#think about it. they never consider it as an option. they just don't care. and then they EAT HIS BRAIN.

[mari-lair]

wha wha wha wha wha wha wha

what is this Mar-Chan??? what what what

I SAID I DON'T HAVE PROOF, KITTY.

I CAN NOT EXPLAIN MYSELF, WHY MUST YOU EXPOSE MY HOT TAKES?

#Don't get me wrong #regardless if he end up having a crush or not #i am a firm believer he loves and cheerish akane #and that akane is EXTREMELY important for teru #i stand by all the analyses i made on them #is just that?? #in my head at least #he is an absolute social dissaster #it would make way more sense if he didn't have a crush #he just mentioned that and it snowballed cause 1- he adore messing with akane #2- akane is his only friend and the guy is SURROUNDED by romance I'm sure it rubbed off #3 - just the sheer awkwardness or smugness he have when he talks about 'liking' aoi is suspicious considering how open he is with love #4 - he is absolutely planning something with aoi #and this give somewhat of an excuse (??) to hang out with her #5 - the most important reason of them all: i have a gut feeling #(which i know is not an explanation so i never did an analysis on it uygughu) #BUT if he does actually have a crush #which i wouldn't mind #i think akane would be the only option that made sense? #i never cared if terukane is canon #i love them regardless #and i'll still ship them if teru ain't got a crush in canon #cause i looove the interpretation that Teru is hopelessly gay for akane #i am a simple woman

[gremlingottoosilly]

Mafia!König X Prostitute/Sex Worker!Reader

He is a dangerous client. You knew this from the start - from the way your madam was looking at you with a mix of strictness and horror, with the way all the other girls refused to look you in the eye. This brothel was a pretty fine establishment by illegal standards - you weren't drugging yourself or your clients, and you even had security for the time's clients wanted to hurt you more than they were willing to pay for...and yet, you knew just how dangerous working here will be. You're sitting on the lap of danger now - and he is kissing your neck while drunkenly mumbling something about paying double to choke you and triple - to hug you afterward. You're not well-versed in the climate of local gangs, despite working at the brothel that was under the protection of one of them - you didn n't care about territories, bosses, Austrian mafia, Bosnian gangs, illegal German guns, and Czech cocaine. You think that you should have known more, should have known better - with the way this man hugs you, too tough to be considered comfortable, it's obvious that he is the top dog here. And top dogs are rarely gentle with their meat. He is not threatening you, which is surprising. If anything, he is a gentleman - pours you some good wine, as much as you hate drinking on the job, and even waits a few minutes of mindless chatter before taking off your panties. He is paying for the whole night, so he takes his time. Smiles in your shoulder blades as he covers you in kisses and marks. You do a good job at pretending to like it - but something in your lower tummy suggests that the fluttering feeling in your gut might not be just from pretending. "You like working here, Schatzi?" He asks as he tears your panties away and flicks his tongue over your pussy. That's a new one - men like him, the ones who have power and money, who have their homes filled with desperate souls, are rarely degrading themselves to being nice to sex workers. But he whispers little praises to you - or your cunt - and questions as he eats you out. You saw his dick, so you aren't complaining - you'd need all the help you can get. "It's better than other options" Being homeless and dead, you mean - but don't say. Men like him are paying for this sort of poverty to happen, to make desperate things like you to either hook yourself on drugs or on sex work. You don't even look in his eyes as he flicks his tongue over your clit again, in a sort of disapproving motion. "Hm. Consider yourself working for me from now on" You don't even ask what he means before your vision goes black. Perhaps, you should have never take him as a client in the first place. Konig is a dangerous man, after all.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #yandere cod #mafia!konig

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

So this is a weird ask but I figured an Actual Welsh Person would be the person to go to, and you've been pretty gung-ho about the language thing. So I hope I'm not bothering you with this.

Is there a cultural consensus on foreigners learning Welsh? I'm American and I don't have a single shred of Welsh ancestry. My family is historically German, and we've been here since the English Colony days, so it honestly seems really weird even to try to claim some tie to German heritage.

Anyway, my point is, I have absolutely zero legitimate claim to the Welsh language. I don't plan to travel to Wales in the foreseeable future. I have no reason to learn Welsh except that it sounds pretty and I enjoy a challenge.

Putting aside the issue of "lmao it's gonna be stupid difficult to learn an endangered language if you don't have anyone to speak it with" (I have a loose plan for dealing with that, and the experience of learning two languages to "can read most novels without needing the dictionary" level without anyone to speak them with in person already) entirely, do you reckon it's okay for me to study Welsh? I know Americans are really, really bad about just kinda assuming the whole world belongs to us, and I'm trying not to do that here. Especially because Welsh IS endangered.

I imagine your average Welsh person probably doesn't care what some random American does. But like, for people who care about the language...Would it be considered disrespectful or overstepping for me to study it? I don't expect you to speak for the entire country, of course, but I respect your opinion and I feel like you'd have a grasp on what the general feeling towards a foreigner like me might be.

Thanks for your time.

I honestly, truly, do not understand how the discussion around cultural appropriation has been twisted in the cultural zeitgeist to such an extent that people now feel anxiety about learning other languages.

This is not a personal attack on you, Anon - the gods only know that you clearly care and want to do the right thing, and that's beautiful and wonderful and also I will come back to extolling your personal virtues at the end of this post, so stay tuned. But I do want to take a moment here to talk about the broader issue at play, which I have seen echoed multiple times elsewhere, because fuck me what are we doing to ourselves.

Learn. Languages.

That is what languages are for! To be used for communication. If you don't learn languages, you are forcing everyone else to use yours. How have we somehow, as a culture, twisted that into being the less selfish option? How have we done that? I posted my favourite Welsh idiom recently, and someone reblogged it and wrote in the tags that they loved the idiom and would start using it, but they would do so in English because their "Welsh pronunciation would make their Welsh grandmother spin in her grave."

What kind of mental gymnastics is that?

How the fuck do you twist it so badly that you think taking a Welsh idiom for your own and exclusively using it in English is less offensive than saying it in Welsh but maybe a bit wrong? I've literally had people proclaim to me that they're learning Welsh on Duolingo but they never speak it because they're too self-conscious, and they tell me this not to highlight a massive flaw in themselves that they need to work on, but as though I'm supposed to pat them on the head and thank them for... still making me speak English to them.

There was that post where a Deaf blogger received an anonymous ask saying learning sign language is cultural appropriation, as though Deaf people haven't been calling for Sign to be taught in schools. As though a Deaf person being entirely isolated in everyday hearing society unless they have an interpreter with them is less offensive than a hearing person being able to use BSL.

Like, these are not sacred or religious languages. The purpose of Welsh or BSL or what have you is not to perform the Eleusinian mysteries. It's a living everyday language, same as English -

Except it's not the same as English. As Anon here so rightly points out, Welsh is endangered. That means we are desperate for people to learn it. That's how it will survive. That's how we reversed it from 'dying language' to 'living language', in fact - we managed to get lots of people to learn it. You know what is a threat, though? People not learning it because, like poor Anon here, they've been somehow convinced by Western society that you're only allowed to learn languages if you personally have a historic or cultural connection to them that you can prove via six forms of ID and a letter of recommendation from a druid. Or people never using it because they're too embarrassed to try and risk losing face by getting it wrong, or maybe sounding a bit silly, and thus forcing us to use English anyway. Those are threats.

Anon. Listen to me, feel the sincerity of my words: we adore you. We adore you. You cannot imagine how appreciated it is when someone learns Welsh. You cannot imagine how touched we are that you wanted to, that you tried, that you respected us enough and considered us valid enough that you made the effort. Our closest neighbours are the very people who are still trying to stamp out Welsh to this very day. Do you know the number 1 reaction I get, by a country mile, when I tell English people that I speak Welsh? It's some variant on a scoff, and the sentiment "Why? What's the point? Bit useless, isn't it?"

By a country mile. That's the reaction I expect, and brace for, and is overwhelmingly what I get.

So when someone who isn't Welsh actually chooses to learn Welsh?

Imagine what that feels like! To go from not-even-hidden disgust, from outright mockery and often active suppression campaigns, to a foreigner earnestly telling me that they love and respect my language so much they're trying to learn it. Imagine how that feels.

Please learn Welsh. Please learn it. We will love you for it. We will build you a statue. We will bake little Welshcakes with your face on in icing sugar. We will write you poems in complex rhyme. We'll name an Eisteddfod prize after you. We'll name at least, like, three sheep after you. Thank you, thank you so much for even wanting to learn. You're a delight and a marvel and a wonder. Your hair looks great today, as it does all days. You're a strong, independent human being of immense wisdom and compassion. If this were a Welsh myth you'd be a wise salmon the heroes came to for advice. What a fantastic human.

The welcome awaits if you choose to learn

#linguistics #asks #long post

[lunarw0rks]

I feel like Graves would end up with a really soft and innocent s/o just because he loves being the 'strong man' lol and even though they're maybe even smaller than him all sweet and shy- he is absolutely whipped for them! Especially if they can cook and be a lil housemaker for him??

♡♡♡ warning(s): nsfw + sfw, fem!reader

─── graves and his homemaker s/o ❤︎₊ ⊹

there's no one on earth more loved and adored by him, despite the stigma surrounding the dynamic you two have. he doesn't pay any mind to their judgements. in his heart, he knows how tender he is with you behind closed doors. and in yours, he hopes.

you never pictured it to end up this way. before, you were like any adult. busting your ass at work, ending each week exhausted and struggling to buy yourself groceries.

and then you met him. chivalrous and borderline self-obsessed. but you weren't being patronized when he acted with traditional courtesy. you weren't a body to be claimed or a trophy to hang on his arm.

you were merely his. all his within months of meeting, and that meant you were to be taken care of. spoiled rotten, some would say. what better way to have it? compared to your old life of hardship, it was paradise.

everything paid for, without a second of hesitation. what little savings you had idle in your bank account, untouched when he's around.

he can and will take care of you — in every way. it's in graves' nature to provide.

no different than he does for his men, only you've been appointed the privilege of seeing the gentler side of him, when the uniform of a commander is rid of his scarred body.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈nsfw under the cut!

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙˖⁺₊˚⊹♡ it's only fair, to be taken care of in every way possible. you've been so good to him, so good for him, right? there's no quicker way to his heart, than someone who enjoys being smothered with his praise.

what better sight, than opening the door and seeing you concerning with such trivial things. he spent the day making life or death decisions, and you're there; concerned with which centerpiece looks best on the dining table. some men would see it as a means for competition, or a degrade — but graves finds it irresistible.

the house smells divine; your scented candles, the fragrance you spritz, and whatever you have baking in the oven. he can practically feel the tension leave his shoulders, how his senses come alive when greeted with the comfort of your shared home.

you've dressed nice for him again, though he always gave no pressure for you to do so. clothes to match the summer heat, hair styled and pinned back to stay out of the way.

you, in your domestic, relaxed state — the one thing better than all the trivial pleasures in life, better than the house you were both standing in.

though you usual greet him, you're immersed in the centerpiece debate. you hold the two pieces up to him, "do you think I should go with the silver candle candleholders? or how about the brass ones?" it's a genuine question, but it's only met with an amused scoff — a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

graves sets aside his luggage, stepping closer to you and your very concentrated gaze. "why do you ask me, sweetheart? it's up to you. and if you don't like 'em, we'll go buy more." he examines the decor in your hands briefly, but his eyes end up back on you permanently.

"just want it to look nice in here," you sigh at his dismissal, turning away to resume contemplation. "we have that supper planned in a few weeks, don't we?" you add, setting the options back on the oak table.

as if the place could be more meticulously decorated. there was barely a trace of him in this house, except for his nightstand and office. you had free reign to adjust the home to your taste, considering you were the one who spent most of your time there.

a gentle chuckle rang from him, followed by a click of his tongue, "don't think it can get much nicer in here, darlin'. i reckon you've left a touch on just about every inch of place, haven't you?" you shoot a flustered look, even though his words are truthful.

it was a silly dilemma, considering not a soul would be criticizing your centerpiece decision. "oh, c'mon, don't do that face... my guys will eat anything you slide in front of them, you know that? could host the damn supper in the closet and you'd charm the daylights out of 'em." he says, soothing every worry down to a simmer rather than a hard boil.

he's definitely good at shutting you up. only, in the most embellished of ways. without fail, a charmed smile spread on your face — as did a surge of warmth. graves cupped one of your cheeks, running his thumb along it, "see? much better than a scowl. now, tell me, what's cooking?"

"you know the rules. i can't tell you until the timer beeps. besides, it's supposed to be a surprise." you replied, making a meek escape from his gentle grasp. displayed on the small screen; eight minutes remained.

with a hasty yank and then a stumble on your end, your back was against his chest. "i don't like surprises, do i?" you felt the sensation of his teeth nibbling along the side of your neck, all in the midst of his patterned kisses. when he was this close, he got deep whiffs of your intoxicating perfume, the freshly shampooed hair on your head, the detergent you insisted he buy. heart-stopping — like it was every time he pulled you close.

it was true, he hated them. the tickle of his lips made you squirm — a futile attempt to slip away and leave him hanging. that never worked, and you knew it. "we're down to five, time's a-wastin'."

somehow, someway, neither of you made it up the stairs this time. all he did to prepare was send the stacks of mail flying from the island; the one you found yourself sitting on. graves stood between your legs, his caressing fingers your means of preparation. though, by the times your legs were exposed to the breeze — you and your body were eager enough for him.

the minutes decreased no matter how hurriedly he moved, and he always stuck to his rules. if there was a time limit, he'd get it done before zero.

"been thinking about you all day," he breathes. "by the looks of it, you have too, sweetheart." his tip prodded at your slick entrance, while the other hand hooked around your thigh to keep it hiked up with ease. wasn't the first time he ravished you on the kitchen counters, it certainly wouldn't be the last. slowly at first, then all at once — he thrusted inside of you.

once he got situated, there was no stopping him. every rock of his hips was purposeful and deep, yet his kisses remained delicate and tender. your moans muffled against his mouth, his lips pinkish and coated with saliva as it roamed your warmed face.

soon, your back was flat against the island with your legs still hanging off and in his grip. with every methodical movement, your walls tightened around his length and edged him closer to a finish. by now, you were certain your appearance was faulty; either ruined by sweat or the constant hands graves had on you.

despite being close within the first few minutes, he had gotten carried away ogling you. your gasps, your squinted eyes, the teeth indents on your bottom lip from how harshly you sunk into it. however, now there wasn't any restraint left in him. the tight coil in his abdomen begged for release, no matter how much stamina that remained in his body.

as the clock struck zero, he bottomed out with the force of his whole body — spilling every last drop inside of you. the oven beeped three times, as if on cue.

a string of curses against your lips as he leaned down to kiss you, sneaking in a few sloppy thrusts afterward. "i'll make it up to you later, make it worth your while." he pecked along your jaw, adjusting the strap of your top that had slid down your arm.

"it was worth my while." you replied between catching your breath, voice still quivering slightly.

he chuckled, fingers still playing with the fabric, "so, what's cooking? have i earned my right to know?" he was right; you always told him once the meal was ready, and that's what it was right now. the aroma hit your nostrils, as intoxicating as he found yours.

your eyes flicked over to the digital screen, still flashing and urging you to remove the pan, then it beeped for a second round as a reminder. "just a roast your mom taught me. thought you would've recognized the smell by now." you uttered, tracing your fingers along his blond stubble.

"hm, something must've distracted me, darlin'," he ran a tongue along his bottom lip, now gazing with admiration rather than hunger.

then, his brow raised with interest. both in humor and intense dread he added, "you've been calling my mother?"

#mw2 #call of duty #task force 141 #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves smut #phillip graves cod #graves x you #graves smut #graves x reader #graves headcanons #commander graves #shadow company #task force 141 x reader #141 headcanons #cod headcanons #philip graves

[chrolloluvr]

Adam, Mammon, Alastor and Lucifer if S/O is on their period

Note: AFAB!Reader, not proofread, (should I make a story out of mammons??)

Warnings: Mentions of sex, minor degrading?, fluff 🥺, cute moments

Adam 🕊️:

He has an idea of how periods or the menstrual cycle work. In his time of being married to Eve and Lilith, he basically just let them handle it themselves. But with you, thats not how it works

When you get moody swings, he tells you that your being dramatic.

"Babe what the hell? Take a chill pill, jesus."

Please slap him across the face.

When you get cramps, he will throw you some Pepto bismol and call it a day.

If you send him to the store, he will ask you what flavor tampon you want (???), and if he can have a visual representation on what size he needs.

He tried to FaceTime you 15 times...

Had to disguise himself so nobody knew he was there.

He will offer to have sex with you, since that was what seemed to work with his other two wives

Goes out and buys you snacks, but he forgets that you're on your period so he mostly bought them for himself.

Asks Lute for advice, since he isn't a girl.

You end up with your head resting on his shoulders, while you sit in his lap. He will call you a drama queen, but he will still comfort you.

Mammon 🕸️:

He knows literally nothing about periods or the menstrual cycle.

He never really cared to learn anything about it either, since he had never taken any romantic interest in anybody until you. He considered it a waste of time.

When you have mood swings, he does not take you seriously, and he will probably baby you.

"Awhh, dont get your thong in a twist sugar. Now calm down before i have to hold your ass down-"

When cramps roll around, he will just put his hand over your lower stomach. And just, leave it there? He thinks it helps you, so don't argue with him or he will back off of you.

When you send him to the store, he asks you for your pussy size...

Will FaceTime you, and show you all of the options.

Gets stopped and asked for photos multiple times, so it takes him like an hour.

He ends up getting you Nutella, pads, and a menstrual cup, because he thought it looked funny. He even jokes about it being his next big product.

Offers to eat you out. Yes, while you are on your period. He is a freak. He does not mind getting his mouth bloody. I HC that he actually prefers when you are on your period, because he likes the metallic tase and smell it emits.

Wont let you out of his sights during this time. He will let you lay on top of him while you two watch your favorite show. And he will hand feed you the chocolate and say,

"Heres comes the choo choo train cutie 😙"

Lucifer 👑:

He knows a lot about the menstrual cycle and how it works. He was very attentive to Lilith during their marriage.

When you get moody, he will distance himself from you, not wanting to add more fuel to the fire.

"Hey honey, I just wanted to check in on you, see how you were doing, you know-"

When you have cramps, he hates seeing you in pain, so he will heat up a heating pad and rest it on your stomach.

When you send him to the store, he goes in a disguise. He will call you and ask what specific products you want.

He ends up getting you strawberries, chocolate, medicine, etc.

He treats you like you are sick. Will force you to stay in bed under his supervision.

Will also offer to eat you out. He just wants to make you feel better, and he is an expert.

He will spoon-feed you medicine, and turn on your favorite show. He will snuggle up against your chest and fall asleep.

Will ask Charlie for some advice and help. He really does care for you deeply. So he just wants to make sure you are content and satisfied.

Alastor 🦌:

Knows quite a bit about period and the menstrual cycle.

When you get moody, he will also coddle you like Mammon. Will purposely try to get you more upset. But stops after a while, since he is a gentlemen.

"My little doe, lets stop with this tantrum. Your a big girl, aren't you?

When you get cramps, he will come up behind you and trap you in a bear hug while rocking the both of you. He will do this while using his thumbs to rub your shoulders.

Instead of the store, he goes to Rosie and asks her for supplies and advice. He hates seeing you upset, so what better of a person to ask for advice from than his long time friend Rosie?

He will not want to do anything sexual with you. Not because he does not like getting bloody, (he has, and isn't afraid to.), But because he does not want to possibly hurt you.

He will try to stay near you as much as possible. He maaaay even let you touch his ears if you look up at him all nice and cute.

Tells you a story, or will turn on the radio for you to both listen to.

#hazbin hotel #helluva boss #adam hazbin #adam x y/n #adam x you #adam x reader #Mammon hb #mammon x reader hb #mammon x you #mammon x y/n #hb mammon #adam hazbin hotel #stolas helluva #lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer x you #lucifer x y/n #alastor #alastor hazbin #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x y/n

[hikarry]

So, I was rewatching season 1 and got stuck in that scene between Shadwell and Aziraphale in the bookshop.

What if Aziraphale never stepped into the circle? What if the fire never really happened?

Imagine:

Shadwell is lost in his shenanigans, ready to banish Aziraphale to whatever place witchfinders banish witches, and Aziraphale is slowly walking backward.

"Oh, but this is utterly ridiculous." He stops on his tracks, looking Shadwell in the eye. "I'm sorry, good man, but I have no time for whatever silliness is happening right now. If you don't mind, I have an Armageddon to stop." Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and Shadwell disappears, reapearing a few streets over at the other side of Soho. There surely he wouldn't get in the way.

Careful not to step on the active circle, Aziraphale leaves the bookshop and flags down the first cab he sees. The driver stops right in front of the bookshop, and he gets in, giving him Crowley's address in Mayfair.

The last time he called, the demon was home, so that's exactly where Aziraphale hoped he remained. With a bit of luck, he hadn't left for Alpha Centauri... Now that he thought about it, he mentioned having an old friend over? As far as he knew, he himself was the only friend Crowley had, so that statmebt now sounded like a load of nonsense. But whatever. He just needed to speak with Crowley, old friend present or not. Heaven clearly wanted the war to happen, and he had been naive to think they would see reason. The only chance the Earth had of surviving now was the angel and Crowley. He could only pray it wasn't too late and Crowley wasn't gone. He knew where the Anti-Christ was, after all. They could stop this!

When the cab stopped on the street of Crowley's building, Aziraphale paid his fare and threw a quick blessing in the driver's direction for his speed and efficiency before crossing the street and entering the complex.

He had been to Crowley's flat once or twice in the last 20 years. All he had to do was go through the entrance, get on the lift to the last floor, and walk down the corridor towards the last door. And that's exactly what he did, always fiddling with his fingers in a show of the nervous energy that seemed to take over him. They were running out of time. The end of the world would occur any minute now, and Crowley needed to be home. They still had to drive all the way to Tadfield's airbase, and the clock was tickling rather ominously inside his head.

Finally in front of the door to Crowley's flat, he knocked. A few seconds passed with no response, and he decided to knock again, stronger now, but he got exactly the same result.

Aziraphale looked around the hallway, taking a deep breath and smoothing his waistcoat, considering his options.

"Crowley?" He ended up knocking again. "Crowley, we need to talk!" Silence. "I know you're cross with me after our last conversation, but you were right. I talked to the Metatron. And they want the war. As I told you on the phone, I know where the antichrist is, and it would be very nice of you if you opened the door so we could get a wiggle on and stop the Apocalypse." Once again, he was met with silence.

Was it possible? Did Crowley actually leave for Alpha Centauri? He was here minutes ago! He couldn't have left already, right?

Oh, bless it all. He wasn't going to waste any more time.

With a final deep breath, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the door unlocked. He opened it slightly, peering inside.

"Crowley? I'm sorry If I'm intruding but this matter is rather urgent." All he got in return was silence. Not a single noise from the demon himself or the so called old friend.

He pushed the remainder of the door open and stepped inside, silently closing it behind him. He looked at the living room, but it was empty of any living soul, apart from the plants on the far wall.

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale called again, now walking towards the office to the left. The door was slightly ajar already, so he spied inside. It looked empty, but he walked in regardless, almost stepping on a pile of goo right there in front of the floor.

"What the...?" He looked down, stepping over the weird substance.

It smelled weirdly of sulfur and...was that Holy Water?

His head snapped to the desk, where he found the thermos he had given Crowley back in the 60s, the cap unscrewed by its side.

Suddenly, he felt his heart stop, and his veins turn into ice. His body gave an involuntary step back away from the smudge, his back hitting the throne as he lifted a now trembling hand to cover his mouth.

No. This couldn't be happening. He would-! Crowley certainly wouldnt-!

A sob escaped his throat as his whole body started shaking.

Oh lord. This was a nightmare. It could only be a nightmare. This wasn't real. Couldn't possibly be real.

Oh Crowley...

Aziraphale's legs failed him, and he ended up on the floor, back leaning against the side of the ridiculous throne Crowley liked so much. Not that he would like anything ever again because he was gone. Crowley was gone. And it was Aziraphale's fault. He was the one who gave him the cursed thermos against his better judgment. And now all his fears were laid bare right in front of his eyes.

Another sob escaped him and he let the heartache take charge, spilling warm tears down his cheeks.

Crowley was gone. The Apocalypse was coming and Crowley was gone. Not to Alpha Centauri but actually gone. Utterly destroyed. And all that remained of his best friend was an unidentifiable goo. Not a trace of Crowley remained.

He hugged himself, hanging his head low, letting the tears fall on his crossed arms and allowing the wretched sobs to take over. He couldn't bear to look at it a second longer. The smell of sulfur and Holy Water was starting to get nauseating.

Well, contrary to popular belief, Crowley was actually very much alive, speeding through the streets on London in the direction of the bookshop. He parked in his usual place and snapped his finger to open the doors of the building.

"Aziraphale?" He looked around, quickly spotting the active circle. Lifting an eyebrow above his sunglasses, he carefully walked towards it, still searching for any trace of the angel. "Aziraphale, are you here?"

The circle was still active with holy energy, so no one had actually stepped through it, and Aziraphale was clearly not in the bookshop, so where could he possibly be?

With a sigh, Crowley turned around and went back to the Bentley. He drove around Soho for a bit, trying to spot some blond curls in the crowd but falling short of success.

"Aziraphale, where the bloody hell are you?" He muttered to himself, carefully scanning the streets, until he gave up, changing his course back to Mayfair.

He needed to regroup. Without knowing where Aziraphale was and without the information on the antichrist he apparently had, Crowley needed to think.

He made his way back to his flat without paying much attention. When he noticed, he was already unlocking the door with his key and stepping inside. And, as soon as he did so, he heard it. Sobs coming from the office. That was...bizarre. Could it be Hastur? Had he figured out a way to leave the answering machine, and now he was crying over Ligur? Crowley almost laughed at himself with such a thought. Hastur? Crying? Now, that would be a sight he would pay to see.

Still, in the name of caution, he slowly made his way to the office, trying to be as silent as possible, when he quickly spotted the angel he had been looking for throught the wide open door, sitting on the floor besides the throne, arms around himself and face hidden while his whole body shook and heartbreaking sobs escaped his vocal chords.

Carefully and confused, he approached, stopping short of the door.

"...Angel?"

Aziraphale's head snapped up, staring at him with wide eyes, his face marked by tears.

"...Crowley?"

"Yeah." He slowly walked his way to the angel, careful not to step on Ligur, squatting in front of him. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He was still staring at him with clear confusing in his eyes, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly until he finally appeared to have found his voice again:

"You-! The-!" Aziraphale's body trembled, looking over Crowley's shoulder and then back at the demon. "You...you're gone!"

Crowley raised an eyebrow, clearly confused.

"I just went to the bookshop searching for you, but when I arrived you weren't there already." Aziraphale shook his head, some more tears escaping his eyes along with a single sob. "Hey, hey." Crowley placed his hands on his shoulders, squeezing them. "What's-?" And then that's when it suddenly clicked inside his head. He looked up at the empty thermos on his desk and back over his shoulder to what remained of Ligur. "Oh, Aziraphale. No, no, no." His hands moved up to Aziraphale's face, forcing him to look up at him, his thumb brushing away some of the new tears running down his face. It burned considerably; angel tears were holy water after all, but right now, that wasn't his focus. "That's Ligur. I used the holy water to make a trap for him and Hastur when they came to take me." He brushes his thumb through Aziraphale's trembling lips, leaning in closer. "That's not me, angel. I'm alright."

Aziraphale sniffed, trying to regain control of himself, but failing miserably.

"I-I thought you were dead. I thought you had used the Holy Water. I thought-"

"Shhh." Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, leaning his face against his, pulling him into an embrace. They had never hugged before, so it felt a bit strange. Awkward even. "I'm right here. That's not me." The angel grabbed handfuls of his shirt and pulled him closer, burying his face on the crook of his neck, taking deep breaths. "Yeah, that's it. Breathe." He ran his hand through his curls, trying to soothe him. "Everything is alright. I'm right here."

After a while, Aziraphale finally calmed down and moved away, just enough to be able to look at Crowley's face. For a moment or two, they just stared at each other. Aziraphale's red rimmed blue eyes looking right at Crowley's yellow ones; his sunglasses had ended up on his head at some point. The angel's eyes slipped down to the demon's lips for a second and Crowley's licked them involuntarily, before his gaze went back to his eyes.

"You were right." Crowley tilted his head in confusion. "I talked to the Metraton. They want the war to happen...The Anti-Christ..." Aziraphale mumbled those last words.

"Right." Crowley stared down at Aziraphale for a couple more seconds before getting up, offering his hand to the angel to help him do the same. "You said you knew where he was?"

#alas Aziraphale and crowley got away from me once again #this was supposed to be a short lil thing but instead i created a monster #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #anthony j crowley

[natsglorifiedsimp]

Something Changed 2

A/N: You guys asked for it.

Taglist: @queen2234 @pipsipey17 @casquinhaa @natashajumpinoff @natsxwife @dark-hunter16 @i-lovescarlettjohansson @mrsrushman @tropicals-things @alianovnasposts @nova-kyle @jusnough @splzq @yellowthingsstuff

Part 1

Tasha's POV

"Hey, Maria!" Natasha called.

Natasha noticed the subtle eye rolling of Maria. She squinted her eyes. It was unusual for Maria to act like that especially cause she's been helping her get to date you.

"What do you want Natasha?" she grumbled.

Natasha was taken aback by this. "Jeez, I'm just asking about Y/n." another eye-roll was given to Natasha. "Have you seen her? I haven't seen her on campus."

"Glad you noticed, Natasha" she sarcastically said. Maria feigned a thinking posture and started to glare at Natasha, "Let's see hmm" Maria said with diction.

"How about the fact that you've been ignoring her since you and Wanda dated and now she's gone off to Los Angeles leaving us behind because of you!" Maria gritted her teeth trying to contain her anger because you were in the hallway where students were passing around thinking Natasha and Maria were doing a secret drug deal.

"W-what?" Natasha stuttered. "I-I haven't ignored her."

"Save me the drama, Natasha. All you think about is yourself." Maria said.

Natasha was so confused. She didn't know what she did to you. She hurriedly texted you, hoping you'd give her some explanation but all was left delivered. That's not usually you. You always reply as soon as you see the message pop.

Natasha back reads you guys' conversation. Seeing if there were any clues on when are you going to LA or something that would hint at anything.

But all she saw was how she neglected you. She could see in every message how much you needed her. She missed your rants, your rambles, and everything that you guys would do when you hang out.

She broke her promise.

Y/n's POV

LA was different. The school was fine so far. No one dumped milk on your hair yet. No one made fun of you yet. And you were hoping it would stay that way.

The new environment was hard for you. It is hard to start a conversation with people when you don't know who they are. Natasha always does the talking. But somehow in this world, you are the one who needs to adjust.

Even if the people were friendly, throwing a smile at you or saying hi, somehow you still felt timid and awkward. You were scared to make friends.

Cause you know they will leave again.

Natasha did. What could any of these peer's differences be?

You cried every night knowing you had no one cared. That even if you consider them your best friends they will never think of you the same way. You were an option. You are a pawn to someone's real agenda.

You cried because you knew how much you cherished friendships. You knew to yourself that you would care and love people and go out of your way just to be there for them.

But somehow with you, it was always the opposite.

You are left alone, and when you thought someone cared...

She never really was.

Natasha's POV

She tried calling you a million times, even called your parents just to have a chance to talk to you. To apologize. But you were too far gone.

She may have found the love of her life but she left you. She left you feeling like she didn't care. She disregarded your feelings and put herself first. She took advantage of you.

Natasha regretted everything that she did. Everything that she broke. She knew how much you value friendships and she also knew how to break it.

There were no more Y/n. The laughter you shared is now a glimpse of memories that she wished would last forever. Love may have come her way but she didn't have to run you over just to find it.

You were her person.

But i guess...

Loving involves losing right?

#Time to torture people #natasha marvel #natasha fanfiction #natasha alianovna romanova #natasha romonova #black widow #natasha romanov #natasha x you #natasha x reader #natasha x y/n #natahsa romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff angst #black widow x you #black widow x y/n #black widow x female reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff x you

[lorelune]

bathtime

|| blade x reader || M || captive reader x necrobiome blade || wc: 5.1k  || ao3 || previous + next ->

Even the best bath water will find it difficult to cleanse 'sin'.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c welcome to part 3 of the architect-verse :3cc been cooking on this one for awhile 🙏 yandere blade is such a guy and scummy manipulative mommy kafka is so fun to write :3ccc thank you for beloved @ofmermaidstories for doing a read through on this one 🥺♥!! enjoy enjoy enjoy 💓

CW: dark content, yandere blade, captive/pet reader, discussions of noncon, references to past noncon on blade while he was underage and as an adult, references to past noncon on reader, use of the word rape, violence/thoughts of violence, past yingxing/dan feng, toxic blade/kafka

It’s normal for Blade to return to the Stellaron Hunters’ main vessel covered in assorted types of gore. Scraps of rent flesh, smears of blood, bile, scales— tendons and sinew wrapped under his forearms, clinging from the pressure of impact light-years away. The smell of it clings to him, still fresh, just barely beginning to rot. He stews in it during his typical return in small, covert starships. He half-suffocates with the stench of death.  

This is typical. Blade does not carry any opinion about it. If anything, he welcomes the potential of asphyxiation, though it never comes. 

Most routinely, Kafka will greet him as he returns and take him to clean up. Occasionally, when she is indisposed, Silver Wolf will be forced to hose him down in the communal gym shower or Sam will dunk him in the bath by the scruff of his neck. Blade does not... particularly enjoy the latter two options. Though he isn't sure entirely why, and he doesn't tend to dwell on it either. 

When Kafka collects him, it is easier, if nothing else. Less fuss, less grimacing over the smell of burgeoning rot and complaining that Blade should do this prior to arriving home. Blade doesn't care about the other Stellaron Hunters’ complaints, not really, but it does make the ordeal longer than it needs to be. 

(And maybe, maybe, he does not like being drenched in bone-chilling water and soaked clothing. He hates it.) 

Kafka will lead Blade back to her own room, strip him, and give him a warm bath. Frequently, she’ll take off her own clothing and join him. She’ll hold him close, his back to her front. Kafka likes when she is able to cow him into resting against her front, cow him into resting his cheek against her breasts while she scrubs away the worst of the grime. 

Never mind that they share the same, red-tinged bathwater. 

(Occasionally, things escalate. Touch that volleys between innocent and clinical and sexual. Kafka will stroke down the planes of his body, reach for his cock, and bring him to release. It’s— it's nice. He thinks. He can't tell.) 

It's hard to tell anything in the steam of the bath. Though Kafka's presence renders his mara mute, proximity makes it writhe regardless. It is not a soundless beast, though it loses its words. Muddy feelings, rather than anything clear cut. It's a reprieve regardless. 

This is why Blade prefers to be cleaned by Kafka. 

... 

This mission, however, Blade receives a text from Kafka during his return journey that she will be out. Along with Silver Wolf. And that Sam is charging and shouldn't be disturbed.  

However— 

Kafka: 

why don't you see if our little stray is up for a bath, bladie? 

There's a thought. One Blade hadn't considered. 

(There's a whisper of a refusal in the back of his mind. 'No'. Blade is not sure why. It is quiet but sure of itself.) 

Blade: 

When will you be back. 

Kafka: 

tomorrow. don't wait up until then. listen, just ask. 

Kafka's mind weaving does not work over text. But it is, regardless, difficult to resist her command. This is habit. 

Blade idles outside of your room. He has dripped mess across the vessel and left little piles of flesh and muscle in his wake. The quiet sound of blood splattering against the floor (his, maybe, though his regeneration should be almost complete) makes him aware of this. 

It feels uncouth to enter your room like this. 

Blade shakes himself off and leaks scarlet droplets against the metal paneling. methodically, he releases the five locks on your door. Each clicks when fully disarmed, and by the time Blade enters, you're already looking up at the door, eyes wide. 

You're tucked into bed with a soft blanket over your lap. A tablet (a gift from silver wolf at Kafka's behest. For 'good behavior'. Not connected to any internet, but you've told Blade it helps pass the time.) 

The device is promptly forgotten as you push yourself out of bed, "Aeons, Blade, what happened? Are you hurt?" 

You approach him with no caution. It's reckless. It's foolish, especially with this much adrenaline tumbling around between his eyes and in his veins. He has the distinct urge to shove you away and into the floor. Compress you until you break and bleed and bleed and break. 

Blade does not. 

Instead, he lets you flit around him. He lets you draw your own conclusions. 

You are not foolish. You know he is dangerous; he knows you know this. It is your... good nature that creases the surely-soft skin between your brows. It's your kindness that has you frazzled, shaking in your hands as you hover over him. Searching for wounds that are mostly healed. 

"Blade, I said, are you hurt?" You ask, voice strained, bent at the waist while examining a slice in his pants. A lance had torn his calve wide open. It has already healed. 

"I'm fine." 

"Sure." You don't sound convinced, frowning. "You look like shit. Am I really supposed to believe that?" 

"I have already healed. my injuries are no longer a concern." 

"... Really?" 

"I am an abomination of Yaoshi. This is my nature." 

You already know this, yet you look defeated. Your jaw is tight. "Uh-huh. Alright. Fuck, do you feel alright?" 

"I'm fine. I need to be clean." 

"... Alright?" 

"I need to bathe." 

"... I see that... Do you want me to call Kafka?" 

"She's off ship." 

"Oh, fuck." you curse and shake your head. "I-is she going to be back soon?" 

"No. Help me instead." 

"M-me?" Your voice trembles and you take a fearful step back. Ever the skittish thing. something in him— sort of him— vibrates. 

"Yes." 

"Can you— not?" 

"It's cumbersome to wash on my own." 

"I see." You run a hand over your cheeks and adjust the wide collar of your shirt. It’s too big. It’s one of his— probably? A sleep shirt. One that Kafka stole from him to give to you. He knows you own several. "Alright. Okay. Fine. Fuck, I-I can help." 

You shoo him into your bathroom. 

You turn away from him almost immediately, poking around in a cabinet, plucking brightly colored products and muttering under your breath. Kafka mentioned that isolation is getting to you more than you think. She thinks it's cute. 

Blade wordlessly begins to strip. First off is his blood-soaked overcoat, shredded around his ribs and with massive gouges taken out of the back. Then his undershirt. Followed by his pants. One of his belts rings a metallic clink as he undoes it. 

You choose this moment to turn around and your eyes go wide. 

"BLADE!" You cover your eyes, dropping a bottle. "What are you— you can't just do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Get... naked?" 

"You are going to help me bathe. This is necessary." 

"I understand that." You sound exasperated. Your voice is shaky. The tone is pulling something in the back of his mind. The corners of his lips almost want to curl upwards. "But you can't just strip without warning. Aeons, have some manners." 

Blade nearly laughs— good-naturedly. The urge to is something dormant and poisonous. Seldom used. Usually it's a sharp impulse, but it's almost warm now. Tepid and pleasant.  

(All for you.) 

You cover your eyes as you fumble to turn on the tap, "At least go rinse off a little in the shower first, please?" 

Doable, albeit difficult. Blade grunts something akin to an affirmative and finds your shower. He turns the water on (hot or cold doesn't seem... relevant) and steps in. The spray pours down from the ceiling, sending the worst of the gore down the drain. 

Blade does not move for quite some time.  

"Blade?" you ask warily. "You... done in there?" 

It takes him a moment to reply. The cold spray lags him, "Yes." 

"... Can you come out? The bath is ready." 

He idles, thinking about your question. The softness of your voice. The candle that he can smell, lit on the countertop. You yourself, dressed in soft lounge clothes and covered in scars that strangers gave you. He thinks about the way skin and muscle rend under his blade. The way yours could. Under him. Under— 

"Blade." 

You open the glass shower door, worry-eyed. 

He blinks at you. 

Gently, you grab his arm. He flinches with it. Has half a mind to slam you into the tile until you pop like an perfectly ripe fruit— 

But he doesn't. 

"C’mon, bath time," you coax him out, dripping, careful to not look down. It’s a preservation of modesty. It feels useless, Blade thinks, as he pulls away to clamor into the bath. 

... There are bubbles. Fragrant and herbal, with a soft oil shimmering on the top of the water. It is the perfect temperature. It feels... good. He forgets how nice warmth is. He softens. You heave out a sigh and settle next to him, outside the bath. There's a dampened washcloth, already in your hand. 

"Is it okay if I touch you?" You ask. 

"I don't care." 

"Give me a yes or a no,” you press him, glaring a little. You roll up your sleeves and rise to your knees. 

"Yes, then." He does not care. Do you not understand? 

(You probably don't. You definitely don't.) 

Your expression is unreadable as you dunk the rag into the bathwater and begin to wash him. First his right arm, then his left. Gently rubbing him down, taking extra care with his hands. The rag is gentle over his stiff fingers. You check under each of his nails individually. 

You’re meticulous. 

You ask a question or two about how he washes himself, specifically his hair, but Blade can't give you answers. Kafka stocks his bathroom. His bottles are numbered, and he never deviates from their preassigned order. It is easier that way. Even in Kafka’s tub, she tends to use the same order of expensive-looking products that she favors.  

The treatment you’re currently giving him is not routine.  

The ends of your sleeves dip into the water as you stretch over the tub, toward his legs. Your tongue peaks out from your lips, bitten in concentration. (It’s cute.) Blade feels... compelled to assist you. He raises his leg up at the knee. Just as carefully, you scrub him down, and then focus on his other leg.  

The experience fills him with a sense of unease.  

(It’s too tender.) 

(You treat him too delicately. Even Kafka acknowledges the damage he carries, and her touch is only gentle to punctuate a roughness later on. She toys with him— it’s a farce. The way you touch him is too kind. You are too kind for him. It reminds him— makes him feel the ghost of a touch from hands more delicate and powerful than your own. From a different lifetime, blotted by Mara, corrupted and molten in his mind—) 

“Blade—?” Your voice is shaking, shattering. You’re frozen at the side of the tub.  

Blade blinks. 

He has his hand wrapped around your wrist; his grip swallowing the fragile limb. The force of it is bruising. He holds it under the water, forcing you to lean over the tub. You are submerged up to your elbow. Your expression is pinched, afraid. Your pupils pinpricked.  

An animal snared. 

His grip tightens.  

“Let go, please.” You ask, lip wobbling.  

He does not want to let go. He really does not want to let go. Blade cannot trace the feeling, it’s miasmatic. It was a bad idea to have you assist in bathing him. Mara webs itself behind his eyes. His jaw locks and breathes hard through his nose. He wants to sink his teeth into your throat. 

“Please, stop,” You whine— whimper while tugging against his hold. You are half bent over the bath. Your eyes water, all shiny.  

The tone does something to him. Many people plead around him— for their life, mercy, favor. It’s useless. He does not care. He has no reason to care. There are scripts to follow. However— there’s no script here. Just the warm suds, the blood pumping through your veins, and Blade’s tunneling vision. 

With a sharp pull, he drags you into the bath. 

You fall in headfirst. Instantly, you clamor at the side of the tub and his submerged legs to get yourself back above water. You scramble. It’s— cute. Your hair is slicked down around your face and forehead, eyes wide as you pant. His legs bracket your body. He tightens his thighs around you.  

Your thin clothes are soaked and cling to you. Fabric over curves and folds over your flesh. Blade’s half-hard and feels bad about it. 

(He can’t trace why. It’s far from the first time he’s been physically aroused in relation to you. It always makes him feel bad. Not with Mara, but something personal and sour and less mad. He hates it. He’s almost torn out a rib over the feeling.) 

You hover, frozen, between his legs. The only sounds in the bathroom are your panting breaths and the drips rolling off your body, into the bathwater. You swallow, trembling, but remaining otherwise unmoving. It occurs to Blade after a few tense moments that you are waiting for him to strike.  

Always like a little, frightened animal.  

(Something in him writhes.) 

He moves quickly, shooting a hand out to fist into your hair. His grip is unyielding, giving you no slack (though, he doesn’t yank and pull as he could. He could tear out chunks if he wanted. He just doesn’t want you to move.) He wants you closer— maybe. He wants you far away, thrown through one of the ship's thick windows and into the vacuum of space and dead. 

(Though, it wouldn’t be as satisfying for the void of space to kill you. He’d rather do it. He wants to do it, if you’re going to die.) 

You whine and paw at his wrists, babbling something.  

Blade feels disgusting as he drags your body to his, his chest to your back, and he curls over your form. His arms wind around your waist and squeeze. You scratch at him, beg maybe— he can’t tell, his ears are ringing. Your fists that slam into his shoulders and skull feel like swats from a declawed kitten. He doesn’t budge despite your protests.  

You stop fighting when you realize he isn’t hurting you. 

Blade doesn’t... want to hurt you. He thinks. Not really. Not in the way that Mara is screaming at him to. He isn’t content, you’re too warm and too alive to be this close to his body, but it's not bad. Contact both scratches an itch under his skin and aggravates a wound. It’s like a bath with Kafka, but worse— 

(Because part of him wants this.) 

Blade flinches when you go slack against him, chest heaving out breath. Even this little ‘scrap’ has tired you out. You’ve become weakened in your confined state— even if you really wanted to fight him, you don’t have the physical strength to be able to. 

You sniffle, covered in soaked clothes and soap suds. 

“Don’t cry.” Blade says without thinking. His voice is shot, dead-pan.  

Trembling, you shake your head, “I w-won’t.” 

It’s a lie. You’re already shaking in his arms. 

It’s— unfair. You’re most used to him, and less wary of him than Kafka. Part of him, a loud but small part of his mind, thinks that a bath together could be enjoyable— if he wasn’t washing blood and filth from his hair, and you weren’t shivering in your soaked day clothes. 

(‘This could be nice’, it urges.)  

His hands rub over your sides in small circles at the idea. 

You gasp and squirm, looking back at him with wild eyes, “Blade, please—” 

He stops, but his hold around your waist doesn’t waver. You sigh and lean back into his chest, deflating. Your eyes go half-lidded as you look toward the ceiling. They look— dull. Light and life drained. Like how they did when he and Kafka first collected you from that gilded planet. 

Blade knows that look— a dull mind and an active body. Your breath is still a bit too fast. Your heart is the same, running a prey-like rhythm. He assumes that you have left your body, gone elsewhere. 

“Hey.” He shakes you lightly, dragging you back to the cooling bath. “Help with my hair.” 

“... Hair?” You ask, voice soft and dreamy. “... Do you need me to wash it?” 

“Yes.” 

“... Okay.” You nod after a moment and rotate in his lap.  

Your shoulders sag forward as you fumble for shampoo and squirt a generous amount into your palm. Half of it misses and the gel sinks into the bathwater below.  

It’s unfair— part of him says again— he wants to tear it out and shred it between his teeth or under his blade. It screams that it's unfair that you dote on a creature like him. It’s unfair that you must shiver while lathering and rinsing his hair. That your pretty lips tremble with fear.  

The Mara writhes. He has not been human in so long. He does not deserve the gentleness you so often give him. Especially now, when he has dragged you closer, made you filthy with the stench of blood, and forced you so close. He wants to bite out your throat as you tip forward to grab a brightly colored bottle of oil and begin to work through the knots in his air. 

You are frowning. You are crying. 

He wants to eat you. 

Blade reaches for your chest, studying the way that the fabric clings to your skin-gone-gooseflesh. He finds the top button of your soft blouse in his own unsteady hands and undoes it. You freeze when he does, breath catching. 

You don’t breathe as he undoes another button.  

Then another. 

And another.  

You don’t breathe until the garment is nearly off. Just one button secures the fabric. He can see the peak of your breasts under the fabric, nipples pebbled in the cold. You’re so cold.  

(Blade wishes, dead Yingxing wishes, that he were warmer.) 

Your hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, and in a small voice, you beg, “Please, d-don’t.” 

“You’re cold.” Blade says. He reaches past you, sloshing water, to turn on the spigot for hot water. “You will stay cold if you wear wet clothes.” 

You look at him strangely. At first, it’s wounded. Like you’ve been lanced through with Shard Sword, and now bear the gaping wound. It morphs to one of confusion, then you bite your lip. And grab his hands in your own and stare at them. 

“... That’s all?” You ask. 

“Mostly.” Blade replies. There’s— more. Far more. But nothing that is concrete enough, or important enough, to share with you. It would more than likely aggravate his spitting Mara.  

“Okay.” You reply, looking up from your joined hands. Your eyes are round and watery. “You’re not trying to rape me?” 

He freezes.  

The word ‘rape’ pulls something disgusting and festering up from Blade’s guts. Something he wants to purge. He has the distinct urge to lean over the side of the time and vomit, but he hasn’t eaten in the last forty-eight hours, so there’s nothing to heave up. So instead, he is still.  

It’s like he can feel the rot. He’s not sure why. He knows what the word means, he is pretty sure he has been raped. Probably. Either when he was a young child, a refugee fleeing a massacred world, or maybe when he was the bedmate to a dragon. Maybe, probably, from Kafka, any number of times. Maybe last week. His mind is cloudy.  

What constitutes rape is foggy.  

He knows it would mean that he wants to have sex with you, and you wouldn’t want to have sex with him. 

And Blade— 

(He— He— doesn’t want to have sex with you? Or he does. Maybe. He wants to be close to you, inside you. He wants to curl around you and make you swear to never leave. He wants— he wants so much. Blade is selfish. But—) 

Not like that, he doesn’t think. Others have been, he’s sure— he’s sure.  

Mara pours into his mind, and he remembers then. Pieces of times, fragments of old memories, of rape. Of violation of all kinds.  

(At the hands of borisins holding him down as he screamed and cried, his body too little to do any fighting in the jaws of an Abundance beast.) 

(A tradesman who allowed him to stowaway on a cargo ship, destined for the Luofu. ‘Payment’ — the man had called it. For safe passage and a little sack of rice.) 

(Dan Feng, during one of his draconic ruts. He was the Child of a Cosmic Horror, ultimately. That’s all Aeons are, anyways. Yingxing had been split on his cock so many times, so full, he bled for a day, even with Dan Feng fussing over him with his cloudhymns, lucid-in-mind and torn apart by so much guilt for a wildly proud man.) 

(Kafka, a few days after she first picked him up from the surface of the asteroid Jingliu had been beating him into. Kafka, a few weeks after that— in a hotel that stank of blue emory roses. Kafka, a few weeks ago, draped over his shoulders between missions. There’s more. Memories drenched in the smell of her rich perfume. They tangle in feelings of comfort and revulsion.) 

Blade doesn’t want to do any of that to you. 

(He wants something with you— but—) 

(Not like that. He doesn’t want you to hurt.) 

“I’m not going to rape you.” He tells you. He hardly sounds like himself as the Mara quiets. 

He thumbs over your lips. There’s a scar in the middle of them where they had been split, repeatedly, and then healed over. You’d told him once that one of your old keepers used to deprive you of water if he felt like it. Your breath is hot against his fingertip. 

You say nothing, but your breath is still fast and shaky. Your eyes are wide. A feral, wild animal.  

“I’m not.” Blade tries to reassure you. You flinch with the sound of his voice. “You’re freezing. The bath can be refilled with warm water. Bathe.” 

Tears break over your lower lashes as you stare at him. He stares back. 

(He wonders what you’re thinking. If you have as much trouble thinking as he does— you probably do. You’ve sustained head trauma. Traumas. You’re both torn-up wrecks, maybe. It could provide him with some solace.) 

“... Okay.” You rub your eyes with balled up hands and laugh. “Okay.” 

Blade then helps you peel off your shirt. Then your shorts and underwear. When you’re bare, Blade drains most of the water from the, leaving you both with a layer of clinging bubbles protecting the barest bits of your modesty. You cover your chest and center with your hands, keeping your head down. Hiding your throat. 

He refills the tub with more soap— too much probably. Mountains of bubbles appear as he dumps in a glug of shimmering, emerald-colored oil. It swirls into the water as it rises. You relax as it rises over your chest. Your eyelids droop. You look so tired. 

Blade washes you like you did him.  

You face each other as he does. Your gaze never leaves him, though it goes glassy again. Unfocused. Blade can feel your heartbeat through your skin, slowing more and more with each pass of the warm, soapy rag he is using. He massages products into your hair. He thinks that he may be doing so in the correct order. He hopes he is. 

This close, he can see all of you. Most of you. Feel you too. He feels ridges and bumps of scars. Chunks of flesh that have been torn from you, replaced by cicatrix, uneven and unnatural under his touch. You shudder when he touches you, shivering despite the heat of the room. You’re sensitive. He doesn’t want Kafka to know. 

You feel different like this. Blade is unable to place why. 

When he is through with you, steam and bubbles still rising from the bath, you drag him closer. Your fingers dig into his biceps, latching on and scrambling to get closer. 

“... You really mean it, don’t you?” You ask. Your eyes are still unfocused. “You’re not going to? You’re not fucking with me?” 

“... What are you talking about?”  

An unrestrained smile stretches over your face, “You do mean it. You do. You do.” 

Blade can only guess what you mean. You clearly will not (or cannot) tell him. You shiver against a full body thing against him. It makes him uneasy. He flips you by the hips, so that your back is to his chest, and he can curl over your shoulders. He cast a shadow into the water. 

Indulgently, he presses his nose into your cheek. You smell like fresh soap and skin. He thinks if he licked you, you’d taste like salt. 

He doesn’t. 

When that’s all he does, you laugh.  

It’s a belting thing, the kind of sound that’s punched from your gut with the same force that could break ribs. Blade can imagine the sound and sensation of it obliterating your insides as your laughter bounces around the tile of the bathroom. It’s manic. It’s an unwell sound. You clutch a fist over your chest as you howl.  

You don’t stop for a while. 

It’s clearly too much. Blade can feel it. The sound echoes in his chest. It must be shredding yours.  

His arm wraps around your midsection as you do, and he tries to press you closer— he thinks. He thinks it might help. Your breath starts to shake, each inhale pitching high and sharp. You’re hyperventilating around your laughter. You’re hysterical, but don’t fight his hold. Even as tears drip down your cheeks, splattering into the bathwater. 

Blade says your name— it should come out sharply. He means it to. 

However, it is gentle. His voice is hushed and rough. 

“You’re alright.” He squeezes you until the breath is forced from your lungs, and there’s no fuel for your laughter anymore. “You’re okay.” 

With a choked, quiet sob, you reply, “I know.” 

... 

It’s later— much later. Maybe the next day.  

Your room still doesn’t have any way to keep time other than your little tablet, which has been powered off and charges across the room on top of your dresser, so Blade can only guess. 

He lays beside you in bed, propped up on an elbow. You sleep next time to him, relaxed and soft-jawed. The soft duvet is pulled up to your collarbones, and you curl into Blade. He’s— warmer than the rest of your room. Even if he does run too cold to be properly alive.  

He runs the side of his index finger over your face.  

You had been so tired after leaving the bath, you’d hardly been able to dress yourself— you hadn’t been able to. Blade to pick out sleep clothes and help you get into them. He chose whatever he could find that seemed. Soft. 

(A flowing, soft teal top and white shorts with golden thread sewn in the seams.) 

You fell asleep quickly after that and have been ever since. Blade had only meant to sit on the edge of your mattress.  

That did not happen. 

Instead, he’s tucked next to you. One of your hands fists the front of his shirt, and your body is angled toward him. Seeking. Wanting. 

Blade could take. 

He recognizes that. 

It’s a thought, though, not a temptation. Not after the bath. Not after feeling the ways in which your body has been torn apart and so painstakingly put itself back together. You are not a creature of Abundance, you are not built to live forever and to repair yourself endlessly like he is. Your vitality is finite. Every scar your flesh must restitch takes something from you and it will not be replaced.  

You will end. 

Your bedroom door clicks, five times, then opens with a whoosh of air. Kafka stands in the doorframe. A sickly-sweet smile stains her mouth. Her lipstick is the is freshly applied and glossy. 

“I see you got all cleaned up, Bladie,” her voice is silken and smooth. He could drown in it. “Was our little pup helpful?” 

“... Yes.” 

“Good.” Kafka hums. Her heels click against the floor, and she takes a place next to you. Even as the mattress dips, you don’t stir. “You’re so helpful with training them. Good boy.” 

Blade pauses his petting of you to glare and grunt at Kafka. She looks delighted. 

“I wasn’t aware I was assisting with any sort of training.” 

“It’s all implicit. As long as they’re getting comfortable, that’s what counts. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything else.” 

Blade doesn’t like that answer.  

“I don’t want to see them hurt,” Blade says. 

“That’s sweet of you.” 

“I mean it, Kafka.” 

“I know, I know.” Kafka laughs. She sighs and falls into the bed, over the cushy duvet. She spoons you, flattening herself to your back and winding her arms around your waist. Your brow wrinkles and a little whimper scratches from your throat. “I’d like to see our new puppy kept in one piece too, Bladie. I’ve grown quite fond of them. However, we are both beholden to Destiny. If one of Elio’s scripts—” 

“I know.” Blade snaps. 

He does not want to think about it. 

His hand that had been petting you winds tightly into your hair and your face scrunches up.  

“Listen, Bladie, everything’s alright. You’re okay.” Kafka soothes, dropping a kiss onto your cheek. It leaves a smear. Kafka works Blade’s hand out of your hair. “Be good and keep them company while I give Elio a mission report.” 

“That’s what I have been doing.” 

“Then, keep it up.” 

Kafka rolls out of bed with a sigh, not a hair out of place. She leaves the room almost soundlessly, the door clicking as it relocks. Five times. 

Blade does as Kafka says. He keeps you company, sinking down into the mattress beside you. He wipes away the lipstick left over your cheek and presses a kiss to the spot. He lingers there.  

Kafka can have— a lot of him. But, perhaps, he will covet you, all for himself.  

(If the Mara in his mind had not been suppressed, perhaps he would have heard: 

(FOOL FOOL FOOL! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU COVET AND CLING? DO NOT FORGET YOUR SINS! DO NOT FORGET HIS SINS—!) 

Instead, his mind is quiet. He pulls you closer and sleeps. Space is dead around him, and you are dead to the world in his undying arms. 

Blade thinks he likes when you bathe with him.  

#lore writes #blade x reader #ren x reader #blade x you #hsr x reader #tw yandere #tw dark content #tw noncon #LETS GO!!! #PLEAAASE mind the tags but otherwise enjoy!!!

[teencopandthesourwolf]

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Huh? What's that, big guy?” Stiles mumbles, answering the query with one of his own without looking away from Derek's laptop screen. The laptop Derek kind of bought for Stiles for when Stiles is at the loft.

Whatever. 

There's a ballpoint pen shoved in the kid's mouth—God, that mouth—and another slid behind an ear, the latter ready and waiting for Stiles to click to death in the In Between Typing Times.

The others dispersed a couple of minutes ago. Apart from Derek and Stiles, only Lydia and Deaton now remain at the loft and they're deep in conversation about the preliminary theory of who or what is killing the humans of Beacon Hills this week and are standing at the opposite side of the open-plan space, making more coffee. Scott and Malia left to rally the other ʼwolves (not answering their phones as they're at a cinema screening) plus find and talk to Argent to arrange a pack meeting proper about the situation, so they can all work on devising a plan. Granted, there is Peter to consider—who's probably still lurking somewhere, what with lurking being one of his favourite pastimes—who can obviously hear any and all conversations that are, or could be happening inside of the building. Sadly, though, Derek has never been able to hide much of anything from his uncle.

So. 

He thinks about elaborating on the question he asked Stiles, but can't.

He tries not to stare at Stiles, and fails.

Stiles is squinting at the screen with intent and looking like he has forgotten Derek said anything at all. Or that Derek is still hovering close by. Or that Derek, you know, exists.

Derek is just standing there, all difficult and awkward in his own fucking home and his own fucking body, looming over Stiles like a creeper as Stiles taps away furiously at the keyboard and violently zig-zags a fingertip across the mousepad like an actual lunatic.

Derek almost laughs at that.

The Boy Who Runs With Wolves.

“Why wouldn't I?” Stiles now asks, still mumbling around the chewed ballpoint Derek is trying not to be jealous of. 

“I—what?” Caught off guard, always and only by Stiles. 

Stiles doesn't skip a beat, unlike Derek's heart. “Why wouldn't I ask?” he adds.

Oh, right.

“I, uh, I don't... ” Derek trails off pathetically, swallowing any confidence he had previously mustered and looking away from Stiles, even though those big, brown devastating eyes aren't actually looking at Derek because they are, of course, still zoomed-in on whichever web page is currently yielding the most information.

Dusk is quickly closing in and all around them and the light filtering through the loft's huge window has begun to dim somewhat, so that the glow of the computer screen is now filling Stiles' eyes with bright, dancing sparks and arrhythmic shapes as they flicker like lightning from one tab to another, then another, then another. And as mesmerising as it is to watch—Stiles looks as though he is brimming with magic—the sight becomes too much for Derek, and looking away feels like his only option.

It doesn't last.

Stiles' long, large-knuckled fingers still their rapid movement just as Derek's eyes find their way back.

Derek watches the kid some more, like a lifeline.

An anchor.

Then, Stiles is taking the pen from those perfect lips as sneaker-toes slowly spin the swivel chair around so that Stiles is now facing Derek where he stands with arms crossed reactively over his chest.

His heart.

“I asked because I wanted to know if you were okay, man," Stiles divulges, as if that's nothing at all. As if it's something Derek hears often. He tilts his head to catch Derek's eye. Which works, of course—because it always works, no matter the nature of the moment they're caught up in. "Like, I was concerned, y`know?” 

Derek feels guilty just for looking. And not only because he wants to touch but because he wants to let Stiles care.

“I care, dude,” Stiles says on cue and Derek tries to self-implode while Stiles waits, probably for Derek to look at him and say don't call me dude and maybe hoping not to have his head bitten off or his throat ripped out. 

Derek does look again, just not for long. Barely a glance. He can't afford himself too much Stiles, not when Stiles is looking directly back at him. It's safer that way; self-preservation and all.

“You do know that, right?” Stiles tries again. “That I care.” 

Derek wants to ask Stiles if they can talk, if Derek can tell Stiles things. Derek wants to ask Stiles if he'll stay and if he'll let Derek spill his secrets, tell Stiles everything, like Derek never does with anyone these days, and if Stiles will hold Derek's hand when Derek cries about it, like Derek doesn’t allow himself to anymore. Derek wants to ask Stiles if Derek can touch him and hold him and if Stiles would hold him back, if Stiles would ever want that, if Stiles could ever be his.

“Don't call me dude,” is what he actually says because he can't not. But then he steals himself, head staticky and heart thumping as he dares himself to add (after what is undeniably too-long a pause), “And yeah. Maybe I do.” 

Then they look at each other. They just—look.

Look and look and look.

And they each keep looking at the other for a very long time. Definitely too long for two people supposedly not much more than acquaintances. Allies, maybe. Comrades at tenuous best.

Then they look for longer. Look for more. Look until it starts to feel as if they are the only two people in the room, in the building, in the world.

Whatever happened to self-preservation?

Something is happening and Derek is pretty sure it's not just happening to him, and he finds he is equally stunned as he is thrilled as he is completely fucking terrified about that. 

Eventually, Stiles says, “Derek, we're friends.” Then he's licking his lips and looking Derek up and down, shameless, and adding with a shrug of one shoulder, “Till we're not.”

The latter part is spoken like a dark secret, but one without the slightest hint of malice—that's not how he means it. It's more of a promise than a threat, if Derek is remembering correctly what genuine affirmations sound like (it's been a while).

The sparks from Stiles' eyes are then flashing blue in Derek's, and Derek could swear he hears every one of his neurons firing inside of himself, all at once as each of his mutated cells flare into overdrive, nail beds and gums tingling, the short hairs on the back of his neck and arms and hands standing up on end.

He feels utterly alive.

It's honestly a struggle not to whine like a pup and Derek has truly never been more happy of the fact that Stiles is unable to scent chemo-signals because, oh, Derek would be so fucked right now.

He has a reply for Stiles but it's caught in his throat, the sentence forming then solidifying, fast as a quick-drying glue.

Derek is just—standing there. Statuesque. Alternating between trying to swallow his words down and attempting to speak them, like a first class dipshit, and just looking and looking and looking at Stiles.

In an entirely mortifying turn of events, it is actually the sound of Peter's low, mocking chuckle from some tucked-away shadowy place in the loft that is the thing that forces Derek unstuck, and it takes all Derek has to not roll his eyes to the back of his skull and growl out I'm going to kill you again now, Uncle. 

He takes a breath, un-clenches his fists and tries for a smile—or at least a hint of one. He doesn't want to freak the kid out.

Derek then manages to repeat Stiles's words back at him, no more than a whisper. “Till we're not.”

Stiles is just looking and looking and looking at Derek before he's asking, “Can I stay for the evening? You can talk to me while I research. I always work better with noise. It'll be soothing,” like he's ordering pizza instead of answering all of Derek's prayers.

Derek notes how the kid's usually erratic eye-contact is weirdly as unwavering as his usually erratic heartbeat, which is now weirdly steady as a metronome.

That's a lot of weird. 

Derek fights the urge to bite into his lip with his fangs. He wants to draw blood, and to taste it.

He embarrassingly feels his eye twitch and his breath hitch as he dares himself to do this. 

He sputters, “What do you want me to talk about?”

Stiles slowly swivels back towards the light of the laptop—ethereal milky skin and dark moles once again luminous in its white-blue glow—at the very same time as the evening's first moonshine peeks through clouds and seeps in through the loft's huge skylight.

Derek is memorised. 

Stiles starts annoyingly clicking away at the Clicking Pen, while shoving the other back between those beautiful lips of his, now mumbling his words around the thing once more and speaking them as if they are the most obvious thing in the universe. 

“Everything, Der.”

.

for @poebin for asking <3 (unedited, soz)

#with love <3 #sterek #sterek ficlet #sterek fic #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #teen wolf fic #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #eternal sterek #sterek is eternal #everything der #for poe #peter hale #tcats writes #teencopandthesourwolf

[descendant-of-truth]

Ohhh this scene. This one's a doozy

Nine is right to call this out about Sonic, of course. While he's definitely grown since the start of the show, he's never really been able to move past his tunnel vision and tendency to project onto the others.

He never thought to ask Nine what he wanted not because he doesn't care, but because he didn't think he needed to. He inherently assumes that the people he's working with are on the same page as him until told otherwise - in fact, it wasn't too long ago that he was similarly thrown off by Shadow in that very room.

(Love Shadow being used as a sort of "test run" for these kinds of conflicts by the way)

But here's the thing. While it's true that Sonic didn't really think about what Nine wanted and just assumed they were going to stick together no matter what... the same is true of Nine.

Look at how confused Nine looks when Sonic talks about coming back to Green Hill and restoring it:

Nine didn't ask what Sonic was wanting to do by repairing the Prism because he thought it was obvious that they were going back to the Grim together. I don't think it occurred to him that fixing Green Hill was even an option, or at least not one that he considered in favor of his original plans.

And just like Sonic, it's not that he only cares about himself - he went out of his way to engineer coconuts and (presumably) palm trees because he knew how much Sonic missed them. It was really sweet!

But, in what's becoming a pattern in this show, he doesn't understand why those trees matter to Sonic. They're not just cool plants, they're a reminder of home. And as Sonic aptly puts it at the start of the show, home is where your friends are.

I love that the conflict here is that both of them were convinced they knew what the other person wanted/would be okay with, because they think it'll naturally be the same thing they want, and then were both completely unprepared to handle a conflict of interest. It feels so natural and makes perfect sense with how they've been written up to this point.

But see, while I think it's pretty clear that Sonic and Nine fell into the exact same communication trap, I think it's going to take longer for Nine to realize his own fault in any of this.

Sonic spent the entire second half of that conversation looking devastated, and he's made it clear throughout the show that he's quick to feel remorse when he realizes he's hurt someone. In all likelihood, he's going to put all of the blame for that argument on himself, decide that Nine was right about everything, and leave it at that.

Nine, likewise, doesn't strike me as a particularly self-reflective type. He'd probably try to justify not needing Sonic to himself before anything else, and with that in mind, who else is there to make him see the situation with more nuance?

If I had to pick, I'd guess Shadow - our resident "smacking people in the face with their own flaws" extraordinaire.

Why would he bother with any sort of mediating between the two? Well, the funniest reason would be that he finds Sonic's self-pitying and Nine's self-righteousness equally annoying, but I'm inclined to assume any sort of confrontation between him and Nine would be a little more dramatic than that. (He might still use that reasoning as justification though)

Anyway I gotta cut this post short before I go too far into speculation territory or else I'll be here for another hour and this took long enough to write as is, case in point I love me a well-written and believable conflict

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic prime #sonic prime spoilers #nine the fox #shadow the hedgehog #analysis #meta

[cheeseceli]

First Relationships

pairing: skz ot8 x gn!Reader (individually)

genre: fluff

request: i rlly like ur writing style and i immediately thought of you when i was being delulu over first relationships, so i thought about requesting how skz would react when they discovered they're the first person u dated! im sorry if it's confusing haha <3

warnings: tooth roofing fluff, not proofread

a/n: thank you!! ngl i was delulu when writing this lmao. hope u like it <3

Bang Chan

So patient, it's crazy

Will never rush anything

Everything's at your pace

Hell, if you think it's too early for even holding hands, that's okay

He would always wait for you

And also, your comfort comes first

Always asks how you're feeling throughout whatever you're going through

Sorry but he 100% babies you as well

He finds you adorable

but tbh he'd do that anyways, the fact that it's your first relationship doesn't matter much in this case

Lee Know

Two scenarios

Will tease you relentlessly, no matter what you do

or

will be extra shy

but he'd also be so excited

it's like your little adventure and you two get to experience everything together

Technically it is but still

like, dates?

He is always so happy to take you to places

Anniversaries?

Even better

My man is just so happy to be there with you

Changbin

My man's honoured

He knows how perfect you are, and he knows you had a lot of options and opportunities before

So to think that you chose >him<

As I said, honoured

Besides spoiling you and treating you like royalty, he'd be really scared of messing up

But calm him down, say you love him and his confidence comes back at total strength

Would never even dare to rush you as well

His patience is also something that must be highlighted

Whatever it is, he will always wait for you to be ready

Hyunjin

The true romantic

He said once that he'd rather be someone's last love than the first one

So to think that he could be both your first and last love

He's so honoured

And giddy

But naturally he will be also really nervous at times

Forgive him if at times it seems he's the one that never had a relationship before

But it's true that it's his first time experiencing love so full like this

Han

There are two possibilities

He'll be pretty confident and maybe even kind of cocky

Will do the "I wonder who taught you how to kiss so well" knowing damn well it was him, sorry

Or

He will be extremely shy

You would even think it's his first relationship

In most cases, he is both at the same time

His duality is insane

Truly scared of messing up

But he is as always, trying his best

Everytime you're nervous he can handle the situation while being calm and humorous

We love him

Felix

He's a bit excited

A bit too excited

You know that Aladdin's song "Whole New World"?

He'd use it to describe your relationship

And he is the cutest

He's just so happy to be there :(

Everytime your relationship takes a step forward and you trust him a bit more, he becomes the happiest man in the world

He's truly grateful to have your trust

Needless to say, he will also always prioritise your comfort

Just say the word and he will do (or not do) whatever you'd like

Your wish is his command

Seungmin

Tries to no make a big deal out of it (kinda fails)

He doesn't want to make you uncomfortable by any means

So overall, he'll act normally

but he'd go as slowly as he can, trying not to scare you off

Scared of words as well

He doesn't want you to feel forced to reply something like "ilyt"

But one thing that is really cute is how he'll always talk you through it

Everytime you are doing something that is considered your first, like first date, first kiss etc

He always asks you if you like it and if you wanna keep going on

the kindest fr

I.N.

Truly, I don't think there'd be much of a difference

He'd be more careful and delicate when the occasion asked for it

but overall that'd be it

Similar to Seungmin, he'd try to not make a big deal out of it

He'd never admit, but sometimes he'd try to prove that he could be the best boyfriend ever because he was scared

He's kinda of a perfeccionist

He'd hate himself if one day he breaks you

He'd hate himself even more if he managed to break your perception of relationships as well

So he really tries his best all the time

feedbacks and reblogs are always appreciated!

dividers by @cafekitsune

#celi headcanon #skz fluff #stray kids #stray kids soft thoughts #stray kids fluff #stray kids soft hours #skz x reader #skz x you #stray kids x reader #skz #stray kids imagines #stray kids headcanon #stray kids scenario #bang chan #bang chan fluff #lee know #lee know fluff #changbin #changbin fluff #hyunjin #hyunjin fluff #han #han fluff #felix #felix fluff #seungmin #seungmin fluff #i.n #i.n fluff #anon - 🦦

[golden-hearts-silver-tongues-if]

Demo: (Release Date: when i figure out twine, and then a week)

Life was never easy, but the day you first found your talent for less than legal practices, it certainly got easier. And when you finally got taken in by a nosy noble who could appreciate your talents, life finally seemed like it was looking up. But the highlife isn't all it was cracked out to be. You had to leave behind your best friend for this chance at the high life, and that's not even to mention all the enemies you've made while in service of the person who brought you in. Was it worth it? Can you keep your skeletons nice and tidy in your closet? Or will the past prove to have a few too many chips on its shoulder. ------------- This is a game about many things. Struggling to find meaning in your own life, trying to cling to those you care about as life drags you apart, and what can happen when you don't make peace before the storm. You take on the role of a peasant with a talent for the illegal, be that quick hands or a quicker wit. After years of dealing with the dirt of life to make a living, you get taken in (read, bought into service) of a noble who claims to have nothing but good intentions. They want to expose other nobility for their wrongdoings while climbing the ranks themselves. Will you be willing to remain loyal to their cause, or is money truly the only thing motivating you? That remains up to you to decide. Golden Hearts, Silver Tongues is rated 18+ for explicit language, mature themes, drug and alcohol use and abuse, violence, thoughts and mentions of suicide, self-harm, death and mental trauma. -------------

Customizable MC, choose your gender, pronouns, appearance, sexuality, romantic attraction, personality, history with some characters, potential disabilities, and most importantly, how you choose to go about your crimes. Are you a smooth talker, or someone who prefers actions over words?

Romance one of four available ROs? Will you fall back to your tumultuous Ex/Ex Best Friend? Or perhaps your new coworker or Boss? Or perhaps the most dangerous, the Ex-Noble hunting you down?

Struggle with Morality as you get pulled in different directions. What constitutes good anyways? And let's be honest, do you even care about being good at this point?

Resolve all of your lingering issue, before choosing how to move forwards. To remain trapped by the chains of your past, or to cast it all off and move forwards, unburdened. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

-------------

Romance Options:

The Rival (F, Cis or Trans selectable) - Your one and only friend in the early days of your life, and perhaps something more? You two grew up together and often were the only ones each other had. Perhaps she was your best friend, your lover, or someone you were so close to you could consider them family. Regardless, whatever she was, she isn't anymore. A fight caused a rift between you two, and now you two aren't on talking terms, much less anything else. So, when she shows up to one of your jobs, to steal the same items no less, is it any surprise things don't go well? Tropes - Exes to Lovers, Childhood Crush, Exfriends to Lovers, Rivals/Enemies to Lovers

The Boss (M, F, NB selectable) - The person who scooped you off the streets and showed you what the high life was like, and all you had to do was steal whatever they told you. Simple enough, right? You'd think. In practice, it seems like they keep upping the ante on your targets and at some point, you have to wonder whether or not this is all born out of good intentions. Though, with the looks they keep sending your way, perhaps more than just your skills have captivated them? No, that couldn't be true. After all, a noble and a peasant would cause far too much of an uproar for the already tumultuous figure that is your boss. Right? Gender Footnote - If NB, the Boss will be Agender. Tropes - Forbidden Love, Age Gap, Nobility x Peasant, Employer x Employee

The Coworker (M, Cis or Trans selectable) - A surprise your boss sprung on you just a few months ago, he is another noble who embraced your Boss' rhetoric and now wants to help reveal the darker side of the Kingdom. It's a shame he doesn't know what he's doing, but luckily (or unluckily), that is where you come in. Tasked to show him the ropes of thieving, you must figure out how to teach this eager learner what you've known all your life. He might not have quick hands, nor can he lie to save his life, but if there's one thing, he knows it's how to get up after a failure. And that surely has no correlation to all the gifts of his you've ignored over the years, right? Tropes - Coworkers to Lovers, Master x Apprentice, First Crush, Himbo, Potentially Grumpy x Sunshine

The Baron (M, F, NB selectable) - Hate is a strong word. Luckily, the Baron is a strong person. The first major noble your Boss ever sent you after, they by far had the hardest fall from grace out of anyone you know. Going from ruling an entire quarter of the Kingdom, to being nothing more than a rogue knight hunting you down for revenge. It's a shame they still have so much money at their disposal to hunt you with, and for all that it's worth, they are very good at finding you. Catching you, not so much. You always manage to just barely evade their capture....surely nothing to think about. Gender Footnote - If NB, the Baron will be Genderfluid. Tropes - Hate-Hate Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Murder makes people hot, Villian Route, Potentially Redemption Arc

------------- Note Zone: Hey there! Thanks for reading all the way through this. This little place down here is where I plan on placing things like links in the future, and also any notes on progress or big topics and stuff that comes up. For now, all asks are welcomed, and once again thank you!

#twine game #twine wip #interactive fiction #if: intro #if: golden hearts silver tongues #interactive novel #interactive story #if game #no demo

[keeksandgigz]

pouty girl

steve harrington x fem!reader

This is self- gratifying, but enjoy a sweet, comforting fluffy Steve

word count: 620

18+ minors don't interact pls

"Mmm, pouty girl. C'mere" he murmurs against the soft skin of your shoulder, followed by a kiss.

He pulls you in closer, moving your from the edge of the bed to the center. Scooting your back closer to his chest with a short grunt. The ghost of a breath lingering, warm and comforting on your neck.

"You gonna tell me what's wrong, sweets?" he whispers, as if he doesn't want anyone to hear that his girl is sad. As if the house was populated with tiny little demons, itching to put their hands on your brain.

Itching to poison and pollute the garden of your mind.

You just hum, a noise imitating the sonic patterns of an I don't know.

Never a girl of many words when you got into these moods, and Steve knew better than to force it out of you.

He just settles for the sound of your breath, rising and falling out of your chest. Every once in a while, a bigger breath, jagged and labored. The strength to breathe in feels too much, lungs and back burning with strain, as you defeatedly let that breath out.

"Head doesn't feel straight" you whisper into his arm, and Stve swears you hold on to it a bit tighter, to ground you. To make you feel stable.

He coos, his little wounded bird. "Yeah? What's not straight about it, baby?" he asks, soft and delicate, kid gloves for your mind.

"Mmm dunno. Too many thoughts, I guess" you shrug, you feel tired, body slumped against the soft cotton of the mattress. Your brain feels restless, running a million miles per hour.

One thought more offuscated than the other, wanting to close your eyes and silence the ongoing buzz. You weren't sad, or angry. You just felt weird.

"Thoughts?" a theatric gasp escapes your boyfriend, as he places a sweet kiss on the hinge of your jaw.

"What's a pretty girl like you got to think about?" voice coated with honey, you giggle at the way his hair is tickling your neck as he peppers kisses on your cheek. You take a breath after his onslaught of affection.

"Dunno. Life? Work?" you blurt out, but you're not even sure if you believe it.

"Mmkay" he says, hand sneaking past your shirt to cradle at your tummy. "Need me to make it better, sweets?" he places a soft kiss to your temple. No mischievous lilt in his speech, he just wants to help you.

An affirmative hum escapes you, as you nuzzle into his arm, wanting to bury yourself deeper into his essence. Wanting, no, craving, to be a part of him.

"Spanks or hugs?" he offers. He has two methods to get you out of this weird head mood you get in. He either spanks it out of you, or he just lets you rest for the remainder of the night.

Letting his body weight on yours, like a blanket. Cooking for you, running you a bath. Letting yourself be taken care of for the rest of the night.

You hum, considering your options, but you already know what you want.

"Hugs, please?" you softly let out, as Steve holds you closer, caressing your tummy.

"Of course, sweets. Let's get some hugs in and then I'll run you a bath, 'kay?" he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. You hum in response.

Steve grabs your jaw to turn you to face him, "gimme a kiss" he breathes, as he gently draws you closer, letting your lips brush. Gentle and soft, he cradles and guides your face as you kiss him.

His head inches back to look at you, a soft pout forming on your lips. He smiles.

"My pouty girl"

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fan fiction

[lani-heart]

|| series masterlist || next // previously ||

genre(s) -> angst, fluff, smut, non-idol, hybrid au, poly au paring(s) -> choi san x reader warning(s) -> soft smut, loosing virginity(s) words -> 2.1K

abstract -> San is struggling with his upcoming heat... especially with never experiencing it before

san's perspective

Two months with her have felt like bliss. 

I think I loved her. I’ve never had anyone care for me the way she does. I’ll forever be in her debt… and I’ll always be by her side as long as she’ll let me. 

Along the lines of admiration, I’ve gained a weird feeling that I couldn’t explain. It was probably the same feeling that makes Wooyoung the pervert he is. 

“Everything is normal, there's nothing to worry about,” the bunny-looking doctor said… She was worried about me. I feel hot and Wooyoung has been getting on my nerves…

“He’s experiencing heat, from what Kun said he’s never truly experienced it. Which probably means he’s always been under heat suppressants” he explained. 

Heat? I’ve never been allowed to experience it before… 

“So if he doesn't decide to take it, his heat will be pretty intense and may last longer than it usually would. Not to mention he’s an exotic hybrid so there's different mannerisms he may display” he explained as he handed y/n a pamphlet. 

We walked out of there and now on our way back home. 

“San… Do you want to take suppressants?” she asked me and I shook my head. “Hybrid hotel?” she asked me and I hated the thought of being around hybrids I didn’t know let alone have sex with them. 

I shook my head and she sighed seeming to be out of options. 

I wanted to suggest so she could help me… but that wouldn’t happen. If we were to spend my heat together, I'd probably consider her my mate after.

I really wanted to just have her to myself that way… but it was probably the heat talking. Making me imagine all the different types of scenarios I could have with her.  

How was I supposed to survive this heat?

y/n’s perspective

Doyoung explained how exotic hybrids often show different behaviors than regular domesticated hybrids. Panthers specifically are possessive and are polygamous but won’t allow the female to be mated with another male during heat… he explained that this might be the reason why he was being territorial with Wooyoung.

It was a little different with hybrids though…

This would also be his first real heat… which also meant he never…

“Are you okay?” San asked me and I nodded. “You’re just really red…” he said and I tried to cool my cheeks with my hands. “Are you getting sick?” he asked as we stopped walking and he started feeling my forehead and my neck for heat. 

“San, I’m okay,” I said and he nodded. 

We continued walking in silence… probably trying to figure the situation out himself.

He really is different from the version of him I met two months ago… no longer stubborn and solitary. He’s also really caring… with me and Wooyoung. He was the sweetest hybrid now…

We made it back to the apartment and we waited for the elevator to ding. San hates the elevator… he isn’t used to bell sounds yet. So he always covers his ears when he enters and leaves the elevator. 

Recently he’s started leaning towards me for comfort. I will pet his head trying to distract him. I even heard him purr sometimes… anything to help him. 

“You guys are back!!” I heard Wooyoung yell as me and San finally were home. “Did you find out why he’s been so mean?” he asked and I sighed. “Heat,” I said and his ears went up in realization. 

“Ohhhh… So what are you gonna do?” he asked him and he shook his head. “San can’t go to a hybrid hotel, and he doesn’t want to do heat suppressants,” I said and he nodded. “I’m not helping him,” Wooyoung said jokingly, causing San to click his tongue and go straight to his room. 

“Does that mean I get to change room then?” Wooyoung asked and I was confused. “Why would you witch room?” I said and he pouted. “He's mean to me!! I also don't want to hear him get off to himself” he said and I felt my face redden again.

“I-It’ll be the same way when you’re in heat, Wooyoung,” I managed to say and he nodded. 

“You could always help him?” he asked and I felt my face get even hotter if it was even possible... “It's a suggestion… Heats are painful by yourself,” he said. 

Wooyoung went to the kitchen, probably to experiment with another recipe while I went to San’s room… would he even want my help?

His door opened before I could even knock. “I heard your footsteps,” he explained and I nodded. “We need to figure this out, San… it's only gonna get worse if you ignore it,” I said and he sighed. He let me in and I sat on his bed whilst he sat on his desk chair.

“I don’t want to go to a hotel… nor mate with someone I don’t know” he explained and I nodded. “I know… and heat suppressants would be bad for your health since you’ve been on it for too long” I explained and he nodded. 

“Do you want my help?” I suggested and he looked at me with widened eyes. “Don’t say things like that…” he said shyly. “Huh? Why? Was it an offense?” I asked now worried and he shook his head. 

“If you mate with me, you'll be mine. We’ll be mated… that's the equivalent to marriage to hybrids' ' he said and I understood why he didn’t ask now…

“You’ll be mine forever… that's a lot of commitment that a human might not want” he said and I sighed. I didn’t think of any romantic relationship when I first adopted him… not to mention sexual but now it was different…

“I don’t think I'd mind?” I said and he looked at me with another shocked expression. “You’ll be mine, y/n. In every type of way possible” he said now standing over me. I nodded… “I don’t mind… as long as you don’t either” I said and he chuckled. 

“Are you sure?” he asked and I nodded. “Once I start there's no way to go back. Mine y/n… your body, soul, and heart will be mine” he said and I smiled. “Does that mean you’ll be mine?” I asked and I saw him smile softly. “Kitty, I'm already yours,” he said and I was shocked. 

“I’ve… I've never mated with anyone before though” he confessed. “I’ve never had sex with anyone before,” I said softly and he groaned. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” he said and I shook my head.

“It’s okay… I do feel bad that I feel like I'm taking advantage of you. You're in heat-” “I’m still conscious… I know what's happening. I’m not deep into my heat to feel the need to fuck anything and everything” he explained. I nodded. 

“I do wish that I confessed in a different way… but I never expected you to think of me that way,” he said and I shook my head. “I didn’t think I would… but you’ve changed in the two months of being here,” I said and he nodded. 

“I promise to be gentle with you” 

No one's perspective

He lifted you up briefly to help lay you down on his bed. His face is now touching his nose with yours… The both of you leaning in to kiss each other. It was a gentle peck at first but...

The kiss no longer an innocent first kiss, instead messy and desperate for what's to come… his grip on your waist lowered down to your hips as his bulge found your clothed core

Moaning into your kiss as he pulled away with a string of saliva connecting the two of you. He chuckled… “Your lips look so pretty swollen” he muttered as you felt shy with the amount of praise he was giving.

“My pretty little mate,” he said as he tugged on your sweater… “Let’s take some of this off,” he said as he helped take off your top layer of clothes leaving you in only a bra. 

He leaned into your neck to suck and nip on the sensitive skin. You couldn’t help moaning at the feeling. 

Knowing that tomorrow the marks would be visible to the world… mainly Wooyoung. He kept kissing downwards to your chest until he met with your bra. 

He didn’t even try to figure out how to take it off… instead with his claws out ripped them not even letting you complain and he now stood up and groped them. 

“So soft…” he muttered and he chuckled. “Why aren’t you letting yourself go, kitty? Scared the pesky little fox will find out? He already knows… he can hear better than me” he confessed and you only felt embarrassed. 

“Don’t be shy… give the pervert fox a little show. He’s had a crush on you for years now” he said and you couldn’t even react “Wh–” getting cut off by your own moans. He was now rubbing your core through your clothes. 

“No, going back now. I want you to show the pesky fox you’re mine. My mate… not his” he muttered as he pulled down your pants to reveal your underwear. 

He pulled your underwear to the side and started with kitty licks against your clit. Stopping your moans by covering your mouth which San chuckled at. “Give me your hands,” he said sweetly. He stood up slightly to grab your arms and now intertwined my hands with his… 

“Please… for me kitty. I wanna hear how I’m doing” he said as this time he flattened out his tongue against you. “Pretty pussy… my mate, mine” he muttered. San is already drunk in pleasure, whilst you slowly forget about everything and only focus on the pleasure he was giving you. 

“San!!” you moaned out, everything in this room was now sinful with the messy nature of San, and now you moaned his name without thinking of the fox lurking in the apartment. Your moaning slowly got louder each time San teased your clit signaling how close you were to him. 

He finally let go of your hands as he now tested a finger inside your pussy as you were now gripping his hair. “Close, kitty?” he teased and you couldn’t even answer once he found where to unravel you. 

Everything felt like too much as you came, “I should’ve done this sooner” he said as he teased your now sensitive clit. 

“How much more do you think you can handle?” he muttered. “I want to… help you” you barely made out as you tried coming back from orgasm number one of many. 

“You’re gonna help me with my heat? Gonna be my mate… my little toy?” he teased and you whined at his teasing now overstimulating you. You couldn’t even close your legs to try to stop him… not with his tail wrapped around your ankle.

“So messy,” he said as he slapped your clit making your hips jolt up. “Cute… such cute responses you give me~ Do you like everything I'm giving you?” he asked and you nod, not trusting your voice.

“I worried about how I'd handle the heat… but no matter how much you learn, they never tell you how addicted I feel to you right now,” he confessed. 

He signaled for you to intertwine your hands again.

“We can't stop here if you need rest?” he asked, now worried about the next step being too much for you. “ It's okay,” you said and he nodded. He took back one of his hands to free his cock out. Now showing himself to you and rubbing himself against your pussy 

You could even see the penile spines on his cock giving you friction on your pussy and clit making you moan again. He lined himself up only to look at you worriedly. 

“You can back out now… you don’t have to help me” he said and you smiled softly at him. “I want to… don’t you want to make me your mate?” you asked him and he groaned. “So badly, kitty” he muttered as he entered the tip, the both of you now moaning at how each other feels. “You're so tight” he moaned out, “Big” you managed to mutter out, it was painful for a while but San let you adjust a bit while praising you.

“You can do this kitty, come on,” he said as one of your hands stayed intertwined and the other now around your jaw. He slowly sank himself in helping you adjust by staying still and kissing your neck. “Pretty little mate… mine now” he muttered to himself. 

Feeling frustrated slightly you moved your hips slightly to feel relief and he started moving, thrusting in and out trying to maturely chase his high. 

“Close” he muttered as the two of you virgins came another time. This time San was with you and coating your insides white… he didn’t even pull out of you as he collapsed slightly on top of you catching his breath. 

His tail twitching behind him frantically… 

“Oh kitty… you’re not going anywhere until I breed you over and over, showing everyone especially the pesky fox your mine” 

@wonuangel @danirael @angelsaway @krissroo @minkysmilk @mayonnaise-on-toast @robertsbbygirl @superbbananananana @hyukssunflower @kitty4hwa @justconniez @senpai-of-doom @kibs-and-bits @caityelise99 @ilovekinny @ateezennie23 @wooahaelemons @purplelady85 @watamotee33@chidess97 @littlelostdemonofthelight @maliamaiden @burntarm1n @spooo00oky @eastleighsblog @momo-peachy @kitstar1117 @quartzpirate @sunnyhokyu @iwishiwasrichasfuck @theginger543210 @pandolinka @ddaeing @kpopnightingale @slid3er @kekdo-520 @puppyminnnie @sparklinghwa222 @calicanbeevil @itsvxlentine @atinism @loumin908 @smally97 @rxnexxi @acetruepunk @majesticbeluga @namjooncrabs @tashizxy @itstheghostofmypast @smilefordongil @teeziny @totallynotlyntv @kyeos4ng @prodsh00ky @acescavern

please don't be a silent reader !! reblog, comment, and like <3

#ateez #ateez x female reader #ateez circus #ateez x reader #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #ateez hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #ateez yunho #yunho x reader #ateez yeosang #yeosang x reader #ateez san #san x reader #ateez wooyoung #wooyoung x reader #ateez mingi #mingi x reader #ateez jongho #jongho x reader #ateez smut #ateez san smut #san smut #choi san smut

[changbunnies]

All About You, (18+)

♡ Pairing: Royal Knight/Bodyguard!Minho x Princess!Reader

♡ Genre: royal au, historical au, arranged marriage au (reader only), age gap, angst, kind of forbidden love? (maybe more than kind of), basically porn with plot

♡ Word Count: 7.5k

♡ Summary: You, the princess who ran away from the castle after finding out your father, the king, has finalized your arranged marriage. Minho, your royal knight and glorified bodyguard, tasked with bringing you back home at all costs. When found, you hit Minho with a very interesting proposition- for him to be the one you share all your "firsts" with, instead of your inevitable husband.

♡ Warnings: age gap !! reader is ~23 while minho is in his 40s, please don't read if this makes you uncomfortable!, uneven power dynamics, outdated traditions and views on women to suit the setting, brief reference to death by guillotine, and death in general, mentions of injury and swordfighting

♡ Smut Warnings (contains spoilers): lowkey corruption kink, loss of virginity (reader), petnames (princess (mostly as a title), good girl), slight sub + dom dynamics, soft dom minho, submissive reader, a lot of kissing (should be expected from me atp), nipple play, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), slight overstim, unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, creampie

♡ Notes: at this point i am determined to write a royal, historical au fic for every member, and my newest offering to you is minho <3 i was literally possessed writing this like once the idea hit my brain i had to get it out asap lmao you can also read the story on my ao3 here, and if you're interested you can also check out my fic rec and feedback blog @stray-dreams

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

Fuck. Minho was absolutely fucked. In recent years, he had one job, and one job only, and that was to take care of the princess. Make sure she’s safe, escort her to where she needs to be and watch over her at all times- that’s all. Not always an easy job, but one of vital importance that Minho took with utmost seriousness. In the 3 years it’s been since becoming your royal knight and glorified bodyguard, he never messed up this critically. 

You always had a rebellious streak and challenged authority, everyone in the castle knew that. And part of Minho’s job, apart from keeping you safe, was keeping you in check- and the king made it extremely clear that failing to do so was not an option. So he lost track of the amount of times he uttered the words “Princess, please think rationally,” or “Please consider your responsibility to the kingdom, don’t do this,” in a near desperate attempt to get you to listen to reason. 

And today, he fucked up the worst he ever had. He knew you were upset tonight, but he was under the impression he successfully calmed you down, and that you wouldn’t do anything rash. He turned his back to you, thinking the storm had been quelled, and that you’d listen to your father, even if doing so felt like pulling teeth. He underestimated however, just how deep your sadness and anger truly ran, and the very moment you saw an opening, you took it. 

You fled from the castle with blind determination, nowhere to go and with little of value in your hands, fueled purely by the desire to escape your unfair circumstances, and live your own life by your own means. You may not believe it, but Minho understood, and felt for you- he really did. But that didn’t change what his duty was, and even if it made you hate him, he had to do his job to the best of his ability. 

So now here he was, roaming the streets looking for you, the hours passing in a blur. You must’ve done a good job of concealing your identity, because no one he asked had seen a young woman matching your description, and as the minutes ticked by, and sunset turned to midnight, he was at a complete loss of what to do. He made record time combing the entire bustling town, stopping into places full to the brim with people in the hopes he’d catch a glimpse of you in the crowd, and yet there seemed to be no trace of you anywhere. 

It was easy for someone to hide their presence in a crowd, or in the rowdy environment of a tavern, and you were more than intelligent enough to blend into a crowd and divert attention away from yourself. It was entirely possible that Minho had seen you at some point, and simply didn’t realize it, though he liked to believe he’d recognize you anywhere, no matter what you wore. Minho scowled, clenching his teeth as he scanned the dark horizon of the treeline; should he check the outer walls of the town for a clue, or double back and check the streets again?

He doubts you made it out of the town easily, considering you likely had no money on your person and little experience with the realities of the world. You were intelligent, yes, but sheltered; he could easily imagine you quickly getting in over your head, thinking you could make it to the next town without issue, only to end up lost and in need of help, with no one for miles to hear your desperate cries. 

Fuck. If he couldn’t find you, his head would most certainly be meeting the cold steel of a guillotine. He had no family who would mourn his loss, but still, he wasn’t ready to face his mortality. And the king, despite being someone he could call a close friend, would spare no mercy if he failed to keep his one and only daughter safe. But really, there was more to it than just the threat of death that kept him searching for you. Believe it or not, he genuinely wanted you safe and well, and he'd do anything to ensure you made it back home, even if it made you curse him for the rest of his days. 

As if God himself heard his prayers and decided to grant him a miracle, Minho sees you- there, on the outskirts of town, holding your cold hands up to your face and letting your breath warm them. It’s dark, the street barely even illuminated enough to discern your recognizable features, but he knows without a doubt that it's you standing there in the cold street, because truly, he knows you anywhere. 

By the time you realize you’ve been spotted and recognized, it’s already much too late to flee. Minho approached you with utmost haste, reaching out and grabbing your arm, lest you make the foolish decision to try to escape again. His hold, while not rough enough to hurt you, is firm, and it only takes one attempt at pulling your arm from his hold to know this is it; your escape attempt has failed, and you’ll be dragged back to the castle and reprimanded for your “temper tantrum.” 

Your father never listens to you, no matter how hard you try to make him understand and see your point of view. Maybe if you were born a boy, your opinions would be important to him, and he’d see you are more than an object to pawn off to whatever man gave him the most political power. “Princess-” “I’m not going home,” you interject before he even has a chance, though you already know it’s in vain. There is no avoiding returning to your glorified prison now that Sir Minho has you in his grasp. 

He sighs, but his face changes to one of sympathy, his grip on your arm loosening ever so slightly. “Can we at least go to an inn room? It’s not safe for a young lady to be on the streets at night,” he reasons with you, as gently as he can manage. Normally Minho is quite stern with you, but you get the impression that he feels being stern isn’t the right approach tonight. You’re known for expressing yourself very vocally, even when doing so is extremely ill-advised, and he is well aware of how opinionated and fiery you are. 

But treating this display as anything other than a genuine act of desperation, a culmination of years of perceived disrespect and conformity, would be another critical error- one he can’t afford to make. So he will be firm, yes, but gentle in his approach. You frown as you look at him; you’re stubborn by nature, and part of you wants to fight against him until the bitter end, but he’s not wrong about the streets being unsafe for you at night. You know he won’t let you escape again come morning, but that’ll have to be a problem for later; for right now, you really should heed his advice and go to an inn for the night. 

“Fine,” you concede, much to Minho’s relief. He could’ve forced you to go with him if he really needed to, but he’d rather avoid doing something so unpleasant. He leads you to a nearby tavern, which is still bustling with activity even at the late hour. He keeps you close as he pushes through the crowd of rowdy drunks to the dual innkeep-bartender, hoping that there is still a room available. The man departs, coming back with a key dangling in hand, “You’re in luck. Last room’s all yours.” 

Minho thanks the man and pulls out his satchel to pay him, leaving a few extra coins as a tip before stashing it back in his pocket, along with the key he was given, and the two of you go up the stairs together. “There’s only one bed,” you comment as you step inside the room, though Minho doesn’t seem to care much about that fact. “That’s fine, don’t plan on sleeping anyways,” he says as he removes his leather scabbard from his back, resting it against the back of the chair in the corner of the room. 

You frown as you sit on the bed and watch him; he must’ve been in a hurry when he received word you fled from the castle, as he wasn’t wearing any of his armor, strictly in casual wear you’d very rarely seen him in. Probably for the best, you think, because if anyone saw a royal knight desperately searching the streets, multiple alarms would be raised. He lights the fireplace, hoping to quickly spread some heat throughout the cold room, before he sits in the chair, crossing his arms and watching you carefully. 

Deserved, you suppose. How is he supposed to trust you’re not going to flee at the first available moment just as before? You certainly don’t make his job easy for him; he can’t take his eyes off you for a second. The silence between you lingers for some time, the crackling of the fire the only sound either of you hear, apart from the muffled patrons enjoying their drinks downstairs. Minho, despite his relaxed posture, looks like he’d be ready to jump up at a moment's notice should he need to. 

You sigh; should you just try to sleep? It’d feel awkward and uncomfortable to try to fall asleep with someone's eyes boring holes into you, but you really didn’t give him much of a choice. “Do you want to tell me why you ran away from the castle?” Minho asks suddenly, breaking the tempered silence between you. “You already know the answer to that,” you respond, crossing your own arms now. 

“Is marrying Sir Jin really so bad?” he asks, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Yes, obviously. I don’t want to. Not that you or my father care about me or anything I think.” Minho’s brow furrows, the frown on his face growing. “Princess, you know that’s not true. I do care about you.” “Do you? I haven’t been able to tell in the slightest,” you counter a bit harshly, “and you could help me if you wanted to, you know. I’d be fine out there if I was with you.”

Okay, maybe you’re not being fair to Minho right now. You do know he cares, but realistically, what is he supposed to do? If he disobeyed your fathers orders, he’d be lucky if his only punishment was a swift death. He was assigned to you because your father trusts him to do the right thing and follow orders dutifully, a trust that is usually not misplaced. But he has to admit, the more and more time he spends with you, the more he feels for you. 

Minho never knew your father, the king, to be an unreasonable or cruel man, but in your eyes, he might as well be the devil himself. And maybe he is cruel- because how do you strip someone of their freedom and choices for your own gain, and not see the harm it causes, the wrong in it? You are more than a pawn, more than a subject, more than his daughter- you are a person. A person with thoughts, feelings, and opinions as real as any mans, who did not deserve to be treated lesser than for the simple crime of being born a girl. 

But what is Minho if not an upholder of the status quo? He was just a single man, and even if he recognized how unfairly you were treated in comparison to the golden child that was your elder brother, what was he supposed to do? He always performed his tasks dutifully and without question, and it wasn’t until he met you that he began to struggle with what he should do, and what he wants to do.

And maybe he could get you out of this town, help you live a quiet, modest life somewhere new, away from the watchful eye of your father. Where he could be your protector, same as now, but without the guilt, burden, or threats. You know you shouldn’t take your frustrations about your life out on Minho, but he’s really all you have. You trust him with your life, and he’s shown you multiple times that he cares about you beyond the duty he has to you, or to your father. He's your only confidant, the only person in the world you can rely on. 

Your eyes linger on the scar across his nose- he got it protecting you, the other man’s sword barely missing his eyes and cutting just across his face, and it was only one of many scars he obtained in his service to you. He’d pick you up and run with you in his arms when you were injured, he’d fight off attackers without breaking a sweat, sustain injury after injury all to make sure you were safe. You’d watch his back, always stunned and mesmerized at the ease at which he cut down your enemies, as if they were nothing but paper. 

When he’d turn back to you, breathing heavy and sweat only just starting to trickle on his brow, his eyes would turn from the harshest winter chill to the gentle warmth of a spring morning. He was quiet, stern, but his care ran far deeper than one would think just by looking at him, and all you had to do to see the true depth of his feelings was look in his eyes. So you knew it was unfair to accuse him of not caring about you, to expect him to go above and beyond for you, to ask that he go against your father to give you what you want, but you were just so sad, frustrated, angry, that you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Maybe you’ll grow to love him if you give him a chance,” Minho suggests; you both know that’s never going to happen, but what else can he say? He never married, and had no children, dedicated to his duty as he was; he had no real advice to offer someone when it came to love, romance, and the like, but he imagined it wasn’t impossible to fall in love if you just met Sir Jin with an open mind.

But as stated, that’s never going to happen. You’re stubborn to a fault, and once you’ve decided something, there’s no changing it. The best Minho can ever manage to do is get you to reconsider, but even then, you’re still likely to go about things the way you originally wanted to, with no regard for consequences or keeping up appearances. You’re a fiery woman, there was no doubt about it, and you don’t let go of things easily. 

“The mere thought of giving that man all my firsts makes me sick, it’s vile,” you scrunch up your nose, making your distaste for the man very clear. Minho doesn’t even think you’ve actually met the man yet, but you’ve already decided you hate him, that you don’t want to marry him, and so you’ll be firmly stuck in your opinion no matter what anyone says. 

“Maybe this isn’t advice I should be giving you, but.. You don’t necessarily have to. To give him your firsts, or love him. Find someone you do love, even if you have to keep it a secret, and hold him with all you’ve got. It still wouldn’t be ideal, of course, but.. Well, it’d be something, at least.” Really, Minho is supposed to encourage you to be an obedient daughter and listen to your father without question, but he knows you well enough to know that’s a fool's errand. 

You’re never going to listen, never going to be obedient, never going to stop being opinionated. So what’s the next, most realistic piece of advice he can give? Lie, of course. Make your father and inevitable husband believe you’re a good, obedient wife and daughter, and then go live the life you really want behind their backs. It's dishonest as all hell, and there would be consequences if you got caught, but if you’re going to be miserable no matter what you do, you might as well try, right? It’s what Minho would do if he were you, anyways. 

“What about you?” you ask and Minho raises a brow in question. “What about me?” he asks, and what you respond with makes him feel like the air has been punched out of his lungs. “What if I gave my firsts to you?” Did he hear you right? There must be some mistake with his ears, there’s absolutely no way you said what he thinks you did. “You.. what?” Surely you can’t be serious about this. You’re the princess, and he’s just the man who happens to be your guard, a man who is your fathers age at that. 

But the way you look at him, he can tell you’re not joking in the slightest. “Princess, I couldn’t possibly accept that,” Minho says sternly, his arms no longer crossed but instead resting on the arms of the chair, hands beginning to grip tightly so he can ground himself and try to make sense of this insane situation. “Why not? I’d be happier if I gave it to someone like you. I trust you,” you say so nonchalantly it makes his head reel. What the fuck is happening right now? 

Minho was the ideal man, at least in your opinion. He was handsome, mature, realistic and practical, knew how to reel you in without disregarding the root of what you feel or being disrespectful to you. He never dismissed how you felt, made you feel over emotional or like a fool who overreacts; he’d ask you to see reason, sure, urge you to think more before acting, but he never, never made you feel like your feelings were invalid. And he genuinely cared about you, and you liked him, were attracted to him, so if the opportunity presented itself then.. Why not take the chance? 

Fuck. Minho was absolutely fucked. You were just freshly 20 when Minho first met you and became your guard, and hard as he tried to never see you beyond the platonic, he’s always viewed you as an attractive young woman. He liked your fiery spirit, liked how you had the bravery and gall to challenge authority, a skill that in recent months he felt he was sorely lacking. Your attitude was refreshing, and despite your circumstances, you never acted like a damsel in need of his help. 

In a different life, in another world, maybe you two could have met as equals, not painfully stuck to the rules of an unfair, unforgiving reality. You’d be each other's foil, you, the impassioned dreamer with as many thoughts and ideas as there were stars in the sky, and he the realist, who didn’t dim your light but tempered it into a steady, sustainable flame. You’d take him out on adventures, out of the strict box of his comfort zone, and he’d ground you more firmly to reality, never discouraging your dreams but making sure you took the necessary steps in the right way, responsibly, matching one another perfectly, complementary and meant for each other. 

But that’s not your reality, and you both know it. There would never be any coming back from this if you go through with it, and there’s no ideal, happy future for you two to share. “I’m not so disillusioned to think this would be anything other than sex for you,” you continue, and he swallows, mind still racing impossibly, “but it’d be much more meaningful for me with you than some bastard I don’t like in the slightest.” 

You’re wrong. So wrong, and you don’t even know it. It would never be “just sex” with you. You mean much, much more to him than you even realize. “You won’t regret asking a man like me? There’d be no taking it back once it’s done,” Minho can’t help but ask, rationality and reason desperately trying to gain control. 

Despite what your father may believe, you’re a grown woman capable of making your own decisions. And this is a decision you make with full knowledge of what it means for you, more than willing to accept whatever consequences may arise for committing such a sin. In an ideal world, you’d be allowed to love who you wish, live where you wish, do what you wish. 

But this isn’t an ideal world, and if there is only one thing you can ever be granted in this life that feels as if it isn’t even your own, it would be this- to have one night, just one night, where you can be the person you want to be, with Minho by your side. “You’re free to reject me if you’re not attracted to me, but.. My only regret would have been not trying. So I ask, are you not attracted to me?” 

He looks you over carefully, grip on the armrests tightening. Admitting that he’s attracted to you may as well be a death sentence. But he can’t lie to you, completely at your mercy. Fuck the king, it’s you he’s really loyal to. All he’s ever done, all he ever will do, it’s always for you. He’s always tried to act in your best interest, to do the right thing, to keep you safe and protected. But does keeping you safe even matter if you’re miserable? 

“I am,” Minho swallows, answering honestly despite his better judgment, “You have no idea how attracted to you I am.” “So why hesitate?” you ask, fingers trail down your lap, over your knees, to where the very bottom of your dress lies. He watches you, eyes darting from your hands back to your face. You’re watching him too, carefully, considering his every reaction before you make your next move, impressively calculated. 

You take the hem of your dress in your hands, pulling it up leisurely, getting it halfway up your thighs, and Minho is in front of you in an instant, his hands grabbing your wrists and stopping you from lifting it any further. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Princess,” he breathes, voice low and strained; he can’t lose control of his desires, but fuck, you’re making it so hard. You look up at him, meeting his gaze with the same fiery determination you always have, but there’s more there than just that this time. Desire, want, need- all for him.

Fuck it. He’s going to get burned, but maybe it’s worth it. You’ll be his funeral pyre, engulfing him in your flame until all that remains are the ashes of the man he was supposed to be. And what a beautiful way to end his life it will be, lost between your thighs, feeling your nails dig and claw at his skin. He lets go of your wrists, one of his hands coming to cup your face, thumb tracing over your bottom lip. 

“Has anyone ever kissed you, Princess?” he asks and you give a slight shake of the head, breathing a soft “No..” He hums, and there’s a twisted sort of pleasure he derives from knowing he’ll be your first in every conceivable way. You’re not “innocent,” he knows you’re not, but there’s something about being your first kiss, your first cock, your first everything that makes him crazy. 

“And you want me to be the first one to kiss you?” he follows up with another question, corners of his mouth threatening to twist into a smile when you nod, a soft, honest “yes” leaving your lips effortlessly. He leans down towards you, keeping your head tilted up so he can easily meet your lips. He does so softly, treating you with care. His lips are softer than you expected, and the feeling of them against your own fills you with butterflies. 

He carefully tilts you back, and you let your body fall back onto the mattress, head hitting the surprisingly soft pillows. Minho crawls over you, spreading your legs apart just enough to get between them, your dress now hiked all the way up your thighs. He’s hovering over you, looking down at you with so much love and lust and that it leaves you speechless. “I’ll need you to listen to me tonight. Can you do that for me?” he asks, pressing light kisses to your jaw, under your ear, your neck. 

You can, because it’s Minho. He’d never hurt you, never try to control you, never make you feel lesser than. So you can listen to him, because you trust him with your care; he’ll take good care of you, you know he will. He smiles when you nod, and you see him smile so rarely that it makes your heart skip a beat; his role always requires him to be so stern and straight faced, that seeing him smile down at you like this is enough to melt you into a puddle. 

“You’re a good girl when you want to be, hmm?” he hums against your neck, resuming his trail of kisses against your skin, and you can’t explain why, but the words and tone he says them in makes your stomach flip. If you were in a different world, and didn’t have to return home to the castle tomorrow, he’d take his time marking your neck, filling it with pretty shades of blue, purple, and red, sinking his teeth into your soft, supple skin.

He just knows you’d look so pretty like that, and the way you react when his breath tickles your skin and his lips linger, tells him you’d like it too. His fingers trail down your body, finding the hem of your dress and pulling it up over your chest. You lift your back off the bed when he separates from your neck, pulling your dress off the rest of the way and discarding it to the floor. He kisses you as he fiddles with the straps of your bra, effortlessly unhooking it in the back and pulling it down your arms and off your body. 

He may have never married, but he’s no stranger to being with and pleasuring women. And he’ll make sure he makes this a night you’ll always remember for all the right reasons. Capturing your lips in another kiss, his hands take in your now bare breasts, gently kneading and squeezing. You try to squeeze your legs together, but his place between your thighs stops the act from happening, and he chuckles against your lips when he realizes what you’re doing. 

“Be patient, Princess, I’ll take good care of you,” he whispers before kissing you again, and you let out a small whine, not knowing exactly what you want but knowing you want something. You gasp when he takes your nipples between your fingers and pinches them, not too hard of course, but enough to give him the chance to slip his tongue into your mouth. Your body shudders, you feel dizzy with pleasure and excitement, and the feeling of his tongue circling yours is impossibly intoxicating. 

One of his hands travels down, over your stomach, coming between your bodies to feel your heat over your panties. He’s barely even begun and you’re already soaking the fabric, your eager anticipation for more of his touch palpable beyond all else. He nips at your bottom lip, gently tugging it between his teeth before soothing the sting with kitten licks, his hand slipping inside your panties to feel how slick you’ve gotten directly. 

Your body jolts when his fingers run between your folds, and he barely has to move them at all to get his fingers completely coated in your juices. He pulls back to look at you, taking in the sight of your flushed face and swollen lips, pretty and perfect. You’re panting, breathless, overwhelmed in the best way possible. You keen when his fingers rub over your clit in circles, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you lift your head from the pillows to watch. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks, suppressing a grin when you whine and quickly nod your head. “Want more, want you,” you mutter, the most timid you’ve ever been in regards to a man. He coos, giving you a sweet kiss as he continues his stimulation to your sensitive spot. “Remember what I said? Patience, Princess, you’ll get what you want. We can’t rush and have you getting hurt, can we?” 

You pout as you concede, and God, he finds that so cute; he’s never seen you actually act shy and pouty before, and it makes him want to give you the entire world. He’ll give you everything you want, anything you ask for, but he’ll have to remember to tease you first so he can see that cute expression on your face before he gives in to your whims. “I’ll make sure you’re nice and ready for my cock, so just be a good girl and follow my lead until then. You can do that for me easily, can’t you?”

Another shy nod, another adorable flushed look that makes his cock throb in his trousers. It was a little intimidating for you, knowing how experienced Minho must be due to his age, and feeling like you must fall short in comparison to other women, women who knew what they were doing, but really, that was just your own insecurity talking. He didn’t mind at all that you were inexperienced; in fact, it excited him for reasons he didn’t entirely understand. 

Maybe it was the knowledge that he was the first to touch your skin, or maybe that someone as determined and fiery as you are is allowing yourself to concede control, to let him be in charge of your pleasure, trusting him to bring you to utmost bliss. What bigger display of trust could you ever show him? Your glassy, pleading eyes, begging him for more but still waiting for it just as he asked- you’re too good for him. He’s going to ruin you. 

He takes his fingers away, and you have to physically stop yourself from whining at the lack of contact, lest he remind you again about “being patient.” “Open your mouth for me,” Minho requests, and though you are a bit confused, you do as he asks immediately, obeying without question. Fuck, that’s hot; the image of you, mouth open, tongue slightly sticking out and waiting to receive whatever he gives you is something he never wants to forget. 

Minho slides two of his fingers into your mouth, instructing you to lick, to get his fingers nice and wet. Truthfully, you were more than lubricated enough to take his fingers without this step, but he couldn’t resist the urge to see you this way. He pushes his fingers in your mouth down to the knuckle, and you persist with coating them in your saliva even as you gag and tears prick the corners of your eyes. 

He showers you with praise, slipping his fingers out of your mouth when he feels satisfied with the work you’ve done on them, kissing your cheeks, feeling the heat of your face on his lips. Slipping his hand back inside your panties, he presses the tips of his wet fingers to your hole, and you instinctively suck in a breath, body unconsciously tensing from the anticipation. “You have to relax, Princess, it won’t feel good if you’re tense,” he explains sweetly, shaking his head when you mutter a soft apology. 

“Don’t be sorry, not for that. Just focus on me, hmm? On this,” he whispers, his lips lingering on yours in a deep, impassioned kiss. His fingers stay completely still until he feels your body start to release its tension, heeding his advice to focus more on his kisses than the motion of his fingers. He keeps kissing you even as the first of his fingers finally starts to push inside you, and you moan into his mouth, hot pleasure licking your skin. 

He moves his finger in and out slowly, making sure you’re well adjusted before he pushes in another one, hooking his fingers to find that delicious sweet spot he knows will have you crying his name in no time. You gasp loudly when he finds it, your hands twisting the sheets beneath you between your fingers, your entire body trembling. It feels so good you almost can’t breathe, and when he picks up his pace, hitting your spot over and over as he brings his thumb to your clit, you know you won’t last long at all.

“M-Minho, I’m- I’m gonna-” you try to warn him, but the words die in your throat, the pleasure too overwhelming to continue to try and form a sentence. He simply hums, continuing his motions until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, sharp, shuddery gasps and moans tumbling from your lips as your orgasm takes you. “That’s it, just let go, just like that, I’ve got you,” he praises, pressing kisses to your hot skin, helping you ride out your high.

Before you can even fully recollect your breath and get your racing heart back under control, he’s pushing a third finger inside, the trembling in your body intensifying from the addition. “You need more to get ready for me,” he tells you, and in your fucked out state all you can do is nod, taking his word as gospel truth, “need to stretch you good to make sure my cock fits.” All you can do is lay there and take the onslaught of pleasure, unable to think of about anything other than how full and good his fingers make you feel. 

You don’t even register that he’s moved your down your body and tugged your panties to the side until his tongue is meeting your clit, swirling around it in expertly practiced circles, making you desperately cry out his name. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging harshly as your hips buck up to keep feeling the delicious sensation his tongue provides you. He flattens his tongue and lets you grind against it as you want, the motions of his fingers not stuttering or ceasing despite the movement of your hips. 

You feel the familiar heat pooling your stomach, another orgasm approaching quickly, the sounds you release turning into desperate whines and whimpers as you chase the feeling. It only takes a few more rolls of your hips and thrusts of his fingers to have you releasing all over his face, your juices gushing around his fingers. He sits up and pulls his fingers out when your body falls limp, chest heaving and ears ringing as you try to recover from the mind-blowing experience you just had. 

Your eyes are closed, and you can feel his weight shift, can hear the soft clink of his belt unbuckling, followed by the rustling of clothes. You open your eyes to see Minho’s cock is now out, his hand lazily pumping it and spreading the pre-cum that accumulated and dripped over his time focusing on you. You reach a hand out to touch it, to replace his hand with your own, but he grabs your hand before you can, instead making you intertwine your fingers. 

“Tonight’s all about you, Princess. Don’t worry about taking care of me,” he says, kissing the back of your hand and then holding it down right above your head; you’re not quite pinned, easily able to snake your hand out of his hold if you wanted to, but you have to admit, you like the feeling of his hand keeping yours held down. He rubs his cock between your folds before he lines himself up with your entrance, though you didn’t miss the subtle smirk on his face when you whined from the feeling of his tip rubbing against your clit.

“Squeeze my hand if you need to,” Minho tells you before taking your free hand and bringing it up to his shoulder, “and hold onto me.” Your heart squeezes in your chest; the hidden romantic in you yearns to tell him you love him, to thank him for taking such good care of you, to express how you never want this night to end, but you know that would be a mistake. Neither of you can afford to let your emotions spill out, so you swallow them down the best you can, deciding to just live in this moment, to experience it for all that it is and all that it means for you.

The initial push is slow, and thanks to his diligent preparation, there is little physical pain or discomfort you experience from the stretch of his cock. A slight sting, sure, but nothing you can’t easily handle, and it’s barely even recognizable when compared to the pleasant fullness you feel. So when you squeeze his hand, and your eyes well with tears, it’s not because you are pained; it’s because you finally have something you want, a happiness you thought would forever elude you.

He takes his free hand and wipes away the tears from your eyes, a soft look of concern on his face. “Hurts?” he asks, but you shake your head quickly. “Feels good, I just.. I..” you struggle with the words, knowing you can’t express how you actually feel even if you felt you could. “I know. You don’t have to say it, I know,” Minho speaks to you softly, and the kiss he gives you very nearly makes you sob.

There’s still a few inches left before he’s fully inside you, and he pushes the remainder in slowly as he continues to kiss you, his free hand now rubbing soothing circles on your hip with his thumb. Minho does well at maintaining composure, staying firmly in control of himself and his body despite the way your walls squeeze and suck him in, despite the way you whimper when you feel him throb, or cry out against his lips when his tip kisses your deepest spots.

“That’s a good girl, taking all I give you, doing so well,” he praises you some more, and you love when he tells you how good you’re doing if the way you clench around him is any indicator. “Fuck, Princess-” he groans when he finally starts to move, pulling out and pressing back in much more slowly than he normally would, but the wet friction you provide him is delicious. “Minho, I-” you start, interrupted by a sharp gasp when he finds your sweet spot with his cock.

He looks at you as he stills his hips, patiently waiting for you to continue in case what you have to say is important, or a request for him to stop. You swallow, face heating up but determined to get out what you want to say. “J-Just this once, I don’t want to be the princess. Call me by name, please-” Oh, that’s what you want? He can do that, easily; he’s already groaned your name countless times in the privacy of his room, stroking his cock to the thought of you.

The sound of your name falling from his lips as he resumes the thrust of his hips has you clenching hard, stars erupting in your vision as he picks up his pace, beginning to quickly and mercilessly hit your spot, over and over again. He takes one of your legs and props it up over his shoulder, allowing more of his cock to fill you up, the creaking of the bed and the sound of skin slapping beginning to overpower the noise from downstairs.

Taking his other hand away from yours, you’ll have to forgive him, he licks his fingers and then brings them to your clit, wanting nothing more than to see and feel you release on his cock. It only takes a few more thrusts and circles from his fingers to have you crying out his name as you cum, fingers digging into the sheets beneath you as your body shakes and legs tremble. But Minho hasn’t cum yet, so he’s not quite done with you, not that you mind in the slightest; you’ll let him chase his pleasure as long as he wishes, even if it leaves you a drooling, fucked out mess in the end.

He pulls out of you, just long enough to sit against the headboard, and then he’s pulling you on top of him, guiding you to sink back down on his cock and sit fully in his lap. The new position has you rolling your eyes to the back of your head, Minho guiding the movement of your hips with his hands as he thrusts up into you. He’s quite literally doing all the work, but that’s perfectly fine; this night is supposed to be about you, after all, and he doesn’t want you to lift a pretty little finger. Just let him use you a little until he cums, that’s all he needs.

You’re panting against his neck, head laid on his shoulder and nails digging into the skin of his back beneath his shoulder blades. The sting of your nails in his skin is just how he imagined it to be, and his head is falling back against the headboard, low grunts and groans of your name leaving freely as his cock throbs and twitches, getting closer and closer to his release. He uses one of his hands to grab your face and lift it up to his, crashing his lips to yours in a desperate, impassioned display of love and lust.

A few more snaps of his hips and you feel his cum spurting inside you in long, thick ropes, the sensation sending you forward into yet another orgasm of your own, your desperate sounds muffled only by Minho’s mouth on yours. Your body collapses against his when the moment slows to a stop, both of your chests heaving and breaths heavy as you lie against him, his arms wrapped around you snuggly and keeping you upright against his chest. 

You can hear the quick, erratic beating of his heart as he catches his breath, looking up at him to see his eyes closed and sweat trailing down his brow towards his cheek. He looks beautiful like this, you think; you hope he thought the same of you. Even as his cock starts to soften, neither of you move, and though your legs protest and beg to be stretched out, you refuse to leave your spot on Minho’s lap.

“Are you alright, Princess?” he asks once he’s collected himself, pushing your hair from your face and wiping the sweat from your brow. “Mhm, just want to stay like this,” you reply, and Minho smiles softly, rubbing over your shoulders and down your back in a sweet gesture of comfort. You’re silent like this for some time, just simply enjoying the feeling of him, the sound of the crackling fire, the warmth he and this room provides you.

“Does my happiness really have to end here?” you can’t help but quietly ask, and Minho is quiet for a moment, carefully considering before he speaks. In a different world, in a different time, in a different place, maybe the two of you are meant to be. There’s comfort in imagining yourself there, truly happy with Minho, letting him care for you while not snuffing out the flame that is your pride, ambition, and spirit.

It’s not meant to be, you both know that to be true. To be with each other required great risk, sacrifice, hardship. But again he has to wonder, is being safe worth the cost of happiness? Would you even truly be “alive” if your every moment was spent miserably? He doesn’t want to see the very core of what makes you you be snuffed out by selfish, idiotic men and their expectations of what you should be.

You’re much younger than him, and it would be impossible for him to be there for you for the rest of your life, but he can be for the rest of his, at least. “Maybe not,” he answers, unsure of what the future holds for the two of you, but not entirely ready to give up so easily. He could accept his fate, accept that love is something out of his reach, but it’s your happiness on the line that makes him want to fight for it. 

There’s a lot he could lose by helping you escape this life you feel trapped in, but he’d rather see you happy than wasting your days away in the castle, subservient to a man you loathe. Your love isn’t meant to be, but that’s okay; he’ll help you all the same. He’s loyal to you, and only you, he’s decided- so if you make your future husband, your father, the entire kingdom your enemy, then they’ll be his enemy too. And it’ll all be worth it just to see you smile for a little bit longer.

#skz x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #skz smut #lee know smut #lee minho smut #skz imagines #skz scenarios #not me posting a fic again literally 4 days after my last one i am serious when i say i was possessed to write this #also not posting between the hours of 4-7am for once that is a win for me !! #mdni + divider graphic credit: @cafekitsune

[lady-raziel]

long reaction to the update

ok. so they put out an update video! since i've been commentating for the last three days i might as well subject you all to more of my thoughts today.

main takeaway: this was a good apology video. i mean it. short and to the point, no overproduction, heartfelt and honest (and not a ukelele to be seen. thank god.) they took ownership of the situation, apologized, and restated how much they value their relationship with the fandom.

their solution is to make the watcher tv platform into kind of an iteration of patreon where content is available for early access before it is released onto youtube later. this is clearly a better option than paywalling everything for everyone. i'm not sure what the relative breakdown of costs turns out to be when you compare how much they were making on patreon after the platform took their cut VS how much it costs in overhead to run and maintain their own platform (how much it costs annually to contract via Vimeo, essentially). but i'm sure that's part of the calculation.

all things considered, that does seem like the best option out of all the alternatives. it allows them to not completely abandon any of the pans they have simmering over the fire for the time being. i don't think i ever thought they were going to just say "oops, forget about the streaming thing! let's pretend that never happened!" because at this point they've invested quite a lot of time and money into it, and i don't disagree that keeping it in some iteration may help them make up some of the funds they're lacking.

i would say, it's fine to keep the streamer. this is one of the ok outcomes, all things considered-- but if they're going to do it, they've GOT to do it smart from this point forward. listen to both the fans and the consultants intimately. both are going to have valid points, and both are going to be right. listening to too much of either side will sink this thing because each has motives and expertise that the other doesn't. if the fans say $6 is too much, listen to them-- but have conversations with business consultants about how much you realistically need to charge to make things work.

also, i'd use this whole situation as a learning experience. watcher is a young company, and it's literally inevitable that mistakes will happen. what's different is that the watcher crew haven't really been in a position before where they've been on the receiving end of the internet-angry-justice-hammer to this extent. it's one thing to watch it happen to others, but it's a position of extreme privilege (and a bit of hubris) to think "but that won't happen to me, because i'm built different." naw, man-- two things in life are inevitable: death and fuckups. the callout posts get us all in the end.

what's really important is that they use this as a wakeup call that even the most loyal fandoms will only follow you so far to the cliff's edge, and you don't want to push that. you have to strike a balance between the passion projects that you think are worthy and the stuff that maybe doesn't excite you as much anymore but the people want to see. a little fanservice keeps the lights on, as unfair as that might seem. i'm gonna make 50 markiplier choccy milk memes just so i can make one niche political joke once and a while for 6 likes. it is what it is.

i'd also use this as a chance to take a very careful look at company structure and finances. it's not fun to do and nobody likes it. trust me-- this is hard whether you're a single adult trying to pay the bills or the freaking US government (speaking from experience on both-- i have to read the president's budget for work frequently). but you all have to ask hard questions about the ratio of creative staff you take on VS staff for administrative and other business roles, as well as the costs and benefits of everything you spend money on. how many staff members are essential to location shoots? can this video be shot with 2 cameras instead of 3 and thus you don't need another cameraperson? you might even have to come to the decision that instead of pitching a new show it makes more sense to use those funds to hire your essential non-creative roles or contract firms or freelancers.

paying staff a fair wage with benefits speaks highly of what watcher wants their values to be. it's hard to find such a position in a creative role and still actually get to work on things you care about. but it would be much worse if watcher didn't make realistic decisions about finances and it lead to the death of the company and everyone losing their jobs. the whole watcher company can work, in my opinion, but not without some sacrifices. they're going to have to run it more like a business and less like a youtube-channel-turned-business in the future if they want to survive.

last thing i'll add is that while i do think this was a good apology video, i still think they hurt themselves by not putting out some sort of statement on Friday or Saturday just to say that they were formulating a response. As i've said in other posts, it's ok and in fact beneficial to not make a kneejerk reaction, but it's also very important to communicate that you SEE what's happening. you SEE what people are saying and THAT'S why you need more time to respond. saying nothing and leaving the angry public to wonder if you dropped your phone off the Hoover Dam or just don't care? that's a fumble. it's a common mistake companies make in a crisis, but that doesn't mean it doesn't erode trust fast.

this could have been handled better in many ways. we see that, and i'm glad watcher says they see that too. crucial going forward is taking all this and patching the errors that caused all this to fall apart and learning from the experience.

tbh at this point what i'm most sad about is that the watcher crew have probably been too stressed out and upset to appreciate some of the absolute bangers people have been laying down to clown on them. i think if it wasn't about them they might be touched by the collective attitude and creative spirit. /j

#watcher #watcher tv #after this post i have got to actually not spend time writing long reactions about this anymore because i too #have fires caused by my own fuckups to put out #alas