#((GOD these are WAY too accurate for these two!!

[takes1]

so in the bokuto x inexperienced! Reader, is he ACTUALLY experienced or is he just infatuated and cocky 😭 hes giving me “virgin but ive watched a lot of porn and can figure it out” energy and I love that for him

p.4 bokuto teaching inexperienced!reader

this is a great question and a great separate prompt. i decided to go with the former to stay with my original idea, but i DO like the other option a LOT. would be soooo!!! accurate for his character.

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / BIG praise kink!bokuto / himbo!bokuto / sweet, dumb!bokuto / inexperienced!reader / possessive!bokuto / f!rec oral / grinding / clumsy antics / making out / flirting / heavy petting / 2.7k words / reply to be added to taglist for final part

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. part one here. part two here. part three here.

"No bra?"

Bokuto clocked instantly, excitement breaking a barely-there filter, a big cheesy grin still not enough to loosen you up.

"Um," You took your hands back, crossing them over your chest, "Actually- let me go and--,"

Bokuto seethed with an eye roll you couldn't see. He was being playful as he sat half-up to capture you.

His strong grasp settled around your hips, "Ooohh no. I'm not waiting again."

Maybe it was the shirt that inspired him to be extra touchy. You looked like you were properly his.

His eyes scanned you; a burning, unyielding kind of expression that said: No pants, either. Juuust the shirt.

Those hot hands were in constant motion. They rubbed, massaged, your hip joints, the fleshy sides of your ass, and his thumbs would prod into the front of your thighs. It felt good- it helped you relax, because it wasn't too much.

"I meant to ask," Hesitant, and slow, you placed your hands back onto his shoulders, "You've been with other girls, right?"

The attempt to counterbalance his subtle pulling was a failure. You both giggled when you stumbled forward.

"A- few, yeah."

He looked like he was going to say more than he did. You wondered how he felt about them, now.

"Right... obviously- um, sorry for asking," You laughed.

The back of your knuckles flitted across his chiseled jawline. Your tummy was already in knots, but when he leaned into your touch, you melted a little more inside.

Having to pretend like he wasn't so outrageously attractive was odd. In moments like these, where you could slow down and look at every detail in his face, it was natural to acknowledge it.

A simple sigh, "You are so stunning."

He looked up from your hips. His piercing eyes and growing grin added to all of his prominent features, but tempted you to look away out of discomfort.

"You think so?"

It was spoken like he might not have believed your comment.

"Yeah, of course-! You're-," The words stumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them, "You're like, out of this world hot- I don't get why you're wasting time with me."

Bokuto firmed up quickly. He held a determined, focused expression that felt out of place as you searched for what you could have said wrong.

"Woahwoahwoahwoah! Don't say shit like that!"

"Like what?" Was your much smaller, quieter response.

His palms slid up under your shirt, then back down to your hips. He did this repeatedly while he thought.

"I dunno- I'm-- I'm not-," He groaned, "I'm not good with words. But... I don't like pretty girls who don't know that they're pretty. It's kinda lame."

You sort of understood what he meant. You didn't mean to put yourself down, but you considered it fact that he was out of your league. The way you spoke was mostly to address that.

The intellectual struggle he was having made it much more endearing, though. He was dumb. You found that you liked it more than you thought you would.

"Not that I think you're lame!" He clarified all of a sudden.

God, yeah, he was slow. Too many volleyballs to the head.

You chuckled, an affectionate sound, and he grinned again. He wasn't so scary when you got to talk.

"So, you think I'm pretty?" Was your first ever attempt at a real tease.

It was so successful that he slid his hands to grab all the way around your butt, smushing your tummy against his face with a big, maybe too loud of a groan.

You were shushing him, giggly, through his, again, too-loud confession.

"I don't think so, I know so!"

The foreign sensation through his (your?) shirt had you confused for just a moment. You looked down, hardly able to see what he was doing, but realized he was pressing kisses into your stomach through the fabric.

You smiled at how sweet it was, how good it felt. He trailed those slow, warm kisses up between your breasts, to your collarbone, and you only started to firm when he got to your skin, along your neck.

Bokuto could feel you tense up.

He pressed another gentle kiss to your skin, then met your worried expression.

"Hey- I don't bite," Was a soft reminder to relax, to not get lost in the nerves.

His gaze fell to your lips. You watched it happen, you watched his pupils grow, his thoughts running rampant behind his eyes.

A little mutter, a little empty, if anything, "Promise..."

His kiss was sweet, and slow, and soft. You felt guilty for not quite knowing how to return it.

The reassurance came in the form of his hands reaching, holding, the back of your head and the side of your face to keep you still, angled just right.

You barely returned the pressure- nervous, that he would get turned off if you tried too hard.

It felt like he was sending volts of electricity straight down your body, not a single vein or muscle exempt from the sensation. He parted for just a moment, to shift or something. He kept his hands on you.

Dumb, you took a breath to apologize for not knowing what to do, but his lips were crashing back onto yours. It was messier, not as perfect, this time.

You chuckled against his mouth, hands jittery, pressing on his shoulders with the intent to move from him. To maybe collect yourself, adjust, say sorry again.

But he was rougher, and you felt his warm tongue swipe against your bottom lip- you flinched.

"Mmh-!" It was hard moving away from him because he followed you.

He was breathy, his lids low, only focused on getting more. Your stiffness was one-sided and not serving you very well.

One hand took up most of the real estate on the side of your neck, more than enough to direct you, while his other arm wrapped around your waist. He pulled you in and started to lean back.

You slipped forward at his haste and tried to catch yourself with your knee.

It missed the edge of the bed where you tried to land. It clipped right between his legs instead.

"Augh-!!" He wheezed.

Powerful thighs were squeezing yours tenfold- his hands flew from your body to cup himself as he continued falling back. You stayed standing, more or less.

You gasped.

"I'm- so sorry-!" You pried your leg out from his and held your hands over your mouth. That was a first.

He groaned through a closed-mouth, eyes screwed shut.

"Mm! H-mmm-mmm-mmn-!" His muscles twitched, seized, and you felt dirty for liking it.

You slowly climbed up next to him as he came down, or at least grew quieter, from the blow.

"I'm sorry..." You repeated, eyes unsure of where to get their fill. Your hand brushed the hair off of his forehead, gentle and slow. You really didn't want him to go, but even you could see now that you were a lot of trouble for very little payoff.

But God, he looked unreal, all squirmy and flexed and half-naked next to you. Your thighs twitched with the need to stimulate yourself.

Bokuto was slowly blowing his breaths out, loosely palming his junk when he began to blink his eyes open, up at your distracted stare.

He laughed. Quiet, at least for his standards- it made you blush.

"You're real cute," He admitted, looking up at the ceiling, "And even though you're the most nervous chick I've ever met--,"

You glanced at his face, frowning.

"And Kuroo is gonna fuckin' kill me whenever he finds out-,"

You wanted to smile, but didn't.

"And you-," He grabbed your nose again and wiggled it, laughing at the way you batted his hand away, "Kneed me in the balls-!"

"-I still. Really. Want to fuck you."

His candid ranting, unfaltering eye contact, charmed you. It would've been romantic if it wasn't so filthy, but it was effective in its own right.

"I want you, too," You said, ultraquiet, staring at his hand in your lap, then at his hips, "I'm just- new."

Bokuto was fully recovered. He sat up, so mindless that you weren't sure if your words were lost on him, and adjusted your body so he could pin you on your back. It was more of a way of telling you that he'd be more intentional this time, taking the lead.

The way he slid, so sure of where to put his weight, his arms, his face, all snug against you was dizzying and impressive. He belonged on top, for sure.

"I can show you. We got all night," He reminded you.

An eager, messy kiss to your cheek made you giggle. It softened him, for a moment.

His groan was a smiley, throaty confession against your neck, "God, your laugh is so cute."

Your violent shiver was scooped up, muffled in his arms as he rolled his hips, slow and teasing, against you.

The quick squeeze of your thighs around him was a reaction to both the intensity there, and the fluttery pleasure of his tongue and teeth, nipping and sucking under your ear.

"Oh-h, my Go-ah--," Got muddled together, bitten into his meaty shoulder in a humiliating whine.

Bokuto couldn't get enough of whatever that was.

He carelessly began making deep, dark bruises all over your neck- with you none the wiser- pressing that soft, tight pussy against his tortured cock. And you filled him up, fueled his dangerous ego with how breathless you were, how your phrases started to lack real words, and pitifully weak squeeze of your legs around him.

"M-mnh," His head rose, meeting that blacked out look in your eyes for only moment before he stole your 7th, 8th, 20th kiss.

He briefly thought about what he was making of you, how nice it would be to be able to fully call you his.

Big palms slid further down, rubbing the warm, worked, inside part of your thighs while he sat up to take a good look at you. You already looked like his little whore. He soaked the image up, just like how you admired how unreal he looked, sitting hot and bothered and hard between your thighs.

"I can make you feel soo much better," He heard himself promise in a far-off sigh.

You were still shy, but the curiosity was finally shining through.

"What did you have in mind?"

You even let him push your shirt off, since he was so slow and nice about it, and you tried not to shiver under his hands.

He held a sharp, nasty smirk, a false hum on his breath. You weren't stupid, you knew what he was trying to accomplish by wiggling to his stomach.

Despite wanting it real bad, your hands covered your burning face to try to calm yourself down.

He sang, "I've been told that I have a big tongue."

You were prepared to laugh at him. Your curiosity got the better of you-- you peeked through your fingers and realized he wasn't kidding. The tongue he stuck out for you was wide, and flat. A barely-there whimper died in your throat.

"I'll be slow," Thick fingers liberated you of the soaked material, his cock twitching at the sight of your pretty pussy.

As he pocketed his more-than-earned keepsake, he was briefly able to palm away some of the ache.

He kept his voice sugary-sweet, "Buuut you should tell me what you like."

Big, muscular shoulders pushed up against the back of your thighs and you couldn't look- you had to squeeze your eyes shut, head towards the ceiling, instead.

A big flinch as he added, one final thought, "If you can."

He swirled waves and waves of pleasure into you with his gentle tongue. It was a kind of delicate act you hadn't been sure he could deliver on, but his skill was a gratifying surprise.

"Oh-h," Your thighs twitched against your will.

Bokuto was the type of guy to take his ability to make you feel good very seriously.

He was the kind to get a little too into some article thread about Misogyny and its Complicated Relationship with Sex, then make it his secondary goal to be more 'attentive' from that exact moment on. A hasty, incomplete, but well-intentioned effort shaping his sexual habits, his unique views, super-charged with his need to 'be the best.'

The webs of his fingers filled with the front of your thighs, firm, with groan at how you rolled your hips up into his mouth.

It swirled into the horrible regulation of his self-esteem, at some point.

Similar to his night-and-day approach to volleyball, and made it impossible for him to fuck up in bed without feeling guilty, or like he was 'bad' at sex. That's why he was so experienced. Women usually didn't want to stay with a guy who took their lack of pleasure that personally- it was an ick.

With you, there was less pressure. He only understood this in a limited way.

"A-ah, yes- just like th-at," Your fingers found his frosted tips, pulling at the darker, softer roots.

His hips sank harder into the mattress, a broken groan at your declaration. He was good? The notion needed to be checked, so he glanced up at you.

He caught your cute, twisted expression. A smug smile flashed under his swirling tongue at how you covered your face again.

You gasped, hot with embarrassment, "Mmh- fuck, don't--,"

Yeah, he was doing well. He sucked a soft kiss to your clit and got a strong squeeze in return.

He wondered how loud he could get you. If he could somehow let every guy downstairs know that you were off limits, not just because you were Kuroo's sister, but because he was up here making you feel this good.

Most of his touches had been noticeably rough, and rushed, and a bit too excitable up to this point.

But he had no urgency between your legs. No desire to move to the next thing.

There was more pressure as he slid his tongue further down, towards your entrance, then a lighter, more fluttery feeling the closer he got to your clit.

It was a kind of method that reminded you that you were not the first, and you probably wouldn't be the last, to get eaten out by this big hunk.

As concerning as it was, Bokuto simplified your thoughts with a careful and practiced pleasure.

You wanted him.

This was worth stooping down a level for. You wanted to feel his lips again, his touch, his hold, and you were sure that you could shoulder the burden of not being exclusive, or whatever payment had to come with it.

He was funny, and kind, and sweet. He had already showed you so much about your own body. You didn't want him to go and you didn't want to stop. You couldn't stand not knowing, anymore.

"A-after- tonight-- ahh-," You gasped at the way he held your free hand, sandwiching it between his palm and your own hip. There was a sting at your eyes, "Can we- mmh, see each other again?"

It took a full minute for him to register what you said, then what you meant, then what you implied.

His mean, strong suck to your clit was more of a punctuation, because he quickly climbed over you-- an intense, stormy look in his naturally wide eyes.

You were panting, slower to react, in the absence of his mouth.

"You thought I was gonna ditch you after this?"

You blinked the burn away, thighs flexed and trembly as he affixed his weight back on top of you.

Even he could tell you were bothered by the idea. Struggling with it, maybe, for a while. He realized you weren't going to say yes or no.

"I'm not a monster," He glanced around your pretty face, pained, that you thought so low of him, "You know that, right?"

He wanted to be your first, then the second, third, and so on. He didn't think that far ahead, but he knew with certainty that he wouldn't stop craving you after just one night.

"Baby, you're not gettin' rid of me," His quick, fervent pecks across your troubled face sent you into a surprised, delighted laughter.

He giggled with you, big arms scooping around you as he caught a ticklish part of your neck in messy kisses.

"Mm-mm! Noooo, you're not!"

Your laughter, happy, unrestrained, was music to his ears.

His mind was everywhere. Half-focused on those sensitive spots that he needed to remember for later, half-focused on how badly he wanted to tear you apart.

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[thorraborinn]

Would it possible at all for you to point me in the direction of how to translate elder futhark runes ie: “Thor, Protector of Humanity”. I’m entertaining the idea of woodburning Norse art.

lol you're gonna hate this. Nobody asks me shit like this anymore so I'm gonna take it too seriously.

Really the answer is "no." I can try to do it for you but I don't think it makes sense for me to say "learn Proto-Norse" and hope for the best. Learning how to do this is a lot more difficult than learning Old Norse or Old English (and tbh "learn ON or OE or OHG" is the actual advice I'd give here). I know you're asking about doing this in general, and not for that phrase in particular, but you happened to provide a good example so I'm going to try a translation and show all my work.

I did put together a very non-exhaustive list of sources on runes available here but honestly that will not get you far here. Turning Proto-Norse into runes is easy, it's the language part that's hard. I also made a big list of deity names in Elder Futhark. Apparently the font embedding broke so it looks like nonsense, and I'm not gonna fight with it now. But the bolded text in each entry can be transliterated into runes. I haven't looked at this in years, but did just update Thor to be more in line with what I have here. Also, don't trust Wikipedia or Wiktionary for this stuff, you can use them as a research tool but verify independently or just use them to find other sources.

If I were in your position, I would consider using Old Norse and the runes that wrote that. Völuspá even gives us a near parallel: Miðgarðs véurr, and one of many ways to write that might be ᚦᚢᚱ ᛬ ᛘᛁᚦᚴᛆᚱᚦᛋ ᛬ ᚢᛁᚢᚱ.

I should make sure sure you're asking what you want to be asking. I'm assuming you want to translate into language that was spoken when the Elder Futhark was used. Some people say "translate" when they mean the less-commonly-known-but-more-accurate "transliterate" (turn "abc" into "ᚨᛒᚲ"). Maybe you just want to go ᚦᛟᚱ ᛬ ᛈᚱᛟᛏᛖᚲᛏᛟᚱ ᛬ ᛟᚠ ᛬ ᚺᚢᛗᚨᚾᛁᛏᛁ and call it a day, and there's nothing wrong with that but you don't need my help for it so I'm guessing that isn't what you mean.

Anyway I'll give you my crack at a translation of the phrase you provided now in case you don't want to read the rest of this but the explanation is after the break:

*þonaraʀ warjaʀ *man(n)akunjas þonaraʀ warijaʀ manakunjas ᚦᛟᚾᚨᚱᚨᛉ ᛬ ᚹᚨᚱᛁᛃᚨᛉ ᛬ ᛗᚨᚾᚨᚲᚢᚾᛃᚨᛊ

(the i ~ ij thing is on purpose. word boundary markers optional)

Thor

There are some unclear phonological aspects of *þun?raz > Þórr. Haukur Þorgeirsson recently addressed this (this article is currently paywalled but for some reason the whole thing loaded just fine for me a few hours ago, not sure why), and I find his conclusions satisfactory, which complicates things. Haukur proposes an earlier *Þunurr but doesn't rule out *Þonarr (or earlier reflex of these). By Haukur's analysis the former is easier to resolve within Old Norse but the latter is more convenient with some other proposals already made, especially by comparative linguists. So we find ourselves with two proposals for the god's name in Elder Futhark-era language: ᚦᚢᚾᚢᚱᚨᛉ *þunuraʀ and ᚦᛟᚾᚨᚱᚨᛉ *þonaraʀ. I'm conditioned to favor *þonaraʀ, but I can't find fault in Haukur's preference for *þunuraʀ within the context of his own paper.

The only reason I'm not siding with it is that it seems impossible to resolve with Old High German donar and Old Saxon thunar (both 'thunder'; compare *eburaz > OHG/OS ebur, not **ebar). So while Haukur's got me convinced that *þunuraʀ seems like a more likely immediate precursor to Þórr, I can't shake *þonaraʀ being what seems to me, at least for now, a necessary precursor to the OHG especially. And for now, "seems necessary" beats "more likely." Of course variation is possible but that isn't a way to handwave conflicting data, it's a whole separate thing to investigate, and I haven't done that yet.

If I were researching something for myself, or for something permanent like a tattoo, I'd keep going and make sure I'm more confident. Even Haukur leaves open possibilities I haven't mentioned here. If nothing else, at least *þunraz no longer seems necessary to maintain (as Ringe 2014 thought following Noreen 1923).

Alternatively, one who does prefer *þunraz as the Proto-Germanic could probably be convinced to allow an epenthetic vowel for Elder Futhark-era language, so we're safe there.

I probably could have left all this out. *þonaraʀ is a fairly normal, mainstream way to reconstruct Þórr. But that wouldn't have been an accurate depiction of the situation. However we work this out, it highlights that what we're doing is not speaking/writing ancient, dead, unattested language. Or, if we are, it's only incidental to the primary thing we're doing, which is trying and sometimes failing to understand how attested words relate to each other, and taking sides in arguments about that.

protector

Selecting a word for 'protector' is difficult. It was only with some hesitation that I went with warjaʀ, a word only attested in compounded personal names like Landawar(i)jaʀ on the Tørvika A stone. It's highly likely to be derived from *warjan- 'to protect/defend.' What's a little weird, though, is that it seems to always be written warijaʀ, in apparent violation of Sievers' Law. I won't get into details here because this post is gonna be long enough as it is, but let it be known the word (and others -- the (i)ja thing recurs a bunch in the Elder corpus) is controversial and my preference for leaving it as it's attested would probably not be universal.

Snorri calls Thor verjandi Ásgarðs, Miðgarðs 'protector of Ásgarðr, Miðgarðr.' To be honest, this isn't the most common use of verjandi; usually it means 'defendant' in a trial, but we can get its meaning from context. We should stop to question whether it could have been used that way some 700 years before Snorri, and once we're satisfied that we can use it we run into trouble again with the non-phonological change of the suffix *-andz > -andi. The *-andz suffix is poorly attested in the Elder Futhark. We have the Tune stone's witada witanda-, but it's a compound word and doesn't give us the nominative ending. Then there's the Eggja stone's suwimąde swimmande and gąląnde galandi which are late enough to be basically fully Old Norse, and doesn't tell us much about earlier language. In Old Norse, these -andi words have the same endings as an n-stem in the singular, and maybe they did in Proto-Norse, but we don't have nominative (or even uncompounded in any case) forms from early enough to be sure. *warjandʀ or *warjanda? Or something else? If not for this, it's the word I'd probably use, and if we want to come as close as we can to technical dictionary accuracy, we'll have to be okay with a shot in the dark at the morphological state of the language.

Also derived from verja are vernd, verndari, vǫrn, vǫrðr. Both vernd and vǫrn mean roughly 'protection' and it makes more sense to say that Thor gives or provides them than that he is them. A vǫrðr is a guard or warden -- Heimdallr is definitely a vǫrðr but I'm not certain Thor is. Most likely, verndari is a later, Norse-era formation, which is unfortunate because it is the word I'd use if we were translating to Old Norse (might go a little bit something like ᚦᚢᚱ ᛬ ᚢᛆᚱ(ᚿ)ᛐᛆᚱᛁ ᛬ ᛘᚭᚿᚴᚢ(ᚿ)ᛋ).

In Old Norse there's also gæta. It isn't attested outside of North Germanic which means relying on internal reconstruction, which isn't great. Kroonen's (2013) *ganhatjan- makes sense and PN *gą̄tijaʀ does seem pretty reasonable as a reconstruction. Semantically, I'm not sure if it's a good fit, though I'm having trouble articulating why. Its meaning should be something like 'to watch, tend, take care of' and in most modern language is more like what Iðunn does with her apples, or what a shepherd does with their flock, than what Thor does with humans, but I don't know that we can be so precise with Proto-Norse and in either case I don't think it's wrong. Actually, perhaps gætir Miðgarðs would be a better way to put it (hint: gætir Miðgarðs < *gą̄tijaʀ miðjagarðas ᚷᚨᛏᛁᛃᚨᛉ ᛬ ᛗᛁᛞᛃᚨᚷᚨᚱᛞᚨᛊ).

The Norse word hlífa might be closer to what we're looking for, though it might only seem that way because we have little evidence to contradict it. In Norse it means 'to protect/defend/shelter (from something)' and works here, but its attestations in other Germanic languages are a little weak and don't inspire confidence in the semantics.

Given all this, I can't help but feel it's best to return to war(i)jaʀ. Though unattested outside of names, it presumably had an independent existence at some point, and is transparently derived from the verb *warjan- 'to defend.' And maybe most importantly, it is actual, attested language. This is a rare opportunity to forget about what I said at the end of the "Thor" section and connect to real language committed to real record by real people.

As an aside, véurr, mentioned way above, is probably etymologically equivalent to vé + warjaʀ, so *wīhawarjaʀ ᚹᛁᚺᚨᚹᚨᚱᛁᛃᚨᛉ.

humanity

We catch a break with 'humanity.' There are complications but they won't end up mattering. There are a few ways to say 'humanity' but they all start man(n)-; we can have our pick of -kin or -kind to end it but -kin is more common, which in PN is *kunja. But the 'man' words in early Germanic languages are a little weird. Sometimes it has one n, sometimes two; it's always two in Old Norse, but it's hard to say if that was true in elder runic language. Fortunately we can sidestep this: in most runes you only write a letter once, even if the sound is long. But to use a connecting vowel or not? Gothic has compounds in mana-, manna-, man-, and mann-. So *man(n)akunja or *man(n)kunja? Well, as Martin Syrett (1994) pounds out, Germanic in general and Gothic in particular are not consistent when it comes to stem vowels in compounds. There's a tendency to spread -a- as a connecting vowel even where it doesn't belong. So we should feel pretty safe that even if *man(n)akunja isn't the inherited form from Proto-Germanic, it was always a possibility. Finally, worst comes to worst, you could just let ᛗ stand for the whole word, given that it's the 'man' rune anyway.

Last, we'll have to put that in the genitive case to make it 'of mankind.' We don't have examples of neuter ja-stems in the genitive from the Elder Futhark but there isn't really strong reason to believe it wasn't *-jas, so: *kunjas.

We've arrived at my answer:

*þonaraʀ warjaʀ *man(n)akunjas þonaraʀ warijaʀ manakunjas ᚦᛟᚾᚨᚱᚨᛉ ᛬ ᚹᚨᚱᛁᛃᚨᛉ ᛬ ᛗᚨᚾᚨᚲᚢᚾᛃᚨᛊ

Anyway I hope you don't mind me going completely over the top answering this, I don't think I realized before starting to answer this that I needed to get it out of my system.

[hockeyspiral23]

... in rereading bits of FW while editing ttios, the amount of unhinged theories I am now coming up with are RIDICULOUS.

(Onyx Storm spoilers - a virtual fucking novel - below the cut)(has been edited since first posted)

In no particular order ...

Barlowe knowing accurate things about the feathertails at Threshing - like that the breed abhors violence and won't fight - and going to kill it. Now, given that we know that Panchek was working on the inside, do we believe that he is where Jack got his info? That, given the apparent super sneaky venin living in the walls (... money is still good on daddy Aetos there too), they knew to try and kill the feathertail once it was known to exist because of the wards somehow? Venin long game of taking down Basgiath's wards so they can't restore them since no seventh breed?

Xaden always telling Violet she'll be the death of him. Well, she has been ... the death of his soul, at least. Also given all the god talk, there's completely going to be some literal bargain with Malek to save him (if he gets saved). I'm guessing that Malek might be the other god to which she could dedicate herself. Though, with Xaden saying "it's always you" to Violet since she's in the middle of shit all the time, that could be an unfortunate side effect of her partial dedication to Dunne.

Which, leading up to that last little point, with that ending, how the fuck is the next book going to be a romantasy with the main couple separated? Unless we're really going to get an Imrrick story (if, of course, Garrick isn't the new brother).

In the very first class of Dragonkind, Kaori says you'd be ash if you ever tried to get close to the Vale and Violet mentions some girl with a rebellion relic pulling down her sleeve. Interesting tidbit, but we ignore it, right? But then, in Onyx Storm, Brennan LITERALLY MENTIONS taking Xaden to sit by dragon eggs in what is presumably Aretia's response to the Vale. So what, do dragons let relic riders near them? Does Brennan get the same courtesy afforded to him due to the rune on his hand? (which, don't get me started on that mystery we still need a fucking answer for ...)

Another reason why I think Xaden saved Sgaeyl? Because if Sgaeyl dies, so does Tairn and then so does Violet. In IF, Tairn says that Sgaeyl would be emotionally inconvenienced if the shadow wielder died, but doesn’t directly answer Violet when she asks him if she’s just an emotional inconvenience to him. So killing Xaden? Might not kill Violet, but the other way around was pretty drummed into us, as was the interdependence of mated dragons’ lives.

Xaden's "there's nowhere in existence you could go that I wouldn't find you" line is COMPLETELY going to come into play now with the Onyx Storm ending. Mostly because, given the GMA interview RY did today, she said she fought with her editors to get the ending she wanted which to me, means ending on Violet's POV as opposed to Xaden's POV like the previous two books. What do we get in Violet's POV? A note from the man saying don't look for him. We also learn from RY at the release party she attended that that specific line is still her favorite (either line completely or just of Xaden's) from the series. Violet may not look for him, but you don't think that Xaden's going to still be able to find her?

She'll probably still be able to contact him though, and probably through her dreams (that dream-walking signet is a foresighted signet for her not because she needed to know what her NON-DREAMING DRAGON WAS DREAMING ABOUT JEEBUS, but because she'll need to contact Xaden still and dreams are going to be the way she does it. If, of course, venin sleep. Which ... do they?

Or due to the compass. We might be getting a PotC thing there with that ... which ... I don't know how I feel about that.

Harkening back two points ... if he's ever on a battlefield, I believe that he still won't harm Violet solely because of the ch.48 epigraph about an entire village being decimated by venin except for one house because the venin doing the decimating was the dude's wife. (which, speaking of Xaden's love declaration in this book, he's totally gonna become a Maven or something, isn't he?)

While I'm here ... I think Bodhi might be the new brother. Mostly because I think he turned to work on the venin from the inside, to use his signet-countering signet on the venin themselves. Also because in the Imogen chapter, she also watches blue fire from a wyvern "roll down Cuir's neck, extinguishing to smoke before they reach him." She makes it sound due to the angle, but what if it's because Bodhi was able to counter the fire at that point? Also, Cuir is pretty badly injured at this point, so it's plausible. And even though Bodhi might have the good reasoning for turning, it could also make sense why he's puking after, upset at his decision. And Garrick might just be missing since he had to walk during that missing 12 hours and didn't have the energy to walk back yet.

Liam's ice wielding ... like the fuck? Does this mean that Sloane is going to develop a second signet too? Or that she won't because there was only one other dragon rider descendant in her family and that dragon is dead because they bonded Liam, and she only said the stuff in IF because Thoirt was explaining secret shit to her?

The dragons are going to end up being a big bad somehow. You don't have the line from the Fables about demonizing dragons and then learning that they draw from the source themselves - plus all the talk from the venin and the Isles and even the damn Irids as well as tidbits in quite a few of the epigraphs - without realizing some shit is going to down with them. (Also, need I also continually say that this series is the Empyrean series - so many of our questions are going to be solved due to the fucking dragons).

But also, do the gryphons then also draw the same way the dragons do? But the magic balance is better there because they also die with their bonded flier?

There's a theory on the RQ Discord server that gemstones are going to come into play and I agree with that, if only also because of the seemingly random throwaway line about Poromish gemstones during the Parapet info dump. Plus during the triumvirate dinner, one of them brought a piece of jade - a gemstone - onto the table when it looked like negotiations were going well and put it back into her lap when things went to shit again. Not to mention the citrine necklace, the ruby one Cat was given on Zehyllna, the onyx and amethyst and other mentions of random gems throughout the series ...

I'm also going to guess particularly with emeralds, since the venin want a specific thing as well - ch.50 dream - "You will bring what I want ... or she dies. I'm through waiting, and I will not allow her to win such a prize." If you harken back to ch.6, Xaden extracts a promise from Violet - "Swear you'll sound the alarm if I go too far, that you'll keep it safe, even if it's from me." I don't believe it's Tyrrendor, since Tyrrendor is always referred to as a she. Her ring has an emerald that she thinks is from the Blade of Aretia and the emerald-hilted Sword of Tyrrendor keeps appearing in Xaden's dreams. Are the weapons a matched set? Plus the sword almost comes into play in negotiations with the Deverelli. There's SOMETHING with those two weapons somehow. Plus Xaden's keeping the Blade of Aretia in his gift from Zihnal ...

Speaking of RY and things she's said recently ... someone we love will die in book four. This ... is obvious. Given the Rhiannon and Imogen chapters - and the fact (I think) that she'd like to write their stories eventually - I think those two are safe. We've had Ridoc scares the last two books - the arrows in IF and the kitchen jump-scare in OS - so I hope it's not him, but RY also really adores Ridoc so ... she might. BUT ALSO, it could mean metaphorical death given the whole new mystery venin brother of Xaden's (less likely, but hey).

Going back to things from FW/IF that I'm surprised haven't come more into light ... General Daramor and the original army from the Barrens. I'm a little surprised Violet hasn't tried looking for non-censored texts about that from Tecarus's library.

Speaking of Tecarus ... do we think he's secretly working with the venin as well? Mighty suspicious that the most indefensible palace known to man and its city are like the one non-drained area in like the entirety of fucking Poromiel ...

Some of the things that seemed random are coming to light and I don't know if it's that she's retconning as some have pointed out or if her plotting of the whole series truly is *that* detailed and her editors have just done her no favors when it's come to pacing and worldbuilding. Or she's done herself no favors with it given when she wants the info dumps for all of us.

Not theory related, but worth commenting on since I'm here ranting ... the ship names? I jokingly poked fun at that in viayn so to see it in actual text? I just don't know. Also, I know everyone's getting Drake/Mira out of this, but there's also potential Mira/Syrena too since Mira white-knuckles her pack when Aetos informs Cat she's closer in line to the throne and they're all wondering if it's Syrena who's dead.

Regardless of it all ... the one thing I think we can ALL agree on in book four? Better have some Broccoli. And I'm convinced Ridoc also helped Drake come up with that name.

[dark-elf-writes]

ok but imagine: Percy starts his powerpoint as “reasons why i COULD date Apollo” before being carted off by Hera/Juno, so it doesn’t originally have any slides about anything that Apollo learned as Lester.

but as soon as everything works itself out (i still haven’t read the last book of ToA), he updates the powerpoint and makes people sit through it again.

(will disliked it the first time… he HATES it the second.)

but similarly to how there’s just… slides full of pictures of Apollo saying “look at him. blonde. hot. could kick my ass”, there’s now a slide or two full of pictures of Lester, potentially looking miserable, and percy now just says something along the lines of “even here, weirdly hot in a pathetic little meow meow way” or something like that.

Plus now he (Apollo) has grown and learned so much during his most recent stint as a mortal, and like you’ve said before, this is just another reason why percy would like him and fit with him so well, so the powerpoint officially gets renamed “why i SHOULD date Apollo” or “reasons why it’s ok i AM dating Apollo”

the second time around, Will was skeptical at being dragged to some mysterious presentation by percy after the first time. Percy loads up the title page of the updated slide show and he LOOSES it. he can’t take this again thank you very much. Clarisse ties him to his chair saying “if i have to be here for this shit, you do too” (i imagine percy has roped all of the counselor/ex counselors to this power point presentation because they would the most “interested” in it. or maybe they’re having a power point night while clarisse is back for summer from college, and percy hijacks it @ the end to push his agenda of dating a god)

I am WEEPING this so so correct and accurate down to Percy editing the title and Clarisse forcing Will to suffer with her like help

Percy opens with “since some of you” *sideeyeing Annabeth* “didn’t get the message the first time” and Will is already trying to climb the walls only to be dragged back into his own personal hell.

[tragic-ships-tournament]

Alright folks listen up, because it's ENJOLTAIRE PROPAGANDA TIME.

So we've got Enjolras, right? He's the leader of the revolutionaries, and he's portrayed as this shining beacon of light. I'm pretty sure Victor Hugo compared him to Apollo at one point, which is a pretty accurate comparison-Apollo is the god of the sun, and Enjolras is this symbol of light and hope for the future.

And then we've got Grantaire. As Hugo says, "no one loves the light like the blind man", and if Enjolras is the light, then Grantaire is the blind man.

Grantaire is a cynic-he doesn't believe in anything, nor does he care about anything. However, there's one exception to this, and that is Enjolras. Enjolras, who doesn't give Grantaire the time of day, but Grantaire "admires, loves, and venerates Enjolras".

If Enjolras is Apollo, then Grantaire is Icarus, flying way too damn close to the sun.

Which brings me to my next point...the absolute

TRAGEDY of their deaths. Enjolras is about to get shot and essentially martyred for the revolution, and Grantaire doesn't give two shits about said

revolution. Hell, he's been sleeping through all of it.

But he sees Enjolras about to die, and stands by his side declaring himself as a revolutionary too. Now remember, Enjolras never cared about Grantaire, but here he is, willing to die with him just so Enjolras doesn't have to die alone. And then Grantaire takes Enjolras's hand and they're killed together, Enjolras pinned to the wall by the bullets in an almost Christ-like fashion as Grantaire falls at his feet. Grantaire's love for Enjolras was unrequited, but that doesn't stop him from choosing to die by Enjolras's side fighting for a cause he doesn't believe in. Literally THE tragic ship of tragic ships.

Not to mention, the chapter in which they are killed refers to them as Orestes and Pylades. I'm just saying.

-

[tarufai]

[unriding]

EVIE !!!!!

I SAW U USE MY ART AS UR THEME SO I WANNA DO A REMAKE !!! mostly cause the other one was full of mistaks hurrrrr orz

keeping the color palette the same so itd still fit + use softer shading so convey how soft u are + moze is now IN UR HAND !!!! >:3

oh nick :’)

[goblin-enjoyer]

*draws something for the first time in a while. “Man I suck at drawing! Maybe go back to being good at it if I draw more!”

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

*doesn’t draw

“Oh I got a neat idea for a drawing! Surely I have gotten better by now!” Loop post

[tres-fidelis]

who are you in this haunted house story ?

The Mother

You pour everything you have left into those you love. Desperately, frantically you try to fix what is broken, but the cracks spread faster than you can mend. If only you can hold everyone together, then things might just be okay! However, you only have two hands and all anyone seems to do is pull away. Everyone is different now, even you, and pretending not to see it isn’t making anything better. You see the signs of things going wrong, of what is but should not be, and you try to warn them. You love with every fiber of your being, but try as you might, you cannot make them understand. They don’t listen, no one ever listens.

The Eldest

Knowledge is your curse. You carry a burden heavier than anyone your age should even be able to conceptualize, let alone feel the ache and heft of. It weighs down your steps, deadens your eyes, depletes your faith. You know that the mistakes of adults are not without consequences, no matter how they pretend nothing went wrong at all. They see that you’re different now, but they don’t yet realize how much. They tell you comforting lies, not knowing that the truth is your only god now. Nothing will ever be okay again and you’re so very tired of pretending otherwise.

Tagged by: stole it from @fatedprincess Tagging: EVERYONE AND ANYONE WHO LOVES OCs!!!

[autumnfangirler]

sedations not gonna work anymore somebody needs to kill me

[mars-ipan]

i KNOW it was bait i know but i just saw a tiktok of this woman saying some shit like “gen z can’t use a paper map they can’t read cursive if they take over the world it’ll be easy to get it back” and i am so bitter bc 1- if a child cannot do something then their guardians have failed to teach them 2- most of the things she mentioned are not things we actually need in the year of our lord 2023 3- why do you consider gen z as an aggressor trying to take over the world and 4- I CAN FUCKING DO THOSE THINGS

[yameoto]

SUPERNOVA CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

kpop idol caitlyn X her insatiably horny junior

"Noona is so cool!"  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. "Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Her talents are seriously wasted. Wah, her visuals are really otherworldly. Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants—" Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look, at that last one. “It doesn't say that.” You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

tw; dom/sub!caitlyn, brat!reader, idolverse, girlcock, semi-public sex, sex in dance practice rooms, mirror sex, handjobs, handjobs during vlives, voyeurism, mild age-gap, age hierarchy dynamics, use of korean honorifics. idol!caitlyn x idol!reader wc; 5.1k. ao3

notes: set in modern day runeterra. ionia encompasses the entire region of asia in league which i personally find stupid but i dont make the rules. fluff/smut/humour. derivative of korean culture (kpop idol au) + pokes a lil fun at stan culture. no prior kpop knowledge is needed (though it would likely help) the sex is filthy regardless. wrote this after finding caitlyn is only a 1/4 white like hallelujah jesus

CAITLYN looks stupidly good. Like stupid, stupidly good. Her grey sweatpants are slung low on her hips, waistband of her briefs peeking out. Sweat-slickened abs glare back at you, from the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The outline of her bulge is visible. These are all observations that you latch into like an IV-drip hooked-up to your wrist, in order to stay alive—lest you die from the fatigue. And boredom.

“Please,” You grumble, head slumped on your knee as your arm drops to the floor, phone abandoned Candy Crush side, up. “Please, please, please, can we go home?” 

“No,” Caitlyn huffs, hands on her hips, looking entirely too good as she takes a momentary (and you mean, momentary) break to swig a sip of water, before she hurls herself right back into it, sweaty and stunning.

The two of you have been trapped in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. Or, more accurately, Caitlyn has trapped you in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. You would rather be snuggled up and content in the comfort of your dorms; rather than slogging away in the basement, like you’re still trainees clawing your way up the company ladder inch by inch—rather than the four-time daesang winners, face of Ionia’s girl-groups’, and other innumerable accolades under your belts that seemingly mean nothing to your fearless group leader. At least, at the moment.

You’ve long slunk to the floor, sleepy eyes tracing the way sweat rolls down Caitlyn’s nape as she re-runs the movements for about the zillionth time. Her shoulder-blades flex through the thin fabric of her shirt, sweat dampening into a darkened pool in a way that should be gross, but on her, it just looks sexy. The ache in your muscles has simmered to a low burn, by now. Jeez, your eyelids are slipping. Thank God you have your sweet leader to ogle. The sight of Caitlyn’s bulge peeking through those sweatpants is practically your sole motivator in keeping your eyes open.

“You know,” After what feels like a decade, you pipe up again, because time has begun to melds together. “You’ve got it. Seriously.” The swig of water that sluices down your throat is lukewarm and unsatisfactory. Fuck, you’re thirsty. “The stage is a week away. You’ll be fine.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow at you through the mirror, incredulous.

“When in the world has fine ever been good enough?” 

Okay, sure. Caitlyn’s right. But she’s more than fine. Almost-perfect, actually—and come seven days—her dance moves will indubitably be heaven-sent and her ending fairy will probably trend #1 on three different social media platforms, and you will most definitely tug her ear endlessly about it, like the benevolent, supportive junior you are.

Seven days prior, however—and all you are is tired, grouchy, and maybe just a little bit horny. 

“I crave the sanctity of my blankets.” You lament, hand falling over your forehead as you languish on the floor, because the sun has probably set by now and you are seriously contemplating the possibility of dying of old age in this godforsaken practice room. (Not that that would be so bad, if Caitlyn were with you).

“You can go home, you know,” Caitlyn sighs, twisting around to face you, sneakers squeaking on the glossy wooden floors. 

“How am I supposed to sleep without my favourite member as a bolster?”  You pout, snatching on the chance to act a brat, immediately. Caitlyn just rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch upwards, so negligible that if you weren't so tuned in to all-things-Caitlyn, you might’ve missed it.

“Clingy.” She mutters, like she doesn't love it. Loves being your favourite. Not that it matters, because the glimmer of hope that flickers in your chest when Caitlyn crouches down in the direction of her bag—is immediately quashed when she only taps her screen, and the speaker rewinds all the way to the start. 

You’re really starting to hate this song.

“Are you serious? That’s not enough to rouse your cold, dead, heart?” You whine, because usually Caitlyn would've caved to your grabby-hands and doe-eyes by now (especially with the way you look; lips parted and shining with spit, water trickling down your chin down the column of your throat, from the leftover rivulets of your water-bottle.) Not that Caitlyn doesn't notice. She’s just really, really determined to get this right.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“You work yourself too hard.”

You stretch to a stand, elongated and cat-like before you slink over and sling yourself dramatically along Caitlyn’s back. Her expression contorts into exasperation. She attempts to turn her head, to face you—to no avail. Not when you’re pushing her up against the mirror and the pinning her down against glass with the power of aggressive spooning on your side. Her hand shoots out to brace against the mirror, as your fingers hook the hem of her sweats, and Caitlyn stiffens under your thumb, lips falling open against her will.

“Darling,” She inhales, in that addictive, throaty accent of hers. Caitlyn sounds almost pained, as she catches your wrists—though she neither takes them in or wrests them away. The both of you have full view of the rising tent in her groin.

“What?” You smirk, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, like the sneaky little bastard you are. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to practice with a boner, unnie. That must hurt.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitches, and her knees almost buckle, if it weren’t for the way your arms tighten around your waist and squeeze the growing problem at her crotch. Your fingers twine with the string of her trackpants, loosening them under slim, deft fingers.

“Honorifics? Really?” Her voice is tight. She’s screwed. You only ever whip those out when you want something, seeing as how you've been speaking informally to your technical senior  since your very first meeting, in trainee days, (an accident she so loves to recount on variety shows. “It’s not my fault you just looked so young and pretty, unnie.” You’d fumble in defense, eyes wide and doling out the extra sparkle for the cameras as they zoomed-in on your frantic apologies, laugh track sure to be edited in. “What was I supposed to think?”

“You’re lucky I was too kind to scold you,” Caitlyn sighs, and—in a dramatic show of theatricality—flips the inky-blue curtains of her hair behind her shoulder, much to the hosts delight. “I can be really mean, baby.” 

That had been a hit. Probably because of the way her drawl had lilted playfully and she’d cupped your jaw in the most egregious display of fan service you’d ever seen. Caitlyn’s always known how to wrap the media around her pretty fingers; and your stammer and ensuing blush had mercilessly crowded your feed for at least two weeks, afterwards.)

That’s in public, though. In private? 

Caitlyn is a puddle to the graze of your fingers along her hipbone, and the glide of your breath up her neck. Dark eyes meet hers, hooded and intent, reflected in the pane of metal in front of you. It’s certainly a sight to behold. The two of you are both dripping in sweat, Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, bare-faced and glowing—hair tangled up in that loose ponytail that you've always found so much hotter on her, than any amount of hours in the styling chair could ever produce.

“I really need to..” Caitlyn’s protests sound weak even to her own ears. Especially when heat pools in hot, throbbing waves that rush straight to her dick, and she's cut off by her own gasp when you nuzzle in the nook between her shoulder-blades and your hands—beautiful, cunning hands—ghost over her crotch and squeeze. Her entire world lurches into a haze, body spasming upwards.

“Unnie,” You breathe, sweet and soft, like the devil in her ear, “please fuck me.”

Just like that, Caitlyn can’t take it any longer. A low, strangled noise rips from her throat, eyes fogging over and black eclipsing blue. Lithe hands coil around your wrists, and flips your positions entirely—thrusting you right up against the glass.

Her muscles are throbbing, hours of dance practice flaming up her bones; but she pins you down with the strength of a woman possessed, all the same. As far as Caitlyn’s concerned, she’s like a sleeper agent to your bedroom voice, and the fact could never shine with more clarity, than now (other than the time you’d done a Lola Shark impression in an interview and she’d gotten, to her horror, embarrassingly hard underneath the blanket thrown over her lap. She’d had to call in a bathroom break, to take care of it—much to your smug, haunting amusement).

In the mirror, you watch as Caitlyn’s breathing shallows into pants, tongue licking hot up the stretch of your neck to under your jaw. Neither of you miss the brief, smugly satisfied spark to your eyes and glowing hot between your thighs, even as both squeeze shut when you arch up against Caitlyn’s bulge. She grinds down against your ass, and you moan, so brazen she almost can’t believe it.

“Shit. You're so shameless,” Caitlyn mutters, breaths rushing harsh against your shoulder as she fumbles with the knot at your sweats, rutting hopelessly into the coil of your figure. The moment thread slips free, pants pooling to your ankles as you bend over, head thrown back—Caitlyn’s brand-name briefs soak with a splurge of pre so intense she almost thinks she’s come early.

“You want my fingers?” Caitlyn asks, just to be a bitch. Your eyes squint open to glare at her through blurry vision and through an even blurrier visage.

“Don’t joke,” You spit, voice hoarse with want. It's meant to sound demanding, but all it comes out is whiney, and Caitlyn’s laugh sends shivers down your nape.

There’s a millisecond in which your mind empties completely, and it's almost cruel how you can only see the reflection of Caitlyn’s cock curving upwards from her underwear rather than the real deal. 

Caitlyn’s grasp is like steel around your neck. She thrusts you forwards, your flushed cheeks smushing against the cool surface of the mirror as your stuttered breaths puff in grey clouds of condensation. A groan wrangles itself out of your throat from being manhandled like that, knees wobbling the moment you feel something hot, thick and so, so wet press insistently against the backs of your thighs. Arousal has already begun to drip down your legs, running down in rivulets and moistening the floor under your feet. Yours or Caitlyn’s—you don’t have the eyes to know.

“Unnie,” You breathe, shakily, voice raw. Your fingers are slippery against glass, and you whimper when the familiar stretch of two fingers sinks into your cunt. You slide open, just like that, and Caitlyn temporarily wrenches you back so that you can see your fogged-up reflection in all its full, filthy glory. 

“S’not enough,” You pant, back arching and ramming urgently against her digits she’s spreading you wide, with—so eye-wateringly slow. Maybe it’s the fact that you've been working yourself up, blatantly eyeing her down, for hours since your head checked out of training and your brain devolved into its most primitive urges in coping with your mind-numbing boredom. 

“Not enough?” She grins, sharp-toothed and devastating, adoring the upper-hand. “What? You need a third finger, baby?” The noise that tears out of you is almost like a wounded animal, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't so overcome with need and prolonging this teasing sounds like torture.

So, you answer with the obvious, “Your cock.” You hiss through gritted teeth, because Caitlyn loves it when you beg for her dick and you’re too hare-brained and empty to do anything more than push back, impossibly deeper into her fingers. They sink to her knuckles of entirely your own volition, without her having to do so much as twitch. 

Caitlyn’s laugh is practically a goad in itself. The lush curtain of her lashes are lowered, irises swallowed up by the deep dilation of her pupils. Still, though, she takes her time in playing with you, just a little longer. Revels in the way you thrash around her fingers, fucking yourself back, desperate.

Herself is one thing. Her dick can only take so much, however. The ache becomes too much, too soon, and the second she runs her glossy head against the drenched, hot pulse of your hole—she can’t not shudder, knot in her throat, before her fingers slip out of your pussy and your consequent whimper is interrupted by the plunge of her cock.

“Hah, baby..” Caitlyn whimpers, eyes fluttering back as she fucks you against the mirror, nails dragging up your hips and digging into supple flesh. Never has Caitlyn felt so at home, submerged in the deep, velvet ocean of your cunt.

“Unnie—” You gasp. It’s the one word, echoing over and over, like an all-consuming siren song throughout your head—with each gasp that comes with every thrust of Caitlyn’s hips, motions growing sloppier as the exhaustion of hours of tireless exertion catches up to the both of you. She nips at your ear, then down the curve of your nape, to the unblemished skin of your upper back. Teeth grazing, pads of her fingers leaving scorching trails as she gropes up your body—your mind a jumbled, fuzzy mess. Her cock plunges in and out, still guided, though she never slips out more than mid-way; bodies sticking together like gum. Like she can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment—even if it is to pummel your cunt until you can hardly take it anymore.

It’s only when the pumps and rolls begin to slow into simple, gentle rocks, to absolutely nothing but a twitch—that your mind clumsily clasps onto a semblance of clarity, hasty and brief, like you know it’ll slip away and out of reach, soon. “Wha..?” You rasp, half-slurred, even if what you really want to whinge is; What’s goin’ on? Why’d you stop? And, please, please, please. Don’t stop. Keep goin’. Fill me up. Please, don’t ever stop— and other half-baked nonsense that you’ll be glad your tongue was too thick and heavy in your mouth to spill.

“I can’t mark you,” Caitlyn grunts, and your eyes sharpen, just a little. Her tongue peeks out from her lips as her expression looks disproportionately distraught, like it’ll be the end of the world if she doesn’t stake some sort of physical claim on you, eyes darting downwards to your unblemished shoulders with a low growl of frustration.

Distantly, that part of you is still clinging onto reality, knows she’s right. That your comeback is in a week’s time and risking a hickey or a bite-mark or worse (because Caitlyn is stronger and sharper and rougher than her delicate figure should ever have been allowed to be), is a bad, bad idea.

But the larger part of you—the part of you that is currently being railed by her unnie’s cock and trying desperately not to squirt cum all over the practice room mirror—rasps out a reckless, ragged, “Who cares?”, and that’s all the permission Caitlyn needs.

Caitlyn pulls out, and slams herself in again, grip on your waist, bruising. Your hands go sliding, uselessly against the steamy surface of the mirror, long fogged-up under the slick tangle of your bodies. She’s mouthing slurred nonsense into your ear, the music speaker knocked over by one of your ankles and emitting distant sounds from where it's rolled, to the other side of the room. Neither of you could give a single fuck. 

Not the least, when Caitlyn’s hand is sliding up your throat and thumbing over your gaping lips. It feels as if a pink-hued fuzziness has descended the room and become a thick veil over everything, and when her fingers slip into the hot, wet gasp of your mouth—it's only right for you to take the digits in your tongue and suck. 

“Ahnngh—Cait—”  

“When did I say you could speak informally to me?” Caitlyn husks, fingers pressing deeper into the roof of your mouth. In your reflection, you can see the razor angle of Caitlyn’s jaw as she nuzzles into your ear. The obscene glisten of your spit, coating her fingers and coasting down your chin as her digits languish between your parted lips. You look every bit like her precious fuckdoll, right now.

“Unnie—”

“Ah-ah.”

“Sunbae.” 

“Mm. That’s better.”

Her free hand skims up your shirt, slipping up the taut lines of your body and flicking idly at one nipple. You whine, garbled around the gag of her hand, and Caitlyn lets out a moan of content when your pussy tightens around her shaft.

“Fuck,” She pants, teeth sinking down into your shoulder and you buck, even though the pain barely registers with how Caitlyn barrels her cock in you, deeper, and your eyes roll back into your skull. Your thighs are shaking. “M’gonna—hfgh—” 

Her hips draw upwards, and Caitlyn cums like a faucet. All of it, inside you. Outside of you. Dripping from your still-leaking cunt and droplets getting fucked out with each, desperate thrust as she moans, guttural. “Take it—fuck—” Caitlyn groans, harsh and insistent as she pounds, your pussy squelching—so wonderfully wet—as your fingers scramble against the glass, her fingers cramming deep inside your mouth.

“Ah-ah—fuck!”

The two of you go crashing down, sliding down against the mirror and onto the floor with a twinning, indecipherable slew of obscenities, a boneless, panting heap, still moving in tandem. 

You both slump, slippery and sticky. The song on the speakers re-starts, yet again, from the other side of the room, though it's the first time it's even pierced your ears in the past forty minutes. Caitlyn groans, pushing her nose into the crook of your neck, arms tightening around your waist. The mirror is splattered in both your cum.

“We’re gonna have to clean this up, aren’t we?”

“..Probably.” You sigh, still leaking around her cock as you angle your head, the two of you slotting together like missing puzzle pieces.

Twenty-four hours and countless Kleenex wipes later (and really, cleaning your own cum from floor-to-ceiling mirrors—with two half-guilty reflections staring right back at you—is an uniquely humbling experience); it was totally worth it to see Caitlyn appropriately red, after the crash of post-nut clarity.

It’s your one, blissfully empty day before comeback promotions launch you all into full-throttle. You intend to enjoy it while it lasts. 

“Your latest Lotte CF went viral,” You pop behind her, totally innocously if weren’t for that familiar, impish glint in your eyes. Caitlyn sighs, not even glancing up from the stove, completely nonplussed. Probably because Caitlyn could record herself taking a piss and it would chart #1 on Melon.

“The seonjiguk is simmering.” She ignores you. You ignore her right back.

“Look at those dimples,” You beam like a little shit as you wave the video in her face. “Maybe you should go into acting. The GP would go crazy.”

“No thanks,” Caitlyn snorts, hand lifting upwards to stifle a brief yawn, sleeves coming up all the way to her knuckles. “been there, done that.” 

“Oh, right. All your Piltovian film connections.” You hum, idly tracing the underneath of Caitlyn’s elbow as you lean over her shoulder to watch her cook. She’s markably improved from her humble beginnings of blackened, bubbling slag (what was once instant Buldak), or the scotchmarks that still hail the kitchen tiles, to this day.

“Mhm. I was almost poached. My mother wanted me to—what was that? Follow in her footsteps.”

“Well, I’m grateful that you didn't,” You hum, into her shoulder. You poke her side, grinning. “Then you wouldn't have met me, and wouldn't that be tragic?”

Caitlyn scoffs, but you feel her sink a little deeper into your embrace, eyes flitting to settle onto the top of your head, as you nudge into her. You both, really are grateful.

You’re pretty sure Ionia is grateful, too. 

Whatever the day, it always feels like Caitlyn’s name has taken up a permanent residence in the nation’s newsites. ICE PRINCESS. AI VISUALS. ATTITUDE PROBLEM. Her quarter Piltovian and subsequent accent injects an ‘attractive exoticism’ (or whatever management had stapled to your files, at the dawn of debut), that had made Caitlyn internationally explosive, too. 

The Kiramman surname certainly helped. Caitlyn’s debut was like, the biggest plot-twist in nepotism, ever. It was like if Nicole Kidman’s kid suddenly became Hatsune Miku. Not to mention the fact the Kirammans are the largest benefactor of Hextech, whose global rollout of leading-edge tech has gone unmatched. Of all careers for the Kiramman’s mysterious, devastatingly attractive daughter to take—this is the one that took the entire globe off-guard. Including the great and glamorous, Cassandra Kiramman.

Of course, the initial shock long lapsed underwater, with the constant roil of the media waves. Caitlyn’s fame, however, has not.

“Noona is so cool!”  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. “Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Ah, her talents are seriously wasted. Is she an angel? Her visuals are really otherworldly—”

“Get that away from me.” Caitlyn swats your phone away with a scowl, pretty pink flush glowing on her features.

“Don’t act all coy,” You prod her so-highly-lauded cheekbones as Caitlyn huffs in annoyance, though begrudgingly leans against the touch anyways. You squish. “We all know you’re preening inside.”

“I am not!”

“Ooh, sexy. I love it when your accent comes out like that.”

Caitlyn groans, because you’re impossible, and just twists so that she’s facing you, back against the kitchen counter. You reach behind her to switch off the stove.

She hooks her fingers into the hem of your pyjama shorts, thumbing over familiar cotton. She sighs outwardly, propping her head up on your shoulder and slumping forwards to rest the cold press of her nose into the crook of your shoulder. Her fingers skim up your shirt, absently rubbing circles into the plane of your stomach.

“You know I hate it when you read those.”

“About how you look like an eepy bunny when you’re sleepy? Or that you have moles in the shape of a giraffe on your nape.” You arch a brow, looking past her as you flick through the blurs of text in various degrees of capitalisation, on your phone. A subtle smirk lifts your lips. “Hey. Is that true? Let me check.”

She scowls, and then almost looks offended that you don’t know that already (You do. Caitlyn also has a darkened, heart-shaped birthmark indented in the crook of her inner thigh—but that’s just for you to know, thank you very much).

Your voice raises a pitch. “Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants!”

Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look. “It doesn't say that.”

You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

Oh, now Caitlyn’s cheeks go red. You push valiantly past the triumphant flutter in your heart, in favour of continuing your teasing. Hey—there’s no schedule today, the dorms are all to yourselves—and you’re on a roll. 

“Look. They wanna steal your eyes and put them in a boba drink.”

Thoroughly fed-up with your antics, Caitlyn snatches the phone out of your hand, and you immediately squirm, to lunging for it. Caitlyn’s ridiculous height advantage has the one-up on you, though, and you puff out an aggrieved yelp of protest when she dangles it above your head, like a dickhead.

“Hey, what the fuck?” You complain, like your comeuppance wasn't exactly what you were hoping for. Except you were more aiming for a pin-you-against-the-fridge, fuck-the-insides-out-of-you type of comeuppance. Not a sordid reminder that you need a stool to reach the top of Caitlyn’s head. “Don’t lord your freakish Frankenstein genetics over me!”

Caitlyn laughs, eyes flickering down. “Are you on your tip-toes right now?” 

Your eyes narrow, because you do not appreciate having the tables turned on you. Your hand shoots up to cup her jaw, tilting it upwards. Caitlyn softens, putty in your hands, adorable furrow in her brow melting away along with her pride as she sinks into your palm with a soft sigh, arm falling to her side.

There we go.

“It’s not my fault you avoid socials like the plague. I’m just doing my duty to take care of my leader’s PR. Your fans are starving.”

Caitlyn grumbles, “Well, let them starve.” though it comes out pinched between smushed lips, cheeks squishing like a dumpling. So heartless, like she’s not the industry’s princess and probably makes up a total of 50% of the company’s annual income. You know exactly why, as you cradle her face in her palms and watch as she leans upwards because no matter how disgruntled Caitlyn acts, or how shockingly humble she is under that front of aloof, arrogance–she definitely preens under attention.

Just. Only yours. 

“Hey, you know what? We should go live right now.”

“What—?” Caitlyn stammers, flabbergasted by the sudden change in direction, “Don’t—“

Too late. Within seconds, you’ve swiped your phone back from her limp hands and flipped the vlive on. Recording. Like, now. Damn, you're speedy. 

“Ah..” Caitlyn’s expression smooths over to that charming, impeccably gorgeous grin of hers that shows off the sharp curves of her cheekbones and has won her the hearts of a nation. 

You pull her to the couch, and under the scrutiny of the camera—Caitlyn acquises with little more than a subtle elbow to your ribs, when the both of you go thudding into the cushions with a low oomph.

Then, you flop against her chest, and the stream of hearts that ensue are absolutely incredible, comments rolling in faster than you can read them. There’s a reason why the two of you are the most popular pairing in the group.

“Hm. Is it on?” You muse, faux confusion tugging on your pretty features. Knitted brows and a plush little pout always do the job, especially when you add a sneak of tongue. No doubt to be screenshotted and re-uploaded countless times, within the next hour. “Hello? Can you guys hear us?”

Which is, you know, the perfect time to grab Caitlyn’s dick through her pants.

A choked noise resounds beside you, and you don’t glance over, for you’re too busy fiddling with the phone and the settings and all other kinds of bullshit that is really just an excuse for you to focus your attention on snaking a hand down Caitlyn’s waistband, just out of view of the camera. “Oh! It’s working. Did you miss us?” You beam, as Caitlyn struggles not to either sock you in the stomach or throw her head back and moan.

If anybody notices Caitlyn’s pupils are suspiciously blown, it doesn’t come up. What does come up, is her ever traitorous cock that lilts immediately into your touch. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

“Aw, little Caity’s missed me, too,” You croon, as your sneaky fucking fingers stroke idly along her girth, underneath the veil of her sweatpants and just over the thin fabric of her underwear. Caitlyn visibly bristles, because, 1. You’re jacking her off. 2. She hates that your coo instigates a flood of love-bombing so intense, that the hearts on the screen almost completely obscure the both of you. 3, and the most important one; you just gave her dick a nickname! 

“Cait.” You tease out, eyes glittering, not even bothering to conceal your amusement as Caitlyn’s hips buck upwards, her fingers pinching against your sides, lips completely shut mum, for fear she’ll let slip a moan on camera. “C’mon. Say something. You missed them too, right?”

Gods. Caitlyn hates you. She really, really hates you. Just—not enough to not shove your hand away when it starts to peel away the waistband of her underwear. If only because the feeling of precum soaking its seat, sticking to her skin, and not because she’s itching for the sweet relief of your hand around her cock.

“..Hi,” Caitlyn forces her winning, boxy grin, and the years of practice make it an admirably unstrained effort. Maybe she really should go into acting. “Mm. Long time no see, hm?” 

“Unnie’s being awkward, today.” You snark, all sly, and Caitlyn shoots you a glare. She’s rewarded by the sudden, fervent warmth of your hand wrapping around her dick, and then the harsh tug of your fist that has her knees jerking upwards and her dastard slit spurting out a shiny, hot glob of precum. She swallows back a low, strangled whine, like a dry pill. Oh, Gods. She’s supposed to say something.

“Ah, just..—we’ve—ah—”

In a rare show of mercy (because apparently, you’re not out to throw both your careers to the dogs), you swipe the phone back with the most cherubic, triumphant grin to adorn your face, literally ever. Catilyn lets slip a barely-audible hiss as your fingers coil, just a little tighter, stroking up and down—thumb running back over the swollen, gloatingly shiny cockhead.

“We just had a long time in the practice rooms for our comeback, yeah? So we’re pretty tired. Right, unnie?” 

Oh, you're really pushing it, now. 

“Mm. We’ve been—working. Really hard.” She has to lean out of the screen to release a silent, desperate gasp, nails digging into the back of the couch as she tries to rut up into your hand in a way that doesn't obviously send the sofa, trembling. You idly thumb over her slit, smearing the thick, embarrassingly copious amounts of pre down her length. It twitches in your palm, as you ramble on about schedules and the comeback and spoilers and other things that have long become white noise in Caitlyn’s ears. Her hips chase your touch, brazenly, now. She barely even realises when you’re calling it quits; early, too. Because obviously, this was all just to fuck with her.

“Caitlyn,” You sing-song—smirking (supremely unsubtly), at the camera. “Say bye-bye.”

She only just registers the comment. Barely. “Bye.” Caitlyn’s voice is a low croak, hips arching upwards off the couch just as you end the live. Just in time, too, because—

“Oh, fuck.” Caitlyn releases the longest moan of her life, cum spilling over your fist, and she collapses back into the couch. Your phone falls from your hand, and you’re practically shaking with laughter. 

(“Little Caitey,” Caitlyn grumbles, after the fact, with your head nestled between her thighs in apology, “That’s preposterous. What’s so little about her?” Nothing. But there’s no fun in that, is there? At the slow, sly smile spreading on your face, Caitlyn groans. “What?”

“You referred to her in third-person.”

“..Please just suck me off already.”)

[contact-guy]

helloooo this is a MASTER POST of my Sherlock Holmes annotations, aka shitpost doodles of my favorite parts with occasional headcanons. I will pin this so it's available and update it as I go because this feels like it's becoming a full series, god help me.

I'm reading the stories in the order they occurred (according to Baring-Gould, who I am currently arm wrestling in the astral plane over how many wives Watson had) so that's how I will present them!

EDIT: decided to draw them in the order that makes sense to me, Baring-Gould you’re too silly

EDIT 2: this is basically a webcomic at this point, with ongoing continuity and a romantic storyline that can be enjoyed if you read in order. I did not intend this, but I have Sherlock Holmes disease and there's only one cure (doing this)

EDIT 3: content warning/advertisement depending on your temperament: this series gets into one of my big interests, historical queerness, period accurate homophobia, and how laws around queerness affected lived experience. it also has things that you can expect from a Sherlock Holmes story like: drug use involving needles, violence, flagrant use of old timey guns, and people dying in shocking and mysterious ways!

Copies of Volume 1 can be pre-ordered here!

A Study in Scarlet 🩸

The Speckled Band 🐍

The Resident Patient 🩺

The Noble Bachelor 👰

The Second Stain 📮

The Reigate Squires 📝

The Dancing Men 👯‍♂️

Silver Blaze 🏇🏻

The Six Napoleons ⚫️

The Red Circle 🕯️🪟

The Greek Interpreter 🩹

Mycroft Interlude 🎩

The Beryl Coronet 🥪

The Yellow Face 🙂

The Hound of the Baskervilles 🐺

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

-Part Four

-Part Five

-Part Six

-Part Seven

The Gloria Scott ⚓️

The Valley of Fear 🏰

-Part One

-Part Two

Shoscombe Old Place 🎣

Charles Augustus Milverton 💌

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

-Part Four

-Part Five

The Copper Beeches ✂️

-Part One

-Part Two

The Sign of the Four 💉

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

-Part Four

-Part Five

-Illustration

-Part Six

-Part Seven

The Cardboard Box 📦👂🏻

Second Interlude 💒

A Scandal In Bohemia 💃

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

The Stockbrokers Clerk 🦷

The Engineer’s Thumb 👍🏻

The Crooked Man 🦝

The Naval Treaty 🌹

The Five Orange Pips 🍊

The Man With The Twisted Lip 🧽

-Part One

-Part Two

The Boscombe Valley Mystery 🪨

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

The Dying Detective 🦪

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

Christmas Eve, 1890 🎄

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

The Blue Carbuncle 🪿💎

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

-Part Four

The Blanched Soldier 🪖

The Final Problem 🏔️

-Part One

-Part Two

-Part Three

-Part Four

-Part Five

-Part Six

-Part Seven

-Part Eight

-Part Nine

-Part Ten

-Part Eleven

[asvtrials]

𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒

Emperor Geta x fem!reader, minors dni!

masterlist

summary: Emperor Geta was a selfish lover. He expected you to give him everything, every thread of your being, body, and soul. Yet he refused to do the same. Why would he? He was the Emperor and you were nothing but his concubine, not too long ago you were a common whore that he just happen to take a liking to, just a vessel for his satisfaction. So why was his mind suddenly screaming for him to kneel before you, to let your thighs straddle his face until he suffocates? warnings/tags: smut, mention of an orgy in the beginning, mention of exhibitionism, generally ancient Rome things, Emperor Geta tries to act unbothered but is smitten for his concubine, facesitting, oral (f! receiving), p in v, kind of rough, sub/dom dynamics (obviously), implied abuse, potentially out of character, not accurate to the Gladiator franchise...

a/n: This man is consuming my thoughts. This is me basically pushing my pussy drunk Geta agenda. I love the idea of Emperor Geta being arrogant and selfish but caving at the idea of hearing her scream and moan as loudly as that woman. 'Mae Columba' means my dove, 'Corculum' means sweetheart. Also, this is my first time writing this man

tags: @teechallas-blog @ladynoonwraith @quuinyoung @ghostinhours @slasherflickchick @marn13s-vilewhispers @munsongirl48 @getas-empress @hillarymurray4 @cleo-2345 @lookingformuses @meganfoxismywife @claa-01 @funsquadgoalzz-blog w/c: 3.3k English is not my first language. Sorry for any mistakes I make. I tried present tense for the first time.

── ୨ৎ

Your thin tunic provides you with little to no warmth, yet you weren't cold even on this chilly night.

Your Emperor's hand runs up and down your right side, his fingers keep grazing your nipple but he is too focused on conversing with Macrinus to notice the impact of his action.

Your eyes wander around the room, from the people who drank, smoked, and laughed, too gone to do anything other than that, to the numerous naked, sweaty bodies intertwined with each other in the most intimate way that was humanly possible.

Yet there was nothing intimate about what you observe. It was primal and carnal, most of them didn't even look like people anymore, the scene becoming too animalistic and raw.

These types of gatherings were rather common in the Palatine and you have gotten used to settings like this one. But this time you couldn't take your eyes off of two people. Two prostitutes amongst the crowd of moving bodies caught your attention.

A woman sitting on top of a man, on his face… The expression of pure bliss she had looks like it was taken out of a vulgar painting, a carefully crafted sculpture depicting the most euphoric moment of one's life. The man's tongue works meticulously on the woman’s cunt making her scream and moan like she was touched by the god's themselves.

The sight was enough for your breath to get caught in your throat. 

That made Emperor Geta turn with a frown, some wine dripping from his full lips. You don’t notice that his eyes travel the path of your gaze, focusing on the same pair as you.

You snap back to reality when his hand gripped your thigh. If you weren't used to his rough touches you would yelp in pain.

When you meet his eyes, there's something behind them that makes you pause. Without a second glance, he turns back to his conversation, leaving you confused. But you don’t miss the way his hand slides further between your legs, almost teasingly.

It wasn't unusual for him to touch you in front of everyone, be it in these types of events or when the gladiator fights bored him to the point where he ordered you to get on your knees and ‘entertain’ him yourself.

But this time, his thumb merely grazes the thin fabric of your tunic between your legs as his hands grip your exposed thigh. Possessively.

Your mind started to race. Did you anger him? Was he upset?

You are in a room filled with naked bodies fucking each other like animals and it never angered him before when you watched. Sometimes you would even comment how ‘sloppy’ their technique was and he would chuckle. So what happened now?

You lean on his side, sliding your hand to his cheek, caressing it gently. He doesn’t react but he doesn’t push you away either. That feels like a win, an opening.

After being his concubine for so long you learned how to behave around him, how to slither your way out of trouble in case you had upset him.

A little touch here, a kiss there, a plea for forgiveness honeyed with praises about how good he is to you along with some dick sucking usually does the trick.

Geta was an emperor but he was also a man with a very big ego. You quickly understood that as much as it is a nuisance it could also become an advantage.

By the time you followed him to his chambers, it was well past midnight.

He had made it a habit to share a bed with you, not even the guards looked surprised anymore.

He walks inside the moment the guards open the heavy doors. He reaches for his golden belt with a heavy sigh but you quickly stop him. “Let me, my Emperor.” You speak, your voice soft. You quickly approach him and meet his stern gaze, waiting for his approval.

Geta lets go of the belt, letting his arms fall to his sides. He looks spent and tired from the long day but you could sense something else frustrating him.

Carefully, you undo his belt, feeling his shoulders relax at the loss of the heavy material. Your eyes travel up his body before finally meeting his gaze through your lashes but you are met with the same cold look from before. 

You take a step back to settle the belt on the table. You aren’t sure if you should approach him again. You expected him to kiss you, to touch you while you were so close but he didn't do either. He just watched you with a raised brow and gritted teeth.

You avert your gaze, focusing on the detailed carvings of the table ignoring the fact that you had seen it a million times before.

You hear his sandals brush against the marble floor, making you shiver. You weren't sure what to expect, he hasn't looked this displeased with you in a long while.

“Mae Columba” ‘My dove’ he says, his voice barely above a whisper but it still held the authority of an Emperor. “Do you know why you wear such lavish cloths?” He asks, not expecting you to answer before continuing, his voice dropping “Why do you smell as good as you smell? Why do golden jewels hang from your ears and wrap around your wrists? Why you aren't passed around my soldiers like a common whore?” 

He was right behind you now, his arms coming to cage you between him and the table. 

His harsh words forced tears to collect on your lash line. You took a deep breath but your voice still quivered as you spoke. “Because you're the Emperor…”

“Because I'm the Emperor.” He repeats softly against your ear, yet there is no softness in his tone. “Then why do you wish for me to become someone else?” 

“I don—” 

“Lies!” He shouts, making you flinch away.

You don't dare to face him, remaining turned to him as his hands start to wander down your sides. “I saw how you looked at those filthy commoners…you were entranced, my dove” 

“My Emperor I—” 

“Have I not done enough for you?” He whispered, but his quiet tone gave you no comfort. His hands moved to your clothed chest, squeezing your breasts mercilessly.

A small whine escapes your lips, your back arching against him. “You gave me everything, my Emperor.” You manage to say through rugged breaths.

He hums pleased. “Clearly not enough since you wish to see me between your legs like a filthy whore.” He murmurs against your ear.

“No!” You yelp, grabbing his forearms after he squeezes your breasts particularly hard. 

Your thighs meet in an attempt to soothe the aching between your legs. “I promise.”

“You promise?” He asks, his tone dripping with disbelief and mockery. 

“Yes! I promise.” You reply quickly, desperation seeping out of your words.

“On the bed.” he commands lowly and you comply without words.

The bed was thrice the size of the bed you used to sleep in, soft with satin sheets and numerous pillows. A bed that an emperor deserved. You weren't sure if you deserved it, yet here you were, lying on the Emperor's sheets like you did many other times.

He looms over your lying figure eyes rolling down every curve of your body like a wolf eyeing a little lamb. His favorite little lamb. 

The one that he never feasts upon but rather chases around until the poor thing is spent and exhausted and pliant for him to bite all he wants.

Geta’s hands find your ankles and he pulls you to him, earning a surprised yelp from you. He crawls to you, entrapping you between his arms once again.

He melts against your mouth, lips moving harshly against yours, refusing to give you a second to breathe. You cry loudly when his teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“My Emperor” you moan against his rough endeavors but he doesn’t stop, you aren’t sure if he even heard you. He was too busy squeezing your already bruising flesh, not even bothering to remove your tunic.

Red liquid escapes from the wound that Geta so eagerly opened. The metallic taste travels to your mouth but he doesn’t seem to mind, and as much as it scares you, neither do you. Instead, you claw at his back breathlessly repeating your words “My Emperor…Let me show you my devotion.”

Geta studies you, his big eyes making him look almost innocent under the dim candlelight.

His lips open to speak his mind, your spit and blood coating them but instead of speaking, he gently caresses your bottom lip with his thumb, smearing the blood.

What are these thoughts? These foolish ideas that plague his mind? His gaze couldn’t deter from your tearful eyes as he let his thumb run down your chin, the faint color of the blood following along.

You were so easy to break, to tear apart and carve as you pleased. He always did just that.

Yet you always came back.

You didn’t have a choice, he wasn’t foolish enough to forget that. But still, you looked at him with a particular dedication that Gate couldn’t quite comprehend. 

Basically, involuntarily he whispers, letting his palm rest on the side of your face “You’ve proven your devotion, corculum. You’ve been so good…” Geta leans closer, his nose pressing your cheek. He breathes in your scent, fighting the urge to squeeze your face with his fingers.

Your breath hitches when he pushes his thumb past your inviting lips and he feels a moan threaten to spill when you sucked on his digit immediately. He couldn’t uncover any thoughts behind your eyes, only lust. Lust for him. Just like he lusted you.

Why is his breath coming out so short, why is his heart threatening to jump from his chest and into your arms? He isn’t even inside you yet and he feels like he can’t think properly.

You weren’t quiet during your shared activities but Geta was always too focused on his own selfish pleasure, rarely caring about yours.

But right now he feels the inexplicable urge to make you scream his name, to make everyone in the palace know, everyone in Rome, the urge to get on his knees and worship you just to get the blessing of your sounds in return.

Oh, you were sent by Venus herself, there was no doubt. There was no other explanation for his crazed thoughts.

The whine that he brings from you when he pulls his hand away burns something deep in his chest. He quickly yanks at his clothes, uncovering his naked, toned body.

Your eyes don’t dare to travel down but you find yourself on your fours, crawling to him. You press your lips to his stomach, tracing his toned body with your lips and tongue softly, teasingly.

A low growl leaves Geta from deep within his throat as he runs his hand through your hair, nearly gently before he grips your locks. He pulls your head back forcing your eyes to meet his, the sudden harshness causing you to freeze.

“You are an enchantress, aren’t you? You have turned me into a madman.” He mutters softly, his tone almost despairing as his blunt nails massage your scalp.

Looking up at him through your lashes you blink, unsure of what to say. Was this an indictment? It sounded more like a statement.

“I wouldn’t do such a thing, my Emperor.” You say softly.

He hums quietly, eyes falling to your legs and he has to swallow hard.

He has seen you like this so many times, and yet you left him speechless every time. From the first time he had bed you, you had left him speechless. Put a spell on him the moment he pushed his cock inside your warm, dripping cunt.

His mind told him to pound you against the mattress as hard as he could, so that every time your core throbbed tomorrow you would remember how vile it was for you to imagine him, your Emperor, between your thighs.

But his body betrayed him. He leans in, his bottom lip grazing your inner thigh.

“I don’t think you realize what you’re doing to me, mae columba” He whispers, so quietly that you could miss it if your senses weren’t so heightened.

He released a quivering breath before pressing his lips on your skin. You gasp at the action, gripping the smooth sheets. The feeling of your flushed skin against his lips was exhilarating, it was the beginning of something that he wasn’t sure he could control. 

Without a second thought, his mouth starts to bruise your thighs fervently, his teeth plunging into your flesh like you were his last meal before the guillotine.

Your moans and cries fill the room and Geta’s heart as he continues to mark your thighs, his intensity matching a starved wolf.

He wanted more. He was insatiable, he was always insatiable.

With a swift movement, he flips the both of you. You yelp in surprise, as you land on his chest, your legs spread apart. 

His head finds the soft mattress but he wouldn’t care even if it was the hard floor. All he could focus on was your clothed core, inches away from his face.

“My Emperor!” You begin. You weren’t sure what to say, how are you even supposed to react to such a scene?

Rome’s Emperor gazing at you between your thighs, looking as famished as ever.

“Quiet.” He growls, his arms coming to wrap around your thighs. His hands slowly travel up your body, dragging your tunic with his fingers revealing more of your skin.

Your naked cunt was inches away from his face, his breath hitting your soaked folds sending a shiver down your spine.

His eyes couldn’t leave your core, mouth watering at the sight. Impatient, you peel off the dress, revealing your naked body.

It was a pattern whenever you were around him. But this time it didn’t make your cheeks burn about being so vulnerable before his ravenous gaze. On the contrary, it made your chest flutter with satisfaction as you lay on top of one of Rome’s brutal Emperors.

No warning was given to you before he harshly pulled you down to him. His tongue lays flat against your pussy, emitting a desperate sound from you. Soon enough he was lost in the feeling of your wetness.  There was no point in fighting your spell anymore, he was already hypnotized. 

Your eyes can’t leave his face. The way he loses himself so eagerly forces your breath to become shallow and desparate.

His tongue laps on your cunt sloppily, and your juices run down his chin though he never wavers, not even for a second. His mouth worked against your folds like he wanted to consume you whole, to drain you of your essence.

“Gods!” You moan loudly, throwing your head back. “My Emperor!” You cry out.

He whimpers against your pussy, he fucking whimpers. You aren’t sure if you can hold on much longer after that. It seems like any fear or shame you had abandoned your body because you start to rock your hips against his face, his nose brushing against clit with every move.

“I can’t take it anymore, my Emperor—” you gasp, your body trembling uncontrollably.

He grabs your waist, his nails digging into your skin possesively. He pulls you even closer to him, if that is even possible, his tongue running over your folds callously.

Your climax came to you like a violent wave, your body shakes violently after your release. Geta doesn’t stop though, his tongue collecting your fluids even if you jolted and whined.

He only stopped when he had nothing else to take. Like always.

You fall to the side, your mouth agape as you pant frenziedly. Geta isn’t looking any better, his slick-covered lips are parted slightly and his chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Gods…” You breathe out.

Geta finally finds his strength again, moving to position himself above you. His burning body pressed against your side, his lips brushing your temple. “Where the gods between your legs, corculum?”

“That’s what it felt like” You whisper and he fought the urge to smirk. 

“Turn around.” He orders lowly, the playfulness draining from his voice.

With all the strength left in you, you comply, turning around to lie on your chest. You gasp when the Emperor effortlessly lifts your thighs off the mattress. 

You whine at the feeling of his hard cock brushing against your dripping cunt. 

With one forceful push he’s inside your tight walls and you scream. Your nails rake at the satin sheets as he grunts at the warmness that envelops his cock. “You always feel so good, my dove. Like you were made for me” He groans, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

“P-perhaps I was” You moan, the sound muffled by the sheets, your eyes nearly rolling back.

He sneers lowly. “Always know just what to say. How to bewitch me with your words…”

You yelp when you feel his hand clutch your jaw and pull you backward. Your back slams against his hard chest. He draws his hips back making you whine at the feeling of his dick slipping away before slamming it back inside. He did it again and again until you were crying and clawing at his hand.

“My Emperor!” You cry out and if it wasn’t for his strong hands you would’ve fallen forward.

His cock hits you so deep, so good you can’t help the tears that run down your flushed cheeks and the lewd cries that fall from your lips still they aren’t nearly as lewd as the wet, sloppy sounds that follow after every intense thrust.

His own grunts are so loud against your ear that you swear you can come from the sounds he’s making alone. It was never this intimate with Geta, so close. He usually pushes your head against the pillows and fucks you into the mattress like an animal. You rarely see his face or hear his sounds other than the harsh words he spews at you.

Your back arches at the harshness of his thrusts, and your head falls on his shoulder. His hand slides down to your core. You feel his smirk against your ear when he flicks your clit and you flinch.

“Geta!” You scream his name as you come for a second time for the night, your voice hoarse from all the screaming.

If your brain wasn't mushed from pleasure you would slap a hand over your mouth, bracing yourself for his palm landing on your cheek.

He grabs your face and turns your head to face him. The moment your eyes meet you know there won’t be any repercussions for your defiance. His pupils are so blown to the point where you couldn’t locate the light brown of his iris. He pulls you for a heated kiss and with one last, mind-numbing thurst he spills his seed deep inside you.

He falls forward and pulls you with him. You fall on all your fours, his chest falling flush on your back. You whimper when his cock moves inside your overstimulated pussy with the movement.

Geta’s breath was hot against your shoulder and his hands squeezed your waist occasionally, seemingly without noticing.

“My Emperor,” You breathed out. “Forgiv—”

“Quiet.” He rasped, silencing you immediately.

He threw the both of you to the side, pulling you closer to him by the waist.

That day Geta, with his dick deep inside you, realized two things. That you have probably enchanted him and that he didn’t care one bit. 

Because if being bewitched meant that he would spend his living days between your legs, getting drunk on you, then he would gladly do it.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Police Officer Wes

"Excuse me, sorry, Mr. Batman, sir!"

That's definitely not a voice he knows. Bruce halts in his steps, aborting his usual retreat into the shadows, and turns back around. Commissioner Gordon, who was still in the process of wrapping up his small talk with Tim - the term 'grumpy banter' would describe their conversation more accurately at this point, but Bruce knows better than to argue with the two over semantics - also turns around, pausing in the middle of the sentence.

A ginger haired boy, wide-eyed and obviously either nervous, starstruck, or both, is staring at him from a few feet behind the Commissioner. Bruce can see a few more faces peeking from behind the half-opened door to the roof, all of them filled with anticipation. He knows two of them: detectives that work directly under Gordon, Isaiah Vasquez, and Tasha Kuznets. The third one, a black man in his forties, also looks vaguely familiar, but Bruce can't recall a name.

Yet, he knows absolutely nothing about the ginger, who hasn't blinked once since Bruce noticed him and is now biting on his lips. But he is wearing a police uniform, so, possibly, a new hire?

"Weston, get out," Jim sighs, waving a shooing hand at the boy with a look of barely concealed exasperation on his face. Definitely a new hire, then. That's the level of annoyance he reserves only for the overachieving rookies that he begrudgingly likes but never admits to.

"I-" newly named Weston starts but cuts himself off. Then, he takes a deep breath and straightens up, "Just one question, sir!"

"Weston, I swear to God," Commissioner pinches the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses up a bit. But Tim tilts his head to the side, looking in the ginger's direction and raising his eyebrows. His domino mask hides it, but Bruce knows his menagerie of kids well enough to see that he is at least a bit curious about the boy. So he turns back around fully and inclines his head, giving Weston his attention. He doesn't mind talking with those rare few members of GCPD that Gordon likes.

Weston perks up like a very eager dog at the sight of a treat. In the contrast lighting of the BatSignal, his hair looks like it's on fire.

"If you don't mind, was the 'Smiling case' relevant to Joker in any sense?" The boy asks, loud and clear - maybe even too loud - with his unblinking gaze still glued to Bruce. Like he is afraid that if he closes his eyes for a moment, Gotham's vigilantes are going to disappear without a trace.

It's not a question Bruce expected, to be honest. The 'Smiling case' was closed just a few days ago, Gordon was still not done with the paperwork, as far as Oracle's records went. A murder of three, where all victims had some badly drawn clown makeup on them - post-mortem makeup, as it turned out, the murderer tried to deceive the investigation by trying to cover it up as Joker's doing. Only, he didn't do a good job at it, all the Bats were way too familiar with the Mad Clown's signature style. Not to mention that Joker was still securely sealed in his Arkham cell.

Bruce turns to look at Red Robin. He was the one working on the case, so Bruce gives him the choice of answering or not. Tim jerks his shoulder, looks the ginger boy up and down, and then shakes his head.

"Aside from a poor attempt at leading the investigation in the wrong direction, no, it wasn't," Tim shrugs, "The guy isn't even a Gothamite, he knew of Joker only from the rumors and media. And the clown faces were a makeshift cover-up."

Weston visibly deflates at the answer. Bruce watches in a slight amusement as Tasha nudges the other officer, one he doesn't remember the name of, in the shoulder, and stage-whispers, "Pay up." The older man huffs and disappears behind the door, followed by Isaiah.

"Thank you, Mr. Red Robin," Wesley nods politely and takes a step back, his eyes darting to Gordon. Tim snorts a laugh but doesn't correct him. Commissioner, though, gives the boy a long, dreadful sigh.

"Is that all, officer Weston?" He asks, not even bothering to hide his 'tired dad' voice.

The ginger nods again, "Yes, Commissioner Gordon."

"Then get out of my sight before I make all your shifts double," Jim commands, and Weston nearly runs back to the door with a speed that makes Bruce involuntarily think of speedsters. Must be the red hair.

Tim turns to look at the Commissioner right as the door to the roof slams shut behind both Weston and Kuznets.

"Who is he?"

Bruce is also a bit curious now. New recruits in the GCPD are nothing out of the ordinary, but Jim seems to know this one personally, and Kuznets, who is one of his trusted detectives, seems to also like the officer.

Gordon briefly huffs and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat. It's quite chilly today; Bruce makes a mental note to switch everyone to their more insulated suits. Scarecrow is currently out on the loose. It won't do any good if any of the Bats went down with a cold.

"Wesley Weston, fresh out of the Academy," Commissioner sighs, but, somehow, Bruce gets the impression it's not a sound of simple exasperation over a new officer eager to prove himself. Jim proves his assumptions by looking around the shoulder to make sure the door to the roof is still closed, and continuing, "Born and raised in the middle of nowhere, Illinois, but GCPD was his first choice. He explained it as having a few friends living in the city, which, unfortunately, proved to be right."

Bruce frowns and grunts, alarm bells ringing in his mind. Deliberately choosing to work in Gotham despite not being from here can be caused by many reasons, and nearly none of them are good reasons.

"Unfortunately?" Tim inquires suspiciously, also with a slight frown, but Jim waves them both off.

"No, he's got nothing to do with any of the criminals. It was the first thing I checked when he mentioned 'friends'. If anything, he's quite on the opposite; he'd make a great detective one day, what with his countless conspiracy theories, determination and the insane urge to dig up every single detail known to mankind," he laughs a bit, and Bruce notices a slight, teasing twinkle to the Commissioner's eyes behind his glasses. "On his second day here, the boy went and plain told me he knows that Batman is Bruce Wayne and that he's saying that because he knows I know and he is aware we're working together."

The alarm bells in Bruce's mind turn into sirens. They never discussed the matters of Bats' real identities with Gordon - Bruce had his suspicions that the man knew it and simply kept his status quo. In all fairness, James Gordon didn't make it to Gotham's Commissioner by sheer dumb luck, so all the Bats kind of expected him to figure it out one day.

But Jim knowing who's behind the cowl is one thing. A new, out of town officer is quite another.

"What did you answer?" Tim asks with an easy smile, but Bruce sees the barely noticeable tension in his shoulders.

Gordon nearly grins, "I didn't believe him, which turned out to be exactly what he expected. He also told me of some kind of a familial curse - he called it 'Cassandra's curse', I believe you're aware of what it means. And then, when I naturally expressed my doubts, proceeded to show it in action. Believe me, it works. Sometimes, it even works too well," the man looks to the side with an amused huff, "That's why officer Weston is strictly prohibited from voicing his opinions on any of the ongoing cases outloud. Detective Kuznets almost missed some critical evidence because of his input once."

Cassandra's curse, Bruce has heard of that saying before. Granted, he never thought it could be a real thing, and he is not intending on starting now, not before he investigates the matter thoroughly. But he does trust Jim - years and years of working together would do that to people - so he simply nods in understanding, leaving the matter of supernatural aside for now.

"What about his friends?" Red Robin asks again, and that causes Gordon to wince momentarily.

"That, I believe, was the cause of his performance just now. One of his friends runs an occult shop, and the other one loves to hang around our forensic scientists and coroners occasionally," the man waves their immediate frowns off again, "I don't go into the morgue often, but I heard he's good at finding out the causes of death by a few looks at the body. And they run a lot of bets between them three," Jim shrugs nonchalantly, "The last one was about the 'Smiling case', I take it."

"Any reason to worry about them?" Bruce can't help but ask. It's not unusual for people to be weird in this city, and running an occult shop and hanging out with pathologists are not exactly reasons to go through background checks when they've got much more pressing issues on their plate. Namely, Scarecrow: it's been more than a week since his escape, but none of the Bats have heard anything about him yet. Oracle is already busy enough with that and the current uprise of gang activity in the Narrows, there's no point in piling even more work on her shoulders just because of some gossip that rubs Bruce the wrong way.

Gordon, thankfully, doesn't take his question lightly and pauses, scratching his chin.

"No," he finally concludes after some thought, "They are a bit strange for non-Gothamites, I'll say that, but in terms of this city? They are no stranger than my neighbors from upstairs." Gordon doesn't tell them to leave it alone, Bruce notices. However, it's probably not because of any doubts he has; the Bats just have a habit of tripplechecking everything anyways, and who would know that better than Jim Gordon?

A quick glance to Tim proves Bruce's thoughts. Red Robin, despite the mask, looks thoughtful. How many cases is he already working on, seven? Bruce makes another mental note to ask Alfred to cut his caffeine intake. It might be a bit hypocritical of him, what with his own plans to send a few messages to JLD about the 'Cassandra's curse', but Bruce excuses himself as the adult in the family.

Commissioner Gordon clears his throat.

"Do you want me to turn around so you can make your mysterious escape, or-" he starts, but both vigilantes are already gone by the time he finishes, "-or not, okay."

[diremoone]

This is ✨perfection✨ Literal perfection I tell you.

The title is perfect [just how in the world do you come up with these titles I’m so jealous 🥲]; the second I saw the title I was like “HELL YES” and reading the: “you like your men like you like your coffee. Dark. Robust. Steamy.” MY GOD— And that’s true irl too I actually do (with sugar of course). THE COFFEE and the men I MEAN

pumpkin spiced metal

You like your men like you like your coffee. Dark. Robust. Steamy. Not the best for your health. The very worst for your heart, for sure.

▸ wrestler!Toji x baker!Reader; Historical AU; Pre-Relationship; Tons of Fluff; Teasing Banter; It's Toji so obviously there'll be mentions of attacks, fights, injuries [Reader is 100% unharmed, dw!! :))]; Reader's fearless nature is something I can do anything to have; Toji & Reader Are Into Each Other And Both of Them Low-Key Know This [they are not idiots but smart, for once, your honor]; Reader Has She/Her Pronouns; There is one tiny [or four tiny] mention(s) of Gojo here HEHE

▸ This belongs to the same Historical JJK AU as the knight Nanami x lady-in-waiting Reader fic parterre but you don't need to read that to read this!! This is a stand-alone!! 😊😊

▸ based on the ask sent by @ancient-vivarium for my milestone event. TYYY SMMM FRELLIE!! 🥰🥰🤗😘 i don't own the characters, image or divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

"Coffee wakes one up better than fights, y'know?"

A dagger grazing the shell of your ear before flying into the wall is the very last thing you could have expected your off-handed comment to ever receive; yet, now, on seeing the receiver of your query, you deem you're lucky enough your beloved ear wasn't cut off your beloved face by that wretched dagger.

Fingers gripping your mug more firmly, you heave a heavy sigh— only to click your tongue in the very next instant. Flipping the sign on your bakery's door back to 'closed', you sit down on the steps and make an awkward gesture for this sudden visitor to take the seat beside yours.

A moment passes. And just when you think this person will simply be standing with half of his hulky persona in light and the remaining in a darkness, he shuffles forwards to plop down onto the seat proffered.

You shove the glee curving your lips behind the ceramic of your mug.

Toji throws you a horribly incensed glare from where he's slouched on the stair. "Ya find this shit funny, eh? I can still kill ya if I wanna. These injuries don't mean anything— 'm tellin' ya."

"Mmhm," you nod your agreement quickly, biting your cheek once to keep them blasted giggles within yourself. "I know you can– wrestler and rumored assassin Toji. I'm very well aware you can; but don't you think it's a bit funny— someone as strong and scary as you sharing a cup of coffee with someone akin me? If you aren't you, won't you find this slightly funny, hm? I bet you will, you know."

Your confident remark earns a furrowed glance from your companion before he sighs, dragging a palm down his so weary face then curling it into a fist to rest his cheek on. You shoot him a quizzical look— only for it to bounce right off him, as he closes his eyes, and gives another exhausted sigh.

The sight twists your heart in a way, pretty weird but not unpleasant, you decide.

A hazy yet sharp eye blinking open to watch you, Toji grumbles, "Was attacked by several men some time back on my way to the grounds... of course, I beat them up to a pulp so much, not even their family can tell them apart now; but everything happened so out of the blue—"

"You don't need to explain anything anymore. I understand where the sudden knife attack came from," you cut him off gently, keeping your cup on the ground beside and moving to rub a soothing thumb on an awfully deep scar on the underside of his palm. The muscles beneath your ministrations tense a little, before relaxing a smidgen— you hear a quiet huff of a laugh from the man next to you.

You drag your eyes away from the scars on his hands to that on his lip before lifting them to meet his deep, dark gaze. A smirking glint stays there to greet your inquiring gaze.

Toji asks, "Aren't ya scared of being alone with someone rumoured to have killed half of the Zenin clan, eh, girl? People say the man in front of you once attempted to finish off that blue-eyed brat too once... Did ya not know that?"

You do. The thing is, you do.

You do know each and every one of those rumors. Silly or not. Weird or not. Being the most popular baker in the royal kingdom has made you the unwilling listener to these rumours and so many, many more.

[Just the other day, you heard one lady screech to the other, how she spotted the princess winking— yes, winking— at Lord Gojo. The next day, you saw Her Highness in your bakery, kicking the same Lord and calling him names– no sane lady would ever dream of calling the man they fancy.]

[The princess is not very sane, you know this too. But you choose not to dwell on it too much.] [You value your neck very much, thank you!!]

You shrug after two seconds worth consideration.

"Those Zenin's deserve to be killed, if I'm being very honest here. And as for the matter pertaining to Lord Gojo..." you trail off, before giving your second shrug of the minute and resuming, "I noticed you and he conversing in the marketplace the other day, so I suppose– whatever happened, if anything at all, is all in the past. Also, it's for the best if I don't interfere in others' business, y'know? I've a not-very-tiny one of my own to manage, which is no easy feat, if I must admit— but, yeah. No matter what your reputation is, I don't really mind you here. You've the signs of being a nice company."

An oddly piercing gaze is the only respone your lengthy reply receives— or so you think before Toji cracks a barely-there smile at you, rising from his seat and extending a hand towards you.

It's not the etiquette, some part of your mind tsks. You shut it down in less than an instant. Etiquettes are shit stuff meant for those of noble blood. You and Toji aren't so— at least, not this very second in the soft light of the day, breaking through the cloak of the yesternight— those etiquettes can be easily forgotten by you two. For now.

Forever as well. Perhaps.

You too rise, placing your palm in his outstretched one. And shoot a wide smile when he squeezes your hand and queries, "Ya sure won't mind making an extra cup of coffee for every morning from now on, yeah?"

Enjoying the pitter-patter in the middle of your chest, you shake your head, chuckling. "Heavens, no. If anything, I'll be the happiest to drag another person into my coffee-worshipping cult."

Especially if that someone is as alluring as the one before you— with a crooked grin, a tad bloody and very much feral– but you decide not to mention it– choosing to keep it close to your heart till the time Toji too grows nearer to your heart.

[Which, you reckon, will happen soon, if the pinkish hue of his ears and the moisture on his palm are what you hope suppose they are.]

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