#AND HE CURS THAT SHORT

[jethroq]

last night we looked at the Netflix horror section and decided to watch what looked worst. I decreed Zack Snyder’s Army of the Dead, and while it was a hater pick, I wasn’t prepared for how right I was. Hack Znyder, wrote, directed, produced and was head of cinematography for this turd log, which really proved that he is a shitty film maker who can occasionally turn out a oresentable product if reined in by someone with better taste.

[mechazushi]

God, you're dense [Affectionate].

{a Kn8 short story}

Hoshina wasn't one to play games. Sure, he liked to have fun, but playing with people's emotions and perceptions wasn't something he could get into. He raised himself on the belief that being straight forward on something was the best course of action. If someone couldn't get on the same page as him, that was on them. He worked in a position where the best moves forward and anyone else that can't keep up with him were best left behind. Of course, much like most rules in life, there were exceptions to the rule. His biggest fault to everything he stood for was a tall, jolly, brute of a beast named Kafka. Kafka would be an exception to most everything he would die on a hill for. On the opposite end of the spectrum, however, was one person that he held to the highest accordance of his standards. His brother.

Hoshina made a point not to talk to his brother after he got accepted into the defense force. The restrictions on that got tighter after he got accepted as Mina's Vice Captain. Since before, he still showed up to family gatherings at the least to entertain his mother's concerns about his livelihood in the Third Division. Still, just because he didn't make attempts to contact his family, doesn't mean his family doesn't make attempts to contact him. It was always inevitable (because they don't tell him ahead of time) always with the supposed best of intentions (Because what quality road to hell isn't paved with them) and always at the most inconvenient times (an ability that seemed to be an inbred skill in every other family member). Between catching up on chores that should have been done yesterday, decaf in the communal coffee machine, and his third favorite pen breaking, Hoshina found he wasn't in the mood to talk. So obviously it was a perfect time to be visited by his least favorite person.

Walking down the hallway with a mountain of signed paperwork, his pace was intended to be brisk, but felt sluggish all the same. As he passed an intersection in hallways, he noticed the large frame of a burly friend catching up behind him. As Kafka slowed his pace to match his commander's, Hoshina tilted his face in his direction and flashed what was hoped to be a casual and respectful smile.

"Had a feeling you'd feel like that once I heard about the incident at the coffee machine. Here. Brought this for ya." Kafka said as he handed over a steaming mug of dark tan coffee.

"Oh, I already had coffee today." Hoshina tried to politely decline. he guessed his smile wasn't as bright as it should have been if Kafka could see he was feeling off.

"Yeah, but that was decaf." he insisted as he held the mug by its rim and pointed its handle temptingly toward its intended recipient.

Hoshina stiffed its steam heavily as it wafted under his nose. The smell of a caffeinated brew being much more rejuvenating than the bland swill he choked down this morning. He didn't think twice as he shifted the paper load more securely under his arm and took the offered mug greedily. There was a low, grateful moan as the hot, searing, and just lightly sweetened liquid burned pleasantly down the back of his throat.

'You might've just saved my mental state yet again, Kafka." Hoshina finally muttered after nearly downing half of the mug.

Kafka just chuckled as he walked in time with him, and after a while, held out a hand in an offer to carry the paperwork. Hoshina politely refused again, feeling genuinely better now that he had something more stimulating coursing throughout his system. Walking side by side, they engaged in pleasant idle chatter as they continued down the hallway. Without checking how far they had walked, they neared an area that had a lobby that was sparsely populated. As they got closer, an irritatingly familiar voice rang clear in the partially echoey room.

"Brother Dearest!" Soichiro Hoshina, Soshiro's older brother, was leaning against the desk in the back center of the lobby, relaxing like he deserved the space he was taking up.

"Oh God, why aren't I being delivered from evil like I ask every Shrine visit?" Soshiro muttered as soon as he realized who was occupying the open room with them.

"That's your brother?" Kafka asked as he laid eyes on the visitor.

"Unfortunately." Soshiro said with every letter somehow overflowing with distain and loudly enough to be heard by the other person.

"Come on, brother! You had to have known that one of these visits was to have to happen soon? It's been, what, months since you've even sent at minimum a hello to Mother." Soichino's words were playful, a clear difference in demeanor to the attitude his younger brother was radiating. A second had passed as he clearly gave the plus one an interested once-over after he lifted his sunglasses off his face.

"Well, hello soldier. And who might you be?" A salacious smile slithered coolly over Soichiro's glossy, thin lips. His tongue flicked out and over his teeth teasingly as he continued to stare down Kafka with a darkened sense of interest. Kafka bowed deeply in greeting before he introduced himself.

"Kafka Hibino. Officer of the Third Division." was his militantly clipped response.

"Kafka... Kafka... Where have I heard that name before?" Soichiro drawled out as he shifted over to Kafka's side, poking his shoulder with the arm of his sunglasses with playful emphases.

"He's our Kaiju Number Eight, you salacious cur. Now what are you doing here?" Soshiro snarked as he took another sip of his coffee. His brother made no move to acknowledge the comment as he continued to speak directly to Kafka.

"Kaiju Number Eight, huh! So you're the beast on the battlefield. Is it too much for me to ask if you're a beast anywhere else?" That Cheshire smile never left his face as his eyes turned into a more evaluating gaze.

"Well, I'm the Division's only on call Kaiju. It's pretty safe to say that I'm always the beast when it's needed." Kafka smiled bashfully as a hand came up to scratch the back of his neck. Soichiro practically giggled as a hand came up to mischievously smack the other shoulder.

"Look at you! Making out to be something that strong and powerful as a humble brag!" the older brother seemed to slide in closer to Kafka's personal space, with Kafka playing it off as business as usual. Soshiro could feel the handle of the mug creaking under his tightened grip as he looked on at his brother's shameless display.

"Ya know, I had originally cleared out my schedule to take my brother out on a lunch date, but I've just realized he's been a horrible brother and hasn't shown me around the Third Division's main facilities not once!", Soichiro saddled up impossibly closer and even had the audacity to slip a hand around the back of Kafka's forearm, "Why don't I be a good Captain and help clear yours so you can show me around? I'm sure any tour by you would be far more interesting than what he could provide." Soshiro watched as he saw the offer being sealed with an obviously flirty wink.

"Well, I'd be happy to! That is, if it's alright with my Vice Captain?" Kafka asked as he looked innocently toward the younger brother, seemingly unaware or unaffected by the attention he was currently being given.

"No Kafka, that won't be necessary, If my brother is going to come out all this way to see me, then he's just going to have to settle for my company alone." Soshiro said as he placed his paperwork and his coffee mug on the abandoned reception desk.

"Yeah, that makes sense. Maybe some other time?" Kafka asked as he looked at the older Hoshina brother.

"Such a shame. Don't be surprised if I take you up on that offer." Soichiro tittered as he patted the other side of the forearm he was still holding onto. The two brothers watched intently as Kafka turned around and walked down the hallway. Soshiro waited until he was out of every possible hearing range before he decided to speak.

"Alright, you bottle-platinum harlot. What the hell was that display all about?" Soshiro made no attempts to restrain his irritation at his brother's expense. He had no idea what game his brother was trying to play with him, but he wouldn't stand for it since it seemed to involve a very close and personal friend of his.

"I don't know what you mean." Soichiro said as he kept tittering. His posture and demeanor revealing to his younger brother that there was a plan brewing behind those evil eyes.

"I will not have you seducing my strongest man over to your division while I'm here." Soshiro commanded as he leveled a piercing gaze at the other person.

"Excuse me, 'Your man'? I'm sorry, but I didn't see a ring on his finger." Soichiro teased as he turned to face his brother.

"That's not what I meant and you know it, you vile rake." Soshiro spat the words out in an attempt to dissuade any further conversation on the topic.

"So catty today, are we brother? I was simply taking in the local selection. I'm not surprised you're interested in him." Soichiro chatted as he teasingly bit on the arm of his sunglasses.

"I also see you've decided to take up slander as a hobby since last we met." Soshiro grumbled as he found himself forced into a position where he had to talk to his brother in person for more than a minute.

"Oh, please! You know our family has a history of liking them sweet and dumb. How do you think Mother's marriage has lasted this long?" Soichiro continued as he leveled a knowing stare at him.

"If you're going to keep insinuating things that don't exist, I'm going to order you to cancel the lunch date and leave." the younger brother retorted as he turned around to drink the last sips from the coffee mug.

"What do you think I'm insinuating?" Soichiro purred as his sight never left his brother.

"Don't toy with me today, you troglodytic trollup. I am in no mood to bat around this string of yarn you're trying to spin here." Soshina kept snapping back as he took the opportunity to avoid eye contact as he shuffled around the stack of papers.

"Why all the denial, Brother Dearest? Especially since we're so far from Egypt. Besides, it's not slander saying you like a coworker as if your interactions weren't displayed all over the news two weeks ago." The grin broke into a full blown, toothy smile of superiority as the Captain of the Sixth Division draped himself over the desk's top next to Soshiro.

"What... interactions?" the Vice Captain hissed as he slowly turned his head to side-eye his brother

"Should I reenact it for you?" Soichiro giggled before flopping onto his back and dramatically fainting, "Oh! I seem to have taken a terrible fall and broken both of my legs! Oh, is there some dark, handsome, Knight in living armour that can princess-carry my oh so fragile body to the farthest fucking ambulance on scene and completely bypass three others that were unoccupied and were going to take me to the same fucking hospital!" It was clear that he was taking a massive amount of joy retelling his version of events that he saw on the news as his voice raised in volume with every reveal.

"I didn't break my legs, I dislocated my ankles! What would you have me do, walk?" Soshiro started to match his brother's volume and had now fully turned to him to confront this problem of point-of-views head on.

"The cameras clearly show you two having a conversation where it shows you convincing him to carry you!" The two of them were so close to each other's faces now their noses could touch.

"I was trying to convince him not to!" Soshiro returned.

"Because the cameras were rolling?" Soichiro asked.

"Yes!" his brother answered.

"AND BECAUSE YOU TWO ARE IN LOVE! Why else be camera shy about being carried around in public?" The eldest returned triumphantly as he poked him in the chest.

"NO." Soshiro shouted back as he shoved his brother backwards, "We are not in love! What part of this do you think it's okay to date someone like him?"

"Oh don't act like you can't because he's under your position. He makes his own precedent as he breathes! And you are the right type of rebellious, attention craving, delinquent punk that would absolutely fall for someone that is perfect for you in all the right ways, while also him being a human anomaly in every sense of the word! He turns into something our family has been training it's young to kill for centuries so of course you're going to deviate from the norm and be practically head over heels for him!" The Captain couldn't stop himself from cackling as his lungs quaked from talking for so long without breath.

There wasn't anything left on the matter that Soshiro could say to make his brother change his mind, so he decided to let his fists do the talking for him as he sent a vicious right hook. His fist connected to his brother's left eye and caught him off guard for a second. Before he could speak out against the assault, the younger brother wasted no time in jumping onto his brother and throwing his fists left and right. The two soon became a mass of tangled limbs and colorful curse words on the floor. It wasn't like this for long as two other people came across the fight and helped break up the fray.

"Alright, alright! Break it UP!" You two are grown up men, and Defense Force officers at that! ACT LIKE IT!" Okonogi reprimanded them as Aoi held them off the ground by their jacket collars.

"Yes, Okonogi." The brothers said in unison. As they were set back on the ground, they straightened their outfits and waited to see if their new company would leave. When they didn't, Soichiro decided to speak what was left on his mind anyway.

"The lunch date is still on, by the way. Mother's orders. How about I give us an hour to cool down and we try this whole 'conversation' thing again?" he tried to say with as much possible conviction in his smile. Soshiro just glared violently as he picked up the stack of papers from the desk.

"I do what I damn well please, you leporid bunk bunny." he said as he stormed off. Everyone watched as he walked away before his older brother spoke up again.

"He'll be fine."

 𓈒��  𑁍 𓈒

It was a little after seven thirty before Hoshina felt fine enough to interact with anyone. Spending some time in the gym helped him feel better after dealing with the Lunch Date From Hell. It also helped that he got to meet his favorite punching bag for sparring.

"Look -huff- I get you -huff- don't like your brother -huff-, but did you really -huff- need to literally -huff- kick my ass?" Kafka's lungs heaved after spending what felt like hours defending himself from his Vice Captain's volley of blows.

"Ya snooze, ya loose Kafka. Intense training is for your own good." Hoshina quipped back as he walked over to his duffle for water bottles. Kafka shambled behind him slowly and sat down on the bench the bag was next to.

"Intense training, my entire bruised ass. That last chokehold felt personal." Kafka began to regulate his breathing by the time Hoshina made it over with the water bottles.

As Hoshina drank from his, he subtly tried to look at Kafka as he poured some of the bottle's contents onto himself. He watched as the water made his partner's bangs stick to his forehead at odd angles and made a swift attempt to cool his fiery red cheeks. Hoshina didn't let his imagination run too far away from him as he thought about Kafka looking worn out and sweaty for a different reason. Of course he denied everything that was said earlier that was concerning the situation between him and Kafka. Mainly because it all implied that Kafka felt the same way he did. Had it been a complete stranger talking to him this morning, it would have shocked everyone that knew him once they heard how different his answers would have been.

As Kafka finished rubbing the cool water into his face and straightened his back and arms out into an intense looking stretch, Hoshina forced himself to look away from the rippling of muscle and the straining of his tank top around said muscles. In moments like this, when he was sure no one would be looking or they were alone, Hoshina liked to play a little game with Kafka. It wasn't one that you could win with points or anything. Hell, some days it made Hoshina feel like all he did was lose by playing, but he couldn't deny that conniving little twitch that begged for him to play over and over again. All so he could see that dumb little smile.

"Still improving as slow as always." Hoshina said after a minute of relaxing on the bench.

"Hey, at least I am still improving, right?" Kafka returned as he looked back at his Vice Captain.

There was a smile, sure, but it wan't big. He could do better.

"Can't say I don't find you to be consistent at least 1% of the time." Hoshina offered as a response, deciding to bring up a well used joke between them. He turned back to look out at the empty gym in front of them.

"God, I still haven't gotten higher than that, haven't I?" Kafka chuckled out of the side of his mouth.

"It was a good thing we found out you were a kaiju when we did. Could you imagine what would have happened if you couldn't raise that percentage up high enough in three months?" Hoshina thought the comment sounded funnier in his head, but once he heard it out loud he wanted to smack himself for it. Everyone knew that it was a horrible thought, thinking about Kafka not being around anymore. Even that was something Hoshina couldn't bring himself to deny or joke about.

"I do every day." Kafka sighed heavily, "Everyday I wake up here." He closed his eyes for a second as he smiled softly, his head coming to rest against the back wall the bench was against.

Hoshina turned back to look at him, taking Kafka's moment of vulnerability to look at him fully this time. He thought about it too. A life in the Defense Force where he didn't get to see Kafka everyday. A life where he didn't bring him coffee or hear his laugh or have drinks with him after work hours. Hoshina could feel his heart squeeze at the thought of Kafka not being in the Defense Force, or worse, suddenly living at a different Division. Being close by technicality, but feeling oh so very far.

"Did you notice my brother was flirting with you at all?" Hoshina felt himself ask before he could take the words back. He felt himself brace for the answer in the brief moments in between his heartbeats.

"Wait... really?" Kafka asked with genuine interest. Hoshina could feel his face twist into something between curiosity and mild disgust. Kafka couldn't tell he was being flirted with? And was okay with it coming from his brother?

"Ye-yeah?" Hoshina returned hesitantly.

"You sure? 'Cuz I mean... wow. He's... actually interested? In me?" Kafka's smile grew bigger and more wonky as he processed what he was told.

"You're okay with this?" Hoshina questioned incredulously. He could not believe what he was seeing, and was actively praying that this wasn't the case.

"Are you kidding? Of course! You're brother is frickin' hot!" Kafka replied with joy, "Is he, like, still around? I mean, I know he's not here kinda around, but I mean, is he like, nearby? Like in a hotel or something? Nah, that would be creepy. Oh! Could you let me have his number?" Kafka prattled on as Hoshina continued to become more and more disgusted. Sure, he was a little happy to hear that Kafka was cool with being hit on by guys, (and clearly reciprocated the sentiment) but felt absolutely horrified at hearing Kafka wanting his brother's number. So much so that he immediately stood on the bench seat so he could get a good enough vantage to stomp on Kafka to stop his train of thought.

"You! Will! NOT! Be! Dating! My! BROTHER!" Hoshina shouted out between the stomping.

"Jesus! And here I thought you wouldn't be having a problem with me liking guys! Yah know, since you told me about it!" Kafka shouted back as he tried to defend himself from the onslaught.

"I don't have a problem with you dating guys! I have a problem with you dating my brother!" Hoshina said as he pressed his foot down firmly onto Kafka's hands that were protecting his head.

'Well then, who would you rather have me date?" Kafka returned rhetorically.

"Me for starters!" Hoshina finally admitted. Once he did, he let the pressure off of his foot and just stayed in the position for a hot minute, feeling as awkward as a school girl admitting to her first crush. Kafka just held onto the foot as he looked up at his commander with wide, unbelieving eyes. All Hoshina could bring himself to do was look away, his cheeks flushing hot and bright. Kafka helped lower the foot down as he got up from his seat to face him from the front.

"Have... have you been flirting with me too?" Kafka asked. Hoshina still couldn't look at him or answer, so his cheeks answered for him.

"How long have you been flirting with me?" Kafka asked again.

"Two... two years." Hoshina answered quietly.

"We've known each other for two years." Kafka responded. Hoshina still hadn't made a move, only crossed his arms defensively.

"YOU'VE BEEN FLIRTING WITH ME SINCE WE MET?" Kafka shouted as he made the realization.

"To be fair, I don't flirt like a normal person and you clearly can't read context clues." Hoshina said as he finally regained some control over his mouth. He just wished he had better control over what it said.

"Why didn't you say anything before now?" Kafka sounded incredulous at the thought of how he could have been dating the most amazing person on base before now, had be been able to read between the lines.

" I kept thinking it was funny?" Hoshina responded in a shy, quivering voice as more blood rushed to his face and made it redder.

"Okay, now I have to ask. What about me do you like? Do you think I'm handsome, or do you really just like to think I'm funny?" Kafka questioned as he waved his hands around animatedly.

"Honestly? I just really like that you're funny." Hoshina said as he relaxed and playfully shrugged. Now feeling better about having all of this out in the open.

" So, just, fuck my face then." Kafka said in a sarcastically irritated manner while turning around and waving his arms.

"I would if you'd stop talking." Hoshina accidentally let slip.

He wasn't ashamed of saying it, but probably should have found a better time to say it. It didn't seem to matter anyway as Kafka took a second to stop his flailing and slowly turned around to face his commander again. A sly smile tugged at the corner of his lips as his eyes darkened at the play on words they stumbled into.

"Well alright then." Kafka chuckled darkly as he strode over to where Hoshina was still standing. He grabbed his legs and threw him over his shoulder, holding onto Hoshina's calves for dear life as he carried his thrashing lover out of the gym.

"Wha-what do you think you're doing?" Hoshina cried as he tried to look back at his kidnapper. Kafka returned the most intensely flirtatious side-eye back at him as they walked out of the gym.

"Moving training to your place, so you can properly shut me up."

"Wha-what, no dinner first?" Hoshina stuttered nervously as he continued to be paraded down the hall on Kafka's shoulder. He got even more nervous as Okonogi slid past his line of sight and watched them walk away.

"You've been flirting with me for two years. Dinner can wait." Kafka growled as the other hand came up and audibly smacked Hoshina on the ass.

[kyouka-supremacy]

Very assorted - and probably disorganized - thoughts on Akutagawa's immediate reaction on the night Dazai left the pm, since it's taken a pretty delineate shape in my mind for some time now.

I didn't use to have many strong opinions on how Akutagawa acted when Dazai left (although “unknown” uses as a concept of its own. Akutagawa disappearing, and no one knows where he was or what he did– until he comes back, but as a different man). That is up until recently, when I found this fic that described Chuuya storming to Akutagawa's place and all but threatening him to come to work the day after, and for all the days to come– and thus, urged him not kill himself. And I didn't think much about it initially, yet the scene slowly, unconsciously got ingrained in the bsd canon I have in my mind. And although one could fairly think Chuuya was spiraling in his own depressive episode that night, I feel like it's feasible to believe he'd still look out for Akutagawa. Not because Chuuya cared about Akutagawa in particular (at that point of the story, I genuinely think he didn't experience any strong feeling of any kind for Akutagawa, much less had a general good impression of him), but simply because that's what Chuuya does: he looks out for his own. He's perceptive enough to grasp that Akutagawa was but a kid at serious risk in that moment, and he's compassionate enough to go out of his way to help him, even though they barely knew each other, even though Chuuya himself was hurting like crazy that night (and perhaps even because that's simply what he does to cope with great distress and impending grief: keeps himself busy, tries to think of others before himself).

And there was, indeed, a very real chance Akutagawa was going to kill himself that night. Maybe he wouldn't, for Gin; but I'm not even sure. Dazai was the man who told Akutagawa he would have found a reason to live in the mafia, and now he's gone, the man who himself had seemingly become his reason to live; what's left for him in life anymore, what's the point of going on?– is probably what he must have wondered.

In my mind, the Akutagawas only have had two houses since they joined the pm. The first one was a small but comfortable, nice apartment that was assigned to them by the pm right after they joined, their first proper house. The second, a bigger, more comfortable penthouse, they had to move in after Ryuunosuke completely destroyed their first one on the night Dazai left– caught up in that kind of uncontrollable rage that only comes from inhuman pain. That night, Ryuunosuke got home blind and out of reason. He asked Gin to go away, and when she refused to, he pushed her out of the house with his ability, despite having always refrained from touching her with it, despite having always paid careful attention to never use his ability near or on her. And as soon as she was out of range he started destroying everything with and without his ability, until he could see nothing but red, everywhere. And once he destroyed everything, once the only thing left to destroy was himself, he cowered in a dark angle and howled, covered in blood, unable to speak, hideous and inhuman, nothing but a rabid dog. And his scream echoed the one he released the night he met Dazai for the first time; and if that day he had experienced his first emotion, now he was feeling a second new, deeply painful one. Maybe that's when Chuuya had come in, and told him he was not allowed to kill himself; maybe Gin had called Hirotsu, and Hirotsu had called Chuuya, and Chuuya stormed in, and ordered him to come to work tomorrow. Because Chuuya is smart; because he knows that orders are something familiar for Akutagawa, something that can help ground him; because he knows Dazai is not worth killing oneself over. And Akutagawa didn't kill himself that night, and he kept hurting for a long time, but eh. Eventually, he'll be okay.

[wispythreads]

Different ways NPC's address the Knight

Elderbug - traveller, little traveller, (after gifting the delicate flower) my friend Quirrel - my friend, my short friend, friend Cornifer - my short friend (only said once, usually just directly addresses the Knight) Old Stag - little one Confessor Jiji - small intruder, little one Snail Shaman - little shadow, my friend The Hunter - tiny squib, little squib, Zote the Mighty - cur, soggy vagabond, clumsy little oaf, lowly worm Hornet - ghost, little ghost, Ghost of Hallownest Tiso - pale thing, little squib, pale one Salubri - sweetling, stylish litte gadfly, my dear, sweetums, my dapper gadfly Cloth - my adventurous friend, tiny warrior, tiny creature, my friend, tiny saviour, tiny one Bretta - White Saviour, White Wanderer Millibelle - dearie; creepy, little thing (thought to herself, not out loud) Seer - Wielder Grey Mourner - Le'mer (she does also address the Knight as 'you,' so Le'mer must mean something else) Nailsmith - traveller (only after not killing him) Relic Seeker Lemm - grubby little wanderer, short one, Little Fool - warrior Nailmaster Mato - my pupil Eternal Emilitia - bug, little grub Dung Defendor - mighty warrior of Hallownest Midwife - my dear, my good friend Bardoon - tiny thing Troupe Leader Grimm - my friend Divine - funny little thing, little lovely

no nicknames, always addresses the Knight directly with "you:" Myla, Sly, Iselda, Leg Eater, Willoh, Tuk, Nailmaster Sheo, Nailmaster Oro (both nailmasters will say the Knight is their pupil, but not address the Knight as 'my pupil'), Brumm, White Lady

Maskmaker is an outlier in that he is so cryptic he never addresses the Knight directly

[blackwaves]

#btw this is why dazai sets him on atsushi #because atsushi is the reverse #he is entirely self preservation #he has trouble moving forward and he freezes #when dazai says “he's better than you” #that's what he means #he's saying see that? do you see that cowering weepy cat? that is the better extreme. #and then he keeps bringing them together because they need each other #atsushi needs akutagawa to be brave enough to act #and akutagawa needs to see what a will to live looks like from someone capable of absorbing the brunt of the fight #also as a reminder. akutagawa is not real. he is a seinen anime character with superpowers. #anime is a stylistic and exaggerated medium #do not work yourself up by dragging them from their context to frame their behavior as if theyre irl high school aged students #the pencil drawings are not hurting each other and cartoon violence is not 1:1 with real violence (tags from OP)

pm!dazai didn't abuse akutagawa. he reacted proportionately to the threat akutagawa posed to himself.

when dazai smacks akutagawa around in canon, they're running drills. dazai is not hitting him in misdirected anger or because he is venting his own suffering on him. akutagawa does not instinctually protect himself. in his fits of hyperviolence, he seeks to kill and be killed, and nearly is in beast, and in the course of his initial pursuit of atsushi.

he does not have the reflex or will or instinct to defend himself, and he is slow because he is having to consciously process the effort. his automatic reflex is to attack, but that will not stop him from being shot or overwhelmed or blindsided.

what they are doing in those scenes, what dazai is uniquely able to practice with him since rashomon can't pierce him, is not unlike cognitive behavioral therapy interventions. akutagawa is wired such that when he is triggered, he develops tunnel vision, pressing forward relentlessly without registering danger or responding to negative stimuli. this is a pattern developed from when he deemed dearh inevitable, and one which is liable to get him killed regardless of whether he has a reason to live.

he needs to consciously retrain his instinctual response, and he has to consciously and consistently reinforce it against his existing, much quicker instinct. he has to do it before he has the conviction or will to do it. and he has to do it over and over again, even when it isn't immediately life or death, because the instinct is self reinforcing, and the pattern he is trying to supplant it with is not yet.

skills are part of their users' framework for responding to their environment. jun'ichiro is anxious, but he can hide within light snow. kunikida has his notebook, but it has rigid limitations that he adapts to, similarly to how he works within the limitations of reality to keep from becoming consumed by his ideals.

akutagawa's skill, meanwhile, is wildly fucking disproportionate to akutagawa's constitution which is a problem when akutagawa wont react defensively. akutagawa is canonically frail, chronically ill, thin, and short (he's 5'8", but asagiri insists he's itty bitty every time he describes him in prose). rashomon, meanwhile, is monstrously powerful and hungry. it lends a false sense of untouchable violence when akutagawa himself is weak, and also is just really difficult to focus and control such that using it brings akutagawa into coughing fits. rashomon is also terrifying even in visage; it invites others to react with violence proportionate to their terror against the spectre of rashomon — but akutagawa is small, sick, and human; what is proportionate to rashomon is IMMENSE overkill if aimed at akutagawa. which is especially egregious because akutagawa will let them.

in other words, when dazai meets akutagawa, rashomon is as dangerous to its user as to anyone else. skills should not get their users killed. dazai is right. it's a shit skill.

akutagawa is vulnerable and self-destructive, and he and dazai are working to rewire his instinctual evaluation of his stakes. even when dazai punches akutagawa after akutagawa kills the mimic soldier, it's not a random act of violence or unregulated anger. the mimic soldier was not going to lead them to gide, there was no reality where they restrained him before he bit his cyanide, and he'd attacked dazai. but instead of reacting defensively at the opportunity, akutagawa fell to the former instinct, leaving himself wide open.

dazai reacts how he does because:

they are supplanting an ingrained instinct that is self reinforcing, the correction needs to be consistent to change the pattern and the former instinct needs to be discouraged with the same severity as the threat it poses;

by punching akutagawa first, dazai gave him notice and time to consciously muster the defense reaction theyre working on;

akutagawa needs to build an association between the defensive reaction and the triggering stimulus for this to work;

the context in which this happens is the exact sort of threat that rashomon is then ill equipped to handle— gide can see into the future, like oda, and mimic are military trained gunmen.

when dazai tells akutagawa that he couldn't ever defeat oda, he's not taunting him, he's right. akutagawa is relying on swift killing blows, but against someone who can see into the future, akutagawa is as vulnerable as a baby. and then, shortly after, that's what happens: gide wrecks his shit and is about to murder him dead when oda swoops in to grab dazai's dumb horrible baby kouhai who's trying to kill himself with the ambitious gusto of a horse.

as long as akutagawa fails to seek self-preservation, he is remarkably vulnerable. he's weak, and he's going to get himself killed. dazai doesn't coddle him about it for the same reason fukuzawa slaps ranpo for scampering into a police car with a murderer. you dont get praise for self endangerment.

dazai is not going to affirm a version of akutagawa that is trying to kill the boy dazai promised to save.

***

(also, this explains why akutagawa hates taking baths and being without his coat. dazai tried to instill in akutagawa the vigilance to register danger. in his absence, akutagawa strove to be worthy of demanding his approval by diligently practicing. but he's dazai's dumb baby kouhai who. takes things too far lmao.)

[pinkberrytea]

Killing you was the sinful culmination of his undying love, and breathing new life into you, a dowry bestowed upon you out of unconditional devotion.

Memento mori—Remember you must die. Enveloped in memories of her death, the Vampire Ascendant watches his darling consort as she slumbers, lost in dreams of blood and mist. Life is short, and shortly it will end; death comes quickly and respects no one. To death we are hastening, let us refrain from sinning.

An exploration of Astarion’s character and his relationship with his Dark Consort following the ascension, from a softer perspective.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 6.2k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! this is my first time dabbling in creative writing, and of course my first attempt at smut fiction, but still, i hope it is at least somewhat enjoyable. i would like to dedicate this work to the lovely @locallegume, who was a huge source of inspiration, and also to hismostbelovedspawn over on reddit, for being always so incredibly kind and supportive. i love you guys!

( part 2 here ) ( part 3 here )

tags: blood drinking; cunnilingus; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; mildly dubious consent; creampie; fluff & angst; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior; somnophilia; orgasm edging; piv sex

The beginning of the morning twilight is Astarion’s favorite time of the day, for it feels at once ephemeral and infinite. The wistful silence, broken only by the still timid chirping of the waking birds; the royal blue-colored sky, tinged with specks of the purples and violets of the dawn; the chilly morning breeze, gently rustling the flowers in the garden, pushing the still forming dewdrops off their petals and onto the ground; you, slumbering beside him, pale skin reflecting the dim light of the fading moon, rosy lips slightly parted. Sleeping peacefully like this, you look like a life-sized porcelain doll, he thinks—your unmoving chest betrays your otherwise healthy likeness, as does the unnaturally blanched color of your skin. Your nightgown hangs lazily off your shoulder, exposing one of your breasts, and your undergarments lay discarded on the floor, on the exact same spot where he had tossed them earlier that night. He adores this version of you—so vulnerable, so defenseless, laid open for him, and him only.

Astarion finds it curious, how you seem to completely lose yourself in your dreams, yet he is also greatly perturbed by the notion that there is a part of you that he is still unable to access, to dominate. It feels unnatural, not to be able to control this elusive slice of your essence, but having ever only tranced, it also mystifies him that you’d voluntarily give up your consciousness each night. You were after all ever the trusting fool—from the moment you met, he had lied to you, manipulated you countless times, and each time you fell for it, standing by his side even when the world screamed at you not to. And even now, you give yourself to him, unquestioningly, unconditionally. In all the long years of his existence, there had been none like you, and there never will be again. None as trusting, none as kind, and he both hates and loves you for it. The very notion of you extending your kindness to anyone other than him is infuriating, and makes him want to take it for himself, put it in a glass dome and hide it away in a place where only he can bask in its warmth. He thinks he is owed that, at least; yours was the only hand that ever reached out to him, so he is justified in not wanting to share.

You shift slightly in your sleep, and a lock of your hair that had been trapped underneath one of your arms falls onto your chest. After eyeing it for a moment, Astarion reaches out for the tresses and grasps them between his fingers. Bringing them close to his nose, he takes in your scent, that is now also his. It smells comforting, familiar—it smells like home. The corner of his lips curl into an almost imperceptible smile, and he closes his eyes, letting out a contented sigh. The hushed shroud of the early hours acts as a cloak, under which he is granted a brief respite, a rare chance to let himself be gentle, be kind. Just as you become entirely vulnerable before him in your slumber, he too exposes the soft underbelly of his feelings for you; that chaotic, intoxicating brew, a messy blend of passion, guilt, hurt, longing, and love, endless and unrelenting love.

He brings his elegant fingers close to your face, and ever so gently glides their soft pads across the cold, velvety smooth skin of your cheek. Your long lashes flutter slightly, tickling the sensitive area under your eyes as he lowers the digits to brush the plump of your lips. He admires you for a short moment, taking in your image—his pretty consort, so beautiful, so frail, so foolishly devoted to him. Oh how lucky he is, to have you who would do anything for him by his side; his most precious treasure, the reason why his long dead heart beats inside his chest once more. He grasps your chin, delicately tilting your head upward to face him, and tenderly presses his lips to yours. His other hand moves to your chest, fingers softly caressing the pebbled peak of your exposed breast, his touch so faint that his skin barely comes into contact with yours. As much as Astarion enjoys asserting his dominance over you, making you kneel before him, seeing the dejected yet submissive expression on your pretty face whenever he decides to make a show of his power, it is these moments he values the most. In your intimacy, he may treat you gently, tenderly, and in your state of unconsciousness, by morning his loving touches will be but a hazy memory, securing your place below, but close beside him, from where you shall never leave for as long as he draws breath—which he can now only do thanks to you.

His fingers on your nipple leave it alone for a moment to close around your breast, giving it a soft, gentle squeeze. Moving quietly so as not to wake you, he slides his right leg under yours and presses it against the back of your knee, creating a space between your thighs as he pushes them apart, where he then nests himself, climbing on top of you.

“Astarion…” when you softly whisper his name, his half-smile widens into a grin; how reassuring it is, to know you belong to him even in your dreams. He lowers his head to plant a kiss on the delicate skin of the curve of your neck, and his lips brush against the two small indentations disrupting the otherwise pristine smoothness of your flesh. Instinctively, he brings his hand to the back of your right shoulder, his long fingers blindly searching for the matching set of bite marks. The last of the three pairs adorns your left wrist, for which reason he will ever so often take your hand in his, only to lovingly kiss it and turn it around so he can admire the evidence of his proudest feat—having sired you.

“Oh my love, I’m here. I’ve got you,” Astarion coos, holding your head gently against his bare chest, fingers tangled in your hair as you writhe and squirm in his arms, empty and glassy eyes lost in a hollow stare, seeing nothing but darkness, endless darkness. The expression on your face is at once delirious and vacant—mouth agape and fists clenched, pupils blown wide, eyelashes wet with tears and a thin string of drool coming out from the corner of your lip and trickling down your chin. At least for tonight, you are lost to him, and as he winces at the still foreign sensation of the loud, vigorous throbbing in his head, your own fading heartbeat softens, dying down into nothingness. And right as it is about to fall perpetually silent, he lets his fangs pierce his own tongue, drawing droplets of now living blood; bringing your face close to his, he presses his thumb to your lower lip, and covers your mouth with his.

He loses himself in the memory for a moment, as he so often does. Your peaceful, serene expression stands in stark contrast to the one that had been etched on your face on that fateful night. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet still he remembers the pain, the agony, the relentless fear building up in his stomach as your body contorted and tears glistened in your vacant eyes. Never had Astarion been more afraid of anything than he’d been of losing you, and by his hand no less. Killing you was the sinful culmination of his undying love, and breathing new life into you, a dowry bestowed upon you out of unconditional devotion. You only ever questioned him about what had happened on the evening of your turning once, but it mattered not how many times you asked, for he would never fully disclose the raw truth—how he had cradled you in his arms and whispered sweet nothings in your ears, kissing away your tears; how he had picked you up as you lost consciousness and carried you to your bed, where he would then tuck you in so very tenderly, so very gently, softly patting your hair and holding your hand, sharing his warmth with you as you lost your own; how he would patiently wait by your side, watching as the color slowly drained from your face, his stomach sinking at the thought of you never waking again—only for you to then slowly open your eyes, their hue now a rich crimson, much like his own. No, he would never again allow himself to be so weak, for he was supposed to be your warden, your liege. This pathetic side of him was to be ever hidden from you, only rearing its ugly head during the brief, sleepy moments preceding the crack of dawn.

With his lips still pressed against your skin, Astarion starts peppering kisses down your neck, on the hollows of your collarbone and across your sternum, his hand on your breast fondling it gently, the other still tracing the bite marks on your shoulder. His still clothed hips start lazily, almost imperceptibly rocking back and forth, lightly grinding against your naked thighs; thinking back to the night when he made you his almost inevitably causes blood to rush to his groin, and his body starts unconsciously seeking the sweet relief of the friction between his hardening erection and your supple skin. He moves his hand on your breast to grasp your nipple between his fingers, lightly squeezing it. You involuntarily buck your hips in response, which amuses him greatly as he continues playing with the tender nub. A soft moan escapes your lips, encouraging and emboldening his attentions as they drift away from your clavicle towards your chest. He plants gentle kisses on the plump of your bosom, using his teeth to pull at your nightgown and drag it down, exposing your clothed breast to the chilly morning air. You shiver, and he smiles against your skin, pressing his lips to the valleys of your ribs, the softness of your lower belly, and finally to your bare crotch. With his face so close to your swollen sex, the sweet scent of your essence now intoxicates his senses. He stands back for a moment to admire how it glistens in the faint glow of the moonlight, so deliciously inviting, as your juices start building up and collecting in-between your folds.

Feeling his breath caressing the sensitive skin of your core, you finally start to slowly regain consciousness. Once his arousals were returned to him, Astarion would make a habit of waking up during the night at various times to bury his cock in you, so it takes you but a moment to gather your bearings. Either out of mischievousness or curiosity, you play coy at first, pretending to be asleep still. His soft lips briefly come into contact with your engorged bud, sending shock waves through your body, and you are barely able to keep yourself from letting out a yelp, although you can’t prevent your skin from becoming covered with goosebumps. When his tongue pokes out of his mouth to give it a tentative lick, you know you won’t be able to keep up the charade for much longer. He feels your body tense up, and slightly raises his head to look at you from his position between your legs with half-lidded, lascivious eyes, dilated pupils partially covering the ruby hue of his irises. You’re unsure if he has already caught on to your little ruse, so you try staying as still as possible, which proves difficult with his face so close to your cunt.

After what seems like an eternity he decides to continue, lapping at your clit again and then sliding his tongue downwards, burying it between your folds. He presses it against the outer edge of your entrance, squeezing slick out of you, and as he savors your essence, he can’t help but think that while its sweet tanginess does not compare to the coppery, velvety richness of the crimson in your veins—nothing ever will, for his is the blood that courses through them—it may well be the second best thing he has ever tasted. Gliding his tongue upwards once more, he uses it to gently massage the raw bundle of nerves crowning your mound, leaving a trail of saliva mixed with your fluids between it and your twitching cunt, which then dribbles down onto your thighs. Placing a hand on each side of your hips, he pulls you closer to him, and the shift causes his fangs to graze the sensitive skin of your folds, in response to which your eyes water and you clutch the silk sheets under you both. Taking no notice of your desperate reaction, he continues swirling his tongue up and down your wetness, gently sucking on the tender skin, eagerly eating you up as if you were a full-course meal served especially for him, just begging to be ravished.

You feel heat pooling in your lower abdomen, and at this rate it won’t be long before you are brought to the edge. Momentarily forgetting the fact that you are supposed to be pretending to be asleep as you lose yourself in the crescendo of your release, you arch your back, leaning on your elbows to support your weight, and as soon as you do, he mercilessly pulls away from you, leaving your dripping core empty and aching. Eyes closed still, you let out a soft mewl in protest, which you regret as soon it leaves your lips, for once Astarion notices your desperation, you are done for.

Still unsure if he has already perceived your awakened state or if he believes your body to be involuntarily reacting to his touch, you dare not produce any further sounds. Having cruelly left your throbbing arousal unattended, his tongue now glides its way up your stomach, leaving a glistening wet mess in its wake. Upon reaching your chest, his lips latch onto your left breast, your perked nub fitting perfectly inside his mouth. He sucks on it ever so tenderly, teasing it with a pointed tongue and lightly scraping the squishy surrounding flesh with his fangs. One of his hands leaves its place on your hip and finds its way between your legs, and you let out a sigh of relief when you feel a long, elegant finger ghosting over your clit. The other hand slides further down to the curve of your ass, and his blunt nails dig into your soft skin, giving it a firm squeeze.

The pad of the wandering digit finally presses down onto the engorged flesh of your reddened knot, massaging it leisurely in circular patterns, and another finger suddenly slides between your folds, parting them gently. Unable to contain yourself, you roll your hips into his hand, which you soon learn is a grave mistake as he tightens his grip on your ass, applying such pressure that come morning, bruises are certain to form on the pale skin, which he will then tenderly kiss better while looking apologetically at you from under thick lashes; and you will forgive him, as you always do. Lifting his head up from your now rouged, swollen nipple, he readjusts his position above you, using his body weight to pin you down and hold you in place. He lets go of your ass, firmly grasping at your jaw with his newly freed hand, and even from behind closed eyes you can feel the intensity of his gaze. This does not bode well, and try as you might you cannot ignore the sickening pinch in the pit of your stomach as his eyes scrutinize every inch of your face—has he noticed? Is a punishment in order? Will he deny you your release?

“Open up, darling. Your mouth.” The commanding tone with which Astarion vocalizes the otherwise unassuming words is all it takes to placate your erratic thoughts, and obeying is for you as natural as breathing—or it would be, if you were still alive. Once you do as he says, you feel his thumb pressing on your lower lip, forcing it further down. He slides the digit inside your mouth, gagging you slightly, and your lips instinctively close around it. “Good girl,” he purrs, and encouraged by the tenderness of his praise, you start lightly sucking on it, coating it with saliva. For a short moment, he becomes entranced by the feeling of your wet tongue massaging his skin, and his mind wanders to the thought of your plump lips wrapped tightly around his cock. This prompts him to once again start bucking his hips, rubbing the now obvious bulge underneath his pants against your stomach, but this time his rhythm is much more frantic, more desperate.

Relief washes over you as you feel the fingers still in your mound resume their fondling, the one on your clit now applying greater pressure, handling it much less gently, yet just as skillfully, his knowledge of all the ins and outs of your body having always been something he prided himself on. The other makes its way down from its place between your folds, plunging into you as soon as it reaches your entrance. Your body jerks in response, and your moan is muffled by his thumb in your mouth—when he then plunges another, stretching you open without giving you time to adjust, you involuntarily bite down on the digit gagging you, sinking your fangs into his flesh. He grimaces, and you can tell you have hit an artery, because the flow of the thick, hot blood running down your throat is alarmingly heavy. However, rather than pulling away, he lets you drink, curling his fingers inside you and massaging the tight walls of your cunt with his knuckles. The rich taste of his crimson lingering in your tongue and spreading inside your body, mixing with yours within your veins and making them pulsate with life—pure, raw, vibrating life—works as a powerful aphrodisiac, heightening all your senses, and the feeling of him fucking you with his fingers is all it takes for you to come undone on his hand, muscles spasming and clenching around the digits, coating them in the sweet nectar of your release.

Just as you reach your climax, Astarion’s own teeth sink into the indentations marking the otherwise smooth skin of your neck. You instinctively cock your head to the side to grant him more access, letting him feed on you as you bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, sucking on his thumb still. His blood flows from him to you and then back to him, and the sheer intimacy of it brings you so close together that it’s as if you have merged into one single being. You can no longer tell where you end and he begins, as your minds touch and mesh and then untangle again, in a sensual, chaotic dance, where you both sway to the rhythm of his heartbeat. And while the connection lasts, his emotions rush through you and yours through him, rendering words meaningless as the everlasting adoration, the inebriating, all-consuming love you share, no matter how tainted, is laid bare before you, in all its wickedness and allure.

“Fear not: you are mine.”

You finally open your eyes, letting go of his thumb, and as the fog from the afterglow subsides you notice his fingers remain inside you still, gliding effortlessly up and down your twitching walls, which are now lubricated with slick and come; your skin tingles from the overstimulation, but the sensation is not unwelcome. With the hand you have just freed, he holds your head in place while he continues to feed, and you both stay like this for a while, his fingers buried inside your cunt and his fangs in your neck, where they rightfully belong. His little grunts as he drinks from you and the feeling of his hardened cock pressed flush against your stomach rekindle the ache between your legs, causing the living blood now coursing through your veins to flow to your tender core.

Having drank to his heart’s content, Astarion pulls away from you, making you wince at the sudden emptiness as both his fangs and fingers leave your body. No longer plagued by the perpetual, agonizing hollowness of vampiric hunger, his only reason for feeding on you still is the invigorating thrill of your taste on his tongue and your blood pulsating in his arteries; you were his first, after all, having offered him the greatest gift of them all when you had no good reason to. Killing you on the evening he first revealed his true nature had never been out of the question, and it puzzles him still why you would willingly surrender this sanguine gift to a vampire stalking you in the night—a pitiful creature, hiding in the shadows, with murderous intent and offering you nothing but pain and misery. He is reminded of your foolishness and naïveté every time he sinks his fangs into your soft flesh, and the familiarity of it is oddly comforting to him.

Not bothering to wipe the red smear on his chin, he brings his hand up to your mouth once more, only this time his digits are covered in your juices. A single look into his crimson eyes, clouded with lust, tells you all you need to know, and you eagerly obey the silent order, wrapping your lips around his fingers.

“Ever so obedient, aren’t you, my sweet?” His honeyed words and impish smile send shivers down your spine, and unable to talk as your tongue flicks and swirls, lapping at your own sticky essence, you look up at him through your lashes with coquettish demureness; his pretty little spawn, always so good to him, so docile, so devoted. The very sight of you makes his cock twitch with desire. “I do find it charming when you play your darling little games. Mostly because you are awful at them. You did know I was aware the entire time, didn’t you?,” although his smile widens, there is a hint of danger in his voice, “That you were awake.”

As his blood within you rushes to your cheeks, spreading to the tips of your ears, Astarion’s expression darkens, and the lust in his eyes grows wilder, more desperate. There is something endlessly enticing about how bashful and girlish you look with your face hot and flushed with his crimson, like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, and it makes him want to devour you whole. He abruptly slides his fingers out of your mouth, and the glistening string of your fluids that forms between your lips and his digits breaks off as he uses that same hand to grab your neck and bring your face close to his. Once you are mere inches apart, he stops for a moment, the proximity between you such that you can feel his long lashes brushing against your skin and see the flecks in different shades of red swimming in his irises. The stillness in the air makes you acutely aware of the sound of his heartbeat, and it paradoxically both comforts and torments you. Such is the nature of your relationship; yearning and sorrow, worship and regret, lust and greed. The duality of it is not lost to you, but you’re past the point of coming up with justifications, for it is far too late for redemption. You made your choice, he made his, and now his burden is yours to bear. It matters not if outsiders looking in cannot make sense of it, as the bond between you was never meant to be understood by anyone else—however ugly and twisted it may be perceived by those around you, it is undeniably a bond of love, one you are willing to protect even if it costs you everything.

“Until the world falls down.”

When he finally closes the distance between you and crashes his mouth into yours, your mind is wiped clean of any semblance of coherent thought and your senses are filled with nothing but him—his scent, his warmth, his taste. He hungrily parts your lips with his tongue as soon as your skin touches his, your teeth clicking in his desperation, and his grip on your neck tightens. You feel tears well up in your eyes, some spilling through your lashes and rolling down your cheeks, your repressed emotions overflowing as you lose yourself in the fierce intensity of his kiss. You want him, you need him, you hate him; you love him, oh how dearly you love him, more than life itself. He explores the inside of your mouth, wantonly, passionately, only stopping to suck on your bottom lip, nipping it with his fangs and lapping at the droplets of blood blooming from the punctured flesh. Once he pulls away, gasping for air, you are both a disheveled mess, lips swollen and bruised and red. Not yet letting go of you, his fingers wrapped around your throat still, he guides your head back down, laying it on the soft feather pillow, only to then straighten up his torso, hand on your neck holding you in place and darkened eyes looking down upon you. From your position below him, he looks ethereal, almost godly, as the moon casts a pale halo around his frame, shining its light on the naked skin of his upper body.

He holds this position for a while, silently studying your face, and as he does, his intense gaze seems to gradually soften, mellowing out into almost tenderness. You feel the pressure of his fingers on your skin lessen, and then cease completely as he frees you, raising his hand up to cup your cheek. His thumb traces the trail of dried tears, and you lean into his soothing touch, eyes wettening once more. Taking notice of this, he leans back down and brushes his lips against the teardrops threatening to escape from your lashes, drying them before they fall.

“Shh, my darling, hush.” The softness in Astarion’s voice and the gentleness of his caresses as he runs his fingers through your hair are all you ever yearned for, all you ever needed, and yet with every touch your chest tightens and you feel a pang of loneliness and guilt tugging at your unbeating heart, for this is what you want, but not what you deserve. You failed him, just as he failed the others, and your regrets bind you together for eternity as the thread of your fate entangles with his in a constricting embrace—so is it too greedy, to let yourself be selfish and indulge in his warmth before the sun rises? Is even someone as broken and wicked as you allowed a moment of reprieve, however brief? You know not the answer to these questions, nor do you think you ever will. All you know is that there’s nowhere else you want to be but in his arms, no matter how much it hurts, for you’ll endure the pain as long as you are by his side.

“Kiss me,” you quietly plead, your supplication barely a whisper, prompting him to pull away slightly to look into your eyes. He takes a moment to try and read your expression, his gaze sharp, inquisitive, stripping you off all your defenses and laying you bare before him. A short time passes, and without saying a word, he lowers his head down again, lips brushing against yours, their pillowy softness and the taste of your blood still lingering on his skin shrouding your mind in a white fog. You raise both of your arms and wrap them around his neck, bringing him closer as your mouth matches his movements, the desperation of before now manifesting more tenderly, more lovingly, but just as intensely. One of his hands remains on your cheek as he kisses you, and with the other, he finally unlaces his pants, freeing his neglected erection, which by now is slick from the precome leaking from its engorged head. The color of the sky outside slowly begins to brighten, now a beautiful blend of periwinkle and cyan, and as the twilight peaks and starts to reach its end, Astarion decides he has waited long enough—he will take you here and now, before the merciless, harsh light of the sun engulfs you both.

Feeling his hardness against your thigh, you readily comply, spreading your legs apart. You need this just as much as he does; to be one with him, carnally, for your souls have long merged, and there is no you without him just as there is no him without you. As he lines up with your entrance, his lips leave yours and he presses your foreheads together, staring into your eyes with reassuring tenderness. You feel the tip of his cockhead flush against your dripping sex—the reddened, puffed up skin feels warm, and thinking of how it is swollen from his blood in your veins is all it takes for him to finally snap and give into his desires. He slides inside of you in a single thrust, the wetness from your juices facilitating his entry as he stretches your walls to accommodate his large size. You try to bite back a whimper, your eyes once again tingling and prickling with the promise of tears as one of your hands finds its way to the back of his head and your fingers become entangled in his silvery curls. Not moving immediately, he waits a while, giving you time to adjust. You revel in the familiar feeling of his cock stuffed inside your core, the pain and warmth of it, and you wonder if he too can find comfort nowhere else but in your flesh, as it is only when filled with him that you are able to hold together the broken pieces of your descended mind.

The hand that had been cupping your cheek now rests on your waist as he moves his head to nuzzle the curve of your neck, taking in your scent. Ever so slowly he starts rolling his hips back and forth, planting gentle kisses on the delicate skin where his fangs had been buried just moments ago, now stained with patches of dried blood. You close your eyes, still trying to hold back the tears, hugging him as tightly as you can, or as tightly as he’ll let you. His pace is at first languid, sensual, allowing you to feel the entirety of him as he massages your aching, tender walls, still sensitive and spasming from your orgasm. He grunts in your ear, prompting you to start undulating your own hips, doing your best to match his rhythm. Emboldened by this, he moves his hands down to grab your ass, tilting your pelvis up and pulling you closer to him. Just as desperate to feel him as deeply as physically possible, you wrap your legs around his midriff, allowing him to reach the innermost parts of your throbbing cunt. When the tip of his cock brushes against the spongy skin of your cervix, your gut tightens and you cry out for him, unable to contain yourself.

“Astarion…”

The sound of his name in your lips, so very eager, so very sweet, is all the encouragement he needs, and the once languid movements give way to more vigorous pounding, the lewd sound of smacking flesh echoing in the otherwise quiet room as he snaps his hips and buries himself deeper inside your aching core. Your body rocks in rhythm with his thrusts, the tears in your eyes finally escaping your lashes and running down your face, a chaotic culmination of all the pleasure, all the hurt, all the desire and all the devotion brewing deep inside your heart as your raging feelings come to a boil. No one can understand, no one will understand—and yet, as he fucks you senseless in the early hours, pumping his cock in and out of you with lascivious abandon, none of it matters. You hold him even closer, pressing your squishy breasts flush against the sweaty, glistening skin of his chest. He moans at the sensation, intensifying his pace and using his hands on your ass to tilt your pelvis higher, pushing your folded legs, which are still wrapped around him, as close to your upper body as your flexibility will allow it. You feel the muscles in your thighs stretching and burning, but this only excites you further, and the soft whimpers leaving your lips escalate in frequency and loudness alike.

As he continues pounding into you, Astarion’s kisses on your neck become more passionate, more heated, going from pecks, to licking, to sucking, until eventually he gives in and once again sinks his fangs into the bruised flesh. You mewl faintly and your grip on his hair tightens, in response to which he bites down on you harder, nails raking across the skin of your ass as his thrusts grow fiercer, more violent. The message immediately gets through to you—the cheeky little spawn must know her place—so you obediently let go of his curls, although your digits remain entangled in them still; yet he does not slow down his pace, ramming into you with such force that you are afraid you will have trouble walking once he is finished. Mercifully, one of his hands leaves its place on your ass to hover above your swollen clit, which twitches desperately as his cock resurfaces and then disappears again inside your cunt. He grasps it between two deft fingers, massaging the engorged bundle of nerves as a reward for your obedience, and that is all it takes for tension to again start building up in your groin.

“You have given me everything.”

His digits on your tender bud; your blood running down his throat; his cock slamming into you, stretching open your tight walls—you are so very close to climaxing again, and yet you don’t want the moment to end; you don’t want morning to come, breaking the spell and robbing your lover from you, as it always so cruelly does. The tragic inevitability of it is however unaffected by the infinitude of your existence, a gift that was also bequeathed to you by him, and enveloped by the ice-cold embrace of the memories of your death, your body comes alive as you are pushed over the edge, your twitching cunt fluttering and contracting around him, creaming and squirting your sweet juices all over his length.

As you slump back and go limp is his arms, Astarion unlatches his mouth from your neck and props up his torso to marvel at your image as you bask in the glory of your release—so maddeningly beautiful, cheeks and plump lips flushed bright pink with what remains of his lifeblood within you; his consort, his spawn, his to use as he pleases, his and nobody else’s. While he continues fucking you through your orgasm, all you can hear are his low moans and grunts and the squelching sounds of your wetness as he ruts into you with ever increasing furor. You can tell he is also close by the way he holds your hips with both of his hands, pushing his own against them with almost vicious ferocity while you remain slumped on the headboard, tits bouncing cutely with every thrust. The daylight seeping through the curtains now brightens up the room, and as you look up at him with half-lidded eyes, you notice how handsome he looks illuminated by the gentle glow of the rising sun, sweat beading his temple and dripping down his chin and nose.

“Gods…” he groans, voice raspy with lust, and with one final push he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim with his seed, which feels thick and warm flooding your tender walls. Still panting and sucking in sharp breaths, he falls on top of you, not bothering to pull his cock out of your still spasming cunt, chest flush against yours and head burrowed in the crook of your neck. Spillover runs down your thighs and soaks into the wrinkled sheets, but neither of you bother cleaning it up, the resulting stain surely to give the maids good reason to blush later.

You bring a hand up to his silky curls once more, gently running your fingers through them as you feel the calming thumping of his slowing heartbeat vibrating against your cold skin. As the dawn finally breaks over the still sleeping city, signaling the beginning of a new day in your undead life—for better or for worse—you find comfort in the warmth of his flesh and the sound of his ragged breathing as it gradually steadies. All your suffering, all your pain; if even your death is required to bring him to life, then so be it. He will live for the both of you, and you will love him for it. Forever—for good.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

[divinitysotherside]

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

MONSTERFUCKER !

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ . when you wanted to see your boyfriend again, you didn’t expect him to change drastically !

contents . cursed spirit gojo , lust curse gojo , gojo was transformed into a lust curse , very short smut scene

warnings . monsterfucking , transformed gojo , pussy eating , mentions of cheating but not really (?) , mentions of p in v sex , very short smut scene (it’s just reader and gojo goofing around but it’s still smut nonetheless 🤷🏻‍♀️)

You were the strongest sorcerer of the modern era. Well, after Satoru Gojo. However, he just suddenly went missing a few weeks ago, so the higher ups deemed you the strongest.

Shall we also say that you and Satoru are dating?

“Good job, everyone. Keep that up and you’ll—” Your phone rang, you scoffed. You were in the middle of teaching the first years.

“Hold on, kids. I’ll just answer this.” You mutter, turning away from them and reaching in your pockets for your phone.

“Yeah?” You asked, your other arm crossed over your chest.

“(Y/N), there’s a new special grade cursed spirit on the loose. It has beaten even multiple grade 1s.” Yaga on the other line informed you, clear frustration in his voice.

You were intrigued. A special grade cursed spirit that has beaten even grade 1s? It’s not everyday you see it.

“The sorcerers we send out to face it.. all the males died, and the older females looked worn out. Except for some women, those that are younger and three older ones.. they made it out just fine. It must be weaker against females, since it hasn’t killed any, so we’re taking you for the job.”

“Where is it?” You ask, a smirk on your face.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Arriving at a hotel, you rushed in, clicking the 3rd floor. “This was where it was last seen,” You mutter to yourself, the elevator doors opening once it stopped.

Your footwear clacked against the floor of the hotel, your eyes scanning your surroundings. It seemed empty. Too empty.

Reaching Room 28, you open it. “This.. is the exact location of the cursed spirit.” You mutter, looking around. “Huh, seems empt—”

Suddenly, a man—no, that’s not a man. It’s too pale, though its build is like that of a human male’s, muscular, tall.

What stood out was the albino hair and the multiple cerulean eyes scattered around its body.

You got your stance ready, but all that happened was that.. it felt different. You looked around, seeing that the room had completely changed. A large bed in the center and the room was.. nicely decorated.

Looking back at the cursed spirit, you see that it has a blindfold. One that looks ripped open. Its eyes were blue, ocean-like.

It looked oddly familiar, and oddly attractive.

The room, it wasn’t a room anymore. It was a domain.

When the curse finally noticed you, it immediately pounced on you, pinning you to the ground.

Once you looked into its blue eyes, you noticed that this was definitely Satoru Gojo. It should be, right?

“S–satoru?” You mutter, and the curse’s eyes widen. “You realized?”

His voice wasn’t fun and cheerful anymore. It was monstrous, deep and terrifying.

“Y–yeah..” You say, sitting up on your elbows to take a good look at him. “How.. did you turn into a—”

“It’s a long story. Summary, I got transformed into this lust curse.” He huffs, looking back at you.

“Now I fuck every female I see, like a manwhore.” He pauses, “or should I say.. curs—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence. You haven’t changed a bit, well, your mentality.” You remark, eyes scanning his new body.

“So, can I hit it?” Satoru asks, his massive head resting on your chest. “W–what? You really think I’m gonna let you h—”

“C’mon! Every female sorcerer accepted! Well.. except for Utahime, Shoko and Mei Mei.. Mei–san said she already has somebody else to let it hit.. Utahime hates me.. and Shoko.. she doesn’t see me that way.. I mean.. I don’t see her that way too, so I guess it’s fine..”

Satoru says with a fake frown, his face buried in your cleavage. “Sounds like a you problem.” You chuckle, pushing his head away.

“Hey! Don’t tell me you’re going to leave me too!?” He pouts, wrapping his arms around you. “Ugh, you’re so annoying.” You scoff, “fine.”

“Really!?” Satoru asks to confirm, his grip on you tightening. “Yes, Satoru..”

You then paused, “Wait, so you’ve been fucking other girls without me knowing!?” You ask, weakly punching his shoulder.

“Babe—no, I needed to! Ouch, stop!” He groaned, trying to avoid your weak punches.

“Let me make it up to you! Ow!” Satoru used his hand to cover his shoulder, his grip on your tightening. “C’mon, don’t be mad! I needed to, I was gonna die if I didn’t! Would you want that!?” He pouts, clinging to you.

“Ugh, you big baby.” You scoffed, ruffling his hair.

“Atleast this big baby’s gonna fuck you good!” He smiled up at you, licking your cheek.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Ahn— Satoru, what the fuckk..” You groaned, gripping the sheets with your legs spread, Satoru busying himself in between your legs.

His tongue was long, longer than before, as expected. It reached that good spot whenever it would enter your cunt. “Fuck— Satoru, you.. this new.. tongue is– hngh..”

But the idiot would only look up at you as his tongue entered your pussy, lapping at your creamy walls. “Satoru! Fuck, I’m gonna—”

You moaned as you came all over his waiting tongue, the muscle having the audacity to lick your clit before pulling away.

“Taste as good as ever, baby.” He smiled, standing up to claim your lips in a kiss, letting you taste your own juices.

Just then, you felt his large cock prodding against your clit. “Mm, ’m gonna ruin you.”

It was going to be a tougher mission than you thought.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [2]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

If I cannot be loved, I must be feared.

Simon Riley doesn’t consider himself a violent man.

Practical, perhaps. Purposeful.

The life he has lived has invariably demanded a brutality from him; a sanguinary ruthlessness, one that he would never foolishly deny he has the capacity for. He had told himself, in his bitter youth, that his barbaric appetite for carnage and control was not innate. Not a sticky black disease webbed in his genetic code, inherited from his cunt of a father, or his cunt of a father before him.

No, instead, his savagery is an incidental asset. An arbitrary talent. Of course, he only uses it when it’s urgently called for, only when no other option presents itself to him.

It was only by chance that in his adolescence he stumbled into the underworld of blood sport and fight clubs, only a fluke he discovered his gift once he started pocketing mounds of cash from countless victories in splattered basements. And it's only happenstance that he found himself a career that necessitates his proficiency, that relentlessly rewards him for it – he can’t help what he's good at, after all.

So, he assures himself - not violent.

Not the kind of violent his father was, anyway. Violent in the sense of haphazard bloodshed, the kind of violence with flagrant collateral. No, Ghost has lines he won’t cross. People he won’t hurt. His fists, his blades, his bullets aren’t hurled indiscriminately; he is scrupulous in his sadism. Not a rabid cur, he doesn’t growl with pointed canines at anybody who intersects his path – he’s well trained. Meticulous. Keeps himself muzzled, tethered on a short leash.

Still, he can’t help froth at the jaws when he’s given the opportunity to play his hand, to boast his brutality. Can’t help but relish in the savage fortuities that his profession provides him, permission to lay waste to the men his mission briefs instruct him to.

Only preys on the evil, he says. Only maims the kind who deserve it.

You, standing tremulously in the open door to the bathroom, you’ll be his prey tonight.

You, as informed by his commanding officers, as described to him by his intel, will deserve it.

You, the very kind of degenerate oligarch filth he scorns so deeply, utterly undeserving of the magnitude of wealth and power you have unjustly acquired without merit - will need it.

Even if you haven’t had an acting hand in in your husband’s machine of depravity, at the very least, you’re a repugnant, iniquitous whore; happy to receive and spend mountains of blood-dripping money for a spread of your honeyed legs, apathetic to its murderous origins, uncaring who had to die to buy you that fucking negligée.  

That sliver of blush pink, so sheer, so short - you might as well not be wearing it at all. A cotton-candy veil, translucent enough to allow the yellow glow emerging from behind you to carve out the shape of your silhouette; the image of a renaissance muse with the contour of your waist, the swell of your hips. The chantilly hem barely grazes the highest point of your thighs, not quite covering the fragile lace of the knickers that conceal your pernicious cunt from him.

It’s almost a sick joke.

As if you’ve been planted there as some test of his fortitude, a trial of his moral compunctions. That voluptuary sway you have on his restraint, just by standing there, with your fingers hesitantly clutching a glossy Beretta, keeping obediently it pointed to the floor; it riles him. Repulses him. Infuriates him.

The pistol makes a dull thud as it tumbles to the dense carpet, your claw still shaky as you hesitantly part your fingers to release it.

“Умная девочка,” he growls, as he flips his night-vision goggles off his eyes, clasping them to his helmet with a click. “Clever girl.”

He makes sure you understand him when he patronises you, putting his near fluency in your language to some use – all the while, he wants you to know where he has come from. To know that he’s not another competitor nor accomplice of your machiavellian prick of a husband. That he’s a foreign arm of justice. Your retribution. Your punishment.

But he’s taken aback, when your syrupy voice glides from your nervous lips, in a language he didn’t expect you to speak.

“What do you want.”

He stalks towards you, slowly, maliciously, lowering his gun and straightening his hulking back to loom even further above and over you. You’ve seen his skull, now, the painted mask that wilfully camouflages his humanity. He can tell, relishing in the widening of your pretty eyes at the sight of it. Your reaper. Your fate.

His objective is to make you cower. To make you question his intentions. To intimidate. To threaten.

Should be easy.

With a vindictive boot he kicks your Beretta, sending it skidding noisily across the marble floor of your ensuite.

“Not a bad accent,” he grumbles at you, mocking, carnivorous eyes swilling the sight of you as he closes in. Exerts every effort to avert his sights from wandering, sinking, from your skittish countenance to the pillows of your oligarch tits, cupped behind their restraining triangles of sheer pink lace.

A disturbed crease furrows in your brow, you stumble onto your back foot as he menaces over you; you’re poised to bolt, light on your little bare feet – but he readies himself for the chase.

“Are you here for Victor?”

Your velvet tone is more austere than he would have anticipated, a cadence of hoarse impatience belying the endearing panic engraved in your features. Catlike eyes flit between his, as though mining into the windows of his mask, puncturing his irises and burrowing within. Maybe you hope to find something in there, in those pinprick black openings, now that they’ve dilated in light of your prying.

He answers with a single shake of his head, a sharp and cocksure suck of his teeth.

“Comrade’s got him already,” he gloats, deeply coarse voice resonating from his throat, an arrogant grin audible in his words while concealed by the thick knit of his balaclava.  

He lets you sit with that news, expecting a tearful exhibition of some histrionic spousal grief, at the very least. But, no, you remain steadfast in your quiet courage. Unnervingly indifferent to the possibility that your husband had been coldly assassinated, a mere few feet from where you had been preening yourself in the ensuite mirror.

Fitting, he thinks, that an avaricious, gold-digging slut like you is entirely unfazed by the sudden and savage death of your malefactor husband. You’re probably glad of it; if Ghost weren’t here to terrorise you, maybe you’d be beaming with glee, knowing his exorbitant wealth would trickle down into your manicured little fingers.

But your husband isn’t dead yet, perhaps to your dismay – instead he has been wrapped up with duct tape, suffocatingly tight, and carted off by the Sergeant with a sack over his head. Probably on their way to exfil. Efficient, that Scottish sergeant. Focused.

Unlike Ghost. He likes to play with his food.

He justifies it, though, knowing a bit of terror will loosen up your lips for later. After all, they have questions for you. Demands of you. And there’s nothing like a squealing, pleading, sobbing wife to pry open the shut jaws of an obstinate prisoner – that is, after other, uglier methods fail to extract the intel he desires. He quietly hopes that it comes to that.

So he prods, head stooping down to callously address you.

“I’m here for you.”

Your cautious yet analytical glare jumps down the length of him, before you surprise him, again – tempting your fate with a temerarious retort.

“I’d sooner let you shoot me. Чертовски уродливый укол.” Fucking ugly prick.

He cocks his brow, sniffing irately as he adjusts his low ready grip on his gun; he raises it just slightly, a malignant push of its vertical barrel into your soft belly. Reminding you of its presence, its size; the length of your entire torso, from mound to forehead. Reiterating its willingness to shred your ripe flesh, your cowed bones with its lead rounds.

“Tempting.” He snarls, as gravelly as cruel.

There’s the tiniest movement in your legs, a minuscule shift in your muscles, your agitated eyes dart past him just briefly – Ghost is seasoned in the hunt. The unconscious change in your breathing pricks his ears, from heavy and quivering to shallow and pointed; a small nibble on the meat inside your lip, a fluttering of your eyelashes as you scan for an escape route. His perception is honed and inhuman, predatory vigilance akin to a stalking wolf, he can smell your next move, it oozes from you like sweat.

So when your weight shifts onto your front foot, prepared to bolt, he lets you.

It’ll tire you out, a healthy chase. It’ll terrify you, and exhilarate him.

He watches insouciantly as you dart to his left, almost condescending in his apathy, as he makes no effort to snag you, no attempt to ensnare your body and trap you with a hook of his heaving arm.

No, that would be too easy. You dash past him, elbowing him in the side of his shielded ribs as you flee.

He listens with perked ears to the sound of your bare feet pattering against the carpet, the silent whisper of your negligée brushing against the doorframe of the suite.

You’ll figure out eventually that there is nowhere for you to run. That there is nobody left to save you. Your options are extremely slim – he made very certain of that. Escape your fortress and brave the Russian midwinter, and endure the agony of your bare flesh freezing black in your pitiful excuse of a nightdress. Or, face him. Which, he concedes, in your eyes may well be a more horrific fate.

He has knowingly been keeping his intentions ambiguous. And a woman that looks like you, in a piece of fucking fabric like that, must be excruciatingly familiar with the kind of intentions most men in this position would have.

No, Ghost isn’t that barbaric, temptation notwithstanding.

He just wants you to believe that he is.

So with heavy feet, he stalks you.

Taking measured steps, he follows the trail of your sweet perfume, your vanity betraying you once again as it lingers in the air behind you, leaving a conspicuous path of jasmine and silk down the extravagant hallway.

His boots tread over the Persian runner that spans the length of the hall. Velvet. Ostentatious.

How much did that cost you?

Disdainful glares observe the hideously gaudy and indubitably priceless paintings that hang on the walls, framed by ornamental moulding, taller than him. Florid. Tasteless.

How much did you spend on those?

How many roubles did you spend on all this garish fucking décor? How many lives did all of it cost?

Can you see the blood on that avant-garde sculpture when you look at it?

Do you see the redness of that blood emulsified in the oil paint of those hideous paintings? Does it stain the wall behind them?

Do you see the coagulated mess when you remove them, to replace them with newer ones?

His jaw clenches involuntarily with the disgust that swallows him. Sucking cold air vexedly through his nose, he slings his rifle over his back, freeing his hands for the catch.

His blood, viscous and dark, thumps in his temples, prickling cold under his skin; like Pavlov’s dog, he salivates at the quiet noises that barely echo from elsewhere in the mansion, the sound of you scuttling away from him. He hears your frightened panting through the walls, soft little squeaks like a hunted mouse.

“Any luck, L.T.?”

The gruff Scottish voice emerges through the crackling speaker of his radio, dampening the thuds of his bestial heart, dispelling the blood red that encroaches his vision. If only slightly.

His thumb goes to press the talk button. He contemplates how honest he will be.

“Having some trouble.”

He makes no effort to speak quietly. He wants you to hear him advance on you. He wants you to wonder hopelessly which corner he might turn, through which door he might check.

“Don't do anything I’ll have to defend you for.”

Ghost grumbles deeply as he exhales. Soap is keenly aware that he is purposefully taking his time with you. You could only ever cause him trouble if he allowed you to, after all.

“D’you think I’m that much of a brute?” Ghost retorts, growl doused in facetiousness.

“Only when you want to be, sir.”

He jerks his head at the echo of a quiet thud, the chime of crystal glasses vibrating on impact.

Dining room.

He’s silent for too long, though. Soap follows up.

“We’re waiting for you, mate. It’s fuckin’ cold. Get a move on, will you?”

“Won’t be long, Sergeant.”

“You'll have plenty o’ time with her when we’ve got ‘er in captivity, eh?”

He hears a stifled squeal escape you, through a single wall. He’s found you. No need to answer Soap – the boy can wait.

With smug nonchalance he strolls the corner, in no rush, he steps through the flamboyant archway into your dining room, vulturous eyes squinting to scan for you in the shadows.

Banquet hall might be a more apt label for the sheer magnitude and glitz of the room, soaring ceilings bordered with ornate floral plaster, moonlight glowing through the towering windows reflecting in diamonds off the polished parquet floor. He imagines you must have hosted and overfed many of Zakhaev’s snivelling accomplices at that very teak dining table, that could easily seat sixteen.

He wonders what their Soviet maws might have snarled at you through their greedy teeth as you bent over that table to top up their chalices. He wonders which cut of your meat they would have liked. He wonders if your husband would have served you up for them if they asked. He wonders if they ever dared to.

Your shadow reveals your whereabouts, dead still and peeking across the floorboards through a second archway, in the wall to the right.

Not very good at hiding, are you?

He sees you flinch at the deep sound of his boot on the wooden floor, closing in on you once again. His ready hands clench into reactionary fists at the sight of you standing motionless in the grey moonlight, arms tight by your side, frozen solid like you might have already ventured out into the subzero night.

Only as he approaches you, does he see what you’re stuck on.

One of your mercenaries.

Ghost thought he had executed him, with a stealthy blade to the throat, a crude slash from jugular to jugular. A ragged incision into his windpipe to ensure his silence as his life drained out of the gaping wound.

But the prick is still alive, by the sounds of it, the unpleasant music of his wet choking; the squelching and popping of him sucking air through the hole in his throat, impeded by the flow of fizzing blood.

It seems to have alarmed you, the sight of the slaughter, sending you into trembling shock as you fail to break your sight away from the twitching corpse.

“Y-you–”

He’s uncertain if you’re addressing him, as you stutter so winsomely, that brave little show you put on for him earlier now crumbling delightfully at the recognition of your fate.

“You’re – why did you…” you stammer, before drawing in a steadying breath. “You’re a fucking animal.”

Ghost releases an ireful sigh as he lurks to stand behind you, tugging a pair of cable-tie cuffs from one of the many pockets on his thoroughly outfitted tactical vest.

With a careful spin on your heel, a floaty dance of your negligée, you face him. Glowering up at him through wet lashes, lumps of mascara stick to your cheeks like tar, flushed from your eyes by a spate of tears.

Now you’re emotional.

That convulsing, blood-drenched cadaver is real enough for you, is it?

It must be easier to compartmentalise, easier to dismiss like flicking spilt salt over your shoulder, when the bloodshed you’re responsible for is mourned miles and miles from you.

No, that carnage can never reach you, can it? Not while you’re in your fucking fortress, lazing on a velveteen chaise lounge, painting your toenails with that glossy coat of cherry red as if it were the very blood your regime spilt.

Well, here it is. The kind of brutality you’ve been sheltered from, safeguarded against, blissfully ignorant of.

You pampered bitch.

He can’t help but be disappointed you’ve given up, you’ve let him gain on you. His muscles, his bones, his teeth, were ready for a hunt, aching for the catch. His carnivorous body had primed him for a breakneck pursuit through the halls of your mansion, and he now felt viciously unsated.

He wanted to hear you shrieking, pleading to be spared, squeaking like a bitten rabbit when he finally caught you in his jaws. He wanted to be the one to stifle your squeals with his gloved hands, gargantuan weight crushing the air from your weak lungs, thwarting your attempts to flee. He wanted to relish in your squirming, fighting, kicking underneath him, and he wanted to watch the flickering light of resistance in your darting eyes be snuffed out by the futility of your escape.

Yet even as you evidently surrender, still quaking with frigid trepidation, that glimmer still glows. A stubborn little flame.

“Are they all dead?” You murmur, defeat weeping through the monotony of your dull voice, hoarse from exertion.

Ghost grants you a solitary nod, a flick of his head. “They are.”

He observes as you sip in a slow, quivering breath, not parting your wary lour from the window of his mask – still reading, still digging, still burrowing.

“Are you taking me somewhere?” You cautiously probe, your sweetly soft tone a likely effort to temper the ferocity of your hunter. “Or are you just here to hurt me?”

A gritty huff of laughter jumps from his chest, muffled by the densely knitted mask that sits over his nose.

With a languid hitherto gesture of his fingers, his head bowed from his towering shoulders, he answers you.

“Both.”

You oblige him, you clever girl. Lifting your timid hands and holding your wrists together for him, you make it easy for him to take you.

He slips the loops of stiff black plastic over each of your pristine hands, tugging the tails though the head and tightly ensnaring your wrists. His dark eyes bounce to your twisting face as you wince, the shrill zip of the teeth jerking through the pawls rings piercingly in the silence of the room – music to him, torment to you.

“Will you make it quick?”

He finds himself dissatisfied by your resignation, your stoic defeat; as though you were so disillusioned, so expectant that this fate awaited you, that you had long girded yourself for it. It deflates him, your capitulation, your impassivity – leaves him high and dry.

From a pocket on his utilitarian trousers he unveils a fabric sack; thick black cotton with a drawstring closure.

“No.” He responds dully, as he tugs the bag over your head, finally veiling your probing eyes. With gloved hands he holds you by the crux of your shoulder, thumb gripping tightly over the base of your throat. He tightens the drawstring of the sack under your jaw, constricting it around your neck. Just snug enough to be uncomfortable, to impede your swallowing, to dampen your breathing.

“Fucking pig.” You seethe through the fabric.

Grasp of you not wavering, he yanks you toward him, you stumble over your bare feet as he cranes his head so it hangs beside yours, mouth by your ear.

“Don’t make me gag you.”

He faintly makes out the sound of you scoffing in silent contempt. “You won’t.”

Standing upright, he tilts his head in bemusement. “Won’t I?”

“You want a challenge, don’t you? That’s why you let me run, isn’t it?”

He’s flummoxed for the moment, speechless, only allowing an inaudible grunt of dispute to escape him. 

“Like a little fight, do you? You sick fuck?”

He’s careful in his reaction. Prudent. Controlled. Refuses to let you believe that you’ve read him like a book.

No, instead, he toys with your conjecture.

Sinister, guttural, he growls,

“Maybe I do.”

[sskk-manifesto]

GUYS I FORGOT ABOUT THE HEARTLESS CUR

Delusional take: season 5 is 6 episodes of Stormbringer and 6 episodes of manga adaptation

[xvxblahhhxvx]

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's a common misconception that's been permeating the fandom, even on the official wiki, that's just...not true.

Dazai met Akutagawa when he became an executive, which happened when he was 17-18. In both The Heartless Cur (the short story written by Asagiri about how Akutagawa and Dazai met) and Beast, which follows the original timeline, albeit with some changes, it flat out states that the interaction was only four and a half years prior to the main story. Which means Akutagawa knew Dazai for six months. He was already either fifteen or sixteen when they met, and they haven't known each other for that long. Not fourteen.

[devildomwriter]

Be Forever Near Me | Simeon x Reader

1K+ words | GN! Reader | CW: none

The sound of joyous music echoed through the halls from the record player. The smell of cookies lingered in the air and the fresh batch waited on colorful plates in the kitchen to be eaten.

Snow could be seen falling outside the window, bringing an unusual calm to the Devildom. The streets outside were illuminated by tall lamps wrapped in green and red tinsel and every door on every home had a wreath whether they wanted it or not.

Christmas had come to the Devildom again and after several misadventures which you’d come to expect you finally had a moment of rest. You could think of no place better than Purgatory Hall, commanding the brothers to leave you be for now unless there was an emergency.

Solomon, Luke, and Raphael were gift shopping which left you with a fortuitous opportunity to be alone with Simeon—a genuine Christmas angel.

Simeon was rearranging the navigation scene specifically to bother Raphael as you both waited for the cookies he and Luke made to cool down.

You prepared two mugs of hot cocoa and listened to the soft melody Simeon sang in tune with the record player.

As expected, the only Christmas music played in the purgatory hall was in celebration of the origin of Christmas. So you’d come to learn every lyric by heart for Silent Night, What Child is This, Mary Did You Know, and many others on repeat.

Simeon giggled to himself as he finally stepped away from the nativity scene, having put baby Jesus on the roof of the manager and the animals inside of it. Solomon had done this originally and Simeon was leaving Raphael to believe that the sorcerer was solely responsible. He couldn’t help but mess with the people he mentored at least a little bit. He was very motherly but in contrast also a bit of a brat and you loved that about him.

Simeon placed his hand on the small of your back and smiled over you at the cocoa mug. You handed him the penguin and took Santa for yourself because you knew that mug weirded him out the way its blue eyes seemed to stare at you.

“So considerate,” Simeon whispered and held your hand, leading you to sit on the couch with him.

He placed his mug on a coaster on the side table and unrolled the Christmas blanket Satan had gifted them—the one covered in cats with Santa hats. It made you both laugh whenever you saw it.

Simeon threw the blanket over you both and scooted in closer, you did the same, feeling the side of his hip against yours. The contact made you both blush even though you were used to slightly more intimate encounters. This was a secret of course.

Simeon handed the remote to you to find a good Christmas movie so you chose Little One, a cute Disney short about the donkey Mary rode before he became her donkey. It brought you to tears despite the happy ending and Simeon smiled warmly at you and hugged you closer.

“You have such a big heart,” he chuckled as he rubbed your head.

He took a sip of his hot cocoa so you did the same and sighed.

“Are you alright?” He asked, concerned with such a deep sigh.

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah. It’s a relaxed sigh not a stressed one.”

You could see him immediately relax as he grinned and leaned back into the couch. He looked at the clock and his expression saddened just enough you could see.

“What’s wrong Simeon?”

“Oh…” he said, looking guilty. “I was just thinking I don’t have you to myself much longer…”

You blushed and shook your head. “I can just text Solomon that we’re taking a nap and not to bother us.”

Simeon laughed. “Do you think he’ll buy that?”

You shrugged, “he doesn’t have to buy it. He knows not to bother us either way.”

Simeon thought over the idea for a moment and smiled in confirmation. “Yes. Let’s head to my room then.”

“I’ll grab some of the cookies!”

“Oh, yes. That will be nice.”

You followed Simeon to his room with too many cookies for just the two of you and set it on his writing desk.

You both sat at the end of his bed and he tilted his head curiously. “Ah. Well…now what should we do? We can’t be too loud, Luke will be home soon.”

“Raphael too.”

“Right…”

You felt a yawn come on and quickly covered your mouth when you got an idea. You looked at the snow falling outside, the cozy warm bed, and listened to the gentle music outside.

“Why don’t we actually take a nap.”

Simeon smiled brightly. “That sounds heavenly.”

Simeon sifted through his closet to find a weighted blanket warm enough he could crack the window just slightly to bring in enough cold air to lull you to sleep.

He took off his shoes, socks, cape, and jewelry and hopped into bed next to you already on your side grinning up at him.

Simeon pulled the blanket up higher facing you with an equally bright grin. You felt him move his feet between yours and he rested his hand around your hip while the other cupped his cheek against the pillow.

You sighed again in unison with him causing a small chuckle to escape his lips.

“This really is heavenly,” he commented to himself looking more relaxed than he had in a while.

You both exchanged a few words back and forth until finally Simeon no longer responded. Even though you’d assumed you were more tired than Simeon it was clear he needed this a lot more.

You snuggled in closer, careful not to wake him, and rested your head beneath his chin feeling the small warm puffs of breath against your head until you too joined him in sleep.

[morrieandlicky]

Happy Birthday to George Merrill who inspired E.M. Forster's "Maurice" and also paved the way for gay men to cruise and have sex in public lol—WELL YES HE DIED SO GAYS COULD HAVE PUBLIC SEX

In short, George Merrill was a horny man.

August 16th is the birthday of George Merrill, lifelong partner of Edward Carpenter who, together, inspired Forster to write the love story of Maurice and Alec—with Merrill directly causing Forster to come up with the tale by touching his butt.

George and Alec are similar in many ways—besides the obvious fact that both were working class men in a relationship with upper class men:

both swore a lot—George once swore in front of a kid and got reprimanded by the gentlemanly Carpenter

both "clocked" their lover for being gay just by looking at them,

both were love-at-first-sight with their partners

both were the one who pursued their lover for sex—Alec did so twice with Maurice, while George followed Carpenter for a mile and asked him to come over to his (George's) place

Alec is described by Forster as "the sort of person in whom all meet"; George is described by Carpenter as "accepted and... beloved by both my manual worker friends and my more aristocratic friends", and by Forster as "uneducated and sentimental, yet one feels a great respect"

both were sexually experienced

both didn't care for religion: George never read the bible, thought Jesus spent his last night in the garden having sex with someone, and once told a preacher to get the hell out.

both have cute nicknames: Alec's is Licky, George's is Geordie and Georgette

both are said to be masculine and have great physique

You can learn more about George Merrill here. It's an unpublished biography written by Carpenter himself—a biography of someone written by their very own lover!

But what I also want to talk about here is just how horny and sexually experienced with men George Merrill in fact was.... HE WAS A SLUT, respectfully!

I'll keep it short, but the story (also mentioned here) is that:

M.D. O'Brien, a far-right activist, wanted to take down Carpenter by incriminating George—he knew George was Carpenter's lover, not just a servant, and that George was very active in copulating with other men (he and Carpenter had an open relationship).

So O'Brien interviewed many men who knew of George's indecent conduct seeking for sex, which included:

placing his hand upon other men's thighs (likely taught by Carpenter who, in the same police report, was said to have done it)

using wanting to pee as an excuse to show off his erect manhood to other men—then placing his hand upon their thighs

straight up taking his manhood out of his trousers and asking other men to touch and feel it

bringing other men home at night, serving them wine and cigars, drawing the curtains, then sitting on their knees

These examples were told by men who refused George Merrill's advances—now imagine the amount of men who have accepted!

Fortunately both George and Carpenter got away from O'Brien who was years later jailed for libeling against his own wife and mother.

Additionally, George called O'Brien "the rotter of a cur" and that " It would be a pleasure to just twist such vermin’s necks;" and Carpenter was extra protective of George—didn't blame him for the O'Brien incident, even though it was George's promiscuity and indecency and straight-up horniness and hyper-sexuality that caused the troubles!

I knew these from the old letters and documents that I gathered at different archives in the UK, in addition to the biographies of Carpenter I read. I'm still transcribing some letters and reports. Feel free to DM me if you've any question.

[beautifulfuckup99]

A Yoongi smut where he is very cold and rude but head over heels for her

Im getting addicted to your stories btw🥹

OMG, thank you so much! Love ya!

Title: Only for you

Warning(s): Classic "Black cat/Golden Retriever" Energy, Curs!ng, D!rty Talk, Bathroom S!x, Creamp!e, Oral, and Fluff

Author's Note: "Hates everyone but you" trope is my absolute FAV! Hope you enjoy, and also this is a "Non-Idol!AU"!

************************************

"No."

"Yoongi-"

"No. No!"

"Baby, please! It's just-"

"No, no, no! Nope! Nah! No!"

You sigh deeply and move to straddle your boyfriend's lap as he shakes his head continuously. "Y/N. Don't." He warns and you smirk at him, knowing you'd get your way eventually. It was cute how he always tried to 'put his foot down' though.

"Baby... Focus on the set." You say calmly as you place his hands on your new lingerie set you'd gone out to buy just today. You knew you'd need the big guns for tonight. Black silk barely covered your body that was freshly washed, shaved, and lathered in vanilla lotion.

"Y/N, that's not fair!" He argues as he grips the fabric of your boy shorts in his hands.

"It's a night out, to a nice lounge, to celebrate my co-worker's birthday." You justify. Yoongi had no real desire to always go out and party. If he was forced into it, he'd have to get drunk. That's how he became more sociable and friendly. But other than that, he didn't have the patience for a night out. Or a day out. Or... Well, if it involved other people, let's just say Yoongi wasn't interested.

You knew getting him out would be hard. Especially right now. He couldn't drink thanks to his pain medication the doctors just put him on due to the cold air hurting his prier shoulder injury. You knew tonight, he'd have no real vice to hold on to. Besides you, that is.

"Can't we just... Wish her happy birthday over the phone? I mean, YOU don't even like her!" Yoongi mutters and you snort, moving to kiss along your boyfriend's neck.

"Y/N... I'm serious..." He grumbles as you lay him back, smiling at him innocently. "Don't 'sex brain' me. I'm not going." He says flatly and you hum as you kiss down his body slowly.

"Sex brain?! I'd do..." *kiss* "No..." *kiss* "Such..." *kiss* "Thing..." You mutter between kisses as you get to the waistband of his sweats.

"It's all cold out there, and the snow is mushy, and the lounge is gonna be packed, and I don't even li... Like... Oh..." Yoongi breathes out as you start to softly kiss the outline of his dick through his sweatpants.

"Go ahead, baby. You can complain..." You whisper patiently before rubbing the slowly swelling outline.

"Fuck..." He breathes out and groans. "Y/N, that's not... Fair." He huffs as you slowly pull out his cock and kiss the tip sweetly, as if greeting the thick member. It was your best friend after all...

"We'll give it a few hours, and then we'll say our goodbyes and head out." You say gently as you stroke your hand slowly up and down his shaft.

"I hate your coworkers..." He groans and you smirk at that. Yoongi wasn't judgmental by any means. But your fellow coworkers... They really didn't like his style, or his job, or his opinions and viewpoints... Actually, they didn't like Yoongi in general. You two really were from different worlds and you knew the world you came from was full of stuck-up rich people who only ever saw Yoongi for where he came from.

"Just think about it like this..." You begin before softly licking up his cock, watching the tip twitch. "You get to see that new red dress on me tonight, if you just agree to come." You mumble before swirling your tongue along the tip as he moans.

"Fuck, Y/N..." He moans as his hips buck up slightly, trying to feel your mouth more. It makes you moan around his tip, which in turn, makes him gasp happily. "O-Ok, ok. Just... Suck my cock, baby..." He pants, needing this. You smile and move your hand upwards along his cock, doing a twisting motion.

"And you'll try and be nice...?" You taunt, watching in amusement as he nods fast.

"Ye... Yes!" He pants hotly, hand moving to grip your hair. You smirk and get right to work...

*****************************************

"You said you'd be nice." You hiss in Yoongi's ear. He grumbles a bit in response, and you snort at the sound. "I agreed to try." He corrects in your ear, and you snicker before going back to the conversation the table was having about this week and the bad weather.

"What are you two whispering about over there?" A male coworker jokingly asks.

"Oh, you know Y/N is Yoongi's little mouthpiece." Another jokes and Yoongi stares them down till they stop their laughing. You facepalm slightly. He always had this dark, icy glare. Like a shark...

"So, uh... Yoongi," Another coworker speaks up, eyeing his leather jacket with a fake smile on her face as if she wasn't judging his outfit right now. "How's your little... Business going?" She asks with a soft laugh. Yoongi scrunches his nose at the question, eyeing her in an annoyed fashion.

"Oh, things are going great! Just had a deal close the other day, he's doing great things." You say fast in order to clear up the tension before Yoongi really comes out of his mouth with an attitude. You were actually surprised he hasn't already.

"God, do you ever talk?" Another coworker tries joking and Yoongi finally speaks up.

"Do you ever shut up? You should try it sometime, maybe it'll help lessen my headache." He says bluntly and then fake laughs. You cover your mouth as to not laugh at the shocked look on your coworker's face.

"Please, excuse us!" You say fast and get up, grabbing Yoongi and dragging him off with you. You lead him towards the bathroom and playfully hit his arm.

"I said be nice!" You say and he hums as he eyes you.

"You said try." He defends and you rub your face tiredly before you feel your boyfriend pull you into his arms. You playfully grumble and let him kiss the side of your face and down your neck lightly.

"You're such a pain..." You mutter and pull back to eye your boyfriend. He looked absolutely delicious tonight. "How the hell can I get you to behave?" You whisper and he eyes you with a smirk playing on his lips.

"I can make a suggestion..." He says and you hum.

"Reading your mind as we speak..." You tease and pull at his arm, dragging him off to the ladies bathroom.

The second you realize the coast is clear, Yoongi's already grabbing you and pulling you to the sinks. You laugh at his eagerness. "No way you're still horny..." You mutter against his lips as he kisses you hungrily.

"Blame it on this fucking dress." He grumbles and you snicker proudly, wrapping your legs around his waist.

"We're gonna have to hurry. Can't keep 'em waiting forever." You whisper.

"Fuck them..." Yoongi mutters with a snort before focusing on your neck. You shut your eyes and hum in enjoyment till you feel him bite your neck.

"Yoongi! No hickeys!" You pant.

"What? Don't want them knowing what we snuck off to do? Hm? Too bad. I want all those stuck-up assholes to know their fancy titles and big watches mean shit. Because you'd still rather fuck me." He smirks and his proud smirk makes you laugh.

"Oh? Makes you feel like you won the big dick having contest?" You joke and he presses against you.

"I don't know. You tell me..." He whispers cockily and you playfully mush his face.

"Don't talk my ear off. Hurry up." You giggle and grab the back of his neck to pull his lips to yours, kissing him deeply and passionately. He kisses back with the same heat. His hands reach under your dress for your underwear, and you shiver at the coldness of his hands.

"Wanna warm them up?" He whispers against your lips before sliding his fingers along your inner thighs.

"Fuck..." You gasp softly and your head goes back against the mirror as he slides two fingers between your folds. "Mm... Yoongi..." You gasp and he bites your collarbone as he strokes your clit.

"Please. I need it..." You pant out as if suffocated by your own desire. He pulls his fingers away and sucks them clean, much to your bashful delight. You're quick to undo his belt and the second his cock is free; your legs are spreading.

"Ha. I've trained you well..." He jokes and kisses you deeply as your legs tug him by the hips so he can slide into you already. "Fucking eager..." He taunts and slides into you. "Fuck. You were made for me..." He groans happily and you lean back to look at him with soft eyes.

"How romantic..." You tease as he bottoms out inside of you. You moan as your head rolls back.

"So fucking pretty." He whispers as he watches you closely. You grab his face.

"You can be romantic with me after you finish fucking me." You pant as you grab him in need. You core felt on fire.

"Yes, ma'am..." He whispers and gives in to you. He fucks you a bit faster as you yank off his leather jacket to feel more of him. His hands grip your hips tight to hold you in place and your hands grip the sides of the sink so you can hold your legs open. His hands go to the back of your knees to hold your legs up and wide apart.

"Yes! Oh fuck!" You moan out as your head presses against the mirror more.

"Why so loud? Because no one can hear you." He taunts in your ear, and you shiver at the thought.

"Give me more. Please..." You pant. You never knew what you were begging for exactly, but Yoongi somehow gave you what you needed every time. He angels his hips to find your spot as his thumb goes to your clit. "Baby!" You cry out as you grip his arms, always careful of holding him and he was always grateful of that...

He kisses you sloppily and pumps in and out of you, enjoying your own private world for a moment until there's a knock on the bathroom door. You're quick to cover Yoongi's mouth.

"Y-Yes?" You call as calmly as you can.

"Y/N? That you?" One of your male co-workers, Timothy, asks, and Yoongi laughs from behind your hand. You give him a look to stay quiet.

"Y-Yup. Yeah, it's me." You shakily call out cause Yoongi has decided now is a great time to slowly bottom out inside of you, so you feel every inch of him...

Your eyes roll back slightly at the pressure and the feel of his tip pressed firmly against your sweet spot.

"Are you okay in there? Did your little boy toy leave? We're sorry if we made you two fight." Tim says in an innocent tone that you and Yoongi knew wasn't so innocent. You knew Tim had a little workplace crush on you, but you were sure that always talking and showing off Yoongi would one day snap him out of whatever he thought was gonna happen between you two. But there was no realization coming from him anytime soon.

"Oh, no, we're-" You're stopped from your sentence by Yoongi sliding out and the hitting your sweet spot with the right amount of force.

"Perfect!" You call out in pure pleasure before swatting at his arm.

"Are you sure you're okay in there, Y/N?" Tim asks as Yoongi moves to your ear while fucking you hard and fast.

"Yeah, are you okay in here, Y/N?" He whispers in your ear, and you can barely focus on anything other than the bundle of heat in your stomach about to burst.

"Y-Ye... Yes..." You hiss out as you look Yoongi in the eyes with a 'I'm gonna kill you after this' look. It makes him smirk happily.

"Y/N?" Tim asks from the locked bathroom door as Yoongi kisses you hotly.

"Don't stop..." You whine quietly against his lips as he starts rubbing your clit.

"Cum, baby. Cum on my cock..." He nods fast and you tune out Tim effortlessly as you feel it coming.

"Yes!" You gasp and move closer to Yoongi, biting down on the cork of his neck as you cum.

"Fuck..." Yoongi moans quietly and holds you down on your cock so you're milking him. "That's a good girl..." He praises as you moan happily when you feel him fill you up. You grab him and kiss you as Tim starts knocking on the bathroom door relentlessly.

"Ugh. Stay here. I'll get rid of him and then you walk out." You whisper and Yoongi nods, pulling out of you. You wait for the shakiness to pass and, when you can feel your legs again, you get up and fix yourself before walking over to the door. You open it and poke your head out.

"Oh! You're okay. Thank god, cause I was so worried-" Tim is cut off by Yoongi walking over behind you, which makes you facepalm.

"Tim?" Yoongi asks as he makes it obvious that he's now fixing his belt on his pants.

"Uh... Yeah, man?" Tim asks, eyeing you both now wirily.

"You wanna fuck off?" Yoongi asks bluntly with the same casual expression on his face. You keep your face covered, not even wanting to look up at Tim.

"Uh... Yeah, yup, let me... Go back to the table." Tim mutters, a bitter look on his face before he storms off. You snort and turn to Yoongi, swatting at his chest.

"Would it kill you to be nice?" You ask and he pauses as if thinking.

"Mm... It just might. And then what would you do without me?" He plays along with the same smile that's only meant for you. You blush and nudge him lightly.

"Let's go. Before you fight someone else." You chuckle and grab his hand, pulling him off towards the table to get your stuff and run off back home.

[maevesheart]

FOOLS - PART I

CORIOLANUS SNOW X CAPITOL!READER

note: continuing to use the mars family for reader, but different storyline than tolerate it.

PART I // PART II // PART III

summary: only fools would fall for coriolanus snow, and you’re the biggest fool of them all.

wc: 5.1k

tw: fingering, pet names, curse words

The sound of your blinds being torn apart pulls you from your peaceful slumber, and the now streaming sunlight causes you to rub your eyes and yawn.

Today was the announcement of the Plinth Prize, all of your fellow classmates would be seething when your name fell from the lips of Dean Highbottom.

The thought made you grin.

You had never once missed classed, and your grades were the very highest they could possibly be. The only thing standing in your way is Coriolanus Snow.

The boy who is just as intelligent and cunning as you are.

Rumors had been spreading for weeks as to who was going to win the lavish prize money, the most common names falling from lips were yours and Coriolanus.

It infuriated you.

The Mars family was the highest esteemed in all of the Capitol. Who deserved the prize more than you, of course, Y/N Mars?

Your Avox quickly left the room as you stood up from your massive ornate bed, feet lightly padding on the cold marble floors.

You made your way into your closet, where your long plum-purple colored dress hang. It was to your mid-thigh, a large bow sat on the back that draped to the floor. It was beautiful, made custom for you.

You slipped on a pair of thin tights and some black heels, allowing your Avox to meticulously curl your hair and do subtle yet elegant makeup upon your face.

You made your way down the marvelous marble staircase outside your bedroom, meeting your father and mother at the bottom.

“Here darling,” your mother smiled, placing her string of pearls around your neck, and delicately sliding in matching Pearl studs to your ears.

“Oh, mother, your pearls?” You smiled, your mother wore the pearls throughout the war and claimed they were what kept you all afloat.

In reality, it was your fathers expansive fortune and manufacturing company that produced the capitol’s guns and bombs, but the pearls were touching.

“Thank you,” you smiled, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

The ride to the Academy was short, and soon you waltzed into the building followed by your doting parents.

When you three entered the gathering room, where all of the Capitol’s brightest and richest stood, you father dispersed to speak to Serbo Plinth, and your mother found Mrs. Crane.

You quickly found Clemensia, your closest friend, and the two of you eased into simple conversation, discussing who you thought would win.

Clemmie assured you that the prize would soon be yours as the both of you made your way to fellow classmates Felix, Festus, and Arachne.

Arachne and you offered each other a quick hug before Felix and Festus were complimenting your dress and how marvelous it was.

“Thank you, boys,” you smile, loving the attention.

As you continue to indulge in their compliments, you feel a light touch on the back of your elbow, Coriolanus Snow now by your side.

“Finally, the Star pupil.” Arachne snottily says, looking down at Coryo’s shirt.

“Arachne,” he nods, smirking as he feels the annoyance radiating off your body.

“We were just talking about how lovely Y/N’s dress is, Coryo, don’t you agree?” Clemmie sets the bait. She has this feeling that Coriolanus and you have some deep set feelings for each other that have yet to reach the surface. You think it’s all just her imagination running wild.

But Clemmie doesn’t know about the few nights the two of you have spent together, in the back of your car, in your bed, anytime the two of you had been alone.

No one knows. And you plan on keeping it that way.

You feel Coryo’s eyes take over your figure, pausing briefly as he sets his sight on your cleavage peaking out.

“Yes, you look quite nice, Y/N.” He smiles, hand secretly toying with the end of your curls down the middle of your back.

Before you have a chance to react, Sejanus has found his way to your other side, offering you a slight peck on the cheek as greeting.

“Sejanus,” you smile, patting his arm.

The two of you were close, as you found Festus and Felix’s distaste for him to be rather childish and ignorant.

He was a nice, respectable boy. And your father and Serbo Plinth had worked closely during the war, your families were allied. Something that was especially so important now.

Coriolanus felt a tinge of jealousy as you leaned in to peck Sejanus’ cheek back. Everyone knew the two of you were close, yet it was still anger-provoking whenever he truly saw how close you two were.

Before Sejanus could fully join in the conversation, the familiar sound of Panem’s anthem began to play, signaling for you all to take your seats.

You sat between Clemmie and Coriolanus, eyes focused in front before you heard Sejanus offer a quick apology to Coryo, about something you failed to decipher.

Dr. Gaul’s sinister laugh boomed throughout the hall, and your eyes widened with shock.

She spoke of her responsibilities and how you all before her were the leaders of the new generation. You looked over to Coryo with confusion splayed on your face, his eyes wide and frantic.

Dr. Gaul stepped down from the podium and moved away for Dean Highbottom, who was once again drunk off morphling and slurring his words.

“I cannot believe they continue to let him speak in public,” Clemmie whispers, shaking her head.

“And here sit our own 24 top prospects, all waiting to hear the results of hard study in this prestigious institution.”

Your heart races as he continues to ramble on, “eager to learn who’s won that Plinth Prize, no doubt. And a golden future. However, I am here to tell you that there has been a change this year. One final assignment to prove your worth.”

Clemmie slumps back into her seat, you hear Festus behind you suck in his breath. This was it.

“…the prize will now be determined by who is the best mentor in the Hunger Games.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Against your better judgement, you are reaching for Coriolanus’s hand, and intertwine your fingers.

You knew how bad he needed this prize. You were one of the only people who knew.

His eyes flicker down to your hands twisted together, and he offers you a slight smile, but you know he is freaking out to his core.

Dean Highbottom announces how he will assign the tributes, and soon comes to sit in front of you all when the anthem once again plays out.

“Coryo..” you whisper, he looks over to you and you shake your head, a silent apology. He nods, accepting it, and shrugs. What is he supposed to do but pray he gets a good tribute from One or Two?

You and Sejanus secure the tributes from District Two, most likely his fathers doing.

You untangle your fingers from Coriolanus and reach across to grab Sejanus. You give his arm a squeez, assuring him that you are there.

He continues to look straight, obviously torn by this revelation.

Coriolanus finds himself even more annoyed, watching you fawn over the boy next to him. You were holding him first…

He immediately snaps himself out of it. He was showing weakness. He reminds himself that weakness is a curse, and there is no room for that in success.

Finally, the runt girl from District 12, belongs to Coriolanus.

He looks to the floor, shaking his head. You refrain from taking his hand again, knowing he would most likely shoo it away.

You and Arachne giggle as the girl floods the screen, wearing a rainbow dress. One quick glare from Coriolanus shuts you up and forces your eyes back on the screen.

Soon, the girl is shoving a snake down another girls back, and Coriolanus is quick to his feet, watching with rapt attention.

She starts to sing, a somber tune that you had never heard before.

“Singing?” You question, Arachne quickly adding in, “is she out of her mind?”

Coriolanus ignores you this time, eyes straight ahead.

Her singing is enchanting, and you focus in, laughing when she screams profanities into the microphone.

“Well, she’s obviously mentally ill.” Arachne claims, Sejanus still staring straight ahead, and your eyes trained on Coriolanus.

All of you quickly disperse out of the hall, your fathers hands are on your shoulders, shielding you from the press as you make your way to the car.

Once safely inside, he is stern and stoic, unwavering in his stance, “no. You will not do it.”

“Daddy, it’s just one games. We meet with the tributes maybe once, never let them get too close.”

You were fighting a battle already lost, you knew.

“Absolutely not Y/N. I will not have you frolicking around with district.”

He is seething, obviously feeling deeply betrayed and upset with Serbo, how could he not have told him?

“Please? I know I won’t win the prize, but it’s good experience.”

Your father can’t argue there. If you are to one day rule his empire with your siblings, then he must allow you to get some experience under your wing.

“Alright. But as soon as something goes wrong, which it will, you are out of the contest. Understood?”

“Understood.”

You’re laid in bed, a book propped up on your chest, trying your hardest to distract yourself from the confusing day you’ve had.

A light rap on the door shakes you from your focus.

“Come in,” you say, body slightly turning to see who would come this late in the night.

The gold handle of your massive white door turns, and to your great contentment it’s Coriolanus who silently walks in, shutting the door tightly behind him.

It wasn’t unlikely for Coriolanus to come to your home, usually you two worked on homework or studied together, but he never came at night.

The sight of his deep eye bags made your chest sink. You knew how he must be feeling.

“The Avoxes let me in,” he murmurs, making his way over to your bed.

He sits down on the edge next to you, and you feel the mattress lightly dip to support his weight.

You sit up, leaning your back against the headboard, and place your hand on his shoulder, soothing it up and down his back.

His back was to you, lightly hunched over.

“I talked to Tigris,” he speaks after moments of silence.

You hum, “what did she say?”

You lightly crawl over to him, wrapping yourself around his back, hands snaking around his waist and pulling him closer to you.

His body was warm, but you could feel his spine lightly stick out his back and the thought made you want to cry.

You place your cheek against his shoulder blade, and close your eyes, his presence easing you.

“She told me I should get the girl to trust me. Saying she’s probably so scared and feels alone right now.”

“I would be too,” you hummed back, eyes flitting up to get a better view of his face.

From your position, you can make out the trace of his nose and his light eyelashes, the moonlight coming in through your large windows accentuating his features.

He places one of his hands over yours, entwined across his lap.

“You will win, Coryo,” you assure him, a small whisper falling from your lips.

You weren’t confident, but he needed reassurance, and who were you to deprive him of what he needs most?

He doesn’t say anything, the two of you sitting in silence for a few moments.

He then turns around, glossy eyes staring straight into yours.

“Oh, love,” you coo, taking his cheek in your palm, and pulling him into you, wrapping your arms tightly around his body, one hand on the back of his head.

Coryo didn’t cry. That was weakness, and Coriolanus Snow did not show weakness.

“I need this scholarship, Y/N,” he quietly peeps, head buried in your shoulder.

You say nothing, hand massaging his scalp, and the other lightly rubbing his back.

You let him compose himself before he pulls back, and you lightly tug his arm, scooting over and giving him room to slip under the covers next to you.

You curl around his body, him only wearing a white t-shirt and loose lounge pants.

You place a small kiss to the back of his neck, assuring him you’re there as you begin to hear his light snoring fill the room.

You wake up to an empty bed. The only sign of Coriolanus even being there is the lingering scent of his cologne on your bedsheets and the light indentation in your mattress.

You want to cry. Of all the times you had consoled him, held him, given him the most sacred parts of you, he up and leaves, like you mean nothing.

Obviously you had to mean something if he kept coming back, right?

You care for him, deeply, and despite your agreement to keep your sexual relationship hushed, you cannot help but to want to care for him.

You hastily get dressed and ready, and throw a few books into your pack, rushing down to the kitchen. You have Cook pack a blueberry muffin into your pack, knowing Coryo won’t have the means for breakfast.

You have the driver take you straight to school instead of your usual stop for coffee.

Entering the classroom, Coryo’s usual seat next to you is bare. He’s never once skipped class. Why would he start now?

The screen in your classroom brights up, showing Luvky Flickerman outside the monkey cage at the zoo, where the tributes fall into.

A bright red uniform sticks out, and you’re on your feet, prying for a better look.

Dean Highbottom is watching unimpressed, Sejanus on your other side shaking his head in disbelief.

You realize it is Coriolanus and a gasp falls from your lips, he is standing with Lucy Gray, his tribute, and watch as he places his Grandma’am’s precious rose in her hair.

You couldn’t believe him. He left your bed to go be with that… that district slut!

Distaste brews in your mouth as he takes her hand and parades her around to all the young children. Clemmie watches as a scowl takes over your features.

He smugly looks into the camera, and you feel as if he’s directly looking to you, as he gives his cunning responses to every question Lucky throws his way. You know Dean will be far from pleased.

Before you know it, Coriolanus is entering the classroom, and you give him the meanest stare you can conjure.

Sejanus starts to stick up for him as Coryo takes his seat next to you. You side-eye him as he sits down, wanting him to know how stupid he is for putting his life at risk.

“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper through gritted teeth.

He doesn’t answer you, giving you a snide look before turning to the sound of Dr. Gaul entering the room.

She waltzes in, congratulating Coryo for his initiative. You scoff, and he looks down on you, eyes narrowing.

Dr. Gaul promptly leaves, and a silence engulfs the room.

Soon, your fellow peers are whispering to each other, trying to figure out how Coryo ended up in that cage.

Sejanus is silent, eyes on his shoes.

You stick your hand deep into your pack and pull out the muffin from earlier, not wanting it to go to waste.

Without another word, you shove the muffin into Coryo’s hands under the desk, and catch his eyes softening as he looks over to you.

“Dean? May I be excused?” You keep your composure, quietly slipping out of the classroom.

Clemmie watches Coryo, how he lightly shakes his head before shoving the muffin into his pack and jumping to his feet, rushing to follow you out the classroom.

He finds you in the library, your pack sitting at a mahogany table which gives you away.

He sets his down on the same table, and sets off between the rows of hardback books to find you.

This library was sprawling, three-stories of endless books, it could take hours to find you.

“Y/N?” He quietly calls out, hoping you’re nearby.

He hears a scoff a row over, quickly darting down the isle to find the one that the noise comes from.

As he rounds the corner, there you are, leaning against the wall at the end, arms crossed against your chest.

He thinks he sees a tear stain down your normally perfect makeup and complexion, and crosses over, hands falling on your face.

He turns your head in his hands, checking for signs of pain.

“What’s wrong?” He sounds worried, and you laugh, pushing him off of you.

His face twists in a mix of confusion and anger, hands falling to his sides.

You shake your head, biting your lip as you look up. You’re no longer upset, just majorly pissed off.

“You left my bed, to go greet your bitch from the districts.” You spit out at him, eyes narrowing as you watch him comprehend your words.

He knew you could get jealous sometimes, but didn’t realize it went quite this deep.

“Y/N/N—“

“Nope. I don’t want to hear it.” You hold your hand up, silencing him. You close your eyes, sighing.

But before you can open them back up, you feel Coriolanus’ lips on yours, molding together like they do so perfectly.

His hands grip your face, pulling you into him, your hands gripping onto his biceps.

The kiss is passionate, the air being sucked out of your lungs.

He only kisses you like this when he’s hungry for you, absolutely starving. When he needs you like a feral animal.

He knows what it does to you.

You use all your strength to pull back, hands resting on his chest to keep him from lunging back in.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, “you know I would never touch another girl. Especially one from the districts.”

You nod, knowing that while your jealousy was just, it was also a little exaggerated.

The familiar sound of lunch time’s bell rings out, and Coryo backs off of you, and the two of you head for the cafeteria.

You walk with him until you spot Clemmie, excusing yourself from Coryo’s side.

You follow Clemmie to your usual table, parting with Coryo, you two girls sitting with Arachne and Livia, who both have lots to say about their chances in the games.

You ignore them, peeking over to where Coryo sits, across the cafeteria. Sejanus is sat across from him, the two of them deep in conversation.

You watch as they pack up their lunches, and stand from their spots, rushing to the nearest exit.

You stand to follow, and Arachne trails after you.

You follow them all the way to the zoo, and you once again brew anger in your core.

Arachne kneels before her tribute and begins to tease her with the food, and you watch with the audience as Coryo gives his full lunch to Lucy Gray and Jessup.

You come up to his side and snake your arm around his, plastering the most sickly-sweet smile on your face that you can muster.

“And who might this beautiful girl be, Coriolanus?” Lucy Gray asks, a slight smile pulling at her lips as she eats.

Coriolanus is taken aback by your display of affection and sudden appearance at the zoo. You’re the last person he would have expected to show up.

“This is my classmate, Y/N Mars.”

The words my classmate falling from his lips when describing you does not settle right in your stomach. But you two haven’t established what you are… just that you want each other all to yourselves.

“Splendid to meet you, Lucy Gray. That dress is just gorgeous!” You claim, talking with your hands.

Coriolanus holds back from rolling his eyes, remembering the snide comments you made at the reaping about her dress and how she must be mentally unhinged.

“Thank you, Miss Y/N.” You watch like a hawk as Lucy Gray scarfs down her sandwich and then eyes your spectacular ruby ring upon your middle finger.

“Beautiful ring,” she compliments, Coryo’s eyes flickering down to the present you received for your 17th birthday.

“Oh! This old thing, it’s quite small, I believe. I think I’ll ask for a bigger one next year,” you smile, watching Jessup and Lucy Gray’s faces twist with slight envy.

“Right,” Lucy Gray slightly smiles, sitting down.

You and Coriolanus look over to Arachne, who is waving food in front of her tribute’s face, obviously taunting her.

You purse your lips, undoing yourself from Coryo’s side. “I’m going to tell her to stop it, she might get killed over there.”

Coryo nods and watches as you make your way down to Arachne’s side.

He doesn’t want you to get too close, knowing that Arachne and her tribute are a seam ready to burst at any moment.

Just as he’s looking back to Lucy Gray, he hears your shriek and spins around, immediately at your side.

Arachne is on the ground, choking on the loss of air, a glass bottle sticking out from her neck.

“Y/N!” He screams, next to you in seconds, trying to pull you away from the monkey cage.

“Help!” You screech, using your red Academy coat to try to stop the blood.

Coriolanus falls on top of you to shield you from the gun shots that ring out, heading straight past your head to the tribute behind bars.

“Oh, Arachne,” you smooth her hair down, your eyes teary and glossy, watching as she lays limp, no longer struggling.

Peacekeepers and Sejanus reach you two at the same time, Sejanus pulling you up off the ground, and into his chest, Coriolanus watching as the Peacekeepers escort all of you away.

Coryo seethes with envy, watching you tuck your head into Sejanus’ chest as he hauls you away, loud sobs falling from your lips.

He shouldn’t be jealous, Sejanus is just comforting you. You had just watched your close friend die, how could Coriolanus be jealous while you grieve.

As the three of you renter the Academy, Sejanus stops walking, halting your movements as well, coming face-to-face with your father.

“Mr. Mars,” Sejanus nods, and your father is quick to lift you into his arms, silent whimpers coming from your lips.

“Thank you, boys,” he nods to Coryo and Sejanus, and the two reluctantly continue their movement back to the cafeteria.

“C’mon darling, let’s go home,”

Coriolanus had gone back that night to visit Lucy Gray, to make sure she was alright.

“You must love her, Coriolanus,” Lucy Gray spoke, lightly smiling while shaking her head.

“What?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Your friend, Y/N. You shielded her body with your own. I saw the way you watched to make sure she wouldn’t get too close to Arachne.”

The wheels in Coriolanus’s head were turning, reenacting the events of earlier that day.

“And I gather she likes you just as much,” Lucy Gray finishes, “she sure doesn’t like you spending so much time with me,”

“Nonsense, Y/N is a close friend, that’s all.” He dismissed the topic like it wasn’t anything at all.

“Alright then, but I’d imagine she won’t wait these entire games for you to admit your feelings. That other boy, the one who held her, he seems quite keen as well.”

With that, Coriolanus felt his jaw tighten, angered by the idea of anyone touching you other than him. Especially Sejanus Plinth touching you.

With a quick nod, Coriolanus turned on his heel, and began his venture to your penthouse.

It was pitch black out, yet Coriolanus found himself scaling the outside of your building, finally rapping his knuckles against the pristine glass covering your window.

He sees straight in, you curled up under your silk sheets, hair around you like a halo.

He had snuck in through your window countless times now, and he lightly pressed on the bottom, and the window gave way, allowing him just enough room to crawl through and lightly pad to your bed.

He slipped off his shoes and opened the covers, sliding in and curling around you.

His finger traced shapes onto your skin, trying his hardest to calm both himself and you.

You lightly started to stir, and finally turned to face Coryo, he gave you a small tight-lipped smile, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Hi, Y/N/N.”

“Hi, Coryo,” you smile, nuzzling in closer to him.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence, your head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

“I was so scared,” you murmur out, Coriolanus sensing the vulnerability in your voice, something you normally only let him see.

He pulled you closer into him, softly smoothing your hair.

“I won’t let anything ever touch you, Y/N.” He states like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Coriolanus had declared his feelings for you vaguely a few other times, usually only when he was buried inside of you.

This was different. You were barring your soul, showing him weakness.

“Do you mean it?” You whisper out, lightly pushing off his chest to look him in the eyes.

“More than I’ve ever meant anything else.” His eyes are stern, his face unwavering.

A smile starts to overtake your lips, and Coriolanus places his hand on your cheek, lightly bringing you down to his level.

You lightly move his curls out of his face, and the two of you lean into each other, lips meeting halfway.

This kiss is different than your others, it’s slower, not as heated. It’s a kiss that two people who love each other would share.

“It could’ve been you, Y/N. How could I have lived with myself,” he lightly huffs out, in between quiet kisses.

“But it wasn’t me, Coriolanus. It wouldn’t have been your fault,” you reassure him, hand finding his under the covers.

“My father is removing me from the mentorship. Highbottom is finding another student to take my place. Nothing can touch me now,” you smile, despite being deeply upset by your father removing you from the possible achievement of a lifetime. 

“I’m sorry,” he coos, genuine feeling in his words.

You fall back into him, lips connecting once more, his hands roaming, pulling you into his lap, legs going to either side of his hips.

The kiss is still the same, but now his tongue finds its way into your mouth, somehow bringing your lips even closer together.

His hands are all over you, groping your ass from over your silk pink pajama shorts, another hand gathering a fist full of your hair and wrapping it throughout his fingers, pulling you as close to your body as possible.

He had never been so vulnerably affectionate before, but the thought of losing you to someone else wrung his heart dry. He wanted you all to himself.

Soon he was pushing your shorts down, helping you quickly discard of them.

You weren’t wearing any panties, and Coryo felt himself getting hard at the sight of your bare mound.

“Fuck,” he curses, eyes dark and filled with lust. He watches as your tongue darts out over your bottom lip, and he pulls you back into him, sticking two of his fingers into you at the same time.

His lips on yours stifles your moan, and the sound of his fingers pumping in and out of your slick folds is the only thing to be heard in your large bedroom.

You start to squirm above him, the feeling of his fingers inside of you being immensely pleasurable.

He then uses his thumb to start massaging your clit, a pit beginning to form deep in your core, threatening to soon burst.

“Fuck, Coryo,” you moan, your head finding place in the crook of his shoulder.

He kisses up your bare shoulder, entwining his free hand with one of yours, “say you’re mine,” he groans, feeling you start to grind down on his fingers and slightly on his bulge.

“I-I’m yours, Coryo—“ you mewl, lightly biting his shoulder to stop from waking your parents.

“You’re mine only,” he quietly tells you, fingers picking up a faster pace as you become undone.

“I’m gonna come,” you pant, and with one last circling of his thumb, you come undone on his lap, spilling all over his fingers still deep inside of you.

He tenderly pulls them out, as you sink down into his chest, and bring the two fingers up to his mouth, sucking off all the juices that he could never get enough of.

You watch with blown pupils, he quickly reconnects your lips, and you taste yourself all over his mouth.

“I love you,” he says, pulling back, tucking your hair behind your ears.

Of all the times you’d been intimate with Coriolanus, he had never been this gentle and caring.

“Do you really?” You ask, refusing to believe his confession. You had only been waiting for those three words to leave his mouth for what felt like eternity.

“I do, really, how could I not?” he grinned as you smiled, pecking your lips. “I love you, Coriolanus. I’m yours,”

He grins at your confession, a sense of pride overcoming his being knowing that he’s won, no other man will touch you for as long as he lives.

“You’ll stay this time, right?” You ask, all walls down, barring the most vulnerable corners of your soul.

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving,” he assured you, kissing your shoulder.

Only fools would ever fall for Coriolanus Snow and his cunning love spells. But you were the biggest fool of them all, weren’t you?

**

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Have you read the "Hurt Hawks" poem by Robinson Jeffers? It's short, you can read it online. Oh, my heart...

Holy shit. Those are some emotions. Damn.

Hurt Hawks By Robinson Jeffers

I

The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder, The wing trails like a banner in defeat, No more to use the sky forever but live with famine And pain a few days: cat nor coyote Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons. He stands under the oak-bush and waits The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it. He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse. The curs of the day come and torment him At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head, The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes. The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant. You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him; Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him; Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.

II

I’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail Had nothing left but unable misery From the bones too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved. We had fed him for six weeks, I gave him freedom, He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death, Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.

[carlos-in-glasses]

Thank you for the tag @lemonlyman-dotcom @emsprovisions @strandnreyes @paperstorm

@nisbanisba @eclectic-sassycoweyes @butchreyes @heartstringsduet🧡

With chapter 1 of Rhythms now on Ao3, here we have a moment from chapter 2. I hope you will join me this Sunday...for the rise of Shadow Poet! Oh Carlos! 🫠

“What am I doing, Rocky?” Carlos asks the dog, who gets up from his flopped position in the center of Carlos’ bedroom rug.

The rug is a sage green oval dotted with a brown radial pattern. Carlos thinks he kind of hates it, now he’s for some reason studying the design. It looks like an avocado you slice open, only to find it’s covered in speckles.

Rocky brings Carlos his ribbiting frog chew toy. A struggled tug of war seems like a good enough answer to the question, Carlos thinks. Rocky is always responding to him with metaphors. He plays with Rocky for a short while, both of them making a grrr noise and putting their strength into it, Carlos laughing as he drags Rocky along the hardwood floor when he pulls hard enough on the frog’s ropey leg. There was a time when Carlos was no match for Rocky. When Carlos was seven years old, Rocky could have toppled him easily, though he never did. Now, Carlos is sixteen and Rocky is an older gentleman who from time to time gets swept up by his puppy spirit, but he runs out of puff quickly. After five minutes, he lets the rope drop.  

Carlos slumps back down onto his desk chair. Rocky sits by him, resting his head on Carlos’ thigh, mottling his heather gray sweatpants with drool. Drool aside, Carlos is submitting two new poems to the high school newspaper, and this endeavor is made a lot easier when stroking the foldy ears of a black mouth cur. Carlos has set up a new gmail account for the purposes of anonymized submission. Shadow.Poet.094@gmail.com.

Open tag and tags below:

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@sapphic--kiwi @anactualcaseofthetruth @corsage - If you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜