#(and so he's saying it not because he wants to but because he viscerally fear that he will be pushed into that direction)

[nekropsii]

Nekro, I'm very glad to have your blog exist. You are a shining beacon of hope. I need your input on somebody's opinion, somebody's very bad no good opinion. Somebody told me that Cronus and Mituna was just "blackrom flirting", which is supposedly "no different than normal trolls playfighting". They also told me that Cronus is a GENUINE HERO because of Dualscar! I need your input on this. I want you to tell me everything wrong with this. You don't have to, but I just love seeing you analyze stuff and this particular person's statements made me genuinely angry

Hey, thanks! That means a lot, really! <3

This one's easy. I fear I have to put this under the cut, however, due to... Cronus... Cronusing.

Content Warning: Detailed Discussions and Depictions of Abuse and Sexual Assault. Cronus is there.

Absolutely zero indication is given that it is BlackRom Flirting, or even "Flirting" at all. Just because someone is interacting with someone sexually does not mean it is flirting, or even that they're attracted to them. In this case, it is at the barest minimum Sexual Harassment, but if we are being completely honest about the events that are happening on screen, this is Sexual Assault.

Cronus is not attracted to Mituna. This is not BlackRom. This is just abject hatred from someone who is deeply entitled and wishes to control the bodies of his peers, but especially the bodies of those he deems most vulnerable. Some people counter that idea with the fact that he is literally Sexually Assaulting him here, but that requires a major misunderstanding of why people commit Sexual Assault. It is not about Love, or Lust. Oftentimes, rapists are not attracted to their victims at all. Sexual Violence is an act of Violence, not an act of Attraction. Sexual Abuse is, like all other modes of Abuse, about Control, not about Love. Abusers isolate you from your loved ones and limit your access to your money/car/phone to increase their control over you and your ability to flee or get help. They demean you, lovebomb you, and gaslight you to control your sense of self worth and your sanity. They beat you to control your behavior. They sexually assault you to control your entire sense of bodily autonomy. This is how you get Heterosexual Men sexually assaulting other Men or Boys, or Heterosexual Women sexually assaulting other Women or Girls. It is not about attraction, it is about control, and it is about violence. If I may be candid - I've been assaulted more times than I can count in my life. I can safely say that almost every single person who laid their hands on me in that way was in no way attracted to me, they just thought I was an easy target, and wanted to control me because I was an "Other" at the nigh bottom of the social hierarchy. Violence and Control. Not Attraction. Not Love. Not Lust. Pure Violence.

It does not take much thought to realize that Cronus is completely and utterly disgusted by Mituna and everything he represents - it's just that Mituna is also an extremely vulnerable person with extensive issues with communicating due to his speech impediments and his TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury), and a storied history of not being believed by his peers. He is, in essence, a Perfect Victim.

You do not need to look further for proof on Cronus literally just hating and being disgusted by Mituna than his comment about how he wishes he could kill him for being disabled, and the only reason he didn't was because it would have negative social consequences. Killing Mituna would make him lose control over his own social life. So he doesn't, and he resents Beforus for not being the right kind of Eugenicist to enable that murder. I don't think I need to tell you that this would be a Hate Crime.

I also do not think I need to state that Mituna is not attracted to Cronus, considering the first set of screenshots show nothing but a visceral rejection of all advancements being made towards him. Over and over again, he reiterates his lack of consent, and Cronus just keeps on touching him while constantly Verbally Abusing him for being disabled. At most, one could say Mituna experiences an odd kind of "Fawn Response" to his abuse, possibly hoping that playing the role of a friend will make things not as bad, when really all it does is just open up more opportunities for abuse.

I think it's noteworthy that Mituna has a few speech impediments that effect most of his speech, except for key phrases that he says a lot, and/or is making active effort to say clearly. The implication behind how clearly Mituna is speaking while constantly repeating his lack of consent is positively dismal, especially in conjunction with the fact that Cronus is doing this outside, in a public area, seemingly implying that this is so routine that he isn't even being careful about it anymore... But what's even more depressing is that this clarity continues into Mituna's near constant apologies - many of which are prompted by Cronus, as a reflexive response to abuse.

Also, there's my favorite piece of evidence that this is abuse... The fact that Cronus calls it that, point blank. He just admits to it.

He calls his own actions abuse. Yes, it's sandwiched in... Hmm. Manipulating Meenah to get her off of his case for being abusive towards Mituna by redirecting the guilt onto her for actions that she didn't even do herself...

... But that was still a tacit admission of guilt, was it not? He calls his actions abuse.

Everyone go home. Discourse over. He admits to it. We can all throw bricks at anyone denying it now.

Also, Dualscar was not a hero, and neither is Cronus. Dualscar? Hero? Fucking Dualscar? Orphaner Dualscar was a slave owner who was having a real good time in a BlackRom with a straight up rapist, only to die because he literally couldn't tell a good joke to save his life when he went to tell on her.

The closest Cronus gets to "heroism" is the fact that a prophecy was told to him once, which he assumed to be about him, and then got really upset when it was not about him. It was literally just a Harry Potter joke, though, and also - again - did not happen.

He isn't a hero, he doesn't fill the archetype of a hero, nothing. He's also just pathetic, and now he's the one who's the sexual abuser, rather than Aranea taking that role herself.

Everyone go home. Get outta here. Shoo. SHOO!!!!

Discourse Over!!!!!! I've solved all of it. Thank you for reading.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 8

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 3k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (piv, morning sex, come marking?, cock warming) DOWN BAD!DAEMON, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this chapter became 6k+ words so i had to split it T_T. at least that means i'll be updating relatively faster lol. i hope you enjoy since all the fluff is here HAHAHAH and if you do, please leave a comment/reblog to let me know <3 <3 <3. once again, the high valyrian is internet translated, so it might be wrong. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching

Otto nods as he passes a group of clergy members. He makes his way down the otherwise empty temple, eyes forward as he clutches a firm figurine in his hand. He grunts as he gets down on his knees in front of a fresco of the seven pointed star.

He lights three candles in front of him, saying three different names each time. He places the figurine he brought with him beside them. Of course, it wasn't a figurine but a woolen doll. He says another name, your name, then starts this prayers.

"Father, guard my family through this trying time, my son, my daughters... my daughter," he brushes the face of the doll then closes his eyes. "Stranger, put the souls of the departed Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon to rest.

"Warrior, strengthen my daughter and spare her and her unborn child from succumbing the same fate. Mother, grant her comfort and good health through her journey to motherhood. Crone, guide her and grant her good discernment, so that she may not fear the unknown. Maiden, preserve her beauty, her light."

He opens his eyes and stares at the point that represented the Smith. He grits his teeth before sighing in defeat, "Smith, fortifier... mender... I beg," he sighs, "mend her heart. Mend her body. I beseech you. Let not my prayer fall deaf on your ears any longer."

The candlelight before him glows as he waits another day for the answer to his decade old prayer.

Meanwhile, the candles in your room have long been put out, including the one you normally keep lit by your bed. You are first to rouse today, and yet you could not rise from bed, as you were pressed beneath the body of your husband. Daemon sighed contentedly on your chest, one arm and leg draped over you. You have never slept together (or so you think) so you figured that Daemon probably moved a lot in his sleep, which is how you both ended up in this position.

You stare at the top of his head, continuing to brush through his silver hair. In truth, you did not want to rise. You wanted to stay in this peace, in this stillness. It would not last long, you knew it— you dreaded it.

Goosebumps form on your skin when you feel your husband's hand brush over your belly before hooking on to your hip. You begin to feel your heart race as you remember what your father told you the night before.

How could you tell him? How could you possibly tell Daemon that you were with child, when you knew he was so diligent in assuring you would not be? Was it even possible to carry his seed when he never finished inside you?

Against yourself, you remember the day you caught Gwayne kissing a lady behind a curtain, and how you attacked him because you thought he had gotten her pregnant. The poor girl ran away as you beat your twin, and Gwyane defended himself, saying that's not how you do it. You did not know any better, so you told him you did not believe him and nearly forced him to go to your father to announce you would be marrying the lady. He, in turn had to explain what he knew, to both your horror.

You were no fool to simply believe the words of your stupid twin, so you made it your mission to find out the truth. After sneaking books from the Citadel itself, you read many a book only to find out your twin was telling you the truth.

That was why dread rippled across your skin, for could there ever be a world where Daemon purposefully pulled out and is not angered by this news, where he does not accuse you of infidelity?

You go between worry and peace as you brush your fingers across the prince's skin. You try to convince yourself that all will be well, but each time you do, another part of your mind raises that nothing's ever been well with you. You decide then, even if just for this moment, you will pretend the calmness of your husband will remain.

But the world is cruel, for at this same moment, Daemon awakens.

He stirs with a groan, face rubbing against your sternum. The robe you had on was no longer covering your chest. Your heart races as he looks up at you, his violet eyes still sleepy, "sȳz ñāqes."

You do not understand, but you assume it means good morning, and so you say, "good morning."

Daemon sighs as he pushes himself up, removing his pants. You tense as he comes atop you and kisses your neck. He nudges your head to the side with his own and soon, he pushes your legs apart with his knees.

Your hands come to his hip bones, where you then dig your nails in, making him groan. You whimper when you feel him grind his groin into yours. He is half-hard.

"Sesīr isse ñuha ēdrugon, jaelan ao." Even in my sleep, I want you.

You whimper yet again when he begins to rock against you, digging your nails deeper into him.

"Gīda ilagon," he mutters as he fully parts your robe, repeating in common tongue, "calm down."

You are taken aback by how he pecks your lips once before kissing your neck again.

"Dreamt about fucking your pretty cunny," he mutters lowly between kisses, "wanna make it real."

His words make you ache and throb. In a way, you were comforted by the thought Daemon wanted you, even if it was just your body. You close your eyes and let yourself relax. You sigh against his ear, nuzzling into his shoulder, and brush your hand up his back. As your hands trail to his biceps, his skin breaks out with gooseflesh and a high pitched whimper leaves his lips.

"Fuuuuuuck," he whines out rather pathetically.

There is a languidness to his movements unlike you've ever experienced. His normally brash and pointed demeanor is soft and gentle, his kisses even more so. There is no sense of urgency whatsoever as he rolls his hips against you. If you didn't know any better, you would have believed that he wanted to savor the moment.

He did. He wanted to savor your body, as dreaming of it had him feeling some indistinguishable way. You would never know this though, for he would never tell you.

By the time you've become shaky and your cunt was absolutely sopping wet because of Daemon's now fully hard cock rubbing up against it, he finally pushes into you, drawing out a deep groan from your throat. You tighten your legs and arms around him and your teeth sink into his shoulder.

Daemon grips your thighs as he thrusts into you. He barely pulls out, seemingly determined to go deeper and deeper each time, wanting— needing to be pressed flush into you. His hands sneak beneath you, fingers raking up your shoulder blades to your nape before tangling into your brown hair. He breathes heavily against your ear as your bodies grow hotter and hotter.

You both remain in this snug position, doing this constricted dance until your bellies begin to burn. He doesn't speed up at all or pull out any more than he already has. You feel your body begin to tense and your climax begin to build, and then, just then, a spirit overcomes Daemon.

The next moment, he has his hand on your jaw, forcing your head back. Just as you reach your peak, he pulls out and thrusts his wet cock on your slick folds, once, twice, until his hard member is soft and twitching. His load shoots out up to your chest and sputters down on your belly, garnering a surprised gasp from you. It's hot and viscous against your skin and you wonder what it would have felt like had he released in you. There's so much of it too.

"Fuck, fuck, fu-" Daemon repeats, thinking the exact same thing you were.

You expect him to roll over, because there is no way he wouldn't after soiling you, but you gasp yet again as he comes crashing down on you, skin sticking with a squelch.

He is arrested by your warmth and wants nothing but to plunge into you again. So, in his greed, he grabs his still twitching cock and pushes it into you, releasing a long and throaty groan as he does so. It makes you tremble and whimper his name. You were not expecting the intrusion, so you brush your cheek against his, hoping he understands to give you a moment of repose before going again.

After a while, though you still felt tender from your orgasm, you brush your cheek against him once more, signaling you were ready for him again.

He does the strangest thing however, and simply brushes his cheek back. He pulls his head back, looking down at you, "litse riña." Pretty girl.

You notice the softness of his violet eyes and knit your brows at it. He is so overwhelming you cannot help but kiss him. There was still remnants of morning breath in your mouths, but neither of you cared.

Daemon is loathe to have you pull away. He leans into your touch as you brush his unruly hair back. You slowly shake your head, "I do not understand, my prince."

"iksā sīr rāpa se bāne," you are so soft and warm. He brushes your noses together, "ñuha ābrazȳrys," my wife.

A line forms between your brows at the foreign tongue. You wait for him to translate as he brings his hand to your cheek. He stares at you for a long moment, thumb brushing your skin.

He makes no attempt to decode the High Valyrian for you, and soon, a knock comes upon your door.

Daemon is instantly irritated as he glares over his shoulder, muttering, "who the fuck is that?"

"My servants. I-"

Before you could even finish, your two servant girls are waking in, and Daemon watches them as they head for your bathroom, horribly and painfully unaware of him. He waits for them to reemerge, and the moment they do, he is instantly screaming, "FUCK OFF, CUNTS! THE DOOR'S CLOSED FOR A REASON."

You hear their gasps, squeals, and apologies before scurrying off, slamming the door behind them as they did.

Instantly, yet again, Daemon relaxes and nuzzles against your neck.

"D-Daemon," you whisper, sinking your fingers into his long hair, "they normally wake me up at-"

"I don't give a fuck," he quips, tightening his hold on you, "they'll know better now."

You clench your jaw and sigh, making mental note to apologize to your girls for the prince's actions.

You begin to doze off, as does Daemon in all his gluttonous glory. The two of you stay in bed until lunch time, which is far longer than you've ever personally stayed.

Arryk, who had been stationed outside your door for a while now, is concerned by this. He raps at the entrance to your room and calls your name. When he receives no response, he peaks inside and inspects the stillness of it all. Unnerved by the idea you were sleeping in, he thinks the worse and walks in, calling your name again. His breath is forced down his throat when he sees the flash of white hair on the bed. He sees a hand rub down a toned back and he immediately reels back, quiet and as quick as he possibly can.

You wake the second time because of the growling of your stomach. It is loud and painful, so much so, it wakes your husband.

He groans, brushing his nose against you, "hungry?"

You huff, craning your neck to look at him, finding his closed eyes, "clearly, I'm starving."

A rich chuckle rumbles from his chest. He opens his eyes and they twinkle with mischief, "I could feed you something meaty."

Your face contorts, "I do not think you'd want me to bite your cock, my prince."

Daemon laughs, hard enough to fully awaken him. He wheezes, and rolls of your chest, "I did-" sigh, "not say it was-" wheeze, "my cock."

You hum, "oh, of course not. Apologies."

Your sarcasm only maddens him further into amusement.

You take this as a chance to wriggle away from him, and so you do. The semen still on your skin is tepid and pasty as it smears against your chests. Your robe is completely lose as you come to a stand. You decide not to dirty your garment with Daemon's seed by covering yourself, so you head for the bathroom with your robe open.

You gasp at the swiftness of how your are grabbed and pulled back. Your body collides into Daemon's chest. Your care for your satin robe if for naught, because it sticks on his come anyway. Daemon's is hypnotized by your scent. He is quick to brush your hair over shoulder and mumble against your nape, "you wound me with your eagerness to flee me, wife."

His hands come to squeeze your breasts and you whimper as you turn to him. You knit your brows and pout, "that is not true."

"No?" he says a little louder than he ought as his emotions slightly get ahead of him, "are you not running from me this moment?"

You frown and fully face him, having to peel your robe off his chest as you do, "I'm simply going to bathe." You stare at his chest, "you've made a mess of me."

Daemon tilts his head, "not nearly enough, in my opinion."

You find the self-satisfied grin on his face, "you should too bathe with me."

"Mmm, well then," he takes your hand, "bathe we shall."

The water that your servants had brought was now cold, but you both made do with what you had. Daemon is simultaneously unsurprised and taken aback by how you tend to him first, he does not know why. You've bathed him once before, and yet it somehow feels different. You scrub his chest with cloth and inspire him to do the same for you. You lean into his touch as he washes you off, and it makes his stomach roll.

He takes a good look at you, your skin, the marks he left on it, your nose, your knees, your hair, everything, and he cannot believe something so... so immaculate, so resplendent could be borne from a man so detestable.

"You are not your father's daughter," he says so casually.

You look up at him, freezing because of his random sentiment.

"You are the gods promise to me. A woman made to sate my fire."

Your brows knit at his words. You tilt your head and it makes him nearly goes mad. How darling you ask, "I sate your fire?"

He hums and pulls you into him, kissing your arm as he did, "stoke, perhaps, is truer."

Your breath hitches when he brings you to his lap. He sighs as he feels your flesh against his, it wont be long until he's hard all over again. He licks a stripe up your left breast, "I am, in fact, insatiable."

Your heart races and he peppers kisses up your neck. You lean your forehead against his after kissing your lips. You whisper in earnest, "I will try."

Daemon pulls back, hands coming to your neck as he looks at you.

"I will try to sate you."

Fuck. The thought should have made him laugh, but it doesn't. It makes him burn. He cannot say anything, for his mouth seeks yours. He kisses your lips and you two sequentially spend another hour or so turning the water warm as it splashes all over the floor.

You're antsy and eager to feast by the end of it all.

You help each other get dressed, and Daemon finds the way you hastily button his doublet ever-so-endearing. When it's his turn to help, he shushes you and rubs your shoulders before securing your corset from behind, "your food will not fly off the window."

You rub your aching stomach, "I pray it flies into my mouth soon."

He snickers as he finishes tying your laces.

You quickly run towards the vanity and hastily begin to brush your still damp hair.

He watches you bounce your leg and the faintest of smiles graces his lips. He watches your chest begin to rise and fall rather quickly, and soon his brows furrow. He walks up behind you, "aeritta run." Restless thing.

He takes your hand and your jaw, but it is unlike most times he does so. His touch is gentle. He does not force you to hand your brush or look forward, but you do. You look at each other from the mirror; your chest continues to heave.

"Paez ilagon," Daemon enunciates, "say it for me, won't you?"

Your brows furrow in slight confusion. You release a breath, "pez ilegon."

"Paez," he corrects.

"Paez."

"Good," he nods, "ilagon."

"Il... Ilagon."

"Rōvēgrior," Daemon leans in and mumbles against your temple, "excellent. Now..." he kisses your temple, "once more: paez ilagon."

You take a breath, doing your best to mimic his accent, "pa...ez i- ... lagon."

"Arlī," again, he motions with his pointer, "speak confidently."

"Daemon."

"You can do it," he tilts his head at your reflection, "paez ilagon."

You sigh and nod your head, "paez ilagon."

His violet eyes twinkle, "rōvēgrior," excellent, he claps his hands, "spoken like a true Valyrian."

You turn to him, breath hitching at the sight of his smile, "wha-"

Daemon takes your face and makes you turn forward.

You look at his reflection and grip your skirt, fearing you'd upset him. But then he begins to style your hair and butterflies overcome your belly. You try to ignore the thump of your heart by clearing your throat, "what d-does it mean?"

"Paez ilagon is slow down."

"Ahhh," your jaw drops in slight embarrassment, "I see."

Daemon points, "hand me your pin."

You get the hair pin on the vanity and hand it over, "and the other one?"

"Hmm?"

"Ro... roz- rovevegregor."

Daemon tilts his head as he chuckles through his nostrils, a soft smile remaining on his face as he finishes securing your hair in a similar manner he does himself.

You witness all of this and your heart skips a beat.

"Rōvēgrior," he repeats, "try to roll your tongue."

"..."

"Go on."

"RRRRozeofoieve-"

He laughs and takes a hair tie from the table. He quickly does his own hair then takes you by the hand. He ushers you to the door as he continues to chuckle, "we should get you something to eat. You sound ill."

You are hypnotized by his melodic laugh. You don't dare interrupt it, so you whisper under your breath, mostly to yourself, "but what does it mean?"

"Excellent," he says, hearing your whisper. He opens the door for you, "it means excellent, gevie."

You do not notice Arryk as you exit your chambers, "but what about that?"

Daemon does not notice him either, "what?"

"Ge- gevie?"

"Gevie?" he repeats.

You nod.

Arryk bows and greets you, "princess."

You turn to him as he bows again, "my prince."

Daemon does not spare him a glance. Beautiful, it meant, but he instead tells you, "it is a secret."

You do not respond to Daemon, but he does not mind. He is fully content to stare at you. You smile at your ward, taking a second to guess who it is, "good morn, ser. Are you... Erryk?"

Arryk examines you, finally breathing a sigh of relief to know you are unharmed. He is also glad to see you are not dressed in attire that... exposes the good works of your husband. In the same second, he notices your said husband, and how keenly is gaze is set upon your beaming form. He clenches his jaw, "nay, your grace. Neither am I my brother, nor is it morning."

"Oh," you purse your lips, "my apologies, dear Arryk."

Daemon quickly pulled out of his haze, raising a brow at dear Arryk, "you may go."

Arryk turns to him.

"I will keep my wife company today," he says, wasting no more time in idle chatter, taking you by the hand.

You both walk off and you offer Arryk a smile and nod in regard.

Arryk clenches his jaw but forces himself to smile back at you. He is uneasy by the prospect, knowing how fickle and volatile Daemon can become regarding you. He stares at your joined hands as you walk away, deciding to trust the prince for your sake.

[allfearstofallto]

Am soo happy to see your back even if it's just for a short while I hope your doing okey and that everything is good with life and work 😊 i wanted to ask if it was possible how do you think Yan Scara would react if reader got sick ? Would he be worried ? Would he try to tend to them or leave it to the doctors and servants ?

Again thank you so much for taking time for us 💕

My asks are FULL of this exact same question, I'm not joking 😭😭 so I just wrote all of them.

Sick Day

Yandere! x Fem! Reader

Featuring: Diluc, Childe, and Scaramouche

Diluc spent most of his life taking care of himself. Before and after the passing of his father, he was independent to a worrying degree for a young child. So when he got sick, he paid it little mind. He took the proper medicine and if the fever was mild enough, he'd still be sitting at his desk filing his mountains of paperwork. The only indication that he was unwell being the slight rasp of his voice and flush of his cheeks.

But that was because Diluc didn't care much for his own well-being. His body wasn't useful for much other than work, but only he believed that. The day you wake up with a cough and runny nose, mentioning to the head maid that you can't leave the bed because you're so lightheaded, Diluc is in shambles. The second the news makes it to his ears that you're under the weather, he's rushing to your bed chambers, at your side even when you don't want him.

Diluc can't stand the idea of losing you. You can hate him until Teyvat freezes over, it hurts, but at the very least he knows you're well. So the second you fall ill, a part of him feels shame for his inability to protect you, the other feels a visceral fear that you won't be around anymore.

For days you're catered to in bed. Not just by maids, but Diluc too. You're given soft, warm foods and plenty of water. Your temperature is taken three times a day by a doctor, who insists that if you're not awake to eat, you should sleep more to regain your strength. You wondered how much Diluc threatened him to get him to say the same thing over and over.

The day that you're deemed well and cleared to roam the manor freely again, is supposed to be a joyous one for you. As much as you love your room, you were growing sick of the wallpaper and you could only look at the same painting so many times before it frustrated you instead of entertaining. But overbearing Diluc is still around, watching you with worried eyes and begging you to take breaks to rest after every three steps you take.

Ajax is the epitome of an old wife when it comes to health remedies. With all of his siblings, some of which he ended up taking care of as he got older, he picked up a thing or two from the way his mother cared for him when he was sick. Her remedies, while strange to those from other countries, always had him in tiptop shape in a day or two.

It didn't help that you didn't hail from Snezhnaya. Liyue got cold, but even the hottest day in Snezhnaya was colder than the coldest in Liyue. Your body would have to acclimate to your new climate, meaning that even if he tried to keep you warm at night with the fireplace roaring and many blankets, all it would take was a little Snezhnayan air tickling your nostrils to make you wake up with a cold.

Using what his mother taught him and what her mother taught her before, he woke you up from your sleep when he noticed your runny nose and tears in your eyes. Pressing a hand against your forehead to check your temperature, all while your dreary eyes slowly blinked, wordlessly begging for more sleep.

“You'll rest soon, my angel, but I need you to drink this first,” Childe spoke in the softest voice he could muster, so as not to intensify your headache.

He knew something was wrong with you, the way you took the cup from his hands and downed without batting an eye. The little grimace your face made when the vodka hit your tongue was cute, but he tried not to get lost in your features while you were still sick and needy for assistance. His mother did a lot of things when he fell ill, but a shock of vodka was always the first, you were out cold after swallowing it down.

Despite his love for you, Ajax doesn't worry when you're sick. He believes that sickness is just one of the many battles of life and that there's no way you won't succeed in conquering it. Even after you're better, Childe insists that the two of you do some light exercises together. You can complain that it's your first day healthy, but he won't listen. Strengthening your body will keep you from getting sick again.

Even though he's lived for hundreds of years, Scaramouche doesn't quite understand the human body. Improper conditions for a prolonged time will just make you cease to work? And in the most inconvenient way possible as well? It's annoying and far too inconvenient.

Or, that's what he told himself. But when he looks over at you that first morning when you're sick, sweay pooling on your forehead and seemingly unable to breathe, something tugs at his heart. He feels something for you, watching as even in your dreams you're writhing in pain. Scaramouche feels pity. He assumes it's something he can only feel towards you because his heart sings for you.

“What are you doing?” Scaramouche questions a maid who he bumped into in the hallway.

Even though she carried a bowl of water in her hands, she still found a way to bow, “I received news that the Lady has a fever, my lord. A towel soaked in cold water on her forehead will help break it.”

He hummed. He'd heard of such things, but never thought that he himself would see them being used. A sense of urgency took over him when he realized that this would help you though, a need to be the one doing it for you.

“She'll be more comfortable with someone she's familiar with. Let me do it,” he ordered while snatching the bowl from her hands.

She opened her mouth to question him, but he shot her a glare before she could. He marched back to his room promptly, kneeling beside you as you slept. As the maid said, the cool towel did work. You seemed less pained when he placed it on your forehead.

After that moment, Scaramouche insisted he be the one doing everything for you while you were sick. Feeding you ginger soup, changing your blankets, nursing you back health without any assistance. All because he assured everyone that you'd be more comfortable with him doing it, although you rarely even opened your tired eyes the entire time you were getting better, so you had no idea who was cradling you in their arms and insisting you eat more.

When you're better, you're under the assumption that the maids are the ones who helped you, knowing that while you're sick you're practically comatose. But they insist that it wasn't them, saying that Lord Scaramouche himself cared for you and stayed by your side the entire time.

He'll never admit it though, brushing you off by saying something along the lines of, “Why are you saying such stupid things?”

[riickgrimes]

"The key thing was of course, the fact that Rick has PTSD and that's very much what's driving a lot of his behavior and being in a place of that level of vulnerability, back with the love of his life in that way.

It's also the thing he fears, the loss of her. It manifests itself in a way that is visceral and leads to the lovemaking not just being about love, but the revealing of pain and trauma and fear. That informs Michonne, that she can't just blast him into making sense. There's something deeper going on here that he can't verbalize. She has to help him get through in a different way. So she gets to see him, as well, as he reveals what's really in there, the wound. That's going to happen most likely in that most vulnerable space." — Danai Gurira

"Yeah, I think it is about pain. As Danai just said, it's about him wanting her and then fearing what he's about to unlock again. He gets to sort of articulate it in the scene further in the episode, when he gets to say that, 'I can't do this again. I haven't got the capacity to do this again. I've worked out how to die and live again.' So it is an absolutely necessary scene that allows Michonne to realize that there's something really broken here, more broken than she's ever anticipated. [...]

So the scene was about a real intimacy, a sort of frightening intimacy. This is a part of his personality he has shut down. It's almost like he's trying to stop himself from feeling this love again. She sees that and she just says, 'Just trust. We're back. We're the same...' I find it very moving. I think it's a very, very moving scene, because it's about them connecting in a way that he's had to deny for seven years. He's denied that connection for the sake of living on in this half life for the CRM" — Andrew Lincoln

Andrew Lincoln and Danai Gurira Discuss Episode 4 of The Walking Dead: The Ones Who Live

[revelboo]

I loved the way you wrote about Megatron in Earthspark. Can you keep writing?

(Please I beg you. It's impossible to find anything about him)

🥺😭😭

Give Up/Give In Pt 8

TF Earthspark Megatron

• Aware of Bumblebee staring at him and the scout’s infuriatingly knowing smirk as he patrols outside the house while you and the Malto family eat, he vents on a growl. “If you want to say something, say it.” Keeping the house in sight since your panic attack still has him out of sorts. That you’d not only reached for him, but clung to him. And somehow his rumbling growl hadn’t made things worse, you’d actually calmed for him.

• “Nothing,” Bee shrugs, hands spread. “You just keep surprising me.” Optics narrowing, his big servos flex. He’d forged these hands into weapons of war, but you’d still felt safe in them. Entrusting yourself to him. And the scout had walked up in time to see him lower you to your feet and gently wipe away the tears so no one else would know you’d broken down.

• “You still see the monster,” he says. Not really a surprise, when he can’t even escape the weight of his own sins. Taking care of you won’t undo the atrocities he’d committed, but he needs to do it. To prove to himself that he’s not still the warlord driven to do whatever it takes, willing to even burn his own world to ash in a ruthless bid to win. Knows that everything went too far and that was his fault, and that there’s no undoing his past. But this he can do. Your life won’t be lost because of him.

• “Hard not to.” Helm tipping up toward the full moon overhead, Bumblebee shrugs again, but he appreciates the blunt honesty. “But we’ve all done things. It was war.” The words are a kindness really, but they do little to ease his conscience. How many lives had he ruined? Destroyed? It’s no wonder his former followers hate him with such visceral passion. They’d believed in him and he’d dragged them into the Pit. And left them there while he’d walked away free.

• Opening the door, you inhale the night air, smelling honeysuckle and pine as you find the glow of optics in the dark. Hesitating when you see the blue pair and sitting on the step to wait. The Malto’s are nice, kinder than you’d expected, so kind it almost hurts. Underlining your own distant relationship with your family. Going home for you, seeing family, means a trip halfway across the country and you like your independence. But you miss belonging.

• Unsure how to respond to the scout, he turns as the house door opens and he sees you silhouetted there, just a shadow limned in light before you sit on the steps. And he’s striding across the yard. Because you need him and he needs you to prove to himself that their worst fears aren’t right. That he can really change, that he’s not still the monster that haunts his recharge, hands wet with energon. Reaching toward you and his own redemption with those same hands.

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[oddinary4bts]

Chasing Cars | ch 10.5 (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, this chapter contains mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: it's sad. curses?, jungkook is so far gone for her my dudes, explicit content: oral sex (female receiving), fingering, protected sex

☆word count: 1.7k

☆a/n: this one is sad and i'm sorry, jk is just so sad that he has to go and so afraid he'll lose her please :'( i hope you'll still enjoy <3

☆series masterpost

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

The light of the sun still hides under the horizon when Jungkook wakes up, your deep breathing tickling his neck. He’s on his back, and you’re cuddled up in his side, face hidden in the crook of his neck. He’s a little too warm, yet he doesn’t push you away.

He doesn’t want to. Ever. Not when he’s leaving in the evening, and all that’s left of you and him might just be a few hours. 

He turns to face you, pulling you into his chest, and then he presses a kiss on the top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo. It must have stirred you awake, because you hum, wrapping your arm around his middle.

“What time is it?” you mumble, your lips grazing his skin ever so slightly.

Jungkook glances behind himself towards where he left his phone on his night table. It’s face down right now, so he can’t see the time, and he reckons he doesn’t want to move to check.

It’s not like you have to wake up early anyway.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Sun isn’t even up yet.”

You nod, and you start drawing idle shapes on his back. Shivers travel up and down his spine, yet he remains still. When you shift, your thigh moves up, brushing him slightly through the fabric of the boxers he slept in.

He’s already hard. He’s been hard since he woke up, like he almost always is, and the feeling of you touching him heats up his blood.

“Someone woke up happy,” you grumble, still half-asleep and groggy with sleep.

Jungkook chuckles, his grip tightening around you. “How can I resist when I wake up with you in my bed?”

You move back enough to be able to catch his gaze, and Jungkook’s heart aches at the forlorn look in your eyes. Your hand moves up, tracing his jaw as your gaze drops to his lips. And then you’re leaning in, brushing your mouth on his once, almost tentatively.

His body’s reaction is visceral. Like it knows there might be the end to the two of you in just a few hours even though he doesn’t want it. There’s something in the way you were looking at him - Jungkook has a bad presentiment about the days that are to come.

He tries to tell himself that it’s because Taehyung will know, and it might cause a lot of arguing, but something in the pit of his stomach tells him that there will be more. 

He doesn’t think he’ll survive if that more ends up breaking the two of you apart.

You part your lips on a sigh as your hand moves to the back of his head, getting lost in his hair. Jungkook forces you to turn on your back, and he immediately climbs on top of you, draping his large body over your small one. He makes sure he’s not crushing you, and then he’s kissing you again, with all the passion and the fear in the future that his heart holds.

The kiss grows fiery, stealing the breath from Jungkook’s lungs, and he disconnects his mouth from you just long enough to find the spot below your ear that makes you moan softly each time. You pull at his hair when he sucks on it, and he grunts softly, instinctively grinding into you.

“I want you, Kook…” you whisper.

It’s all he needed to hear. Indeed, Jungkook travels down your body, throwing the blanket back so that he can look at you while he tastes you. He positions himself between your legs, spreading you apart to take a look at you. You’re not really wet yet - because you sleep naked - but he knows he’ll get you there in no time.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, almost purrs, and you try to close your thighs but he holds them open. “Nu-uh,” he warns. “Don’t act like you’re shy, peach.”

And then he dives in, closing his lips around your clit to suck on it once. You let out a breathy sound that makes his dick twitch, and he goes lower, pushing his tongue inside of you.

He’s feral for you. Truly, entirely, feral. All he wants is to make you feel good, to show you just how much he cares for your pleasure. So when he feels your juices starting to coat his chin a few moments later, he doesn’t hesitate before slipping a finger inside of you, arching it in search of the soft spot he knows will make you come in no time.

He’s right - less than a minute later you’re coming around his finger, on his chin, your walls pulsing. You moan something that sounds like his name and he milks your orgasm out of you, up until you pull on his hair to force him to raise his head.

He wants to make a snarky comment, wants to say something to tease you about being quick, but you’re crashing your lips on his and he can’t think.

Not that he can usually think when he’s with you. He’s too far gone for you to be able to produce any coherent thought. Especially not as you force him on his back, rid him of his boxers and climb on top of him. He’s painfully hard, his dick even more swollen than it usually is.

“Condom,” Jungkook breathes, the last of his sanity slipping away with the word. 

You let out a noncommittal sound, yet you bend down towards the night table, fishing a condom out of the box in the bottom drawer.

“It’s the last one,” you say as you tear the tinfoil package open.

Jungkook tries to make a mental note to get more before he comes back from his trip, but the moment you start rolling the condom on his dick, the thought flies out the window, replaced by all his lust and desire for you.

Replaced by the love that makes his heart swell in his chest the second you’re sinking down on him. It’s a strong feeling, a scary one considering the uncertainty of you and him, yet he clings to it all the same. Clings to you, too, pulling you down so that he can start fucking you slowly.

You’re inebriating. Your pussy feels just right on him, like it was made for him, and damn him he wants to feel you without the condom. Wants to fill you up, too, no matter how reckless it might be. 

He wants to have everything with you, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it happen.

You straighten, rocking your hips forward. The angle feels good, and Jungkook lets you take the lead so that he can admire you instead. So that he can admire your breasts as they bounce from your motions, so that he can admire the red and black ink on your hip. 

Most of all, so that he can admire the look of pure ecstasy shining in your eyes, painted on your features, making you look even more beautiful than you are. You truly look like a goddess, like you’re someone he was meant to venerate and fuck, he loves it.

He’s addicted to you, through and through.

“Fuck, Kook,” you breathe as you continue rocking your hips.

“Feels good?” he lets out.

You nod, flashing a quick smile that hints at affection more than lust. “Always.”

Jungkook loves that, too. So much so that he forces you to bend down again, and he ravishes a languid kiss on your lips. You moan in his mouth as he thrusts up, and then Jungkook unleashes himself. He spins you around, kneels between your legs and then pushes in, pushes home, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him.

“Love your pussy,” he grunts, and then he’s jackhammering into you, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, soon followed by the banging of his headboard into the wall. 

He doesn’t care. He’ll wake the whole neighbourhood if he can, if that means he doesn’t have to lose you in the end.

“Peach,” he moans, and he opens his eyes to look at you.

Your beauty isn’t diminished by the grey light of pre-dawn. In truth, he thinks you’re even more beautiful, shining like a star, like the goddess you are.

“Kook,” you reply, and it’s equally as desperate. 

He slows down the rhythm, focusing on the feeling of you around him, under him, of his balls tightening as he nears his high. Yet his climax eludes him.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

Fuck.

Jungkook bends down, readjusting his angle, and you wrap your legs around his waist. It allows him to push in deeper, to feel all of you around all of him. He kisses you, drinks you in, and a few seconds later, when you scratch his back, Jungkook feels himself sprinting towards his high.

It hits when your walls clench around him, and Jungkook releases his load in the condom, cursing and grunting through the waves of the orgasm.

“Kook,” you moan as his dick is still twitching deep inside of you. “Fuck, Jungkook.”

“Peach,” he answers, though he barely can focus.

“Kiss me again.”

He obliges. He kisses you with every feeling in his heart, putting all his love in the act. He’d tell you he loves you, yet something refrains him from doing so. Later, he’ll regret it, but for now all he can do is kiss you, his heart swelling and soaring for you.

He hopes you can tell how much he cares for you.

Much later that day, when it is time for him to head to the airport, Jungkook hugs you tight by the door of your shared apartment. He kisses you softly, this time with an aching heart. And then he whispers a promise to you, words he means more than anything he’s ever said in his life.

“I promise I’ll come back to you and make it work.”

Read chapter ten here!

☆☆☆☆☆

my babies please i don't want them to hurt :'( let's pretend ch 11 isn't going to happen :')

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[drewsbuzzcut]

Moving On and On, So Very Bittersweet

Mat Barzal x model!fem!reader

A visceral in doses fic

Warnings: mentions miscarriage, anxiety, nerves, slight angst, and SMUT

Today has been a bit of a haze and you’re not even close to putting your plan in motion yet. You’re finally ready to have sex again after a long, grueling 5 months. The healing process after your miscarriage has been one of the hardest things ever, and it’s still rough sometimes. However, time has healed you mentally and you feel ready to rekindle that spark between yourself and Mat. This morning you made a phone call to your best friend, Beverly, asking if she’d do you the grace of taking care of your babies for the night. Luckily she agreed. You had to run around the house to pack their bags and feed them before they were picked up. Now you’re setting up for tonight, impatiently waiting for Mat to walk through the front door.

The familiar beep of Mat’s car doors locking alerts you instantly. You feel nerves of anticipation and excitement fill you up as you trot over to the front door. You throw it open before he can even insert the key into the keyhole. You’re greeted with his shocked expression and his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his chest.

“Hi, baby,” you mutter, words muffled by the material of his button up.

You practically cuddle into his body as warmth emanates from all around him.

“Hi, pretty girl. I missed you today,” he says back, looking down into your eyes.

An overwhelming swell of love pumps through your veins while you stare at the man you’re insanely in love with.

“The kids are awfully quiet today,” Mat concludes, so used to the bustling sound of his kids coming to greet him when he first gets home.

“They actually aren’t here. They’re with Beverly for the night. We’ll go pick them up tomorrow morning,” you explain.

You fiddle with the hairs at the nape of his neck to distract yourself from feeling any type of anxiety. You’re trying not to let any of your fears get to you. You know you’re ready to move forward with Mat, but you can’t help but feel jittery. It’s almost like it’s your first time all over again.

“That’s nice. What’s the occasion?” Your husband’s hands wander along your back, his fingertips pressing into any knots you may have.

“No occasion, I just want some quality time with my husband,” you murmur and press a kiss onto the side of his neck.

For a moment you feel him freeze because he’s not used to you being affectionate as of late, but then you feel him melt into you. He doesn’t know that it eases your anxiety.

“I can definitely get behind that. I missed being able to be with my wife without the babies crawling all over us. Don’t get me wrong, I love our children, but I love having some time for just you and me,” Mat grins, tugging you further into him.

“Me too, baby. How about we order some takeout?” You ask.

“Deal.”

-

“That was so good,” you comment as you relax into the cushions of the couch.

“Sushi is always good,” Mat agrees, welcoming you into his arms.

You pepper kisses along his collarbones and all the way up to his jaw. Your hands press into his chest and you smirk when you feel his heartbeat start to pick up. After your soft attack is over, you pull him into a hug. You feel so thankful for your husband, and you hate that you haven’t been showing it as often.

“It’s so nice to be able to enjoy a meal with you, baby. We haven’t had a date this week, so I’m glad we were able to do this,” Mat expresses his gratitude.

“Maybe we should cap this over with a nice bath and maybe a glass of wine,” you suggest, eyes peering into his innocently.

“I like that idea very much,” he responds and leads you to your bathroom.

After setting up a warm bubble bath and grabbing some wine, you finally sink into the water. You welcome the liquid to soothe your muscles and you’re sure that Mat welcomes the same feeling. You melt into his chest, feeling the comfort of having him wrapped around you.

“Mat,” you mutter so quietly that he almost doesn’t catch it.

“Yeah, babe?” He leans up, so he’s flushed against your back and his hands wrap around your stomach.

You fight the chill that dares to roll through your spine and try to calm the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

You clear your throat and say, “these past months have been so hard on us. I’m still a little sad, but I miss feeling connected to you-“

“We're always connected, even if it's not sexually. You're my wife, my soulmate, and my everything," Mat adds in. His eyes are filled with sincerity, making you relax a bit.

“I know, baby. In this case, I mean I miss being sexually connected. Seeing you be the best daddy, picking up my slack, and just being the best husband, has made me insanely horny for you,” you finish with a giggle, feeling awfully shy. Your cheeks simmer under Mat’s smirk.

There are no words to express how grateful you are for your husband. While you’ve been dealing with your grief, Mat has been the ultimate partner. Not that he wasn’t before the miscarriage, but he’s definitely made things easier for you during your fragile state. That’s not to mention that he’s been so patient with you. He didn’t push you to get better, nor did he push you to have sex before you were ready. Mat’s the definition of the perfect husband, perfect father.

"Are you 100% sure you're ready for me?" Your husband asks, wanting to be completely certain that you're not feeling any hesitation.

“I’m sure. I want you,” you state firmly, pushing yourself as close as humanly possible to him.

His hands fall from the small of your back to your ass, grabbing handfuls of you.

You kiss up his throat, licking a line up one of his veins.

“On our bed,” you make sure that he knows he can’t have you until you’re in the comfort of your bed.

-

“Wait here,” Mat says, rubbing your arms and leaving you in your ensuite while he disappears into the master bedroom.

You finish off your skincare and body care routine. You feel so giddy, like you can jump and run around. You’re not sure what your husband is doing and it makes you excited. The lust has already started to pool in your core, waiting for Mat to ignite the fire within you.

You can’t wait to get your hands on him and feel his muscles flex underneath your palms. You yearn to hear his moans close to your ear and feel him hard and thick inside of you.

“You can come out now,” his words break you out of your daydream.

You slip your robe on and anxiously open the door. Your jaw drops to the floor and your heart grows three sizes upon seeing candles set up around your room. The comforter and pillows on the bed are fluffed up. Your shared bedroom has never felt so intimate and safe.

“I love you and I’m proud of you for everything. You’re the strongest person I know, and I’m glad you’re my wife as well as the mother of our children,” he whispers in your ear with his arms wrapped around you.

“I love you more,” your response is tearful, but so thankful at the same time.

When Mat lets go, he waits for you to make the first move. He doesn’t want to rush you, or make you feel like things have to progress quickly. He’d be fine with kissing you in bed if that’s all you wanted.

You let your silk robe slink down your body, the intimidating bed right in front of you. With a deep inhale and exhale of air, you settle in the plush of your blankets and pillows. The candlelight breaks through the dim lighting of the room, highlighting the intimacy of the atmosphere.

When you take a glance at your husband, his eyes are already on you, taking in the sight of you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you. Your breath hitches in your throat and you subconsciously clutch the sheets and tightly close your legs. Mat’s eyes soften at your rigid form, not used to seeing you so timid.

You’re left in silence while you watch your husband drop the towel from around his waist. Finally kneeling on the bed and scooting closer to you, he reaches out to your legs. You unintentionally jump at the touch of his hand, but quickly will yourself to calm down.

It’s Mat, your husband, he’s in love with you and will always take care of you.

He gently pries your legs apart, eyes on your reaction as he slots himself between your legs. He takes in your naked form, one he’s seen a million times and one he’ll never get tired of. He catches sight of your tattoo on your lower abdomen. “Baby,” sits there proudly, remembering your baby that you never had the opportunity to meet. He traces the black ink, letter for letter. Tears start to form in your eyes, but you don’t let them slip. You know it’s okay to be sad, but you don’t want to dampen the moment.

“Are you doing okay?” Your husband asks. The gentle drag of his fingertips make goosebumps prickle at your skin.

“Yes, baby,” you respond and grab onto his wrist, moving his hand over your heart.

You both stay still for a minute, letting him feel the beat of your heart under his palm while you caress his jaw.

“Tell me if you don’t want to do this,” Mat makes sure you’re completely ready to get intimate again.

This time you have no hesitation.

“I want you.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips while he spreads your arousal around your waiting core. After telling him that you were ready in the bathtub, things got a little touchy and it was basically your foreplay.

He grabs his length, dragging the tip through your folds in a small tease. He nudges it against your clit, making your body already feel fluttery.

After coating himself in your wetness, he slowly starts to push into you. Your hole clenches down on his angry, leaking head and your body lurches forward.

“Wait, don’t move. I- I need some time to adjust,” you say, halting his movement with a hand on his torso.

“Take however much time you need, baby. I don’t want to hurt you,” he assures you, his hands rubbing at your long legs.

After a long pause, you start to get antsy. The feeling of pleasure lingers in the forefront of your mind and you want nothing but to feel all of him.

“I want you closer,” you demand, your arms going around his neck and pulling him closer to you.

You need the press of his body on yours, feeling his heartbeat thud against yours. It makes all your worries dissipate.

“I need you, Maty. Please make me feel good,” you whimper and it’s all he needs to hear to start his movements.

He pulls out slowly and gently pushes back in, effectively pulling soft moans from your mouth.

His pace only increases a tad bit, but each thrust is deep and punctuated with a passionate roughness that makes your insides all gooey. You hold onto him firmly, your fingers leaving imprints in his skin. Your legs wrap around his waist and the heels of your feet dig into the small of his back, keeping him sheathed inside of you.

“You’re taking me so well, baby. You’re so wet for me,” Mat moans in your ear before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

His lips tenderly peck at your pulse point, but eventually it leads to him sucking your skin into his mouth.

“Oh my god,” you shriek and your body arches off the bed.

His cock hits all the right spots and repeatedly prods into your sweet spot. The veins on his length feel so good gliding along your slick walls. Each time your greedy pussy sucks him back in, you’re met with fire surging through your veins.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt such euphoria.

“More,” you beg, pulling your husband away from your neck so you can look at him.

His forehead is lined with sweat, curls sticking around his face. His eyes shine with pleasure, and saccharine moans fall from his lips.

“More,” you repeat.

His large paws grip your thighs and spread your legs open. His hips rut into you, allowing your orgasm to bubble up. You claw your nails into the skin of his back, barreling down as you take his long strokes. His strong body moves with yours in perfect synchrony because you won’t let him do all the work. No, you rock your hips up to meet him thrust for thrust.

You smash your lips on his, letting him stick his tongue down your throat. Once your pussy starts to clamp down on Mat’s length, he knows you’re close. He pushes your spread legs closer to your chest, so you can take him deeper and so your orgasm can rip through your body.

“Yes! Just like that,” you scream, eyes shut and hands still attached to Mat.

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” he says hotly.

The knot in your stomach snaps and you throw your head back, mouth falling open in the form of a silent moan. Your body quivers as you release around him. He lets go of your limbs and returns to his softer thrusts, working you through your orgasm.

“I love you,” your husband whispers against your lips before pecking them.

“I love you,” you moan, body still tingling.

The pulsing of your walls signals his own release and soon he’s pumping you full. Usually Mat’s hips will move crazily as he works through his orgasm, but this time his movements are slow and sensual. He kisses your cheek, mumbling incoherently into your skin.

“You’re so perfect,” Mat whispers, leaning on his forearms so he can stare at you.

You’re doused in a post-coital glow and you’re sporting the most perfect smile.

Mat traces the slope of your nose and the cupid’s bow of your lips.

“You’re my everything,” you say back, giggling when he nudges his nose against yours.

“You know, I still can’t believe you’re my wife,” he hums and lays his forehead on yours.

Your eyelashes flutter against each other as you both meld together. You’ve missed everything that’s involved with being intimate with the love of your life.

“You’re so lucky,” you joke and poke at his ribs, making him drop his body on top of yours. You let out a dramatic grunt, but you welcome his weight.

Silence fills the room as you massage your husband’s scalp and softly glide your hands up and down his back. You actually thought he fell asleep until you heard his sniffles.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” You ask, voice full of concern.

Softly you nudge him off of you, so you can face him. There’s nothing clearer than having a conversation and seeing their expressions.

“I don’t know how to move past this. I keep thinking about the baby you could be pregnant with right now. I’d be able to feel them kick and we’d be able to hear their heartbeat. Instead we never got to know them,” Mat sobs and you pull him into your chest.

You kiss the top of his head and try to wrap yourself around him, hoping to help him calm down.

You know Mat has been hurting, you just didn’t know it was this bad. A big chunk of you feels terrible for not being able to be there for him the way he was there for you.

“It’s hard and it sucks. There’s not much that we can do, but try to enjoy the babies we do have. It’s okay to be sad and cry. I’m sorry that I haven’t picked up on your true feelings. You can talk to me. I don’t care what state I’m in, you can talk to me. We’re a team and we’ll have to work through it together,” you try your best to comfort him.

You know words don’t offer much, because it’s difficult to process losing something you’ve never known you had. You do hope that your love can help him the way his love has done wonders for you.

“I mean I’m fine most of the time. Then I start to think about what they’d look like and it just ruins me,” he continues.

“I think about it, too. We’re going to be okay, though. It’ll take some time, but we’ll heal. We’ve already come a long way since it happened. I love you so much, Mathew. I’m so sorry that this is happening to us,” you mutter through the lump in your throat and the tears falling from your eyes.

“I love you.” He kisses your lips desperately as if you’re his only source of air. As of right now, you’re each other’s guiding light. The miscarriage has been one of the hardest things you’ve had to experience, but it brought you and Mat closer together in ways you would’ve never expected.

a/n: This took me so long, but I hope you enjoy it. I loved writing it🫶

[velvetvexations]

Like legitimately one of many reasons why I've taken to talking about transandrophobia and other related concepts nearly every day is that I feel like my oppression is articulated much better by people who recognize animus, fear, and general weirdness about the category of men. It's not entirely enough to get me to say it's the exact same thing but I feel much more seen by that crowd while the takes of TMA/TME folk are complete fantasy land rigmarole that favors arbitrary and pointless validation over recognizing material reality.

Like, when trans men are pushed out of a trans space that's supposed to include them on paper because they're too far into transitioning for the cis and trans women there to be comfortable with them, I straight up refuse to believe that's a safe environment for butch trans women like me or that a she/her pin is a magic talisman that'll override the fact that I don't look anything remotely "like a woman".

I want to be able to go to community events like pride celebrations so badly that it aches in my soul, but I have no illusions about the my hopes of being perceived as one of the gals by other trans women let alone anyone else. But oh, no, please do go on about how masculinity, real or perceived or whatever, is is always rewarded and it's actually just the role of woman that people don't like.

Trans women aren't treated like cis women and if we're going to solve anything you have to fucking deal with that instead of coping by insisting TERFs are just jealous of how womanly you are and literally every single word they say about their motivations are 100% lies solely for the sake of being mean. This is fucking oppression and visceral, genocidal hatred, not your second grade bully pulling on your pigtails because he has a crush on you.

[jaal-ama-daravv]

About the emmrich mortal argument Do you think emmrich actually believed what he said to rook when they said they knew what they're getting into or do you think he was being a dick Not that it makes that line any better but idk we've seen how catty he can get in disagreements and I can't believe he actually thinks we're that wildly naive right

Thank you for asking because this line you are referring to makes me want to rip my skin off.

"At your age?"

As we have discussed before, Emmrich has this fire to him. Remember he is an orphan, grew up poor, and likely faced alot of hardships through childhood and adolescence. The guy has alot of underlying anger - which is why he wears the cool, confident, and suave mask. Not saying Emmrich isn't kind and gentle - but we all know that the nicest people can also be the meanest, as it takes alot of hurt to be that kind.

To answer your question, no I don't think he meant it. I think he was just desperately trying to get his point across and no matter what, Rook was just trying to reassure him. Both had their defensive walls up. Emmrich has a visceral fear of death, 'it cannot be soothed'. He feels it like his bones were on fire, and water wouldn't be able to drown it.

He can definitely be catty, when he is annoyed at people when they won't listen to him or hear him out. So whilst this checks out for his character, it was said in poor taste. Both Rook and Emmrich say things they don't mean, which leads them into feelings of regret going into the final battle. The whole theme of the game.

[makethatelevenrings]

Skeletons in the Closet // D. Grayson x gn!reader

Requested? Yep!

Warnings: reader is followed home at night!!! if anyone ever follows you home, you have my consent to beat the everloving shit out of them!!!! your life is far more valuable to a fucking creeps!!!

Summary: While being followed home after work, you get a call from your boyfriend. He sends in some help from a friend. Things are realized.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck fuck.

With your keys clutched tightly between your thumb and palm and your pepper spray poking out from your grip, you hurried down the street with your heart racing faster each step. Another glance over your shoulder confirmed it. You were being followed.

You had to stay late at work because two of your coworkers had the flu and this was the punishment you got for trying to be nice. Fuck this. Fuck capitalism. Fuck the world and having to be scared walking to your fucking apartment.

And just your luck, the red line stop near your apartment was closed for repairs to the platform structure so that meant you had to walk an extra four blocks to get home. Fuck.

Your phone buzzed in your hand and you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden jolt to your system. With shaking hands you swiped your thumb across the screen and pressed it against your cheek as you kept walking.

“Hello?” You really hoped that the person on the other line couldn’t hear the pure, visceral fear in your voice but you doubted it.

“Hey. I was just calling because you never texted that you left work or got home.” Oh. Right. Your boyfriend of three months, Dick Grayson, was a perfect gentleman and he always appreciated a text from you when you got home at night, whether it was from work or a night out with friends. He didn’t care if you were out late partying. He just wanted to make sure you were home safe at the end of the night.

“Right, shit. Sorry. I just got out of work a half hour ago and…” You glanced back at the guy following you and dropped your voice. “Someone’s following me. I’m about ten minutes max away from my apartment and I’ve got pepper spray, but you should know that I-”

“Where are you?” His voice had grown frigid in the time you were rambling and you peered up at the street sign you just passed.

“Avalon and Fifth.”

Dick inhaled deeply and then said something away from the phone, as though he was talking to someone in the background. He moved back closer to the phone and started talking quickly.

“Okay, baby, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to put my friend on the line and she’s going to keep talking to you, okay? And in the meantime, I have another friend in the area and he’s going to come meet you. Keep walking towards your place. Don’t stop moving. Barbara will talk you through it.”

The line clicked before you could say anything and then a calm, pleasant voice filled your ear. “Hi, I’m Barbara. Dick’s told me a lot about you. Did you know he’s kind of obsessed with you?”

The sudden levity of the question elicited a laugh from you as you hurried down the darkened street. You could hear the footsteps getting closer and it made your throat close with anxiety.

“Hey Barbara, what’s going to happen?” you asked quietly.

“Don’t you worry about that. Just keep walking. You’re doing fine. Why did you stay late at work?”

“My coworkers are sick. Flu season and all that.”

“Hmmm, viruses are a bitch.” There was something in her voice that indicated more to her comment than you knew, but you didn’t have time to pry. The closer you got to an ally, the faster the steps sounded until the guy was full on sprinting towards you.

“Fuck,” you gasped as you turned to watch him barrel at you. Before he could get within three feet of you, a blur of black and blue swung down from seemingly nowhere and then Nightwing was standing over him, escrima sticks clutched tightly in his hands.

“Go,” the vigilante barked. He looked back at you and what a sight you probably made. Shaking, phone pressed to cheek and other hand gripping keys and pepper spray, and what felt like tears streaming down your cheeks, you stared back at the mask covered eyes. His chin dipped and you realized that he was inspecting you for some kind of injury. Nightwing raised his head to stare at you once more and then he jutted his chin out towards you in a silent command. The silvery white scar on his lower jar stood out under the light of the street lamps.

“Go,” he repeated. The man below him tried to sit up and the vigilante snapped one of his bludgeons down onto the man’s arm with a sickening crack, eliciting a scream from the man. You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

You didn’t need another prompting and instead you turned, tucked tail, and sprinted the rest of the way home. You nearly forgot that Barbara was on the other end of the phone until you heard her call your name.

“I’m…I’m okay. I think. I…I’m okay.” Your hands shook so hard as you tried to unlock the door to your apartment that your dropped your keys and cursed under your breath. Scooping them up once more, you tried again and flew into your apartment.

“I’m home. Door’s locked. I’m fine. I…fucking hell. What just happened?”

“Hey, hey,” Barbara said. “Breathe with me, okay? That was a scary situation. Breathe. In two, out three. There we go.”

The fragments and pieces of your scattered brain started to knit an image together of what just happened. As the adrenaline receded, you were able to try and come to terms with the events of that night and one thing stood out to you.

The scar on his chin.

Nightwing’s.

The same scar that you pressed a kiss to in thanks for coffee. The same scar you made sure to pepper with kisses when your boyfriend curled around you and fell asleep against your chest. The same scar that you looked up at when he pulled sweet moans out of your lungs.

“I’m going to kill him,” you hissed.

Barbara barked out a laugh. “Please make sure to film it for me.”

“Oh, I will.” You tossed your keys and pepper spray onto the table just as a shadow passed over the window of your living room. “It’s been nice meeting you, Barbara, but I have to go strangle someone.”

“I’m going to put your number in my phone and we will be getting coffee soon.” You gave her a final goodbye and then stalked towards the window. Your phone tumbled onto the plush cushions of the couch as you passed. Yanking open the window, you stuck your head out and glared at the vigilante standing on the far end of your fire escape.

“So this is why you always make an excuse to not stay the night,” you snapped. Anxiety had turned to rage real quick. Nightwing grimaced and raised his gloved hand to run his fingers through his hair. It was then that you saw the fresh blood that mottled his knuckles and you knew exactly where it came from.

“And also why I make sure you get home at night,” he added quietly. You crooked your finger at him and he complied wordlessly. His footsteps were nearly silent on the old fire escape and you took a moment to marvel at how such a muscular man was able to move so quickly and quietly.

“Is this it? Any more skeletons in your closet?” you asked.

“You know about my family, so no. No more skeletons.”

“I’m going to ask Barbara when we go and get coffee,” you breathed against his lips. Dick paled slightly before he cleared his throat.

“That’s fair.”

“Now get in here and get that suit off. I’m still mad at you but I could really do with a hug right now.”

He didn’t protest.

Tag List: @someoneimsure​ @perpetual-fangirl900​ @visagebrise​ @cursedandromedablack​ @alexxavicry​ @the-wayward-daughter​ @raging-trash-of-mind​ @bunny-kawa​ @khaylin27​

[devotioncrater]

the levels of repression in both house and wilson…yet they are opposite of one another. house routinely makes gay innuendos (whether sexual and/or romantic) towards wilson, yet wilson doesn’t take him serious at all.

and this constant rejection from wilson is both a buoy as well as a giant wall. house pushes their relationship time and time again. wilson refuses to let the nature of it change. house brings up a romantic getaway, wilson shoots him down. house sabotages wilson moving out, wilson doesn’t stay. house allows himself to be The Other Woman regardless of how bonnie or wilson’s other ex-wives feel. in a way, it boosts his ego and makes him feel special. he is allowed to have wilson in this way.

amber is an extension of house; she is house in a woman’s body. house can accept it because he has expressed before that if wilson were a woman, they would’ve been married already. so why can’t the same be true for wilson? let him find a woman version of house. house loves wilson so much that he goes into a risky surgery to try and save amber. this is his Place simply because wilson and him cannot escape the confines of compulsive heterosexuality.

and it is compulsive. wilson never feels good enough or secure enough in a relationship outside of his and house’s. he cheats, he lies, he manipulates. all because at his core, wilson’s insecurities render him into a selfish person. he has affairs and he prioritizes house over his wives, because he doesn’t feel like his own wants/needs are met by his wives. or that they should/deserve to be met. he doesn’t know how to communicate them!! he maybe even feels guilty for having them. because even to house, he communicates these desires in metaphors or pranks or whatever other indirect way he sees fit. but the difference between house and his wives is that wilson has no tangible, legal sense of obligation to house. if house doesn’t meet his expressed needs, fuck him!! they don’t owe anything to each other!! the rejection will sting less.

wilson chases women on such a compulsive level that it’s nearly a reaction to whatever house has done. it’s affair after affair. wilson moves in with his patient during the time house is on a ketamine treatment. house, his patient who seemingly no longer needs vicodin. no longer needs him. if wilson is no longer needed, he parasites to the next host. why? because he doesn’t know who he is on his own. why? because he has trouble expressing his own core needs as a person. and as a result, these core (repressed) needs seep out sideways.

so why threaten this sense of safety he gets with keeping house at a platonic level? if they were to entangle into a relationship, wilson would be wrapped under an Obligation Gauze. there is a fear he’d lose house because, historically, all of his relationships end in loss. because, historically, he cannot express his needs to his partners due to his fear of rejection.

and then wilson becomes terminal. and then death becomes bigger than an anxious fear of loss/rejection.

“i need you to tell me that you love me.”

wilson, my brother in christ. house cannot say those words to you because for all the years you’ve known him, you’ve denied him it. the only way house can tell you that he loves you is by burning his home down and faking his death. he is nothing without you. you know it as well as he does. these things remain unspoken because that is the way you’ve molded the relationship to be.

wilson has house on a leash. house runs as far out as possible until the leash yanks him back. when wilson finally trusts house enough to let him go off-leash, house is too conditioned to act as expected.

and this conditioning in house is not just wilson’s doing. it’s primarily house’s own doing. his own self-loathing chains him to wilson’s side. as an addict, yes, but also as a support system. house hates himself so viscerally that it affects every interpersonal relationship he has, including with wilson. but wilson never, ever leaves no matter how bad it gets.

also. who else other than wilson gives him a sense of bodily autonomy? not stacy, not cuddy, not his fellows. wilson doesn’t pity him. wilson enables him. wilson lies for him. house will selfishly keep wilson forever because wilson is all he reliably has.

so house can push and prod wilson into gay romantic/sexual innuendos, but when wilson yanks that leash, he’ll drop it. it’s a buoy for reality checking where he is with wilson. it’s a giant wall for enabling his self-hatred thought process that even his boy best friend has limitations to his love for him (or at least what is acceptable). addict line of thinking.

they both eat each other up like an ouroboros. where does wilson’s repression end and house’s begin?

[rustic-space-fiddle]

Things I love about EPIC: The Musical

Greek mythology hehehehehhehe (my weakness)

Little Ajax

The slightly different styles in each segment but the overarching cohesiveness

The crew singing choral vocals for Odysseus

POLITES *screaming crying throwing up*

The crew introducing Eurylochus but Odysseus introducing Polites

Odysseus’s ‘Ha ha HA Haaaaa!” What a smug lil $h!*

His whole description of Athena ~ fanboy energy

“Bestest of friends(?)!” “Okay chill kid” ”okay :D”

Polites definitely almost knocking himself out with lotus before Odysseus definitely takes it away like “oh honey no”

POLITES *STILL CRYING AND THROWING UP*

The RUMBBBBLING BOOOOOMS when Polyphemus enters—WOOO YOU CAN FEEL THE FEAR IN HIS FOOTSTEPS (also: heartbeats!)

I’m not a musically intelligent person so forgive me but the way the “take from you like you took from me / gift from you and a gift from me” sounds just makes my brain so happy

If music is math then that is definitely some solid well done math

“Nooooooobody, noooooooooobody, noo~ooOOOOOOOOOOOOH~bodyyyyyy”

“WATCH OUUUUUT!” *AGGRESSIVE CHORUS*

“My brothers-!” yall I’m gonna freakin cry

The visceral death sounds when the club comes out

Polyphemus’s voice slowing like a giant robot powering down to show him falling asleep

The sound slowly fading in as Odysseus takes in the death around him (I imagine he’s looking at the remains of Polites)

The sound Athena makes whenever she appears or disappears (NOTICE SHE DOESNT MAKE THAT SOUND WHEN SHE LEAVES FOR THE LAST TIME! just empty wind…)

“HEY CYCLOPS!”

“The next time that you dare choose not to spare, remember them.” UGH BEAUTIFUL

The growl in “REMEMBER ME.”

Ship sounds!

The entirety of “My Goodbye”. It’s just such a good argument song and I love it so much.

Odysseus’s angry “HEY.” when Athena basically blames the death of his friends on his kindness.

The fact that Odysseus isn’t afraid to absolutely WRECK Athena verbally? She has definitely killed and turned people into spiders for less

You can tell he felt a little bad about it and that she actually was kinda hurt by it too (silence is a heckuva tool)

“Aim for the island in the sky” oh yeah I’m listening to a Greek myth wHEEEZE

Eurylochus slowly getting on Odysseus’s nerves till he literally has to pull him aside and tell him to stfu

No but actually Eurylochus is not being a real one rn he is not being helpful

The wind god ( *0v0*)

“Why are my eyes and my heart and my soul so heavy?” WOW OKAY DANG

Poseidon’s entrance — DANG SON THE POWER OF THE SEA IS PALPABLE

“Ruthlessness is mercy—DIE.”

The crew calling for their captain as they’re taken by the sea

THE AUDACITY OF POSEIDON TO REMIND ODYSSEUS OF HIS OWN WORD—“when does a ripple become a tidal wave/ when does a man become a monster”—DURING THIS CRISIS. WHAT A PETTY JERK (do it again)

Eurylochus try to confess and Odysseus refusing to let him. There three reasons I think this is: 1) he doesn’t know why he wants to confess but he literally does not have time for his #2 to be having a moment rn. 2) he knows what Eurylochus did and is choosing to keep him quiet because he needs the crew not to dwell on this/he’s trying not to punch him in the face. 3) he knows what he did and he’s saying “stfu” as a way of forgiveness. All of these are great options imo

“We couldn’t resist!” “What was it?” “A woman!” “…w h a t. -_-“ my man is fed up rn

“We have to save them!” “NO WE DON’T” EURYLOCHUS WTF IS WRONG W YOU BRO

Hermes’s insane laugh !!!! LOVE

Hermes’s entire song

Rhyming “Be hurt” with “beat her” BRAIN SO HAPPY

Someofthamagic~ BRAIN SO HAPPY AGH

The fight between Odysseus and Circe~ so evenly matched! Wits, power, but she beat him! She beat him even though he didn’t cave.

“I dug the root up w my bare hands!” “Hermes gave it to you didn’t he” “…okay fine yes but rGARDLESS—“

The fact that Odysseus calls Penelope his power

Circe’s empathetic sigh because she’s not a monster, she’s a protector, and her heart has been touched by Odysseus’s earnestness and love for his wife and for his brothers

HER OUTRO WAHHHHHHH

[kaonarvna]

Every now and again, I remember that my disability (EDS) isn't invisible, actually. People are just uncomfortable when they can see it. People don't want to see it. People like to ignore it. Other people just stare at it, and don't even look at me. All they see is a pile of bones and fascia and something to pity.

I've worn a shoulder brace the past week, because it subluxed horribly a week or so ago. Still healing. Visible.

I always have compression sleeves on my arms, full coverage. Bicep to wrist. Visible.

I have soft braces and compression kit for every joint imaginable. Visible.

I'm covered in KT tape. I've worn it on my goddamn face after a jaw sublux, for that little extra support and proprioception help. Tape. On the face. Very visible.

The people I've worked with for years are used to it by now, the good ones, at least. They don't remark when I take a minute to stretch. They know I'll say something if I'm not okay. They know I'm in a constant state of variable dysfunction. They've seen enough, they're used to it.

But then there's people who aren't used to it. People who see me stretch on the ground, watch in discomfort, then they ask someone else if I'm okay. I can hear them quietly mutter it to other staff. I hear them go, "oh, he does that". I can see their discomfort with me (just existing as I need to exist). I can see the discomfort in these new people who aren't accustomed to bodies with slightly different needs, and it's a visceral reminder of being "other". I wonder, how terrible and scary and different I must be, for them to not even have the fortitude to ask me themselves.

And then there are the new people who see it and ask too many questions. The ones who go "but you're so young!" as though my connective tissue has a concept of social expectations for people under (arbitrary age). They go "but you look great!" as though I'm not covered in bruises and held together by tape (nevermind the implication that the disabled must look "bad"). They go "but you never call in!" as though I'm not often two seconds away from doing so, before the fear of losing my job sets in.

...and these are the ones who seem to wish not to see it the most. The ones who ask questions like I should be on display, and as soon as the conversation ends, so does my disability. They'll ask the same questions the next time, and the next time, and the next. It always ends with statements of pity, or something pity-adjacent. If I'm "lucky", they might even make an inappropriate comment about how I shouldn't be working, or sex must be "interesting", or act like I'm some eldritch horror that shouldn't exist.

And I'm reminded of the training I was once made to sit though. A ninety minute training, where you sit and watch the PowerPoint for ninety minutes in a too-small plastic chair, while someone reads the PowerPoint. The presenter started with a cute little "haha I know it's long, feel free to get up and walk around, or stretch".

I did.

I got up, walked myself to the side well out of the way of the tight chair lines, and laid down to stretch (a good spinal twist, loosen things up).

And she stopped the presentation.

She asked if there were any first-aiders present.

She was going to keep going on and on, until I heard someone say, "oh, he's fine, he does that." and a few "that's just (name), he does that". She started apologising profusely, waffling about how she thought there must have been a medical emergency, how people don't usually get up. She seemed baffled by the mere concept that someone would actually need to get up, and couldn't sit for ages. Her statement was entirely performative and insincere.

Today, after the day was effectively done, I laid down on the clean, carpeted floor in my classroom to just...be horizontal for a moment. Find some way, any way, to get my lower back to move and function and not feel like it was being clawed apart from the inside. Relieve myself a little, so I could finish the day without abject misery. And this very-new member of staff sat on the other side of the room, presumably watching me. When I got up, she asked very quietly, "Is something wrong with you?" and all I had the energy to say was "I'm fine". I'm tired of explaining my body. I'm tired of explaining my needs. I'm tired of justifying taking care of myself.

Someone recently told me "You're very brave. I think I'd rather die than live like you."

I didn't respond. I didn't have the energy to break down that she'd effectively told me I should die. I didn't have the energy to tell her that it's not bravery to live "like this".

It's my only option.

I know nothing else.

And I'm just tired. And hurting.

I'm grateful for the few good ones, the ones that are used to it. The people who have stopped asking me if I'm okay when I stretch, or need a little break, or get out the tape and scissors.

They know I'm not okay. That's why I'm on the ground. That's why I'm checking my range of motion, or feeling a joint, or holding pressure on a digit that's come undone. I'm not okay, and I'm trying not to get even worse.

I'm not okay, actually. I'm never okay, and that's fine. I'll never be your version of "okay", and that's fine. I've no choice. Thank you for knowing that I'm not okay, but that that's normal, and that if something was seriously, horribly wrong, I'd do something. Thank you, for just going about your business and talking to me as normal when I'm taking care of myself, instead of sprinkling eggshells on the ground for your own personal crunching.

I'm just tired. I'm visibly disabled if you look for ten goddamn seconds. I'm a person if you look for twenty. I'm a fetish if you just keep staring and staring and asking about my body like you're entitled to my flesh. I just want to sleep for more than two hours without my body waking itself up to remind me it hurts. I'm so tired.

[hwangism143]

limbo (part 1)

synopsis: five years ago, lee minho had broken your heart. but five years ago, unbeknown to you, he had also broken his

pairing: non-idol!minho x non-idol!fem reader

warnings: angst, angst, angst. mentions of a breakup and being heartbroken. phrases using the words 'knife' and 'drowning'

word count: 1.6k words

masterlist I part 2

"you took the best of my heart, and left it all in pieces"

then (five years ago).

The moon was always your favorite companion. It made you feel protected. During every important moment in your life, the moon was always there with you. It's silver glow shone on you and your surroundings, dousing everything in an ethereal light.

You prayed that night, for the moon to give you courage.

Minho walked over to you, carrying two lemonades in his hands. Oh, he was beautiful. Even if he was wearing a loose fitting over-sized hoodie and jeans that he had grabbed when you suggested this spontaneous late-night walk, he looked like the world revolved around him.

"Here," he said, sitting down beside you. He quietly sipped his drink and each time he brought the cup to his lips, your heart sank further. He wasn't even looking at you. Since the past few days, all your interactions felt transactional.

All you interactions felt like they had lost the love that used to be infused in them.

"I got a job offer," you say softly, willing for him to look at you. You wait patiently for his response.

"Oh," is all he can muster.

You feel numb. "Oh?" you ask. You hesitate, "Minho, you aren't even looking at me. Look at me."

His face slowly snaps towards yours. Minho's eyes reflect a tired, dull expression. His hair falls to one side and his mouth is slightly open, releasing a puff of breath.

"When did you fall out of love with me?" you ask, eyes shining with tears of hope and fear.

"I don't think I did," comes his cold response.

"Really, because-"

"I don't think I fell in love with you in the first place," he abruptly says.

A tear of anguish and hurt rolled down your right cheek. This time, you're the one who takes a while to say anything. You feel like you're crumbling. Sure, you hadn't known each other for that long, but how could he be so cruel? Why lead you on like this? Why whispers empty affirmations of love when he never fell in the first place?

That night, Minho lay in bed alone. You were at your parents house. You had told him to pack your things and send it to your parents. You were gone. The bed felt cold and empty. It felt like all the light in the house had been snuffed out. And Minho?

Minho felt utterly and completely broken. He had no other word for it. It felt like the parts of his body were tossed around everywhere, like his brain had completely shut down. He couldn't function. His better half had left him and all he had was himself, purely imperfect and unable to do anything.

Minho lied to you. The part about not falling out of love was true. But the reason he lied was because he was still in so, so much love.

He cursed himself for loving you so much. Maybe if he was a little selfish, maybe if he wanted something for himself, you would still be here with him. Maybe you would still be here for him. However, he loved you so much, that he knew he had to let you go.

When he saw the email with the job offer on your computer, the world froze. Minho knew you had the beautiful and lethal quality of loving so viscerally that you would devote yourself wholly to the person you loved. Minho on the other hand, considered love to be a fleeting entity. He knew that you would refuse to follow your dreams, citing distance as a reason to stay in Seoul with him, for a love that would possibly even fizzle out down the road.

That was the day Minho decided that he would have to let you spread your wings as he clipped his.

Minho figured that arguing with you to go would be pointless. You would continue to push the argument until the date of confirmation had passed. And so, he took up the heart-breaking endeavor of making you seem like it was never love. The only way that you would let go of the love you shared was if you thought it was never even love at all.

It was a painful process, making it seem like he didn't love you anymore. Every fallen smile, every quick glance made it feel like a knife was twisting inside Minho. He considered backing out and begging you to stay multiple times. Absolutely not, he would chide himself whenever those thoughts entered his mind, I must let her go for her own happiness.

Even Minho's beloved cats knew he betrayed them. They barely came to him and snarled at him as he shuffled around, a ghost in his own home. He began packing up your things handling them with a care and affection he could no longer show you.

There were so many tidbits of the journey of your relationship around the house. Each one brought back a flood of memories that temporarily paralyzed Minho. Tickets from the first movie you went to, your books and the couple items that you both owned. The cup with your lipstick stain and the brownies you had poorly attempted to bake. The gifts you had gotten him and the the trinkets he had gotten you.

Those inanimate objects belonged more in the house you both shared than Minho did.

He packed everything up when his eyes fell on your favorite, oversized sweater. The cats would not budge from their home in the sweater, looking up at him with steely glares. It smelled like you, he thought.

"Please," his voice broke, "I need it. I need to give it to her. Please."

He collapsed next to the sweater and let out a shaky breath. "Please." His cats didn't move.

Silent cries and quiet pain filled the room.

now (five years later).

Minho was sitting in the SoDoNg lobby. Being the owner of one of the most successful cat café franchises in Korea was certainly... humbling. Seungmin and Jeongin, the finances and socials managers respectively, bickered over coffee flavors. The head chef of the Seoul branch, Felix, watched as the cafe's designer Hyunjin drew a sketch of the plant sitting in front of him.

All of them being here made sense, but Minho wondered what Changbin, Han and Chan were doing here. The music producing trio were here all the time anyways, now they were even present during the business meetings.

Although, considering how they hadn't spoken a word about business, Minho thought that Sunday brunch might have been a more befitting moniker for the meet-up.

"Damn hyung," said Changbin, "Y/N turned hot."

Minho didn't spare him a glance. None of them knew the whole truth of what had happened, just that she'd gotten a job and that the two of them broke up. Minho could feel Hyunjin studying him intently. The hopeless romantic of the group was always trying to set up the other boys to make up the absence of romance in his own life.

"Look, I just hope she's happy. We're done and I bet she doesn't even remember me."

You wondered how he was. Some of your mutual friends had said that Minho was an owner of a chain of cat cafes. You were slightly surprised, never taking him as the business executive type. Only the cat part made sense to you.

You despised him for what he did to you. Because of him, you couldn't love properly anymore. Anytime you felt yourself falling or somebody else told you they were falling, you pushed them away. You couldn't suffer from the heartbreak of finding out that the love you had deluded yourself into thinking you were happy in was an illusion.

The thought of coming back to Seoul filled you with dread. What if you saw him again? What would happen then? You wanted to slap him. You needed to hear an apology from him. You would probably end up bursting into to tears.

These were the thoughts that clouded your mind as you made your way to the dairy section of the grocery store. Working abroad had definitely changed you. You felt so much more mature and confident. Maybe not in the romantic sense, but it felt like your skin truly fit over your bones. You had grown out your hair, changed your style and decided to reflect who you were, not who the world wanted you to be.

You tried to reach for the ricotta cheese at the top of the open freezer. Another thing that had changed were your cooking skills. Back when you lived with Minho, and even before that, he always insisted on cooking for you. Now, you had to fend for yourself.

"Excuse me," you ask the man in front of you, "can you please get down the ricotta cheese for me? I can't reach and I would really appreciate it."

Minho stilled. He recognized that voice. He would recognize it anywhere, no matter where he was.

It was the voice that whispered 'I love you' to him for the first time. It was the voice that scolded him playfully, that told him he was perfect. It was the voice that had shakily asked him if he didn't love anymore. It was the voice that he played in recordings when he felt like he was drowning in loneliness. It was the voice that he willed himself to forget and couldn't for the life of him.

Minho quietly handed the ricotta to you without even turning towards you. You thought there was something familiar about him.

"I'm sorry if this is a weird questions but, do I know you?" you asked tentatively.

Minho should have said no. He should have walked away and spared both of you the agony of seeing each other again. But this time, he let himself be selfish. He left himself fulfill his desires, his urge to see you in all you beauty and all you glory.

Minho turned to face you.

"Minho?"

a/n: haha. i have delivered you a steaming platter of pain. if you want, i'll maybe make a pt. 2?? anyways, drop your feedback, and honestly anything you wanna say, below!

[the-crooked-library]

You made such excellent points- in OG book vampirism is imposed on Mina by outside force and Mina actually can be cured from it if they kill Dracula. But if not Jonathan is ready to become vampire himself. Ellen meanwhile was born like that - with her psychic paranormal abilities. Orlok didn’t make her like that, that’s her forever part. But Thomas essentially wants her to be normal, while she never was in the traditional sense and can’t be normal and in his hunt for Orlok seems to believe that killing him would not only save but cure-fix Ellen too. It won’t. I mean Thomas is the one, who proceeds to have sex with Ellen when she’s not even feeling perfectly coherent, not entirely self, because he wants to show his masculinity or idk. Imagine if after Dracula’s attack on Mina and Mina telling about it Jonathan would immediately proceed to have aggressive sex with her instead of just comforting her, because he needs to reestablish his husband’s rights or something? Like that’s not. But that’s the part of why book Jonathan and 2024 remake Thomas are different characters.

Thank you - I'm glad you've enjoyed them, and they do actually connect to the scene you're mentioning here!

There is a lot to say about this particular sequence, mainly because it forces two characters to deal with each other and face the reality of their marriage, while both are emotionally stripped to the bone and unstable. The result is an incredibly revealing scene. It digs into the Hutters' insecurities, fears, hurts - and even though they largely fail to communicate within their fictional framework, the viewer gets a veritable feast of information regarding them both.

Throughout this scene, Ellen is evidently in a psychic trance; as demonstrated by Von Franz and his needle, during these "fits" she is at least partially astral projecting; her soul is not entirely housed in her body and she often appears to be sleepwalking (which might be a reference both to the original 1922 Nosferatu and Eggers' earlier project The Witch). In this state, she is also not in control of the baser, more physical, less rational passions and desires; she is unbound, stripped of her usual repression - and what lies beneath is a lifetime of neglect, loneliness, and disrespect, as well as all the pain and rage she consequently feels. This is not a surprise for the viewer, who has already witnessed her suffering, her lack of autonomy, and her argument with Harding; but it is absolutely a surprise for Thomas.

Thomas cannot fathom why Ellen would be angry with him; in his mind, he has done everything right - provided for her, prioritized their financial advancement, came back to try and save her from the monster he knows is after her. However, what he fails to understand that he has also cut their honeymoon short, that he left her right after that to travel to another country, that she never cared about wealth beyond being able to afford a somewhat stable existence; what Ellen wants, above all else, is to be known, understood, and respected - and Thomas has failed to give her that. He discourages her from talking about her dreams, he does not understand her priorities in life, and he cannot help but patronize her, even when he is attempting to express his affections. Her visceral anger is a shock to him, it catches him entirely off-guard, and then she drops a final bomb - "you could never please me the way he does."

What Ellen means here is that Orlok, a monster, is the only one who has ever understood her - because she is herself a monster. What she is trying to do is bait Thomas into exposing what she believes he truly thinks of her, now that he has seen what she becomes, liberated by the nightfall.* This is obviously a toxic thing to do, but Ellen is not a healthy or balanced individual, and this is a gothic story, so yes, she baits him (rather blatantly, in my opinion; but I've seen people confused about it, so who knows. Admittedly, I have a rather specific sort of practical background, as far as relationships go). Point is, what she expects from him is a rejection; and what she craves, desperately, is his acceptance.

What Thomas hears, however, is that another man has infringed upon what is legally his - and that his masculinity is in question, rather than Ellen's humanity; which lands a critical hit against his already damaged, patriarchal, 19th-century-misogynistic ego.

To fully understand his reaction, we must really dig into his overall narrative context. From the very beginning of the film, and throughout the story, Thomas Hutter's struggles revolve around his continuous emasculation. He is a low-level part-time employee at a real estate firm that is run exclusively by older, well-established men. He is played for a fool by foreigners who steal his horse (they were just trying to save his life, seriously, they didn't think he'd hike the fucking Carpathians on foot in the winter, but that's not how he perceives that situation). He is trapped in Orlok's castle - and, given the sexual allegories of vampirism, arguably assaulted. I'm not going to go into the full background of queerphobic stereotypes and opinions; still, suffice to say that not only would that experience have been traumatic (understandably so), but also that the act of submitting to penetration (here, biting) by another man has been historically seen as inherently emasculating and degrading. In the context of Nosferatu (or Dracula, or Interview with the Vampire, and others), this scenario is, on a largely Doylist level, a bodice-ripper fantasy; however, that doesn't make it any easier for Thomas to accept. To submit to another (even a richer, older, infinitely more powerful) man is a problem - but to enjoy that position is unforgivable.

All that to say - by the time Thomas returns to Wisborg, his sense of self-worth is in shambles. The narrative has assigned him the role of a Damsel in Distress, which he fits perfectly and obviously resents. Thus, when he hears yet another insult from his wife - who may be higher-born, but still his wife, and thus below him - he reacts accordingly, with fury.

Again, in anticipation of discourse wank - this is not a good thing; his reasons are clear, I understand them, I do not excuse him. What Thomas does at this point is attempt to aggressively reassert his claim and right to Ellen as her husband. He's rough, but uninventive; he also doesn't worship her the way Orlok did; and, ultimately, even as he tries to demonstrate his continued interest and desire for her, he ends up proving her anxieties. When faced with a hallucination - a fraction of her psychic gift - he flings her away. Crucially, he cannot "show" Orlok their love.

After that, he does try to reassure her, be gentle with her, declare his love - but, really, he might as well mark that off as another failure. She has seen how terrified he looked, and she will not believe a word he says.

The whole scene is a distillation of their dynamic. It's one disconnect after another, strung together by his inability to listen, her lack of trust, and their shared resentment. Thomas and Ellen's relationship is hindered at every turn by the misogyny, queerphobia, and repression that are built into the cage that is their society. The film is an exploration of that cage. Its bars are the driving force behind the plot.

* NIGHTFALL - the diurnal, or gas-lit (it's on the nose. it's SO on the nose) scenes are a visual shorthand for the "normal" accepted society. It is Rational (hence the scientific "gaseous" light), it is godly (sunlight), it is the domain of the Hardings and Sievers of the story. The moonlight and firelight provide a similar distinction to the scenes that delve into the Emotional and the demonic, removing the subjects from the usual societal restrictions; those light sources are generally considered to be magical, primal, raw. It's fascinating, seriously - if you ever watch this film again, try to pay attention to the lighting!

[revelboo]

Everything is Alright pt 8

Soundwave x reader- whispers

• It’s just out of reach, that whispering tangle of confused emotions at the edge of his awareness. And he isn’t able to block them out like normal, so they’re just there, pulling at him. All the time. Except, no Cybertronian’s mind is this chaotic. Not even Skywarp.

• Fine hair at your nape prickling, you turn and stare out of your cage at the empty space around you. That eerie sense of not being along trips down your spine on icy fingers, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It’s not the first time you’ve felt the sensation over the last several days. Usually faint, it’s like a half-remembered word on the tip of your tongue. A memory you can recall the emotion for, but not the details. And it makes your chest ache even as it scares you.

• That voice whispers without words to you, calming your thoughts when you start to unravel from stress and fear. You haven’t dared mention it to Starscream. What can you even say? That you think you’re losing your mind? That you miss something so viscerally it hurts and you don’t even know what it is?

• No matter how many mental walls he puts up, it’s still there. Always there. Always just out of reach. Soundwave slumps at his console, glyphs running together as he tries to focus. He’s aware of his cassettes’s worry. They don’t share his gift exactly, but they’re all aware that something is wrong.

• It’s frustration that drives him from his office, leaving behind the monitors to stalk the halls. This has to end- this distraction. He drifts through the base, no longer trying to block that whispering mind out. Now he’s seeking it, a thrill of recognition sparking in him as he hesitates in front of the SIC’s closed door. This rotation, Starscream would be on patrol. No one to catch him override the lock and slip inside, because that chaos of needs and emotion is so close, warping sharply, painfully into fear as he steps inside the dimly lit space.

• Frozen, you stare at the boxy new mech and hold your breath. Given how Skywarp and Thundercracker had reacted to finding you hidden away like a favorite toy, you expect pain. Last time, Starscream had shown up just in time, but this time? You might not be so lucky and as its head turns to stare at you from a faintly luminous visor, you have to admit Lady Luck is a jerk.

• A human. The tiny creature stares up at him with frightened eyes, the noise of its thoughts increasing with panic. Becoming almost deafening. “Stop.” He’s reaching for it inside its crude cage before he thinks better and it cringes as he lifts it free. Never having been so close to one, he never realized he could hear them. Their thoughts a living thing, growing wild and chaotic- sharp and painful inside his processor. “Stop,” he repeats again, softening the demand as it trembles and he runs a servo from the bridge of its nose, up and over its hair, and it freezes. The touch startling it into blissful silence just like an anxious sparkling.

• That sense of familiarity washes over you as your heart races. It’s warmth and safety, that voice draining away the fear as he runs a feather-light finger against you again. Nerves still humming, you stare up at this new mech and wonder why you’re suddenly not afraid. Why you want to curl against his servos, because, like Starscream, he’s safe. As you blink up at him, his big shoulders ease slowly and that servo makes another pass, the touch making you lean away. That visor and mask combo make reading his mood from his expression impossible, but you don’t think he’s angry. He’s almost humming, the noise unheard but felt as it buzzes through your bones and you relax further.

• Finally. Finally he’s not drowning in those wild thoughts. He can’t even get a true read like he can on a Cybertronian, organic thoughts are all bright flashes of emotion and movement. But calm, it’s almost music, running constantly like the chatter of water. When it speaks, that soft voice surprises him. “If Starscream finds you here, he’ll be mad.” Those words skitter through his mind with more bright, anxious emotion. Fascinating. Afraid of Starscream? No. Worried about Starscream’s reaction. Worried for… him?

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