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undercoverpena · 1 month

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going to make you sweat

javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist

summary: it's the hottest day of the year; you and javi want to make it hotter.

rating: 18+/explicit warnings: explicit smut. somewhat established relationship. jo's spelling, jo putting to practice her spanish. wordcount: 1.9k

It begins with the sound of the fan.

Whirring. Whirring. Blowing nothing but warm, sticky heat around the over-boiled place.

For four days, the sun has been beating down relentlessly, acting as another unforgiving tyrant ruling over Colombia, forcing waves of heat to seep into homes, regardless of whether doors and windows are closed.

All but forcing everyone to seek refuge from the scorching onslaught.

It's why he's home.

It's why you didn't protest when his hand found your lower back, guiding you out to the passenger seat of his vehicle.

The unspoken understanding between you both fizzes in the air. All silence, discreet.

Just like the rest of the clandestine nature of your relationship.

Now, you’re lying as still as possible. Not even considering sliding your leg over to touch his—even if usually, you’d have done it a handful of times.

Cool showers offered no relief—your skin was already slick with dampness before you finished drying off. Every movement made the heat feel unbearable, trickling down your neck. Your limited attire, stuffed in a spare drawer at his, offers no relief; the white tee and panties cling to your skin, feeling like additional layers you long to peel away from your bones, not just your skin.

Your eyes flick towards him at the sound of his lighter—at the paper burning at the end, before the scent greets your nostrils.

Normally, it would barely irritate you, but now it twists your annoyance into a knot and uses it to fuel its fury. A glare not forcing him to stub it out, your mood souring, further making beads of perspiration collect along your collarbone and drip down the valley of your breasts, all but pooling where your body bends and creases as you remain on the sofa.

You can feel him watching.

Eyes likely following the path of sweat descending under your top—because even in unbelievable temperatures, you’re sure he’s mentally undressing you.

Because he looks wrecked, even with the cigarette burning between his fingers/.

Javier Peña's usually put-together look of swept-to-the-side hair is currently stuck damp to his forehead as sweat drips off the end of his sloped nose. The look is so reminiscent of what you’d imagine he'd look like if he had a full free day to fuck you; if it wasn’t rushed quickies or long, drawn-out nights before the two of you collapsed into sheets before doing it all over again on three hours of sleep.

At some point between coming home early and sitting beside you, his barely buttoned shirt has been discarded, leaving him in a pair of shorts he’d pulled on when he’d been grumbling about the fucking heat, paperwork and bureaucracy all in the space of a minute.

The fact he'd shed most of his layers allows you to trace your eyes down his body. Glance at the soft curve of his stomach, the firmness of his chest and those biceps you see flex when he’s leaning when he’s doing all he can not to flick his eyes from your face to your tits.

He's already caught you.

Taking a drag on his cigarette for a suspiciously long time before blowing the smoke out in one smooth movement. Eyes on you. Fixed. Never unfocused.

And fuck, if it doesn’t make you want him that much more.

“It’s too hot.”

“I said nothing.”

You snort. Loud. Full of intent.

Mind a scrambled mess of want, as your hips shift when your eyes flick south of his neck and land on his thighs.

“C’mon, Cariño,” he drawls, stubbing out his cigarette—punching the lit end out until it’s snuffed, “Come sit on my lap.”

A battle ensures in your skull. It’s weak, both the for and against, which is how you find yourself straddling him, palm flat to your thighs—finding the heat from his body no more intense than the sweltering environment around you.

“This what you want, me all sweaty on you?”

He chews his cheek, a glint in the dark of his eyes, a blip in the pool of desire—and your heart pounds in your chest. Breaths coming in short gasps, matching the rhythm of the fan in the corner.

"I'd have you on top of me however I can."

"Course you would," you retort.

His fingers flex, itch. Sneak in inches up your skin as he continues to breathe slowly, in and out, out and in.

You’re not sure who moves first, but your lips find his—passionate, fiery. Teeth almost grazing but your tongue slides in and licks past his teeth, swallowing his moan, his hiss, as you roll your clothed pussy over his hardening cock, tasting nothing but smoke, coffee and mint, a combination you know to be him.

“Mm—fuck,” he groans.

He sounds pained when he drags his mouth from yours, his fist full of the back of your sweat-soaked tee as he drags it off over your head—throwing it, it landing on the tiles with a wet slap, forcing your head to snap to the sound.

But he’s on you.

Mouth latching to your nipple, tongue swirling, before tracing a line up your breast and across your collarbone.

“Taste so fucking good, cariño.”

It’s stifled, the moan—forcing your best smirk to show, “Put your head between my thighs and say that, Peña.”

And he considers it.

Your words.

Head tilting marginally, the slightest of movements that he’ll pretend never occurred. But he moves, shifts. Practically bucks his hips into you as he repositions, and you land on your bare back on the sofa with an oomph.

A comment arrives on your tongue, almost fizzling before it’s swallowed at the way forces your knees together and yanks your panties down your thighs. Soaked, ruined—both from the mere existence of him and the heat. Discarding them, throws them into some dark space as he glances down at the place between your thighs.

“Even in this heat, she’s pretty.”

You try not to turn away, bury your face in the smoked-scented cushions of his sofa as his words meet you. A sudden desire to hide, to cover—

“You not like that, cariño, when I call her pretty?” His knuckles part your folds, teasing, dragging them up and down as you squirm, whine his name. “Tell me.”

Somehow, all fucking unknown to you, more heat floods your cheeks. It's embroiled in embarrassment, shyness—two things you’re sure he spends most of his time trying to fuck out of you, but has failed to do so thus far—

He says your name.

Not your nickname. Not agent.

Eyes snapping to him, throat dry as he continues to tease, as his thumb presses on your clit and makes you hiss.

“No—ffff-feel embarrassed, alright? Fuck.”

You hear his tongue click—it’s the last thing you hear before ringing. Before two fingers slide into you, slide with ease as they delve deep, his frame coming over your body as he moves them, as he curls them. Doing his best to undo as his eyes come into focus, the top of his tongue dragging over his parted lips.

And the ringing dies down.

Forced to as a pebble of sweat falls from his nose and drips to your breastbone.

“No need to be embarrassed with me.”

Your hips try to buck and seek.

“Impaciencia,” he groans—moisture glistening at the base of his throat, palm keeping you down, still, fingers curled inside of you as you gasp. “You’re… fuck. I need to taste you.”

The breath of his words sweeps over your inner thigh.

“Javi, don't tease—“

“I’ve got you, cariño—don’t worry. I’ll make you come again, and again, and…”

You’re not sure if he speaks the last again—or if it’s buried into your pussy. A high chance you blank it out with other noises as his tongue fucks into your hole. Finger on your clit, swirling, drawing shapes your brain can’t manifest or conjure as you become aware of your moans.

Out of instinct, your fingers find his hair—slick with sweat, trying to curl between your fingers as his tongue flattens. All precise, taunting. Forcing you to the edge and dangling you before pulling you back.

It almost makes you thrash, forcibly lift your hips against him when his face lifts—face slick with your want as he smirks.

“Lo sé, cariño.”

“Please.”

It leaves your lips undignified, dignity gone, transformed into more raw, desperate—a plea that cuts through heat. One answered as he lifts your knee over his hip, feeling bare skin, red hot body heat and the nudging of his cock at your entrance.

He steals your breath, it stammering as he sinks into you in one fluid movement. Your fingers grasp, finding the hair at the nape of his neck again as his mouth comes to your ear, hearing it, the hiss between clenched teeth.

When he moves, your lips find his. It’s different, softer and almost gentle. All measured movements gone, lost, thrown out when you breathe him in, when your mouths are open, moaning into each other's throats as your heels dig into his lower back.

And you want to hold on.

But he’s driven you mad. Teeth grating over his shoulder as you tug on his hair. Tasting it, sweat, sex and salt. Your neck further coated in the slick of the heat, the moment; perspiration trickling, sliding over your skin as his hand grasps your hip firmly. Tightly. Practically noticing the hints of intimacy the two of you pretend aren’t there, but rumble and thrum whenever the two of you are alone.

And the thought adds to the feeling of that impending wave rising inside of you again, more angry, needy than it had been before—

“So good for me, cariño. My good girl.”

“Yours.”

It snakes out, too late to retract. Not even caring that it’s there, staining the space between you both, polluting it. Because it’s the truth.

Some days the only thing you can full on believe—

“Yeah, that’s it. Mine, right? All fucking mine?“

His hips thrust into you harder, matching the tone that makes you even wetter than you were seconds before.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

“Yes. Yes. Ye—”

“Fuck, cariño.”

You‘re close. So close. It almost blinding in the way it tries to force your eyes to clench shut, but you can't look away. Not from him. Each flex of his muscles, the way his teeth grit as he fucks into you, makes your body both taut and boneless.

“Wanna feel you, cariño,” he groans, breath ragged, tortured out. “Let me feel you come, baby. Please.”

Tightening around him, fingers jerking on his hair, he meets your eyes.

Not able to fight it, not able to stop it from unravelling as it begins to crest—

"Let me feel you come, baby. Please." His tone all full of gravel, insistent, demanding. Practically unwilling to bend as it brushes itself into your ear.

His name cracks out of your throat like thunder, slamming against the walls as it rips through you. Making your back arch into him, hearing him groan; hearing him hiss and fucking moan as you shake, thighs quaking around his sweat-tinged skin before he grunts as he spills into you.

It’s silence, except for heaving breaths.

The dull noise of the fan comes back to you, replacing the ringing from before as you slowly peel your legs from his body.

You’re not sure what you expect when he lifts his head, but it isn’t the look there. The one matched with a smile, sly but still a smile—chest rising and falling as he kneels, staring down at you.

Taking you in, flicking his eyes to the place the two of you had just been conjoined.

“Fucking hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And even if you roll your eyes, you hide a smile behind the back of your hand, whispering a "Cállate, Peña."

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 5 months

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Nūmioītsos

19/12: Future & Face Sitting - Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.5k~ | Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, oral (f receiving), prince regent aemond A/N: This is in the Pearl of The Realm Universe!

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

It's something he'd dreamt of, but never really envisioned. Perhaps he'd never allowed himself to. With Aegon severely wounded by dragonfire, the conqueror's crown would no longer sit atop his head with ease, so now it sat on his.

It was lighter than he imagined it would be. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was not King. But it was the closest he'd ever be to it.

The aura was strange at the Dragonpit, very much akin to Aegon's in that sense.

He remembered standing beside Helena as she'd pressed her lips together and curtseyed before her brother-husband, who had become her king and made her his queen. Remembered how she had that distant, forlorn look in her pale violet eyes. Like she knew hardships were coming.

And as Aemond turned to his little pearl to see what expression she wore, he felt his heart ache for her like he had done for his sister.

She was visibly nervous. Clasping her hands at her front, and squeezing for dear life. Her eyes were trained on the space before her, away from anyone else's. He could not blame her. She married a second son. Who would inherit nothing but a name.

She never expected this responsibility, and in a way, above the power that the crown gave him, he felt awful that he could not give his wife, who deserved the world, the peaceful, calm life she always expected.

Not a word was spoken between them, until they reached their chambers, and the doors shut with a heavy thud, like he wanted to shut out that feeling.

“I am sorry…” she whispered suddenly, standing in the middle of the room.

He was transported in his memory back to their wedding night, when she'd apologised, for maybe not being as pretty as he wanted her to be.

She had come a long way, but she still always apologised too much.

He saw her throat bob before she continued, “I could not find the right moment to tell you…”

“What is it, my love”, he replied softly, moving a waved strand of hair from her face with all the sincerity of a husband so irrevocably in love.

Her eyes lifted to meet his gaze, leaning slightly into his hand before she took his one hand in her two small ones, leading it flat to her stomach.

And then he understands.

Her nerves. Her silence.

She was terrified.

And with child.

His face softened instantly despite the incessant weight of the conqueror’s crown on his temples, his violet eye searched her nervous face, as if trying to see what she was thinking.

“I am frightened, Aemond…” she uttered quietly, her cheeks pink and lips pressed together, trying outwardly to stop herself from falling apart and becoming hysterical.

His hand almost entirely covered her belly and he sighed as he rubbed it lovingly, his child inside her made him feel all hazy on love.

“Afraid of what, wife?”

She swallowed thickly before she raised her head, “Afraid of…what this all means for us now,” she replied, her eyebrows arched in worry, “for our child.”

He understood entirely what she meant. And he saw her eyes close contently as his palm rested against her cheek, brushing her hair away, “Oh, my little pearl. I will not let anything happen to you, or our babe.”

When their gazes met, she knew she had nothing but her belief in him. She had to believe him. Though her eyes were moist, with tears rimmed in them with fear of their future, she gave him a gentle smile, choosing to put her faith in her husband entirely.

“I will not have you go to sleep crying”, he whispered, softly running the backs of his fingers over her cheek, seeing her nod weakly.

“Unless you are crying my name”.

She gave a watery laugh, a pleasant smile stretching on her delicate features. And when she met eyes with him again, the smile faded into a blush, finding that her husband was in no mood for shallow promises as his hand drifted from her stomach to that sensitive spot between her legs, even above her thick skirts, she felt herself become warm.

“I-I thought…lords did not lay with their wives if they were…”

Aemond smirked, quite forgetting the crown placed atop his head when he leaned down to lay open-mouthed kisses to her neck, making her shiver.

“It is fortunate that I am no lord then, little pearl”.

His words made a warmth sink between her thighs, clutching onto his doublet tightly like he might disappear in a moment.

She sighed, eyes slipping shut as Aemond kissed and marked at her neck, not noticing that Aemond’s deft hands were undoing the laces of her dress and prying each section apart. It was only when his warm hands chased the curves of her hips and back that she lifted her eyes to him again.

“Aemond-”

“Hush - do you not wish to please your King?”

The words make her mouth go dry, a chill settling on the little baby hairs on her arms as he tugs the heavy dress off her, like he was desperate to see what was underneath. As if he had not seen her bare since the day they were wed.

He tugged her close to him as he sat on their bed, his face level with her breasts which he mouthed over lovingly, taking one of her nipples between his lips and suckling gently, both his hands tight on her hips.

“Aemond…”

He still loved that, the way she said his name so breathily and needy like that.

He fought the urge to grin, teasing the stiffened bud with his warm tongue before trailing it to the other.

“Hm - Oh, little pearl, I can hardly wait to see you fat with child - and these so full…”

She gasped in pleasure, a warm feeling sinking to the apex of her thighs.

And Aemond did grin widely when she squeaked with surprise as her husband laid back on the bed, pulling her on top of him, with her legs either side of his waist.

Being on top was not something she'd done before. And being entirely naked on top of her entirely clothed husband, makes her head spin dramatically.

“Aemond, I…I don't know-”

She shivered as his warm hands traced the outline of her body, “I have not seen that lost, blushing expression in so long, dear wife. Are you nervous?”

She nodded softly, her eyes looking away, wanting to cover herself but knowing that if she tried, it would only inspire him to tear her hands away from herself.

“My sweet, innocent wife…I only wish to taste you.”

Her eyes widen, “Aemond, I do not want to hurt y-”

“You will not hurt me. I want your cunt on my lips, now.”

She could feel her stomach flipping with nerves as Aemond guided her higher, her cheeks aflame with the idea that all this was arousing her in the most forbidden way.

“Relax..”

She could do about anything but relax as Aemond tugged her hips down, a high pitched moan slipping out when she felt his warm tongue part her slick folders and dive in, his moan vibrating through her core as he moved his lips with passion.

He hummed into her womanhood, his fingers sinking into her flesh to keep her flush down to his mouth as he feasted on her. He is sure he could spend forever between her plush thighs, almost forgetting the weight of the crown slipping from his moonlit head as he tasted his queen.

The crown almost slipped all the way off as he hand grasped his hair, her hips moving atop his tongue in micro-movements, “Gods - Aemond-”

With his one eye looking up at her body, he squeezed her thighs tighter, increasing his movements and shifting his tongue up to suckle at her bud, enjoying the way she moaned breathily and tipped her head back.

He happily sucked every bit of release that came from her as he felt her trembling atop him, her fingers tightening in his hair almost painfully as she rode out her high by fucking herself against his needy mouth, prolonging her sweet rapture by sliding his wet muscle through her quivering walls.

She jolted when he placed open-mouthed kisses to her sensitive cunt, his hands soothing where he'd been gripping at her.

Equally, she whined when he pulled his lips from her, looking down at him with flushed cheeks and dreamy, misty eyes. Her husband grinned up at her, as if in victory, the conqueror's crown laid upside down on the bed above his head from the effort of his lust.

She briefly worried she'd upset him by nudging the crown from his head.

And her heart thudded with excitement, as did his, when she leaned down, to place it back atop his head.

Aemond was sure, he had never been more hard in his life at that moment.

And he smirked with mischief as he leaned up, making her sit astride him, still trembling from her release, and unlaced his breeches.

It may take all night, but gods, he'd make her feel like a queen by the end of it.

Like his queen.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy @fan-goddess

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cherryredstars · 3 months

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Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Oral Sex, Indirectly Mentioned Age Gap, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Mentions of Male Masturbation

Summary: An unwelcome guest arrives.

A/N: They’re back at it!!!

Word Count: 2.9K (Not Edited)

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3

He can hear you. Both of you.

There are two pairs of footsteps walking past his door. The lighter, softer ones are recognizable. The heavier ones are not. His eyes narrow at the noise, quickly lowering the volume of the TV. He can hear the rustling of keys overlapping with the sound of muffled talking. Your laugh cuts through the noise, and his head whips to his own door. He’s quick to get up, making his way to the door. He waits a few moments before opening it, casually looking to the left as he steps out.

You’re standing at your front door, just opening it when you turn to him. Your doe eyes blink at him, a smile on your face and a slight blush. It’s the first time you two have seen each other properly since the incident two and a half weeks ago. He takes the time to drink in the sight of you. You’re wearing a bubble jacket and a pair of jeans. On your head is a beanie with a logo in the front, causing your hair to stick to your face. Over your shoulder is the bookbag you use sometimes when the weather isn’t ideal for your usual tote bag. It’s a refreshing sight. Better than the dream versions that visit him in his sleep.

The sight quickly sours when his eyes register the boy behind you. He’s young, around your age. A classmate perhaps. He’s tall, but nowhere as tall as Miguel. He’s lanky, all long, thin limbs. Probably doesn't know the difference between barbells and dumbbells. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats and a black sweater with a coat overtop. He has thick hair, styled to look ‘naturally’ messy. It looks like he got electrocuted. Three times in a row. By lightning. He has his own book bag thrown over his shoulder, and his smile slowly disappears when he looks at Miguel. He steps a little closer to you, a few inches separating his front from your back. The scene looks far too intimate for his liking. He would be considered ‘cute’ or ‘hot’ in a dorky way to any teenage girl.

The two size each other up. There's no competition.

“Hi, Miguel!”

Your face makes both of them turn away, looking down at you. You’re smiling wide at Miguel, and he feels way too prideful when you step towards him. He can’t resist the smug look he throws at the boy behind you. His arm reaches out, his fingers grabbing at one of the front pieces of your hair. From over your shoulder he can see the fetus glare at the possessive touch.

“Hi, mi nena. Who’s this you brought with you, hm?”

His voice is low, intimate in the fact that his words are softened for you. You seem to melt into the tone, your body self-consciously leaning in as you blink up at him. For a second you seem slightly confused, turning around to see the boy. It’s like you forgot he was even there. The boy loses his glare, giving you a small smile. You turn back to Miguel quickly, a slight flush on your cheeks. The attention you give him, even in front of your…guest, makes his heart sing and his cock stir. He’ll have to reward you for it later, when the time is right.

“Oh! He’s just my classmate, we have to work together on a project.”

Miguel smiles at that. He’s just a classmate. He’s not even considered a friend to you. It’s cute, the way you try to reassure him that nothing is happening between the two of you. But, that doesn’t nullify the fact that your classmate obviously wants to be something more than your project partner. Miguel trusts you completely. What he doesn’t trust is a young, horny boy near you. But he does have to admit, the dejected look on his face when you refer to him as only a classmate pleases something ugly inside of him.

Miguel’s finger rubs against your cheek before he lets your hair go, his eyes following the way your body shivers slightly at the contact. You stay leaned towards him, and Miguel has to resist the urge to coo down at you. Instead, he reaches both of his hands down towards your waist. Your body seems to melt into his touch, your eyes going dopey as his warmth seeps through the thick denim of your pants. If the two of you didn’t have a guest present and weren’t out in the hall, he would kiss you. Or eat you out against the wall. Whichever one crossed his mind first. He would have enough time for both if you let him indulge. But, again, he would have to save that for another time. Right now, he has to- very reluctantly- return you to your party.

His arms are quick around your waist as he turns you around, your body stumbling slightly from the speed. You seem confused as you’re now faced with your company, turning your head back to Miguel. You have a slight pout on your face, disappointment spreading as he pushes you forward slightly. You look like you’re about to protest, and as much as he’d love to have you begging for his attention, you have other matters to attend to. Miguel leans down, his breath warming your neck. He can’t resist taking a whiff of your dizzying smell, letting it invade his lungs and travel to his cock for safe keeping. He’ll make use of it later.

“Go do your work, mami. I’ll see you later, hm?” He whispers, eyes hungirly taking in the way your lips part and blush spreads across your face. You turn your face to him, a few centimeters separating the two of you. Your eyes hastily fall to his lips before meeting his eyes, muttering out a breathless ‘okay’.

Miguel smirks, opening his mouth to say something else when a rough cough breaks the moment. Both you and Miguel turn your heads, looking at the boy who seems slightly uncomfortable. He eyes the lack of space between the two of you, eyes dropping to where Miguel still grabs your waist. Good, at least now he knows who you belong to. Miguel slowly removes himself from you, and you give an apologetic smile to your guest. You begin to walk towards him, and Miguel lets you walk a step or two away before grabbing your wrist and pulling you back to him.

You bump into his chest with a soft noise, wide eyes looking up at him. Both of your arms are trapped between your body and his, and your breath stutters when he leans down. Miguel keeps his eyes trained to the boy behind you, loving the sour look on his face.

“I don’t want to hear any funny business. This will not be one of those types of ‘study sessions’, you understand?” Miguel says slowly into your ear, possessiveness seeping in with each word. You open your mouth to say something, but the words get stuck in your throat as you feel something hard pressing against your thigh. Miguel squeezes your wrist, pulling your attention back to where it should be, “Do I make myself clear, chica?”

The airy ‘yes, Miguel’ you practically whimper out will satisfy him for now. He whispers back a ‘sé buena’, letting you go and pulling away. Miguel keeps his eyes on your little frat boy for a few more seconds before he looks down at you. His hand falls to your chest, pushing you back slightly as he turns towards his apartment. You still have this dazed look on your face, and Miguel commits it to memory. Slowly, you turn around looking at your classmate briefly before walking into your apartment. He takes a second to follow you in, instead looking at Miguel with a tightened hold on his bookbag. You call out his name, and he disappears behind your closed door. Miguel scowls at the door before he slips into his own home, leaning against the door.

His eyes trail down his body to the hard on bulging through his pants. His hands slip through his waistband, palm connecting to the precum beading at his tip. He grits his teeth as he begins to tug at himself, the smell of shampoo and a dazed face running through his head.

___________________________________

He sits up on the couch when he hears your door open and close. He stays silent, picking up the sound of a singular pair of footsteps walking away until they’re gone. Miguel waits a few moments before getting up, running a hand through his hair as he makes his way to the door. He doesn’t bother to lock it behind him when he closes it, instead focusing on getting inside of your apartment. He stands in front of it, lifting a hand to knock before stuffing both of his hands into his pocket. He can hear you walking towards the door, and his cock stirs knowing you're all his now. He hears the lock click and a second later you open the door with a confused look on your face. Your expression falls away, mouth parting slightly at the sight of him. He smirks down at you, not needing an invitation before he walks in.

He lazily looks around, eyes narrowing on the heater panel on the wall. He fucking hates that heater. He turns back to you just as you lock the door and turn to face him. There is a sort of electricity running through the air, and Miguel’s eyes slide down your form half-mast. You’re still wearing your jeans, but now he can see the long sleeve shirt you were wearing under your coat. It isn’t skin tight, but he can still see the outline of your breasts in it. He can feel his cock twitch in his pants as he focuses on the slight swell, but his eyes come back to your face. You look bashful, obviously catching him eye fucking you. Miguel doesn’t feel an ounce of shame, walking up to you slowly. You back up against the door, back hitting the wood. He doesn’t stop advancing until his chest is mere centimeters away from yours. With his close proximity, you’re forced to look up at him, wide eyes blinking cutely up at him.

It makes his eyes darken, and his hand comes to your face and strokes just under your eye.

“How was your little study date?” He asks, a dark smile on his face.

Your lashes flutter rapidly, lips parting, “It wasn’t a-”

Your words die off as Miguel’s other hand presses against your pants. His fingers expertly undo the button, and soft unzipping comes after. You try to look down, but Miguel’s hand around your face grabs your chin and keeps you looking up at him. Your chest brushes against him with every breath you take. Your eyes are glazed over, and that dazed look paints your face again. Miguel’s thumb plays with your bottom lip, his smirk dropping slightly.

“I asked you a question. Are you gonna answer it?”

“I-” you stutter out, thighs pressing together. You can feel a wetness filling your panties and your cheeks flush. “It wasn’t a date.”

Your voice is soft as you confess it, and Miguel finally coos at you. His smile comes back, still condescending. He hums in thought, hands falling to your hips. Slowly, he begins to descend to the floor, “Yeah? Why don’t you tell me about what you did and I’ll decide for myself.”

You stutter out another response as you watch him, thighs almost crossing over the other to relieve the ache in between them. His thumbs stroke just under the waistband of your jeans, his fingers hooking into the belt loops as he begins to drag the denim down your legs. Your mouth parts as he looks up at you, but no words escape. He shakes his head with a chuckle, parting your thighs once your pants pool at your feet. He leans forward, and you yelp as he presses his nose against your panties. Your hands fly to his hair, whimpering out as he groans. He can feel your damp arousal through your soaked panties, and the smell of it is intoxicating. He can’t resist the urge to lick at it through the fabric.

“Miguel!” You gasp out, eyes wide as you look down at him. His pupils are blown wide as he moves your panties to the side, coming face to face with your naked cunt.

Your clit pokes out to greet him, and there is a soft glistening around your folds. All for him. He curses at the sight, his tongue lapping at the small bud. It causes you to shriek, hands tightening in his hair. Miguel smirks at the noise, pulling away from your addictive pussy for a few minutes.

“I don’t hear much talking from you, nena.”

You choke on your breath as he licks at you again, lips falling open. Your sentences are stuttering, incomplete babbles, mind getting lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. You’re saying something about researching and some dead poet, but Miguel doesn’t really care. Your head leans back against the door as he slurps at you, his tongue flicking against your swollen bud and teasing your folds. You cry out his name again when his tongue pokes at your entrance, catching the arousal that dribbles out. His hand comes to the back of your thigh, lifting it over his shoulder as he sucks on you. You let out a loud moan as his tongue slides inside of you.

The groan he lets out vibrates against your whole body, and he gets drunk on the taste of you. His tongue explores your wet walls, moaning whenever they contract around the slippery muscle. He can feel the arousal on his face, and he tries to bury himself deeper into your cunt. You can’t help the high-pitched noise that leaves your mouth as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit, stimulating you to the point that your legs feel like jelly. You can feel your leg buckle from under you, and the only thing keeping you up is Miguel’s head pressing your lower body against the door.

Your hips buck into his face as he switches between tongue-fucking your hole and sucking on your clit. Your pussy pulses against his mouth, and you can’t help the grinding you do as you use your hold on his hair to move his face against you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he lets you guide him, his groans vibrating against you. Some whines and whimpers leave your mouth, a hot ball forming in your stomach.

“Miguel, I’m… please,” You cry out, making Miguel chuckle against you.

His movements speed up, tongue lavishing you like a man starved. His eyes are hazy as they look up at you, watching your twisted face. Your mouth falls open, hiccuped noises leaving you until your entire body tenses. You cry out loudly, head pressing deeper into the wood of your door as you release. Miguel moans against you, eyes closing as he greedily laps at you for a taste of your sweet cum. Your chest heaves like crazy, and your lower body jolts from the overstimulation his tongue is giving you. Your hands weakly try to push his head away, and he whines disapprovingly against you before he submits to your silent order.

Your face flushes as you look down at him, his chin glistening with spit and your arousal. You feel yourself pulse when he licks his lips, collecting the remaining juices there with a moan. Your body goes slack against the door, and Miguel gently eases your leg off his shoulder. Your hands fall to his shoulders, using him as a way to keep you up as his hand places your panties back into their place. The wetness still coating your underwear is slightly uncomfortable, but you quickly forget it when Miguel comes face to face with you again. His face is still shiny, but that hunger in his eyes seems satisfied for now.

“Don’t think I like that boy around you,” He comments, eyes scanning your face. Your body jolts when his thumb presses into your clit, making you gasp. “And don’t think for a second he can make you feel the way I just did.”

You’re left speechless again, only capable of staring up at him and nodding numbly. He leans down and kisses you quickly, a thin coat of the sticky remains of your own arousal coating your lips as he pulls away. He moves you slightly, your body pressing against his chest as he opens your apartment door. He’s quick to turn the two of you around, not wanting anyone to see you in your underwear and post-orgasm daze. His mouth falls to the top of your head, planting a kiss to your hair. He pulls away from you as he goes out in the hall, leaving you standing inside your apartment.

“Don’t bring anymore boys home, cariño” He calls out teasingly, that smirk still on his face as he closes the door behind him.

You blink at your door, confused on how he left so casually. You look down at your jeans on the floor, slowly picking them up and holding them to your chest.

Why does he always leave?

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occamstfs · 2 months

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Ugh, I Hate Bongs.

Switching it up slightly! Here's a more subtle TF as a straight edge busybody finally tries to stick it to his stoner roommate. -Occam

Chris was not going to let his roommate smoke in their apartment anymore. He was tired of the couch smelling like smoke which is reason enough, but beyond that his roommate, Nate, had fully broken two broken two bongs getting ashy water all over the work Chris had left out in the den. Hearing a telltale gurgle coming from the living room could only mean Nate had now brought a third bong into their shared space. Chris felt almost bound to act.

As soon as he opens his bedroom door he feels a wave of thick smoke blow through him, clearly getting the skunky smell he hates so much all over his clothes and bedding. This was something Chris could not let stand. It’s bad enough that he’s doing this in the apartment at all now it’s now going to start seeping into the only place he had left. He sees Nate on the couch taking in a deep breath preparing to lay into him. But? What was he mad about anyway?

Standing there continuing to breathe in smoke from Nate’s session he remembers there was definitely something he needed to do. He was in his room, then he heard his roommate, and now he is in the living room? As he continues to aimlessly circle through these seemingly insignificant events he doesn’t even notice as he stops smelling the weed in the air, before seeing Nate take another massive bong hit on the couch. Seeing him out of his room Nate smiles, breathing another wave of smoke into the room.

“Yo dude! Are you coming to join?” Nate’s eyes are bleary and red as he offers the bong and lighter to his roommate.

That’s what it was, Chris remembers as he sees the bong. He was pissed that his roommate was using a bong! It was, annoying for some reason? I mean it looks a little dirty right? “Didn’t I say no bongs dude?”

“Oh yeah dude! That’s why I rolled you a joint?”

This throws Chris for a loop. What a kind thing to do but he can’t help but feel something amiss going on. The smile briefly fades from Nate as he grows concerned seeing Chris struggle. “Woah everything good dude?”

“Yeah, sorry? My head just feels like it’s pounding,” Chris rubs his face in discomfort feeling his face grow flush and his eyes begin to dry.

“This’ll straighten you right up dude, come on just try a hit.”

Chris, upon being directly asked, puts out a hand for the joint and immediately lights it up like he has done it a thousand times over. He takes a hit like an expert, breathing slowly and naturally as to not cough. Only after doing so and realizing he had no discomfort he starts a coughing fit. Of course, he has been breathing progressively more and more smoke since stepping out of his bedroom, so this fit is almost performative. Something he is doing only because it is something he should be doing, or he thinks he should be doing? He doesn’t usually smoke, right?

This thought quickly flashes out of his head as feels lightheaded, collapsing onto the couch right next to Nate. His body growing leaner as he almost liquefies into the cushions, “See Chris what did I say, one hit and you’re already cured.” His glazed eyes look over to his friend as he takes another hit. He sees his friend’s stubbled face and wonders if he should grow one of his own. Shaving is more effort than it’s worth anyway. He exhales as he too starts to add to the pervasive smoke filling the room.

He scratches at his face as a scraggly beard starts to push out. Pausing to feel as much as he can in his body before taking another hit. Pushing his back against the couch, rubbing his arm down his chest and stomach, Nate watching as his roommate finally lets loose. Chris takes a third hit as Nate sees his hair get greasier as his pubes push out beyond the bounds of his holey underwear.

Chris launches into another coughing fit as, unbeknownst to him, he finishes the joint and starts to burn the filter. Seeing this Nate reacts as quickly as he can, clumsily putting the bong down on the table reaching out to check on Chris, rubbing his roommates back in a way that seem decidedly intimate. “Y’okay dude? Your hits were way too big but ‘s chill ‘s chill. You didn’t want any more did you?”

Sluggishly working through the words Nate just asked him he finds he doesn’t need to search for his own answer. Why wouldn’t he want more? Everything just feels so much better as he stretches, feeling his tendons and muscles expand and contract, “Mmmmm yeah I could do a little more.” Before he remembers that with his joint now impossibly consumed in three hits the only weed ready to smoke is in the bong’s bowl, still vaguely unpleasant to him.

Nate then has a masterful idea. He would shotgun the weed to Chris! Why would he be averse to that? They’re friends right? Chris, numbed beyond reason, is more than happy to give it a try. He’s sure that he's drunk after Nate before right? Or? Have they kissed before? It’s hard to tell, the benders they go on its truly impossible to say.

Chris watches as Nate takes a massive hit of the bong. Water gurgling for full seconds before he reconsiders, one last time feeling unease, he isn’t the to go on benders right? He’s so type a he wouldn’t even think about it. Continuing to question himself as he leans towards Nate, finishing his inhale as he too leans towards Chris. He opens his mouth letting the cloud of smoke leak out of his mouth, lazily gazing into Chris’ eyes expecting him to finish the job.

Seeing this Chris is unable to resist as he stumbles forward pressing his mouth to Nate’s.

Nate falls backwards, once more narrowly placing the bong on the table, as Chris crashes into him. The playful second hand smoking quickly dissolving into an aggressive grinding session as Chris hungrily slobbers over Nate’s neck. Maybe he is this type of person. Nate pulls Chris’ shirt off letting their torsos touch skin to skin as Chris begins dry humping his roommate. The two stoners continue in this regard as their cocks swiftly demand attention as sweatpants are pulled down and the two have at each other outright. Lean arms flailing in the air as they pull on each other's unwashed hair. Faces shove into hairy pits in lieu of smoking any more weed, besides of course the haze still filling the apartment. The pressure quickly mounts as Chris is inches from finishing all over his roommates’ hairy chest before he shifts and his left leg flings into the table knocking over bong number three. “Shit dude!” he cries as he does indeed finish missing Nate’s chest for his face. Coming down from their ecstasy the pair stumble off the couch narrowly avoiding glass shards as they try to clean up Chris’ mess.

“Maybe no more bongs yeah,” Chris giggles at something he can quite understand as he watches Nate struggle with a broom. His eyes shift from the unground weed on the table and his still unclad roommate as he starts to work himself up once more. Hungrily awaiting what comes next, he prepares for session two.

#male tf #mental change #stoner tf #male transformation

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astro-royale · 4 months

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AstroObservations:Pt12 🍒

Disclaimer: my opinion💋💋💋

Venus 9th house individuals may travel a lot in their childhood

Pisces moon individuals are very pleasant and calming to be around. They may also be naturally good painters.

Yeah what they say about 18 degrees is true. It will cause health problems or it will create a vicious cycle where someone is always working on improving that particular thing because the energy there isn’t stable.

Mars vs Pluto (Pluto is the higher octave of Mars) in the first house… Mars 1st house will be very overtly aggressive or open with their anger. May come across as assertive, independent, someone who is confident in what they have to say. It’s very “what you see is what you get” and it feels much more extroverted. They don’t find it uncomfortable to call things out.

Pluto first house however is much more secretive, and the power it conveys does not have to be directly spoken about. It is like something emanating beneath the surface and can seem shady or mysterious. 1st house Pluto individuals can also feel the need to create “influence” . I believe this is because the Higher Octave planets refer to the collective and “bigger causes” which can influence the tone of a generation, so this is how it comes across to me regarding Pluto.

Mars also feels much more self centred in the 1st house than Pluto does, again because Pluto is connected to the collective unconscious. You go beyond the self, realising the interconnectedness nature of things.

Pluto can be self centred in the 1st house with a much more humanitarian cause or to use their power to influence a large group of people. Mars 1st house use their power as fuel to just get things done, I’ve noticed. And Mars 1st house can have much more physical drive and energy too,

10th house sun always always always succeeds in their career

Virgo Risings may be quite tall, have lighter eyes and hair natural model look

Taurus influence on appearance can make someone quite shapely

Venus 11th house just loveeeee to socialise

Neptune 7th house are always looking for their soulmate

Cancer 2nd house may really succeed or be able to work from home.

I think everyone with strong Scorpio placements would benefit from having someone to talk to once a month in a therapeutic setting. Just anything to help you detoxify actually. Money well spent because your health depends you on eliminating what no longer serves you.

Self promo:

If you’re a beginner in astrology or know someone who wants to get into it I’ve made a beginner series on the houses on my YT channel.

They’re in short format and very digestible and easy to understand and it’s great for anyone who wants to have a rough idea.

I have created a playlist with them :))

Consider sharing it and checking it out if that sounds like something you or someone you may know may need.

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oxbellows · 9 days

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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arminsumi · 7 months

Text

g. suguru — すぐる

you met him at his worst.

geto suguru, the boy whose apartment door you knocked on. your bleary-eyed college classmate who had looked so down during class today that you decided to pay him a visit. and he appreciated that more than anything in his whole life currently. just your simple act of checking in on him, even though he barely talks to you.

he tiredly pulls the door open and his eyes widen, surprised to see you.

"hey... um hey!" he chokes and stutters. he feels a wave of self-consciousness wash over him.

you're bubbly and friendly. he feels invited and comforted by you. in fact, you make his home feel more homely when you're in it.

surprising him with a visit on this gloomy saturday meant everything. he was busy sinking into a void until you knocked on his door.

he feels the need to apologize for his sorry state. he wishes he could be at his best for you, he really does. but he just doesn't have the energy.

"uh... sorry my hair is all greasy and... not up in a fancy bun like... you're used to seeing. haha..."

"sorry... fuck i haven't ummm made my bed wait don— oh okay. just... lay in it then, i guess. woa—"

you giggle and pull him into his bed. you're being playful, it's everything he needs right now. you.

the knots in his chest disentangle at your touch and warmth. he's taken aback but... sinks right into your embrace.

he's a terrible insomniac. but when you lay to rest with him, he finally feels that sweet natural anaesthetic feeling of sleepiness wash over him at last. when was the last time he felt so at peace?

suguru's heart lightens for the smallest bit when he's with you.

—

note : i tried to sleep but my brain told me to write this instead so i grumbled and turned over and grabbed my phone and wrote about a very depressed suguru feeling lighter because of you 👍

#🗑️ — trash #geto #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto x reader fluff #fluff #angst #suguru #jjk x reader #jujutsu geto #suguru geto #geto x you #geto x y/n #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru fluff

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essentiallyleaf · 7 months

Text

day 20. cockwarming. with. jisoo.

1105 words.

tags.

kinktober ‘23, idol x male reader, cockwarming, angst, i don’t even know anymore, possibly the coldest cockwarming fic to ever exist, so much angst and for what.

notes.

short and a little rushed. sounds just like every day of my life. exhaustedly, leaf.

You plop down on the bed, barely able to take your black dress pants off before the dizziness gets the best of you. Jisoo is there, laying still, facing away from you and towards the cloud-shielded moon outside of the open window, like she always is. You can’t really tell if she’s awake or not, and the alcohol certainly doesn’t help.

This must be what they mean when they talk about magnetic fields. We’re immersed in them all the time, but we can’t see it, something about a wavelength our eyes are not tuned to. It’s like even when it’s past your bedtime (which on a weekend night like tonight is at least three hours after your regular bedtime), the sky completely starless, when you zig-zag through the streets and keeping your balance requires a voluntary effort, when your white shirt has more than one almost fully dried Bordeaux stain on it, you don’t know why or how, but your red needle always points back home, back to her.

You always manage to find your way to your shared bed, well, shared right in this moment, but often, too often one could easily argue, the bed feels hollow and freezing as Jisoo’s in it alone. Maybe that’s why the first thing she does when you lie down on it, is take your strong arm and wrap it around her waist to hold her close and share some of your alcohol-boosted warmth, and keep her own arm over it as if to ask you to never let go, never leave her again. She’s awake. Your natural response is to use your other hand to brush her long, silky black hair and watch it flow through your fingers, but as she feels your breath caress her shoulders, she knows that you can’t promise much more than that.

This shouldn't work. Well, to be fair, it isn’t working. But throwing stuff away, whether it’s dropping old photos in the fireplace, or leaving an entire relationship behind you to possibly never see your special person again, that hurts. It’s not just about the value of it, no, if that was the case, if that thing you’re throwing away still brought value to you, then you wouldn't be getting rid of it, right? It’s about admitting that something went wrong along the road, that things didn’t work out, that a wrong turn was taken, and that maybe, you were the one who took it. So the only thing you can do is turn away, keep going down that road, and if you ever happen to look back in a moment of accidental lucidity, justify your own mistakes.

So Jisoo reaches back and starts rubbing the outer side of your naked thigh, slowly traveling up to your ass as you lay a trail of quick kisses on her shoulder. Once she starts fiddling with the hem of your boxers and pushing her own butt back towards you, you get the message. You take your underwear off and stroke your dick a couple times before her nightgown is hiked up and her cheeks fully envelop your length. Your pecks take a trip up to her neck while both of you start shifting your hips up and down, back and forth against one another’s, a couple of low moans leaving your mouth.

It was your fault, but what if it wasn’t? What if that girl, what was her name even, hadn’t asked you for a lighter? What if she hadn’t looked at you all night with those warm brown eyes, what if she hadn’t asked you for a ride home? Any of those would’ve fixed this. The nights of yelling at each other’s faces and the nights of dead silence, the feeling of unbridgeable distance even when holding hands, the cool air of beach days in the middle of August. Maybe invisible walls are the best solution in some cases, and fuck it if they break some people’s immersion, as long as you can see the sun rise in the distance, you can live with not being able to touch it.

Jisoo suddenly stops her motion just to raise her thigh a little, suggesting you to enter. You align yourself with her slit and penetrate her warmth, her slick coating easing you through her walls and quickly letting you bottom out inside her, but as soon as you try to retreat, she puts a hand on your hip, halting its movement. She just places her thigh back down and stays still for a few seconds. A few seconds that enclose some kind of understanding, or, a feeling of understanding, at the very least. Most of the times when you have a revelation, an epiphany, you have no idea what the fuck is being revealed to you, you only see the light bulb turn on. Your kisses get wetter and longer, traveling from her upper neck to her ear and to her jaw, your hand finds itself on her soft, perfectly sized mound. She starts contracting her abdominal muscles repeatedly and rhythmically, squeezing your shaft between her tight walls, your pelvis still fixed in its place. You see her skin glow more than usual under the faint moonlight, and you think you taste a little salt as your tongue brushes her cheek, which you can’t help but groan on every time Jisoo tenses around you.

Invisible walls are not meant to be broken. They’re meant to disengage, to discourage. What does it say about us when they manage to do what they’re meant to? Is it sad, disheartening? Does it speak about our sense of agency as a whole? What if you did something different, what if it was your fault? You can’t go back, so what can you do about it now? Another night of getting drunk, another night of having sex, in each other’s embrace but miles away.

Your hand feels up her thigh as hers reaches between your legs from the back and starts massaging your testicles. You can’t hold back anymore. Her abs contract once, twice. You stop counting, she feels too good. Your thigh wraps around hers as you cum inside, letting out multiple guttural moans right next to her ear. You drop load after load of white paint onto her walls and into her womb.

You think you hear a little sniffle. Again, the only response is to caress her hair and leave one long kiss on the back of her head. Not more. Sometimes we hurt people that love us, love people that hurt us. And if it’s true that opposites attract, then likes must also repel.

footnotes.

sorry if this is depressing. how can i help you get back to horny, the superior mood? lunatically, leaf.

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #girl group smut #idol smut #female idol smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #idol x reader #idol x male reader #blackpink #jisoo #kim jisoo #blackpink jisoo #blackpink smut #jisoo smut #kim jisoo smut #blackpink jisoo smut

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moronkombat · 7 months

Note

Bi-Han nsfw alphabet? 🫣🧊

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Bi-Han is rather tender with his lover after having sex. He is quick to check on them, making sure they are comfortable and content. A large hand will encompass a cheek and his eyes will search his lover's before he pulls you close. His arms around you like a barrier to the entire world and its evils. He will protect you from them all

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Bi-Han is proud of his face. Not because it a handsome one but becomes it is identical to his mother's. Her visage is painted on him, it all he has left of her to look at besides aging photos. As he ages he likes to think his mother would look this way too

His partner's hands. So much smaller and lighter than his own, so easily to be broken. Bi-han would never. Not in any lifetime would he harm his lover. Those hands are to be held, kisses and caressed

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Definitely prefers to finish inside his partner. It is much more intimate and personal for him to release himself within a place most warm and hidden. Bi-Han truly feels deeply connected to his partner when their natural essence mingle and flow together

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Is often plagued by "inappropriate" thoughts of his lover. There is a hunger behind his eyes that fill his head with tantalizing fantasies of the carnal variety. He will tell absolutely no one that he often thinks of his lover quite lewdly. He vents these thoughts through rigorous exercise and sparring with other Lin Kuei

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He's a virgin Very inexperienced. Bi-Han found little use or time for engaging in sexualized behaviors. He is not partial to seeking out a bedwarmer or a temptation of the night. When Bi-Han loves, it is completely and truly and with the one person he holds dearest

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Very much so ever changing. The position often changes based on the opportunity that is in front of him. Though he is rather traditional and prefers missionary with his lover. It feels right when he can look into his lovers eyes, bodies pressed closely together. Bi-Han likes to be on top because he wishes to hold you close and shield you from all the horrors of the world

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Bi-Han is exceptionally serious in the bedroom. He will not incorporate humor as he finds it disrespectful to you and this private moment shared between the two of you. Bi-Han would never disgrace his lover in such a way

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Bi-Han is neat and groomed but not hairless. He makes it a point to keep himself trimmed and even as to not pester his partner by accidentally irritating them with prickly hairs. While he can grow facial hair, he almost always shaves it but tends to rush through it causing his skin to feel roughened

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Despite his rather grim and intimidating demeanor, Bi-Han longs to show his partner a perfect romance. The only problem with that is he is incredibly awkward in that subject. That will not stop him from trying and, if he's known his lover for awhile, he eventually finds a good pattern of romance. He shows romance through gestures and not words. Do not expect to hear him say those three pretty words. They are not needed when he holds you so tenderly as your bodies entangle and he whispers to you "my heart"

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Seldomly indulges in such acts but probably should. He does have "impure" thoughts of his lover very frequently and intrusively and they weigh on him. He mostly releases himself through exercise or roughly sparring with someone

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Marking- Bi-Han is rather "vanilla" on the surface but peal the skin further back and corruption lingers. While he will never leave a cut on his partner or anything that will tear the skin he does enjoy leaving those reddened circles where he kissed and sucked. He is very meticulous when placing them, always somewhere no one else can see. They are for him and you to feast upon their memories in privacy. He does not leave exposed marks as to not bring attention to you or disrespect you. Bruising tends to occur during sex due to the sheer size of pace of him. While he feels guilty bringing them about, there is something about seeing your skin so painted quite thrilling

Breeding/Pregnancy- This is one he will never admit. He'd rather choke on these words than confess to such a perversion. Yet he is so enticed when he thinks about getting his partner pregnant with his child, with his heir. He groans and his spine curls just thinking about it. Each time he cums within his lover, there is a betraying prayer that wishes for his seed to take root so that you may grow round with child. If his partner were to become pregnant, he finds them incredibly attractive. Probably more than he should

Size difference- Bi-Han is large and his lover is...so fragile and delicate. Barely can he fit himself within warm walls. It takes oh so long for him to completely sheath himself inside. His hand will lay upon your naval and there he feels himself moving, the very outline of him traced into his palm

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bi-Han will almost always prefer to take his lover in the bedroom. He does not allow anyone in his personal quarter. That is a place for him and now it is for you too. It means to be exposed and vulnerable to have another in his room with him. He finds this the perfect place to express his love to you

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Bi-Han gets in the mood by his partner's appearance. A pretty expression, a graceful step a lithe build that seems so different than his own. He longs to take away those layers of clothing and take your body into his arms

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Bi-Han will not harm his lover. He will not lay a hurtful hand on them, he just can't. Never will he bring them pain. Bi-Han will only protect you from it

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He enjoys both but expects to give you oral more than receive it. Why? Because he sees how much you like it and how loud you get for him. Louder than sound your moans can be when he between your legs and that really riles him up. However, receiving is also very much so enjoyed and he tends to be rather noisy when you go down on him

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Bi-Han is a rather healthy mis between the two. He will be slow and sensual but also pick up the tempo when he starts to really get into the mood. Those are when he bruises to your hips are created as his own slam and collide into yours while teeth are bared or snagged against a lip and groans most guttural spawn in his throat

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Does not prefer them as he feels it does not allow enough time to truly experience each other fully. Will he outright refuse them? No but he does not seek them out at all

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Bi-Han is a cautious lover i will go down with this ship so taking risks are not exactly thought of. Will he experiment? Yes, as long as it brings no harm to his lover or makes him feel as though he is hurting them

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Seemingly unlimited stamina. This man is a bull made of steel and iron. He could continue all night and into the morning but he does not often do that as his lover tends to tire quicker than him

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He'd be open to the idea of them but ultimately unsure and a bit lost in terms of how to use them. He will need guidance and his partner to request their use. Otherwise, they do not even cross his mind

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A fair lover most of the time but he does succumb to those impish temptations. This mostly manifests during oral sex with his partner. He longs to hear your whines more and more and so he tends to draw out his methods when using his tongue

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Bi-Han groans and grunts frequently during sex and is not silence nor quiet. He not loud either, however. He falls somewhere in middle and begins to reach his most audible during a faster pace

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Bi-Han is prone to jealousy even if he and his partner have been in a long standing committed relationship. He simply cannot help but feel a twitch of annoyance when your attention is on another. He often glares at the one you are speaking with which doesn't go unnoticed. When he is feeling particularly jealous he will become vocal about it in bed by saying "you are mine and i am yours. this will be forever"

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Bi-Han is muscular, toned and very fit. His body has been built up and carved by combat and training. His arms are large and powerful, legs muscular and refined. Every part of his body showcases his exquisite physique. He is large in every way with his length above average and with a hefty girth to match

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive is moderate. Not too high but not low. He fits comfortably in the middle. He and his lover do not engage in primal desires daily but typically do not go longer than a couple of days without it

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

His eyes do not close nor does he leave his lover in the bed. His aim to stay with them after each time he and you have sex. Bi-Han holds you to him but often says very little or nothing at all. Yet he does not sleep, not until you do. He simply enjoys laying in your comfort and love until you are ready to sleep

#mortal kombat #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat fanworks #mortal kombat headcanons #mk1 #mortal kombat x reader #bi han #mk1 bi han #sub zero #mortal kombat smut #bi han x you #bi han headcanon #bi han x reader #sub zero x reader #sub zero smut

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alloftheimagines · 1 year

Text

joel miller | survive

masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

words: 4.7k

warnings: 18+! not for minors! please please please read the warnings and skip this one if you're uncomfortable with the subject matter.

episode eight reimagining with the same hard-hitting themes: blood, violence, cannibalism, sexual assault, killing, abduction, vomit. reader takes the place of ellie. angst. hurt/comfort. no happy ending as requested because i wasn't sure that could exist in these circumstances, but there is now a part two where joel takes care of reader and the fic ends on a lighter note.

prompt: Hi! Would love to request something for Joel Miller 🥰 Angst but with a happy ending, after seeing episode 8 I thought maybe reader is with Joel and Ellie, but this time Ellie stays back to keep an eye on Joel so reader gets kidnapped and is the one Joel basically comes back from the dead to save? hahshxdjfbf I just imagine them reuniting and UGH 🥹❤️ Feel free to ignore this if inspiration doesn’t strike!

tags: @sweetbabygirlsworld

You’re terrified of losing Joel. So terrified that instead of watching him shiver and sweat on an old, bloodied mattress as his infection spreads, you opt to go out and hunt. It isn’t solely selfish. You need food, and Ellie needs to rest. At least this way you’re doing something productive rather than waiting for a miracle.

Still, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything but the knot in your stomach, the one that keeps asking “what if?” What if Joel doesn’t make it? How will you survive past that grief for long enough to keep Ellie safe? How will you go back to Jackson and tell Tommy that his brother is gone?

You’re lost in those thoughts when you hear the crunching of snow, and you try to shake them away, readying Joel’s shotgun as you search for the source.

A deer. It’s so beautiful that for a second, you forget that it’s supposed to be your next meal. You’d forgotten beauty still existed in a world so broken, forgotten that nature can still be kind.

But humans can’t. Not if you want to survive; not if you want Joel to survive.

You take a deep breath. Adjust your posture. Shoot.

The bullet doesn’t hit where you want it to; where you know you should have been aiming if only you weren’t so distracted. The deer darts away. Whispering a curse, you follow the trail of blood —

And find more than you bargained for. Two men wait with the dying deer at their feet. They look… clean. Comfortable. Not people struggling to find food or clothing. You raise your gun again immediately, and theirs point back at you.

“Put your guns down,” you order, trying to sound braver than you feel. You did alright before Joel came into your life, but it’s been a while since you’ve been alone and it’s hard to summon the strength that used to come so easy.

“You first,” the darker-haired man says, narrowing his gaze.

The fairer man glances warily before slowly lowering his. Good. At least one of them is smart.

“Not going to happen. On the ground. Kick it away.” You shift on your feet, gripping your gun tightly and readying your finger on the trigger. You don’t enjoy killing people, but you will if you have to. If it means getting back to Joel and Ellie.

“James,” the unarmed man says, calm authority firm in his voice. The one in charge, then. “Do as she says.” He holds up his hands in surrender as his friend, James, finally puts his gun away. “We mean no trouble. We’d just like to talk.”

“So talk,” you bite out, making no move to lower your own gun.

“Alright.” His breath is visible in the cool air, nose pink and runny. “My name is David. This is James. We’re from a town just south of here.”

“Good for you. Maybe you should go back now.”

An amused smirk twitches at his mouth. “Thing is, we have a lot of mouths to feed down there, and this deer… it would keep us going for a week. Maybe two.”

“Shame it isn’t yours,” you say.

A short sigh escapes him. “Right. It is a shame. But if I could offer you warm shelter and good food, a welcoming community, why couldn’t we share?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not interested in negotiating.”

“With all due respect, ma’am… as far as I can tell, you’re all alone in these woods. There’s no reason why you have to be.”

It’s clear the other man, James, isn’t in on David’s kind offer. His mouth is pursed in a thin line, jaw grinding as though he’s holding back from saying something. Welcoming community, my ass.

Still, an idea strikes. You need something else more than you need the deer, and if this town has supplies… “You have medicine in this town of yours?”

David hesitates before dipping his head. “We do.”

“Antibiotics?”

“Yes…”

Hope swells in you for the first time since Joel was injured.

“If you put the gun down, we’d be much more open to discussing what it is you need,” he continues. “Please?”

Gulping, you slowly lower your gun — but you keep it in your hand just in case, stomach still filled with unease. Not every settlement will be like Jackson, and there’s something… off about these two.

“If you get me that medicine, you can have the deer.”

“We can do you one better. We have a nurse down in the village who can help you with your injury. If you just come with us…”

“No,” you say. “You’ll bring the medicine here, to me.”

Another strange smile. “You’ll be much more likely to survive the winter if you let us help you.”

Impatient, you raise your gun again. “Bring it or stop wasting my damn time.”

David lifts his hands again. “Okay. Alright. James, go and fetch what the lady needs.”

“David—” James begins to protest, but is quickly cut off.

“Go on now.”

Reluctantly, he does, and then it’s just the two of you.

“I know a place you can get warm,” he offers. “It’s just through the trees. An old greenhouse. No need to wait out here in the cold.”

It makes your gut twist, how he seems to be determined to get you moving, to take you out of these woods. And there’s a glint in his eye, something untrustworthy there — even his right-hand man seemed to see it. Nobody follows orders like that with pure reasons. He’s… scared, or at least threatened.

“I’m fine just here.”

“Okay. What’s your name?”

“I’m the one holding a gun, which means I’ll be the one asking questions. How many people are there in this town of yours?”

“Forty. Like I said, there’s room for one more. Perhaps it was God’s will, us meeting today.”

Oh, good, you think. He’s a God botherer. You didn’t particularly subscribe to religion before the world turned to shit, and you sure as hell have better things to do than pray now.

“Unless you’re not alone.” His voice seems to lower as though he knows something, and you stiffen instinctively. “Is the injury yours?”

“It’s none of your business.”

He no longer seems to be staring down the barrel of your gun, but right into you. “Because a few of our men had some trouble a few days ago. A man, a woman, and a young girl. Man was thought to be badly injured, you see. If he lived… well, I’d imagine that kinda wound would be susceptible to a nasty infection.”

He knows. He always knew. The raiders you crossed paths with, the ones who hurt Joel…

You no longer feel like the one holding the gun. You feel like the deer bleeding on the snow between you. Prey. Still, you set your chin. “I don’t know what you mean. I travel alone.”

“See, I believe you, but the thing is… my friend, James… he’s not so certain. I’d imagine that once he comes back with that medicine, he’ll be rounding up a few men to go hunting for these people. If what you’re saying is true, I wouldn’t want you to be caught in the middle of that. That’s why it’s much safer you just come with me now, see?”

Your upper lip curls into a warning snarl, finger twitching on the gun’s trigger. But if you kill him, you won’t get Joel’s medicine. You’ll lose him. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.” He debates this. “There’s a third option.”

“Not interested.”

“I think you are,” he pushes. “I think you’re one of them, and I think you’re trying to help your man. Very noble, but strange. You don’t seem a good match. You’re so… young, so calm, and from what I hear, he’s dangerous. Ruthless, even. A cold-blooded killer. Maybe if you come into town with me now, we can arrange for that medicine to be delivered without my brigade charging in and doing some damage. There’s a place for you. Your daughter, too. You don’t need to be tied to him anymore.”

You want to scoff, or else laugh in his face. Does he believe you’re that simple, that stupid? Does he believe you’re a fucking damsel in need of saving?

Anger simmers in you at the thought. “I think it’s about time you shut up.” You point the barrel at his head now, right between his brows.

He doesn’t balk, doesn’t tremble, doesn’t so much as blink, and you’re beginning to understand. He’s the type of man who uses religion to veil whatever monster lies beneath. He isn’t some small-town do-gooder, though he might believe it.

You dread to think what he might be capable of.

“I think it’s about time you drop your weapon.” The voice doesn’t belong to David. It comes from behind along with the feeling of cold metal against the back of your skull. You risk a glance over your shoulder to see the man from before, James. You should have heard him creep up, should have seen, but you were so focused on the one in front of you.

Your heart thunders as you realise you might not get out of it this time.

“We only want you to come with us,” David says, eyes round with feigned innocence. “That’s all. We don’t want to hurt you.”

“The gun to my head says otherwise. What would God say about this?” you retort, dripping venom because it’s all you have left.

A strange sadness crosses David’s face. “It didn’t have to be this way.”

Before you can pull the trigger, something heavy slams into your skull, and then darkness swallows you whole.

***

You wake in a cage, the taste of blood on your tongue and your wrists bound by rope. David is on the other side of the bars in what looks to be a kitchen, utensils hanging on the wall. Great butchers’ knives and cleavers wink at you in the watery daylight. You go cold with fear, crawling to the furthest corner of the cage.

“Let me go,” you say. “Let me go!”

“I’m sorry. It’s for your own good,” he says. “You were corrupted, but I can help you see the light again.”

“Why are you doing this?” You’re choking on a sob, thoughts of Joel and Ellie running through your mind. What if they found them? Joel is in and out of consciousness and Ellie can’t fight on her own.

David curls his fingers around the bars. “It’s God’s will. I was meant to meet you today. This is where you’re supposed to be.”

“In a fucking cage?” you spit, voice echoing around the kitchen. You pull at the rope until your skin splits, crying out when you realise this is it. There’s no way out. You’re trapped, and you have no idea what this man truly wants with you.

“This is merely a precaution,” he says. “I was wrong about you before. You are dangerous too. You have a dark heart, just like me. If you would just surrender, you could be part of this community.”

You squeeze your eyes closed, clamping down on a plea. You doubt it will do any good. Still, tears roll down your cheeks. “Fuck you,” you whisper.

“You don’t understand yet. You will.” David takes a step back, and somehow the prospect of him leaving you here causes your stomach to turn to water.

“Don’t do this,” you say. But he walks away with a glint in his eye that promises he will be back, and you’re left alone.

Dizziness rattles through you as you pull yourself onto your feet, testing the sturdiness of the bars in hopes you’ll find a weak spot. But it’s padlocked closed and the screws are in tightly —

Something catches your eye, pale and fleshy on the kitchen tiles.

An ear.

In the kitchen.

You vomit without warning as it all comes together. You wonder if the community even knows that their leader feeds them people. Wonder who was last in this cage and how long it took for them to become a meal.

You scramble against the ropes again and pray — not to whatever fucked up God David worships, but someone — that you find a way out.

***

“Joel!” Ellie shakes him frantically and finally he comes to. Sweat glistens on his forehead, his face drawn and pale, but he finally ate something earlier and she’s been keeping him hydrated as he drifts in and out of sleep.

Now, he frowns and hums in question.

“Y/N isn’t back. She didn’t come back, and now people are here.”

The sound of shuffling outside is only growing louder, and she keeps her voice to a whisper as fear grips her. It’s not like you to go more than two hours without checking in, even if you haven’t caught anything for dinner yet. That four hours have passed means something is wrong, and Ellie doesn’t know what to do, how to find you. She needs Joel. She needs you.

“What?” Joel struggles to sit up, the mattress groaning under his weight as he clutches his injured stomach. But he’s alert, awake, and that’s better than he’s been in days.

“She isn’t back,” Ellie says again, voice trembling now. “Someone’s here, Joel. They know about us.”

Understanding clears through the fog in his eyes slowly, and he looks up as he hears the floorboards creak above. “Shit,” he curses, dragging himself slowly to his knees. Ellie watches, pulling out her own gun. “Hide somewhere. Let me deal with it.”

He’s in no fit state to deal with anything, but when Ellie protests, he shushes her and orders her to do as he says, so she does. And as he readies himself for a fight he can’t win, panic rushes through him. You’re not back. Somebody is here.

He’s failed again, or at least is about to, and this time it’s you he’s afraid to lose.

He summons that anger when the silhouette slowly stalks down the stairs. Summons it a lot more when he’s throwing an arm around the idiot’s neck to squeeze the life out of him.

***

Joel has forgotten his injury. He’s forgotten anything but you; the thought of you alone, in danger, afraid. His fingers curl into fists at his side, and when the attacker finally rouses, he orders Ellie to leave the room. He doesn’t want her to see what comes next; who he becomes when he’s trying to protect the people he loves.

Nausea twists through him, but it mingles with anticipation. Some sick excitement. He’s good at being violent. Better at being vengeful.

“Where is she?” he asks, voice just steady enough to be assertive.

The attacker mumbles something, and Joel’s patience quickly dwindles.

“Who are you?” he asks, louder now.

The attacker shakes his head. Doesn’t want to play.

Joel brandishes his knife.

The attacker’s eyes widen in fear as he presses the point into his finger, ignoring the throbbing in his stomach. “You want to do this the hard way?”

“I'm not telling you anything.”

Joel tilts his head and clenches his jaw. Then in one swift motion, he’s gripping the arms of the chair the attacker is tied to, quivering with anger as he towers over him. “Last chance.”

The attacker purses his lips, and Joel steps back, watching him sink in relief — relishing in that false sense of security. Then he throws the first punch, the impact of fist to jaw singing through his bones. He shakes out his hand, punches again. Blood splatters, but he goes again twice more just for good measure, growing weaker with every blow. He stops when he realises that, knowing he needs to conserve his energy to get to you.

“Where the fuck is she?” he bellows.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

He plunges the knife into the attackers knee, the sound of bone crunching and flesh squelching as blood dribbles down his jeans and the attacker cries out. That’s when he begins to beg. That’s when Joel knows he’ll tell him anything.

“Alright!” he’s whimpering. “Alright, please!”

“Tell me where she is or I swear to god, I’ll pop you’re fucking kneecap off.” Joel drives the blade deeper, thirsty now. Desperate. He can’t do this without you. He needs you safe. If he finds out you’re hurt…

“With David!” he blubbers. “She’s with David in town!”

“What tooooown?” (oh, you thought I wouldn’t?)

“Silver Lake!”

“Who the fuck is David and what does he want with her?”

“He…” the man chokes on his own sobs again, and Joel tugs on the knife, earning a piercing scream. “I don’t know what he wants, okay? He’s the leader! He… he took to her, I don’t know!”

A chill crawls down Joel’s spine and his vision blurs as he pauses. His blood-drenched fingers tremble, and he doesn’t know how to make them stop. “What do you mean, he took to her?”

The man spits out blood. “He likes her. Wants her to join him. I don’t know, man. I don’t know. I told you everything.”

Joel wants to tear him apart then and there, but he pulls out his map, yanking the knife from the man’s knee to put the hilt in his mouth. The attacker howls, tears streaking down his cheeks. Joel wants to tell him he’ll do a lot fucking worse if he finds you harmed. He wants to say a lot of things, but cotton fills his mouth and he needs to find you. He needs to stop wasting time. “Point it out to me.”

“It’s not a real town. It’s just a fucking community. I don’t know.”

Joel grips the man’s collar, and his voice falls deathly low. “Point it out to me or I’ll make sure your other knee matches.”

It’s enough motivation for the attacker to pinpoint a spot. His blood stains the map, highlighting a small valley between the forest and mountains.

Joel puts the map in his back pocket and slits the man’s throat before he can beg for his life. He’s not feeling merciful today.

***

David comes back for you an hour later. “Have you reconsidered?”

You only glare at him, your wrists bloody and your eyes gritty from so many shed tears. To your surprise, he unlocks the cage. Despite your better instinct, you stay seated, stay calm. You won’t get out of this if you try to run now. He has the upper hand, and you’ll let him have it, hoping his arrogance, his underestimation of you, will be his downfall.

“You must be hungry,” he says. “Come. Let me show you what I can offer.”

Shakily, you rise from the ground. “Will you at least untie me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

He leads you out of your kitchen. When he’s not looking, you lean your back to the table and snatch an abandoned knife, slipping it up your sleeve.

The front of the building is laid out like an old, cheap restaurant and bar, candles burning and booths lining the windows.

“I’m glad you’ve calmed down,” he says. “Now we’ll get a chance to know each other properly.”

Slowly, you begin to saw at the rope with the knife as he leads you to a booth. Two plates are set at the table, a candle lit in the middle, and you think about the ear on the floor. Wonder if the meat in the stew is not animal, not your deer. You want to throw up again, but you swallow down the bile in favour of relief: the rope has snapped. You keep your hands behind your back as you shuffle in your seat, trying to avoid looking at the meal. The smell of it makes your stomach turn.

“What do you want from me?” you ask finally.

David places a napkin on his lap. “I’m showing you hospitality. Hospitality you haven’t earned, might I add. Where is your gratitude?”

“Where the fuck is my medicine?”

Without warning, he stands and slaps you, and you can’t control your anger as the sting prickles along your cheekbone. You throw your plate at him, the food splattering his face and staining his shirt, and then you run.

A mistake. He hauls you back quickly, and the two of you topple to the floor as he slams your wrist down, forcing the knife away. He pins your hands and then straddles you, and you know what comes next. You know, and you shouldn’t, and this isn’t happening.

“You need to be taught some manners,” he croons, taking your chin in his hands. “A girl like you… you need to learn how to submit. Especially when we’re married. But don’t worry.” He leans down as you squirm, whispering into your ear, “We have time for that.”

“No!” You shout, slapping him away and doing your best to wriggle away. But he’s heavy on top of you, and he’s reaching for his belt, and there’s no way out. No hope. Nothing. “Get the fuck off me, you sick bastard!”

He slaps you again, lash twice as hard this time, and you taste blood.

You refuse to let it end like this. You refuse to let him destroy you. You let your body go slack as he unbuckles his belt, reaching out a hand and scrambling for the knife again. It’s under a chair not far from you — you just have to wriggle a little further.

“It’s sad that you can’t accept that this is how it’s supposed to be. This is God’s will. You and me… we’re the same, underneath. We have the same violent heart,” David is muttering, and there, your fingertips brush the hilt. Determination renewed, you extend yourself again and this time the knife falls into your hand.

You don’t have time to think; he’s unbuttoning his jeans, and like hell are you going to spend another moment beneath him. You drive the knife straight into his neck, and his eyes bulge as he gurgles on his own blood. As he goes limp, you push him off you — and stab again, again, again, spitting every bit of revenge into your movements as his blood covers his skin and your clothes.

“You twisted fucker!” you’re yelling, tears rolling down your face as the shock draws in, the disgust. He’d been so close to taking you. So close to making you a victim after so long spent fighting to be a survivor. “Go to fucking hell!”

You only stop when the fear numbs and you realise he’s no longer moving. Blood soaks both his shirt and yours, and you push yourself off him. His dead, milky eyes stare at you. When you catch a candle guttering in your periphery, you grab it. Crouch with it in your hand. Light him on fire. The flames spread along his clothes, and that’s how you leave him.

Ashes. Bloodied, dead ashes.

***

Joel and Ellie have fought their way through a blizzard. He’s surprised he’s still upright, but he saw bodies hanging in the stable and he can’t collapse now. Not for Ellie, and not for you. This community is built on something worse than infected or fascism, and when he found your jacket, your backpack, in that same room as the corpses…

He can’t see anything but red and white.

Ellie stops behind him suddenly. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” He catches his breath, looking around. There’s a long building close by, but he hasn’t seen any movement yet.

A scream rents through the air, and he knows it’s you. His heart picks up, stomach plummeting as he runs around to find the entrance. And there you are, collapsing out of the doorway.

He says your name as he catches your wrist, and you instantly cower away, screaming. “Please, no! Please, don’t!”

He’s never heard you beg for anything before, and his world tilts on its axis. What the fuck have they done to you?

“Baby, it’s me!” He draws you close, cupping your jaw with his palms. Your eyes are haunted, face pale, and there’s blood. So much blood. You’re still fighting him, pushing on his chest, and he stumbles back. “It’s me. Look at me. It’s me, darlin’. It’s Joel!”

Your breaths are ragged as realisation finally dawns across your features. “Joel,” you whisper.

“It’s me,” he says again, eyes filling with tears.

Your gaze moves to Ellie, and only then do you crumple. He catches you just before you fall to your knees, straining against his injury. “Oh, baby. Oh, baby girl,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m here now. I’m here now. You’re okay.”

Sobs wrack through you and he wraps his arms around you, holding on so tight he worries he might hurt you. But you clutch his shoulders just as hard, fingernails digging through his coat. You shake beneath him, and his own tears drip onto his cheeks. He pulls away quickly to look you up and down. Blood streaks through your hair.

“Where are you hurt, baby? Tell me where it hurts.”

You shake your head. “I… I don’t know. I don’t know, Joel. I don’t…”

It’s like you’re not even here with him, and he wants to break. But he has to stay upright for you. He has to be strong for you. He shrugs his coat off quickly and puts it around you, catching sight of your reddened wrists as you adjust the collar. Those bastards tied you up. Hatred drowns him, and he looks at the building you emerged from only to find orange flames flickering in the window. It must have been you, he knows, and he can at least feel proud of you for that, but still, the thought of what they might have done...

“Alright. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He pulls you to his chest, offering his other hand out for Elllie. She takes it, looking shaky as she carries both her bag and yours.

“They were… They were eating people, Joel,” you say, voice thick and unrecognisable. “I just wanted to get medicine, and they took me. They took me. They were eating people and he was going to… He wanted…”

“I know,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “I know.”

You stop without warning. “They said they had medicine. You… We have to go back.”

“No, no, hey.” He laces his fingers through yours. “We ain’t going back there for anything.”

“The infection—” you protest.

“Look at me. I’m here. I’m okay. I just needed to rest is all. We don’t need any medicine now. We just need to get you somewhere safe.” His heart pangs. The fact you’ve been through hell and are still willing to go back to help him… sometimes he wishes you weren’t so damn selfless. He should have been the one protecting you today. It’s his fault you’re here. His fault you’re hurt.

You scrape your hair back and then, looking at your shaky fingers, seem to finally see all the blood. “His blood is in my hair.”

He can at least be relieved it isn’t your own, but the look on your face… he’s never seen so many scars written in one expression.

“I need to get it out. I need…”

“We’re gonna. We’re gonna help you clean up soon, okay?” He tucks your hair away, lost, because he doesn’t know how to do anything else. Doesn’t know how to make it all go away. “I’m so sorry, baby.” His voice cracks.

Your chest heaves with a stifled sob as you rub your hands and look out towards the lake. “Oh, god.”

Joel closes his eyes, wrought with regret. At his side, Ellie turns her gaze to the floor. It’s his worst fear come true. The reason he’d tried to get Tommy on board with taking Ellie the rest of the way.

He’d failed again. Was always failing.

All he can do is hold you close as you fall apart.

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cozycottagetarot · 4 months

Text

What Do They Fantasize About You 18+

How To Pick A Pile:

Everyone has their own technique for choosing a 'pile'. My recommendation is to clear your mind and focus on each image for a few seconds. The image you find yourself coming back to even when you focus on the other images is the pile for you.

Quick notes on this reading:

I'm experimenting with a different style. -- I've been working on shorter, less structured, formal pacs (and some longer ones). I'm not sure how I feel about it but I'd like to hear your thoughts too! It's 18+ but not explicit. -- I've always shied away from these kinds of readings because I didn't know how to make them authentic and within my comfort zone but I figured it out. It does involve sexual themes but it's not explicit (as in graphic or using strong language.) However, it is not intended for minors, so if your are a minor check out this one here instead.

It's purely for entertainment purposes. -- Don't think I need to explain more. Take what resonates be it all of it, some of it or none at all.

PILE 1

Your person fantasizes of just watching you. Admiring your body, naked or clothed. Watching you enjoy the little luxuries of life. They might fantasize about you being better than them in a way. I'm not sure what's the correct way to phrase it. More like you're of a higher status than they are, and you giving them your attention is enough. You letting them touch you, not even in an inherently sexual way, is a bonus. They might feel like their status is elevated when they get to be in or on your arm/s. They could fantasize about you turning them on or pleasuring them in a coy manner... You know you’ve got it (it being looks, charm, them wrapped around your finger) and you tease them about it-- but it’s so subtle, so gentle, it dances on the fine line of being oblivious versus intentional. Star/Starlet vibes. They love everything about you, all parts of your body gets attention. They could love your hair, especially if it's of lighter hues, or has red undertones (even for brown hair because some brown hair has hints of more yellow while others are more red).

For some of you it maybe that you’re mildly intimidated by them in some format. Shying away from them in some manner so they give off that let me worship you energy to get you more comfortable with them. Another vibe I pick up on is learning to love something about yourself and being more comfortable in who you are and they’re your cheerleader unconditionally cheering you on.

PILE 2

I feel like this is someone you had to warm up to. Their energy is one of being very doting, but the energy I’m reading for you is like "ugh, really?" When it comes to this person initially. It feels like someone who wants to reassure you (or wants you to reassure them), wants to make sure they are pleasing you in every and any way they can properly. This extends to outside of the bedroom. If you’ve got a craving, they’re off to get it before you can even think to bat your eyes. They’ve got eyes for no one but you. Heavy on the princess treatment. They may fantasize about taking control, but still in a gentle or compassionate way. They’re in charge but you’re still royalty for the day. They'd want to make sure you're comfortable and enjoying yourself (more than 'normal'). They may fantasize about having sexual encounters with you in places surrounded by nature. Not anywhere where you could be easily caught though. Fantasies of stealing you away from your responsibilities to have a moment with you. They may favour your chest. I'm also getting soft brushes of the skin with the occasional more forceful touch— how do I describe it? I've talked about this gentleness, but this is more like pulling you closer because they need you in your arms but it's a tad rougher than you'd expect. They could fantasize about light bondage as well. Getting you all dressed up and wining and dining you all while anticipating to take it off.

Pile 3

The energy here feels a little bit magical or unreal, like you two mirror each other greatly, or complement one another well. It's as though you two operate as a unit and less so two individuals trying to make something work together. I feel like that makes no sense but whatever. I very much get a "let's stay in and roll around in the sheets all day and night" vibe with this one... although it's more like any surface or room is fair game. This person may favour your behind over anything else. But it's very much a balance of both of you being in control. Very much in sync. There could be lots of taking turns or incorporating different sensory elements as well. An exploration of one another truly. Fantasizing about aftercare is another prominent possibility as well. Cuddling and pillow talk. There's also being spent after you two are through with each other. Or maybe it's a sense of relief and release. They may fantasize about you the most when they need to blow off steam, (they) just get lost in the thought of being with you. I actually repulled the cards (because there's always one pile) but a few of the same cards kept coming out and it was packed with major arcana. Justice, The Wheel, The Emperor AND The Empress. There’s also the Magician and while I'm not exactly reading the cards how I normally do, it feels like this relationship/connection isn’t ready yet. It's a feeling of something momentous that when it happens, you'll know. That's all I really pick up on there. They could fantasize about just staying in. Maybe both of you are under some kind of scrutiny respective to your social circles or careers. Leaders or innovators of some kind. Or maybe on a more general level, you’ve grown the resolve to not only wear your 'crown', that thing that makes you special, but own it too. A lot of abundant energy and energy of growth. They could really fantasize about shutting out the rest of the world with you.

Pile 4

This person seems so much in their feelings I don't know if to laugh, cringe, or cry for them. So much is going on in the cars, like an internal storm wreaking havoc on someone's life. There are undercurrents of them feeling or being selfish too? This person could be a traditionalist of sorts. It comes across as very possessive like they’re off their rocker worrying about you being into other people. BUT HEAR ME OUT! With my post-reading clarity, I think this person is a catastrophiser. So instead of 'hot fantasies' being at the forefront of their mind when thinking of you, anxiety, limiting beliefs or something else may get the best of them. It sounds absurd but if you've been there you know and if not then tell me your secret! Anyway, it could be long-distance relationship and that's the reason why. They may fantasize about being able to touch your body. They may like to play footsies. You could be very attractive and so they’re worried about losing you to someone else and it’s literally making them crazy. A third-party situation seems likely as well, real but most likely imagined.

Because this isn't a psych analysis, I pulled more cards. Quickies and stolen moments are the vibe for this pile. Initially, I wrote something about it that just seems so wrong but again I think it's more of not allowing oneself to fantasize about good things happening. I could only keep describing it as if being in the mind of someone tormented. Fantasies of finding home within you but something lingering in the distance, never really enjoying one to fully enjoy the moment unless their eyes are closed. They could have fantasies of having influence over you... being able to convince you to stay. (more so if you two are together physically instead of having to separate in distance again). Fantasies of holding you tight. Wishing they could give themselves to you fully.

While I was reading a song that came to me was 'Lose You' by Sam Smith — word for word that song embodied a lot of the emotions and energy I was picking up.

#pick a card reading #pick an image #pick a card #pick a pile #pac reading #cozycottagetarot

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 5 months

Note

Aita for telling my partner they smell bad and that I won’t have sex with them?

😅 to identify this later. Also, this is gonna feature talk about pubic hygiene and sex

Okay so, to set the stage, both me (M) and my partner (NB) are in our mid twenties with a small age gap. Both of us have had partners before but I think that I may have a lot more sexual experience than them

We met at work three years ago and became best friends, only recently falling in love and starting a relationship. I’d do anything for my partner and I love them to death. I’ve been treated really badly by previous partners so it was very nice to start dating someone who is as kind and considerate as my current partner

Unfortunately, the two of us have different ideas of hygiene down there 👇. I’m transgender, I haven’t had bottom surgery, and I have a vagina. I keep it clean and I keep my bush trimmed because I’ve discovered that hair really holds in unwanted smells. Honestly, I keep my downstairs ready to rumble at any time (a product of being treated terribly by exes and having an outrageously low libido)

My partner is… the exact opposite

They’re AMAB and have a penis. They don’t shave down there and have told me they only wash down there once a week or whenever they know they’re gonna be spending a lot of time with me. It doesn’t help that they naturally sweat a lot. I know they can’t control the sweat, but I’ve been with enough AMAB people to know how hygiene down there is supposed to work

Recently, we took a huge step in our relationship and had sex for the first time with each other, which is how I know most of the info above. They took off their clothes and what I first thought was a natural musk quickly became unpleasant. I hesitated and they asked if I wanted to stop what we were doing. I said no, but that I didn’t think I was ready for oral or penetration. I really didn’t want them to feel bad about the smell, nor did I want to ruin the moment, so we continued. Honestly, we still had a good experience and I’m excited to do it again with them.

Afterwards, they checked in on me and asked if they’d crossed any of my boundaries, referencing back to my hesitation and switch up. I didn’t want to lie to them, but I also didn’t want to hurt their feelings, so I said that I was fine while making the 😬 face, hoping to make the situation lighter and to make them laugh. They asked me if it was because of the smell, I nodded smally, and they started laughing while covering their face, mentioning how they’d specifically washed beforehand

I laughed with them and made self deprecating jokes about myself and how I could’ve performed better (also some searching for the clit jokes because they, uh, couldn’t find it like four different times and had to be instructed on what to do with it 😭), and we ended the night on a light note, but it’s been eating me up inside that I’ve made them insecure. All this happened last night and we haven’t talked yet. I don’t think they’ll bring it up, but I don’t want this to ruin our sexual relationship. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone who treats me so well that I’ve also had so much fun with

I’d completely understand if my instincts are right and that I’m the asshole for telling them that they smelled, but my friends say that I’m fine. So, tumblr, Aita?

TL;DR, my partner and I do the horizontal tango together, but I have to stop and change it up because of how they smell down there. Aita for telling them about it afterwards?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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undeadcannibal · 11 months

Note

Your honor I'd like to propose an amendment to the 🍆 head cannon post:

Curvature and distinguishing colors, features? Are they darker or the same shade? Lighter? Hair color? Texture? Who's got a lean? 🥎⚾s?

Summary: More requested ‘N.SF.T’ headcanons for Task Force 141, Los Vaqueros, and König~ Part 2 of this post here!

Genre: Headcanons, request(s) Characters featured: Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, Rodolfo, and König.

Warnings: explicit content!

A/N: Never did I expect for that other post to become as popular as it did. I’m happy y’all enjoy my gross and overly-detailed headcanons. Also, please note, if any of you happen to not like or find any of my hcs to be gross or not what you expected, keep in mind they’re just my headcanons. Don’t take ‘em seriously, dudes. Weird and rude replies will be deleted. ( Gif credit: xxx )

Gaz―

Not much of a curve to it, honestly, he’s pretty straight curvature wise. Distinguishing colors? I’d say his foreskin is the same as his skin tone overall, tip-wise? I’m thinking it’s a bit darker than the color of his lips and flushes an even deeper color when he’s fully aroused, mhm. Hair color of his pubes is dark and also has a some curl and texture to it when he does let it grow out for some time. Balls, too? Hm... I’d say Kyle’s sporting a nice, snug set he prefers to keep smooth and clean more often than not.

Bonus! Kink headcanon is that he adores you paying extra special attention to his balls. Worship them and he’ll be cumming all over your face in no time~

Ghost―

Slight upward curve that stimulates you in the best of ways. IDC what anyone says, man has a mouthwatering cock with a nice flesh-pink tip and anyone can fight me on it. Probably slightly darker than his overall skin tone but not by much. Pubic hair stuff... I’m torn between him being a natural dirty blond or brunet. (I can’t remember where I saw the fanart from, but someone has a headcanon that he bleaches his brunet hair blond and oof, I’m in love, also give him long ass roots since he can’t keep up with his root touch-ups while out on missions) Straight-ish texture to his hair as well, grows pretty smoothly altogether. THIS MAN has a thick vein running down the middle of his shaft, my lord. And finally, for his balls, I’m thinking he’s got a hefty set that he’s quick to push you down to so you can pay them some attention, expect some light tickling from the hair there, too. uwu

Bonus! Kink headcanon is he struggles with being submissive and prefers being dominant the majority of the time due to his trauma. He doesn’t like the idea of submitting to someone -- he’s far too afraid of what kind of consequences it could possibly have for him. This doesn’t mean he’s a sadistic or strict Dom. If anything, he’s hyper aware of your reactions to every little thing he does, also refuses anything hard or physical against you, he detests the thought of causing his partner pain.

Price―

Leans ever so slightly to the right, isn’t too noticeable though. Since he’s circumcised in my previous post, could probably notice a scar that separates light flesh-tone color of his shaft from the faint pink of his tip. Also, despite him preferring to trim his facial hair specifically, I’d see him as going fully natural bush-wise. Man’s got a lovely cushion of brown hair that’s got just the faintest amount of gray speckled throughout. While he looks very textured, I personally think his hair would be soft af. Large set of balls that droops a bit lower now than when he was younger~

Bonus! Kink headcanon for John is - if you’re willing - he’d love to use you as an ashtray when he’s smoking. He’d light up, take a few puffs, than order you to open your mouth so he could tap the ashes off onto your tongue. Ordering you to keep your mouth open so he can see the black and grey specks of ash decorating your tongue before having you swallow.

Soap―

Has just the slightest upward curve to him, definitely jokes it’s great for helping stimulate his partner’s g-spot. Also knows all the best camera angles for top-tier dick pics. Shade darker than his natural skin tone and also has a smidge of hair going up the bottom of his shaft. Doesn’t mind in the slightest though. As mentioned before, he prefers going all natural and doesn’t shave or trim much. Lord, the amount of hair this man has. Has treasure trail, hair thighs, ass, groin, everything. Sorry, I love hairy men, what can I say? Also, when he’s super pent up, his tips turns a deep ruddy shade you love to see every time. Balls are on the larger side with one being slightly smaller than the other, also very sensitive and will have him turning into a whimpering mess if you pay special attention to them.

Bonus! Kink headcanon is he takes every spare chance he can get to take and send nudes and videos of him jacking off. Doing his best to make those sounds you love whilst trying not to get caught by anyone. Those moments are for your eyes and your eyes only~

Rodolfo―

Sobbing because his cock is the same gorgeous shade as the rest of his skin, although can see the head of his cock and his balls being a tad darker. Maybe has a tad lean towards the left. Has trimmed dark hair that feels amazing beneath your fingertips. Balls are a bit on the larger side. Run your tongue over them and his dick will be twitching above your face in no time, also will draw up tight to him when he’s cumming~ Please spread this man’s thighs apart, he’s got beauty marks for days and will fucking tremble if you kiss and run your tongue over them!

Bonus! Kink headcanon is he’s got such a praise kink when it comes to his partners. The hottest thing in the world for him is for him to be showering his partner with compliments, feeling them clench tightly around him as his words register in their pleasured-addled minds.

Alejandro―

Much like Rudy, he’s a beautiful shade of tan all throughout, and his cock head is just as flushed and ruddy when he’s aroused. Much like Rudy, has a lean but his is the exact opposite, veering to Also is hairy just like Soap, but nowhere near to the same degree. If anything, man’s sporting a thick bush, hairy thighs, and legs. Also another man sporting thick veins throughout the length of him that he’s more sensitive about being touched than he’d like to admit. Large set of balls that do sag a bit but doesn’t mind in the slightest definitely likes to teabag his partner as a result if they allow him to

Bonus! Kink headcanon for our man is that he’s a sucker for sloppy oral, giving or receiving, but especially receiving. Nothing excites him more than seeing how ruined and messy he can make your face as he fucks it.

König―

Doesn’t really have much of a curve or lean to him, but rest assured he’s got veins for days lining his shaft. And, if you run your tongue along them, he melts on the spot. Perfect male whimpering audio material <3 The color of him is noticeably darker than the rest of him. That, combined with his beautiful sandy colored curls make for a mouthwatering view. Also has large, yet tight balls that are far more sensitive than he’d like. Overstimulate the big guy right now!

Bonus! Kink headcanon is that due to his size all around, he’s grown to have a liking for size difference with his partner being smaller than his. It’s pretty easy given his height, but more so it drives him feral to see his cock bulging his partner’s belly out with every thrust he gives.

#john price x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #simon riley x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #könig x reader #call of duty x reader #task force 141 x reader #los vaqueros x reader #cod headcanons #headcanons #'nsft'#opened mail #requests #my writing #lordsexmachine

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jawz · 4 months

Text

i’ve been thinking a lot lately about the way my ethnicity affected the way i was gendered as a child, my drive to transition, and even my detransition…

as a hispanic growing up with my white mom and white stepdad and white brother and white extended family in scandinavian hell (minnesota), i always felt different, always felt wrong. (my parents divorced as a baby, and my dad and his family, cuban and italian, all live in florida.) my neighborhood wasn’t so bad; it was way more diverse than the metro area itself. growing up i had mixed friends, i had friends with curly hair… but us trailer park kids were only a fraction of the population of our schools and district. a sea of blonde hair. there were times in elementary school i would literally pray to god to make my hair straight, make my eyes blue. grown-ups touched my hair and always asked “is it naturally curly?”. my classmates urged me to straighten it and by age 13 it was part of my ridiculously time-consuming “feminizing” beauty rituals.

much earlier, by the age of 8 or 9, i already had thick, dark hair growing on my legs. other kids, boys and girls alike, called me “gorilla girl”, faked gagging when i wore shorts, insisted i was actually a boy. that one became more and more common as i came into my personality: bold, class clown, competitive with the boys. (always wanting to charm the girls, but i didn’t recognize that back then.)

my mustache was there by 8, as well. just a little peach fuzz above my lip but dark enough to notice. are you even a girl? my mom would spread wax over her own face and soon began waxing my stache as well. it hurt so badly. i put up with it because she said it would make the kids stop teasing me. of course i was a girl- she was a woman and she had peach fuzz too!… but i felt self-conscious at the fact that my body hair was so much more noticeable, even as a child. my mother’s hair is very thin, straight, lighter brown; her complexion is warmer than mine, pink where mine is olive, green and yellow. i worried you could see the strands about to burst through. i was worried that to be a girl- a woman- i must hide parts of myself every day. i must cover the shoots of grass, the weeds that reveal that i’m not fit for society, that whisper i’m wild and untamed.

it wasn’t actually until i was 18 at least that i actually started to consider myself latino. i had sometimes said ‘hispanic’ growing up, as that’s what my family in florida called themselves; they referred to themselves as “spanish”, which i found out was not quite true after compiling my family tree and discovering that those ancestors emigrated from havana. in their minds they were white: “descended from spanish royalty” (as if!!)… i had spent my youth constantly trying to claim solely whiteness, confused as to why everyone was asking me “are you mexican?” “are you jewish?” “are you middle eastern?” - even though inside i think i knew. i knew my family didn’t look like me. i resented my surname being changed to Lind when i was five, my stepdad’s name, in order to give me the same name as the rest of them. despite my apparent envy of swedes and norwegians i knew it wasn’t my name; i still stood out terribly. i glared at myself in the mirror every day, i never could move past how the kids at school said my eyes were the color of shit, that my hair looked like pubes, that i must have had a sex change without being told because that would explain the mustache, the aggression…

by the time i was fourteen i was entirely primed to accept an alternative explanation to what was “wrong” with me. my sexuality was becoming more and more apparent but before i could ever come out as lesbian or even bi, i had discovered what it meant to be trans. i was so immediately certain that this was the key, THIS was why everyone said i didn’t fit in, THIS was why my behavior wasn’t girly, THIS was why i wanted to date girls. it was 2011, still deep in the “brain sex” era of the trans community, and i was sure without a shadow of a doubt that i was physically female, mentally male. all that needed to be done was to “correct” my body and bring it in line with my brain. despite the fact that very few people knew what transition actually was back then, i genuinely assumed it would make sense to everyone else, too: they had told me i wasn’t ‘really’ a girl so many times i had no trouble believing it.

transition, of course, did not suddenly de-latinize me LOL. first i became a total Other, outside of both the minnesotan ethnic norms and the gender+sex norms; eventually, with hormones and surgery at a very young age, i was able to pass as a boy, but by the time i could grow actual full-on facial hair, i realized i was still the pan-latin american enigma to people around me. multiple times someone would call me “sanchez” as some sort of attempted insult or joke. police looked at me differently than they had before. shop owners followed me, accused me of shoplifting. and sometimes, the white girls i dated told me that i was way cooler than all the boring white boys they knew. one girl even called me “exotic” to my face. it was, apparently, a compliment.

when i was 21 i heard that my girlfriend had referred to me to others as “a POC who identifies as white”. it felt as though she didn’t even know me at all. i’d never claimed either of those things to her.

moving to the west coast (socal specifically, where being latino/a is not considered ‘abnormal’) illuminated a lot of the bizarre and unnatural racial expectations of my midwest upbringing; i think by this point i was beginning to realize what so many things from my childhood had meant. that they weren’t really saying i was a boy. they were saying we don’t like girls who look like you, and we’d rather not have you included in our category.

it took me another three years to fully reckon with this. by the time i decided to detransition i had a much better understanding of the circumstances of my life; conversations with close friends who are also latina and have walked similar paths to me, heard similar insults, similar “compliments”, opened my eyes to the fact that i was not alone. i no longer feel weird for thinking the race/ethnicity boxes on government forms are hopelessly reductive. i know who i am and who i am not.

(around this time, i happened upon some old pictures of my dad’s side of the family. beautiful and glamorous women: adela, my uncle’s mother, the piano player; melanie, my aunt, the wife, hostess, and addict; lauren and andrea, my cousins, the restauranteurs; stella, my dad’s mamma, the widow and matriarch. and on all their faces, thick dark eyebrows, and, yes, that ever-familiar peach fuzz. i swear it healed something in my soul. despite my lack of beauty and glamor, we are not so different after all.)

that’s not to say all things are easy now. i’ve spent three years living as a GNC woman and if that wasn’t enough to confirm most all of my hypotheses on people’s perceptions of me, i don’t know what is.

detrans spaces (like most trans spaces) are overwhelmingly white- or at least that’s who dominates conversation. i see SO much downplaying of the things that naturally hairy women go through societally. i see trans allies who purport to be “okay” with detransitioners, saying “what’s the big deal? if you took testosterone you can just go off it and get laser hair removal!! :)” as if laser isn’t expensive as hell, painful as hell, and also WAY more of a process for a woman with dark curly hair than it is for one with straight blonde hair lmfao!!! i see detrans women obsessed with removing all traces of hair from their bodies (even though most of them clearly don’t have a neverending five o’clock shadow like some of us do! my lower face has a constant blue-green disturbance under the surface which makes female spaces incredibly daunting) and insulting the rest of us for being ugly and hairy and making no effort to look like women or what the fuck ever. basically, a lot of people who claim to support us are just racists and essentialists and believe that sex is visual and not biological…🤨

anyway… i guess my main takeaways from all this are:

1. please stop acting like detransition is an entirely internal process and that it’s easy for all of us to be seen as our sex again (some of us like. actually transitioned and passed as the opposite sex), or that potential physical interventions aren’t incredibly invasive and difficult

2. stop assuming all transition and detransition journeys follow your own experience of lifelong whiteness and hairlessness

3. it is a distinct experience to be regularly de-gendered or denied your sex, PRIOR to ever thinking of yourself as literally trans. many trans/detrans people had this happen to us (we were once the vast majority of trans people). but many did not, and generally shock others when they begun breaking gender norms. i really think people from the second group often have trouble understanding that for the first group, changing gender expression is basically a bandaid over an abscess… we have lived entire lifetimes being denied our sex, being told our bodies are not “truly” ours, that there is someone else inside trying to break out. kicked out of the bathroom, the changing room, alienated from single-sex peer groups. transition just flips this experience and instead separates us from our preferred gender group, reinforcing the feeling that we have no place, anywhere.

race/ethnicity, being homosexual or bisexual, mental illness stigma, disability, and low economic class all play an additional role in this. stop perpetuating this and denying us our biological sex.

#this is a toooootal rant lmao sorry but its been on my mind for a while.#kind of a culmination of two posts ive been wanting to make #detrans #detransition #ok to reblog

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