figuratively and literally.

Jungkook pulled you further from off the sink, the new position allowing him even deeper. You clawed at the marble tops underneath your fingers, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. That sensation of having to pee is back again.

"J-K, I-m. I have to-," You don't get to finish as the band in your stomach snapped. Silently you announced your release; if it wasn't for the new wave of cum coating his cock, or the fluttering tightness of your walls, Jungkook might have missed your orgasm. He wasn't far behind you. The constant clenching of your ridged walls around his cock, had him reaching his limit sooner than he would like. Jungkook had half a mind to pull out but decided to gamble his odds. You're the first person he's fucked raw in a while, and with three deep thrusts later, he was shooting his hot seed right against your cervix. 

Breathing heavily, Jungkook lets you fall against the sink, observing as you crumpled against the sink countertop. Pride swelled his chest as he watched his seed bubble out of your well-used hole. He's never contemplated going farther with the virgins he fucked. He wouldn't make any hasty decisions now though there were still a lot of things he wanted to do with you. He would sleep on it and revisit the idea in the morning.

"So would you say, Operation: Pop Your Cherry was a success?"

You giggled, winded, still having difficulty catching your breath. You straighten up against the bathroom counter, the majority of your weight still resting on the object as you had yet to regain the feeling in your legs.

"Jimin and his stupid code names. I swear when I get a hold ass, he's dead." You warned already preparing your revenge on your best friend. You stare at Jungkook in the eyes through the mirror, smile a bit goofy, you say.

"Operation: Pop My Cherry. Mission complete."

#bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook #bts oneshot #bts smut reactions #bts #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #bts college au #jungkook college au #bts fanfction #bts fanfic #ao3 #jungkook x reader

[hrina]

The Thrill of the Chase, Pt. I

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 3.6k REQUESTED: no

hi! it’s been a while since i’ve posted something on here lol, i wonder if anyone still remembers me 🤕

this is PART 1 of the hunter!AU that i’ve been writing. while the story is a patreon-exclusive, my patrons gave me permission to post the first chapter here on tumblr for anyone who’s curious about the kind of content i offer on patreon. 

if you want to read the rest of this series and unlock access to my other exclusive work, you can sign up for my patreon here. and as always, please reblog the fics you like and leave feedback for the authors, because we pour a lot of time and effort into our stories. happy reading 💌

~*~

Harry’s life is simple.

He performs only the essentials—wakes up and eats an apple for breakfast. Drizzles some lemon juice into his flask of water to keep his teeth healthy and clean. Shrugs on a few heavy furs. Lets Magnus outside to keep him from howling and pawing at the door. Sharpens his arrows. Knocks on the threshold of the cabin once for good luck. Goes hunting.

Upon returning, he crouches next to the firepit, laying out his kills and skinning them. He cooks one for himself—something small, like a squirrel, or a rabbit. Others, he saves for the market—fox, deer, coyote, boar. The pelts, tusks, and antlers are extremely sought-after (particularly by nobles), and often earn enough coin to carry him through the rest of the week.

He doesn’t entertain visitors, because who in their right mind would trek up the side of a mountain just to seek out one lonely hunter? Despite that, he’s come to appreciate his solitude. The silence is familiar—comfortable. Besides, Magnus proves both excellent and useful company, if the sheer volume of their kills offers any indication.

A simple life for a simple man.

Harry doesn’t need anyone else.

“Ready to go, mutt?”

He scratches behind Magnus’ droopy ears. One of the hound’s hindlegs thumps frantically in response. Harry chuckles, slinging his bow over his right shoulder and pulling open the cabin door.

“Come on, then.”

The sky is a dark, cloudy grey, and the smell of oncoming rain is unmistakable. Still, the two of them persevere, ducking past the trees at the edge of the clearing.

It’s a bad day to hunt.

With the threat of a storm looming just above the canopy, the animals have forgone their typical foraging patterns in favour of taking shelter. Harry only manages to kill a rabbit, and even then, it’s a messy shot. He usually gets them right through the eye—a quick, neat splice that results in minimal suffering. This time, however, his foot slips on a damp stone; he fumbles, and the arrow buries itself into the creature’s stomach.

“Fuck.”

The rabbit is still alive when he reaches it, its furry body heaving with shaky, uneven breaths. Harry kneels down, apologising quietly. His hand finds the scabbard strapped to his waist, and he draws a silver dagger from its depths.

He slits the poor hare’s throat just as rain begins to fall.

It’s easy work, after that. He pins the animal’s fluffy forelimbs together, tying them in place with thick, coarse rope. Magnus whimpers as Harry slides the creature’s limp body over his shoulder. He shoots the hound a tired look and shakes his head. Damp brown curls stick to his temples.

“Think that’s enough for today.”

The two of them have nearly made it back home—Harry’s boots squelch as he jumps over the small creek that flows close to the clearing—when Magnus perks up, lifting his snout and sniffing the air.

“What is it, mutt?” Harry asks.

Magnus releases a loud bark and takes off in the direction of the cabin. Harry sprints after him, one hand clutching his game while the other wraps around the leather grip of his bow.

“Magnus!” he yells.

The dog skids to a stop next to the wide trunk of a tree. He barks again and wags his tail feverishly.

Harry releases his bow, approaching with slow, cautious steps.

“What’s got you so—shit.”

You’re slumped in the mud, unconscious. Harry’s gaze rakes over your form, from your tattered blue gown to the leaves and twigs tangled in your hair. There are a few cuts littered across your face, arms, and chest. Rivulets of blood trickle down your wrist, spiderwebbing across your skin.

Magnus sticks his tongue out and pants.

“Good boy,” Harry mutters, bestowing a rugged caress atop the hound’s head.

He gathers you into his arms, paying no mind to the extra weight of your sodden dress. Your neck lolls over his bicep, sternum rising and falling with shallow, barely-there breaths. Harry carries you out of the forest and into the clearing. When he kicks open the cabin door, your eyelids flutter.

“Bear?” you mumble, lifting your head slightly. Your voice is grating, hoarse.

He looks at you. Your face contorts for only a moment before you slouch back into oblivion.

He sets you down onto the thick, woven rug splayed out in front of the hearth. He works quickly, shrugging off his furs and his game and discarding all of it without a second thought. Rain thrums against the roof, but the sound is lost amidst his heavy footsteps.

He hurries into his bedroom and pulls open the top drawer of his wooden dresser, fumbling for a glass jar and a spool of bandages. When his fingers finally make contact with the desired supplies, he darts back into the other room and kneels beside your motionless body.

He draws his dagger again, gripping the intricate material of your gown and slicing through it. Your corset proves far more challenging, practically embedded into your skin. He sets his knife aside, not willing to risk it. Instead, he hooks his fingers beneath the top of the girdle, rough knuckles brushing against your soft bosom. With a mighty tug, the structured fabric splits under his palms.

He screws open the lid on the jar and dips his thumb inside. The salve is sticky, viscous, and smells faintly of lavender. He smears it across your scrapes before inspecting your wrist.

The flesh is slashed and bloodied—how did you acquire such an injury? Canines? Claws? Harry uses the frayed edges of your dress to clean the mess. He then unwinds a few bindings from their roll, expertly bandaging your wound.

Once he’s finished, he sits back on his haunches, expelling a stale breath. His work is far from over—he needs to wash you, to scrub off all the dirt and grime staining your skin. He’ll go down to the creek with a cloth, he thinks, and saturate it with cool water. He’ll pick the leaves and branches out of your hair, and cover you in spare furs to keep you warm. He’ll prepare a hot meal so that you may eat when you wake. You’ll be ravenous, certainly.

These thoughts whirl around in his head, along with the realisation that you might expire here, lying on an old rug in the middle of a stranger’s secluded home. Still, he watches your chest rise, swelling with proof of your vitality. The sight puts him at ease.

Harry aims a cursory glance over his shoulder. Magnus is stationed at the door, wet snout resting on the ground. The dog gazes at your limp body with big, solemn eyes, as though he somehow understands the severity of the situation.

“Don’t worry, mutt,” Harry tells him, knees shuffling against the floor. “I won’t let her die.”

~*~

Three days pass.

Harry curtails the duration of his hunts. He kills only the essentials: a hare or a squirrel, something small enough to cook over the fire. He has enough coin saved up from his previous trades to last him another few trips to the market.

Every morning, he prepares a simple, homely meal for you should you wake. When you do not, he eats the food in your place—he’ll be damned if it goes to waste.  

On the fourth day, he carries a bowl of soup into his room. He’s expecting to see you tucked into his bed, still unconscious. Instead, you’re alert, sitting upright and studying your surroundings. The furs that previously covered your body now pool around your waist, exposing your naked chest. When you catch sight of Harry lingering in the doorway, you gasp, fumbling for the pelts and clutching them to your sternum.

“You’re up,” he says gruffly, stepping through the threshold.

You scramble back, eyes widening in fear. He pauses.

You’re afraid, he realises, tilting his head to the side. This may be more difficult than he initially thought.

“Soup,” he says slowly, holding out the small clay bowl in his hands. “You need to eat.”

“Who are you?” you ask. Your voice is patchy and frail. “Where am I?”

He sets the dish down onto his dresser before shooting you a stern, expectant look.

“Eat.”

Upon exiting the room, he strains his ears and listens carefully. The creak of a loose floorboard—you’ve climbed out of bed. The sound of nimble footsteps pattering across the ground—you’re moving toward the door. And finally, the quiet scrape of clay against wood, indicating that your hunger has prevailed.

He nods to himself.

You’re not dead. That’s a start.

~*~

That evening, Harry is perched next to the firepit outside the cabin. The orange sun crawls down the horizon, kissing the tops of the trees. He basks in the warmth, knowing that it will soon be eradicated by the cool chill of nightfall.

He fiddles with the spit poised above the flames. He caught another rabbit, today. The creature’s fur is laid out across the grass, scrubbed clean of blood. The rest of it cooks over the fire, darkening with each passing minute.

A faint creak reaches Harry’s ears. He perks up, glancing at the door.

You hover just beyond the threshold, leaning nervously against the strong wooden beams. Harry relaxes and turns back around. He uses a long stick to poke at the charred logs; the kindling pops, and a few embers float into the air.

“What are you doing?” Your inquiry is soft, shaky.

His reply is curt: “Dinner.”

You approach warily, bare feet treading through the grass. When you spot the hunk of meat roasting over the flames, a feeble gasp tumbles from your lips.

“That’s barbaric.”

Harry rubs his palms against his thighs. “That’s sustenance.”

He stands, and you retreat. His attention then falls to your torso. You’ve covered yourself with the furs from his room; they hang just past the swell of your bottom, rendering you exceptionally vulnerable. Goosebumps crop up on your bare thighs, visible in the golden light of the sunset.

He hums. “You need clothes.”

You look down at the ground.

“That would be nice,” you whisper at last.

He merely grunts in response.

You follow him back inside, albeit from a distance. He strolls into his bedroom, pausing in front of a large trunk shoved against the far wall. Twin latches click open, and he begins rifling through its contents. After a few moments of silence, he produces a pale linen shirt and a pair of dark leather trousers.

“Here,” he says.

He dumps the fabric into your arms. You huff in surprise, instinctively relinquishing your hold on the pelts covering your body. They fall to the floor in a heap, exposing every inch of your skin.

An embarrassed squeak echoes in the back of your throat. Harry averts his eyes, staring pointedly up at the ceiling.

“Put those on,” he murmurs.

You nod quickly, sidestepping his broad frame. Now that you’re no longer in his line of sight, he lowers his gaze. Part of him wonders if he should say something else, but he decides against it. His legs carry him forward, and he disappears through the door.

~*~

You emerge from the bedroom a short while later, smoothing your hands over your hair in an attempt to look a bit more presentable. Harry resists the urge to tell you that here, in the mountains, appearances are hardly significant. He doesn’t own a mirror—such luxuries can only be afforded by the rich.

His clothes are too big on you, but that was to be expected. You’ve rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt and cuffed the brown leather trousers so that they cinch at your ankles. You’re anxious, incisors gnawing on your bottom lip and eyes darting around the clearing, like you’re waiting for a monster to burst forth from the bushes.

“Here.”

Harry cuts a sliver of meat from the cooked rabbit carcass resting on the spit. You sit down on a wide, round tree stump as he holds the food out in your direction.

At first, he thinks that you may vomit. Fortunately, though, he finds himself mistaken. After a long moment of deliberation, you accept the protein, bringing it up to your nose and sniffing it warily.

“It’s good,” he rasps, slicing off another strip for himself. “Rabbit—all white meat.”

He pops the piece into his mouth and chews. Slowly, you copy him, sighing happily as newfound flavour erupts over your tongue. You waste no time, then, impatiently shoving the rest of the meat into your mouth.

Harry’s lips twitch.

“Thank you,” you say after swallowing.

He simply nods. The two of you continue to eat in silence, grinding the remnants of supper between your teeth.

Eventually, your curiosity overwhelms you.

“What’s you name?” you ask, timid.

Harry sits back, wiping his dagger with the hem of his cotton shirt.

“Harry.”

“And how did you find me, Harry?”

A low chuckle resonates in the back of his throat.

“Wasn’t exactly hard. You were lying in a puddle of mud not far from here.”

Your lips part. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days.”

“Three days?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember any of it,” you say softly, playing with your fingers. You hesitate before elaborating: “But I—I remember seeing your face. I thought you were a bear.”

He recalls that day, how you lifted your head weakly and uttered the word before sinking back into unconsciousness. It led him to believe that you’d been attacked. Your side of the story, however, proves much more entertaining.

“Well,” he says, exhaling brusquely, “I’m not.”

You examine him with big, tender eyes. He shifts awkwardly under the intensity of your gaze.

“No,” you finally agree. “You’re not.”

He swallows and flips the conversation around.

“Who are you?”

You stiffen, caught off-guard.

“That is…hardly relevant.”

“Perhaps,” Harry says. “But it is fair.”

When you don’t reply, he continues.

“You’re a lady, aren’t you?” he guesses. “A duchess. Your gown was too pretty to have belonged to a commoner.”

“My gown?” You perk up at the mention of the dress. “Where is it?”

“Gone. I tore through it.”

You gasp. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“It was the only way to keep you alive,” he says simply. “Your corset was impeding your ability to breathe.”

“My corset…” you mutter, mostly to yourself. You grimace after registering the implications of his words, thoroughly scandalized. “So, you—you—?”

“Yes. I had to.”

“God,” you choke out, covering your mouth. “How dare you? You should have just—!”

“Let you die?”

His query successfully squashes your disapproval; your lips flatten into a thin line, and you say nothing else. Harry watches the creases in your forehead dwindle as you realise that he’s right. You fiddle with the collar of your shirt, turning to the side and regaining your composure.

“Thank you,” you finally murmur, trying to hide your face from his piercing stare, “for not letting me die.”

He grunts. “You’re welcome.”

Brief silence ensues. A light breeze blows through the clearing, tousling the curls atop Harry’s head. The gust is enough to extinguish the last few flames frolicking over the kindle, until glowing embers are all that remain.

“I am a lady,” you suddenly add, though you refuse to meet his eyes. “But not a duchess.”

Harry leans forward, prodding at the residual ash in the firepit.

“What were you doing in the woods?”

You tinker with the bandages wrapped around your injured wrist.

“I was to be wed,” you confess, peeking up at him. “But I—I could not bear to go through with it. One should not marry for duty, but rather—”

“For love?”

You pause at his intrusion, lips parted in surprise.

“Yes,” you breathe. “For love.”

Your gazes lock. He clears his throat, breaking the contact quickly.

“You ran away, then.”

It’s not a question. You nod, and he hums.

“What is it?” you ask, brows knitting together.

“Nothing. It’s just…I may find good fortune in this situation.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “Any man with sense would carry you down this peak, deliver you back to your family, and collect a hefty reward.”

Though he’s not looking at you, he can tell that you’ve recoiled.

“Please don’t,” you whisper.

He examines your face in the periphery of his vision. Your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Just then, Magnus races out of the cabin, his tail wagging eagerly behind him. He trots over to you, sniffing your shoulder and releasing a high-pitched whine. You use one hand to swipe hastily at your cheeks; the other migrates to his head, tickling his floppy ears.

Harry watches the interaction unfold, completely stunned.

“He—he likes you.”

You glance over at him, still wary of his previous threat.

“I suppose he does,” you say quietly.

Magnus paws at your thighs. You direct your attention back to the keen bloodhound, pressing a feathery kiss to the tip of his wet nose.

Harry blinks a few times, trying to pinpoint the reason for his mutt’s newfound behaviour. At first, he wonders if his eyes are simply playing tricks on his brain. Yet with each flutter of his lids, the sight before him only seems to solidify.

“He doesn’t usually take well to strangers,” he mumbles.

When you don’t respond, he clenches his jaw tightly. Countless thoughts zoom through his head, spinning like wheels, tangling like thread.

Any man with sense would carry you down this peak, deliver you back to your family, and collect a hefty reward.

Harry is not a sensible man.

~*~

The three of you retreat indoors when the last shards of sunlight fade from the sky. Magnus circles the large woven rug poised in front of the hearth. Eventually, he collapses onto the mat, his snout drooping over his front paws. You stretch your arms into the air and yawn gently.

Harry is the last one to enter the cabin; he shuts the door behind him.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you say lightly.

You spin around and nearly crash into the hard barrier of his chest. Reflexively, his hands fly up to grasp your biceps, steadying you. He peers down at your face in the darkness, his thoughtful gaze tracing the contours of your cheeks. Your eyes are wide, lips split apart as you suck in air.

“Sorry,” you say, frozen in place.

He only grunts, releasing your arms and stepping away.

Your attention lingers on him as he approaches a wide pile of furs stacked into the corner of the room. He’s been sleeping on the makeshift cot for the past three nights, and though his back is always sore the next morning, he has yet to find a better alternative.

“What are you…?” You hesitate, rethinking your question. “What is that?”

“My bed.”

“Do you…always sleep there?”

“No,” he rasps, lowering himself onto the thick pelts. “I prefer to sleep in my room.”

He shoots you a pointed look, and you frown when the realisation sinks in.

“We—we can switch,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to impose.”

“No.”

“I insist.” You try again.

“As do I.”

You clamp your mouth shut, unsure of how to respond. Magnus has already dozed off—his soft snores filter through the heavy silence hanging over your heads.

“He’s lovely,” you suddenly say, referring to the quiescent hound. “Well-trained, too.”

“I won’t take credit for that,” Harry grumbles, rubbing his palms against his thighs. “He was a palace dog.”

You blink. “W-what?”

“A palace dog,” he repeats. “I found him alone in the woods after a hunt. His leg was broken—the guards left him there to die.”

“That’s awful.”

He hums in agreement.

“You took him in, then,” you say. When he nods, you add, “It seems that you have a knack for nursing others back to health.”

He doesn’t reply.

“The hunts—” you start, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. “Do they…occur frequently?”

“Why do you ask?” Harry says. His shoulders wobble with a hollow chuckle. “Are you afraid of being caught?”

You inhale sharply, and he realises that yes, you are.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. Subconsciously, his voice drops an octave, taking on a soothing quality. “They don’t come around often. And even if they did, I doubt that a single runaway lady would be of much concern.”

You blow out a relieved sigh, though the uneasy expression on your face never wanes.

“You’re probably right.”

A few hushed seconds draw out, during which neither of you speak. Your bare feet shuffle clumsily against the cold floor. You appear to be waiting for some sort of cue—a sound, a gesture, anything.

“Er—” Harry breaks the peace, cocking one eyebrow. “I sleep naked.”

“Oh.”

The exclamation is unbelievably breathless. Your throat bobs amidst a difficult swallow, and you totter back.

“Of course,” you stammer. “I’ll just—”

With a trembling hand, you motion toward the entrance of his bedroom.

He nods wordlessly.

“Right,” you mumble, retreating. “Goodnight, then…Bear.”

At that, he pauses. Your cheeks twitch with a feeble smile, but you don’t comment on the sweetness of the simple endearment.

Harry remains completely still as you scurry into his room. He sits there for a prolonged moment after the door shuts, trying to make sense of his thoughts. Your features have been stamped onto the backs of his eyelids, practically seared into the skin.

At last, warm air spills past his lips, and he allows himself to utter the low, relentless reply pulling at his tongue.

“Goodnight.”

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #uhhhh yeah so here u go. if this flops it never happened i guess #hunterry #harry writing

[aquaticstyles]

unchained

A while ago I was asked for a “Have You Ever Been In Love” sequel, and while this is probably not the direction you guys were expecting, this is what I came up with. Also, this one’s (loosely) inspired by the song “Scott Street” by the lovely Phoebe Bridgers (highly recommend listening to the spotify sessions version while listening). Fun fact, for forever I misheard the lyrics, thinking she was saying “unchained” instead of “ashamed.” After noticing that I have, in fact, been wrong this entire time, I realized I kinda liked my version better (sorry Phoebe). And, me being me, I ran with it and it spun into this quick, 1.4k part two. Reblogs + feedback help so much! Enjoy!! xx, Jane 

“Have you ever been in love?”

Harry’s heart stops.

The question catches him off guard, and not just because he’s not used to interviewers asking such personal ones (he guesses this is what he signed up for when he agreed to be the first male flying solo on the cover of Vogue). It makes his heart stop because of his answer, because of the woman that had once asked him the same exact question.

Harry has never been one to linger in his sadness; he finds it unproductive, and quite honestly, completely depressing. After a break up, one can find the caramel-colored curls belonging to the world’s latest phenomenon sweating out his sorrow, or frustration, at the gym, pounding the boxing bag again and again and again. “Nothing another set can’t fix,” his trainer, Mike, would often tease the man in denial, knowing good and well by his posture upon entering the ring, slumped shoulders and an ever-present crease between his eyebrows, that another one had bit the dust the night prior. Mike had learned fairly quickly to never ask questions, to simply let Harry work out his emotions as he pleases, even if that means letting him walk out with wrapped fists masking throbbing, crimson knuckles.

Harry has never been one to talk about his sadness either; he finds it prolongs the pain rather than diminishing it, an annoying gnat swarming around an abnormally large bite from a crisp apple, halting his progression in enjoying his afternoon snack because he just can’t catch the bloody thing. His sister has tried to break him from his stubborn ways, even resulting to getting the lanky man drunk off tequila in hopes of him finally opening up about his incessant missed targets; however, that only ever ends up with Gemma’s arms holding up the giggling teddy bear and folding his bulky body into a taxi, mimicking cramming a cotton ball into a straw. Therapy was suggested and waved off with an inked palm, because if he doesn’t want to talk to his sister about it, how on earth is he supposed to talk to a stranger?

Never-ending claims of “I’m fine,” and “It just didn’t work out,” and “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” and “It wasn’t even that serious.” Sure, each breakup took a little something out of the man that insisted he was “fine,” but eventually, a couple dozen inked journal pages later, Harry would be back to his normal, happy-go-lucky, perfectly-kind self.

All of these rang true for most of Harry’s young adulthood.

All of these were common occurrences, that is, until Harry met you.

You were unlike anyone he had ever met. Selfless, but not in an over-bearing, walk-all-over-me kind of way. Funny, but not in an underlying-hatred, fake-laugh kind of way. Genuine, but not in a look-at-me, fake kind of way. Honest, in a I-want-to-know-everything-that-makes-you-you, ask-you-questions-until-the-sun-rises kind of way. Drop-dead-gorgeous in the most unbelievable, glowing, ethereal, kind of way that he constantly reminded you of. You were the perfect balance, the missing diamond to even out the coal on the other end of the scale.

Loving you felt like the ocean.

In the morning when there’s a hazy screen covering your lenses, clouding the soft sunlight in a muted, white-washed filter. It’s more gray, yet still golden as the shining mass of fire lazily rises from its slumber. It’s calm, clouds stretched apart like cobwebs in the faded blue sky above, waves leisurely, almost too relaxed, crashing along the bleached shore then disappearing back into the horizon. Still sleepy, still new, an entire day ahead of you.

In the afternoon when the sun is at its highest and hottest, radiating down ultraviolet rays that burn your skin, causing alarmingly red shoulders in need of aloe that soon progressively heal and turn into a bronzed exterior. Speckles of light dancing upon excited waves, similar to a neighborhood of children dressed in pink polka dots and orange overalls running towards the ice cream truck filled to the brim with dreams of sugary stomachaches. It’s saturated, every color its brightest and loudest, pops of cerulean and coral. It’s a blanket of comfort, a suffocating scarf. It’s sweet. It’s sour. A cool glass of lemonade sinking into a bed of quicksand. Annoying and astonishing.

In the night, when the yellowing presence is long gone in the awakening of the moon, the deepest indigo swirling in between pockets of stars dotted and flecked into the atmosphere like freckles. It’s black and blue. You don’t know where the earth stopss and the water begins, familiarity lost as the waves erase each new footprint in the sand. The tide is an abuser, sweet as it sings you in, terrifying as it pulls you under. Skinny dipping, vulnerable, exciting, adrenaline, heart thumping, diving, sinking, drowning.

The morning, the afternoon, the night. The happening, the honeymoon, the heartbreak.

Ever since it ended, everything Harry had ever known was cast aside, thrown out like a Gucci jumper from last season. For the first time in his twenty-six years of living, fourteen of those juggling the obstacles that relationships can and will bring, Harry was irreversibly numb, a pair of frozen, gloveless fingertips blue from the icy wind. Not only did he linger in the gut-wrenching grief, he was absorbed by it. Instead of waking up each morning tucked into the bare side of your body diffusing innocent warmth, sipping a steaming cup of black coffee received by hands much smaller than his own, he woke up with a stranger laying on his chest, cold, with a pounding headache the bottle of whiskey had gladly supplied from the night before. The days felt as if they lasted an eternity, time stuck in slow-motion, tick, tick, ticking, one second, one and a half, one and three quarters, two. He watched the seasons pass, the grass dying and regenerating into its natural emerald shade from his bedroom, dust pocketing in the corners of a picture frame containing two pairs of sparkling eyes and genuine, toothy grins sitting on the windowsill. Nights consisted of him lying sleepless on his back, eyes wide awake, thumbs twiddling as the echoes of helicopters overhead drone in and out. Dozens of missed calls remained unanswered: Mum, Gem, Mitch, Mike, Adam, Sarah, Mum, Mum, Gem, Mum, Mike, Mitch, Gem, Mitch, Mum…

He was stuck, a pancake glued to an ungreased pan, charred. It was when this melancholy had prolonged for nearly its sixth month, and all at home remedies (which included drinking, writing, drinking because he was writing, and writing because he was drinking) failed to provide any peace that he decided to give in to the recommendations from almost every single one of his friends: therapy. After the first session, he was ready to book it and sprint off to a deserted island with nothing but a coconut filled with rum to accompany his solitude. Turns out that one session was the mento to his coca cola of bottled-up emotions, exploding months’ worth of buried feelings and memories in an hour. It took the will of God (and Gemma purposefully lying and telling him they were going to get lunch) to get Harry back in the baby-pink-painted interior of his therapist’s office. After months of talking, sorting, compartmentalizing, yelling, crying, healing, unpacking, and reflecting, Harry tackled down the closure he had been chasing. A year and an album later, when he heard your name, he no longer felt trapped, heart beating rapidly, trying desperately to break apart his ribcage, he felt unchained—a prisoner uncaged, pounds and pounds of metal unlocked from his wrists, free.

Before, your name was paired with a colorless photo album, snapshots of vibrancy draining into black and white, frozen, lifeless, still.

Now, your name resembled a film reel of the best moments, your sweater hanging in his closet, your arm thrown around his mother’s shoulder in a polaroid candid, your laugh echoing in the acoustics of his shower after you nearly slipped on the lavender bubbles coating sudsy toes, your hands massaging his scalp, twisting curls into detailed plaits, your foamy lips smushing against a stubbled cheek, leaving remnants of peppermint mocha in the winter air, your satin skirt contrasting from his purple flares in his backyard, playing thumb war and whispering confessions in the moonlight. The good memories built a brick wall to block out the bad, dimming the light of your downfall.

“Have you ever been in love?” The question echoes again in Harry’s ears, causing a grin and a dimple to pop into his cheek. The fuzzies. Once, twice, three times. Click, shake, tape.

“Yeah, I have.”

#My writing #Harry Styles #solo harry #harry imagine #harry blurb #harry fluff #harry one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #writing #imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles angst #bf!harry #boyfriend!harry #unchained #unchained type beat #have you ever been in love type beat

[shreddedparchment]

Absence Makes the Heart

04/17/2020

Pairing: Superman x Reader          Word Count: 5,431

Warnings: language, lots of language, violence, blood, wounds, injuries, plenty of angst

DCEU Canon

A/N: I’ve been meaning to write this one down for a while. It’s based on a dream I had but I just went and added details and a little bit of backstory. Nothing too crazy. This will probably just be a one shot. The top half is heavily edited while the second half I just spat out because I was inspired and I went with it. Hopefully it’s good. This is my first foray into something other than Marvel, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Edit: I forgot to thank @babiiface95​ @evansweaters​ and @sherrybaby14​ for giving me some feedback on this! It helped tons!! xoxo

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

In this moment, all you can feel is the pain in your side.

You stumble forward, hitting the chestnut wood of your door hard. With nothing to brace yourself on, you slide along the length of it until you’re sitting, shoulder pressed against it.

“Ugh…” You groan, letting your hand trace the smooth grain until it can latch onto the handle. “Fuck this shit. I quit.”

You tell no one.

There hasn’t been anyone for months.

The door gives as you twist the knob sending you falling onto the small foyer of your apartment. You’re on the top floor, beside the penthouse. Your own place is small. Compact. Just three rooms, four if you count your bathroom.

You pull yourself along the dated ceramic tile and watch as you leave a smear of red behind you.

“Honey…” You begin, kicking the door shut while you stay flattered against the floor. “…I’m home.”

No one responds.

You exhale through your nose as annoyance rips through your chest.

“Fucker.” You say at no one, but obviously someone.

It takes every ounce of strength you have left to haul yourself into your bathroom. You peel off your suit, letting it drop to the floor in a whip of heavy fabric, space quality tech that was not fashioned on Earth but created for you.

To protect you.

Because he said he cared.

“Fucking…fucker.” You huff, yanking the first aid kit from the open shelf beneath your sink.

Your sports bra is drenched in sweat and blood, sticky against your skin as you plop yourself at the small kitchen table. You pull open the kit and reach for needle and thread.

It’s a messy stitch, clumsy and crooked from the angle you’re forced to work in. However sloppy, you do seal the wound to your ribs and the bleeding finally stops.

In your blood-soaked underwear, you make yourself a sandwich and stand at your counter, staring at the primary blue coffee cup sitting beside your own in teal.

You chew loudly, smacking your mouth as the bread sticks to the roof of your mouth. Eyes glaring at the cup, you bite down more fiercely. Tearing the food apart angrily.

“You’re a stupid bitch, Y/N. Get over it.” You sigh, then retreat to your bathroom to tidy up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Exhaustion is not your friend. It makes you cranky and irritable and sad because you can’t stand the silence in your home.

You groan, pressing your hand against your side gently, then reach for the remote and turn on the TV to war the silence.

It’s a cacophony of sound and for a moment, it grates your nerves. Some cartoon, loud and full of slapstick.

Next channel has people screaming at each other from opposite sides of a stage. Chairs begin to get thrown. A guy with a mullet takes off his shoe and chucks it at a man with one ear.

Next channel has an old black and white movie. The pretty woman with dark curls and a heart shaped face leans across a table, chin in her hand as she moons over the composed man who is smirking at her casually.

Nope. You think. No romance.

Next channel is the news.

“-sure what to make of what we’re seeing. It’s like nothing we have witnessed before. Veronica, can you tell us what’s happening?” The news anchor presses his hand to his ear, eyes squinted as he stares ahead.

The screen shifts and Veronica—a pretty woman with flowing red hair and deep blue eyes fills your screen.

“Miguel, it looks as if all of the ocean’s water is being pulled away from our coastline and out towards the ocean. Where the water is going, we aren’t sure. There is no way to know what this means or what can be causing it. And although we’ve seen this phenomenon happen in films, doomsday blockbusters where a tidal wave the height of a skyscraper builds up before the subsequent flood, experts are sure this is not at all what’s going on.

There are dozens of meteorologists, marine biologists, oceanographers, and astronomers still searching for the cause. The only thing that they all can agree on for certain is that the oceans are not withdrawing, but rather, they are draining, leaving sea life, coral reefs, and the ocean floor exposed.

“Something is pulling this water away. Whatever is causing this, is not natural.”

Sitting up, you place your elbows on your knees as the video changes to that of a helicopter shot as it circles the ever-decreasing ocean line. A humpback whale and her calf attempt to outswim the retreat, but they fail and as the water falls away, the creatures are beached between two sheer ocean cliffs.

“What the hell…” Reaching up, you cover your mouth, watching as the video moves back to Veronica.

“If we can’t figure out why the ocean is draining, we will have hundreds if not thousands of species left without chance of survival. This is not only a loss of a life for many endangered species, but also leaves us to face the consequences within our fishing industries and the millions of people it not only feeds but employs as well. If we cannot stop-”

Veronica suddenly stops speaking, holding her hand to her ear as she listens for a moment.

“Sorry, Miguel, it looks as if Doctor Rashda has found a source point for the draining. Doctor Rashda can you hear me?” Veronica asks, waiting for a moment before the video splits vertically.

The second frame of video sits empty, a sloping sandbank visible in the distance. It curves around in a semi-circle at the center of which is a growing swirl of dark blue water.

“Doctor Rashda?” Veronica asks again, her eyes frantic as they search a monitor out of view.

“Surrender.” A voice says, high pitched. Female. “Surrender and you will not suffer. Surrender your planet, and I shall make your end quick.”

Veronica is silent as the column of swirling water parts a little, just enough so that a pale face is visible.

“Surrender.” The voice says again, the pale face’s lips moving as it speaks. “And you will die quickly.”

Frowning, you move to the edge of your seat, your anger doubling.

“M-Miguel are you seeing this?” Veronica asks, voice small with fear.

Miguel doesn’t answer.

The figure in the water holds out its hand and from the swirl comes a smaller sphere. In this sphere something moves. As the camera zooms in, you can make out the distinct shape of a body, thrashing within its bubble.

Veronica screams just as you and everyone else that must be watching realizes that within the bubble is Doctor Rashda, struggling and gasping for breath.

You’re up on your feet, racing to pull your suit back on when a commotion pulls your eyes back to the TV, legs already in but with one shoulder exposed as you freeze mid-dress.

“He’s back!” Veronica is shouting gleefully. Relief and reverence painting her voice. “Superman is back!”

You move two steps closer to the TV, not intending to take the word of a panicked reporter. Until you can lay your own eyes on him then it isn’t real.

A few seconds pass. Then, a blur of blue and red streaks through the center of the bubble and when the water stops rippling, Doctor Rashda isn’t there.

“Motherfucker.”

You pull your suit on roughly, ignoring the way the movement tugs at your side as you zip up and launch out your open window.

You fall fast, plummeting towards the ground in a streak of teal and gray. When you’re only three feet away, you feel a surge of power as your arms, and legs burn with white hot energy.

It pushes you upwards and propels you higher and higher until you’re soaring across the sky at incredible speeds, leaving a silver trail of light behind you.

It only takes you minutes to reach the coast but sometime between you jumping out of your living room window and arriving here by the Golden Gate, the fight has moved cityside.

You hear a deafening crunch as blue and red goes slamming into black, gray, and brown ocean floor, disappearing into the subsequent rubble.

Heart pounding, you propel yourself towards a thin figure, long stringy black hair, sallow skin, arm still stretched out from her hit. She turns to look at you just as you reach her, but you throw your own fist out in a powerful uppercut. It throws the strange woman high into the air.

You follow for a few feet, hovering in there as you watch her skyrocket out of sight into dark clouds overhead.

Behind you the heap of ocean floor rubble begins to shift.

Coming to rest on the cliffside above, six feet below he breaks through the rock and it falls around him, a flurry of fine sediment saturating the air.

Chest heaving, side burning, heart clenched so tight you think it might truly be shredding, you watch as the fucker stands up and does a quick scan of the area looking just as perfect as he did when he left.

His eyes are focused, searching the sky for sight of his attacker but instead he finds you.

His eyes soften and you’re still so angry you glare. You turn on your heel and walk away, staring up at the sky as you wait for the woman to fall.

“Y/N…” You hear him say, but you don’t turn to look at him.

You can feel the swirling of wind as he flies up to you, the soft pats as his feet hit the ground. He circles around your right, leaning forward to get a better look at your face.

In your peripherals you can see the gentle curl of his dark hair, falling along his forehead and a hundred memories of your hand gently sweeping it aside make your body tremble.

The pleasure that the memory brings makes your blood boil and you roll your eyes, ignoring the puppy eyes he gives you.

“Let’s just get this over and done with. I’m tired.” You assert and watch as the strange woman careens towards the two of you, an inhuman screech growing louder as she falls.

Moving forward a few steps you aim yourself, bend your knees and launch yourself up towards her. As you collide, she grabs hold of your shoulders, and the two of you twist and spin in the air, struggling to get the upper hand.

Shifting quickly, you pull her over you, grab hold of her shirt front and with all the force in your body, you spin and chuck her down as Clark flies towards you to finish the job.

~~~~~~~~~~

A tattered white dress is all that remains of the ocean thief.

“Who was she?” Clark wonders, moving to stand beside you as you watch the stain of saltwater grow as her body dissolves to nothing.

“You don’t know?” You ask him, turning to look at him and hating how much it pleases you to finally see him again.

His broad body, thick with muscle and stupidly accentuated by his damn blue skintight suit, feels larger than before he left though you know that’s silly. He’s as God like as ever, though he’s only an alien. To the world, he’s a savior. Invincible.

Superman.

What really hurts to look at are his eyes.

It chokes you, those baby blues, full of unspoken questions and expectation. For you. For the future. For the present. He wants to know you again.

You tear your gaze back down to the woman as Clark shakes his head.

“No. I was flying home when I saw the ocean empty and followed the trail to the spout she was in.” Clark explains.

“Well, it’s too late to find out now.” You point out. “The water will come back soon. You’ll need to make sure people stay away from the coastline.”

Turning towards him, you wait, your rage evened out and layered with betrayal.

That painful gaze of his so piercing it nearly steals your breath away.

“Where were you, Clark?” You ask quietly, your anger outweighing the hurt.

The apologetic look he gives you, the tilt of his head, the step he takes towards you grates your nerves.

“Y/N-”

“It’s been months. Almost a year.” You sigh, unwilling to give in.

He takes your hand and the impulse to pull away nearly overwhelms you.

His hands are rough, only in that masculine way. His skin is unblemished. Perfect.

The strength of his movements are carefully calculated. A natural habit he’s developed after a lifetime of having to be gentle to keep from breaking those he touches. The heat from his hands is familiar and it envelops yours easily.

“I was coming home.” He tells you.

“Home? How do you know that it’s still your home? Maybe someone else has moved in.” You threaten and there’s a visible fall in his eyes.

It nearly breaks your icy exterior. But you have every right to be angry and hurt that he left you. Out of the blue, no word as to where he was going or when he’d come back.

“I have to go.” He’d said, and left you sitting on the couch, wondering when he’d come home.

He looks down at your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

“You went to see her first, didn’t you?” You accuse and he quickly meets your gaze.

“No.” He assures you passionately, moving a little closer. “No, I was going straight home.”

“She’s been looking for you.” You tell him, tempted to confess how useless you’d been in those first few weeks he was gone. “All of them have been. Where is Superman? Is the million-dollar question. And now here you are.”

He’s back just as randomly as he’d left. Just as sudden. Just as quiet.

“There he is!” A familiar voice shouts. On the bank across the large ravine you both stand in Veronica appears looking dazzled and excited, her camera man hoisting up his camera to begin what will be the first clear footage of Superman finally back. Earth’s hero returned.

Quickly you pull your hand from his and turn to walk away.

“Where are you going?” He asks, following for a few steps.

“Home. I’ve been in Australia for the last month dismantling a new crime syndicate with Bruce. He and I are both very tired. He stayed behind.”

“Oh.” Clark says.

“Superman!” Someone calls. “Superman is back!”

Civilians have begun to gather along the empty waterway, all of them eager for a glance at the Man of Steel.

You know how you made it sound and maybe it’s your annoyance making you push him away now that he’s home, but all you can think about is getting back home and being alone.

“The water will be back, Kal.” You shift to his birthname with so many ears nearby. “Get these people away.”

You leave him standing there, watching you fly away, with those baby blues full of quiet yearning.

~~~~~~~~~~

The apartment…your home…it’s a void.

You sit on the arm of your sofa still in full uniform, hand gently resting on your thigh—palm up. You’re a mess again. Dirty with blood and dirt and sweat.

Needing a shower doesn’t do much to deter your silly brooding. Silly because you did this to yourself. You made it seem like you had someone new waiting for you here when really the bleak emptiness is in need of a six-foot, three-inch tall Kryptonian.

His presence is here. Loud and white hot. His coffee cup burns you from across the kitchen—asking where its owner is. His drawer still full of clothes. Comfy sweatshirts and crisp white t-shirts. Blues and grays and reds too.

There’s one you’d set aside. The last he’d worn. Only once. It had sat on the end of your bed night after night until you’d caved and pulled it on. Now it probably smells more like you than him.

The place is silent. Only the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom sink breaks the quiet.

Your gaze wanders to his shoes by the door, shoelaces left undone, a small speck of mud on the side of the left heel.

Shutting them, your eyes water.

No. You shake your head. I won’t cry.

You take a shaky breath and release it slowly, sighing as your body slumps forward.

The movement reminds you of your earlier wound and you gasp in pain as you sit up straight again, leaning to the side to look at the spot growing increasingly wet on your side.

“Shit.” Stitches are probably torn open. “Fuck.”

Maybe it’s your frustration with this whole situation or maybe your wound really just hurts a lot, but as you reach over to feel the bloody spot, your voice finally breaks. Though there are no tears, they really want to fall.

“Fucking, stupid, fucking…” You sigh again, this time faster, angry.

“That’s a lot of French.” Clark says, his voice smooth and even and excruciatingly beautiful to your ears.

You stand up, startled, and spin to watch him pull his left leg in through your open window, following his torso.

He’s still in his suit, cape and all. Once again, the sight of him reminds you of his Godlike status. His perfection unreachable and yet, here he is. In your home. Where he’d given himself to you openly and without reservation.

He stands there, his hands clenched into nervous fists. Skin just as dirty as yours but not sweaty. Not bloody. His hair is a little disheveled. The tresses normally so carefully tempered are free to curl and wave.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, voice still weak from your raw emotional outburst.

“I went to see Bruce.” He explains, and you might just kick yourself for implying Bruce would be waiting for you. “Why-?”

“Because I wanted to hurt you.” You admit, cutting him off before he can word the question. “Because I wanted you to regret leaving me the way you did.”

“I do regret it.” He sighs. “I-I only left because I thought I heard…”

He hesitates and you’re tempted to kick him out. You turn away from him and move into the kitchen, trying to ignore the wound that needs tending.

With your own coffee cup in hand, you pop a k-cup in your Keurig and punch the power button, waiting for it to power on before you select the largest cup option and listen to the whirr of the motors instead of Clark’s silence.

“I went to Krypton, or what’s left of it.” Clark finally says, this time from the mouth of your kitchen archway, hands still clamped tight.

You shut your eyes tight, hands clinging to the edge of your counter. Squeezing ever tighter until they begin to ache, and you still only keep squeezing.

“I wish I could be as impressed by that answer as I was the first time you told me that.” You shake your head.

“It was different this time, Y/N.” He shakes his head, then takes a step closer.

The movement draws your eyes and you watch the intense focus on his face, the uncertainty to speak.

“What is it?” You ask, still a little bitter.

Even though he looks as if he means it and this trip to Krypton is more serious, he’s not speaking. He’s keeping this from you. Holding it back.

“Jesus fucking Christ Clark, I guess you don’t trust me.”

“No.” He insists, moving another step closer which still leaves him a ways away from you in the kitchen. “It’s not that. I do trust you. More than anyone. But…”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to go to hell and to stay away from you and to shove his excuses up his ass, but your curiosity is growing.

There’s a small panic in his baby blue eyes. A fear.

So, you wait. You hold your tongue. You’re patient for now. You give him a familiar silence that tells him you will wait until he’s ready.

He recognizes it and meets your quizzical gaze as your coffee finishes brewing.

You don’t even realize it’s done as you stare into Clark’s eyes and he stares into yours.

The moment he decides, his shoulders relax. His jaw drops a fraction of an inch as he stops clenching his teeth.

As the weight on his shoulders is visibly lifted, you feel yourself relax too. Nearly a year of being without him and you’re still so attuned to his moods.

“I found someone.” He tells you. “On another planet, in a Kryptonian ship that had been sent only days after my own.”

“Another Kryptonian?” You ask, curious but also fearful.

You remember very clearly the last Kyrptonian that had come to Earth. Zod and his minions had torn Metropolis to shreds. They’d killed so many people and Clark had made the hardest decision in his life.

Not that you’d been there. She’d been there. But Clark had let you in on the weight of that moment. The choice that he hated to make but would gladly do so again.

He must see the fear in your eyes because he shakes his head and takes yet another step towards you.

“No. Don’t be scared. Really. She’s-”

She?!

“-she’s harmless.” You frown at him because that’s the stupidest fucking thing he’s said since getting back. Maybe the stupidest thing ever.

“Okay,” He amends. “Maybe not harmless, exactly. She’s my cousin, Y/N. And she needed help.”

“Your cousin?” You ask, voice low and full of questions.

“From what I can tell, she was sent here after me, but when her ship was knocked off course, she was trapped in form of hypersleep for a long time. She was older than me, but now she’s a lot younger.” Clark continues to explain, speaking with some gusto now that you’ve allowed him to pick up some momentum.

“Where is she?” You wonder.

“I left her with a family that can take care of her. Someone that I trust. Far away from me. She’s still very young and I think it would be best if she remained hidden for a while. Just until she learns how to control her abilities here on Earth and to give the world time to get used to the idea of another Kryptonian.” He takes one more step.

“After Zod, I don’t know that there is any amount of time that would prepare the world for a Supergirl.” You frown.

With your defenses lowered, Clark takes the opportunity to step even closer, finally stopping beside you.

He hesitates again, this time as he reaches to take hold of your elbow. His fingers press against your arm gently like he’s stroking piano keys. Testing to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

He lifts your arm a little and doesn’t break eye contact with you until your arm is lifted enough that he can get a clear look at the red on your side. Head tilted to the right as he assess the injury.

Straightening his head, he slides his hand down to your hand, taking it before gently pulling you away from the kitchen, through your bedroom, and into your bathroom, switching on lights as he goes.

Watching him be like this has always been your favorite. He moves with a purpose, eyes trained on what he’s looking for without a glance spared your way.

You stand beside him as he holds your hand, hunched over to look under the sink for your first aid kit.

After he retrieves it, he pulls you back out into the kitchen. There’s more room there for both your bodies, especially with his taking up so much space.

He places the kit on the floor before he pulls you in front of him. Both of his hands find your waist and he lifts you up onto the edge of the counter to sit.

Slightly surprised, you gasp and place your hands on his shoulders, tracing the muscle while you can do so discreetly until you must remove them and place them at your sides.

Clark steps towards you, his hard abdomen pressed up against your legs as he wraps both arms around you, hands searching for the zipper on your back. Leaning over your shoulder to get a look at it, he’s almost hugging you.

And you can’t stand the tease of it.

The movement is quick, and he leans back again once he’s got the suit undone.

“What happened?” He asks as he hooks his thumbs into the top of your suit and pulls it down over your shoulders, your biceps—then holds the arms still as he waits for you to pull them out—then bunches it down along your waist to expose your injured side. “Lift your arm.”

You do as he ass, wincing as it tugs on the reopened cut.

“This is deep.” He disapproves.

“Bruce and I really were in Australia. One of the guys caught me with a knife just as we were getting them rounded up.” You explain.

“This is gonna hurt.” He tells you as he pulls the kit onto the counter beside you and pulls out a pair of small scissors and tweezers.

It takes him almost no time at all to snip away the broken threads and clean the wound again.

He waits, thinking for a moment, then meeting your gaze.

“Do you want something for the pain?” He checks, eyebrows raised in worry.

“Just do it, Clark.” You sigh, frustrated because this is all too familiar. This proximity, the smells, the heat, the way his hands poke and prod at the edges of your cut.

His eyebrows gather together as his jaw flexes with a frown, staring at the cut as he threads the needle quickly.

A proper needle this time, sanitized and threaded properly.

Taking your lifted arm, he pulls it over his head onto the opposite shoulder and places your hand there where his cape meets his suit.

“It’s gonna hurt.” He says again, and you realize he’s giving you something to squeeze.

And he’s right. Without the adrenaline from before, you feel every stitch and you’d thin you would get used to this sensation. But it hurts like fuck all and you squeeze his cape tight until you can’t help but give a small yell in annoyance.

“Why is it always the little wounds that hurt the most?” You sigh as he sips the thread and moves to clean his work area.

“You should go shower.” Clark says as he sanitizes the counter. “Be careful with your stitches.”

You don’t fight him on this because you desperately need another shower. Maybe if you’d been fine, you would have argued, but you’re dirty and aching.

When you emerge from the bathroom, you find that the sky outside has darkened. You dress quickly, just a pair of black old cutoff sweats and one of Clark’s gray hoodies.

You’re absolutely swimming in it, but it’s so soft and comfortable. Loose so that it doesn’t add any pressure to your stitches.

The apartment is so quiet you stand there, pulling the sweatshirt down as you listen intently for any kind of movement.

“Clark?” You call, just a little insecure after months of his absence.

You move out into the living room. The floorboards creak and moan as they settle beneath your feet. The large carpet in your living room silences your steps but you also stop walking, staring at the empty kitchen, then the empty living room.

Had you dreamt him?

Maybe he really isn’t back?

What if you’ve finally gone crazy?

What if he’s never coming back and you’d passed out after you got back from Australia and everything with the ocean had been a dream?

Are you really going nuts?

There’s a soft thud from your bedroom and with eager footsteps you rush back in.

Sitting on his side of the bed with his bare feet planted on the ground, Clark is hunched over. Elbows on his knees. Hands resting relaxed at the wrist while he stares at the floorboard underneath your bedroom window.

“Clark…” You sigh, not realizing how relieved you sound.

He’s changed, wearing a pair of gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt.

He looks good. Showered. His curls just barely damp.

“Am I welcome here?” He asks, staring ahead.

You move to the bed and climb on, walking on your knees towards him until you stop just a foot away and sit back on your legs.

It’s a good question. One you think on for a moment.

“You didn’t come back for ten months, Clark.” You sigh, hating that fact. “I didn’t know if something had happened to you or maybe you’d decided to leave me and Earth behind altogether? Mostly I just thought you were dead. I spent most of my time convincing myself that you’re so close to invincible that killing you might be impossible but-”

“I’ve died before.” Clark says, hating the idea that people think him a God. He turns towards you and frowns.

His words, however true they may be, send painful clenches into your chest.

Your face does something that makes his demeanor shift. Suddenly he’s sitting beside you, arm wrapped around your waist as he reaches up to push your hair back and away from your face.

His fingers graze the skin of your neck and he hooks it there, squeezing gently.

“I’m not dead.” He says, maybe guessing your thoughts of madness? “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t.” You shake your head. “And I was so angry at you. I hated you. I cursed your name. Fuck that guy. Stupid fucker. I hate him.”

Clark simply watches you, his eyes moving side to side as he looks at your face and every expression that crosses your features.

The one thing that you’ve always loved about Clark, is the way that you can tell he’s really listening. Not once have you felt as if you weren’t being heard. Even if he doesn’t agree with whatever you’re saying, he listens so intently, trying to understand your point of view before he poses his own.

And you love him for it.

Shit. You still love him. Of course, you do. Of course, he’s always been yours.

Even in his absence, you were his and he was yours.

“I said that almost every night, hoping that you would hear me and come back. But you didn’t.”

“But I did.” Clark says. “I’m here. And I’m sorry I left without explanation. I’m sorry that I put you through that. And I know that you can’t forgive me for it. That I’ll be trying to earn your trust again every day that we’re together. But, please can I stay?”

He rubs your lower back, his large hand sending heat into every inch of your heart. Restarting it after he killed it ten months ago.

“Please?” He begs. “All I’ve thought about is getting back here. To you. To our home and our life together.”

You shut your eyes, relishing in the way his arms feel around you, his hands large and hot. His breath is sweet and warm. His scent is clean and so him that it makes your stomach flutter.

You won’t need that shirt of his anymore. Now you have him back, here with you. Where you can touch and feel and love and laugh and just be with him.

“Or should I leave?” He asks.

Your eyes pop open, red fury raging through them. “You do and I’ll hunt you down, Kent.”

He smiles, softly at first. But when your hand begins to trace the taut sinew of his muscly forearm, his smile grows wider. It grows and grows until it’s blinding and beautiful.

You trace the curve of his shoulder, tickle his neck before reaching up to smooth the curls that fall against his forehead gently.

He shuts his eyes, enjoying the affection before you push yourself forward between his legs and settle on your side.

You cuddle into the center of his chest, tucking yourself between his arms, head on his chest, under his chin, arms grabbing tight to the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I missed you.” He whispers against your hair.

You smile, shutting your eyes as you let yourself finally be at ease. Clark is home.

#superman x reader #superman x reader fanfiction #superman x you #superman x y/n #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader fanfiction #clark kent x y/n #dceu fanfiction #dceu #superman fanfiction #superman fanfic #superman fic #superman x reader fic #clark kent x reader fic #Absence Makes the Heart #shreddedparchment

[ashley-slashley]

4, 12, 15 and 16 for the film ask game you reblogged 👀

Thank you so much! I love doing ask games!

4) A film you could watch on repeat for the rest of your life?

I'm chosing one per franchise

Beauty and the Beast

Pink Floyd The Wall

Apocalypse Now Redux

Evil Dead II (sorry Evil Dead 1 Ash, even though I [REDACTED])

My Fair Lady

Star Trek II

12) A movie that holds a special place in your heart?

Like the previous one, I'm not chosing 1, but I'll give one movie per genre I like, and no overlapping, this isn’t the oscars where Disney can strike out in every category (probably because they pay off the academy)

Science Fiction - Star Trek IV (I would have chose Star Trek II, but I just feel like it's right for me to choose the more absurd and chaotic of the original Star Trek movies lol)

Disney (they're basically their own genre) - Beauty and the Beast

Horror - Evil Dead

Musical - My Fair Lady

Romance - Roman Holiday

Drama - Apocalypse Now Redux

Biographical - Pink Floyd The Wall

15) A film everyone loves but you hate?

There's quite a few, but I genuinely don’t get the hype of Lion King. I beg to differ on The Princess and the Frog dvd cover that the music is the best since Lion King, but I think they should have put Beauty and the Beast, Pocahontas, Mulan, Tarzan, Hercules, and Hunchback of Notre Dame. Not to sound like an asshole, but Lion King never impressed me. Yeah Mufasa dying was a turning point, but I wasn't really affected by it. Also, Be Prepared and just Scar and his evil folks are Nothing compared to Ramses II, the high priests, and Playing With The Big Boys from Prince of Egypt. I'd also like to give a big shout out to Disney for over saturating its merchandising budget with Lion King and over shadowing its other movies from the first renaissance. I know it's unfair to compare species, but Gaston, Frollo, Jafar, Clayton, Radcliffe, and Shan Yu are way more vile than Scar. All Scar wants is to kill his brother and nephew to secure his right to the throne, monarchies do that all the time, why is it different here? As you can tell, Lion King wasn't my cup of tea growing up, and I doubt it ever will be, even though I've already went through losing my dad

16) A film you love but everyone else hates?

Only movies to come to mind are

Beauty and the Beast (2017) - it was a good stand alone movie, y'all are just hooked on nostalgia

Citizen Kane - I've only heard Boomers, Gen X, and pretentious movie snobs say they love it

(insert all Mel Brooks movies here) - History of the World Part I and Robin Hood Men In Tights are underrated, that doesn't mean I don't love Spaceballs

I can't think of any other movies lol

#the shitposter replies

[tarithenurse]

If I succeed - 12

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Some bickering, holding back feelings, sarcasm and eye-rolling. Also a tad of monsters and violence. A/N: Thanks for the patience and support! I may have to slow my postings down the coming weeks as I’m picking up extra shifts at the ER to assist on the COVID-19 diagnosis and care. I’ll do my best to update on the WiP/master list as well as posting. Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever. I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

12 – Nightmares in Daytime

...   Geralt   ...

“Hm,” the Witcher tells his horse, conveying all the annoyance saturating his cells, “y’need to keep an eye on them, Roach.”

The animal in question bumps him gently with the head as if to show that she accepts the responsibility and  understands her owners concern. Jaskier has been a fixed part of half of the horse’s life, and more often than not the lad gets himself into some sort of silly situation – though the risk of that is greater in the cities. But now? There are two. This is not to say that [Y/N] is cut from the same cloth as the bard, merely that she too lacks a certain understanding of the world and its darkness.

“Sweet talk vampires, pfft.”

“I heard that!”

At least no sound is created by rolling the eyes. Hmm. The seething tension burning into his back is easily ignored, Geralt’s attention focused on the surroundings as much as the narrow trail created by animals leading upwards.

Rising smoke marks their destination. Black. White. Purple. Each taint indicates a variety of nefarious purposes more than simple cooking fires or for heat or light – even a torch, when ignited properly, has a particular smoke. The smoke for a hot torch is thin and black, rising in silky tendrils to the cave ceiling above where it billowed briefly before dissipating along invisible divots and cracks, leaving a growing layer of soot behind. Their movements had disrupted the momentary remnants of the flame after it had flared as greedily as his own lust. Like a fire, the feverish desire had spurred him on as he found [Y/N] willing, responding perfectly to his every ministration with a simultaneously strong but pliant body. And afterwards...afterwards he had felt her fall asleep, listened to her breathing calm while she was tugged against him safely. An image of a wild flower nestled in a sunny spot by a shielding rock had flashed through his mind – perhaps, he thought for a moment, even someone as hard as him can belong with someone.

He had wanted to ask her in the morning, but he dallied for too long as he lay there inhaling her scent. The quiet moment had come and gone. Not a word was exchanged although it was on the tip of his tongue. More than once, he had thought that [Y/N] was about to say something, her movements halting and mouth opening slightly only to be closed with a sigh. Every minute brought the events of the night further away, making it harder to believe that it could all have been more than a moment of weakness if it indeed had happened at all. A slip where she had given in to the urges of the flesh after the physicality of the sparring.

A sound breaks the Witcher’s brooding: “Are we there yet?” Jaskier calls out softly – not out of boredom but worry.

A few hours. “Hm.”

“Hold on then,” the strong-willed woman halts them all, “let’s go over it while there’s time, Geralt.” He does not like the sarcasm in her voice but turns anyways to see her scurry past Roach’s hind. “Tell us, oh Witcher, what your plan is if it isn’t to avoid the people of Toussaint be slaughtered?”

Only Roach seems to react to the low growl coming from the Witcher’s chest, her ears flattening and eyes darting every witch way to find the possible threat. He notices. Stopping the sound, he softly pats the mare’s neck to soothe her, but his gaze is locked in a silent battle with [Y/N].

“When I agreed to let you come along, it wasn’t to have you question everything I say or do,” Geralt bites at her.

“You didn’t let me come along, and you know it.” Shorter than him, the woman stares unwavering up into his face. “Besides...someone’s gotta make sure you don’t just create a fight and get yourself hurt. Again.”

There is a small sound coming from Jaskier, a little chuckle perhaps that he swallows right as it is about to tip over the lip. Hmm.

The silver-haired fighter has always prided himself of fighting smart by using the environment to his advantage and gathering all the information needed before confronting the enemy whenever possible. The incident with the wyvern attack that eventually brought them to the threshold of [Y/N]’s home once more is not a typical example of how his work is done. I’m glad though. Unwilling to share that particular piece of information at this moment, Geralt bites the inside of his cheek.

“I wouldn’t...there’s always a plan!” Geralt sighs, brows pinched. “There’ll be no rushing in or needless fights, and no, I’m going to keep at a safe distance from the wyverns if possible...this time I know they’re there.”

...   Reader   ...

Of course, you sigh inwardly as the shadows condense before you, of course this happens when Geralt is off scouting ahead.

Whatever you had imagined of a vampire, this was not exactly it. Monsters are supposed to be less like humans and more like creatures wrought from pure evil even if there are plenty examples of monstrous people in the history books. This bloodsucker? He would fit right in at the Toussaint court. Perfectly tailored clothes in deep red silk and velvet contrasted by silvered embellishments that strike an echo in his otherwise dark eyes, yes, even his blond hair helps distract from the sallow greyness of the skin. Momentarily, fear is an unknown factor to you as your mind wavers under the spell of his gaze.

“Oh, hello there m-” Jaskier’s greeting somewhere behind you is interrupted a heartbeat before you hear his body hit the ground.

The vampire before you says something in a grating, foreign language, receiving an answer – no, two – that makes a smirk grow enough to reveal a fang. Oh. Not good. A swarm of self-chastising thoughts barrage your brains, battling with the urge to either run or fight the disdainful figure in front of you. Fear might have been slow at presenting itself but now it fills your guts with icy lead in a rush capable of knocking the feet out from under anyone. I gotta get away!

“Please, pretty lady, let me chase you.”

You understand two things then. One is that the vampire’s voice by nature sounds like flint sliding against flint, the other knowledge – which intangibly more dreadful – is that there is nowhere you can flee before he inevitably catches you. Whatever he may have planned now will surely worsen if you try.

Jask? I can’t leave him anyways. Spinning around, you try to find the bard but gentleman monster wraps his cold fingers around your throat. Struggling is futile, the controlled grasp presses expertly against veins and windpipe, making the world spin and blur into darkness. The last thing visible is someone picking up The bard’s lifeless body.

#If I succeed #The Witcher #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt x reader #Geralt of Rivia x reader #Geralt x you #Geralt of Rivia x you #The Witcher x you #The Witcher x reader #geralt z rivii #reader insert #Jaskier #Jaskier the Bard #Roach the Horse #Slow burn #Monsters #fanfiction #Fanfic #fanfic series #Writing #The Witcher Netflix #Fanfiction series #Series #two idiots #In love #Matchmaker Jaskier #Protective Geralt

[ask-de-writer]

Warrior Clan : (Part 3 of 4) : Science Fiction

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WARRIOR CLAN

(Part 3 of 4)

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

4874 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All   rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on  or   to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the   express  written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.   They may  reblog the story.  They may use the characters or original  characters in  my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or  fan musical  compositions, provided that such things are done without  charge.  I will  allow those who do commission art works to charge for  their images.  

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

Dramatis Personae:

Lezon Treh K’lass: Long time slave of Clan D’ancer. During the events of Lezon found to be the long missing M'cratt War Leader.

T’cass: one surviving sister wife of the Clan D’ancer triad. Injured as a result of happenings in Lezon

K’ress: the second surviving sister wife of the Clan D'ancer triad.

T’lass: youngest kit of Clan D’ancer.

K’sere: middle kit of Clan D’ancer.

T’cill: oldest kit of Clan D’ancer.

//////////////

T’cass went on, “The M’cratt language is built around three fundamental states of conflict, each related to one of the Goddess’ Triad.  

“There is preparation for Conflict, represented by Lezon, keeper of the Cave of Life.  She prepares the souls of the dead to return to the Conflict of Life.  She represents the memory of  Conflict won or lost, as lessons to be learned.  She is also the bridge from the past to the future.

“There is Conflict itself, in all of its forms.  It is represented by Treh, Huntress of the Stars, whose battles bring Light to the world.  She also represents Life itself.  Life and Conflict are the same word. Conflict is inherent in the present as it is in all tenses.

The last state is death, usually but not precisely translated as the future tense.  It is not freedom from Conflict.  K’lass is the guide whose wisdom, if followed, leads the souls of the dead through difficult battles.  They have to relive every conflict that they ever experienced and learn the best response to each one.  Then K’lass leads the souls to Lezon in the Cave of Life.  K’lass represents Wisdom in the Management of Conflict which is the source of all perfection.”

T’cill raised a hand.  “I thought that Lezon lit candles to light the way of the dead to the Cave of Life,” she said earnestly.

Lezon smiled, “I tried to keep my explanation simple before.  The candle is a beacon for K’lass.  It assists her in finding the souls of the fallen.  Once she finds them, she is their guide.  Only she knows where the Cave of Life is.”

T’cass looked directly at Lezon and added, “You risked your life to give me a Warrior’s Return to Clan territory at the battle of K’stall when I ran out of firepower while we were dog-fighting.  Someone with that sort of honor could never allow the treaty to be broken in the war she planned and was carrying out . . . the war that the Clans nearly lost.

“K’sere’s question must be stated as T’lass did it.  How could the treaty be kept and still allow a war?  Now, you know.  It was our own translation error.  The Combined Clans only thought that it was a peace treaty.”

Lezon smiled and the world was full of friendly teeth.  “When I planned that war, the terms of the treaty were kept carefully.  The honor of the Empire and the Imperial Triad were at stake.  The war was only possible because it was not a peace treaty.  Neither is the current one, by the way.  The Clan translators have made the same errors all over again.

“The Treaty Commission does know the correct reading of the treaty and that is why they did not intervene.  Their job is strictly limited by their Charter.  They can not assist in the making of treaties.  They only enforce the treaties that others have made and protect habitable planets from illegal, biosphere destructive attacks.”

“T’cass, when I fought you at K’stall, I met and tested a Warrior.  The Warrior’s Way required that I give you the Return.  That placed you under an Obligation of Conflict.  You balanced the Obligation when you saved my life after M’onafar.”

All of the D’ancer’s Clan listened intently.  This was about the foundation of their family, not just history.  T’lass asked, “Can you tell us why nobody knew who you were?  I know that they searched for some proof besides your wrecked Talon that you died at M’onafar.  We’ve all read about that.”

It was T’cass who answered.  “Nobody else knew who she was because I knew who she was.  This was before I met M’rel and you, K’ress.  I had never found anybody who understood me and was willing to accept me. I didn’t know that it was possible for anyone from the Clans to love me.

“Besides the Obligations of the Warrior’s Way, I had my own reason.  She was a Battle Friend and wounded seriously.  She needed to be shielded from her enemies.  They were not only in the Clans.  In fact, Lezon was safer with me, among the Clans, than among her own.”  

T’cass paused and clicked up a picture that was now famous.  It was Lezon’s battle damaged Talon fighter.  She rotated the image to show the damaged driver array. “What I am telling you now has been a secret kept between me and Lezon.  I shot up the drivers and the life system myself, after I took Lezon out of the wreck.”

Using a pointer, T’cass indicated a section.  “Look closely at this area,” she directed.

K’sere wrinkled her brow as she looked at the picture under high magnification.  She stated, “That looks like a M’cratt disruptor hit.”

Lezon said quietly, “It is.  My Talon was hit from behind by a low powered attack when my vector would carry me away from the M’cratt battle formation.  It destroyed the superconducting cables to my drive, wounded me slightly and caused some other damage.  Even injured and losing air, I almost got my Talon back home.

“I was only about three inches of superconducting cable short of getting power up.  I tried to bridge the gap with copper.  It almost worked.  The saturation blast from the failure of the superconducting drive circuit is what nearly killed me.”

Puzzled, T’cill, oldest of the kits, asked, “Why did they try to assassinate you?  You were winning the war for them.”

Dryly, Lezon answered, “Precisely. And the only reason that the admirals and other leaders took directions from a mere combat pilot was that the Empress Triad ordered them to.  The youngest wife of the Empress Triad, S'tand, just happened to go to K’lass’ School of All Conflict at the same time that I did.  The Imperial Triad knew that every conflict that I planned or participated in at the School of All Conflict came out the way that I wanted it to.”

T’cill’s snout wrinkled skeptically along one side.  “Why were you a fighter pilot then?  Why weren’t you one of those admirals?”

T’cass picked that one up.  “They couldn’t keep her from fighting.  It’s a guiding principle of the Warrior’s Way.  A Warrior must be allowed to fight.  Those high officers took it poorly when the Empress Triad’s chosen War Leader refused their company and the safety of their positions aboard fortress ships.  I think that they felt that it reflected on their courage.”

Lezon said dryly, “As a matter of fact, that was pointed out to them by the Empress Triad in person.  It may have had something to do with the assassination attempt.”

A gentle bonging began to sound. T’cass wrinkled her snout at her kits affectionately and said, “Now you know how the M’cratt see those issues that the Clans think of as treaty violations.  In fact, the only ones who have violated the treaties are the Clans.  They are also the ones who bungled the translations.

“Now, the MediBed is calling and I do have to go.  Be as good as you can be and still be the D’ancer’s kits.”  She reached over and ruffled juvenile manes, then raised her claws in farewell and left the room.  In moments, the bonging ceased.

Lezon turned to the kits and asked, “Does everybody understand the situation that K’sere brought up?”

They all made noises of agreement.

“Enough to take a test on the subject?” Lezon asked looking aslant at them.  The agreement was complete but nowhere near as enthusiastic.

Suddenly, Lezon’s tail twitched and her ears shot up jauntily, “Good, because we’re not going to put that test on the computer for the Educational Combine to find!  T’lass, for your suggestion, Snack Points! K’sere, for bringing up the topic, Snack Points, after all!

“Let’s go to the galley and get lunch!” Lezon said cheerfully.  “Will you kits kill T’cass’ lunch and take it to her?  The MediBed will allow her real food now but she still can’t pounce her own.”

A delighted tumble of kits charged out of the compartment.  Lezon shook her head in wonderment.  Smiling she said, “Kits!  Such simple things can make them so happy.”

K’ress smiled fondly after her Clan’s progeny and agreed, “I wish that life was that simple for us.”

Suddenly serious, she said, “I fear that it may get complicated for us all over again, Lezon.  I tried to discuss this matter once before.  We . . . were interrupted.  It is about manumission.  T’cass and I both want to free you.  The kits do too.  In fact, what we need to ask was first proposed by them.

“Our problem is simply this.  We want to ask something of you and by Clan law, the question can only be asked of a free person.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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#LEZON #Part 3 of 4 #Science Fiction #Written by De Writer

[citrineghost]

A Letter to WordPress

Dear WordPress,

Tumblr has been around for a good while now and many of us have been here since the beginning (or close to it). It’s become something of a comfort and a home base for many. You can understand then why it’s so terrifying and tension-setting when a new owner comes around.

This website has been through a lot of changes, very few of them good in recent years. I want to open up a dialogue from the user base about our feelings and desires surrounding this site, because to so many of us, not only its design and function, but its success and future are a big deal.

Obviously not all of the things I list below will be universal opinions, but I’ll try to outline some of the things I’ve seen the majority of users want. I’ll also throw in some things that are more personal, because I can’t claim to know everything the rest of the users want, but I can tell you where I see obvious problems.

First and foremost, here’s an obvious one. You can’t really go anywhere on Tumblr without knowing: we want the bots and the nazis gone. We need some kind of captcha system for every time someone wants to include a hyperlink in a post or response. Until the staff count gets higher, I would honestly suggest closing down the report system for everything but bots, nazis, and death threats/suicide bait.

Make NSFW content welcome again. Outside of porn bots, the pervasiveness of NSFW content is slim to none. As long as minors and those with ‘NSFW’ blacklisted aren’t seeing the NSFW content, there’s nothing wrong with it being here. A large number of the people posting NSFW content on here are artists who use this content to make a living on commissions. The ban has done nothing but make valuable members of the Tumblr community leave and take their art elsewhere. The focus should be cracking down on anyone who isn’t properly tagging NSFW content with ‘NSFW’. If the focus is put on that, the problem with NSFW content will be null.

Please keep Tumblr unintegrated with other social media. Most users will agree, the anonymity is such a huge part of what draws us to Tumblr. Other people only know what we tell them and it’s very appealing for our real life accounts (e.g. Google, Facebook, etc.) to be completely separate. When users want to share links to other accounts, they can do so easily with links on their blogs.

Replace ads with either, better, more sensible ads or members content. A large part of the ads on Tumblr make absolutely zero sense just by looking at them. Not to mention, they’re all completely unfit for the user base. I’ve seen weight-loss ads (harmful to the many people on the site recovering from eating disorders) and ads for products most people wouldn’t need or want until their forties. Most of the user base is 13-35, if I had to guess. I can tell you right now, you would make more money and the user base would be much happier if ads were removed in favor of members content. Adding a paid membership that allows users to gain access to new features (rather than restricting what’s already here) would be a huge boost in morale and company income. Use that income to improve the site. Don’t get comfortable making more than the bare minimum in profit until the website is functioning reasonably well. Hint: it’s not right now.

Keep the base functions of Tumblr. Don’t try and get radical, hoping big changes will excite the community. They won’t. We’re creatures of habit and we just want memes, fandom, and relatable nonsense. Keep reblogging, replies, customizable blogs, tags, and likes functionally the same.

Be receptive to bug reports and post change logs so that the community knows that they’re being addressed and fixed.

These are the obvious pleas of the community. Please keep in mind that the heart of Tumblr is in its users and if you ostracize us, there will be nothing left. We love this website and we want to see it thrive as much as anyone. We just don’t want to sacrifice the spirit of the community in the process.

Read more under the cut if you want to see some more of my own personal suggestions. I’d love for other users to sound off in the replies with whether they agree with any of the pleas or suggestions and also give their own!

Okay, so, here are some personal opinions that are by no means the voice of the community. I think they’re pretty sensible, but what do I know?

Change back the color. I hate this saturated navy color and I’m pretty sure a lot of others do too. I’m part of the disabled community and I know and have seen people saying that these extremely contrasted colors that were added are making their Tumblr experience worse. It gives people headaches due to light sensitivity and, frankly, it’s ugly. If you’d like to cater to those who are visually impaired/colorblind, that’s fantastic! Do so with an account setting that turns on higher contrast mode or adds patterns to things to make them distinguishable.

Add an option to blog suggestions and posts that have shown up on your dash from followed tags that says “Stop Suggesting This.” I’ve been suggested a number of blogs that I’m not interested in following. I don’t want to block the user, but I do want some different suggestions and for those blogs to stop showing up in suggestions. I’m also tired of seeing the same post twenty times from a tag I follow. There is currently an option that says “This particular posts sucks.” While I think that was a great attempt at catering to the community, I don’t want to use it because my intuition says that there’s a negative connotation. Does me saying the post sucks make it show up less for other people? Does it lose popularity? I can’t tell. The only thing I know is that I don’t want to say that a good post sucks just to make it quit showing up on my dash.

Implement some of the features that XKit uses. I would bet at least a quarter, if not more, of Tumblr users use XKit to make using Tumblr less painful. That shouldn’t be the case. Tumblr should have these functionality options available in dashboard settings.

A very hot take here that many might disagree with: Make notes viewable more like mobile has them. As it is, it’s hard to tell which ones I’ve seen on desktop. It can be tricky on mobile too, honestly, but it’s easier than on desktop. I would also heavily suggest making the unseen notifications darker so that they stand out and making a button to indicate that you’ve seen them.

Keep the dash, messages, notes, and profile as separate processes similar to how mobile has it. The trek all the way down the damn dashboard is a long one. I want to be able to see notes and messages in full size without losing my dash progress. When I switch back I want to be right where I was. I understand if this one isn’t possible or practical. It was just something I like about mobile over desktop but I’m aware that they’re two different beasts with different capabilities.

As far as the aforementioned members features, I do have some ideas, but I can’t guarantee they’re the best the user base has to offer. I’m sure others could think of better. Anyway, some things I’ve thought of are groups/clubs, digital currency, and separate dashboards. So, as it stands, You can have multiple blogs on one account. People can follow them separately. That’s fantastic. What would also be nice though, is being allowed to make separate dashboards. This would probably take up another chunk of server space, so I understand if it isn’t feasible right now, but I would jot it down. The ability to separate shitposts, aesthetic imagery, fandom content, and NSFW would be amazing. If you follow a huge number of blogs, like me, you could even make a friends dash so that you don’t miss your friends’ posts. It would just be a matter of allowing people to add and name their new dashboards. Then, when they go to follow people, it prompts them to choose what dash their content goes to. You could even simplify it by making the follow button default to the main dash, but adding a little dropdown arrow beside it. You could then choose which dash to add them to from a list. Below are some bad paint-drawn concept drawings.

Anyway, I hope this has all been helpful in some way. I’m fairly certain that WordPress will never actually read this, but it was cathartic to write and I hope it will be cathartic for someone else to read.

Sincerely, birb-ghost

#wordpress #tumblr #news #update #updates #verizon #yahoo #design #web design #developers #development #concept #concept art #art #drawings #good omens #bug #bugs #ghostpost #letter #letters

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED-ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback – comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. – I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Previous part here. Or start from the beginning.

Portrait of a Young Man: Part Four

[Of course! Rudeness would be out of place, and it is free of charge.]

It is a moment before you decide, your eyes flickering between her impenetrable gaze and her rather odd appearance -- and then you are reaching your own hand towards hers, hesitant. Perhaps a little too hesitant. The crimson-clad woman snaps up your hand with her own in the blink of an eye, catching you off guard, and you very nearly startle off your seat. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice. The woman flashes you a quick, toothy smile before bringing your palm towards her face, somehow inspecting the skin through the smoked glass. Given the thickness of the spectacles -- you cannot even catch the shape or color of her eyes as she bends over -- it is a wonder that she can see through them at all.

“Marvelous decision, my child!” she says in a sing-song tone. For the first time, you notice that she is wearing gloves. They match the ostentatious crimson of her gown. “Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”

“Thank you, but is there any particular --”

A chilling sensation on the surface of your skin forces you to pause mid-sentence. It is as if an icicle has struck it. As if the skin there has suddenly felt the unpleasant sensation of frostbite. Your eyes flicker instinctively to what your body tells you is a wounded area, searching the woman’s hands for some hidden needle or whatnot -- but your search proves unfruitful. The hand that holds yours is gloved completely. The finger that traces it is not.

The woman hums. “Quite the bright little one, weren’t you?” she remarks, an icy finger trailing the inner flesh of your palm. You do your best not to shiver. “Astounding in all sorts of academic fields and everything you put -- oh! Perhaps that is not so, anymore. But that doesn’t matter much now, does it? Surely there are better ways for you to succeed in life.”

You clench your teeth at the sensation, which only seems to worsen by the moment. “Is there anything interesting in my near future, then? Anything I should be wary of?”

“Oh, come now, I’m a fortune teller, not a seer!” The woman laughs. It is brisk and shrill. “Reading palms only gives you a hint of the future, not the entirety of its tale. And wouldn’t it be so much less fun if you knew everything that was to happen?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, there’s nothing I can do about that negative attitude.” Her finger releases your flesh for a moment, granting it temporary relief, but in less than a moment it meets the surface of your palm again. It traces icy trails elsewhere, now following some line that must pass between your forefinger and thumb. “You’ve had a very great many things that have happened to you in life,” she continues. “Not all of them are good, but not all of them are bad, either. Suppose it’s just the way you look at it. Tell me, child, what was it you decided to travel for again? A family friend? Some business?”

“I’m currently on the way to --” she presses into the flesh, and you hiss, “-- the northern mountains for some business.”

“Business?” Her smoked spectacles slip down her nose. You catch the golden, slitted eyes beneath, nearly gasping at the sight. Her grip is tight on your hand. “Or is it revenge?”

You hold her gaze for a long moment. Her golden eyes -- they are wrong, wrong, wrong -- bore into yours. Her lips part once more to reveal an impressive set of needle-like teeth, each intermeshing with the other perfectly, and she smiles quite broadly at you. Her forked tongue slips out from between her teeth, tasting the air. Tasting you.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known all along. Beneath the lavender water, the smoked glass, the gloves -- this woman is a devil.

Her grip releases just slightly on your own hand, the muscles relaxing, and you take the opportunity to snatch your hand back. You cradle it in the other, attempting to massage feeling back into it. The crimson-clad devil before you only laughs in delight, apparently amused at the fear that has surely made itself apparent on your features. A moment, and the she-devil slips the glove back onto her hand. She reaches for the glass and taps the rim with her long claws, her grin only growing wider and wider.

“You look so lovely when you’re frightened, you know,” says the devil. “And that fear, that anger -- how wonderfully tempting you are. I’ve half a mind to devour you at this moment!”

You glare at her. “I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, of course you aren’t. They never are until the last moment.” The she-devil waves her hand in dismissal. “But you should know that it’s a sin to lie.”

“Those are lofty words, coming from you.”

The devil only hums in response. Another moment, and then she begins to stand, tucking away the spectacles of smoked glass into some breast pocket. Evidently there is little need to disguise herself at the moment. You watch as she makes her way towards the door of the cabin.

She turns to give you one last smile. “Consider it a lesson!” she sings. “A very important one, if you know what you’re getting into. The fire will consume you before the brimstone, my child. Remember that.”

And then she is gone. There is only the scent of sulfur in the air, the mask of lavender water and perfume quickly disappearing from the cramped space.

The same man who had served you lunch arrives not long after, prepared to take away your dishes. You look hastily in the direction of where the she-devil had left her wine glass after you hand him your own dishes, fully expecting to need to reach over the table. By the time you look, however, it is gone.

* * *

The rest of the trip passes rather uneventfully. It is a lengthy, boring journey by train that is seceded by an equally boring journey by automobile. It appears that Mr. Diavolo only hires the most tightlipped drivers.

You find yourself mulling over the she-devil during the course of the journey, your memories flickering to and fro. The smell of sulfur, just hidden by lavender water. The golden, slitted eyes, hidden skillfully by the smoked glass. The forked tongue. The needle-teeth. You were so sure that she had left her wine glass, that she had gripped your skin hard enough to bruise -- and yet there had been no trace of her. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air.

A feat that may very well be possible for a devil, for all you know. Perhaps you are not going mad. Perhaps you had not imagined her at all, and the she-devil had simply decided to play a nasty trick on you.

It is a very long journey in the automobile.

The driver rouses you after some time -- you are not exactly how long it has been, considering how night appears to have long fallen -- and you scramble out of the car as quickly as you can, nearly falling over your cane. The driver merely grunts when you ask him a question, hauling your suitcase from the back of the automobile. There is a rather harsh glance at your complexion. You fix him with a both determined and vexed stare when he finally places your bag by your feet, not bothering to take it up the stairs for you. He sighs.

“Be back in about six days,” the driver says gruffly. “Provided that the weather’s good and all, o’ course. You’re one of the first ones here, so don’t expect some grand greeting when you walk in.”

The door of the automobile slams shut with an air of finality before you can even ask anything else, and then the automobile goes tottering down the mountain road.

Before you is the private estate of Mr. Diavolo, its form looming before you like some great beast. Its tall spires are jagged teeth, its windows the eyes through which its occupants watch you from within. The eccentric, twisting shape can be attributed to no one else but a demon, for surely the architects of Hell must have odd tastes, and its stained glass shines with an almost unnaturally saturated hue. And then there is the great, crimson door before you, its knocker a polished bronze lion.

Unfortunately, there are several stairs before you. Given that the driver was nowhere near hospitable enough to carry them for you, you’ll have to manage them with both your cane and suitcase in hand. You begin to --

The great doors fly open. You nearly fall face first into the stone, but you turn just quickly enough to avoid smashing your chin completely against it. Still, your body meets the ground rather painfully.

“Look, another one’s here!” calls out a voice from the doorway. You squint to see the silhouette of a slender, rather short figure, its arm waving frantically. “Come quick, come quick!”

“It is nearly midnight, Asmodeus,” grumbles another. This one seems to originate from just out of sight, and it is only moments before I hear the sound of footsteps. “Surely this can wait until --”

“Absolutely not,” argues the first voice. “And look, this one’s a darling!”

“That darling is on the ground.”

“Oh. Oh my.”

It takes another second for your vision to clear. When it does you see two men: one a petite, nearly androgynous beauty, the other a regal and dark-haired. The petite one strides up to you with several quick bounds and sticks his hand out to you, offering you an amiable smile. You stare at him for a moment -- taking in the perfectly coiffed hair, the hint of foundation, the strange air of nobility about him -- and then you place your hand in his proffered one. He pulls you back to standing with ease.

“Are you alright?” asks the petite man. “You seem to have taken a nasty spill there.”

“I suppose I am now, Sir …” you trail off, not quite sure what to call him.

The petite man regards you with some confusion for a moment, waiting for you to finish, and then catches your meaning. “Oh, there’s no need to call me that,” says the man, breaking into that disarming smile once more. “I’m not a blueblood like that one over here. My friends call me Asmo.”

What a strange name, you think. Who in their right mind would name their child that?

“Oh,” you manage. “Well, thank you for --”

The dark-haired one finally stands within a respectable distance, stepping forward. He sighs. “Don’t you think it’s a little too early to be flirting?”

The petite man cocks a brow. “Flirting? Who said I was flirting?”

“I did.” The dark-haired man scowls at Asmo, his irritation having fully surfaced. A lack of sleep, perhaps, given the hour. He ignores you. “Now, could we please just get her through the door?”

“Oh, you’re only jealous that I was the one to --”

“No, I’m simply --”

“-- since you simply couldn’t be bothered to --”

You’ll be damned if you let these two fools bicker before you the entire night. Whatever regality or nobility that you had thought surrounded these two men has long gone, lost in the wind of their fickle argument.

“Georgine!” you say a bit too loudly, demanding the attention of the two before you. They regard you at the same time, Asmo’s hand poised in half of a gesture. “My name is Georgine,” you say with your most arresting tone, attempting to halt whatever argument may continue. “I appreciate the sentiment, but don’t you think it’s time we headed in?”

Asmo hand withers slightly. The dark-haired man simply stares. Your gaze flickers between the both of them. You realize the awkwardness of the situation.

Finally, the dark-haired man decides to clear his throat. “Right,” he says. He turns towards Asmo. “Since you’re the only gentleman around here, I don’t suppose you’d have any misgivings about helping her to her room?”

And so he does. It is only after a moment or so that Asmo realizes your lack of a limb, his eyes casting once towards where your leg should be, and fetches your cane for you. The dark-haired one looks at you -- not quite avoiding the missing appendage, yet not quite staring openly either -- and then walks back inside. Asmo takes your hand gladly in his and follows suit. You step past the threshold.

The nostalgia is almost overwhelming.

Aside from the occasional figure or statue, the appearance of the entrance hall may as well have been ripped from the fabric of your memories. It is the very image of decadence: a massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting its light upon the brocade walls and a pair of open staircases. The walls boast an impressive collection of baroque paintings, each made with a different technique, and a rather sizable rug -- imported from the Orient, perhaps -- lies before you. The weight of your childhood comes crashing down onto you all at once, so shocking is the image. Your father had brought you here a fair amount of times during the golden years of his business empire to discuss matters of the soul trade.

Your eyes trace the carved banister. Asmo talks at length on one topic or another, bantering with the dark-haired man, but the sound is a distant, far off clamor. The world is muddled with the buzz of your thoughts, your conscience smothered by your memories. Your father had held you by the hand at the base of the stairs there. Some official or businessman had offered you a boiled sweet in exchange for running off and playing somewhere else. You had nearly crashed into the gilded statue in that corner. There used to be a chip in that archway here. Each reminiscence nearly devours you.

Then you catch the image of a sharp, dark pair of shoes. Your heart stops.

As does Asmo. It takes him only a moment to glance at the figure at the top of the railing. He waves. The dark-haired one offers a simple greeting.

“Georgine!” Mr. Diavolo stands at the balcony, all golden eyes and hellfire locks. He grins, his sharp, white teeth gleaming even in the dim light. “How wonderful of you to come! How was the journey?”

[Answer in kind. You are a guest here, after all. Despite your circumstances, you must follow social obligations.]

[Refuse to speak to him. How dare he speak to you in such a manner! This devil is no friend of yours.]

[Say something cutting in response. This demon deserves not your politeness.]

#obey me #obey me! #obey me shall we date #the locked room murder of mr.diavolo #obey me diavolo #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #obey me lucifer #obey me fanfic #obey me writing #fanfic #writing

[applekitty]

things that happened with me in the past 7 years

i feel guilty so i want to post this. it’s basically a confession post abt stuff i’ve done, stuff that’s happened to me, and general rumination on how my actions have affected people.

transparency is the thing i value most, and now that i’m comfortable to share with you guys my age, i think it’s important i share these things too.

keep in mind my memory’s a little foggy on dates so i can mostly only give approximations

content warning for MANY mentions of rape, grooming, mlp porn, and one passing mention on transphobic genderbend content. also idk if counts as it or not but just to be safe??? csa, bc it happened when i was a kid

there’s a tl;dr at the end, please at the very least read that before sending me any asks about this post 

i got my iphone 4s when i was late into being 12 years old, in preparation for 7th grade. my mom thought it was time for me to get a phone so she could text me if she needed to. so, i got a way to access social media. by the time grade 7 had begun, i’d gotten this thing called ‘virtual space’. you may better know this as ‘amino’ nowadays. but back in the day, there was only one. virtual space.

virtual space (2012-2013/14?)

this was an rp media app with the ability to add posts and add pictures. i didnt know about tumblr or really anything outside of facebook at the time, so virtual space was my main social media. i only have one person who i still talk to from my times in virtual space, and i think it’s safe to say both of us do not want to remember our time there.

virtual space was a very toxic place to be, and i was one of the most toxic people on there. i was very much an elitist, a grammar nazi, and all the worst of the worst. i was very snooty and very much up my own ass. i traced art, i pretended to be a scholar. 

i was nice enough to some people, but all in all, i saw myself as superior because i was ‘literate’ and others were ‘illiterate’. people who were unable to spell or write out long paragraphs like i was were seen as lesser by me, and i considered virtual space a place to assert my authority as the best writer. thanks to virtual space, i had dedicated myself to learning words, improving my writing ability, and dressing up my things with such elaborate purple prose that it’d make future me snore and die.

i did a ton of regrettable things (such as pretending i was a guy who’d gotten into a car accident purely for attention) while i was on my superiority spree. 

there, on virtual space, i found out about my little pony. the first thing i ever saw from the show was the flim flam brothers song. and i loved it. so i got into mlp, starting rping in mlp things alongside the normal fandomless things.

on virtual space, people would often rip things off tumblr to put into vs. this is where i learned of tumblr. i moved off of vs and moved onto tumblr. subsequently, it’s also where i got fully into mlp.

tumblr (2013-now)

on tumblr there’s not much i can’t say that isn’t talked about in the below parts. i do want to say, though, that there was a time in my life wherein i was following and reblogging rebornica content. they reblogged some.. questionable things that i think contributed to the below stuff. just slightly, but not a bunch. btw if you do go into there you may see some of the stuff rebornica reblogged, including a thing about genderbends? know that this is my opinion on genderbends lol

mlp (2012-2015)

when i first got into mlp, it was before the season 3 premiere. during that time, i was still on vs, but i switched over to tumblr i believe after the announcements and trailers for rainbow rocks came out. 

mlp ask blogs were very nice on the surface, but things like ask molestia, or ask discord whooves quickly were put into my youtube recommends. they were some of the most popular ask blogs, things that got praised; humiliation, rape, and molestation. those are the things that got you follows, those are the things that got you popular. i wanted to be popular. i was popular on vs, so i want to be here too.

if you know anything about the mlp community, there’s a reason why for that. porn is incredibly saturated in mlp, and there is a lot of rape content permeating the internet. if you need proof, just go ahead and find out what ‘fall of equestria’ is. that’s a popular au. and it’s no secret that rape is all over places like fimfiction.

~lewd mlp comic dubs~ in general were on youtube as well. they weren’t as much as a contributing factor, but their simple BEING THERE normalized the concept of ‘lewd being acceptable and beneficial for me to benefit off of’ into my mind. it was a gateway into what would further come.

mlp was my first introduction to explicit content. i was 12. it was untagged.

i opened up a multitude of ask blogs before i settled on my longest; ask shy sombra. this blog was trying to claim the fame of a inactive blog called asksissysombra. sissy sombra was an explicitly nsfw blog with rape fetishization. the blog is still up and not hidden by tumblr’s nsfw detector, nor deleted. it regularly clocked 200 notes a post. 

ask shy sombra was exactly like asksissysombra, though much more tame. the rape fetishization was used in such a way where it was entirely offscreen, and fairly vague. though, with specific follower milestones, i would draw semi-lewd drawings hinting at rape, and get notes for it. thankfully, the blog didn’t get far enough into its plot (as i restarted it a total of four times) to get to the parts wherein rape was around. i made ask shy sombra when i was.. i know in eighth grade. i think a little late into eighth grade. so i’d be 14.

ask shy sombra was my most popular blog, and garnered me about 1.5k followers over a 2(?) year run. this only encouraged me to produce more content. to get more followers. naturally, this fostered in my literal child brain that this disgusting content is a good thing to make because look at all the rewards its giving me.

i would draw a lot of things purely for the edge on this ask shy sombra, and treat serious topics like things to shock people. i was surrounded by people who’d praise me and draw fanart for me. i was collecting a fanbase by making extraordinarily shitty content. wasn’t even well drawn either, lol. 

i was drawing all this because i felt like i was mature and edgy for doing so, that by being dark i was better than others, that i had more substance, and that people would take me seriously. 

after a while, i made myself a nsfw blog. lots of other mlp ask blogs, aka basically all of them, had nsfw blogs. so, i got myself one. i produced almost exclusively rape content, both drawings and writings. i wanted to be even more edgy, and this was a place i could do it raw, uncensored. i could unleash true horror here, on a nsfw blog. it was so shocking, so awful! isn’t that what the mlp fandom is about? being twisted and fucked up and evil on sideblogs, making awful content to go ‘ooh how edgy’ at? nothing was barred. i was 14, maybe early into 15.

i knew (aka followed, because there was a whole underground mlp nsfw community) other people, who were significantly older, for their rape content as well. and there were lots of people to choose from. one i remember (even by url) drew horrifying depictions of rape in a painterly style. there were two others i remember the style of, but not the names. these three were my introduction to guro, which thankfully i did not indulge in. 

i wasn’t very active on my nsfw blog, at least. when i was, i was only there in bursts and never made anything too bad if i can remember right. most of it was just.. lewd faces or whatever. my art wasn’t good enough to get lots of reblogs in the porn sphere, thank GOD. i mass-deleted the content on that blog three times before i deleted the blog itself and never tried again. i never did like that nsfw blog.

unrelated, but i think the reason why rape as a concept in the mlp fandom is so wide spread, is because the fandom had mass produced it as a replacement for rough sex. it was just a more ‘erotic’ version of rough sex to them. a more intense version of sex, wherein tears and screams to stop were actually just lies, these creatures secretly were pleasured.

and, for people like me, it’s a good way to be the edgiest kid on the block. the more edgy you were in mlp, the more followers you were bound to get. the more attention you got. and it worked. i got so much attention. 

on christmas of 2015, i stepped away from mlp for good. 

in 2016, i deleted everything on ask shy sombra, (except for the follower milestones), and moved on.

psmd (2015-2017)

psmd was my new target. psmd was a lot more quiet. i hadn’t done much with psmd in comparison to mlp, as i kept most of my explicit content private. however, as some of my mutuals back in psmd would tell you, rape was not a thing i strayed from talking about here either.

leftovers from my time in mlp, sure enough, rape was in psmd as well. thankfully, it was not public, with only a select few having access to it. no one reprimanded me for it. i don’t blame them for not scolding me. what are you supposed to do to something like that? it’s nerve racking and disgusting and you just want to side-eye it and leave it alone. especially since i was most of these people’s friends.

‘private’ is a hard word to call the rape content i made for that one. because psmd’s fandom was very very, very small. there was one specific server for it with like. 15 people at most on it at one time. either way, i was making rape content for the same reason; to be the edgiest kid on the block. if you knew anything about my extraordinarily edgy psmd au, you’ll know i went all out on edge. just like with ask shy sombra, the attention-seeking for the au and the desire to get eyes on content went to the worst bottom denominator. it never went to children or whatever, though. 

making rape content actually wasn’t the main thing bad i did while in that fandom, no. mostly bc it was all decently private.

i was in the pokemon ask blog community for a short while. while i was there, i was an elitist and sort of a snob. i projected my insecurity onto the bigger blogs around me, simply because i wasn’t getting the attention i thought i deserved. in mlp, it was so easy to get followers. here? not so much. i wasn’t happy about people ‘suddenly ignoring me’, so i lashed out at the community.

people who were just having fun for the sake of having fun, i didn’t like those guys! nuh uh! anyways, i sealed myself off to my small community of psmd people until i eventually decided to leave psmd for kirby in the summer of 2017. that was when i’d watched the original pilot for the kirby anime.

kirby (late 2017-now)

kirby is currently the fandom i’m in. thanks to me squishing myself into the box of ‘make this worthy of being shown on 4kids as content’, i have solidified my content. though some of it, such as my old galacta work, zero percent chill, are a little eh and show remnants of who i once was. 

i’ve had a rocky transition period, however, and some individuals can attest to that, unfortunately. 

i’m glad i’ve been able to try to cope with my fandom-inflicted grooming. certain events and people have gotten me to really think about morality and my actions in the past, as well as about writing and the things they may teach people.

conclusion

amino taught me that being popular and the best was the most important thing. 

mlp taught me creating rape content was not only okay to produce in the most shock-factory way, but it got you popular, which is all i wanted in my 13 year old brain. 

psmd taught me that people will not object to rape content— but they will pretend you and your edgy bullshit doesn’t exist. certain things are excluded from that, like one particular fic. while it’s gone now, it did exist. people knew it existed. 

kirby taught me to sit down, shut the fuck up, and stop that shit. no one sat me down for it, i did it myself.

getting a few more years on me helped, lol

everyday im super duper thankful i was never groomed further past that into making incest or making pedophilic content. i’m also thankful that i got out of mlp. that my content never got truly popular in psmd. i’m thankful my grooming never got taken advantage of by any specific, older individual. i’m thankful my grooming wasn’t directly from an actual person who could’ve gotten me deeper into the mindset, wherein it’d be harder for me to get out of it.

my actions in mlp and psmd have undoubtably groomed people in the process, and for that, i’ll be eternally sorry. if you knew me during that time, with my shitty edgy-for-attention aus, sorry.

tl;dr:

when i was in the mlp fandom, i wanted to be popular and quick. i noted the most easy way to get popular, get comic dubs, get that Cool Praise, was to be edgy. and, ontop of that, one can also add in a layer of sexual assault for extra Brony Praise. 

i didn’t stop to think of why things like rape or sexual assault was so massed produced in the fandom, and i don’t think i cared either. i knew rape was bad and a disgusting and terrible act and it scared me thinking about it happening to me (because im a girl lmao), so i’d write it up as a hyper-angsty thing. oohh the angst, oh how sad, look at how horrible it is, this totally isn’t stroking a huuuugeee unnecessary angstboner for a EXTRAORDINARILY delicate REAL WORLD topic at all!! totally not disrespectful to ACTUAL VICTIMS at all!!!! not that it mattered how it was written up, certain people in the fandom liked it more when things were horrible, awful, and disgustingly violent or ‘egregiously angsty’ in regards to rape. rape and its ‘angsty’ content was normalized to me when, at bare minimum, i was 13.

i ended up making rape-related extremely edgy content in the mlp fandom and i got a lot of followers. 1.5k followers. i used the shock of offscreen rape as a way to.. well, shock people. and make a horrifying story that i wanted attention towards. the praise I got for being edgy and making rape content groomed me into creating more. being groomed by no one inparticular into making this content, but by a fandom, by the sheer amount of rape content and general porn being paraded around, that really fucked me up. 

when i was 15 (going on 16 in half a year), i transferred this mentality into other fandoms, trying to be the most edgy and shocking by using the actions of rape and sexual violence or even sexual trafficking as my vehicle of angst without thinking of what the writing of these subjects in such a way may say about me as a person. i didn’t care about that, i wanted to be the darkest, most edgy, most brooding. and I was, and I got mad when I didn’t get the 1.5k followers worth of attention that the mlp fandom was so willing to give me.

when i was 17, i transferred to kirby. and that’s when i realized all this edge-for-the-sake-of-edge bullshit needed to stop. i’d almost taken my extreme edge to kirby as well, but i doubled down on myself and quit that shit. thank god that i did that. i strickened myself to write g-related content with only minor, more moderate amounts of edge.

i’m now 20. i’m hypercritical of people who do the same things i did when i was younger, because hyperedge shit like the stuff i created makes me feel disgusting thinking back on it. i know i most likely groomed people into doing the exact same shit that i’d done with my presence, especially in the mlp fandom. and for everything i did, all the extremely insensitive content i made when i was younger, sorry.

i wanted to be transparent about this, and it’s important to me to be so. cards out on the table and such. if you feel uncomfortable about this new info and the things i did to get attention when i was younger, that’s completely understandable. feel free to unfollow / block me if that makes you more comfortable on this platform, even if we’re mutuals or friends.

#feels bad man #important #im probably asleep rn (this post is scheduled) so if you wanna send asks or dms about this i'll answer them in a bit lol #this is very much a confession post. i want to get all this shit off my chest #theese is. my experiences. my actions #my anxiety says i NEED to talk about this and confess all of this so thats what im doing

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 89

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: Bad Company

Summary: Genevieve begins standing up for herself and others with her new found sense of self. Alfie sits back and enjoys the show. 

Warnings/Tags: Language. References to assault and violence.Verbal fighting. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Alfie and Genevieve were working again, and more importantly, working as one cohesive unit. Still light with his affections, trying to appreciate the subtle physical affection between them that was backed with a more mature and solid love behind it nowadays.

 They focused on tone and respect, checking in on each other and being understanding of the others space and feelings. Gen found herself enjoying her time with Alfie more now that she was spending less with him. She had time to paint and think again, two things she had sorely needed more of in her life to get herself straight again. She was figuring out who this new woman was, and how she fell into place with Alfie and who he was at this juncture. It led to more confidence, better communication and a deeper intimacy outside of sex for them. Which at Alfie's age his back and hips truly appreciated. 

They talked with tea and biscuits before bed every night. A rundown of the day and the questions and concerns it brought them putting it all away with the China when no more could be done for it. In turn the lack of talking led to more tenderness, small kisses and strokes as they wound down together, Genevieve letting her guard down only for him most days now. It let her feel cared for and safe as he’d wrap her up and hold her close as she fell asleep and it gave him the protective and providing feelings he needed as a man. They were evening each other out, finding their new roles within the relationship and the pieces were beginning to fall into place. 

———

With a pin-straight posture and the newest in women's business wear from Paris, a treat to herself for her recent successes, Genevieve sits perched on a wooden chair that must be as old as the school building itself for how uncomfortable it was. She sits across the long banquet table in the great hall from a man who could also be considered dated and out of fashion, the same as his surroundings. There was only one other woman in the group for instructors and heads of the art department, and she taught dance. She was older but fit and always wore her hair in a tight bun that did her frail and gaunt face no favors. Her attitude also didn’t help her seem any more approachable but that seemed to be common among the ballet type. They were all tight strung and old fashioned, strict and elitist, the same could be said for everyone else on the board except Genevieve. She was the youngest by around two decades and the only with a tailor that wasn’t an octogenarian. 

“Everyone who votes for Beatrice Langston, a show of hands.” The head says as his slumped posture from being bent over a desk his whole academic life, makes him look like he struggles to lift his head to see a show of hands. Everyone but Genevieve.

“Really?” Genevieve asks with direct eye contact with each person after the count was finished. 

“I’m sorry Miss Durand but majority rules.”

“You are all going to sit there and tell me with a straight face that Beatrice is better suited for the scholarship than Hazel?” No one speaks and avoids her aggressive gaze. “Beatrice is rudimentary at best. She lacks the understanding of color theory and her depth of field is just...well it’s lacking. To put it politely.” Gen speaks with an animated tone and body as she moves paintings around on the table. “Look at these Hazel has done! Brilliant use of color and saturation, everything is scaled to perfection and her abstract art evokes emotion and shows a much deeper grasp of the poetry and psychology of color and space!” Gen raises her voice and holds up a painting with both her hands, shoving it in the others faces from where she sat. “Beatrice hasn’t even DONE an abstract piece!” She tosses the paper and sorts back loudly in her chair as it scoots.

“The vote is final Moss Durand, I’m sorry you-“

“No, you’re not!” She scoffs and his eyes go wide. “I know why you’re all voting for her and you should all be ashamed. You should have your educator privileges revoked because you don’t give a damn about these children and nurturing them.” She speaks from the heart, fully upset and letting it show. 

“Miss Durand that is quiet enough.”

“So you’re going to tell me you’re voting for Langston because of her skill and NOT because of who her father is?” She crossed her arms and leans toward the annoyed-looking man.

He says nothing in reply. “Our vote is-“ 

“Yes final!” She throws up her hands and rolls her eyes. “I am so completely disappointed in every single one of you for not voting for talent over a name. Hazel could use this scholarship, Langston has money! And no talent.” She shakes her head. “All because of who her father is! Ridiculous!” Genieve huffs. 

“Like you’ve never benefited from who your father is.” One is the men say with a cold side-eye that they would soon regret.

“Excuse me, Garrett?” She stands slowly and others sink back into their chairs.

“Miss Durand pl-“

“NO!” She shakes her head and begins speaking with her hands to the head. “No, I will not sit here and be spoken to in such a way.” She trots right across from the formerly brave academic and scolds him like a child with a pointed finger. “You don’t know a damn thing about me you glorified bookend! I lost my connection to my father and his name at seventeen! Everything I have has my blood sweat and tears in it! I have worked My arse off for my successes and you, nay, no one will say otherwise because it would be a lie.” She hisses and shouts. “A girl should get this scholarship on hard work and talent, not a name! Just because you’ve never worked for anything doesn’t mean others aren’t deserving! We can’t all be born with rich fathers and cocks and just waltz into whatever sort of life we want! Some of us have to work for it! And since all you’ve done is make theories and sit on your fat arse and read your whole life you can’t relate! Doesn’t make it not true!” She shouts and throws her arms in the air.

“MISS DURAND! That is enough!”

“And YOU! You ancient fuck. You can piss off. The lot of you! You only represent the past and have no interest in catching up with the rest of the world on modernity. I don’t want any part of a board or school who doesn’t give a fuck about its students. I love art and I want to help those that love it as well.” She speaks and moves to gather her things as she keeps scolding. “And as a woman who knows the rampant sexism and abuse of power in academia, you should be ASHAMED!” She points at the other woman in her group. “I’d like to let you all in on a little advice before I part. Garret your beard makes you look like a pedophile. Quinne, your hair pulled back like that makes you look like a shaved fanny. Richard, you always smell like bloody mothballs and Turner, your cologne smells like horse piss. And you Gerald.” She scowls at the head. “ Everyone knows your poor dumb secretary sucks you off in your office. You’re a lousy liar and make noises like a dying cow when you ejaculate. You aren’t fooling anyone.” She sasss. “You’re a sorry lot and I’m sorry that these students have heartless twats for professors!” She begins to trot off, her heels clicking over the old stone floors in a hurry in her anger. 

The look on her face gives away her anger before she’s even in the car to meet Claire.

“That didn’t take long.”

“I left early.” She spits out and sits and seethes.

“May I ask why?”

“I quit.” She says finally looking to Claire sat next to her.

“You bloody what?” Her voice breaks.

“They wanted to give the scholarship to a girl

Based on who her father was. Not on talent because the simple thing couldn't evoke emotion with art if her life depended on it. They just want bloody money from her family!”

“So you quit?”

“Yes. I don’t want any part of that crock of shit.”

Claire opens her mouth and then closes it. There was a paycheck lost but truly not much else. Genevieve could just paint to sell and easily make up the difference. She could set up anyway and teach just for the love of it, so Claire simply nods. 

———

“She’s in a right mood.” Claire warms Alfie, setting the table for tea as he trumps into the house. 

“Why?” He demands in his usual confident way.

“She quit the teaching work today.”

“Fuckin wot? But she loves it!”

“She loves it and that’s why she quit.” Claire shrugs.

“Is no one makin' no fuckin' sense in this madhouse?” Alfie barks.

���What are you shouting about?” Genevieve comes around the corner with her little glasses on that matches Alfies and a stack of papers in her arms.

“What’s this bout you quittin?”

“Come sit and I’ll explain.” She nods and puts her hand to his back. Her calmer approach caught him off guard. He was expecting a loose canon from Claire’s warning but he only saw a very present woman in her eyes and appearance.

“Ya fuckin better.” He says loudly as he sits and she ignores his needless pompous nature.

“Aggie before our meal, some chamomile perhaps?”

“Lovely idea dear.” Aggie praises and Gen sits next to Alfie in their little corner of the table. Her in her large decorative, plush velvet chair at the head. 

“I quit the board and the teaching job today.”

“Yeah, I got that much.”

“Do you want to keep interrupting me to hear the sound of your own voice or do you want me to explain?” She asks with a tilted head and removing her glasses.

His chin sinks into his neck in surprise at her quick wit and he gestures for her to continue without a word. 

“Thank you.” She says with a large nod. “The scholarship vote was today and in short they chose name over talent. A girl who’s father has political connections was chosen over an immensely talented girl. For the money I’m guessing. I tried to convince them and they would not listen. I expressed my disappointment in their decision and one of the men thought it wise to make a remark about me. I-“

“Who fuckin said wot love, I’ll get the bastard.” Alfie swoops in protectively, still touchy about people smart mouthing Gen with the ongoing fight over gossip.

“That’s very nice of you, Cheri but not needed. I set him straight with words. Much less mess.” She pats Alfie's arm and despite his hard brow of anger for someone having the balls to speak poorly towards her, he couldn’t help but admire the unbothered face she held. “I don’t want to be a part of an organization that runs in such an unfair and uncaring way.”

“I never liked those wankers. Always acted betta than me.”

“And you are smarter than any of them could ever aspire to be, I assure you.” She praises and begins laying her papers into piles. 

“Fuckin right I am.” He grumbles in agreement but feels the compliment make his chest warm. “You seem to be takin' it well.” He remarks, seeing her put her glasses back on.

“I was well miffed at first. But turns out Spite is an excellent motivator.” She says with an amused smile.

“That it is.” He nods. “And what is it motivatin'?”

“I am going to start my own scholarship.”

“Oh! Lovely idea that.” He nods approvingly. “Total control or no control I always say.”

“You do say that.” She remarks, thumbing through a stack.

“Where exactly ya gonna get the money for such a thing?” He flatly asks. “Ya kinda lost a source of income there dinnit ya?”

“I did but I can manage. I did it because I loved it, not the money.” She shakes her head. “I plan on selling some pieces, then gathering funds from the community in support. I’m going to make it one, especially for Jewish girls. I plan to give Hazel the first.”

“Hazel?”

“The girl that should have gotten the scholarship to begin with. Sweet and inwardly little girl. Bright as the sun and so much promise.”

“And Jewish?”

“And Jewish.” She nods.

“Well, that’s lovey then, yeah?”

“I certainly hope so.” Gen glances over to him. “Lots of paperwork involved in such a thing of course. I’ll have to go by the lawyers later in the week to set it all up. But I’m the meantime I can sell and do private lessons for a price. Perhaps portraits? Be far less time consuming for me anyway.”

“And make a hell of a lot more money.”

“Yes. That as well.” She huffs out a laugh and nods. 

“Where ya gon sell at?”

“Nothing in mind yet. Places. Pieces I do have a few landscapes that are easy sales I believe. Once I had all the legal pieces in place I Was moving onto that next step.”

“How’s about me club?” 

Gen stops and looks up at him. “Really?” She says with narrowed eyes of disbelief.

“Sure. Can be a little coming out party for ya. Invite all those posh cunts and take their money.” He grins.

“You’ll have to come up with a new name for them if we’re going to be asking for money.” She smirks. 

“Eh.” He shrugs. “I just won’t say it to no one's face.” He promises and they share a mutual smile of hopefulness for both endeavors.

——————

His club would be full of what half his usual clientele was on this particular evening. The usual ruffage replaced with the wealthy that Genevieve had invited not only to get money from but to put any rumors to bed about how she might be now since the whispered about incident. It was easy enough to show she wasn’t pregnant, especially in the tight dress she’d chosen. Which was purposeful. 

“I can’t help but feel a bit fat in this.” She mutters, smoothing over her well-rounded hips where she was now carrying most of her weight gain. 

“You’ve gained weight but you look healthy again.” Claire insists. “Which is what you want. You look well fed and cared for. No signs of weakness or poverty.” 

“That’s all well good but what happens when I slap some twat for calling me a cow.” She snaps back.

“Ya first have to get over me slappin’ ya for sayin’ such a thing bout yaself.” Alfie says loudly as he enters the room in his usual dark suit. 

“But I have gained weight.” She insists on her correctness.

“Yes and what of it? Who the fuck cares? Not me. You shouldn’t. Ya look lovely. Gorgeous. Green like money and soft like royalty.” He declares with his hands on her bare arms.

“But I have-“

“Shut your perfect painted mouth love.” He shakes his head and tsks her. “I won’t have you speakin' of yaself in such a way. Not with me round to hear it and not when I’m away, yeah? You are a dream in the flesh, Genny. Always have been, always will be.” He kisses her blushed cheek. 

“Yes, Alfie.” She sighs. 

“I know ya can lie betta than at!” He grins and puts his arms around her in the emerald dress. “You are confident. You are in control.” He says with a squeeze to her. “Now you.” He nods his head forward. 

“I am confident. I am in control.” She tries to put forth some faith in her voice. 

“You will get the money you need tonight and you will charm the pants off everyone.” Claire adds supportively.

“Thanks.” Gen says with her hands resting on Alfies around her. “Last time I tried this it went miserably and I believe it’s getting the best of me.”

“You are a different woman now.” Alfie declares proudly. “I have total faith in you. As should you.” He kisses her cheek and gives her bum a light pat before pulling away. “And you do look stunnin’ love. You know I’d tell ya if I thought otherwise.”

“And I don’t know yet if that’s a blessing or a curse.” She smirks.

“There She is, right?” He laughs and pinches her cheek, smiling proudly.

——

Genevieve did muster up the hutzpah she needed before exiting the car with Alfie opening the door for her. A gentlemanly hand out and waiting patiently as he heard her measured breathing to set herself. When she emerged, she was a fully evolved woman of means who didn’t give a damn about anyone she didn’t deem worthy. 

He loved watching her now, not like he hadn’t before but now in public there was a hardness that wasn’t there before. Even though she was looking for money from these people, she wasn’t kissing any arse. She stone-faced bad, sexist jokes and when turned to see what was wrong with her, Alfie would give them no reaction as well. Solidarity and that. She didn’t clutch her chest and bend and laugh like an angel for them, she spoke clearly and in an informed way like the well-educated businesswoman she was. She wasn’t boozy and lusty and playing up her chest or hair. She wore it pulled back with a lovely bejeweled comb, her dress perfectly tailored and her jewels classic and expensive. She only

wore kitten heels, concealed under the long hem of her gown instead of her usual height giving ones since the healing had left her back a bit worse for wear. But she didn’t look any less put together for it. Alfie rather liked the shorter stature for her as he got to put his arm around her easily and whisper how proud he was of her for not giving in to their expectations of her. Everything was going swimmingly, money being signed over, appointments for teaching sessions filling up on the list. But a woman, for whatever her reasons were, decided to make a spectacle of herself. And Genevieve was happy to oblige her.

“Yes I’m doing very well.” Genevieve nods and gives a polite tone. “The new contracts with Fortnum and Mason as well as a large yield

This season for both honey and fruit. Soon I’ll be adding my hat to the gin game with my high-grade juniper.”

“I heard you got fired from the school.” The wife of the man who was being a gentleman and speaking to both Gen and Alfie equally chirps into the conversation. “So with that monetary loss

You can’t be doing as well.” 

Genevieve narrows her eyes at her but keeps her cool. “I stepped down from the board and quit my teaching position. I was not fired. I didn’t believe in how they were running the school. Since I worked there out of love for the arts and the students, not the money, that is why I am starting my own scholarship and offering lessons. Which is why you are here tonight.” She clarifies.

“Gen has been very hands-on with the building of it, suited the work helps fund that of others. She’ll be having her bat mitzvah soon and with these new business endeavors I could not be more proud.” Alfie adds to help cut the tension

“Thank you darling.”

“Well good thing everything has lined up so well for you both now, yes?” The man gives a polite smile. 

“It is a blessing, surely.” Gen nods graciously. 

“Especially after all that….” the man shakes her head. “All the bad sort of things that transpired for you. Well good that you have recovered so well!”

“Yes, a product of hard work I assure you.”

“Hard work will get you whatever you desire,

I always say.” 

What a capitalist, Gen muses. 

“Rather, suspicious though isn’t it?” The wife turns as if she’s only speaking to her husband.

“Uh...what is dear?”

“Or rather ... convenient that all this happens around this time? right after your supposed incident..”

“Supposed?” Genevieve’s voice shows bite and the man is clearly made uncomfortable by it. 

“Yes if it was so bad you don’t seem to be bothered now.”

“I am a businesswoman. I try not to mix personal and professional.” Alfie could see Gen's eyes dilate and change. He watched her closely with great interest.

“I’d heard no one saw you for months and then you pop back up just fine. Seems like if all that happened like I’ve heard you’d still be at home. Not out working. Like a man.” She shoots her eyes at Alfie who gives her a quirked brow and a snort at the audacity to come after his masculinity. 

“Besides taking care of her when she was first home, my business wasn’t affected.” Alfie speaks in a cold and calculated way. 

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” She looks Alfie up and down. “But funny how this all cleared right up when it was time for you to ask for money. Yes? When you would require others kindness?” The hairs on the back of Genevieve’s neck stand up as he watches her brow lower and her eyes go black. “People in your sort of...business…” she drags out and looks to Alfie for a moment with clear disapproval on her face. “Are known to, shall we say, over-exaggerate the truth? And as I said, awfully coincidental on the timing when you needed people to feel sorry for you.” 

Genevieve moves so fast Alfie doesn’t have time to do much but scoff out a laugh after she has the woman by her neck and against a wall.

Genevieve sinks her nails into the unmarked skin of the woman’s weak throat. Her hand squeezing as she holds her up as sputters, eyes wide showing she didn’t expect to get what was coming her way. 

Gen leans in close, nose to the woman’s cheek and ghosts over her skin and ears as speaks low and slow so only she can hear. The rest of the room falls silent and turns to watch the altercation, disgustingly interested to see if the rumors of Genevieve's ruthlessness were true. 

“The things I went through would’ve killed an ordinary man.” She hisses and the woman kicks her feet. “You would’ve died one day in.” She growls. “If you lasted that long.” She spits venomously. “I owe you nothing. But I will tell you the horrors and trials I have gone through are something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. Torture. Rape. Mental and emotional manipulation. I’ve moved past all of it. My body and mind have healed so I can make a better life for myself. Cunts like you make it so I Have to push forward, be better, be more and prove myself time and time again to make it in this world. You prove nothing with your accusations. Only that you are a weak, soft submissive lemming, a pathetic excuse for a woman for those of us who have known true oppression. A judgemental miserable old hag with nothing better to do than talk about others because you have nothing of any substance to say. You are nothing. You aren’t worth my time. I am only using you as an example. Because I know others think like you. And I will continue to be better than you. To thrive despite your disapproval. To be happy and fulfilled in ways you could never imagine.” She lets go of her throat, her feet full on the floor again as she gasps and holds her neck. “That is my revenge. A life more fruitful and whole than your small mind could ever hope for. And if you ever think to even insinuate that I am a liar again. I will not use just my words against you, you rotted gash.” Genevieve stands like a snake watching its venom take down its prey slowly. 

The woman does not respond. The blood under Gen's nails and the energy around her speak enough. 

The husband looks to Alfie while this all happens, who only shrugs and watches with fully entertained eyes. This old horse got what was coming to her as far as he was concerned. He was only disappointed Genevieve didn’t slap her at the first insult. But this was well worth the wait. 

“If anyone else has any remarks about my abduction and the events around it I suggest you keep them to your fucking self. No self-respecting person would ask someone about such a horrible thing. And they won’t if they want to keep their tongues in their mouths.” She stands tall, proud and strong in the face of all eyes gazing upon her. She speaks from the gut, and only truthfully. She held no question as to who she was in that moment as she boldly met the eyes that stared at her with mixtures of fear and interest. 

Alfie stood as tall and proud as she, solidarity with his love. He gave her an approving nod when she met his eyes across the room. The deep rich brown so black when she tapped into that killer instinct now. This was a power move, strength and control. The restraint but an expression of her feelings showing growth beyond what he could’ve hoped for her. She was truly one of his own now. His warrior queen, his panther wife and hopefully the fearless and just mother to his children one day. He was overtaken with emotion, his heart hard thumping in his chest as she moved back towards him in the crowd like a snake in her green dress. She was brilliant, everything he needed in a companion. She wasn’t taking shit from anyone now, for any reason. Gone through hell and lived, came out the other side stronger and smarter and more ruthless. Same as him. She was a gangster now. Worthy to carry the Solomons’ name. He couldn’t wait to make her his own. 

Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

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#alfie solomons #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons au #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fan fic #alfie solomons fic #alfie solomons fan fiction #alfie solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons fluff #alfie solomons angst #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons x ofc #peaky blinders au #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fiction #tom hardy fic #alfie solomons imagines #peaky blinders fandom

[cozycryptidcorner]

(asking from main since you can't ask from a side blog) hey! congrats on your anniversary!! 💜 I wanted to ask, is there a monster specifically that inspired you to start a monster romance blog? did you think that you would become as successful as you have? what's your favorite monster to write for? in contrast, which is your least favorite monster and why?

Thanks!!

So I was a-browsin’ Kelpie content on tumblr for research purposes. You see, I was about to craft a Reylo fic that was going to be spoken about for generations to come, no matter the fact I was already writing a super erotic Psyche/Eros fic that was doing pretty well for itself at the exact same time, and then I noticed that there were some... interesting posts. Standalone stories about... just random monsters? That don’t have anything to do with any fandom? It was a shocking revelation, ok? I was floored. While the monster fandom (as I internally dubbed it before I knew the correct term) had hundreds and hundreds of orc stories, there were only like five Kelpie stories?? And I decided that was a goddamn shame.

Then I realized that hey, I’m a writer, I can do the writey stuff. Whenever there was a suspicious lack of fan fiction that should exist, I make it exist. So I sat down for about a week and made my first story, a Kelpie story, featuring my boy Riaghan. Bada bing, bada boom, hit success. I had never seen any of my work so well received by so many people, it knocked my fucking socks off.

You see the thing with the Reylo fandom, besides its inherent toxicity and rabid opposers (get a fucking life, antis), is that there is an over saturation with fan fiction. Like. So much. It was a struggle to get anything recognized, and while I was doing my best to put out some good content at a reasonable time table, it was very difficult to get anything off the ground. I worked my ass off for about a year and a half and only managed to garner about 130 followers, which was difficult to deal with.

Not that I was just going to quit, not at all. Some of you might have noticed, but I’m stubborn as all hell and I really like Star Wars. I kept writing for two different blogs, because I would get the inevitable inspiration to write about another monster boy (a naga, then an infected, then a changing), and I really super liked the freedom and reception I was getting over in the exophilia fandom? Over on the other end, nothing really but crickets. Yes, of course, I had a couple of people who commented pretty much with every new chapter I put out, but I’m not going to lie, gremlins.

I’m an attention whore.

I loved the sudden wave of people who were commenting, sending me asks with supportive messages, the reblogs with the different tags. Looking over at my other account didn’t offer up the same positive interactions that this one did, so I slowly but steadily cut off writing for the Star Wars and Marvel fandoms and started dedicating my full time here.

Anyways! Sorry for going off on a tangent. My favorite monster is and will always be the Kelpie. I love them. My least favorite monster (and I know that I’m wacking the hornets here) is the orc. I’m just not into them, man, I don’t know what to tell you. Beefcakes have never been my type.

#coco answers

[brawltalk]

36 It - Packaging a Brawl Deck

Props to @the8x8theory for their signature method of building a commander deck using 8 focused packages of 8 cards. Luckily we can piggyback off of them and use a similar method to build a Brawl deck. We’ve got a smaller deck though so we’re using fewer packages and fewer cards in each package. Instead of 8x8, we’re going 6x6 which will give us a deck with 36 cards. Throw in our commander and that leaves space for 23 lands*. Then we’re off to the races.

While this is a constructed format, in some ways it can play like a more powerful and streamlined limited environment. With that in mind, let’s start by looking at a common acronym used to guide limited deck building: BREAD. Bread means you focus on Bombs, Removal, Evasion/Efficient spells, Aggro, and Dregs. BRE is pretty useful. Aggro isn’t every deck’s MO but we’ll let this be a reminder that we do want to have some things we can do in the first few turns of the game, so don’t go too high on your mana curve. Dregs are something we don’t need to concern ourselves with since this is constructed--if you’re building a deck with cards you don’t want, you’re doing it wrong.

*Consider your deck’s mana curve and strategy. You may need more than 23 lands, in which case you will cut one of these 6 card packages down to fit them in.

With that in mind, let’s focus on BRE and build our first three packages. Each of these packages should default to 6 cards.

1. Bombs

What are your 6 most powerful cards? The 6 cards you’d want to see every game? The cards that put you ahead on the board, give big card advantage, and/or either push you toward securing the win or else bring you back from the brink of defeat? Those go here.

2. Removal

This is a multiplayer format so when you consider removal, consider both targeted and mass removal. Depending on your deck’s strategy, you may want two removal packages to help you control the game. This is one where you especially want to consider the meta. You don’t want to draw into a Naturalize a lot of the time, but if your opponent has Pacifism on your Dragon Mage then it could be the difference between a W and an L. In Brawl I tend to value more versatile removal over the most efficient removal. Thrashing Brontodon is a great option with that in mind. But of course what you’ll want most of is powerful creature removal. Never underestimate a well-timed and well-targeted Vraska’s Contempt.

3. Evasion/Efficient Spells

Boards can get really cluttered in a multiplayer game. If you can’t remove your opponents’ creatures, then you want to get around them. Big trampling creatures, fliers, and other evasion are the cards of the day here. This becomes even more true as players are eliminated and it’s down to you and one (hopefully weakened) opponent.

Efficient spells come at a good rate and can two-for-one or better for you. Corpse Knight is a fine creature in a 1-on-1 game. In a 4 person brawl it does three times more for you at the same rate! Arena is getting 1-v-1 Brawl support later this year, and you’ll want to build with that in mind. But when you have three opponents, pay extra attention to spells that say “each player” and especially to those that say “each opponent.”

4. Commander-Specific

This is why you’re playing Brawl. It’s not just to shove your deck full of bombs, but to build something that is fun to pilot with a specific commander and the cards that best synergize with that commander. I always try to include at least one full package of cards that I’d only ever play specifically with that commander. I’ll make exceptions here depending on what’s available, but for me this is where the deck really comes into its own and becomes something special.

Two More For the Road

Altogether that gives us four packages for 24 cards. For our last two packages I’d do the following:

a. A meta-specific package for cards that answer weaknesses in your deck, things which aren’t total dead draws but which are much stronger against specific decks (and honestly maybe one dead draw that can save the day if an opponent has a specific card that does see decent play), and otherwise just very niche cards you’d normally sideboard (since you don’t have a sideboard in Brawl)

b. Double up on any of the above packages. Add more removal, more bombs, or more toys that will really make your commander shine

Brawl is a constructed format, but the singleton nature means your available effects can be quite limited. You should expect to see a lot more bombs and removal than you’d ever see in limited. You should expect decks to be much more synergistic than you’d ever see in limited. But it plays like a limited environment in that players don’t often have more than one copy of a card--I say don’t often with regard to Brawl because being able to recur threats and spells is powerful and something most decks should seek to do.

Once you weather a threat, there is a decent chance it’s just gone from that game. This allows us to view Brawl from a different vantage than other formats. When coupled with building decks using packages, it gives us a quick and easy way to make sure a deck is sufficiently saturated with threats, removal, and support cards. At least enough to get things started and see what works and what doesn’t.

If you enjoyed this article, follow this blog to see more! Talk to me about Brawl through reblogs, replies, and asks. Have you built a deck with this method? Tell me about it!

#mtg brawl #deck building #advice #commander