#╰ (✪∀<) ~ *:･ﾟ✧ My own fingers stained with red; tangle up with yours instead. ✘ GAMES.

[theircurse]

˗ˏˋ *ㅤ★ㅤ‿︵ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤ𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅 ?

everyone dies

maybe not "everyone" everyone, but a good portion of you all contribute to each other's deaths. allegiances became so crossed over that, even if you once considered yourselves family, you barely recognize each other by the end. to call what transpires a bloodbath would be generous. it is nothing short of devastating. who can say what individual motives were by the end? everyone became narrow-minded, short-sighted. disagreements turned into feuds turned into wars. there was nothing you once had that remained sacred. it was almost better that it finally ended for good, except that it should not have ended like this

Tagged Stolen from: @luckquartzed but also she tagged me in my other blog so it's not really stealing !

Tagging: Whoever !

[theircurse-archive4]

˗ˏˋ *ㅤ★ㅤ‿︵ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤHow evil are you (from 0 to 100 percent)

Yumeno Kyusaku is 67 percent evil.

⊱ ★ ⊰ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤ❛ㅤWho, me ?ㅤ❜

⊱ ★ ⊰ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤ❛ㅤNEVER !ㅤ❜

[theircurse-archive3]

-: ✧ ( WHAT POISONOUS FLOWERING PLANT ARE YOU ? ) ✧ :-

Hemlock

This is the poison of intense fear. Your body trembles, your flesh burns. Your limbs won't respond to you. You convulse. You can't seem to control the fear. It seems that it has always lived within you. You hesitate, you agonize, and that breeds regret. Sometimes it threatens to overwhelm you, and that frightens you more than anything. But panic is survival mode in overdrive, and something within you knows you must live. Creation seems to be the only balm for you. Perhaps you survive so stubbornly because you have stories that must be told, songs that must be sung. Soothe your stage fright. The path from surviving to thriving is having a good garden to grow in. And you can't do that completely alone.

Tagged by: @chaosbled ( thank you ! )

Tagging: Whoever !

[macfrog]

If you ever feel up to it - a little short story from the scom universe about reader and Joel deciding to have a second baby or finding out they're pregnant for the second time would warm my cold dead heart <3

i am. so. sorry. for the word count on this i truly do not know what happened. but i had a lot of fun with it, so. hopefully y'all do, too. happy fathers day! x

jellybean ~4k words | series masterlist warnings: pregnancy symptoms (feeling and being sick, horniness + sleepiness. aka me even when not pregnant), 99% just duckie vs her mom

Duckie spills the secret on a Friday.

The morning is lazy, slow. The breathing of the sea across a plain of beach. Your fingers sift through her hair like the breeze through sun-bleached pages. The way she and the sun tint the room peach.

Sarah sprawls out across the spot still warm on her dad’s side of the bed. She’s in a habit of waking up early to sneak through to your room, lift the bottom of the covers, and army crawl between your bodies.

Joel’s in a habit of stirring to the heat of her at his back, her tiny toes at his spine, and turning to scoop her in one arm. They sleep curled into one another, mouths catching flies.

This morning, though, she’s up to something. She brought a secret.

She’s flat-out on her stomach, pens scratching at the paper. There’s the scent of cherry and lemon and green apple tangling in the air. Taut frown on her face, tongue poked with concentration. She looks just like her dad.

She pauses and looks up at you. “What color is this part?” she asks, dabbing at the blank hubcap.

“Silver,” you reply, fixing the cap back onto the grape pen before it stains your sheets.

She huffs. “I don’t have silver, Mama.”

You tap on the page. “Daddy’s wing mirrors are black, but you did ‘em green. The colors don’t matter, do they?”

But it’s seven a.m., and you’re sharing only the red jellybeans for something of a pre-breakfast snack (the four-year-old’s idea), and you’re exhausted despite having slept the full night, and she keeps halting any time Joel’s humming quietens – just in case he spoils his birthday surprise.

She hunkers down with the lemon pen to nail the emblem of his truck, and you figure – color is just the least of it. Truthfully, to your kid – and so, to you, too – nothing has ever mattered more.

You cup her cheek and lift her gaze back to meet yours. “How about I grab you a glitter pen today, just for the wheels?”

She grins. Little milk teeth, gappy and gummy. Peach fuzz cheeks, sweet as the rest of her, a perfect fit in the palm of your hand.

I love you I love you you’re my whole world I love you, you want to say.

Instead: “Only if we tidy your room later. Deal?”

“Deal, Mama,” Sarah giggles, and her little ink-stained hands splay out across the page again.

She scribbles only a few more splotches of color before you both notice it.

The sudden silence.

The water’s stopped running. The shower screen rattles as he pulls it back. Dripdripdrip from the showerhead straight down to the empty basin.

Sarah twists to watch Joel’s disembodied arm blindly grab for a towel folded on the sink. It whips off out of sight, and he calls through from the bathroom.

“Duckie? You still there?”

“Gogogo,” you whisper, helping your daughter cover her dad’s drawing with blank sheets. “Leave the jellybeans, Duck, save yourself!”

She finds the entire thing hysterical. Swinging her masterpiece under one arm, two fistfuls of rainbow pens, springing from the mattress like it suddenly caught flame. She throws herself from the foot of the bed and dashes across the hall to her own room, candy scattering in her wake.

Joel’s head cranes around the doorframe. “Where’d she go?”

You smile, shrugging. Chewing innocently on a jellybean. “That’s funny. She was here a second ago.”

He pads over to the bed, towel slung loose around his hips. Smirks, when your hungry eyes descend his figure – the bearlike shape of him, all muscle and fur, toned where he needs it but soft where you want it.

He cages over you, dark hair dripping with the smell of citrus, skin sticky.

His lips are like velvet against yours. Tongue still singed with coffee. A low growl from his throat when you lean forward to lick into his mouth.

“Smell so goddamn good,” you murmur, dipping your head to bury into the crook of his neck.

His beard is fuzzier when it’s damp, natural masculine musk melded with the fresh soap and rich aftershave he uses. All honey and oatmeal, mixed with a woodsy scent – and fuck, it’s intoxicating. Moreso than usual – stronger and sexier.

You take his hands and lower them to your hips, letting his fingers knot around the baggy material of your – his T-shirt. Tugging on it, exposing the slip of delicate lace on your hips.

“Darlin’,” Joel warns, “we’re late. We still gotta drop Duckie off – If she walks in –”

You groan, huffing back into the mattress. The weight between your legs ripples over the horizon, pulses into weak nothing.

Joel fixes the shirt back down to your thighs just as the thunder of his daughter’s footsteps rumbles back into the room.

Tonight, he breathes, slicking some of the hair from his face.

You grin, taking his hand to pull yourself back up.

Sarah materializes in the doorway, a lingering half-girl. Smiling from behind the frame, twisting the ball of her foot into the floor.

“Hi, Duck,” Joel says, still playing with your fingers.

“Hi.”

“You look guilty.”

Her grin widens. She totters into the room, launches herself onto the bed, and nuzzles into your side. She squirms when Joel digs his fingers into her waist.

The beats of her laughter drum against your ribs, the same way her fists used to when she lived inside you.

“Alright.” You cradle her, her little head tipping back to wake the rest of Austin up with her squeals of glee. “Are we ready for some actual food, now?”

Joel chuckles, reaching for his mug.

Sarah nods from your lap. Her eyes drift down to the print on your tee. “Mama?”

“Mhm?”

“Do they like jellybeans?”

You frown. “Does who like jellybeans?”

Her finger prods lightly into your tummy. “The baby.”

Joel chokes, splattering coffee into his fist. He slams the mug down, pounds his chest clear of liquid.

“There’s no – Jesus, Joel,” you swipe mocha flecks from the sheets, “Told Sarah to be careful with her pens and then you spray coffee all over the…”

Sarah rolls off, cackling. “Silly Daddy,” she hoots, leaping on the bedroom floor.

“Hey,” you usher her over to the door, “Why don’t you go pick out what you wanna wear today? I’ll be right behind you. Quit tryna give your dad a heart attack, okay?”

“The baby, Mama,” she’s repeating, walking like a little convict. She turns over the threshold to her room like it’s a cell, her pink pajama uniform and guilty expression to go with it. Still laughing, swallowing the ticklish bursts when she notices you’re shaking your head.

“There is no baby.” You kneel before her, repeating, “No baby. Just you. How about your T-shirt with the butterflies?”

It seems to distract her enough. Thank Christ. She gasps, inspired, and twirls off to find the tee.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, pushing back to your feet.

Joel’s flapping the sheets when you slip back into your room, still clearing his throat. Half-dressed: a white T-shirt over his broad chest and a pair of black boxers. Soaked hair clinging to the back of his neck and drying in flicks across his forehead.

Jesus, you want to pull him back over you and let him have his way.

You close the door over and spin, hands on your hips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” he croaks. “Did you hear what she just said?”

“You’ve known this kid for four years, Joel, you really can’t tell when she’s fucking with you? She’s my kid, keep up.”

“Just seemed an awfully –” he thumps his chest again, “– awfully specific thing to say.”

“She’s in a phase I think,” you reply, catching the pillow he tosses across. “She’s telling stories. Last week, her pre-K teacher congratulated me our supposed wedding. Asked to see pictures of the Mickey Mouse officiant.”

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “She really bought that?”

You mimic the breezy voice: “Sarah was very convincing.”

Joel scoffs. “I don’t know if I can take a lying phase and a copying phase at the same time. Every goddamn word I say, she’s gotta repeat it.”

“She idolizes you,” you straighten the sheets, “I think it’s endearing.”

“Hm. Just wait until it’s you.”

He wanders around the bed, pulls your back against his chest. His arms cross over your tummy, lips pressing into your shoulder where his shirt has slipped.

“How much harder would two be?” he mumbles into the bare skin.

“Two Sarahs?” You scoff.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I forget she runs on chaos and jellybeans.”

“Yup,” you turn in his arms, linking yours behind his neck, “And there ain’t no point in talking about it anyways, because I am not fucking pregnant.”

He rolls his forehead against yours, stealing bristly kisses. “Okay.”

“I’m not, Joel.”

“I believe you, baby.”

Sarah’s bedtime is a liberal eight, eight thirty on weekends. She likes to sit up, lodged between you and Joel on the couch, and help pick the movie you two will watch once she’s in bed.

Once – and only once – Joel tried to fool her by pretending to play her choice, then switching as soon as she went down.

The kid quizzed him on the movie the next morning. He failed. She’s never forgotten.

Tonight, though, Joel’s out. Some game that you know and care too little about sports to learn the name or importance of. He’s with some buddies at the local bar, probably nursing his second beer in as many hours, and counting down the minutes until he can come home to his girls.

Sarah snores soundly, slumped at your side as though butter wouldn’t melt. The flicker from the TV across her face, the gentle mumbling of the voices onscreen. Her hands limp in her lap, fingers idling in a pink snack bowl.

You admire her, stealing a piece of her popcorn. Teeth grinding down when you remember dishing it for her earlier, hearing her curious voice ask whether or not the baby likes popcorn more than jellybeans.

Nope, you sang, tossing a handful in your mouth as you passed her the bowl. Imaginary babies don’t eat popcorn.

She snorted (which unnerved you, because what the fuck is this kid finding so funny?), and followed you to the living room so close that you could feel her toes at your heels.

Some of the kids in her class have siblings. Some older, but mostly younger. It’s the only fucking explanation, the only thing that explains this sudden interest in the real estate of your uterus.

She’s going through a phase, you tell yourself, suckling on popcorn. But then – how many fucking phases do kids go through? Which phases did you go through?

Barney & Friends. That was a fucking phase. Refusing to leave the house without the hoodie your mom bought you from the Museum of Natural History, even in the height of summer. Ketchup and broccoli, your boyfriend at seventeen, frisbeeing your neighbor’s newspaper and aiming for his flowerpots.

Phase, phase, fucking phase.

Does she know something you don’t?

…No. You took a test just last week. Shut up. Stop letting the kid into your fucking head.

Joel’s keys jangle on the other side of the door, shunting into the lock with a sound which stills your brain.

You tilt your head over the back of the couch, your man’s beard tickling your nose as he kisses you. “Evening.”

“Missed you,” he whispers against your lips. He straightens and tugs the jacket from his shoulders. “She not in bed yet?”

“She fell asleep down here,” you reply. “I got too tired to carry her up.”

He caresses your forehead, big pillowy palm. “You feelin’ okay?”

“It’s been a long day,” you grumble.

Joel smiles. He flops down onto the couch beside you, reaching over to stroke Sarah’s head.

You roll, solid as a rock, curling into his side. “She keeps saying it, Joel. She keeps fucking saying it.”

His chest jumps, tectonic plates moving with a laugh. “You’ve met your match, honey. Produced a professional little shit.”

“One of the other moms from her class is pregnant,” you mumble. “That’s gotta be it, right? That’s where she’s getting it from?”

“Maybe,” Joel muses. His fingers link with yours. “Why don’t you take a test anyways? Settle it in your mind?”

It startles you awake, even if only enough to prove the fucking point.

“No, Joel!” you hiss, body jerking. “If I take a test, and it turns out negative – which it will – she wins! My four-year-old fooled me. No,” you pluck spilled popcorn from your lap, pinging it back into the bowl, “I know this kid. I gave birth to this kid. She is not fucking winning.”

“Alright, baby,” he coos, “it’s okay. I won’t let the four-year-old fool you.”

You glower. “Thanks, asshole.”

He chuckles. “She’d make the best big sister, though. She would,” he insists, when you huff back against his chest. “She’d love being the oldest. Get to be bossy, get to call the shots. Get to protect them, no matter what.”

Your voice feels so small, as inquisitive as your daughter’s when you blink up at him. “Were you protective over Tommy?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he was annoying as all hell – and I told him so – but anyone else had anythin’ to say about him, and – well, they had me to deal with.”

“Big scary Joel Miller,” you whisper, yawning into his shirt. “I knew him once.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles, “You sure did.”

You look up again, blinking all doe-eyed and dreamy. Already half-asleep.

“He never scared me,” you whisper.

Joel smiles.

“Well, you scared the hell outta him.”

Saturday morning, you wake to an empty bed. No snoring man, no scribbling girl. Just you – a starfish on the mattress. Bathing in waves of late-morning sun, sheets for coral, body as heavy as though you really are at the bottom of the ocean.

Her giggles carry all the way upstairs. Sarah. They surf into the room on a sunbeam, sounds like bubbles which shatter and sprinkle over your aching body.

You smile into Joel’s pillow, breathing in the smell of him, and peel your eyes open.

It’s ten thirty. Definitely – you blink three times and rub at your eyes, just to make sure. Ten thirty, and something’s swirling behind your navel. Something that sharpens, sours, when you push yourself upright.

“Oh, shit,” you rasp, and throw yourself across the room.

You barely make it, collapsing in a heap at the toilet. Your stomach empties in seconds; three heavy, painful gags and your head is in the bowl, choking on last night’s dinner.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, gasping, “Oh, Jesus.”

You’re sick. You’re just sick. Sarah probably caught something from pre-K, passed it on without even knowing. And, hey – you feel better, now that that happened.

You’re just sick. Nothing else.

“Mornin’,” Joel calls, watching as you stagger into the kitchen.

Sarah mimics his drawl. “Mornin’, Mama.”

“Hi, Duckie.” You crumple into the chair beside her, shoulders hunched. The smell of burnt toast and grape juice twists up your nose, and you suck in a slow breath.

Joel sweeps a hand over your forehead. He tips your jaw up to face him. “You alright? Thought we heard running.”

Sarah rips a slice of toast in two. She stares at the fluffy insides, the jam dripping from the tear. The sight of it lifts the hairs on your skin, the gloopy mess splattering onto her plate.

“Just feel kinda…funny,” you slur, turning away.

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Funny how?” your daughter parrots.

You shrug. Every word, every inhale makes you feel even more nauseous. “Probably just ate something.”

“Heard that one before,” Joel drones, and you throw him a flat look.

Sarah licks the jam from her fingers. She holds her tiny hands up to her dad, snorts when he pretends to bite at them.

“Eat your breakfast, Duckie,” he says then – in his Dad voice. And in something softer, kinder: “Can I make you somethin’?”

You swat the idea away, but it’s already churning in your stomach again. “Just gotta – get over whatever it – is.”

The table falls silent. Joel and Sarah stare blankly at one another. When you turn to look at your daughter, she’s staring straight back. Smirking.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you clip, wincing again at the dribbling jam.

“Alright,” Joel utters, “I think you oughta take a test now.”

“That is not what this is,” you groan, petulantly pushing up from your chair.

He takes your hand, steadying you. “No? I was thinking about it, baby, and I don’t think we’ve been safe enough to be so sure.”

You dump your golden toast in the trash and turn, crossing your arms. Your shoulders lift. “We’re not being any less safe than we have been the last four years.”

“Safe,” Sarah says, and Joel holds a finger up.

“No,” he tells her. “No. Not that word. Go back to funny.”

She beams at him. “You’re funny, Daddy.”

He sighs, pacing over. “Look,” he lowers his plate into the sink, “I’ll take Duckie to the park. Let you rest up, give you a quiet house for the morning. But darlin’, if you’re not better by tonight, you’re takin’ a test.”

You grimace. “But she –”

“I know –” he grits his teeth, “– I know you don’t want her to be right. But I want you to be okay, more ‘n I want to prove my child wrong. Like it or not, you’re taking a damn test.”

Your eyes flit across to the kid swinging her legs in her chair, the splotch of jam down her Peppa Pig T-shirt. Your greatest accomplishment and your biggest challenge, wrapped up into a hundred-centimeter, jellybean-fueled monster.

Her cheeks lift, jam-covered and smug.

“Funny,” Sarah says, nodding.

The afternoon strings the sun high in the sky.

You’ve been home alone for the better part of an hour, busying yourself by cleaning to take your mind off the nausea tugging at your esophagus. Making and remaking beds, folding laundry until your fingers cramp.

Sarah’s room has never been tidier. Joel’s workshop has never seen so little dust. And you have never been more determined to prove your four-year-old wrong.

You’re lingering in the bathroom, the window gaping. Sucking in breath after breath of fresh air – which only serves to tickle the acid burning its way up your throat, entice it further.

You’re emptying the cabinets, reorganizing them into some senseless order. Playing Tetris with boxes of Band-Aids, slotting in tubes of toothpaste. You blindly reach behind your hip for the next box – a nearly empty thing which rattles when you lift it, jitters as though nervous.

You glance down.

“Fuck off,” you hiss, throwing it on the shelf beside some tampons.

It stares back at you, as blinding as the sun. The two display window examples, pregnant and not pregnant, like a wink peering out from the dull cabinet.

Your gums taste of bitter bile, rancid. Teeth furry and aching. Your entire body aches – though nothing quite so bad as the space below your ribs, still tender from all your retching.

Slowly, your hands slip down your front to cup your lower tummy. Rounder than before, suppler – bloated, even.

“’s from all the throwing up,” you tell nobody in particular. Maybe yourself. There’s a desperate edge to your voice, almost a plea.

But then – a plea to who? For what? There was nothing you loved more than carrying Sarah for nine months. Duck. Start saying duck. Baby Duck.

You were never on your own. She was right there. Someone to talk to, someone to complain to. Someone to weep to, in the quietest lulls of night.

Her language came to you as easily as your own. All her kicks and punches, her fucking acrobatics while you tried to sleep. It was love, in its most chaotic form.

And you loved her, the very moment you saw those two lines. The very moment you realized she’d been in there the whole time.

You realize now, squatted on your bathroom floor, that it feels the exact same. A warmth, radiating from your very core, if only you’d pay it enough attention to feel it.

Like there’s someone there. Right there.

“If you’re fucking with me,” you warn your stomach, reaching for the single test, “I will lose my shit.”

Love, in its most chaotic form bursts through your bedroom door no less than half an hour later.

“Hi, Mama!” Sarah sings, tearing through the room with her hands behind her back. Her knees bump against the side of your bed, the air about her summer-warm and pollen-sweet.

“Hi, little Duck,” you mumble, voice swollen. You wipe sleep from your eyes, asking, “How was the park?”

She answers with a wide grin on her face, whipping out a small, shabby bunch of flowers. Dandelions and daisies tangled around one another, loose petals scattering over your bedsheets.

“Oh, baby,” you push yourself up, ignoring the sickly weight in your stomach, “Are these for me?”

She nods. She dusts her hands free of grass when you take the bouquet. And then, as you smell them and hum with delight, she turns.

First, over to the dresser. She stares at her reflection, pokes at some of the makeup on the table. Then over to the window – where her breath fogs the glass. You hear the whack of Joel’s tailgate closing, and she tracks him into the house, before examining the windowsill.

You watch nervously as she drifts back over to the bed, a curious hop to her movements. Inspecting, like she knows there’s something waiting to be found. Someone.

“Did you have fun with Daddy?” you ask.

“Yep,” her small voice says, distant and distracted. She disappears into the dim bathroom.

You slump back down on the mattress, dropping the flowers in a clump on your bedside table. “I don’t even know when I fell asleep, baby girl,” you say through a yawn.

Sarah doesn’t reply.

“Duckie?”

“What’s this?”

You lift your head. “What’s wh…Oh, n-no, Duckie, wait –”

She flees past you, one fist raised and wielding the pregnancy test.

“Sarah! Jesus, fuck –”

You’re chasing after her before you have a chance to consider it – nausea be damned. She’s squealing something, roaring with laughter, blitzing out into the hallway. She swivels, ladders down the stairs backwards, leaps straight into the arms of –

“Christ, Sarah –”

Joel stumbles backwards with the force she throws at him. She’s safe in his arms by the time you reach the top of the stairs, waving the stupid stick around his head like it’s a magic wand.

“Daddy!” Sarah cries.

He glances up to you: hunched over the top step, panting, clutching your stomach. He pinches the test from her grasp. “What do we got here, baby duck?”

She kicks her feet. She has no fucking idea what they have, but she knows you didn’t want her near it – and if you know your kid, you know that’s all the catalyst she needed to fucking take it.

You slowly make your way down towards them, smirk growing the nearer you draw.

Joel glances down to the test. The creases by his eyes deepen. He hugs Sarah closer.

“Two...two means...pregnant, right?” he asks.

You sigh, nodding. “Mhm.”

His head lifts.

He breaks, the second he sees your expression. Eyes glassy, tears spilling onto your cheeks. The same smile you wore that June morning: sleep-deprived and shellshocked, a love pumping through your veins so strong that you thought you might burst with it.

Joel reaches for your hand, reels you in against his body.

“Shit,” he laughs, holding the test up.

Your shaking hands take it from him – though you already knew what it says. You were dreaming of it all when Sarah broke into your room.

Dreaming of linked hands and echoed giggles; of bunkbeds and matching surnames, of all four seats in the truck filled and all four chambers of your heart spoken for.

Dreaming of one on each hip, one in each hand. Dreaming of them tag teaming Joel, of the word kids slung with his southern twang. My kids, the kids, our kids. All ours.

Dreaming of two Sarahs, goddamn it. Because nothing ever completed your life as effortlessly as one Sarah, and – hell, she was born to follow in her dad’s footsteps and become the elder Miller sibling.

“Shit,” you agree, turning to sob into Joel’s chest.

“Duckie,” Joel says, voice hoarse and choked by tears, “You’re gonna be a big sister.”

She giggles, tracing the damp lines down your cheeks. As she reaches your jaw, the elation on her face slowly dwindles into something of a frown.

Your lips part to repeat it – a big sister, Duck – when her tiny voice steals the air from your lungs.

“Shit!”

[olivialau]

Shadow's Embrace Ch. 31

Sukuna x Reader

Notes:

This story unfolds in the Jujutsu Kaisen world, set in a slightly altered universe where Sukuna inhabits his own vessel distinct from Itadori Yuji's body, making him a separate entity.

BEWARE THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT!!!

Summary:

Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, becomes fascinated with a female sorcerer rich in potential but lacking control. Initially seizing her for his destructive plans, Sukuna aims to bind her abilities through a contract. Yet, as he tries to dominate her, he finds himself intrigued by her strength and determination. Over time, his interest evolves from strategic advantage to a deeper, personal connection.

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

CHAPTER 31 - A Foolish Human Gesture

Before you knew it, Sukuna had your lips caught in another punishing kiss, his fingers trailing slowly from your nape down to your collarbone, nails scraping across your skin and leaving red stripes that pulsed with heat long after he’d moved on to mark the next unclaimed part of you.

Whenever he finally broke away—for a rare, fleeting breath—he didn’t stray far. He dipped his head beside yours, his forehead pressing against the jagged wall behind you. He was close enough that you could feel his hot breaths fanning over your ear.

And every time he paused like that, he whispered the same thing to you—crafty variations of the same cutting sentiment.

“I loathe you, woman.”

“You’re a plague,”

“A stain on my existence,”

They were insults he ensured you couldn’t return during the brief moments you struggled to catch your breath because— just as you replenished enough oxygen to speak—he stole it away again.

He reveled in that small torment; it was undeniably amusing to him to keep you from getting a single word in.

His lips brushed past your jaw, and you could feel them curl into a smirk against your skin before he made you swallow down every cocky retort you dared to think of saying in return.

Though with this particular kiss, it seemed he had exhausted every bare patch of skin he could mark on you with his nails.

And that simply wouldn't do...

Right now, Sukuna was a conqueror possessively surveying his newly claimed lands, but forever unsatisfied and wanting more. So, with his tongue still tangled with yours, he gripped the collar of your plain black shirt. You flinched as he ripped the fabric down the middle, exposing your bra adorned with delicate lace that perfectly cupped your breasts.

In the heated friction of the kiss, the shirt’s short sleeves gradually sĺlipped down your arms until the whole thing fell to the ground. And Sukuna eagerly seized that chance to claim the newfound flesh, working his claws down the supple skin above the trim of your bra, before sinking them into your flanks.

With a particularly harsh pinch at your side, you flinched and accidentally bit down—on Sukuna's tongue.

Oh no.

He let out an angry growl and pressed down harder, causing you to yelp against his lips before he broke away. He wiped the lingering spit that dripped down the corner of his mouth and glared into your eyes for a tense heartbeat.

You knew that look all too well and expected him to throw another nasty insult at you, but instead,

he threw—you—literally, to the floor.

You hit the rough gravel with a thud, small stones digging uncomfortably into your bare back. Before you could push yourself up, he was on you again. His knees pinning you in place, caging you, and his mouth back on yours with the same hungry intensity.

Maybe it was the cold, damp ground, or the cool breeze ghosting over your stomach, or perhaps the way Sukuna’s fingers tangled in your hair with a satisfying tug...

But a chill rippled down your spine, sending goosebumps skittering across your skin.

And not just goosebumps.

Your nipples, too, perked up with the shiver, pressing insistently against the soft fabric of your bra. Yet that softness did little to muffle the jolts of tingly pleasure that shot through you each time Sukuna’s hard abs pushed into your chest, intensifying the treacherous friction.

It was so—so hot. But you had to keep a sliver of focus, at least enough to control the pull of cursed energy so it wouldn’t overwhelm you.

Fortunately, your training had been paying off; it didn’t take nearly as much effort as before. Or... perhaps ‘fortunately’ wasn’t quite the right word, as that ease allowed you to sink into the moment a little too deeply.

You pulled Sukuna’s hand from your hair and guided it down your neck all the way to the lace of your bra. You felt his jaw clench, but he eagerly accepted the invitation.

Though he didn’t particularly like being directed by a mere human—he’d overlook it... just this once.

His hand was so big it covered your entire breast, and he let no time go to waste as he squeezed down—anything but gently. It kind of hurt, actually, but you were so desperate to be touched that the pleasure drowned out all the pain.

He kneaded your breast through the fabric with such vigor that you could feel the movement of each individual finger, pressing and flexing before digging even deeper. Every squeeze rough enough to have you squirming beneath him, as soft gasps—silent pleas for more—escaped your lips, barely muffled against his mouth.

It was as if Sukuna couldn’t do gentle; everything he did was rough and overpowering. Like it was his nature to dominate, to scare away.

But on you, it seemed to have the opposite effect; It pulled you in, leaving you wanting more.

So when he pulled away from your lips out of nowhere, and his hand stopped moving, you felt incredibly deprived.

He hovered just above your mouth for a moment, crimson eyes locked onto yours, before he suddenly ducked down and tugged at the band of your bra.

When it didn’t come loose—what did he expect?—He flicked his finger and with a swift cut of his dismantle, the band snapped, and your bra fell open, leaving your boobs fully exposed, in the dim eerie light.

You barely had time to process the shock before he dipped his head, and his mouth latched onto your nipple. It was a level of intimacy you’d never expected from the King of Curses, and your cheeks flushed the most vibrant shade of pink.

At first, he just sucked, his warm mouth shielding your nipple from the chilly air with a delicious pull that made your back arch and your needy hips grind up against him. But then he stuck out the flat of his tongue, dragging it across your sensitive peak, flicking up and down...

You couldn't help but whimper.

The sound was embarrassing to say the least but it did make you realize that with his mouth finally elsewhere, you might actually get a word in before things spiraled beyond your of control.

“Sukuna, um, I’m not sure this is—ah!”

He bit down, right on target, his sharp corner teeth grazing the tender skin around your nipple. You winced, pushing a hand against his head to shove him away, but he only growled, the sound vibrating against your eager bud.

When he looked up at you, his hair a hot mess, he seemed wholly unimpressed.

“What now, brat?  Playing reluctant after you were writhing and begging for me to touch you here?” He emphasized 'here' with a sharp pinch to your nipple, forcing you to bite down on your tongue to muffle the dirty moan threatening to escape.

But when you dared to open your mouth again—you just couldn’t bring yourself to tell him to stop.

The truth was, when he’d pulled away, the sudden chill felt so profoundly lonely that you realized you didn’t want this to end here... not that you'd ever say that out loud.

So, a lousy excuse would have to do.

“Uh, it’s… these rocks on the ground,” you stammered. “They’re, um, digging into my skin. Kind of hurts, so—”

Before you could finish, Sukuna lifted himself up and, in one swift motion, hoisted you over his shoulder. He did it with so little effort... it was as if you weighed little more than a feather to him.

The view of his back—his flexed scapula and the smooth line between the thick bands of muscle disappearing into his waistband—was, admittedly, exquisite. But the position itself felt, well... a bit demeaning.

Suffice to say, you were not entirely pleased.

You squirmed and wriggled all the way to the door and up the stairs, protesting at every step. “Hey, put me down, Sukuna! I’m serious!”

Until—halfway up—Sukuna finally seemed to tire of your feeble protests. He let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Tsk. Fine, then.”

The arm holding you in place relaxed and dropped to his side, and your heart plummeted as you felt yourself slipping down his shoulder. The unforgiving edges of the stairs taunted you from below, and you scrambled at his back like a cat dangling from a ledge, nails digging into him as you held on for dear life.

But just as your hand slipped—and you were pretty sure you saw said life flash before your eyes—he caught you, hoisting you back into place.

You let out a sharp gasp of relief, followed by an indignant snap.

“What the hell? You nearly dropped me!”

Though you couldn’t see his face, you were absolutely sure there was a smug smirk on it when he purred over his shoulder.

“Oh? As I recall, you were the one begging me to let go. I wouldn’t have minded watching you tumble down—seems quite a fitting end for an insolent brat like you.”

But you felt that smug smirk vanish just as quickly the moment he reached the top of the stairs. His steps faltered, and a cold breeze swept over your bare back, hitting you with the chilling realization that—

Oh. Right.

The door was in splinters.

Sukuna’s grip tightened, his forearm pressing down until you could hear your ribs crackle under the pressure.

“That blue-eyed bastard did this?” His voice dropped to a lethal whisper, each word a reproachful reminder that he was far from done with Gojo... or you.

“I'll make sure you'll regret denying me the pleasure of snapping that twig in half.”

You gulped, but that was the least of your concern now; the higher priority was the fact that your boobs were on full display for everyone passing by this block to see.

“Aah, Sukuna, just move! I'm half-naked!”

Sukuna let out an irritated grunt but he did move—into his bedroom, to be exact.

He slammed the door behind him, and with a less-than-gentle motion, he threw you onto the silk sheets...

At least the soft mattress was a better place to land than the cold, rocky floor of his domain.

Straight away, Sukuna planted himself back on top of you, yanking your boots and shorts off and tossing them aside like they were a pesky nuisance.

You wanted to protest, to remind him of the unwritten rules for handling a woman gently, but when you felt his hard bulge press against the thin, damp fabric of your panties, those thoughts quickly left the room.

All that remained was the heat of the moment...

And the two of you picked up right where you left off.

His head was back between your tits, his wet tongue trailing down the curve of your skin before it swirled around your nipple. There was no discernible rhythm, no practiced technique—but that only heightened your senses, leaving you in neverending suspense.

You couldn't suppress the excited twitches nor the way your hips pressed up against him with every flick and drag of his tongue.

And Sukuna clearly enjoyed every little reaction out of you, because the corners of his mouth curled up with every moan and quiver.

He reveled in the sight of you squirming; he always had. But now, as you writhed under his eager touch and the warmth of his tongue, rather than the force of his fists and his cruel taunts—

That was a new kind of ectasy to him.

His hand slid up to grope your other breast, fingers sinking into the soft flesh before he moved over to you nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.

Who would have known he could do stuff like that with those nasty claws and that foul mouth? It was quite unexpected, and you couldn’t help yourself from prodding, realizing you had one thing in common with Sukuna: you liked getting a reaction out of him too.

“Ah—it’s surprising that you’re so—hng!—busy with your mouth...” you managed through heavy breaths, daringly locking eyes with him.

“After you told me that kissing is a stupid gesture that only brain—nngh—less pigs bother with.”

Safe to say, Sukuna did not like that tone.

He sat up, and your gaze zeroed in on the twitch of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. Then, he locked eyes with you and smirked in the most wicked and perilously filthy way.

“How foolish of you to remind me, you idiot woman... Shall we get to the real fun then?”

Oh god. That was not your intention.

Sukuna grabbed your hips, yanking you close against him. His fingers slid down the edge of your panties, and with a merciless tug, he ripped them away.

You clenched your thighs together in embarrassment, but it was futile; His eager hands, veins popping with anticipation, had you spread open again within seconds.

He looked at your soaking pussy—really looked—as if he were drinking in the sight, and you couldn’t recall ever feeling this self-conscious about anything. But you didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on that feeling long before the next disaster struck.

His thumb swiped away the line of drool pooling at the corner of his mouth, dripping down at the thought of ravaging your glistening cunt. Then that same thumb hooked around the band of his pants, tugging them down to finally free his aching cock from its confines.

And fuck. It was an absolute monster.

Bigger than any you’d ever seen before, and you audibly gulped. A nervous sweat broke out on your brow because there was no way that would fit—not without proper preparation.

But before you knew it, Sukuna had already lined himself up at your entrance. You could feel the throb of his tip against your folds, and suddenly, a wave of fear washed over you. Not just because of its sheer size, but because; what if history repeated itself?

What if Sukuna gave you a little more of him again, just to take it away and ignore you—abandon you?

You couldn't let that happen. There was no guarantee that this time would be any different.

Right when he bucked his hips and pushed the very head of his cock inside, you drew your legs up and kicked him off.

“Sukuna, stop!" you yelled at him. “I don’t want this if it means you’ll go back to ignoring me right after. If it means that the moment your mind catches up with your body, you’ll yank yourself away and pretend I don't exist for days on end.”

Sukuna dragged a hand over his face, fingers digging into his forehead, fuming that you dared bring this up right as he was about to ravage you. With a barely contained tremor, he released his grip on his cock, his nails moving to bite into the sheets beneath him like he was trying to anchor himself to sanity.

Not once had the King of Curses ever thought he’d pull back from fucking someone because of their feelings. Yet here he was, peering at you through the slits of his fingers, hearing you out instead of reducing you to a sobbing mess beneath him.

Your voice quivered as you shifted to sit up, finally asking the question that had been haunting you for days.

“Why... why did you do that last time? Why did you suddenly pull away and disappear?”

Sukuna let out a hiss as he let his hand drop from his face to tug his pants back into place. “I'm not apologizing for anything, brat. So abandon such ridiculous notions.”

You slammed your fists into the silk pillow, unable to hold back from raising your voice.

“I’m not asking you to apologize, am I?! I just want to know why... you hurt me, you know?” Your gaze drifted downward, not really expecting a real answer from him. If anything, you thought he’d up and leave, because he hated when you acted like this—weak and vulnerable, like a pitiful human.

So it surprised you when his shoulders tensed and his gaze... his gaze, it didn't drop—no, it burned into the sheets with an intensity that could have set them aflame.

“Tch. That kiss... I felt sick. My face burned, and my chest felt like a vice squeezing tighter with every second I was stuck at your lips.” A sound somewhere between a snarl and a laugh tore from his throat, as if his own words disgusted him more than anything.

“When I pulled back it was no better, every breath like swallowing shards of broken glass—” He cut himself off, teeth bared in a grimace that could have been mistaken for one of his cruel smiles if you hadn't spent so long studying the subtle differences.

“And then the most revolting irony struck me.”

You stole a glance at him, trying to gauge where this was going, but it was impossible—his palm was pressed against his face, as if he couldn't bear the thought of you seeing him like this. As if acknowledging your presence during this admission of weakness would be the greatest insult to his pride imaginable.

“I had become exactly like that spineless fool in the film,” His voice dropped to a low whisper.

“Just as horribly cursed. I was so disgusted, I could’ve burned a whole village to the ground right then and there—”

A film?

Wait... that romance movie you'd been watching?

Was the King of Curses actually admitting that he felt like some lovesick male lead? No. This had to be some kind of fever dream. You pinched yourself, but the sharp sting confirmed that this was all too real.

Your mouth opened and closed many times before you finally managed to find your voice.

“So... why did you ignore me then? After?” The question came out softer than intended, and you immediately cursed yourself for sounding so hurt.

Sukuna took that opportunity to finally lower his hand, and revert to his usual—scary���self. You made it so easy for him with your utterly stupid questions and your quivering voice.

“Use that pathetic excuse for a brain, woman,” he spat.

“I am the King of Curses. Did you really think I’d welcome such revolting feelings?”

With a low growl, he raked a hand through his hair, irritation flexing his shoulders as his gaze shifted to the side. “I'll admit, avoiding you proved… ineffective.”

“If anything, it only made you fester in my mind more persistently,” he hissed through the gaps of his clenched teeth.

You were speechless, staring blankly ahead. This was everything you'd wanted to hear, yet hearing it left you completely shook...

And in your daze, you missed the way his gaze drifted back to you, tracking slowly and intently over every curve of your body. It was only when his signature smirk returned to his lips that your eyes refocused, catching his hungry stare.

“Perhaps... if you're going to plague my existence either way—” he was back on top of you in an instant, his massive body casting a shadow that swallowed your tiny frame whole.

“—I might as well go back to doing what I do best: taking what I want, when I want,”

His weight sank you deeper into the bed, and a shiver ran over you as he caught your hands and pinned them against the pillow. The calloused pads of his fingers traced your wrist until he found your pulse point, pressing firmly against it to relish the frantic beat of your heart beneath him.

He let out a raspy chuckle, nudging your knee with his own as he whispered against your ear with a taunting breath.

“Now, spread your legs.”

God, this was dangerous.

Yes, he was Sukuna—the King of Curses, the embodiment of evil—and yes, every survival instinct screamed at you to get away. But there was something maddeningly irresistible about the way he wanted you, of all things.

Besides, weren’t you technically forced to obey his commands? Or was that just the dumb excuse you’d tell yourself to justify your desire?

Slowly, you nudged your knees apart, but with each inch, uncertainty crept in.

If you gave yourself to Sukuna completely, only for him to discard you afterward, could you recover from it? Or would you be left shattered, in undignified pieces for falling into his trap so easily?

Caution fought against the rising heat between your legs until it finally won over your rationale; You couldn't go through with this.

You squirmed beneath his body, trying to break free and get away. But he was so massive; it was like trying to move a mountain with your bare hands.

“Fuck, get off!”

Increasingly agitated at your feeble attempts, Sukuna's eyes burned with anger, but weirdly enough his smile only seemed to widen, revealing more and more of the white of his teeth.

Finally, when you managed to wrench one hand free, he slid his body up, pinning your arm down with his knee—and his entire weight above it.

He hovered just over your chest and his free hand tangled in your hair, yanking your face toward his crotch, inches away from the thick bulge in his pants.

“After riling me up like that, you'd better fix this, woman. I don't care how you do it. But you will do it.”

Ugh, he really wouldn’t let this go, would he? And to be fair, being so close to his cock—literally feeling the heat radiating off it—you had to admit you’d been aching to know what it felt like.

So... maybe there was a compromise here.

You looked away, half in disbelief that you were letting yourself get involved with the most dangerous being you’d ever met in such a way. But—

“Okay, I’ll… take care of it. So will you get off me?” You mumbled barely audible.

You glared up at him with a sharp warning in your eyes. “But no sex, Sukuna. I swear to god, if you put that monster anywhere near my thighs, I’ll kill you.”

He let out a grating cackle and finally released you, inching backward and lifting his weight off your arms.

“Kill me, hm? I’d like to see you try, little sorcerer.”

You pushed yourself up across from him, and rubbed your thumb over the bruises forming on your arms. “Im not kidding.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes and casually leaned back, legs spread, his gaze urging you to fulfill your promise to take care of it—

of him.

But a wave of nerves hit when you realized that to 'take care of him,' you would actually have to touch him—there—on your own initiative.

It was terrifying, so nerve-wracking that your heart raced with enough force to make your hand bob with each beat as you slowly reached out.

At least Sukuna's attention was drawn to your nervous shakes instead of your eyes—if those judging slits had landed on your face, you probably would have died of embarrassment.

With a final push of courage, you leaned forward and grabbed his cock through the thick of his pants. He flinched ever so slightly as you began to slowly move your hand up and down, testing the waters.

Every swipe up emphasized just how impressive his size was; his length seemed to go on forever.

But with every stroke down, you couldn’t shake the overwhelming realization that you were jerking off the fucking King of Curses.

Sukuna’s gaze was locked on the movement of your hand, never straying, which allowed you the chance to sneak a quick peek at him. But the sight was thoroughly disappointing; his expression was as unbothered as always.

If anything, he looked bored.

And lo and behold, right at that moment, he let out a weary grunt and swatted your hand away—not harshly, but enough to leave you confused and a bit stung.

“What?” you asked, trying your best to hide behind your lashes. But he ignored you, too busy fumbling with his pants.

And before you knew it... his thick cock sprang free, slamming against his stomach with a loud thwack.

“Here,” he growled, grabbing your hand and wrapping it around his length, his palm completely enveloping yours. He squeezed tight, almost painfully so, muttering under his breath with an air of irritation.

“Don’t be so gentle; it’s grating on my nerves,” he said, retracting his hand and tilting your chin upward with a hooked finger.

“Have you looked at it properly? It won’t break, you coward.”

He casually leaned back on his hands, his cock twitching, urging you to continue.

God. He was such an arrogant dick. But lucky for him, you’d never shied away from a challenge... in fact, it lit a small fire within you.

With a firm grip, you began to move; your fingers gliding along his length as you familiarized yourself with every ridge and vein. Experimenting at the top, where you paused to rub your thumb in slow circles around the flushed pink head.

You didn’t dare pause for long, though; because the impatient throb of his cock and the even more impatient quirk of his mouth told you that you were moving far too slowly for his liking.

So, you picked up the pace, pumping up and down his shaft, finally managing to coax a few drops of precum from the tip, which made it easier to slide your hand along.

But with this speed and pressure came an impossible test of endurance.

After a few minutes, the muscles in your arm began to ache. You shifted the angle of your wrist, trying to find some comfort, but nothing felt right anymore, and you were panting from the effort.

Ugh, this was awful. Shouldn’t he be the one huffing and puffing?

You looked up at him, forcibly unfurrowing your brows to mask your frustration.

And there he was, staring at your efforts with barely any enthusiasm, that cold, agitated look in his eyes, the prominent vein on his forehead nearly threatening to burst.

When he let out a heavy, exaggerated sigh, you snapped.

You stopped your hand dead in its tracks, glaring at him with such intensity that he had no choice but to meet your gaze.

“Can you at least pretend it feels good?”

Sukuna arched a brow at your bratty tone and the sudden cessation of your efforts, but then let out another sigh—or maybe more of a grunt—as he broke away from your stare.

“I knew this was ridiculous. How's a measly hand supposed to satisfy me? How can you pigs be content with this?”

The nerve—you were about to snap at him again, but your words caught when he suddenly shifted, flipping you onto your side. The bed creaked as he let his weight drop into the mattress behind you, his rock-hard abs pressing into your back.

You felt his throbbing cock nestle between the cheeks of your ass while his fingers trailed up your leg until they landed on your hips and sank into the tender flesh.

“Hey! What are you—” You yelped at the sudden advance, but Sukuna wouldn’t hear you out, not this time.

“Ah, shut up, brat. I’m not putting it—” with a forceful thrust of his hips, he nudged his cock between your thighs, “in.”

It was hot and pulsing—and with that one buckle he'd miraculously managed to brush his thick head against your clit in a way that made your whole body jolt.

It didn’t stop there...

His hips began to rock at a restless pace—no 'easing into it', no. Just a domineering, impatient rhythm that picked up with each thrust as he fucked your thighs.

Not a shred of regard for the fact that you were still trying to catch your breath from jerking him off.

But you couldn't protest because—with each merciless slam of his hips against your ass, his cock slid over your soaked folds, grazing that same spot again and again, sending waves of pleasure through you.

Before you knew it, you were clenching your legs together. The juices that leaked from your cunt working as the perfect lubricant for his cock, coating your thighs as the room filled with wet, lewd squelches.

His hand slid up to your breast, fingers digging in with an eagerness that would no doubt leave a nasty bruise. And if that, somehow, wasn’t enough to leave a mark, then Sukuna made sure that the sharp edges of his nails left etchings in your flesh.

It stung so deliciously that a cry escaped your lips before you could stop it.

But one little cry wouldn't do it. Not for Sukuna.

He hooked his knee over your leg, pulling you closer, squashing your cheeks against his pelvis and ensuring your thighs squeezed him all the way to the base.

“Sukuna… ah… not so rough,” you managed to mewl through heavy breaths as your folds grew puffy and sore from the friction.

With a half-assed effort you even tried to push his knee away for a moment of reprieve. But his grip was unyielding, keeping you pinned against him as he continued his brutal pace.

“Hm, brat’s giving orders now?” His voice rasped against your ear, dark and husky.

“This is punishment—for promising to 'take care of it' and failing so miserably.”

You wanted to snap back, but any attempt at a retort dissolved into helpless whimpers and gasps, your mind dizzy from the overwhelming sensation of every ridge and vein of his cock sliding past the sensitive endings of your nerves. 

You couldn’t explain in words how grateful you were to yourself for standing your ground on the no-sex thing.

Sukuna was like a feral beast, driven purely by instinct—topped off with limitless endurance and that ridiculous strength he felt no guilt unleashing upon you as he pounded into your thighs again... and again... and again.

And let’s not even get started on the size of that weapon... If it had been your pussy instead of your legs, he would have utterly destroyed you.

Sukuna's voice pulled you from your haze, as you struggled to focus on anything other than the electrifying heat and pressure building low in your stomach.

“You’re trembling,” he hissed between thrusts.

“Control your cursed energy, fool. Was all that effort training you a waste of my time?” He nudged his head against your ear, whispering so close that the hairs stood up at the back of your neck and your pussy throbbed.

“Or will you show me some competence for once?”

For him you'd try to focus—to concentrate on the flow of energy. Even now, you wanted to prove yourself; maybe more than ever, you wanted his praise. But the two of you seemed intertwined into an indistinguishable mess of energy.

It was impossible to untangle, and so you could only pray he’d finish before you fainted from the intensity.

“I... I can’t,” you murmured, voice muffled into your own arm.“It’s too much,”

At that point you gave up—surrendering to the pleasure even if Sukuna groaned against your neck, clearly irritated by your human fragility.

But something kept him from dragging this out and pushing you over your limit—he wanted you conscious to witness how thoroughly he'd mark you. To make you understand the consequences of infiltrating his thoughts, of making the strongest being in existence dependant on a mere mortal.

He bared his teeth and flipped you over to your stomach, his movements growing more erratic as he rutted against your thighs and clawed at your ass.

This new angle brought a whole new bliss and you were damn near losing your mind now... The walls of your cunt clenching together, aching to be filled, the heat in your stomach spreading to your whole body until even the tips of your ears burned up.

Instinctively, you arched your back, pressing into Sukuna's hips.

And that was when his own groans broke loose, low and raspy, louder with each thrust—sounds that were more animal than human. His pace picked up, even when you hadn't thought it possible.

Your face pushing deeper into the pillow with each plunge between your legs, muffling the desperate, shameful sounds you couldn't possibly suppress.

It burned when the sensitive flesh of your thighs and ass began to glow a deep red from the repeated impact.

And you could feel his cock pulse, on the verge of bursting as he bent over you, pressing your body into the mattress and yanking your head back so he could see your face, a moaning, drooling mess.

“Now this,” he rasped, leaning down to capture your expression as he drove his dick so deep between your thighs that his balls slapped against them.

“Is a foolish human gesture, I can see the appeal of.”

With another harsh roll of his hips, he let your head fall back into the pillow, dragging his tongue along the curve of your neck, savoring the taste of your sweat-slicked skin.

It was those words, followed by the feel of his wet tongue lapping at your neck—the head of his cock, drenched in your juices, swiping past your clit once more—

that pushed you to your orgasm.

“Hng.. Fuck,”

Your whole body tightened up as the heat in your stomach rolled into shockwaves of pleasure, your world narrowing in to the muffled sounds of your own moans and the rhythmic spasms of your cunt, your fingernails digging into the sheets.

Sukuna could feel your legs lock around him even tighter as you came undone, your thighs twitching when he overstimulated your clit, showing no mercy as he kept his pace steady.

Your needy little cries into the pillow—the pillow that was no doubt as soaked as your pussy, just with tears and spit—were the most enticing sounds he’d ever heard.

His hot breath hovered at your ear, every rough exhale fanning over your skin when his groans grew louder, gradually shifting into uncontrolled grunts at shorter intervals.

Until his hips jerked a final time, slamming into your flesh as a deep, guttural sound tore from his throat. His cock twitched and hot ropes of cum spilled over the inside of your legs, reaching all the way to your stomach.

With a few extra thrusts Sukuna made sure to spread it all around, properly coating you in his mess before finally pulling away.

He traced a finger along your thigh and smirked at the sight he’d left behind.

“I keep discovering more things you’re good for, brat. Pestering, cooking, fucki—brat?”

He nudged your legs, which had already crumpled onto the mattress, but you were barely conscious, his words fading into scattered syllables after the overwhelming rush of his cursed energy and the most mind-blowing orgasm you’d ever had.

You were so out of it you might have heard your own snore set it—or maybe that was just Sukuna’s disappointed growl as he realized your body had gone limp.

Whatever it was, you were too drained to care.

Sorry, Sukuna. Just a little nap…

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THANKYOU for reading bby's <3 Hope I fed y'all well this chapter 🥺

Also wanted to clarify that the gaps between chapters are a lil longer because, well, the chapters are twice as long lol. So I hope I'm forgiven 🙏

Taglist: @sukunasthightattoos , @tomiokasecretlover , @6demonize6me6 , @blindbabycadder , @domainofmarie , @marcoschuitmaker , @geniejunn , @chanaaaannel , @nessca153

If you want to be added to the taglist, so you don't miss any updates, please let me know in the comments or with a private message. Thankyou!

[fullofgutsndopamine]

ease my dread (trembling limbs instead)

or: the soulmates au

when the first bruise appears, a sickly yellow color with purple that runs through it, annoyance will be the first thing that runs through hasan's mind.

most are thrilled with the first mark; the reminder that someone is out there, for you, waiting for you to find them-instead, hasan wets his thumb and presses the tip angrily into the flesh, trying to rub it off, teeth gritted as he ignores the pain.

his mother will swat at him, gently, with an old stained dish towel and he’ll pull a face, a gentle: “mama.” as his hand falls and she’ll speak:

“most people,” she chastises quietly, “are thrilled when this happens.”

he grumbles, allows himself to slip further into his seat: “most people don’t take a fucking year to show.”

she clicks her tongue: “seven months, hasan.” she says gently and when she sees that doesn’t perk him up she rolls her eyes and ruffles his hair gently: “some people are worth waiting for, hasan. give them time.”

months pass. hasan counts the time in the marks that appear on his body; the bruise that forms on his thigh, the long scratch down his arm, angry and red, the black eye that he wakes up with and lets his finger trace an outline of, ignoring the way it hurts under his touch.

“i think my soulmate is a psychopath.”

he flops into a seat, bites into his straw as he takes a sip of expensive coffee.

“maybe they’re just clumsy,” will tries to counter, trying hard to not stare at the black eye that stares back at him: “you weren’t always graceful, remember that.”

hasan chucks whatever he can at wills head, this time in the form of a flat paperback that will always dodges at the last second, something he naturally become good at from hanging around with him for so long.

for a few weeks, no marks appear on his skin. how he use to twist and bend and mold to look at himself in the mirror, stretching further

no. instead, you found a new way to occupy his mind.

he’ll remember, months later, when you’re tangled into him, how you appeared in these dreams long before he knew a source, before he could put the features together. when you were shaky lines with the contrast too high, a hum pitched too high that always made him wake up sweating.

“you’re thinking too hard,” you’d say in these dreams, your hand tangled into his. “find me. if you’re so smart, come find me already.”

“i must be smart,” he’d say back in this dreams, a smirk on his lips as he pulled you closer, his lips pressed against yours as he talked: “if i can make you up-“

he’d close his eyes in these dreams, ready to kiss you, to finally lean in, before he would awake in his too small bed, sweat dripping down him and the familiar taste of strawberries on his lips.

hasan tried everything but faking his own death to get out of coming to this party. knew by the misspelled text message inviting him it would be a shit storm. he was halfway through his notes app list of excuses when will came to his house, all but pulled him out of his room and forced him into the building.

hasan used the excuse of the smoke getting to him to get out of the house. said he could poetically feel the smoke wrapping around his neck and choking him, taking his years away from him before he could even appreciate them. all his friends rolled their eyes, made the circle he was in smaller and all but kicked him out, forcing him into the backyard.

outside he could still hear the music but it was lighter, the words harder to understand, had to strain to hear what they were saying. he acted like he didn’t see someone puking in the bushes as he made his way to the kids swing set and plopped into it.

out of habit he slowly started kicking his feet, coming to a steady rhythm that would lift his feet off the ground. out of habit he lifted his arm up, inspecting his own body for any evidence that his soulmate existed.

“this seat taken?”

you don’t wait for a response as you sit in the too small swing seat, slowly kicking your feet.

it was like the sky opened up and projector lights flashed on you. he knew instantly who you were, the messy blob you were before now a perfect line, all the features he couldn’t make out before in front of him. like all those sleepless nights trying to make a perfect form of you, to try and memorize you was finally worth it-

“i dreamed of you.”

nice going, he thinks way to scare of your literal soulmate

instead, you hum gently, a familiar smile pulls at your lips. this isn’t how you imagined meeting him, had much more grander plans for this. didn’t imagine meeting him at a frat party, imagined yourself much more graceful and him more put together:

“was it a good dream?”

he’s staring and he knows it, knows it borders on being too creepy, too focused:

“never as good as reality”

his hand flies out before he can stop it:

“hasan,” he says gently, “i believe I’m the victim of the receiving end of all those bruises.”

you laugh, and it’s a familiar noise, one he didn’t know he was missing until he heard it, promises himself right there he’s going to do everything he can to make you laugh again and again, before your hand is out and shaking his, past the introductions:

“i’m glad i finally found you.”

and because that seems like too much, like that’s too familiar to say before you barely know their name, even if you dreamed them all this time, instead, he shakes his head: “i owe you some dates.”

[makethatelevenrings]

Angel By the Wing - ONE

Starting the series off strong. Hope you all enjoy! If you would like to be added to the tag list of this series, please fill out the google form on my pinned message :)

Warning: smut (18+ only)

Series Masterlist

After a week of chaos, you finally got a chance to relax and breathe as you stood on the side of the dance floor and watched as the happy couple swayed back and forth. The champagne in your hand left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue, partly thanks to the fact that the chicken saltimbocca served for dinner was so incredibly salty.

“They make a good pair.” The groomsman you had been partnered with sidled up next to you, a whiskey neat clutched in his hand. You eyed the drink in envy and he smirked, lifting it to his lips and swallowing it down in one fell swoop. In return, you threw back your champagne and let it slide down your throat.

“They do,” you agreed once the sweet alcohol was gone from your glass. “I already told him that if he hurts her, I will go Carrie Underwood on his ass.”

He chuckled, his brown eyes locked on you instead of on the newlyweds. It had been a long road getting Jason and Hayley here. This week alone had been stressful beyond belief and you weren’t even the one getting married. You were just one of the bridesmaids thanks to being Hayley’s friend from college. You had flown up here eight days ago to help her in the final preparations and this moment was the first break you’ve had. Of course, it came when they were having their last dance, but hey, who were you to complain?

“I’m Bradley, by the way. I don’t think we really had a chance to talk.” He extended his free hand and you shook it as you gave him your own name. His hands were rough and calloused, the scrape against your skin making you shiver.

“I thought your name was Rooster,” you said. You had heard Jason and a few of the other groomsmen use the name. Bradley grinned and shook his head. 

“That’s my call sign. I’m a naval aviator. I met Jason in ROTC at UVA.”

“I figured.” You gestured to the outfit he was wearing. “This doesn’t really scream civilian. Does Rooster stand for something?”

He didn’t miss the way your gaze flickered to his zipper, your lip tucked between your teeth as you blinked up at him with a teasing look in your eyes.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

“Bar closed thirty minutes ago.”

He stepped closer, his whiskey stained breath mingling with yours. His warm gaze flickered down to your lips and you raised an eyebrow at his blatant staring. 

“The hotel bar is still open.”

And that is precisely how you found yourself pressed against the door of your hotel room. He had your legs wrapped around his waist as he held you like you weighed nothing. A pleasant buzz filled your brain, but you were still sober enough to be fully aware of the bulge pressed against your core.

“Wait,” you murmured. Bradley pulled his lips off of yours and moved to your neck, but he squeezed your ass to indicate that he was listening. You almost lost your train of thought as he laid a kiss below your jaw.

“I’m clean. I have one person I regularly sleep with, but he and I both get tested every month. I’m on birth control, but you’re still using a condom.”

He raised his head from where he had buried his face in the crook of your neck. His lips were swollen and his cheeks red from the combination of liquor and lust. You tangled your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck and tugged, eliciting a low groan from his chest.

“I’m clean. Got tested three weeks ago and I haven’t been with anyone since. Definitely using a condom.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” You slotted your lips against his once more and moaned into the kiss. Bradley thrust against you, but the fabric of his pants and the skirt of your bridesmaid dress prevented you from truly feeling anything. His fingers fumbled with the zipper on the back of your dress as you shoved at his jacket. He slowly helped you slide down so your feet landed on the ground and then shrugged off his jacket.

“Your other guy know you’re doing this?” he asked as he worked at your zipper once more. The long dress slid off your shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you in the lacy bra and panties you wore underneath.

“Why? Do you care or something?”

His fingers skated along the waistband of your panties and then dipped into the fabric, rubbing along the slit of your cunt. You shut your eyes and hummed at the touch. It only abated some of the burning in your gut, but you were hoping an orgasm or two would help ease the itch under your skin entirely. You hadn’t gotten laid in a month thanks to your fuck buddy being busy.

“I don’t really want to be encroaching on someone else’s territory.” His teeth enclosed over the shell of your ear and he tugged gently. You tugged at his shirt and somehow got the buttons out of their respective holes.

“Well, he knows. He doesn’t care. And he doesn’t fucking own me.” You pushed him back onto the bed and his shirt splayed open. Bradley tugged it off and then yanked his undershirt off, revealing the lithe muscles and six pack that was hiding underneath.

“Pants off. You owe me an orgasm for being a misogynist.”

A crooked grin crossed his full lips. “Well, by all means, punish me.” He laid back and kicked off his pants as you stripped off your last layer of clothes. Crawling onto the bed, your thighs rested on either side of his head. Bradley gave you no time to gather your bearings before he tugged you down onto his face.

Oh fuck, you thought. His mustache burned deliciously against your skin as his tongue stroked between your folds, circling around your clit before dipping inside your soaking arousal. You let out a shuttered gasp and bucked your hips, cresting your clit against the bridge of his nose. He groaned, the vibration rippling through you in the best way.

“Shit, sorry, did I hurt you?” You started to raise your hips but he grabbed your ass and pulled you down onto his tongue once more. You moaned and ground down as he devoured your pussy. Fucking hell, Bradley ate pussy like he was a man dying of thirst and you were the fountain of youth.

Your stomach tightened with the all too familiar feel of pleasure. It felt like a rubber band being stretched thin and you were aching for it to snap. Your fingers slid into his wavy hair and you tugged. He moaned into your cunt and your eyes rolled back into your head as he speared his tongue between your folds.

Your orgasm washed over you as he ate you out and you locked up, your thighs tightening around his head. The second you could regain your thinking, you released your hold on him and rolled onto your back.

“You okay?” you asked. His chest heaved up and down and he was staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look on his handsome features. You bent down and kissed him, taking the taste of your in your mouth as your tongue stroked alongside his. That snapped him out of whatever pussy-induced trance he was in and he rolled on top of you. His strong hands curled around your wrists and pinned your hands above your head.

“Can you be a good girl and take my cock?” he panted, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

“Fuck me, Rooster,” you teased.

***

The alarm clock shrieked as it came to life. You swore and haphazardly slapped your hand on the offensive box until it shut up. Propping yourself up on your elbow, you blinked the sleep out of your eye and looked at the time.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself. “Fuck!”

The figure next to you in the bed jerked awake at your exclamation. You winced in apology and rolled out of bed. Being naked didn’t even faze you. He had seen it all last night when he coaxed not one, but three orgasms out of you. Damn, if only you were staying in Virginia.

You took a moment to admire Bradley in the morning sun glow. His dark hair was messy and tousled. Sleep coated his lashes and framed his soulful brown eyes. He sat up and watched you stumble over to your suitcase, the sheets pooling at his waist and revealing his very cut physique.

“Good morning.” His throat was coated with sleep and the roughness of it sent thrills up your spine. You flashed him a quick smile over your shoulder as you hopped into a fresh pair of underwear and pulled on a sports bra.

“Hey, morning.” Leggings and a ratty old t-shirt were your next step. Bradley raised an eyebrow in curiosity as you hurriedly dressed and moved around the room.

“Are you interested in grabbing coffee or breakfast?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, but I have a flight in two hours and I still have to check out and get an Uber to the airport.” Your packing was essentially just tossing things into your suitcase and promising yourself that you would unpack the second you got home.

“Oh, where are you flying to?”

“Home. San Diego. Listen, we don’t have to do this.”

He smirked and leaned back against the headboard. One of his arms came up to rest behind his head and you sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of all that toned, tan skin.

“What’s ‘this’?” He surrounded the word with air quotes and you rolled your eyes, gesturing between the two of you.

“This. The morning after. The small talk where we both pretend to care. This was just a one time thing. You’re in Virginia, I’m in San Diego. Nothing more is coming out of this. You were great, truly. Thank you for the mind blowing orgasms but I need to check out so that means you’ve gotta go.” You found his undershirt and tossed it at him. Bradley chuckled but he rolled out of the bed. You pointedly ignored him as he strolled across the room to his briefs and slid them on.

You could feel him approach you from behind. Bradley pressed up against your back and ran his lips along your neck before he pressed a kiss just above your pulse.

“Thanks for last night, sweetheart.”

And then he was gone with only the soft click of the door shutting behind him. You shut your eyes as the phantom touch of his lips lingered on your skin. The buzz of an incoming text snapped you out of your lust-filled stupor.

Nat: text me when you get to your gate and when you land. I’ll be there to pick you up.

You: Can we get In N Out on the way back

Nat: you’re the absolute worst. I’m in.

Shutting your suitcase with a sigh, you scanned the room one last time in case you missed something and then headed out the door.

As your plane took off hours later, you barely spared Bradley Bradshaw a second thought.

[thruheavenandhighwater]

Bad Day, Good Night

Pairing: Steve Harrington/ Reader

Requested By: NA

Word Count: 1,081

Summary: After an absolutely awful day at work, you go home to Steve to make it all better. Based off my own terrible day on Thursday, in which my boss made me cry at work and all I wanted was someone to go home to.

Stranger Things Masterlist

Steve Harrington Masterlist

~~~~~

Today sucked. Like completely, entirely, unrelentingly sucked. It started fifteen minutes after your alarm went off this morning, when you finally woke up. Late. Then, in your rush to make your morning coffee while running out the door you somehow forgot to add sugar to it, rendering it completely undrinkable. Then customers, coworkers, and everyone else who you saw at work did the tiniest little things to chip away at whatever good mood you'd been able to have. It all culminated about an hour before the end of your shift. You got into an argument with your boss. It ended with you being sent home early with rage fueled tears raining down your cheeks as you drove across town. 

The moment you parked in front of your house your shoulders immediately relaxed. You could see the living room lamp on through the curtains. You took a moment to picture what awaited you just inside the front door. You imagined Steve, home from work and sprawled out on the couch. He'd probably have a beer or a Pepsi sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He'd have one arm hung lazily over the back of the couch, his feet propped up in front of him while he watched TV. 

You flipped down the sun visor and checked your face in the mirror. Angry red splotches and tear stains littered your cheeks. Your eyes were still red rimmed. You wiped at your cheeks a few times, but it was pointless. You knew Steve would notice you'd been crying. So, instead of trying to put on a brave face and pretend you were sent home out of the goodness of your boss's heart, you took a deep breath and swung open your car door. 

As soon as you closed your front door behind you and turned to face him, you found Steve exactly as you pictured him. Beer next to his feet on the coffee table, arm over the back of the couch. He smiled at you, almost like an instinct. But the moment he actually saw you he was up from the couch and across the room. 

"Baby?" He asked softly, hands coming to your hips. "What's goin' on?" 

You sniffled and offered a pitiful smile in return. You buried your face into his chest, taking a deep breath and allowing his scent to fill you like a calming smoke. Steve wasted no time pulling you as close as possible, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tightly. You felt his heartbeat beneath his t-shirt. Calm and steady and reassuring as ever. 

"Bad day," was all you could manage to say. 

"Wanna tell me about it?" He asked into your hair as he held you. You only shook your head against his chest. "You wanna cuddle about it?" 

You almost started crying again, honestly. His low voice. His arms around you. His lips pressed to your hair. All of it was almost overwhelming. You pulled away from him just enough to smile up at him. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before pulling his arms from around your waist. He took your hand in his and led you into the bedroom.

He was gentle as he helped you to lay down on your bed. He held the blanket up so you could slide beneath it, allowing it to fall over you as you got comfortable. He pulled his shirt over his head as he quickly made his way around the foot of the bed to his own side. Once he had joined you beneath the blanket he opened his arms just enough for you to slot yourself between them. 

"Comfy?" He asked as you wrapped your arms around him. You once again nodded into his chest. He began to rub long, slow lines up and down your back. You felt his lips on your forehead again as he tangled his free hand into your hair. Your eyes rolled when you felt his strong fingers begin to massage your scalp. You swore you could actually feel the days stress fall away as he held you, one hand on your back and the other in your hair. Your eyelids grew heavy and you allowed yourself to fall asleep pressed to Steve's chest. 

You weren't sure how long you had been asleep when you woke up. You noticed the sun beginning to set as the bright sky began to bleed into deep purples and reds on the opposite side of the curtains over your bedroom window. The bed was cold around you. Steve was gone, but his scent still lingered on the sheets and his pillow beside you. You allowed yourself a few moments in bed before forcing yourself out of the warm blankets and comfortable bed that you and Steve had chosen together. 

As soon as you opened your bedroom door you smelled something delicious coming from down the hall. The smell drew you further down the hall, beckoning you as you padded with bare feet closer to the kitchen. Once you were close enough you saw him. He was in a pair of sweats and an old shirt as he stood in front of the stove. You could hear grease popping from the pan in front of him. You heard him humming to himself as he flipped whatever he was making in the pan. You stepped closer, breaching the threshold of the kitchen. When he heard your footsteps he turned towards you with a wide, bright smile. You made your way over to him and tucked yourself into his side. He wrapped one arm tightly around your shoulders and placed a kiss to your hair. 

"Sleep well?" He asked quietly. You only nodded, closing your eyes as you leaned into him. "Good. I was just about to come get you up. Dinners almost done." 

"You made me dinner?" You asked him in a small, almost meek voice. 

"'Course I did," he answered with a smile. "Mashed potatoes are already done, steaks only have a few more minutes. Oh, and I got gummy bears since ya know, I love you and all." 

You hugged him tighter, earning a low giggle from him. You turned your face up towards him. When your lips met his, you silently hoped that this kiss would tell him exactly how much you loved him. How lucky you were to have him. How sade you felt in that moment, wrapped up in him in your kitchen. 

[kirk-says-wah]

𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟔

You can also read it here

Pairings: Kirk/Lars

TW: vomit

Also it’s my birthday 🥰

Cliff’s house is hardly ten minutes away, but the drive over is excruciatingly long.

Kirk drums his fingers on the wheel, the radio on low as they drive through the quiet streets.

Lars hasn’t said anything since they left, but he had the good idea of bringing a bucket from under the kitchen sink. Kirk isn’t even really sure why he has that, but he is sure he really doesn’t want James throwing up in his car.

The radio dimly switches to Maiden, Hallowed Be Thy Name, and Kirk watches out of the corner of his eye when Lars leans forwards, turning the volume up.

Lars always was a big fan of them, always used to drone on about English heavy metal, and seeing him still so infatuated with it makes Kirk bite at his lip.

He indicates onto Cliff’s street, and they pull up at his house. The lights are on, and Kirk turns off the engine.

Kirk’s never been before, glad that Cliff texted him the directions.

It’s a quaint little place with flowers on the windowsills and a painted number plate by the door.

Yeah, Cliff definitely does not live alone. Kirk knows the guy, and he knows Cliff isn’t one to decorate, hell he can’t even dress himself properly. Even Kirk knows double denim isn’t in style.

Kirk gets out the car, Lars following him closely behind as they approach the front door, and Kirk is just desperate for Lars to just stand an inch closer. He doesn’t look at Lars. He can’t. Not right now.

He rings the bell, but the door opens almost immediately, Cliff’s head popping out between the doorframe, his pupils blown wide, the smell of weed wafting through the air.

“Will you keep it down?” Cliff hisses, opening the door wider for them to come in. “Corrine is asleep.”

So that confirms Kirk’s suspicions.

Kirk steps through the threshold, stepping over a few pairs of boots and bags, and he can already smell the booze, only having to turn a corner into the living room to find James.

He’s sprawled on the couch, a beer in his hand whilst his other is dramatically lying over his eyes, his hair sweaty and tangled. He’s still in his work clothes, his boiler suit still covered in oil stains.

Kirk feels shame prick at the tips of his ears, and he kind of wishes Lars wasn’t here to see this. This is usually the kind of mess Kirk deals with by himself. He knows James won’t care, or at least he tells himself that. He quickly glances at Lars, but Lars isn’t looking at him, obviously taken aback by the state of his best friend.

Sure, Lars has seen James get drunk many times, but it’s never been like this. There’s no way James nor Kirk can hide this from him anymore.

“James?” Kirk asks, leaning down, gently shaking James’ leg.

James peeks from under his arm and smiles widely, cheeks red and pupils wide.

“Kirk,” he drawls, shows teeth, clumsily moving to sit up, swaying slightly, legs long and wobbly. “You bought your boyfriend.

Kirk’s cheeks flush but he squints, not daring to look at Lars, his ears still burning. He stands there for a moment, dumbfounded, unsure what to do next, but Lars just steps forwards

“Cmon big man,” Lars says, pulling on James’ arm. “It’s time to go home.”

“I like it here,” James moans, defiantly sitting still, and he takes a long pull of the beer in his hand.

“Why is he still drinking?” Kirk exclaims, springing to action now that James’ words seemed to be forgotten, looking over at Cliff.

Cliff looks back at him from where he’s leaning against the counter, shrugging as he sips on a beer of his own.

“Don’t look at me! I’m not his keeper.”

Kirk grinds his teeth, looking back at Lars trying to drag James off the couch. Now is probably not the best time to get into an argument, but sometimes it would be real easy for him to snap. But, alas, he keeps his composure, biting his tongue.

Instead he helps Lars pull James off of the couch, and James stumbles, landing his full weight onto Kirk.

“Jesus man,” Kirk grumbles, pushing James back onto his feet, fingers scrambling in the cuffs of his boiler suit. “You’re too goddamn huge for me to carry you to the car.”

“You’re huge,” James mumbles, swaying between them.

Lars snickers, putting a hand around James’ waist, and James pouts.

Kirk ignores him, instead finally prying the beer from James’ grip to place on the coffee table.

“Hey! I was drinking that,” James slurs, but Kirk ignores him, pulling one of James’ heavy arms over his shoulders to keep him up.

“Thanks, Cliff,” Kirk manages to say, though he doesn’t exactly know what he’s thanking him for. He didn’t call, and he didn’t stop James from drinking any more.

Cliff just salutes, and Kirk and Lars push James out the door towards the car, his feet stumbling as they make their way down the driveway.

“I don’t feel so good,” James mumbles as they push him into the backseat, his eyes squeezing shut as a hand grips his stomach.

“S’okay,” Kirk murmurs, moving some sweaty hair from James’ forehead. He knows the drill by now. He knows how this goes. He just needs to get James home before he passes out. “Lars is gonna sit in the back with you, okay?”

He purposely pulls back to look at Lars who’s stood next to him, eyes wide and begging. Lars blinks for a moment then nods, though he doesn’t look too happy about it. He gets into the backseat next to James, grabbing the bucket, bending over to buckle James in.

James moans, doubling over slightly, and Kirk quickly gets into the car, peeling out of the road.

“James,” Kirk says, looking in the rear view mirror. “If you’re gonna puke, do it in the bucket

James hiccups, leaning into Lars’s side, a whine pulling from his throat.

The radio hums noisily and Kirk slams his hand onto the off button, too damn wired to listen to that shit right now.

James gags, and Kirk looks in the rear view mirror to see Lars holding the bucket under James’ nose, his other hand stroking over the back of his head.

Kirk tries to speed up, and James finally throws up, a mixture of beer and bile pouring into the bucket. The stench is disgusting, and Kirk nearly retches himself, but he takes a deep breath, turning onto the road home.

“S’okay, James,” Lars murmurs when James throws up again, his voice soft, a sound familiar to Kirk in an odd way that stirs up nostalgia deep within his gut.

He remembers when Lars used to talk to him like that, used to hold him close and pet his hair and wipe his tears.

He remembers when Lars loved him like that, even just as a friend. He wonders if they’ll ever be that close again.

He pulls onto the driveway, trying not to jostle the car too much, and James moans, spitting into the bucket.

Kirk quickly climbs out of the car, running to unlock the front door before opening the door to the backseat.

James is slumped over in Lars’ lap, eyes closed as he shivers, and Lars looks back at Kirk, a little green.

Kirk doesn’t really know what to say, so instead he just pulls on James’ arm until the younger man is sitting up, then he reaches over to unbuckle his seat belt.

“I’ll get him, you get the bucket, okay?” he says, manages to pull James to the edge of the seat before putting his shoulder underneath his armpit. Lars doesn’t answer but Kirk hears him get out the other side.

On three, Kirk lifts James out of the car onto his feet, and James burps, rocking in Kirk’s hold.

“Don’t you dare fucking puke on me,” Kirk mumbles, closing the door with his ankle as he helps James inside. James is basically a dead weight and it’s a miracle how Kirk gets him in the house.

He’s glad though that as soon as he’s through the door, the weight lifts a little, and he looks over to see Lars holding up James’ other arm.

“We need to get him upstairs,” Kirk says as they stagger towards the stairs. “I don’t want him sleeping on the couch again.”

“Why is he so heavy,” Lars groans as they begin the ascent up the stairs, James barely helping to lift his feet.

“I can hear you,” James grumbles, though it’s hardly legible, but it does make Kirk smile, the force on his chest lifting a little.

When they finally make it up the stairs, James gets even heavier, decidedly finished with walking, and Kirk sighs, heaving him up higher.

“Cmon James, not long, just keep moving.”

James just lets out a gruff breath, feet shuffling as they make it into his room.

It’s a complete mess in there, like it usually is, and they just have to shuffle their way through the crap before finally depositing James on the bed.

James collapses backwards with a groan, his face pasty and hair sweaty, and Kirk sighs, rolling his shoulders.

Lars clears his throat, scratching at his arm.

“I’m just- I’m just gonna go sort out the bucket.”

Kirk swallows and nods, finally finding his voice.

“Thank you,” he says, hopes he sounds earnest.

Lars just gives a small smile before disappearing back downstairs.

Kirk lets out a breath before turning the bedside lamp on.

“Cmon James,” he says, pulling on James’ arm. “You can’t sleep in this. You’ll get oil on the bed.”

“‘M tired,” James whines, though he lets himself be pulled up.

“I know,” Kirk says, undoing the buttons on the boiler suit. “Just do this and you can get into bed, okay?”

James just lolls his head back, eyes closed, hair hanging down in his face. Kirk makes quick work of getting him out of his work clothes, taking off his boots before finally pulling his suit off leaving him in just his shorts and his wifebeater.

“All done,” Kirk says, helping James get under the covers, putting an extra pillow under his head, rolling him onto his side.

“I’m gonna come back with some water and then you’re gonna sleep, okay?”

James doesn’t answer, his breathing ragged, his grip on the covers tight.

Kirk just pats his bicep gently before moving back downstairs.

The lights are on, and he finds Lars in the kitchen, the bucket, now clean, on the floor, and a fresh pot of coffee sat on the counter.

Lars smiles at him when he enters, hands him a cup of coffee, face soft and open.

Kirk takes it gratefully, the whole night finally catching up to him, and he feels like he could sleep for a week, his chest sore and tight.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, warming his hands on the mug as he leans against the counter.

Lars lifts an eyebrow over his own mug. Kirk really hopes Lars hasn’t spotted his old mug still sitting at the back of the cupboard.

“The coffee or James?”

Kirk huffs a laugh. “Both.”

Lars smiles widely, sipping at his coffee, back against the counter opposite Kirk. Seeing him again in the kitchen they once shared pulls at Kirk’s heart, and he can’t help but let his eyes linger over Lars’ slim frame, notices the slight waviness of his hair he used to love running his fingers through and the gap in his teeth he used to tease him about.

He’s the embodiment of everything Kirk’s been missing these last few years, even if Kirk doesn’t want to admit that.

He doesn’t want to admit that after all this time, he still can’t let go.

After a few moments of silence, Kirk opens his mouth to say something but Lars interrupts him, putting his now empty cup down.

“I better go,” he says, straightening up.

Kirk glances at the clock. It’s half one.

“You can’t go back this late,” Kirk says, shaking his head. “Just stay in the spare room.”

Lars looks at him for a moment, a wash of concern rubbed on his face only to immediately go blank, a look Kirk isn’t used to seeing. In that moment, the years between them come barrelling forwards, and Kirk feels acutely like he’s getting whiplash.

“I don’t-“ Lars starts, rubbing at the crease in his forehead.

Kirk just quickly shakes his head. “It’s fine, honestly. You can take the morning shift when you wake up.”

Lars lifts his eyebrows. “You’re staying up?”

“Someone has to make sure he doesn’t choke in his sleep,” Kirk replies, shrugging.

Lars just gives him a look of concern but Kirk just brushes it off.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Has he always been this bad?” Lars asks, voice worried.

Kirk bites at his lip, tries to make this sound not as bad as it is. Maybe he’s been lying to himself just how much James has changed in the last few years, in the last few weeks even.

His mood has always fluctuated, but his alcohol intake has always been a constant. It just so happens that he drinks himself into oblivion every time he’s depressed, and that seems to be the rut they’re in right now.

Kirk doesn’t exactly know why James is circling the drain again, but then again he’s never asked. He wonders if James would even tell.

"Only over the last few years,” Kirk says, which is true. James is a lot more reliant on alcohol than he was when Lars was last in the country.

“Something broke in him, I guess. He won't speak to me about it,” he continues, which isn’t exactly true. He knows James will never bring up his feelings and he hasn’t exactly been the greatest friend, especially lately with the way he’s been moping around.

Lars blows out a breath, his demeanour concerned, obviously not expecting his night to have turned out this way. But to be fair, neither did Kirk.

“That’s shit, dude,” Lars says, and Kirk just shrugs, gulps back his coffee before pouring himself another.

“Cmon,” he says, “I’ll show you to your room.

He knows Lars knows this place like the back of his hand, but things have changed since Lars lived here. Like the fact James lives here too. So the study became a spare bedroom in case someone stays over. Not like they ever have anyone over. It’s really only ever Jason if he gets too drunk to go home.

They go up the stairs, Lars following Kirk behind quietly, until they stop outside the spare bedroom.

Kirk opens the door before turning on the light, his coffee still warm in his other hand.

The room is small, half decorated from a time when Lars had wanted it to be a studio with foam still stuck to parts of the walls. The bed is small, just a single with blue sheets Kirk had picked up at Walmart. He’s suddenly very glad that he changes the bed regularly. It’s obviously worth it for times like these.

“Thank you,” Lars says, stepping inside.

Kirk just smiles, desperate to reach out to him.

“It’s fine. Just know I’m waking you up early so you can take the next shift.”

Lars laughs, all breathy and light.

“Is he still a dick when he’s hungover?”

“He’s always a dick,” Kirk replies with a laugh of his own. “Just get some sleep.”

Lars nods, and Kirk turns to step out only to stop.

“Thank you, Lars,” he says, before closing the door, not daring to look back at his ex lover. He doesn’t exactly know what he’s thanking Lars for; for coming to help him, for being back in his life, for making Kirk feel less alone.

Kirk gets a sudden sinking feeling he’s heading down a path he shouldn’t be following. He knows this won’t end well, but Lars is holding the apple and he knows full well he’s not strong enough not to sink his teeth into it.

He sighs to himself flicking off the landing light as he makes his way into James’ bedroom.

He takes a quick pit stop in his own room, picking up a book, American Psycho, before finally moving into James’ bedroom, setting his coffee on the side table.

James is out cold, still lying on his side, snoring softly, his skin a sickly grey.

Kirk grabs a glass off the side table, he’s not exactly sure it’s clean but he can’t be bothered to walk all the way back downstairs, and heads into the bathroom to fill it with water.

When he gets back into the room, he gently wakes James, pushing on his shoulder until James wakes with a snort, a deep groan pulled from his chest.

“Cmon James,” Kirk says, holding the glass to James’ lips. “Just take a few sips then you can go back to sleep.”

“Don’t want to,” James slurs, eyes still closed, pouting, but Kirk is insistent.

“James,” he says, firm now, tilting the water into James’ mouth until James has no choice but to swallow.

Kirk lets him take a few gulps before pulling away, wiping away the water from James’ chin.

“Okay, you can go to sleep now.”

James huffs, letting his head fall back against the pillow, and Kirk smiles, setting the glass on the side.

He kicks his shoes off before settling on the bed next to James, opening his book.

He’s a little distracted by the fact that his ex boyfriend is staying in a room down the hall, but he tries not to overthink it. Especially when he’s got all night to think about it.

He swallows, tries to follow the words on the page when James rolls onto his back, snoring softly.

“No, no, no, I don’t think so,” Kirk sighs, putting his book down to instead try and roll James’ dead weight back onto his side. “I’m not gonna let you choke in your sleep.”

James makes a weird noise, flopping onto his side.

“I’m gonna puke,” he whispers, and Kirk just sighs, looking up at the ceiling. He left the bucket downstairs. Of course.

It’s going to be a long night.

[theircurse]

˗ˏˋ *ㅤ★ㅤ‿︵ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤ𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑷𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ?

You represent the ELECTRIC type !

The Electric type is all about energy. You are like a human rocket, facing any challenge head-on and without slowing down. Despite your headstrong nature, you do enjoy working with teams, who clearly appreciate your drive to complete the task. A goal for you would be to slow down, and listen to other's strategies first. Indeed, you are a blank slate, unpredictable in your tactics. You prefer to tackle a problem head-on, and determine your course of action in the thick of conflict. Be wary, Electric-type, this could land you in trouble. But you have no tricks up your sleeve, you're simply quick-witted, and others surely take notice.

Tagged by: @eternalstarlights ( thank you ! )

Tagging: Whoever !

[theircurse-archive4]

╰ ★ █║ ⁞ —ㅤ˗ˏˋㅤ𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐄 !

Tagged by: @jardinae ( thank you ! )

Tagging: Whoever !

[theircurse-archive3]

-: ✧ ( WHICH TRAGIC CHARACTER FROM ANCIENT GREEK LITERATURE ARE YOU ? ) ✧ :-

Antigone

you are antigone, from the theban plays by sophocles. you are bold, unwavering in your morals and your passion, an unstoppable force of nature. but when you go head-to-head with an immovable object, your ideals can lead you to self-destruction. you are stubbornly resilient and fearless to a fault, and aren't afraid to stand alone in the face of death. antigone, in your quest for justice, don't forget: you are allowed to step back, to love life a little, to be young once more before soldiering on to the very very end. be selfish in your fierceness, just once.

Tagged by: @acidbodywoman ( thank you ! )

Tagging: Anyone !

[prouvaireafterdark]

Quench My Love for Violent Things

This is my (nsfw) Devil's Minion fill for the Day 1 Prompt: Biting

Putting this one under a read more because it's a little spicy right out of the gate, but here's a summary:

“‘Please’ what, Daniel?” Armand asks him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel the pounding of Daniel’s heart, the rushing of his blood beneath his lips. Saliva pools on his tongue in anticipation of the bite they both know will come, but still he says, “You must be specific, beloved.” *** Daniel wants to be bitten. Armand makes him ask for it.

Also on AO3!

@vampirefest

“Please,” Daniel begs, baring his throat to Armand’s mouth as he grinds his cock upward into his thigh. They’ve been lying together on the couch like this for almost an hour now—their limbs tangled and clothes rumpled as Armand kissed him to the point of desperation. A movie plays softly in the background, forgotten entirely somewhere around the first act when Armand slid his icy fingers under Daniel’s shirt and began to play with his nipple.

“‘Please’ what, Daniel?” Armand asks him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel the pounding of Daniel’s heart, the rushing of his blood beneath his lips. Saliva pools on his tongue in anticipation of the bite they both know will come, but still he says, “You must be specific, beloved.”

Daniel huffs at that. “You know damn well what I want.”

Armand smiles against Daniel’s throat. “Are you asking me to read your thoughts? I thought I wasn’t allowed anymore.”

“Bastard,” Daniel complains, but the word lacks heat. “You were never allowed. You just did it anyway.”

Armand considers arguing over the semantics—when Daniel thinks so loudly, it’s hardly his fault for picking up his thoughts—but he kisses him again instead, right where he knows he’s most sensitive. 

Daniel arches his back and moans a little in disappointment when Armand doesn’t give him what he wants.

“Ask for it, beloved,” Armand whispers in his head as he sucks softly at his skin. “Ask for it and it’s yours.”

There’s a pause that Armand knows is marked with bitterness before Daniel answers him.

“Bite me,” he says, the thought pushed into Armand’s head loud and clear. 

Armand opens his mouth and presses blunt human teeth to the soft skin of Daniel’s throat.

“Armand,” Daniel whines, “that’s not what I—“

Before he can finish that thought, Armand pulls back just far enough to drop his fangs and then sinks them deep into his neck.

Daniel shouts, his fingers tightening in Armand’s hair at the sudden pain. With each pull of his blood that floods Armand’s mouth, images torn from the recesses of Daniel’s mind assault him—romantic images of Armand biting him like this and draining him to the point of death, of Armand turning him into a creature of the night and spending an eternity at his side. 

Daniel wants these things with a ferocity that shakes Armand to the core, that makes him ache in all the wrong places even as the swoon overwhelms him with pleasure. He feels it when Daniel comes, the sweetness of his release coming to him through the blood as he moans and goes rigid against him, his cock twitching where he’s been grinding it against Armand’s thigh.

Once Daniel goes limp in his arms, Armand nicks his tongue on a fang and laps over the wound he’d made, letting the elixir of his immortal blood heal the punctures. 

The taste of Daniel’s orgasm still lingers on his tongue as he pulls away from his neck and kisses him on the lips. He wants Daniel to recoil at the coppery taste, to show him this isn’t what he wants, but it must be the few drops of his own blood that Daniel catches because he opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, moaning as Armand pushes his tongue into his mouth. 

Daniel’s lips are stained red when Armand pulls back to look at him, his pupil’s blown wide as his blood works its way through his system. Armand imagines what it would be like to have this forever—to give Daniel what he thinks he wants and lock him in an undying body that hungers for death night after night.

But he can’t—he won’t—and his heart aches suddenly, mourning a loss that hasn’t come yet. He settles back on top of Daniel, sighing when he feels Daniel’s arms wind tight around his back.

“So warm now,” Daniel comments, sounding drunk as he nuzzles his face into Armand’s curls. “So soft.”

“For now, beloved,” Armand replies, staring blankly at the television as he listens to the steady, human beat of Daniel’s heart.

[miasmaghoul]

good ole fashioned kink nonsense you say??

i offer options:

1) scent kink

2) semi public sex and/or voyeurism

3) the dynamic duo of praise/degradation

4) mirror sex

your choice my horny friend 😏😚 (some lady action, perhaps?? im not picky)

SHINIES FROM CROW

I CHOSE DOOR #2

VOYEUR MOUNTAIN JACKIN' IT OVER THE GHOULETTES UNDER THE CUT

He certainly shouldn't be watching the way she straddles an equally naked Cumulus, who is stretched out on a picnic blanket amidst their sea of wildflowers and bumblebees. It's hard to tell with the sound of the water, but he thinks he hears one of them laugh when Cirrus bends to meet Cumulus in a sweet, deep kiss, hands tangling in each other's hair.

He shouldn't be here.

He was supposed to be foraging berries and wild greens for his lunch. He shouldn't be standing behind this old-growth pine tree, hidden from the summer sun in deep shadow, gazing into a clearing instead. He shouldn't be watching the way droplets of water drip from Cirrus's breasts as she wades naked out of the stream nearby, sparkling as they glide over her pale skin.

Mountain swallows hard when Cirrus's hand drifts south, sinking into the softness of Cumulus's breast. Squeezing, gently kneading, catching the nipple between two elegant fingertips and rolling it until the shorter ghoulette is wriggling. Cirrus starts a line of kisses down her jaw, down her pale throat, and Mountain palms himself through his jeans. He's chubbing up so quick, he can't help it. He's always liked to watch.

Cirrus slides down Cumulus's body and leaves a trail of shining water droplets behind. They glint in the afternoon sun, accenting Cumulus's gorgeous curves like flecks of diamond. Her breasts, her belly, her hips - the further Cirrus moves, trailing wet kisses the whole way, the more ethereal Cumulus becomes. Her white curls are spread out in a stunning halo, brilliant against the red of the blanket. Cumulus palms her own chest as Cirrus kneels back and spreads those plush thighs, and Mountain has to bite his hand to keep from groaning.

They've clearly been at this for a while, Cumulus slick and swollen between her legs. Cirrus has her open and dripping, kissing over her mound and across her thighs, and Mountain is fishing himself out of his pants before he has time to think about it. It's already wet at the tip. He really likes to watch.

Cirrus lifts her head and speaks but Mountain can't make out the words over the rush of the stream. He gives himself a slow stroke as he watches Cirrus press her fingers into the pudge of Cumulus's stomach. He wants to sink his teeth into it to hear her giggle. Cumulus smiles fondly at Cirrus in response and reaches into their picnic basket, coming back with a handful of strawberries most certainly pilfered from the greenhouse. She holds one up between two polished fingers, the red of her nails brighter than the fruit between them, and Mountain's cock throbs when Cirrus licks at Cumulus's fingers and plucks the berry away with her tongue.

A spurt of precum leaks from his tip when Cirrus dips back down and runs her fingers through Cumulus's slick folds, biting gently at her thigh. He yearns to join them, to bury his face in Cumulus until she sees fit to release him. Or until he drowns, whichever comes first. Cirrus drags her red-stained tongue over soft skin and Mountain mirrors the motion by running a finger over his twitching shaft, biting his other hand again when Cirrus's licks just above the swollen bud of her clit. She lifts her head to speak again, and Mountain is certain she's telling Cumulus she tastes sweeter than those berries.

It's torture when Cirrus puts her mouth to work, lapping at Cumulus's cunt with the flat of her tongue. Mountain huffs out a pained breath when Cumulus draws her knees up, hips rolling against Cirrus's face, hands flying to her own hair. Her moans are harsh and breathy, bits of them carried to his ears on the fragrant summer breeze. It's honey-thick and floral, but undercut with something deeper. Tinged with salt. It makes Mountain's cock kick and drool, makes his mouth water. He rests his forehead against the rough bark of his tree and starts stroking in earnest, sucking air through clenched teeth.

Cirrus flicks her skilled tongue over Cumulus's clit in lazy swirls, slipping two fingers into her with no resistance. She pumps them in and out and Mountain matches her with his own hand, smearing pre down his length. Cumulus arches off the blanket with a soft cry and Mountain thinks Cirrus must have crooked her fingers against that one really good spot. Mountain can hear her moans in his head, tightening his hand as memories of being buried deep inside the ghoulette flood his mind. So tight around him, so soft beneath his hands.

"Fuck," he gasps, rubbing just under the head. His eyes are glued to the the way Cumulus writhes in the sun, to the way her curls bounce around her head. The way Cirrus licks at her so casually, chasing her every move. Her unused hand slides over Cumulus's hip, searching the blanket blindly until it finds the squirming ghoulette's arm. Their fingers lace together so easily, so perfectly. It's the most intimate thing he can imagine, and Mountain's chest aches with want. Cumulus's other hand winds into Cirrus's damp hair and tugs.

Mountain chokes when Cirrus looks up, tongue and fingers still working their magic, and Cumulus gazes down at her with nothing but obvious love and adoration. Her silver eyes blown black, heavy lidded and unfocused. Her kiss-bruised lips slick with spit. She looks so beautifully wrecked, and Cirrus must agree. Mountain's strokes go uneven and jerky as she works with renewed vigor, curled fingers rubbing that spot and her tongue working circles around Cumulus's clit. Mountain can see her thighs shaking.

A louder moan cuts through the hum of bees and junebugs and he can't hold back any longer, huffing for breath as he brings his empty hand to cup his balls. Mountain's mouth hangs open as he watches Cumulus hold Cirrus's head still to grind against her face. He gets a few more pulls in before he's spilling onto the dirt with a tight groan. He wants to sob for how good it feels, but he can't make himself interrupt the beautiful scene playing out before him.

He stays through Cumulus's orgasm, watching how she clamps down around Cirrus's head and shudders, her softest parts shaking decadently. He wants to touch every part of her, of both of them. To be smothered in them. But this isn't about him, and he's intruded enough already. He watches Cirrus lick her fingers clean and crawl back up Cumulus's aftershock-riddled body, capturing her in a tongue-filled kiss that must have an undertone of strawberry.

Mountain shakes himself back to his senses, zipping up and wiping his hand on his jeans. He grabs his discarded foraging basket and gets back to work, head spinning and knees shaking.

In the spot where he left his mess, a shock of violets and baby's breath grows to life.

[chrysalis-the-butterfly]

Jessica: A Poem

Discovering the Jessica Rabbit RP blogs of @aparticularbandit last year has inspired me to start writing again. I did work on a few fanfics as a teenager, but then I fell away from writing, and I'd like to pick it back up. It's my New Year's Resolution for 2024.

So here's a poem about Jessica Rabbit. It's inspired by a brief line from the official Roger Rabbit comics, where Roger casually mentions that he used a butterfly net on Jessica the first time he met her. (And nope, there's no other context given.)

This poem is a first draft, so I welcome constructive criticism.

I’m told I must be seen to be believed,

But I have no control over my image. 

Were I to print a portrait for you here,

That would be called a breach of copyright,

And those who own me now are rich in funds

To buy the finest lawyers in the land. 

So picture, in your mind, a female form,

With legs so long they stretch from Saturday

To Monday like a three-day weekend, and

A body snaking out and in and out,

And topped with orange locks like dampened fire,

And emerald eyes, and plump and pouting lips. 

That’s me.  And that is what I’ve always been,

Since someone dared to stain his fingers red

With paint to drape me in a sequined gown

And panted, breathing on me, giving me

The life and animation he required

To make his films.  Yes, acting is my trade. 

I’ve had another.  It would make you blush. 

Now, I must stress, I had no choice in that. 

I had no interest in the act itself;

It was a job, I did it rather well,

But was it something I looked forward to

With girlish glee?  No, not at all.  Listen,

I did not hate, but neither did I love. 

Those owners told me, “Jump;” I asked, “How high?” 

Those owners told me, “Down;” I asked, “How low?” 

What power did I have to utter, “No”? 

I truly did believe this was my role,

My purpose, yes, the reason I was made:

To be the one that husbands hurried to

Whenever they had need of rough relief. 

I did not ask if I deserved to live

A life where I could choose my own desires,

Could choose where I would go, what I would do –

A life of joy and peace and liberty. 

It was self-evident that I did not. 

I had been drawn, not born, and that made me

A servant to the gracious human beings

Who gave the greatest gift, of life, to us,

The inkblots.  We were servants.  And that was

A fact as clear as day, just like the fact

That one man known colloquially as “Pope”

Was Catholic.  So I sank into my pit,

The lowest of already lowly folk. 

What pulled me out and finally set me free? 

A butterfly net.  No, I’m serious. 

One day I took a walk into the woods,

And it was spring, and flowers carpeted

The forest floor, and I was passing time

Until the night came, when I would be needed. 

I thought I heard the slaps of massive feet –

Then something like a stick wacked into me. 

The impact knocked me backwards into mesh. 

I sat there, tangled, reeling from the blow,

And then I heard a voice above my head:

“Jeepers!  So sorry, miss!  I’ll let you out! 

See, I was aiming for this butterfly –

I didn’t see you there!”  I had to laugh. 

That was the first time I had ever laughed. 

How could I not have laughed?  How could he not

Have seen me?  How?  I never could escape

The leering eyes and lolling tongues of men. 

Surely this fellow was a fellow too? 

Then why would he be any different?  Well,

I dug a high heel in and cut the net,

And then I stood and shook the ropes away,

And turned, and I beheld my captor – and

I realised I towered over him. 

He was a creature made of ink and paint,

As I was, only he was hairier

And shorter, and his clothes were like a clown’s. 

His eyes and ears and nose were larger, too. 

He trembled in my shadow, looking up,

Expecting me to fly into a rage

And beat him till his snow-white hair turned red. 

Instead, I simply asked, “Are you all right?” 

That must have been a welcome change for him. 

We painted ones see little kindness from

The humans who created us, the ones

Who ought to love us dearly, but do not,

So we must give each other kindness.  Well,

That’s how I’ve tried to live my life, although

Few people tend to want my company

(Unless they’re paying for my services),

Not even other painted slaves.  After

I asked this fellow if he was all right,

The man exhaled, apologised again,

And asked me who I was, and where I worked,

And how I found myself within the woods. 

I answered, and I asked him questions too. 

We almost could have stayed a thousand years,

Among the daisies, asking, answering,

But all too soon, the Sun was lowering;

I had to go; he promised he would meet

With me again.  He kept his word.  He came

To find me just outside the studio

And asked me what I’d like to do that day –

The first time anyone gave me a choice. 

We spent two years in pleasant company,

And then, one summer’s day, we tied the knot. 

I strode into the chapel, dressed in white,

And my eyes found his, and they never left. 

We’re still a wife and husband.  No-one thought

That we would last this long.  How could a dame

With beauty such as mine dote on a fool? 

What do I see in him?  He treats me well;

He buys me candy in a heart-shaped box

And takes me to the finest restaurants

He can afford – and I buy gifts for him,

Usually clothes, because he always rips

The ones he has.  I love the way his face

Lights up when he unwraps them, tries them on. 

What do I see in him?  He writes to me –

He sends me letters when he’s called away,

Composes poems of love when he is near. 

We call each other many silly names. 

And when the weekend comes, the kitchen is

The place we spend most time, as we attempt

New recipes for different kinds of cake. 

(My favourite kind is still the carrot cake. 

He’s told me carrot is his favourite, too.) 

What does he see in me?  I dare not ask,

For fear that I will break the magic spell

That’s binding us together.  So instead,

I sit, and run my fingers through his hair. 

What do I see in him?  Quite simply, he

Was, and still is, the only man who tried

To find out who I was, and love that dame,

Instead of thinking he knew all of me

Based only on my looks, and judging me. 

What do I see in him? 

He makes me laugh. 

[halechief]

grip, platonic, obviously. maybe even ... when she's ... y'know.... almost bleeding out : )

send “grip” to grip my muse’s jaw in your muse’s hand. @newsworth.

claire is not terribly familiar with the sound of gunshots.

or, maybe that's inaccurate. there is a memory tangled at the back of her mind, slotted somewhere before coming into her own, but after losing the last of her innocence - it sounds like the sharp single remark of a 1950 colt revolver, silence, and then a thud. the ringing of her own ears. further toward the front, there's the memory of lucas goodwin's attempt on her husband's life. five ear - splitting rounds, if she remembers right, ( she does. she's watched the footage over and over. two from lucas, not in succession, the second while being grappled to the ground. three from edward after he'd fallen. ) but over the cacophony of shouting, the chanting of no more wars, of f. u. underwood, and then the curdled, nauseating screaming, she couldn't say that of everything, it was the sound of the shots that stuck in her mind.

further still to the forefront, there is the sound of a lone bullet colliding with the ballistic glass of a motorcade, the crystalline shatter, the webbing crack that bloomed before she'd flattened against the leather upholstery. the furious beating of her own heart, the oceanic chorus of blood in her ears. stay down. stay down! shots fired. a hand at the side of her head, not quite touching, just preceding the weight of a body settling over her own. shielding her own. are you okay, madam president? are you alright? ( yes, she'd lied, with a vigorous shake of her head. ) and finally : lone star is safe.

( that time, the officer had lied. she never would be. she knows it, now. )

there is a level of familiarity, yes. but it still takes until the second shot, for her to recognize the sound for what it is.

pain emerges first, and quite vividly through the confusion of her delayed thoughts, radiating from her shoulder into her collarbone and throat, the reserved grey of her blouse darkening rapidly. the third catches her as she turns, an instant before her detail completes the convergence around her, searing along the side of her neck, and she distantly registers the sound of glass shattering somewhere behind her after the fact, muffled as though through layers of cotton. her hand lifts to her throat, and she is confused to find it already slick with blood, hotter than expected, dripping down her throat and disappearing into the open neck of her shirt. the fabric itself has been torn aside slightly, cool november air stealing along the spaces left bared, and as her vision finds the wavering image of her hand held up before her, stained red, redder by far than the paint she thinks to compare it to, she notes the thin tendrils of steam that rise from it, matching the mist of her exhaled breath.

she sways on her feet, and as the steps underfoot begin to rise rapidly to meet her, so too does she feel the pressure of several hands pressing her downward, their voices joined together with the noise of the crowd, only one left distinguishable above the din, for how close it is to her.

"claire." his fingers are not trembling when they try to grasp her face, turning her gaze to him, his body hunched, the two of them crammed together underneath the bodies that move to shield her again, that shield both of them. what does it take, claire wonders dimly, to value your life beneath another's? she wants to live. she knows it distinctly, feels the fact of it beating incessantly against the closing of her throat. christopher. she tries to say it, and cannot manage, her stained hand instead lifting to grasp his wrist as his fingers move to her throat, aided in the slide by the blood that wets them, and he is . . . so calm. so incredibly calm. she would have smiled, but in her periphery, she sees another body lying prone, polished shoes pointing up to the sky, and she doesn't know who they belong to. they could be edward's. they could be scott's. "claire, you're going to be fine. don't move. don't close your eyes. just look at me."

she does, until the moment that she can't. until the moment his quiet directions begin to fall on deaf ears. until her body goes weightless, grasping hands lifting her into the back of a vehicle, and her eyes blink, slowly, too slowly, and finally an edge of hysteria slithers into his voice. "claire. claire, no. keep your eyes open . . . stay with me. please."