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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 04

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 24, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: female rivalry/competition, eating disorders(eating cotton pads), ballet classes, self-demands, perfectionism, ribbon discarding (or not), convenience store reencounters and small discoveries.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,2k

➔ A/N: Okay. Okay. Everyone breathe. Especially me. (I’m the one hyperventilating into a protein bar wrapper at 3AM because I cannot believe this chapter EXISTS.) Welcome back to Altars in Shallow Waters, where we do not chase plot—we let it simmer on low heat while the characters emotionally spiral into the void like aesthetically pleasing depressive ballerinas and bleach-stained ghosts of men!!! ✨🩰🧼 So, this chapter. Let’s talk about her. The real action here is perceptual rupture. The moment you realize someone is watching you, but not in the “flirty eye contact in an indie café” way. No. In the “someone found your discarded legwarmer ribbon and folded it like scripture into their jacket pocket” way. Delicious. Horrifying. Both. Psychologically, this chapter is playing with reciprocal hyperfixation. How the act of being seen can unravel just as much as seeing. She doesn't name it, but she feels it—the way she catalogs his reactions, the way her interest grows when he avoids her eyes, like a cat with a wounded bird. She's measuring his discomfort like a dancer mapping mirror angles. Efficient. But curious. And curiosity? Is the gateway drug to ruin. Also let's talk about that ribbon. Because symbolically, she discards it—functionally useless, easy to forget. But he keeps it. Stores it like evidence of contact. That's how obsession works. You think it’s nothing. You think it’s gone. But it's in someone’s pocket. It's their proof that you touched the world they live in. On a more serious note: mental health themes remain central. He is not quirky. He is unwell. She is not "coolly aloof." She is also unwell. And the way those fractures collide? That’s what this fic is. Not fluff. Not romance. A slow collision of two very broken people who think they’re control freaks, but are actually being dragged by subconscious forces stronger than either of them.

And no, I will not give you relief. Not yet. We’re still descending.

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Cotton dissolves like sin on your tongue.

You've perfected this ritual. The pad breaks down slowly against the roof of your mouth, becoming pulp, becoming nothing. The texture no longer bothers you.

Nothing bothers you before 5 AM.

Your reflection watches with clinical interest.

Dark circles beneath your eyes. Acceptable. Not ideal, but within parameters. You've calculated the exact amount of concealer needed to erase them—three dots, blended outward in concentric circles.

Precision matters, even in camouflage.

The cotton expands slightly as you work it around your mouth. Your stomach will feel full for approximately forty-seven minutes. Long enough to get through morning barre without distraction. Long enough to maintain focus when others are already thinking about breakfast.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

Your tongue presses the dissolving fibers against your teeth. No calories. No guilt.

Just the illusion of consumption that tricks your body into compliance.

The bathroom is eerily silent—except for the sound of your breathing.

Four counts in, four counts out. The same rhythm you maintain during adagio. The same rhythm your heart should follow during rest periods.

You reach for your hairbrush. The bristles scrape against your scalp, just shy of painful.

Good.

Pain means progress. Pain means you're paying attention.

Camille took your hairpins. All of them. The evidence was clear: her side of the room littered with them this morning, carelessly scattered like she couldn't be bothered to hide her sabotage.

How desperate. How transparent.

You pull your hair back until it hurts. The ponytail is tight enough to create tension at your temples.

Not your preference—a bun offers cleaner lines, better balance—but you adapt.

Adaptation is part of excellence.

The last of the cotton dissolves. You rinse your mouth, watching the water swirl down the drain.

Clean. Empty. Ready.

Your leotard fits precisely as it should. Dark blue, high-necked, modest in cut but not in purpose. The fabric compresses your ribcage just enough to remind you of your boundaries. Your physical limits. The container you must perfect.

White tights. No runs, no snags.

Navy leg warmers, positioned exactly three inches above the ankle bone. The little ribbons on the front—blue to match—catch your eye. Tacky. Childish. But the color coordinates perfectly with the leotard, and aesthetic cohesion supersedes your opinion on childishness.

Function over feeling. Always.

The cropped sweater—also white—settles just below your sternum. The ensemble is well thought out. Coordinated. It communicates seriousness, dedication, attention to detail.

These are not clothes. They are statements of intent.

Your reflection assesses you with the same merciless scrutiny you apply to everything.

Arms: acceptable. Neck: could be longer. Posture: correct. Weight: maintained within 0.4 kilograms of target.

You turn slightly. Check your profile. The curve of your spine, the placement of your shoulders.

No room for error. No allowance for imperfection.

The cotton has left a slight residue in your mouth—texture that reminds you of your choice.

Your control. Your discipline.

You think, briefly, of the convenience store. Of the cotton pads in their perfect packaging. Of the man who wouldn't look at you.

Kim.

The name surfaces without permission. An unexpected ripple in the still pond of your morning routine.

You dismiss it. Irrelevant. A random encounter that means nothing.

(But you remember the tremor in his gloved hands. The way he backed away. The way he watched when he thought you wouldn't notice.)

Your dance bag waits by the door, packed according to your usual system. Pointe shoes in their separate compartment. Towel folded precisely in thirds. Water bottle filled exactly to the line you've marked with clear nail polish. Kinesiology tape. Scissors. Antiseptic wipes. Bandages. Everything you need. Nothing you don't.

The dormitory is silent as you move through it. Your footsteps make no sound. You've learned to walk like a ghost. To exist without disturbing the air around you.

The kitchen light is on. Unexpected. Unwelcome.

Elodie stands at the counter, spreading something on toast. Butter, probably. Or worse—jam. Sugar and fat combined in a useless, indulgent paste.

You grimace. Her lack of will is evident in every bite she takes.

Every gram of unnecessary calories.

Every moment wasted on pleasure rather than preparation.

She'll be replaced soon. They all will. The company has no room for weakness.

"Morning," she says, her voice still rough with sleep. "You're up early."

The observation is pointless. You're always up early.

She knows this. Everyone knows this.

"Yes," you say, because a response is expected, not because the conversation has value.

Her eyes flick to your ponytail. Notice the deviation from your usual style. Her mouth opens slightly—about to comment, to ask, to pry.

You don't give her the chance. "Excuse me."

Two words. Polite but final.

You move past her, not waiting for a response.

The dormitory door closes behind you as the hallway stretches ahead, empty and dim.

Perfect. This is how mornings should be. Quiet. Solitary. Undistracted.

You begin the walk to the studio at your usual pace.

The route never changes. Left from the dormitory. Right at the café that won't open for another two hours. Straight past the bakery where the smell of fresh bread will soon fill the air.

Your stomach tightens. The cotton is doing its job, but barely.

You focus on your breathing instead. Four counts in. Four counts out.

The streets are empty except for delivery trucks and the occasional cleaner hosing down the sidewalk.

Paris pretends to sleep, but it never truly does. It just shifts its rhythms, like a dancer moving from allegro to adagio.

Your mind drifts, just slightly, to the convenience store again. To the fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly and unreal. To the man with the gloves who wouldn't meet your eyes.

Kim.

What a curious specimen.

Most men stare. They always have.

They look with hunger or appreciation or professional assessment.

They look because looking is taking, and you are something to be taken.

But he refused to look at all. Refused even to be seen himself.

It was... interesting.

The memory of his downturned face surfaces again. The curtain of washed-out hair. The blue latex gloves worn thin at the fingertips.

You wonder what his hands look like beneath those gloves. If they're as elegant as their shape suggests. If they're damaged somehow.

Scarred. Diseased.

You wonder why he was afraid.

(You wonder if he's still afraid.)

The thought brings an unexpected sensation.

A slight warmth in your chest.

A tightening that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

Then, the studio appears ahead, windows still dark.

You'll be the first to arrive, as always. The first to warm up. The first to claim your spot at the barre.

You reach for your key card, already positioned in the outer pocket of your bag for efficiency.

The cotton in your stomach has begun to expand, creating the illusion of fullness. Of satisfaction.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

This is what separates you from Elodie with her toast and jam.

From Camille with her petty sabotage.

From all of them with their weaknesses and wants and human frailties.

You are not weak. You are not wanting. You are not frail.

You are becoming perfect.

The studio door beeps as your card registers. For a moment, you think you see movement in your peripheral vision—a shadow shifting, a presence retreating.

You turn your head, just slightly. Just enough to check.

Nothing. Just the empty street. The dim morning light. The faint drizzle that has begun to fall.

You step inside, leaving the outside world behind.

Here, in the studio, everything makes sense. Everything has purpose. Everything can be controlled, measured, perfected.

The lights flicker on automatically. The empty room waits for you, patient and demanding all at once.

You set down your bag. Remove your sweater. Take your position at the barre.

As you begin your first plié, you notice one of the blue ribbons on your leg warmers has come loose. It dangles precariously, threatening to fall.

Distracting. Imperfect.

You untie it completely. The ribbon comes away in your hand, a small strip of navy satin. You place it deliberately by the door, next to your things. You'll dispose of it properly later.

For now, it's been removed. The imperfection excised.

Your gaze returns to the mirrors, reflection multiplying—four versions of yourself executing the same movement precisely.

Arms: acceptable. Turnout: could be deeper. Neck: elongate further.

You move through your warm-up.

Pliés. Tendus. Dégagés.

Each movement builds upon the last, preparing your body for what you'll demand of it today. Preparing your mind for the scrutiny that will come.

The door opens at 6:15 and Madame Villon enters first, as always. Her eyes sweep the studio, landing on you without surprise.

She expects your presence. Your dedication is not remarkable to her.

It is baseline.

"Good morning," she says, her voice crisp in the quiet room.

You incline your head slightly. "Madame."

She moves to the piano, arranging her notes for the day's class. Her movements are economical. You recognize the discipline in her posture, the control in her hands.

She was exceptional once. Now she creates exceptionalism in others.

The other dancers begin to arrive. First Mathilde, then Sophie, then Clara. They move to their usual spots, begin their own warm-ups. Their reflections join yours in the mirrors, creating a forest of limbs and torsos and necks all striving toward the same impossible standard.

Camille arrives at 6:27. Three minutes before class officially begins.

Her hair is already in a perfect bun—the style you couldn't achieve today.

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. She smiles. The expression doesn't reach her eyes.

"Morning," she says, her voice pitched to carry. To be heard by others. To create the illusion of friendship.

You nod once. Acknowledge the performance without participating in it.

Her gaze drops to your ponytail. Registers the deviation from routine. Her smile widens slightly—satisfaction poorly disguised as concern.

"No bun today?" she asks, knowing exactly why.

"No," you say, final.

She moves to the barre, taking her position behind Mathilde.

Her spot in the hierarchy is clear—not quite at the back with the weakest dancers, not quite at the front with you and Elodie.

Middle tier. Hungry for advancement.

Madame Villon claps once. "Places."

The pianist begins. Your body responds automatically.

First position. Demi-plié. Rise. Second position. The sequence is as familiar as breathing.

More familiar, perhaps, since you've never had to think about how to breathe.

Class progresses with its usual intensity. Madame moves among the dancers, making corrections. Her hand on Sophie's waist, adjusting alignment. Her voice sharp as she instructs Léa to extend further, reach higher.

She passes you without comment. Not approval. Not yet.

Just the absence of correction, which is its own kind of evaluation.

Center work begins. The barre no longer there to support you, to steady you. Just your body in space, responsible for its own balance, its own lines.

You execute each combination flawlessly.

Not perfect—perfect doesn't exist yet—but flawless in the sense that no one else in the room could identify your mistakes. Only you know the millisecond delay in your spotting during the final pirouette. Only you feel the slight tremor in your supporting leg during the adagio.

These are errors you will correct.

Weaknesses you will eliminate.

Imperfections you will excise, like the ribbon from your leg warmer.

Madame calls your name. "Demonstrate the grand allegro, please."

It's not a request. It's not even really a command.

It's an expectation.

You take your place in the center. Feel the weight of every gaze in the room. The cotton in your stomach has long since dissolved.

The music begins. Your body launches into motion. Jump, turn, land, extend. The combination is complex—designed to test not just technique but musicality, stamina, presence.

You move through it flawlessly again. Each beat accounted for. Each position achieved exactly as choreographed.

Your breathing remains controlled.

Your face betrays no effort.

When you finish, landing in fifth position with arms curved perfectly in low fifth, there is a moment of silence.

Then Madame nods once. Not praise. Acknowledgment.

"Again," she says to the class. "Four at a time."

By the time Madame signals the end of class, your leotard is damp with sweat. Your muscles vibrate with exertion. Your ponytail has loosened slightly—another imperfection to address.

"Thank you, ladies," Madame says. "Rehearsals begin at ten. Do not be late."

The dancers disperse, moving toward their bags, toward the changing rooms.

Conversations bloom in their wake—discussions of the day's schedule, complaints about sore muscles, plans for the brief break before rehearsal.

You remain at the barre, extending your cool-down.

There is no benefit to rushing. No advantage to socializing.

Your body requires proper care if it's to serve your ambition.

Camille passes behind you, her reflection catching yours in the mirror.

“Lunch later?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear.

A performance that continues.

"Perhaps," you say, noncommittal.

You both know you won't join her.

You both know she doesn't want you to.

The studio empties gradually. Dancers leave in twos and threes, their voices fading as they move down the hallway.

Soon it's just you and your reflection, multiplied across the mirrored walls.

You finish your cool-down. Move to collect your things.

The sweater goes back on—your body temperature will drop quickly now that you're no longer working. The water bottle is half-empty. The towel damp with sweat.

You look for the navy ribbon, left by the door where you placed it.

It's gone.

You scan the floor.

Perhaps it fell. Perhaps it was kicked aside accidentally.

But there's nothing. The ribbon has vanished.

Your eyes narrow slightly.

Camille. It must be Camille.

First the hairpins, now this.

But why would she take a discarded ribbon? What possible advantage could it give her?

Perhaps it's simply spite. Perhaps it's just another way to demonstrate that your space, your belongings, your boundaries are not truly your own. That nothing here belongs exclusively to you—not even your trash.

Or perhaps it's something else. Something you haven't calculated yet. Some new form of sabotage you'll need to anticipate and counter.

You straighten your ponytail. Adjust your sweater. Shoulder your bag.

The ribbon doesn't matter. It was defective. Discarded. Its loss is irrelevant.

But you remember exactly where you left it.

Remember that it was there, and now it's not.

Remember that someone took something of yours, even something you no longer wanted.

You don't know why you're here.

This purgatory with its flickering lights and linoleum floors that never quite look clean no matter how recently they've been mopped.

L'heure bleue.

The convenience store that exists in that strange space between your world and...

Perhaps it's curiosity.

Perhaps it's boredom.

Perhaps it's the man with the ashy blonde hair who seems to vibrate with anxiety whenever you enter his orbit.

Kim.

The protein bars are arranged in descending order of caloric content. You scan the nutritional information with practiced efficiency. This one: 15g protein, 160 calories, 2g sugar.

Acceptable. Not ideal, but functional.

Your body requires fuel. Not pleasure, not indulgence—just the bare minimum to maintain performance.

The store is empty except for you and him. The pink-haired girl is absent tonight. No buffer between you and his strange, trembling avoidance.

You approach the counter, place the protein bar down slowly, almost teasing.

The sound it makes against the surface is soft but there is no mistaking it.

A statement of presence.

No response.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Your time is valuable. Each wasted moment is a micro-failure.

You tap one long manicured nail against the counter. Sharp. Demanding. A single finger communicating what your voice shouldn't have to.

Still nothing.

Finally, you clear your throat.

There's a sudden scattering noise from the back room—something falling, something being knocked over in haste. Then footsteps, quick and uneven.

He emerges from somewhere behind rows of shelves, eyes are fixed on the floor, that curtain of hair hiding his features just as it did before. His shoulders curve inward, making his tall frame seem smaller, less substantial.

He doesn't look at you.

Doesn't acknowledge your presence beyond the most basic recognition that someone is standing at his counter. His focus fixes on the protein bar as if it's the customer, not you.

"Is the pink-haired girl not working tonight?" Your voice is cool. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

He doesn't respond. His fingers—still encased in those blue latex gloves—hover over the protein bar without touching it. His breathing has quickened, just slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

"Do you work here every night?" Another question. Direct. Uncomplicated.

Nothing. Just that same frozen posture. That same careful avoidance.

How curious.

How peculiar, this man who seems physically incapable of meeting your gaze.

As if eye contact might burn him. As if your attention is a weight he cannot bear.

Is he afraid of you?

The thought brings that same strange warmth to your chest. That same unquantifiable feeling you haven't yet categorized.

"You paid for my cotton pads last time," you say. Not a question this time. A statement of fact. "Why?"

His fingers finally move, picking up the protein bar with such care you might think it was made of glass. He scans it, the beep unnaturally loud in the silent store.

When he speaks, his voice is so soft you almost miss it.

"Three euros forty."

Just that. Just the price. Nothing more.

You extend your hand with exact change, coins arranged in your palm for maximum efficiency of transfer.

He doesn't take them from your hand.

Instead, he places a small plastic tray on the counter, sliding it toward you without making contact.

For coins. So he doesn't have to touch you.

The realization makes something in your chest tighten, and it’s not offense. Not exactly. Something more... interesting.

You place the coins in the tray. He takes it, careful not to brush against your fingers. Counts the money methodically. Places your change in the same tray, slides it back to you.

All without once lifting his eyes to your face.

"Thank you," you say, though you're not sure why.

The transaction doesn't require gratitude. It's a simple exchange of currency for goods. Nothing more.

He nods once, that same sharp downward jerk of his chin you noticed last time. His hands retreat to his sides, then behind his back, as if he doesn't trust them to behave appropriately in your presence.

You collect your change. Take the protein bar. Turn to leave.

That's when you see it.

A flash of navy blue, peeking from his pocket. Small. Satin. Unmistakable.

The ribbon from your leg warmer. The one you left by the studio door. The one that disappeared.

Not Camille.

Him.

But how? How did he get it? How did it travel from the dance studio to this convenience store? To his pocket?

You pause, your back to him, processing this new information.

He must have been there. At the studio.

Must have seen you. Must have taken what you discarded.

The realization should disturb you.

Should trigger alarm, concern, perhaps even fear.

It doesn't.

Instead, that same strange warmth spreads through your chest—that same unnamed feeling that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum

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novlr · 7 months ago

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I have a bad habit of never finishing writing I start - I work hard on a story, make it to 3/4 of the way through, then lose passion for it and start something else. I know the key to overcoming this is discipline, and I’m trying very hard to make myself keep going with my current story that I like very much and spent so much time researching and outlining, but it’s a struggle every day to make my writing goal. Any advice for how to re-ignite writing spark or how to push through to the end?

We can lose our drive to write for a lot of reasons. It often indicates a growing maturity as an artist — you understand the craft better and your own (current) limitations better, and so you begin to feel overwhelmed in a way you didn’t before. It can also be that external anxieties are getting in the way or simply that you’ve lost interest in your current project.

Hope is not lost. Read on for some tips on reclaiming your writing spark.

Shift gears

Sometimes, all you need to reignite your writing spark is to engage your brain in a different way. If you’re struggling with your novel, take a break and try writing a poem or a piece of flash fiction. Or, you could try drawing sketches of your characters, a map of your story’s world, or some possible outfits for your climactic battle scene (it doesn’t have to be good. No one’s going to see it).

The trick is to stay creative but to approach your work from a different angle.

Change location

If you’ve been trying and failing to write at your desk, surrounded by crumpled up dreams drafts and last week’s candy wrappers, you may be suffering from an environment with stagnant energy. Try taking yourself on a writer’s date: go to a location that fits the tone of the project you’re working on (lux hotel lobby, seedy theatre bar, the wilds of a nearby park), and see if that gets your creative wheels turning.

Dress [in]appropriately

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg has a chapter called “Blue Lipstick and a Cigarette Hanging Out Your Mouth”. By this she meant, “Use outfits and props to step outside yourself and get a new perspective”. You might find it helpful to have a special “writer’s sweater” that you only wear when you’re writing or to dress like someone confident and cool enough to smash writer’s block in the face.

Do some soul-searching

What’s really going on here? If the above tricks aren’t doing it for you, there may be some bigger issues at play that are inhibiting you from connecting to your writing spark.

Write letters

I’ve written about the restorative powers of letter writing before, and I’ll mention it again: handwritten letters are a great way to get the words flowing. You don’t actually have to send them when you’re done (although you can if you want to); the recipient doesn’t even need to exist. Simply by putting your thoughts down in a low-risk way, you’re unclogging your creative pipes.

Join a writing group

There’s power and accountability in numbers. You can find writing groups online, through community centres and writers centres, or by sticking a flyer up in a bookshop and starting your own. There’s even a Novlr writing community on Discord where we share tips, struggles, and just generally talk craft! By inviting other people into your writing practice, you’ll have some support and encouragement to keep you going.

Find your writing spark with writing prompts

The internet is awash with writing prompts. These can be a helpful way to get something down on paper and stretch out your writing muscles. Whether it’s a premise, an opening line, or a character study, writing prompts can give you a gentle, creative push and even inspire new work.

Experiment with found structure

If writing a traditional story feels like pulling out your own teeth, try a found structure story. This means using fictional “found material” like shopping lists, calendars, to-do lists, ticket stubs, banking records, and so forth to create a narrative.

Here’s an example: Imagine a week in which a bride-to-be prepares for her glorious wedding, is left at the altar, rages in misery, and ultimately emerges healthier and stronger. Now, write her shopping list for each day of that week. How does it change from beginning to end? How much emotional detail can you communicate to the reader through the items that appear on these lists? This can be a fun way to create a story without the anxiety of writing it.

Set a petty life goal

I am a proud champion of the value of pettiness as a motivator. There are plenty of noble reasons to write: to share powerful stories, to help readers in need of healing, to inspire others to write stories themselves, and to draw attention to important social issues or minority identities.

There are also some really inane and selfish reasons to write: to become more famous than your ex, to appear on TV and make your ex regret everything they’ve ever done to you, to have your book made into a movie and receive casting consultation rights and pitch your favourite actor in the lead role and allow them to take you for coffee as a thank you. But the thing is… these are the motivations that are really going to pull you out of the dirt when you need it most. Find the silly driving goal that really gets under your skin and hold onto it for dear life.

Forgive yourself

Many writers experience a lot of shame when they aren’t writing as much as they feel they should. Needless to say, this shame only makes the writing harder. Allow yourself the space to take some time when you need it, process your struggles, and return when you’re ready. The page will be waiting when you get back.

#writeblr #writing tips #writers of tumblr #writing community #writers #writing #creative writing #creative writers #writing inspiration #writerblr #writing advice #writing resources #writers on tumblr #ask novlr #writing blog #helping writers

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ladylaviniya · 1 month ago

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Devotion Under Duress Part 3

Part 1/Part 2

Story Synopsis: Ever since Apollo made you his bride, you have been at odds with the jealous Hyacinthus. Apollo decides that his lover and his wife need to make amends. He commands you both to have sex with each other while he watches and guides.

Word Count: 4k+

Pairings: Reader X Apollo X Hyacinthus

Story Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Vaginal sex, Oral sex (both m and f receiving and giving) Humiliation, Enemies to Lovers Cunnilingus, Ancient Greek God Mythology., threesome, hate-fucking.

Authors Notes: If you practice Hellenism, please know this writing may not be your cup of tea and you may feel a misrepresentation of the gods you might follow/show reverence for. I am writing this from the perspective of *Blood of Zeus Characters.*

You blinked, “What?”

Apollo’s smile thinned, “You heard me. Say something kind. Say something honest. Or I’ll throw you both from Olympus, and you can rut in the mud like pigs.”

You froze.

The silence screamed louder than anything you could say.

Compliment him?

You’d rather bleed.

But your body trembled, aching, split between denial and desire. And Hyacinthus, Hyacinthus hadn’t looked away. His jaw was set, but his eyes burned with something hollow and desperate, something that mirrored your own.

You swallowed the last of your dignity and let the words drag their claws up your throat.

“His face is perfect, his lips are soft, and his hair is so soft… His tongue is made of warm light inside of me, and I don’t know if I will experience something as good as that… not even from you, Lord Apollo.”

The admission was like tearing your skin off.

Hyacinthus flinched like he’d been struck. His hands flexed against your hips, “Fuck,” he whispered, more breath than voice.

Apollo’s grin turned feral.

“Your turn,” he said, turning to Hyacinthus, “Say something. Or I’ll bind your cock in gold and leave it pulsing for eternity.”

Hyacinthus’s throat bobbed. He didn’t look at Apollo.

He looked at you.

“A gloriously wet cunt to fuck and claim and fight a war over.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him, at this beautiful, infuriating boy who had once been your rival and now lay trembling beneath you, not from fear, but from the weight of truth.

And gods help you, something twisted in your chest.

Apollo stood away from the bed and folded his arms over his chest as he walked around the rounded bed, observing you both from all angles.

Your hips rocked without meaning to, and both of you gasped.

Apollo laughed, bright and sharp, “Good.” His voice dripped like honey over flame, “Now again.”

Because of course he wasn’t done.

Because neither were you.

“Again,” Apollo barked.

You barely had time to catch your breath.

“Compliment him again,” he continued, circling around the two of you like a lion around a pair of bleeding deer, “Not just flesh. Not just fucking. I want something real. Something you’ve never said out loud.”

You swallowed hard, rage scraping the inside of your throat.

“No.”

His footsteps stopped behind you, “No?”

You could feel the smile in his voice.

“Do you think this is a choice?” His fingers trailed up your spine, warm, gentle, deceptive, “You’re both so eager to prove how unbreakable you are. But you already obeyed me once. That’s all it takes. One fracture. The rest comes easily.”

You shivered.

Hyacinthus’s hands clenched at your waist, his voice low and dangerous, “I’d rather die than tell you.”

Apollo chuckled, “How dramatic. Is that what this is?” He crouched besides you now, his voice a velvet threat against your neck, “Do you think your love is noble just because it’s poisoned with hate?”

You flinched. The word hit harder than it should have.

Love.

“That’s not what this is,” you spat.

Apollo hummed, “No? Then why do you keep looking at each other like the pain is personal?”

He reached forward suddenly, gripping Hyacinthus’s jaw, forcing him to look at you, “Go on,” he whispered, “Tell her how it feels. Being inside someone who loathes you. Is it everything you hoped for?”

Hyacinthus’s breathing went ragged, “It’s worse.”

“Good,” Apollo murmured, “That means it matters.”

He turned to you, “Your turn, little thing. Tell him something he’s never heard before. Something you swore you’d never say.”

“I don’t owe him that.”

“You don’t owe me,” Apollo corrected, his thumb brushing the base of your throat, just firm enough to remind you that you weren’t in control anymore, “But you’ll give it anyway.”

You bit your lip, hard, willing the tears of frustration not to rise. You wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

But the silence grew heavier. The ache inside you is unbearable. And that voice, that damn voice, kept pulling you deeper.

“If you don’t tell him the truth,” Apollo said softly, “I’ll know. And I’ll make sure the next time he’s inside you, you’ll feel nothing. Not heat. Not pressure. Not released. Just emptiness.”

You weren’t sure if you would ever touch the flower god again. The thought tasted bitter, metallic, like copper pennies against your tongue. But Apollo’s decree, cold and final, splintered something deeper inside you than mere want. It fractured you.

A sound ripped itself free from your throat, too wild to be a sob, too broken to be a snarl. Raw, desperate.

“That’s cruel,” Hyacinthus murmured, his voice fraying at the edges.

“No,” Apollo corrected smoothly, voice wrapped in silk and steel, “that’s mercy.” He circled you both, a golden orbit of authority, “You don’t get to tarnish something sacred and treat it like a battlefield.”

You were trembling now. Every muscle quivering, each breath a battle between humiliation and something worse: vulnerability. Stripped bare, not by touch, but by the truth clawing its way to the surface.

Your gaze lifted, throat tight with unshed agony. First to Apollo, who loomed like a god carved from sunlight. Then lower, to Hyacinthus, whose body strained beneath yours, a taut wire ready to snap.

And there, you shattered.

“My curse,” you rasped, voice gravel-thick and unwilling, “is his charisma.” The words fought you, scraping up your throat like glass“. He draws every gaze without trying. He laughs, and the world leans closer. He’s funny, charming—beautiful.” Your voice softened as you shifted, the confession no longer for Apollo but for the man beneath you, the one buried inside your body, “And I know I lack it. I know I’ll never be that. And gods help me, I hate how much I want you to see me anyway. To notice me. To touch me, like you touch Apollo.”

The words, once spoken, left you trembling, naked in a way flesh could never be.

Hyacinthus’s face collapsed. For just a breath of time, a crack split through the marble mask he wore. Vulnerability flared, and it nearly undid you.

Apollo’s breath, rich and indulgent, fanned your cheek. His knuckle traced the curve of your lower lip, featherlight, “See?” he crooned, with a satisfaction that made your skin burn, “That was beautiful.”

He straightened, folding his hands neatly behind his back, a golden judge presiding over your ruin.

“Again,” he commanded.

And now, you understood.

This was the real offering. Not your bodies; those were already Apollo’s. No, he wanted the deeper sacrifices: pride, secrets, and the trembling confessions you would never have given willingly. He would flay you with truth, peeling you apart layer by fragile layer, until all that remained was unvarnished devotion.

And worse still, worse than the ache between your thighs, worse than the humiliation tightening your chest, was the knowledge that you would let him.

Because now you needed to know what he would strip away next.

Apollo’s eyes turned to Hyacinthus, gilded irises sharpening, “You,” he said, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath, “You act like you're the one resisting. As if I haven’t already seen you trembling beneath her. Seen the way you ache, not just for her body, but for the ruin she could make of you if you let her.”

Hyacinthus’s muscles coiled, every line of him taut, his breath uneven. You could feel it, the fraying tether, the desperate resistance.

Apollo tilted his head in mockery, all golden cruelty, “You pretend you’re here for conquest. But you’re not. You’re here because when she hurts you, with words, with her eyes, it wounds deeper than any blade. And you need it, don’t you? That pain. That reminder you’re alive.”

Hyacinthus bared his teeth, a snarl scraping from his throat, “You think you know me?”

Apollo chuckled, low and dark, a sound of omniscience, “I don’t think so, boy.”

He moved, a shimmer of light and danger, circling behind Hyacinthus. One hand dragged, slow and deliberate, down Hyacinthus’s spine, tracing each vertebra with maddening precision.

“Your pride is a gaudy costume,” Apollo said, voice dipping into something almost tender, almost pitying, “A desperate thing stitched together to hide how hollow you are. You look at her like she’s the enemy. But I see the truth. I see the hunger.”

Hyacinthus’s breathing was ragged now. Sweat shimmered at his temple. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Wouldn’t meet Apollo’s either.

So Apollo forced him.

A fist knotted in Hyacinthus’s hair and jerked his head up. His hiss of pain was sharp, real.

“Look at her,” Apollo ordered, his voice curling around the words like a noose, “Compliment her.”

Hyacinthus trembled. Truly trembled. For the first time, you saw fear, not fear of pain or death, but fear of being known.

Slowly, his gaze turned to you, and there was no rage there now. No disdain.

Only shame. And longing.

“She…” His voice cracked. He swallowed, hard, and the sound was painful, “You. You are so loyal. So… impossibly devoted. You carry yourself like a queen, sweet and untouchable. You care for Apollo, for everyone, even those who would spit in your face. You…” He faltered, breaking, “You wish me a good day. Every day. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You blinked, stunned, unmoored.

Hyacinthus’s mouth twisted, each word wrenched from somewhere deep and hidden.

“I hate it,” he whispered, “I hate how much I admire it. I hate how your kindness is a fortress I can’t breach. You’re everything I know I’m not: kind, resilient, and good. And gods, I loathe you for it. Because if you can be all that, what does that make me?”

You froze, your heart a wild, thrashing thing in your chest.

Apollo released Hyacinthus’s hair, stepping back with a smile as sharp as a sword’s edge.

“There,” he murmured, pleased, “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Hyacinthus’s chest heaved. His hands, still clutching your hips, trembled with the effort of restraint. One wrong move, one whisper of a slip, and you would both tumble over the edge without Apollo’s leave.

Apollo rose to his full height, immaculate, untouchable. He dusted his hands, as if wiping away the last remnants of your dignity.

“Do you feel it now?” he asked, his voice a quiet thunder rumbling low in your bones, “What am I carving out of you?”

You did. God help you, you did.

The tension had shifted, tectonic and unrelenting. It was no longer about lust. No longer about rage or defiance.

It was something far more fragile.

Something real.

Apollo’s smile sharpened, “Now that the truth has been told…” His gaze flickered between you, molten and merciless, “Let’s see what happens when I set you free. No begging. No pleading. Just the ruin you’ve both been craving.”

He stepped back, and the invisible leash snapped.

Your bodies moved, not from command but from the shattering absence of it. You rocked together, frantic, desperate, instinctive.

Because the only force greater than denial…

Was permission.

Hyacinthus’s voice broke the silence, roughened to something low and tender, softer than you had ever heard it.

“Did you mean it?”

You swallowed against the knot in your throat, your body still trembling from all that had come before, “All of it,” you said, voice raw and unflinching.

The effect was immediate.

His face, once so guarded, so carefully arranged into a mask of indifference or disdain, cracked wide open. No rage. No smirk. Nothing left to shield him now. Only something bare, exposed, and vulnerable in a way that undid you more completely than any cruelty ever could.

And then you leant down.

Forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the narrow space between you. Neither of you moved to close that final gap. Not yet. It was enough, in that trembling second, to simply exist, not as rivals or enemies, but as something unspoken, breath to breath, heat to heat.

Hyacinthus exhaled shakily, like he was breathing real air for the first time in years, like your skin was the only sanctuary he had ever known.

“I hate how much I care what you think of me,” he murmured, his voice a threadbare whisper meant only for you.

A small, hoarse laugh slipped from you, brittle but real, “I hate that you say things like that and make me want to forgive you.”

His lips brushed the curve of your jaw, featherlight, reverent, “I don’t need forgiveness,” he whispered, the words trembling on his mouth, “Just… don’t go. Ignore every stupid thing I ever said. Just don’t leave.”

You reached for him then, not with claws or cruelty, but with a gentleness you didn’t know you were capable of. Your hands cupped his face, fingertips mapping the strong lines of his jaw, the delicate tremor in his skin.

Finally, finally, not to wound, but to feel.

When you moved your hips next, it wasn’t to provoke or punish. It wasn’t a contest or a battlefield. It was tentative, careful, and an offering.

Hyacinthus groaned, head tilting back, violet eyes fluttering closed as if the sensation was too much, too pure.

Your name slipped from his lips like a prayer, cracked and reverent, “Pythia.”

Behind you, Apollo chuckled, the sound bright and amused, cutting through the heavy hush like sunlight through mist, “Finally,” he drawled, golden and smug, “I was beginning to think I’d have to glue your souls together myself.”

Hyacinthus didn’t react. He couldn’t. His mouth was too busy dragging along the column of your throat, each kiss a confession, each murmur a surrender that made your heart pound harder than any insult ever had.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered against your skin, his voice wrecked and trembling, “So soft. How could I have been so blind?”

You gasped softly, smiling despite the burn in your chest, “Because you spent all your time pretending I was the enemy.”

His eyes opened, violet and shining and too bright to look at for long, “You never were.”

You rocked your hips again, slower, deeper, and the moans spilling between you shifted, no longer frantic, no longer sharp with need. They were softer now, gentler, edged with something that tasted like relief.

Behind you, Apollo sighed dramatically, but even his theatrical exasperation couldn’t hide the fondness woven through his voice, “Look at you two,” he mused, “Precious. I’ll be weeping before the hour’s out.”

You didn’t care. You didn’t even hear him anymore.

Because Hyacinthus kissed you then, not with hunger or dominance, not with the heat of a fight, but with something truer. Something that anchored you. His mouth moved against yours like he had found the one place in the world he didn’t have to hide.

And when you kissed him back, you realised you hadn’t lost anything.

You had found something you didn’t know you were searching for: a home.

Hyacinthus’s kiss was slow, almost tentative at first, as if he feared breaking the fragile thing between you. A claiming not of body or pride, but of something sacred. Something final.

Your lips moved against his like a promise, a surrender, a beginning.

His hands, still braced on your hips, gentled, no longer clutching you like a prise but guiding you. When you sank down into him again, hot and full and aching, it wasn’t a power play.

It was an invitation.

You gasped into his mouth, and he moaned into yours, the sounds blending into a private language only the two of you could understand.

His forehead pressed to yours. His breath fanned your lips as he whispered, “You feel like something I was never meant to want.”

Your heart stuttered, “And now?”

His mouth curved, a fragile, ruined smile, “Now I think I’d destroy myself to keep you like this.”

You rocked against him again, deliberately slower, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hands tightened, but not to control you, but to keep himself from flying apart.

“Fuck,” he gasped, the curse drawn from somewhere helpless. He thrust up into you, meeting you now not in battle but in surrender. The slick heat of your bodies sliding together was no longer frantic. It was desperate in a different way, honest. Necessary.

You pressed your palms to his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heart. Wild and unguarded.

“I hate you,” you panted, the words trembling, “for making me want this.”

He laughed, short and gasping, “I hate that it took me this long to see it.”

You smiled, despite the tremble in your legs, and ground down onto him harder. He cried out, a beautiful, wrecked sound, and his hands clutched at you, desperate now.

“Gods,” he groaned, “you’re perfect. I can’t—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

You leant over him, lips brushing the corner of his mouth in a kiss that was all tenderness, all ache.

“I want to come with you,” you whispered against his skin.

The words shattered whatever restraint he had left. His hips bucked up, helpless and frantic, and you moved with him, matching him, chasing that edge together.

Pleasure coiled low in your belly, a hot, heavy burn that grew with every thrust, every whispered word, every breathless kiss.

You felt him throbbing inside you, thick and full and desperate.

Your walls clenched around him, and he nearly sobbed.

“I’m close— fuck, Pythia—”

You pressed your forehead to his again, feeling his breath shudder over your lips, “Then let go with me,” you whispered, voice breaking, hands clutching at him.

“Say it again,” he begged, broken and gasping.

“Let go with me,” you moaned, moving faster now, riding the edge with him, chasing it down with reckless abandon, “Please, Hyacinthus. Don’t—don’t release without me.”

His hands crushed you against him, hips snapping up, movements ragged and desperate.

And then —

It hit.

Your orgasm tore through you like lightning, sharp and glorious, blinding and holy. Your cry caught in your throat as your body spasmed, clenching hard around him, and Hyacinthus followed you over the edge with a shout of your name.

His hips jerked up once, twice, buried as deep as he could get, spilling inside you with a helpless groan. You felt all of it. Every pulse. Every tremble. Every raw, sacred second.

You collapsed against him, panting, boneless, and dazed.

He held you like you were something rare.

Behind you, Apollo clapped, actually clapped.

“Well done,” he purred, “How very poetic. Enemies to lovers to… puddles.”

You didn’t have the strength to glare at him.

Hyacinthus’s lips brushed your temple, “Ignore him.”

You hummed, still catching your breath, “Trying.”

And for once, Apollo didn’t push. He only smiled, golden and smug, as if this, you, had been his masterpiece all along.

He’s basking in the glow of a story well told.

The world was soft now.

Your breath had evened, skin still slick with sweat, limbs tangled with Hyacinthus’s beneath the thin silk sheet Apollo had conjured with a snap of his fingers and an eye roll.

Hyacinthus lay on his back, one arm draped lazily around your shoulders, the other resting over his eyes like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You lay curled into his side, boneless and warm, cheek pressed to the rising and falling of his chest.

You were both quiet.

Not awkward.

Just peaceful.

It was the first time since you’d met that silence didn’t feel like a threat between you.

“Gods,” Apollo drawled lazily from the edge of the bed, biting into an apricot, “I deserve a statue for this.”

You didn’t even flinch.

Hyacinthus groaned, muffled under his arm, “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Would you really want me to?” Apollo said, licking juice from his fingers, “Who else would narrate your emotional unravelling with such flair?”

You tilted your head just enough to look at him, draped in gold and smugness, lounging in a chaise he definitely hadn’t conjured before your climax. His robe hung loose around his chest, sun-warmed curls tousled, as if he’d been through the same storm and come out untouched.

“I thought you were going to leave,” you said, voice hoarse but content.

“I will,” Apollo said, “eventually. I just thought I’d stay for the cuddling.”

Hyacinthus moved his arm to squint at him, “That’s not a thing gods do.”

Apollo raised a brow, “Please. I’ve inspired every great love song ever written. You think I don’t appreciate the postcoital sighing?”

You laughed, tired and soft.

Hyacinthus’s fingers stroked along your shoulder, slow and absent. You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t want to.

Apollo smiled when he noticed, “There it is,” he said, gentler now, “the peace. Finally.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder, “Is this what you wanted?”

Apollo’s grin was wide, unrepentant, “No, little Pythia. This,” he said, gesturing languidly to the two of you, now moving together not like enemies, but like a symphony, “this is what you wanted. I merely… expedited the inevitable. A little nudge.”

Hyacinthus muttered, “A divine shove.”

Apollo snorted, “And look where it got you. You’re both glowing.”

You pressed your lips to Hyacinthus’s collarbone. He turned his head and kissed the top of your hair.

Apollo sighed dramatically, “Honestly, if you start whispering sweet nothings, I’ll have to write a poem about it. Something tragic. With olives.”

You rolled your eyes and snuggled deeper into Hyacinthus’s side, “Go write it, then.”

“Mmm,” Apollo mused, swirling the pit of the fruit between his fingers, “I think I’ll stay a little longer. Watch over my beautiful disasters.”

“Your disasters,” Hyacinthus muttered.

“Mine,” Apollo said firmly, “I stitched your hearts together with teeth and confession. I own this happy ending.”

You and Hyacinthus shared a glance. For once, there was no venom in it, only something like amusement. And affection.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Apollo blinked. Then smiled.

And for once, it wasn’t smug.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, “Just make it worth the story.”

The warmth between you hadn’t faded.

Not entirely.

It lingered like honey on your skin, like the last rays of sunlight before dusk. Hyacinthus’s arm was still wrapped around you, his lips brushing your hair every now and then, like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t wanted to.

And Apollo?

He was still lounging nearby, still radiant and lazy, but there was something new in his gaze.

A quiet hunger.

A curl of something darker beneath his golden amusement.

He rose from his chaise, slow and graceful, walking towards the bed like a god admiring a masterpiece, “You know,” he said, fingers dragging lightly along the edge of the silk sheet, “I could leave you two here in peace. Let you curl up and whisper things in the dark.”

Hyacinthus didn’t respond, but his grip on you tightened just slightly.

Apollo’s voice dropped, “But I don’t want to.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was closer now. His eyes were no longer playful; they burned.

“I’ve watched,” he said, voice low, “I’ve guided. I’ve waited.” He reached out and brushed a knuckle down your cheek, reverent, “But now, little Pythia, I want to feel.”

Your breath caught.

Besides you, Hyacinthus stirred. He looked up at Apollo, then down at you, and you felt the shift, the weight of shared desire reigniting between them.

Hyacinthus’s hand slid up your spine, “You okay?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, already trembling.

“I want both of you.”

Apollo chuckled low in his throat, “She asks like it’s not already written in the stars.”

Clothes disappeared like breath. You didn’t even see the magic happen, just silk sliding off skin, muscle, and sun, and need laid bare before you.

Apollo moved first.

He climbed onto the bed behind you, kneeling between your legs, dragging his hands down your back, and kissing the nape of your neck, “Lie on your side,” he whispered, coaxing you gently, “Let me in.”

You obeyed.

You always obeyed.

Hyacinthus slid behind you, spooning close, pressing warm kisses to your shoulder as Apollo guided one leg up, spreading you open. You felt him press forward, thick, perfect, stretching you slowly with a groan against your throat.

“You take me so well,” he murmured, his voice velvet, “like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, full, pulsing, already climbing again.

Then you felt Hyacinthus press behind you, his breath shuddering as he kissed the space behind your ear. His hand slid down between your thighs, stroking where Apollo filled you, spreading slick warmth over your tighter entrance.

“She’s so soft,” he breathed, “so ready.”

Apollo smiled against your jaw, “She’s ours.”

You gasped as Hyacinthus began to press in behind you, slow, deliberate, and careful. The stretch made your eyes roll back. You clutched at the sheets, at Apollo’s shoulder, as both of them filled you, deep, divine, perfect.

Apollo groaned low in your ear, “That’s it, little thing. Gods above, you take us like devotion.”

Hyacinthus was trembling behind you, already panting, “She’s squeezing so tight, fuck, I can feel you through her.”

Their rhythm built slowly, together. One thrust, then the other. Apollo grinding into you from the front, Hyacinthus rocking behind you in perfect sync. You were weightless between them. Worshipped. Ruined. Reborn.

Hands everywhere, on your breasts, your waist, and your throat. Kisses scattered along your shoulder, your jaw, and your temple. You could barely tell them apart anymore, just pleasure. Just heat. Just love, wielded like fire.

“You’re ours,” Hyacinthus growled.

“Ours to ruin,” Apollo added.

“Ours to keep.”

The pressure inside you built faster than you could breathe.

You couldn’t speak; you could only beg, the sound barely words, “Please, I’m so close, don’t stop, please.”

Apollo kissed your lips. Hyacinthus bit your shoulder.

And they fucked you through it.

Until your body convulsed between them, until your orgasm broke you open with a scream you didn’t recognise. You clutched around them both, shaking, sobbing, undone.

And that was what pushed them over.

Hyacinthus groaned deep and buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a desperate curse. Apollo followed with a sigh like prayer, hips grinding slow as he poured into you, warm and endless.

The world blurred.

All you knew was them.

The way they held you. The way they whispered to you. The way they didn’t let go, even when your body went slack and your mind went quiet.

You weren’t just filled.

You were claimed.

Apollo smiled against your hair, one arm tucked around your waist, “That,” he whispered, satisfied, “is the kind of worship I don’t need temples for.”

Hyacinthus kissed your shoulder, “You’re staying between us. Forever.”

You nodded, dazed, glowing.

You were home.

#blood of zeus #apollo blood of zeus #apollo x reader #Hyacinthus x reader #Hyacinth x reader #reader x apollo #reader x Hyacinthus #reader x hyacinth

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kysuguru · 2 years ago

Text

first name basis. i think. — geto suguru x fem!reader

synopsis : shoko and utahime encourage you to say geto’s first name. you feel as if your heart is in your throat.

includes / cw : nothing

all mine masterlist

a / n : geto drabble for my “all mine” series while i try to answer a certain solo mission ask

“Try saying his name!” Shoko pushes.

“Geto-san.” you say easily. Shoko groans.

“No! His given name! Say it! It’ll be good practice won’t it?”

Having no social cues whatsoever, you’re ignorant to her and Utahime’s mischievous stunt.

When you quirk a brow, unsure, Utahime is quick to reassure you. “Don’t worry! It really is just practice. You and that bastard are close right? He might let you say his first name.” By the end of her sentence, her lips are curled into a sly grin (you’re so used to her calling Suguru and satoru degrading names that it doesn’t even phase you anymore). She really is getting a kick out of this.

“Saying Geto-san’s given name? T-That is a really big privilege, I can’t even begin to imagine-”

Shoko and Utahime share a glance.

“Well think of it hypothetically then!” Shoko said, as her and Utahime decided to ignore how low you thought of yourself in Suguru’s perspective — if only you knew.

Just as your tongue moves to spell his name, footsteps approach.

All of you turn to see a familiar serene smile. It’s Suguru approaching with a bag in his hand, the sun hitting him at the perfect angle — as if it was created to shine on him. You stare unabashedly.

“Welcome back, Geto-san!” You exclaim happily, eyes bright. his eyes crinkle and his dimples show. You’re stunned into stillness. I love when he smiles like that… Geto-san is really handsome.

“This is the perfect opportunity! Practice it on him!” Utahime pushes you forward and Shoko starts to think that her counterpart is enjoying this a bit too much.

Before you can gather what’s happening, you stumble. Suguru is quick to grab your arm and stand you upright.

“Careful there.” His voice is soft, and you’re hyper aware of the harsh beating in your chest. So close. Is all you can think.

“What is it you need to practice?” He asks, eyes flitting between you three girls. You sweat. You occasionally forgot how good Suguru’s hearing was. Suddenly the ground has more details than it did a few moments ago.

“Oh nothing much, just saying your name is all.”

Suguru’s brows knit.

“I’m confused. She says my name all of the time?”

“Suguru? or Geto?” Shoko asks. Utahime and her have matching sly grins and Suguru briefly wonders if the dread he feels is familiar to the both of them when him and Satoru mess around.

“C’mon, [Name]! Say it!” Utahime drags out her words in anticipation. Both Shoko and Suguru have concluded that she has a sadistic side, if your obvious fluster was anything to go by.

You look up, and meet his gaze. You’re so focused on his dark murky eyes that you miss the small flush of pink that flits across his cheeks at your intense stare.

“Welcome back, Sss….” You blink, furrowing your brows close together as your expression contorts. “Sugu…”

Suguru waits in anticipation, pupils wide and focused on only you. If you were any bit aware of his gaze outside of your dilemma, it would be almost overwhelming.

“W-Welcome back, Geto-san!” You settle with, breaking eye contact immediately as your cheeks deflate from the amount of air they were holding.

Suguru faintly catches the two in the back groan and share an exasperated look before he’s reaching to scratch the back of his neck. “You said that already.” he replies, voice sheepish.

Mission failed.

my taglist is meant for the main story only sorry… it seems like a lot of work for there to be a tag list on my drabbles… sigh

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cherry-jamm · 1 year ago

Text

Just not him

・❥・ Your situationship doesn’t like that you were seen with another man

・❥・word count: 1.2k

・❥・warnings: Homelander and The Deep (they’re their own warnings), fade to black smut, Homie is a little toxic, supe!reader

・❥・I don't write smut because I'm not good at it, but I'm not good at it because I don't write it, a viscous cycle.

Also sorry if this doesn't make much sense I was in and out of consciousness while writing 😝

"No. No way am I doing that."

"(Y/n), your sexuality is part of your brand. May I remind you your approval rates are going down by the minute." Madelyn sighs.

"Yeah, I get that, but you expect me to go out there and flirt with The Deep? I'd be making a fool of myself." Your cheeks are hot as you try to defend yourself.

"Ah, ah, you'd be making a spectacle, and that's exactly what we need right now. Drama, scandal, rumors."

"And it has to be him?" You deadpanned. "It can't be anyone else? What about Homelander?" You felt yourself becoming desperate.

“Homelander? And you?” A smile breaks out on her face, but she tries to hide it. “I don’t mean any offense, but you two aren’t an ideal pair up.” She talks to you like you’re a child. You fight the urge to tell her that you and Homelander are actually a very good pair. “Anyways, recently you and The Deep have been trending, as a couple.” You scoff.

Recently on a podcast with some man you’re sure is very popular in a different crowd, The Deep confessed that he found you to be the most attractive member of The Seven. Ever since then a burst of videos were posted of cute moments between the two of you, which turned into edits, which turned into fan art, which turned into fanfiction. You fought the urge to gag, who even makes that stuff? From a marketing perspective, it made for great business, a romance angle brought new eyes to the scene. To you, it was demeaning.

“Fine. But I’m not going to take this any further than a few flirtatious remarks at tomorrow’s gala.” You remind yourself it’s not good to anger someone like Madelyn, she’s scarier than she lets on. Madelyn nods and you walk out of her office, much more embarrassed than you were when you entered. As you stormed down the hallway to the safety of your own home, none other than The Deep greeted you.

Speak of the devil and he shall arrive.

“Hey! How are you doing today, cutie?” He starts. He practically salivates as he walks beside you. You feel like you’re gonna be sick.

“I’m not in the mood right now.”

“C’mon, why don’t you let me take you out for a drink or two? We’re supposed to be all over each other tom-“

“Not in the mood!” You cut him off. Your walking increases to practically sprinting until you reach your home. You slam the door shut behind you. You shrugged off your clothes and crawled into bed. No way in hell were you getting out of bed until the last possible minute.

You stood, still as a statue. You wore a deep purple outfit. The silks enveloped your body in a sexy, yet elegant way. You had never felt more bored in your life. The Deep had his hand positioned on your lower back, where it had been all night. You had already talked to everyone important, you made sure the photographers got enough shots of you coquettishly whispering in The Deep’s ear, or leaning on him while being in conversation. You had taken notice to the fact that Homelander had yet to arrive. The gala would be ending soon, and without an appearance from the leader of The Seven himself. His absence further ruined your mood.

You and Homelander were in a bit of a situationship. There was no official label for your relationship. He’d come to your house just to sleep with you one day, then act like you two were strangers the next. You had learned to accept that nothing serious would come from the relationship. But there was still a part of you that wished he had come tonight.

“(Y/n), big smiles.” The Deep reminded. “Why do you look so fucking depressed?” His voice was low enough that it would look like casual banter to any outsider. His hold on the small of your back grew tight.

“Back off and mind your own business.” You said through gritted teeth. You forced a coy smile and blush onto your face as if he had just said something really flustering to you.

“Hey you two!” You felt your brows furrow. Sometime between two minutes ago, when you last scanned the room, and now Homelander had entered, and without you noticing. Your fake smile melted into a real one.

“Homelander.” You greeted. The Deep pulled you in impossibly closer. He didn’t say anything, just nodded. You had a feeling he was scared of Homelander.

“Do you mind if I borrow them?” Homelander asked The Deep. All of you knew it wasn’t a question, just a thinly veiled demand. “You seem to have them chained down.” He laughed, referring to the vice grip currently on your back. After a second the hold was gone, The Deep had already walked off to get himself another drink.

It was just you and Homelander now. He moved close to you to whisper in your ear.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked with a plastic smile. You felt your stomach drop.

“My job.” You shot back with an equally fake smile. You watched as his cheeks turned red with anger.

“No.” He grabbed your wrist. “We’re leaving.” You planted your feet in the ground.

“Excuse you?”

“I said, we’re leaving.” He hissed.

“They’ll have my head if I’m seen leaving with you.”

“They can fucking suck it up. I’m The Homelander. I get who I want, when I want. We’re leaving.” He dragged you by the wrist to pull you out the back doors. You were acutely aware that all the photographers turned away their cameras after seeing the expression on Homelander’s face.

The cold night air curled around your exposed skin, but you had no time to even breathe it in before your head hit the wall behind you and Homelander’s lips were on yours. His hands gripped your waist as he pulled you closer to him. You push him away, sucking in deep breaths.

“What’s gotten into you? Why are you acting like this?” You ask breathlessly. You can’t say you don’t enjoy this possessiveness, but he’s never made such a scene for you before, especially in public. He doesn’t answer before pulling you back into another hungry kiss.

He pulls away, his breath hot against your neck. “You’re mine. All fucking mine. No one else can have you, especially not that fucker Deep.” He pants. His grip tightened in a way you’re sure would bruise if it wasn’t for your invulnerable skin. “Fucking say it. Say that you’re mine.” A tone of pathetic desperation creeps into his voice. You smile and curl your fingers in his hair.

You wish Madelyn could see you now. Not a good pair, as if.

“I’m yours, Homelander.” You assure him. He whines against your collarbone. You’re sure tomorrow he’ll go back to pretending none of this happened, but for now you revel in his attention. “Why don’t you show them that I belong to you?”

It’s so petty, just a cheap way to stick it in Madelyn’s face. Homelander grins as he tries to suck a hickey on your neck. Both of your smiles quickly faded at the realization that there’s no way to bruise invincible skin. “Shit.” You cursed under your breath. Homelander looked up at you with his big blue eyes. You run your fingers through his hair.

“I’m sure you could show them in a different way.” You smirked.

#the boys x reader #homelander x reader #homelander #request #pterodactyl hater

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theemporium · 2 years ago

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just saw your last post about Lando filming and now I need to read a smut fic about it like him trying to control himself but he just has to fuck reader so he stops filming and she's like "why'd you stop" and he's like "you're too hot babe" or something along these lines

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

Lando didn’t have many regrets in his life, but this was definitely up there.

To be fair, the tripod you had bought had been on its last legs for a while (no pun intended), and you had been meaning to invest in a new and better one for a while. But like most things, you had kept putting it off until eventually the tripod fell apart and you were left with finally purchasing a new one after so many weeks of hoping tape and books tucked under the legs would be good enough.

The issue was that it wouldn’t arrive for another few days, which left you tripod-less when you were scheduled to release a video in the next two days. You had tried balancing it on the edge of your nightstand, on a massive pile of textbooks and even a chair.

But the angle was never right and it was starting to frustrate you.

So, Lando being the good boyfriend he was and being home in between races, he offered to be your cameraman. It would be a different angle, a more perspective side rather than your camera being set up at the end of your bed. It would be good, or so he kept telling you. And he wanted to help you, he really did.

But he really didn’t think his offer through because now he was standing at the edge of your bed, gripping your camera between his fingers and pretending like his cock wasn’t rock hard and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Fuck,” you cried out, your head thrown back against the pillows.

You looked wrecked. You had been teasing yourself for the better part of the last half an hour, and he was forced to watch every single second of it. He was forced to watch the way you laid across your silk sheets in the white two piece lace set that he definitely had never seen before. He was forced to watch you tease and play with yourself, a vibrator placed over your clothed cunt as you whined and preened until you soaked through the material. He was forced to watch as you sunk your fingers inside yourself, letting out needy gasps that he just wished was his name.

He was forced to watch and he was quickly losing his patience.

But his breaking point was when when you looked at him, your lids hooded and your lips swollen from biting on them so much—-and he just couldn’t take it.

You barely had time to take in the fact he shut the camera off, placing it on your desk before he was crawling over you, his lips pressed against yours in mere seconds. You instantly sunk into his embrace, moaning in relief as you felt his tongue swipe along your bottom lip.

“What are you doing?” you murmured breathlessly, your eyes fluttering shut when he began to leave a trail of kisses down the column of your neck.

“Couldn’t fucking take it anymore,” he grumbled, his teeth scraping along the spot at the base of your neck that had you arching into him. “Watching you in this little fucking number, whining and begging and looking so pretty.”

“Lando,” you gasped.

“I needed to taste you, Angel,” he mumbled as he pulled back enough to look down at you, to take in the way your needy eyes looked up at him. His eyes never left yours as he reached for your hand, your fingers still wet and glistening with your arousal. His head dipped down, his mouth wrapping around your fingers as he licked them clean, a low moan sounded from the back of his throat.

“Lando, please,” you whined.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmured as he moved to rest between your legs, his arms curling around your thighs and his hands pinning your hips to the mattress. “Say my name, Angel.”

Your fingers gripped the silk sheets into tight fists. “What about the video?”

His grin was boyish as he looked up at you. “We can make our own video first, Angel. A lil’ thing for me and you.”

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python-nebula · 9 months ago

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Uh. SAF lighting/staging(/whatever else happens to come up) analysis be upon ye. This is a very loose definition of 'analysis' and is more like 'I wrote this with the power of Autism, Being a Film Student, and 'Song 2' by Blur', enjoy :)

^ These are the images I'm gonna be referencing, but I'm talking about the scene in general too. I'm gonna keep the main body of the text in white and my notes in pink :)

Ough okay so. The staging + body language. Owen is specifically placed higher than Curt because in his eyes, he has the upper hand. The slight low angle also lends weight to this and aids in making him look powerful. Because of this, his gun arm isn't raised higher than his shoulder level as it doesn't need to be, giving him a casual air, along with his pulled-back, loose posture and his head lolling slightly to the side.

Despite his body language, we can see from his face and words that he is actually very tense internally. This is probably a very deliberate choice on the director's part, as it emphasises Owen's demeanour of laid-back power (or at least, that's what he tries to present himself as).

This all contrasts directly to Curt. His gun arm has to be at a very high angle because of his positioning in relation to Owen, meaning his posture is very tense and his head is held rigidly upwards. Owen has been planning this meeting for (presumably) years, but Curt obviously hasn't. This is reflected in how they stand (as just explained).

He looks up to Owen, both literally and metaphorically. When they were together, they looked up to each other, and therefore were on equal footing because of their mutual respect and love. But now that Owen feels betrayed and scorned, that resect and love has become one-sided (but half-buried by Curt).

(A detail I like is that even though both actors are (I assume bc it's more common) right-handed, Owen holds his gun in his left hand, meaning the guns are level with each other, creating nice symmetry).

LIGHTING TIME. Oh boy, the lighting. Owen stands not only shrouded in stage smoke (giving him an etherial appearance), but also severe white light. This separates him and Curt, showing the now-clear stark contrast between them (whereas before they were both in normal light levels together).

It also represents how Owen has essentially become a ghost; he doesn't exist in his own identity to anybody other than Curt now (and Tati but she isn't in this scene). He isn't part of this world anymore, and exists outside of ever being in Curt's life again.

The light from around Owen casts down on Curt, almost invoking religious imagery. From both perspectives, it represents Curt's adoration and idolisation for Owen (both from being in love with him and from building a version of Owen in his head for four years), and need to 'save' him (his quote unquote 'Messiah complex' that his mother describes).

From Curt's perspective, he is gazing up at Owen, and is bathed in some of his light (he moves closer to Owen later in the scene, more into his light, symbolising his resignation to, and acceptance of, the fact that he can't save Owen. He moves past his memory of, and built-up mental image of, Owen). Up the stairs is Owen, the man he loves, and the light. Back down the stairs is his life without him; darkness.

From Owen's perspective, he knows that Curt feels this way about him - hell, he probably felt the same way about Curt, before the accident - but he keeps his distance. The light, for him, isn't holy light, but a barrier he has put up. In the scene, he doesn't move closer to Curt, he stays high up where he doesn't have to face the man he loves (loved?) and see the pain on his face from up close, see the tears (of anger, or heartbreak? Both, I'd say) that are probably forming in his eyes. Does he feel guilty or regret it? Possibly, considering he apologises several times to Curt in 'One Step Ahead'.

Either way, the stark white light isn't healthy for either of them. So they leave the light, together, when the shot rings out and the stage falls into darkness.

Okay!! This has been my over-the-top, unhinged, accidentally-a-character-study ''''analysis'''' of a single fucking scene from a spy musical that I've been a fan of for a grand total of 24 hours!! :D Please let me know if I made any mistakes, I'm not as knowledgeable about staging as I'd like to be, and as said, I also haven't been a fan for very long.

(I'm gonna post this now and stop adding more to it lmao)

Tagging @kairithemang0 @venomousray @consumingthecheese

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annabelle--cane · 3 months ago

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so, how about we do a little close reading on these few lines from seward's aug 19 audio diary entry:

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how different things might have been. If I don’t sleep at once, chloral, the modern Morpheus—C2HCl3O. H2O! I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be, to-night shall be sleepless.... Later.—Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped.

in the context of the novel as a whole, this is part of the theme of the danger of sleep. humans and vampires alike are most vulnerable to being attacked while asleep, and hypnosis and drug-induced sleep are particularly risky states because they cause full unconsciousness and prevent a person's ability to wake up and defend themself. when mina finally asks seward for a dose of an opiate after several nights of bad sleep on the night of october second, she suddenly becomes afraid as she feels it work on her that she might have made a mistake in potentially preventing herself from being able to wake up if something were to happen during the night, and something does happen during the night. seward decides not to use drugs to put himself to sleep and thus can quickly respond to an emergency, and mina makes the opposite decision, which is then part of what leaves her vulnerable to her attack.

to look at it from a doyalist angle, this kind of feels like stoker immediately holding out his hands in placation to show everyone that both he and his upstanding characters are aware of the dangers of illicit drug use. seward considers using a substance in a way that goes a little bit outside the bounds of propriety, immediately says that doing this habitually would be a bad idea, and then decides against it all together and says that he would rather not sleep at all than contaminate his thoughts of lucy with the effects of chloral. mina makes a comparable comment later on about not habitually using substances as a sleep aid when she first brings up the idea of asking seward for something to help, writing that it can't hurt as long as it's just the one time.

to get at it from a character-focused perspective, I'd like to give my answer to the "does seward have a drug problem?" question. the first three sentences of this passage repeatedly link his tiredness and his sadness as the two things seward would like the chloral to treat, and I don't think a desire to treat his emotional difficulties with a sedative is a particularly healthy outlook for a lonely, heartbroken, perpetually stressed doctor with unrestricted access to medical supplies. not that that impulse in and of itself indicates problematic substance use, but it is a thing to note.

secondly, immediately following up that thought with a reminder to himself to not let drug use become a habit could either imply A) that he's done this enough times before that forming a habit is something he has to consciously prevent, or B) that he's generally concerned about drug addiction without particular reason to be wary of it in himself. his following lines about not mixing drugs with thoughts of lucy point to him as seeing drug use as having some kind of moral or spiritual dimension, because it's not like taking a sleeping aid while thinking of her could actually affect her directly, so it could well be that he's just kind of morally tetchy about drugs and therefore option B is the answer.

to me, the main thing that points to option A and the idea that seward's drug use might be somewhat disordered comes from the opening line of the second paragraph, "Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it." if he had no history of difficulty controlling his substance use, then he would have just left it at "glad I made the resolution," the addition of "gladder that I kept to it" says that making the choice and following through on the choice were separate efforts. in my opinion, the fact that seward found both parts worth remarking on implies that there were occasions before where he made similar resolutions and then went back on them.

#dracula #marina marvels at life

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trashytummies · 9 months ago

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Swallowed Pride (DC vore fic)

a/n: have a protective Nightwing ft. unwilling Jason prey vore fic. lil batfamily vibsey <3. oh and jason also has some not fun memories of dying. I adore vore fics with swapping perspectives so I'm sorry if this is confusing ;_; word count: ~4100?

_____

Jason groaned, a low rasp slipping out of his throat. His surroundings pulsed with a damp, oppressive heat that clawed at his skin, slicking his gloves and making it almost impossible to catch his breath. His ribs ached, and every inch of him felt trapped in this unrelenting, humid vise. He tried to shift, to get his back against something solid, but every motion was swallowed up, met with a suffocating resistance.

"Alright," he muttered, voice hoarse. “This is… new.”

The taste in the air was wrong. A grimace twisted his face as he tried to shift, finding no space to move, wedged between layers of damp, fleshy walls. Not rock. Not exactly wet stone, either. Just too soft. Too warm.

Not rubble. Nothing jagged. Smooth.

The sound of his own breathing grew louder, rasping in and out as he tried to twist himself free. But all he managed was to slide further down this bizarre chute. A flicker of panic flashed across his mind, sharp and unwelcome. It tugged at something buried deep, something he didn’t let himself think about, ever. But it was there now; the sensation of heat, tightness, the press of earth and smoke. Like that day. Like--

No. Nope, he wasn’t doing that. Not thinking about that, not now.

His mind buzzed, digging through memories. He’d been with the team; Red, Nightwing, and yeah, of course, Bats. The mission had gotten a little out of hand; Tim needed backup, and -- then what? Everything between then and now was a haze. A big, dripping, burning haze.

Jason tried to focus, replaying the moments just before; the alley, then that abandoned office building, and then… nothing. And now this cave-like, sweltering pit. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, smearing against his mask as he twisted, trying to plant his knees against something solid. Every breath felt like he was sucking down steam, heat pressing on him from every angle.

"Okay, Todd. Get it together. Think.” He glanced around --or tried to, anyway, but there was no way to tell which way was up or down. Just that same smooth, slimy pressure squeezing in on all sides, his own breaths coming back hot against his face.

“Hey, anyone out there?” he called, the words half-lost in the wet slap of whatever lined this... place. But all he got was a soft, rhythmic groan surrounding him, almost like a heartbeat, steady and smothering.

Another wave of pressure tightened around him, shoving him further into the suffocating darkness. His heart pounded, thoughts scattering like shrapnel, sharp and fast. Buried alive. That sick, clawing sensation washed over him, dredging up memories he had no intention of revisiting. Explosions. Dirt pressing in on him, the weight of concrete and metal trapping him, his own voice screaming for help, and--

No. Not now.

He gritted his teeth, frustration biting deep. “Red? Wing? I swear, if you two left me in a sewer pipe or something...” He twisted his head, grumbling to himself, but everything came out muffled, absorbed by this pulsing, humid space.

_________________________

Rewind

The scene swirled back into focus, through the last thirty chaotic minutes that landed on the exact moment Dick realized something was really wrong.

Jason was supposed to be covering the south side, running point with Tim across the courtyard. But when Dick looked back after clearing a corner, he’d caught sight of Jason crumpling, mid-swing, into the pavement. Jason wasn’t just down; he was tiny. Like, two inches max, knocked out cold, and sprawled out on the ground.

Dick’s jaw had practically hit the rooftop. “Holy shit,” he hissed, blinking hard like maybe he’d just taken a hit to the head himself.

Nope.

That was definitely Jason, definitely bite-sized, and lying defenseless in the middle of Gotham’s grimiest alley. He barely had time to process it, and he was not about to leave Jason sitting in the gutter like some abandoned Happy Meal toy.

Okay, Grayson. Think.

He glanced down at his suit, mentally running through every hidden pocket and compartment. Utility belt? No way -- too much jostling. The pocket lining would probably suffocate the guy, or worse, turn him into shrunken pulp if Dick took a hit. Same with any of his stash spots. Then the next best thought crossed his mind -- and immediately died a fiery death.

But hell, with the goons doubling back, any hesitation could leave Jason vulnerable, or worse. He had seconds to act.

So he did something that, in his defense, seemed like the only solution in the moment.

One quick breath, and he scooped Jason up, tipping him carefully onto his tongue. Jason’s tiny body felt solid, almost surprisingly weighty, considering his new size. Dick hesitated, the reality of this insane decision finally hitting home. He closed his eyes, steeling himself, and with the gentlest nudge, he swallowed.

It was, well, uncomfortable didn’t even start to cover it. Jason slipped down in a slow, thick slide, an odd pressure that made Dick grit his teeth. Each inch felt painfully deliberate, his throat constricting around Jason’s shape until he finally, mercifully, settled in place. Dick coughed, trying to compose himself just in time to hear Tim's footsteps against the concrete as he caught up.

“Dick!” Tim called, eyes scanning him over, then narrowing. “What the hell was that?”

Dick barely managed to suppress another cough, swallowing hard. “What was what?” he choked out, voice barely steady.

Tim’s brow arched, skeptical, like he’d seen through every bullshit excuse Dick had ever tried in his entire life. “I saw you cough up a lung. And you’re still flushed. Look, if you’ve got something going on with your suit tech or whatever--”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Dick cut in, waving it off, trying to play up his usual charm. He gave Tim a reassuring, if slightly strained, grin. “Just--went down the wrong pipe. Happens to the best of us, right?”

Tim looked at him for a long second, head tilted, the gears clearly turning. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Dick cleared his throat one more time for emphasis. “Trust me, if I had something important to tell you, I’d tell you. Now, can we focus? There’s still three of them left.” He jerked his thumb toward the next building. “I’ll take the high ground. You flush them out?”

Tim still looked at him sideways, but he gave a reluctant nod, his gaze flicking down to Dick’s throat once more before turning back to the mission. “Fine, but if you pass out mid-jump or whatever, I’m telling Babs.”

Dick barely restrained a wince, waving Tim off as he darted toward the next alleyway. One hour, tops, he told himself. Just get the job done, clear out the area, and get Jason out safely before he has a chance to do more than mumble a few pissed-off words.

“Hang tight, Jaybird,” he muttered under his breath.

_______________________

The tight, slick walls squeezed in around him, pressing at his shoulders and ribs, forcing him to push forward just to breathe. Every inch he gained seemed to make it worse --the stifling heat, the reek of rot, like old food left out too long. Jason sucked in a shallow breath, trying to steady himself, only for the sour stench to claw at his throat. He grimaced.

"Great," he muttered, voice muffled and weak in the humid dark. "I get to suffocate and smell like someone’s garbage disposal. Just my luck."

He shoved forward, the cramped space finally loosening just enough for him to wriggle through, half crawling, half dragged along by whatever was coating these walls. He pushed his hands out and found --thank god-- something resembling open space. Not by much, but he could almost stretch out his arms, which had to count for something.

Except it didn’t. If anything, it was somehow worse in here.

The stench punched him square in the gut, stomach-churning in a way that brought back memories he’d worked pretty damn hard to bury. The heat. The way it pressed down on him, cloying, sticky, unyielding. The dark was so thick it was like he could feel it pressing in on his skin. Too close to those old memories. Too close to the kind of helpless that made his chest feel like it might cave in.

Jason let out a low, shaky breath, pressing his palm to the wall for some semblance of stability. "Come on, Todd. Focus. Think." He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to training, his instincts settling in. What the hell even is this place? The entire thing was soft, slick, like… flesh.

“Okay, no, that’s insane. I’m not…” He swallowed, panic prickling at the edges of his mind. But the clues pieced together too neatly, each one sliding in like a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. The walls, the cramped squeeze, the pulsing, muffled beat that droned around him like a heartbeat. His mind filled in the blanks faster than he wanted, and all at once, the truth slammed into him, cold and hard.

I’m in a stomach.

A stomach. A literal fucking stomach.

The idea hit him with a nauseating kind of clarity that almost made him laugh. He’d been trained by the world’s greatest detective, could read Gotham’s dirtbags better than most, and now he was trapped here, in someone’s gut, like the punchline to a twisted joke he never asked for.

He blinked, swallowing down a rush of bile. “So that’s it, huh?” he rasped, pressing his back to the fleshy wall, the whole setup feeling like some cruel rerun of a life he’d already lived. “I got blown up once. Came back, just to get tossed down the gullet. Nice. Really nice, universe. I appreciate it.”

The walls around him pulsed again, contracting in a slow, smothering rhythm, dragging his thoughts to that dark corner of his mind he tried to keep locked away. Buried alive. Alone. Left for dead. Panic tried clawing its way up his throat, but he shoved it down, clenching his fists until his gloves squeaked against the slick wall. Not like this.

No way he was letting some freak’s digestive tract do him in.

________________________________

Dick ducked under a swinging fist, pivoting out of the way with practiced ease. But the moment he twisted, a sudden sharp scratch clawed up from the pit of his stomach. He doubled over, a hand instinctively pressing against his abdomen, muttering under his breath.

“Oh, so you’re awake,” he grunted, voice low enough to avoid Tim’s ears but sharp enough to keep his irritation real. “And apparently pissed off.”

Jason gave another few furious kicks --or punches, maybe a full-body tantrum-- against the walls of Dick’s stomach, which only made him wince harder. Man, this is… Well, it was something. Distracting as hell, actually, when he was in the middle of a brawl with some of Gotham’s least creative henchmen.

Tim’s eyes zeroed in on him, skeptical, a hard squint as he landed a punch and sidled up. “Uh, you good? ‘Cause you’re making faces like you just ate bad sushi.”

“Yeah, yeah, just a little… stomach thing,” Dick managed, breath catching as Jason squirmed again. He leaned into his strikes, using the motion to cover a particularly sharp jab coming from inside.

Tim just kept staring, a brow arching. “In the middle of a fight? You’re usually more… I dunno. Here.”

“I am here,” Dick muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing the last thug by the collar and slamming him into the nearest wall. Jason gave one last pointed kick that nearly knocked the wind out of him, and he couldn’t help it -- his hand went to his stomach again. He tried to school his face, look normal, like he wasn’t dealing with a very angry, very miniature Jason Todd wreaking havoc from within.

The final goon dropped, and before Dick could so much as take a breath, Tim was right there, narrowing his eyes in that too-perceptive way he always did when he suspected something was up.

“Alright,” Tim said, crossing his arms, his usual calm replaced with the full-blown Red Robin glare. “Mind telling me what’s going on with you tonight? I’m standing there, fighting for my life, and you’re out here rubbing your stomach like you’re at a bad buffet.” He tilted his head, lowering his voice. “And where the hell is Jason? He just up and left us? Doesn’t strike me as his style.”

Dick stifled the urge to cough again, glancing away to avoid Tim’s piercing gaze. Damn it, he’s good at this. “Maybe he had somewhere else to be,” he said, attempting casual. “You know how he is. Doesn’t tell us everything.”

Tim’s eyebrow crept higher, skepticism practically radiating off him. “He doesn’t tell Bruce everything, but he doesn’t just disappear mid-mission with no heads-up. I get he’s Jason, but this is Gotham. And you’re… weirdly calm about it.”

Dick forced a quick shrug, looking anywhere but Tim’s face. “Maybe I just trust him to handle himself.” He winced as Jason scratched at him again, pressing his hand to his side as subtly as he could. “Ow-- I mean, what? You know, he’s--he’s Jason.”

Tim folded his arms tighter, a smirk quirking at his lips. “And you’re stammering like you’ve got a guilty conscience. What gives?”

Dick could feel his cover slipping fast, and he knew he’d have to come up with something, and soon. For now, he just put on his best carefree grin, hoping it was enough to get Tim to lay off.

_______________________________

The reality of his situation settled in slowly, like the world's worst punchline unfurling in slow motion. Inside a stomach. He could practically feel the bile rising. Yeah, Jason Todd had been through his share of nightmares, but this was a new low even for him. Of all the places to wind up, he’d somehow managed to get himself swallowed. Just phenomenal.

"Just where I always wanted to end up," he muttered to himself, voice barely a whisper against the damp walls pressing around him. "A one-way ticket back to near-death, and for what? One more brush with the great beyond? Because dying was just such a blast the first time.”

He took a breath, trying to steady himself against the rippling walls, feeling the clench and pull of the gut as it tried to drag him deeper. He stifled a gag, the acrid stench of half-digested food coating every breath he took. Focus, Todd. Don’t think about the smell. Or the rotting mush sliding under his feet. Or that disgusting, rhythmic gurgle echoing in his ears like a twisted lullaby.

Alright, let's see if he could at least figure out who this idiot was. He couldn’t tell much by sound -- the voice was muted, a low vibration rumbling around him like he was underwater, though he could at least pick out a male inflection. But he couldn’t just be in some random guy’s gut, right? There was someone out there with a reason to swallow the Red Hood, and… actually, nope. Scratch that. He couldn’t think of a single person willing or twisted enough to get him into this mess.

Well, almost no one.

The last thing he remembered was dealing with Clayface’s thugs, swinging punches alongside Nightwing and Red Robin. He’d been right there with them, taking out the stragglers and rounding up the goons. And then… well, then things got fuzzy. Had he been teleported? Knocked out? Honestly, being devoured alive was just insane enough to be one of Joker’s sick stunts, but no—it didn’t feel… Joker-y enough. Even he’d probably keep Jason alive just to laugh in his face.

Jason sucked in another breath, fighting the nausea clawing up his throat. “So, let’s recap,” he mumbled, digging his nails into the slippery wall. “Stuck in a guy’s gut, no memory of how I got here, no idea who the hell ate me, and oh--right. I’m literally going to die in here. Just peachy.”

The stomach lurched suddenly, sending him sliding down, only to be shoved back up again by another ripple of muscle. He grimaced, trying to brace himself. And then, through the muffled tones and the heavy, distorted beat of the stomach around him, he caught something he’d recognize anywhere--a voice. And not just any voice, that same light, upbeat cadence that he’d heard a million times, the one that used to ring in his ears with the kind of brightness that could only belong to one person.

“No way,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing in the darkness as the realization hit him like a sucker punch. It couldn’t be. He’d never be stupid enough to do something like this. But the voice, the stupid cadence, and the sheer insanity of it all were enough to make it click. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Nightwing. Dick freaking Grayson.

Jason clenched his fists, the weight of his current humiliation settling like lead in his stomach. “Of all the stupid, reckless--” he muttered, barely able to believe it. Out of every sadistic nutcase in Gotham, he’d somehow ended up inside Dick. If it weren’t happening to him right now, he’d actually laugh.

Great. Just great. Buried, literally, in the “Golden Boy.” There was something sickeningly poetic about it, and he almost hated how much it fit. The guy he’d spent years trying to measure up to, fighting to be worthy of the role, who he’d half-convinced himself Bruce could never replace. And now here he was, trapped in the one guy he’d always felt himself shadowed by. Life had a real sense of humor sometimes.

“Grayson,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his chest to keep himself from dry-heaving, “you better pray I don’t get out of here.”

Because the dark, cramped, disgustingly hot pit was a nightmare Jason wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. The fact that it was Dick’s stomach? Oh, that just made it all the worse.

Jason shifted, grimacing as his fingers slid against the slick, half-digested remnants of… falafel? He gagged, pressing his hands against the walls as best as he could to brace himself, feeling another wave of that foul, acidic slosh roll over his boots.

“This is the absolute last time I team up with Grayson,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as he shoved his way up, the sour smell sticking to him, burning his throat with every breath. “And when I get out of here, I swear to god, I’m gonna make him regret every single inch of it.”

Of course, it couldn’t be anyone else’s stomach, right? Oh no. This whole thing was practically a sick joke. Here he was, stuck inside the guy he’d spent years trying to compete with, the guy who --whether Jason wanted to admit it or not-- always seemed to have it together. Meanwhile, Jason Todd was three inches tall, covered in stomach acid, and stuck in Grayson’s gut. Story of his life.

Just then, he felt a jolt, followed by a shift that had him sliding, face-first, right back into the half-digested slush at the bottom. He clenched his teeth, fighting back a wave of frustration. “Of all the idiotic, harebrained ideas, this was the best he could come up with?”

______________________________

Outside, things were deceptively calm. The last of the thugs had been cuffed and loaded up for the GCPD, and Tim and Dick were strolling down the street toward one of Gotham’s all-night fast-food joints. Tim was keeping pace beside him, shooting glances at Dick every few steps.

“So… we’re not going to talk about how Jason just vanished?” Tim asked, giving him a look that was a few levels below ‘judgmental’ but still in ‘I’m not buying this’ territory.

Dick shrugged, a bit too casually. “He’s Jason. Vanishing is half his style.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tim muttered, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. “Except usually, he at least gives us a heads-up, or a ‘screw you guys’ wave before bailing. And you’re weirdly chill about it.”

Dick held back a sigh, trying not to squirm under the scrutiny. Just play it cool, he told himself. “I’m telling you, Tim, he’s fine. He probably just needed a minute. You know him. He’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy regroup type.”

Tim’s frown only deepened, and he looked one small mental step away from phoning Bruce for a full-scale intervention. “Fine, you’re not gonna tell me. But if he’s actually in trouble, I’ll drag his ass back here myself.” He glanced at Dick. “You’re acting weird tonight, just so you know.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” Dick muttered. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look casual as they stepped inside the fast-food joint. After ordering, he gave Tim a quick pat on the shoulder. “Hey, I’ll be right back -- gotta hit the bathroom.”

Tim didn’t even try to hide his suspicion. “Yeah, sure. Take your time,” he muttered, watching him disappear down the hallway like he was mentally cataloging every weird thing Dick had done that night.

________________________________

The bathroom was barely cleaner than the streets outside, but Dick didn’t have time to be picky. He closed the door behind him and took a breath, steadying himself as he braced against the sink. He could feel Jason still squirming, punching and scratching against the walls of his stomach.

“Alright, here goes…” he muttered, hoping to hell this wasn’t about to go from weird to grotesque.

With a few deep breaths and a not-so-gentle cough, he felt the painful push as Jason finally slid up and out, spilling into his hand. Dick exhaled heavily, trying to shake off the discomfort as he looked down at the soaked, very, very irritated mini-Jason sprawled out in his palm.

Jason wiped the gunk off his helmet with a grimace, barely glancing at Dick as he dragged himself to his feet. “Well, that was disgusting.”

Dick forced a grin, trying to keep things light. “Hey, I got you out, didn’t I?”

Jason’s glare could’ve cut through concrete. “In your stomach, Grayson. I spent the last hour drowning in… whatever the hell that was!” He flicked another glob of half-digested falafel off his jacket. “Didn’t exactly help that you ate before deciding to pull that little stunt.”

Dick winced. “I mean, it’s not like I planned on eating you, Jay. Just… improvised.”

“Yeah, well, next time, how about you don’t improvise by swallowing me whole?” Jason shot back, crossing his arms and bristling like a wet, angry cat. “Who even thinks swallowing someone is a good idea? Couldn’t just carry me around in your pocket or -- oh, I don’t know, figure out literally anything else?”

Dick shrugged, still trying to play it cool. “I was out of options. And I kept you safe, didn’t I?”

“Oh yeah, thanks. Real safe, Grayson. Look at me.” Jason held his arms out, dripping, his jacket half-eaten by stomach acid. “I look like I got tossed in a blender with a lunch special.”

Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Maybe it wasn’t my best idea. But hey, you’re not too worse for wear, right?”

Jason let out a laugh, bitter and biting, eyes narrowed. “Right. Well, good to know that I rank just below ‘half-eaten falafel’ on your list of things that matter. Just toss me in the garbage while you’re at it.”

Dick’s face softened, a flicker of guilt creeping in. “C’mon, Jay, that’s not--”

Jason held up a hand, cutting him off. “Save it. And for the record? Releasing me in a fast food bathroom? Way to show the love, Grayson. Real classy.”

Dick pressed his lips together, barely holding back a smirk. “Well, next time, maybe try to stay regular-sized, and we won’t have this problem.”

Jason shot him a look that could freeze lava. “Next time, Grayson, I’m shoving you into a sewer pipe and seeing how long it takes for you to complain about it.”

Dick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Noted.” He glanced down at the tiny, furious figure in his hand and gave him a soft, almost apologetic smile. “You, uh, need a rinse or…?”

Jason rolled his eyes, wiping another layer of gunk off his boots. “Yeah, try a hundred. And maybe a therapist on standby after all this.”

Dick grinned, finally letting out a small chuckle. “Fair enough. Remind me not to tell Tim about this?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to remind me,” Jason grumbled, crossing his arms. “Now, can we please get me out of this hellhole? And, for the record, if you ever pull this crap again…” He trailed off, fixing Dick with a hard glare. “Let’s just say I know exactly where to aim the next time I get a crowbar in my hands.”

Dick just shook his head, chuckling as he carefully tucked Jason --dignity shot, pride thoroughly bruised-- into his jacket pocket. “Alright, Red. I owe you one.”

#dc vore writing #dc vore fic #vore fic #fandom vore #soft vore #safe vore #sfw vore #nonsexual vore #gt vore #idk gotham is a big nj city so dick probs got something quick at a halal cart a few hours b4 meeting up #if you saw this on ao3 howdy ignore me ty <3 #funny that a lot of this got inspired by cave spelunking :) terrifying #10 min later jason spills everything to tim just to torment dick

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thehigherseekerastro · 9 months ago

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→ Venus Through the Houses🪷 (the second house)

The manifestations of having the planet Venus through the houses in the natal chart, in a wider perspective, without being predictable about it.

DISCLAIMER 1: I am NOT a professional astrologer, traditional or modern. I study astrology for a few years, and this is a collection of what I've learned, and what I've seen manifested in real life.

DISCLAIMER 2: Use caution and discernment when reading, and understand that this post is about one isolated planet in one isolated house in a chart. There are 12 houses, 6 major planets, 3 outer planets, and at least 5 possible major aspects between planets in your chart. Those detail can and WILL affect how the energy shows up in your life personally, so it might not apply to you. Everybody is unique.

💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓

Venus in the 2nd house 💎🍷

This is a very interesting house, because, while it is a natural Venus house – as it is the house of Taurus, and Venus rules Taurus (and Libra) – it's a very primal house, tapping into Venus' more instinctual impulses, as opposed from the 7H, which will see Venus in her more idealistic side.

Since the 2H is the house of money and possessions, that is usually where the stereotypes focus, and it does touch on those topics, but the 2H goes beyond money and luxury, because it describes value not just in a monetary way, but also in a morals way. It also talks about material things not just in a financial way, but also in the literal physical way. And the 2H – as the house of Taurus, the earthiest of the Earth signs – is connected to nature, connected to the body, so we can take some characteristics from nature itself too to understand this house. Venus here feels like a fairy queen.

The good 😊:

You are very sensual and seductive. (Unfortunately, the 2H doesn't have the 1H/7H luck of just oozing natural charm, so you COULD end up losing the positive attention you get if your personality stinks. 2H Venuses aren't social charmers like 1st and 7th house Venuses. So don't test people, because they WILL NOT be that forgiving towards you.)

You have a warm, smooth, deep voice that is very melodic, because Taurus rules the throat.

You have a keen eye for beautiful and quality things, so your five senses are refined. You know what smells good, what tastes good, what sounds good, what looks good and what feels good.

Good, natural ability to advocate for your personal needs.

You have a natural ability to spot opportunities, whether it's opportunity for money or other things. You can quickly see an angle to come into a fortunate situation for yourself.

You have a natural ability to make even the cheapest of outfits look well put together and sophisticated.

IF YOU ARE A GOOD PERSON, you have very solid morals and will be very helpful to others.

Natural tendency to attract people who want to pay for things for you. In the case of lovers, you could often attract lovers who want to provide for you financially.

Random, but could be a good dancer.

You know what you want and how you want it, clearly, and will let people know.

May keep your living space very clean and organized and pleasant to be in, because you like to feel comfortable.

Can easily fix self-esteem problems with therapy. You learn quickly how to love yourself.

You do well with structure, and can set well-defined plans.

The bad 😠:

You could struggle with envy. Venus is a very jealous entity, and she does not care for feeling like number 2. You might be feel bitter about other people getting the things you feel like YOU should have. (That's low-key a common issue with Taurus placements too oops!)

Not to play into the whole Taurus stereotype, but Venus is all about comfort and bodily pleasure... And hard work is not exactly pleasurable. So laziness could be a big issue for you. Don't get me wrong, you CAN work very hard on things, but you'll do it absolutely furious that you have to.

Could use excessive sleep and excessive eating as escapism and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

You may have very, very jealous tendencies, and the worst part is that it's not even about genuine love, it's more about being possessive and feeling like people are things you own.

Possible tendency to be very transactional in your relationships with others. What can you gain from them? How can they benefit you? How is this a lucrative situation for you? If I give them something, they have to give me something back-mindset.

Might have a habit of using people, which comes hand-in-hand with fake niceties and pleasantries.

Might seek a relationship just for profit, whether it's because the person has good money and you won't have to work, or because they have a solid and stable foundation you can take advantage of, they have a solid support system that will be available to you, or even because they are profitable for you in a social sense (e.g.: they are considered very pretty and it gives you good social status).

Might really struggle with weight, fluctuating and, most often, unwanted weight gain more often than unwanted weight loss.

The goddess Venus was said to be quite vengeful, despite being the goddess of love, so Venus in the 2H could get a real high out of being stubborn and punishing people they don't like. And will not care if the person doesn't deserve it. All they might care about is their own feelings. And will feel powerful harming others in that context.

IF YOU ARE A BAD PERSON, your values might be very very loose, and you will tend to justify your own bad habits to yourself, always finding an excuse to continue doing what you shouldn't have been doing from the beginning.

In love 💕:

Wants stability above all. In all senses (financial, emotional, social, physical, psychological).

VERY indulgent, and will expect their romantic partner to provide that for them, and will provide that back to them as well.

Will be sensual and play games to rile up their partner.

Demanding.

Tendency to be possessive of their partner and get easily jealous of their loved ones.

Likes beautiful gifts, beautiful dates and beautiful things. Expensive too.

Will take some time to get into a relationship, but once they do, they don't like to waste time, so they will insist in the relationship if they feel like it's going sour, because they don't like feeling like they worked for nothing.

Likes to be intimate in their interactions with their love, not only in bed, but in general.

Likes home dates, but outside dates MUST include food and drinks at some point.

Will tend to expect a lot from their partners, and will become bitter and moody if something doesn't go according to their exact plan.

Could meet their partner while putting themselves out there and enjoying life.

Could meet their partner in a place where they are stimulating their senses, so somewhere where they are eating good food, drinking good drinks, or listening to music they like.

Will attract partners who already have something stable going for themselves, so it could be somebody who already owns a house, or has a good stable salary, or is well put together in life.

Prefer committed relationships to flings.

Wants a partner who shares their values and also their life goals. And wants a partner they can invest in long-term goals with, not just short-term things.

They like cute partners.

Like chivalry and dates that feel comfortable, familiar and cozy.

MASTER LIST

#Astrology #Astrology Observations #Astro Observations #Astro notes #Venus in the signs #Venus in the houses #Venus in the second house #Venus in the 2nd house #Natal chart

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adorkastock · 2 years ago

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Im an artist trying to take my own pose references for some difficult art, any advice on how to do it right?

Oh gosh I've been meaning to do a big post about this and I will at some point but for now here's the basic basics:

decent lighting - doesn't even have to be 'good' just decent. I used to use light through a slider door, directional will help show the forms. If windows aren't an option some directional lamps could help.

I do form fitting lightly colored clothing because I find it easiest to see what I need. Biking shorts, sports bras, fitted tanks, yoga pants, etc.

Contrasting solid colored backdrop - in my oldest photos this was a blue sheet hung behind me with thumbtacks. Make sure it contrasts both your skin tone and the clothing so you don't wash out anything.

Timer for your camera - most people will use cell phones which are all pretty good enough these days for ref. I know Android cameras have an option to open you hand and close it to set off the remote timer so check what your phone can do. Worst case set the timer and run back if there's not a remote setting. I did this for YEARS. :')

if you want a 'straight on' look with no foreshortening or perspective then you want the camera probably about 6ft away from you and as vertical as possible. Get fancy with boxes and books to prop it up if you need to.

The lens should be around or just above belly button height to eliminate foreshortening. If you WANT foreshortening just mess with the angle and placement of the lens. If you have a wide angle lens that can do some really cool stuff with low and high perspective.

Don't forget your face. Getting the pose is a nice start but future you will appreciate it if you can get a little into character with your expression too.

Okay I think that's all the very basics and I hope this helps! Obv if you have a friend, sibling, parent, roommate, s/o, whatever around they can help you get any very specific angle the way you need it. I hope you make great refs!!! Happy posing, happy drawing! 🕺🏻📸

#ask adorkastock #how to take pose references #DIY #artist help

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redvexillum · 9 months ago

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Dear @crackrodent, You are lucky you're in the Voxtek Server, otherwise I would have never even contemplated even doing any of your crack-ass request. I still have like three or four just...STARING at me. Anyways, just know, I fucking love you - that's why I wrote... whatever...this...is...LOL 💖🤣

TAGS/WARNINGS: m/m, an♡l s♡x, val and adam is a shitty person, this whole s♡x scene is just dripping with egotistical/selfish energy

The room was thick with the scent of lust, sweet and heavy, mixing with the low rumble of some B-class actor’s baritone grunts as the sounds of ecstasy filled the air. Valentino watched the scene, his eyes half-lidded with wariness, while the curling pink smoke lazily drifted from his pipe. He reclined in his lavish chair, legs casually crossed, looking every bit the kingpin of indulgence, though his thoughts were far from mere indulgence.

To the masses, his films were nothing more than a means to an end – titillation, pleasure without thought. They saw breasts, ass, or a cock, and they were content to let their hands do the work.

But to Valentino, it was more than just base gratification. He prided himself on the art of seduction, on the way his camera captured more than the mere act – it captured the hunger, the raw, primal allure that only comes when the soul plunges into depravity. It wasn’t about a cock thrusting into some disposable body; no, it was about the allure, the sensuality that teased the darkest corners of desire.

It was visceral.

It was untamed.

It was...art.

Hell had a way of putting things in perspective, he mused, his red eyes narrowing as he listened to the rhythmic slap of skin on skin echoing from the scene before him. Angel, his star, was caught in the throes of a double penetration, his body trembling as two hound sinners took him from both ends.

Valentino’s cock twitched at the sight, though a hint of boredom tugged at his mind. He had seen it all before – each performance blending into the next, the same screams, the same positions, the same predictable rhythms.

His tastes had evolved, elevated even. Valentino no longer craved the mundane. He was hunting for something more – a masterpiece, something so provocative, so unique, it would etch his name into Hell’s lore forever.

Rumours whispered of a new sinner in Hell, a figure of legend. Adam, the first man, now among the damned. The possibilities danced in Valentino’s mind, his fingers absently stroking the sharp angle of his chin as he schemed.

Adam.

The original sinner.

His mere presence in Hell was an opportunity. Valentino had filmed countless renditions of Adam and Eve in the Garden, but none of them ever quite captured the essence. The actors never looked quite right, never felt as human as he wanted them to be.

But Adam – the Adam – was still strikingly human despite the horns curling from his forehead, a fallen figure, and one that could bring Valentino the fame and recognition he craved.

A slow, satisfied grin stretched across Valentino’s face. If he could secure Adam as his star before anyone else, it would be the scandal, the sensation, the art that Hell needed. His fame would soar, his reputation cemented.

More than that – it would be a film that redefined what it meant to push the boundaries of Hell’s darkest pleasures. The thought made his pulse quicken, a wicked excitement pooling low in his gut.

It didn’t take much to strike a deal with Adam, much to Valentino’s amusement. The former first man had spiralled into debauchery, spending his days in strip clubs, guzzling alcohol like it was his lifeblood, and sinking into a haze of orgies that numbed him to his fall.

Valentino approached him with an offer – a lifetime of booze, pussies, and endless pleasures at Val’s clubs – all for the price of filming one pornographic movie with him.

Adam, still swaying slightly from the buzz of liquor, looked him up and down with a lazy grin. The former first man took his time, his gaze dragging over Valentino’s tailored suit, over his angular frame. “I’ll do it,” Adam said, his voice thick with amusement, “but on one condition. You’ll be the one getting fucked, and you’re gonna call me the Dick Master while I’m deep inside you.”

Val’s sharp smile faltered for a split second, the words hanging awkwardly in the air. It was a ridiculous title, at first, something laughable – but then Adam continued, explaining in his slurred tone that as the original man, the first, all man descended from him, and therefore, all dicks too. That every cock had its origin in his.

The logic was so absurd that Valentino found himself nodding. It made a twisted sort of sense in the ridiculousness that was Hell.

“Fine,” Valentino agreed, his voice smooth, hiding his distaste behind a mask of professional composure. It was a deal, after all, and if getting Adam on camera meant this ridiculous stipulation, then so be it.

Val chuckled to himself. He probably could’ve gotten away with offering the drunken fool a week’s worth of indulgence, and Adam still would have signed the deal. But now, Valentino had him, and soon, he’d have his next masterpiece.

This wasn’t just about capturing flesh; it was about capturing the very essence of sin – the fall, the lust, the corruption of the first man.

And that, Valentino thought as his grin widened, was art.

The studio was lit, bright spotlights casting a glow over the bed, the set already prepped for what should have been a masterpiece. But as Adam stood there, naked, scratching his hairy belly and letting out a loud belch that echoed in the studio, Valentino’s eye twitched. He hadn’t expected this.

The man in front of him was far from the statuesque figure he had imagined. Instead, Adam was a thick, pear-shaped figure with a pelt of dark hair covering his chest, belly, and ass.

Val’s lips curled in disdain as he took in the sight. He had pictured something more – refined. Perhaps like Angel Dust, with his graceful, slender frame and seductive charm. But this...this was far from the sensual art he had envisioned. Adam had bulk, hair, and an unimpressive aura that radiated laziness.

His eyes drifted lower, to the man’s tight-fitting white underwear, which clung awkwardly to his hips and had a tear at the waistband. Val sighed. Perhaps he’d been cheated in this deal instead, his dreams of an artistic masterpiece slipping further away. The whole setup reeked of disappointment. He could already feel this film relegating itself to the bargain bin.

“Well,” Val said, his voice dripping with reluctant acceptance, “a deal’s a deal.” He stripped out of his suit, letting the fabric fall from his lanky frame. His skin glistened under the harsh lights; every angle of his slender body sharply defined as he stood bare before Adam. His eyes were calculating, already planning to edit every unsexy moment of this disaster. “Alright, Dick Master,” he drawled, sarcasm oozing from his tone, “time to fulfill your end of the bargain.”

Adam grinned, wide and shameless, as he dropped his torn underwear, kicking it off lazily before standing there, completely nude. “You’re not exactly my type,” he commented, his eyes roving over Val’s body with a shrug, “but hey, free booze and sex for eternity? Can’t say no to that.”

Val raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to Adam’s cock, which was now hanging heavy between his legs, still flaccid but sizable enough to warrant some attention. Perhaps there was some redeeming factor here after all. He bit back the retort that this bumbling idiot wasn’t his type either. The sooner they get this over with, the better. Val’s eyes drifted back down to Adam’s cock – the only potential upside to this wasteful exchange.

Adam stepped closer, his presence larger than life as he loomed over Val, their bodies almost touching. “You ready for my huge, fat cock?” Adam taunted, his voice a low growl as he stroked himself lazily, the thick shaft hardening and curving upward as it grew longer and thicker in his grip. “Gonna make your ass my little bitch.”

Valentino let out a small, unimpressed sigh, rolling his eyes at the bravado. He reached for the lube, slicking it over his hands. “Right,” he muttered dryly, “let’s get this over with.” His mind was already distancing itself, calculating every angle, every edit he’d need to make to salvage something remotely watchable from this.

His lips twitched into a smirk, despite himself, as Adam’s cock finally stood fully erect. At least that was impressive. Val’s own cock gave a faint twitch of approval, anticipation coiling low in his belly.

“So,” Adam began, his tone casual as his thick fingers stroked his cock, now hard and throbbing. “You just need me to fuck you till I cum, yeah?”

Val nodded, lifting his arms in mock enthusiasm, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he mimed air quotes. “That’s right. And I will, of course, refer to you as Dick Master throughout the entire ordeal.” His words came out sharp, biting with humour and disdain, but his body was responding to the heat of Adam’s presence, the sheer size of him towering over his lithe form.

It wasn’t the art Valentino had envisioned, but for now, it was enough.

Adam’s cock stood hard and ready, twitching with eagerness. “That’s right, don’t forget it,” he sneered, his voice rough with anticipation. The space between them seemed to shrink instantly as he moved closer, his presence overwhelming. Before Val could even call “action,” Adam had his hands on him, dragging him toward the bed with a strength that startled him.

For a fallen angel stripped of his power, Adam’s force was unexpected. Valentino grunted, his body twisting as Adam shoved him onto the plush mattress, his hands sinking into the soft cover as his knees dropped low. The shift was sudden, and the moment he tried to retort, he felt it – the hot, throbbing tip of Adam’s cock pressing insistently against his entrance.

No foreplay. Typical, Val thought bitterly. He barely suppressed a growl, his voice sharp as he barked, “Get me the fucking lube!” One of the crew tossed a bottle onto the bed, and Val grabbed it, glaring over his shoulder at Adam. “Here. Dick Master, the lube,” he spat, holding it out.

Adam, with a smug grin, tilted his head, the light catching his curling horns. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, enjoying Val’s irritation. “Say please,” Adam teased, his voice dripping with mock superiority, his fat tip nudging harder against Valentino’s tight ass. “And maybe I’ll consider it.”

The burn of Adam’s cock pushing at him without any preparation sent a flash of pain through Valentino. His fingers dug into the mattress as he considered for a split second snapping this fool’s neck, but he resisted.

Adam might be a fallen man, a drunk, but Valentino had witnessed his power. Better not to test him now – especially like this. His jaw clenched behind his smile. “Please,” he forced out, his voice edged with venom, his eyes flashing behind his pink sunglasses.

The sharp click of the lube opening made Val’s breath hitch. Finally. But instead of applying it properly, Adam unceremoniously dumped the cold gel over Valentino’s ass, the slick liquid trailing between his cheeks in a way that made him flinch. Before he could protest, Adam surged forward, and the thick length of him was buried deep in Valentino in one brutal thrust.

Valentino’s breath left him in a harsh gasp, his body tensing as he tried to adjust to the size of him. He hadn’t expected this. The stretch, the heat – it was overwhelming. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, his head dropping low, instinctively raising his hips higher to take more.

Adam huffed from above, his breath ragged with exertion. “Shit, look at how tight your fucking ass is,” he growled, his hips snapping forward again, slamming into Valentino without mercy. His balls slapped against Valentino’s; the sound obscene in the otherwise quiet room. “Come on, call my name,” he demanded, each thrust deeper and more relentless than the last.

The force of the fucking pushed Valentino’s body down into the mattress, his face pressed into the sheets, his mouth open in shock and pleasure. Every stroke hit him perfectly, driving into his prostate with precision. He had no choice but to submit, his body overwhelmed by pleasure. “Oh fuck, Dick Master,” he moaned, his voice muffled as his ass clenched around Adam’s cock, drawing him in deeper. His second pair of arms reached back, spreading his cheeks wide in surrender. “Fucking dump your hot cum in me, Dick Master!”

Valentino couldn’t believe it. This man, who had one been grand, reduced to a drunken, debauched sinner, was fucking him with a raw, feral intensity. Valentino’s own cock was dripping, leaking pre-cum onto the sheets as his body began to tremble, the orgasm building inside him. He was so close, so fucking close, his cock twitching uncontrollably with every rough thrust.

“Oh fuck, yea, tighten that ass for me,” Adam groaned, his hands pried Valentino's finger off his ass before his large hand smacked Valentino’s ass hard, sending a burst of heat and pain through him. The sharp sting only added to the pleasure, his cheeks burning under Adam’s touch.

Had Adam been anyone else, Valentino would have killed him by now, the indignity too great to suffer. But here he was, moaning like a common whore, his body betraying him as his hips bucked back, asking for more.

He reached down with one hand, desperate, jerking his own cock in time with Adam’s brutal pace. The need for release consumed him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as Adam continued to pound into him, his body on fire with the sheer intensity of it all.

Adam’s rough hand came down again, a sharp smack echoing in the room as he slapped Valentino’s ass hard, sending a burst of heat through his skin. “Fucking call my name, bitch.” Adam growled, his hips driving forward with reckless abandon, his heavy balls slapping against Valentino’s own with every thrust.

Valentino was a mess of sensations, his voice strained as he moaned loudly, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in his core. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” he panted, his hands working frantically over his own cock, chasing that edge, his release just unreachable. “Dick Master, Dick Master,” he chanted, the words spilling from his lips in between gasps. The sound of their bodies slamming together filled the room, wet and messy as the intensity grew, Adam’s cock throbbing deep inside him.

Valentino could feel it – the way Adam’s cock pulsed within his walls, the heat of his skin against Valentino’s own. Adam’s strong, meaty hands gripped Valentino’s waist, nearly bruising as he yanked him back, his growl animalistic, primal.

With a final, powerful thrust, Adam slammed into Val, his hips crashing against him as he came, hot spurts of cum flooding Valentino’s insides. The sensation sent Valentino over the edge, and with a low, guttural moan, his own orgasm hit, thick ropes of cum splashing across the sheets in waves of release.

As Adam pulled out, Valentino’s body quivered, his muscles slack and trembling. A gush of thick cum spilled from his ass, leaking onto the bed, mixing with the mess of his own release. He was panting; his cock still throbbed, the haze of his orgasm lingering in the warmth of his body.

Flipping onto his back, Valentino let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, basking in the aftermath of it all. His lips curled into a grin as he looked up at Adam, mischief and hunger still lingering in his gaze. “Oh, Dick Master,” Val purred, his voice low and teasing. “How about a second round?”

But Adam, now limp, simply sniffed dismissively. His cock hung loose, semen still dripping from the tip, as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Sorry, dude,” he said with a shrug, barely looking down at Val. “But I’m more of a tits and ass man myself, and you’re lacking in all that department.”

Val’s eyes widened, shock overtaking his features. He stared up at Adam, his body still buzzing from the aftermath of their encounter, his ass still twitching from being thoroughly fucked. Did this man – just reject me? Valentino?

Adam, oblivious to the tension, barked out toward the studio, his voice loud and demanding. “Now, where’s the free booze and sexy ladies over here!”

Val lay frozen on the bed, his muscles stiffening as the reality of what just happened sank in.

Adam, the first man.

Adam, the Dick Master.

Adam, the first sinner in all of Hell to reject Valentino.

“Enjoy your drinks while you can, Dick Master,” Valentino muttered under his breath, his lips curling into a sinister smile. His fury simmered into a dark, twisted resolve. He would make Adam pay – oh, he’d get his revenge. But it wouldn’t be quick, nor would it be simple.

Valentino was an artist, after all.

Adam may have been the first man to reject him, but Valentino would make sure that he would be the last.

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

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maybe-boys-do-love · 10 months ago

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The On1y One Loves School

Maybe it's a cultural thing, maybe it's the nerd angle, but The On1y One depicts my high school experiences with so much more accuracy (excluding one kidnapping that I think we can all collectively choose to ignore) than any other show I've seen. We got a field day episode, but we haven't attended one sports event. The one party we saw was the group going out to dinner together. Riverdale this is not.

The show really understands the perspectives and emotions of these bright students. In the first episode, there's an extended sequence observing the students while they take an exam. They could've played it to show Sheng Wang making faces or talking to himself as he struggled through it. Instead we pan across the room while the gentle guitar music plays. For these kids, there's comfort in the routines of school, especially for our lead couple who've struggled so much with their home life. We get so many scenes about studying and comparing answers, teasing each other with poetic structures.

But, despite their commonality as top students, they're still incredibly realistic teenagers, and a diverse group of personalities, at that. There are clowns, class president types, popular kids, loners. Even with those differences, episode 9 with its field day demonstrated the comradery that forms amongst a class, which was make-shift and oriented more toward their teachers than comparing themselves to their peers.

The teachers and the students' relationship to them also receives the same attention to detail. In high school, students, in my experience, have dynamics that are closer and more playful with their teachers. The back-and-forth about the Class A shirts and the bet felt true-to-life. As a former teacher, the depictions of the teachers throughout the series have also been spot-on. They have different teaching approaches, different ways of relating and showing care to students, and they don't all see each other that often. If Jenny had simply received a letter from Qi Jia's parents criticizing her (instead of, you know, getting kidnapped at knife-point and then going back to field day like it happens all the time), the list of doubts about her methods would be the same as those that go through teachers' minds all the time.

I sincerely wonder if the writer, either of the novels, or someone involved with the development of the show was formerly a teacher? The show sees the school and the people in it with such detail. The reason we don't need something big (like, say, an armed kidnapping) is because the intense teenage emotions heighten all the everyday moments. Qi Jia's confusion and breakdown about belonging, Jian Tiang's 'very moments' and poetic narration, Sheng Wang's affronted attitude toward his dad: these are teenagers overwhelmed by their hormones and trying their best to make sense of everything. But the show almost always (minus a certain event that I'm done naming) observes them from an affectionate distance, refusing to turn the drama of their minds into a dramatic narrative. Instead, we get a tender view of pencil boxes, forms, studying strategies, phone notifications, or mugs on teacher's desks: the mundane highs and lows in high school infused with secret feelings that made us all feel insane.

#the on1y one #i just love this group of nerds #and for anyone wondering i attended public school in the US (Virginia)#and have taught at public and private schools in the US (all east coast)#can't necessarily speak to other experiences

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creature-wizard · 1 year ago

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Some things associated with New Age that aren't inherently bad

Since this blog can get kinda heavy sometimes, and because there's some people out there who think that anything remotely adjacent to New Age is evil and must be banished forever, I figured I'd write something on elements it includes that aren't necessarily bad.

Its general concept of God and divinity

New Age beliefs typically posit that God, or Source, effectively split itself into many different souls in order to have different kinds of experiences. There's nothing wrong with this model of divinity in itself, since it doesn't by itself imply anything hateful or suggest any kind of action that might lead to harm. Where it gets messed up is when people start claiming that if you're suffering, it's because you deliberately chose to have this kind of experience before you incarnated. That's just victim blaming, and it's wrong.

Energy healing

Energy healing on its own is a harmless practice, and many people do report feeling better for doing it. Dismissing energy healing as inherently bad in itself would be like dismissing prayer for recovery as inherently bad. It's really not. The problem is always when people start believing they should only rely on energy healing or prayer, or fall into the belief that pharmaceutical medicine is sinful or an evil conspiracy.

Listening to relaxing tones

No, those "healing frequencies" probably won't cure any serious ailments. But that doesn't mean they can't make you feel more relaxed or help you focus. You don't have to subscribe to any specific belief system to listen to these audios.

Glossolalia

The New Age practice of speaking in light languages is a form of glossolalia, which basically involves relaxing and speaking whatever sounds immediately come to you. Doing it can be cathartic and relaxing, and you don't need to subscribe to any specific belief system to do it.

Tarot reading

Reading tarot cards doesn't require subscribing to any specific spiritual belief system. Nor do you even need to be spiritual at all; you can read tarot cards with the perspective that what you're doing is prompting your own mind to consider things from new angles.

Meditation

Meditation is known to have beneficial effects, and doing it doesn't require subscribing to any particular belief system. Yes, it's a problem when somebody subscribes meditation as a cure-all, or use it as a form of spiritual bypassing, but that's a problem with the teacher, not the practice itself.

Eating more plant foods

Provided you don't have any allergies or intolerances, eating more fruits, vegetables, nuts, and the like usually isn't a bad idea. The problem with New Age is when it effectively moralizes food by decreeing certain foods "high vibrational" or "low vibrational," or when it's pushing conspiracy theories about modern processed food items being intentionally poisoned to block our psychic abilities or keep us dependent on the healthcare system. And obviously, it's appallingly ableist to tell someone that they could cure a chronic illness by switching to an all-natural vegan diet or something.

Belief in aliens

It's a big universe, and it's not unreasonable to think we're not alone in it, and that maybe there's beings who are observing us. The problem is when belief in aliens becomes part of a conspiratorial worldview that scapegoats certain groups of people for the world's problems, displaces real history, and misuses other people's traditions and beliefs.

Belief that things can and will get better

To paraphrase Terry Pratchett's words in The Hogfather, we sometimes need to believe in things that aren't true (such as justice and mercy) so they can become true. Believing that things can change makes people feel like their efforts are worth something. Meanwhile, when everyone's got a doomer attitude nothing will change for the better because nobody will even try.

One problem with New Age's optimism in specific is that they tend to believe that things getting better is contingent on converting a large number of people to New Age spirituality, which includes getting them to accept a large number of conspiratorial beliefs that target and harm vulnerable minorities, and/or distort and erase the actual spiritual beliefs of people from different cultures (many of whom are marginalized minorities and/or have been severely harmed by colonialism already).

Another problem is when you get the whole 5D ascension thing going on. 5D ascension is basically the New Age version of the Rapture, and just like the Rapture, it's always said to be right around the corner, but it never materializes. (If you'd like examples, here are predictions for 2012 and 2015.) Very concerningly, New Agers often list a number of physical and mental health symptoms as "ascension symptoms." They were claiming this as far back as the 2010s, when December 31, 2012 was supposed to be the big day. (Here's an example.)

Basically, hope and belief that things can get better is important - but it's also important not to hang our hopes (and medical decisions) on supernatural predictions that have already failed multiple times.

Wanting to promote compassion and understanding between people

This is a great thing to want! The problem with New Age isn't that they want to spread peace and harmony, but rather the way they want to do it without really listening to the people they supposedly want to help. You can't, for example, genuinely fight colonialism if you're engaging in cultural appropriation and misrepresenting their spiritual traditions - you're an active part of the problem. Promoting compassion and understanding begins with you shutting up, listening, and learning without imposing your own preconceptions or reacting from your ego. You're not doing this if you're looking for mythology to project aliens onto, or dismissing anything you don't want to hear as a conspiracy.

And here's some critical thinking tips before you go

When you're evaluating any belief system or practice, it's always important to remember that belief and practice are not the same thing. Most of the time the practices are harmless in and of themselves; the actual danger comes from the conspiratorial and morally polarized worldviews many practitioners also subscribe to. Nobody's ever died from putting rose quartz in their room or getting a reiki session. They have died from refusing evidence-based medical care because someone convinced them that the health care industry is a scam and will also separate them from Source.

When it comes to beliefs themselves, ask yourself what kind of narratives they're upholding. If they basically promote the same kind of conspiratorial narratives used by Nazis, witch hunters, or far right Christians to justify their hatred and violence, that's a pretty strong sign that this belief is bullshit. But of course, there's a pretty stark difference between believing that aliens could be out there, and believing blood-drinking reptiles have invaded the Earth.

#new age #beliefs #belief #spirituality #witchblr #critical thinking #discernment

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