#I feel like this doesn’t require much context

[milfzatannaz]

lamentation of the goth girl

[seventh-district]

“Why’s he call you Darlin’?”

on my knees begging my brain to stop trying to associate this song with Sam

[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for telling my boyfriend’s coworkers that he’s lying about his body count?

I (35f) have been dating my boyfriend (32m) for four years. It’s honestly been the best relationship until last Friday when it all went down. I feel like I’m in the right, but now I’m wondering if I overstepped.

For context, my boyfriend has been a professional Slasher for about eight months now. He’s always really admired Cryptids, Monsters, and Nightmares so when his application was finally accepted, he was over the moon even if he was starting in a lower position than he initially applied for.

At his company, being a Slasher requires a lot of travel which we knew when he accepted the position. The end goal is for him to get a promotion to at least regional Nightmare (he wants Cryptid, but that position doesn’t have a lot of turnover) but to get that he needs to be in role for at least 12 months OR meet his goals for three months in a row. Once he promotes, we plan to relocate to his new region and “start talking about our future.”

(Side note: no this isn’t about him not popping the question yet. We are both in agreement that marriage comes after financial stability. I run a small business doing scare consults and, while it’s been growing, I wouldn’t call it stable yet. So neither of us are ready.)

I told him it’s completely normal for it to take a whole year before he’s ready to promote and he really should focus on adjusting to the company before thinking about next steps. I used to work for a competitor (I’ve been retired for five years now) and I know it can be hard to go from only taking the occasional human life to having to take over half a dozen a week. It’s not a light workload, no matter how easy it looks in the movies. One of my best friends Slashes part-time and she still only averages about five lives a week despite having done it for years. Especially these days, it can be really hard to meet quota. Humans are getting smarter, no matter what the Council wants us to think.

Anyway, boyfriend didn’t do as well as he thought he would in his first couple months. Totally understandable, of course, which I told him. I suggested he ask his boss if he could be put on a couple team assignments or even a duo until he got the hang of it. That was our first real fight. He thought I was doubting his ability to kill. He brought up how I told him it would take over a year to promote and how I said that this job wasn’t for everyone (His first assignment ended with a 0% kill rate, but that’s a different story). He said it felt like I didn’t believe in him and he said that if that was the case then maybe we shouldn’t be thinking about marriage so soon.

It got pretty messy after that. I felt like he was forgetting that I’d worked in the same field and, arguably, had a lot more experience (not to brag, but I averaged a 98% kill rate). Also, four years is NOT too soon to talk about marriage. He said I didn’t understand how he needed to focus on his career right now. I told him I thought he was taking Slasher too lightly just because it wasn’t Cryptid. He accused me of not respecting him and then things spiraled from there.

We both said a lot of things we didn’t mean and I’m embarrassed that it turned into a bit of a fang measuring contest. I ended up sleeping under the bed for a few nights until he coaxed me out to apologize.

It was a rough patch, but we talked it out. We agreed that, going forward, I wouldn’t offer advice unless he asked and he would try not to take so much of his frustration home with him. He took a weekend off and we went on a recreational haunting trip in the Montana woods.

Things did get better after that. I tried not to give him consults every time he came back from a work trip. He started bringing me souvenirs like roses and cursed puzzle boxes his work said he could have. It became easier just to hang out with each other and it felt like we were back to normal.

But then, four months ago, he came home super pissed because his boss put him on a PIP. (A performance improvement plan.) Apparently, boyfriend had not been doing better at work, he had just stopped telling me when he had a bad assignment. I saw the paperwork he got (he left it in the dungeon under the house, I didn’t go through his stuff) and he’s been missing quota by a LOT. As a junior Slasher, he was supposed to be executing at least 6 people a week, but he’d been lucky to be maiming half that.

Obviously, I had to talk to him about that. We rent our house and, even though I could have afforded the rent on my own, I didn’t want to jeopardize the investments I was making in my business (I was in the process of hiring an assistant to handle my scheduling). Plus, we agreed from day one that we would be 50/50 on rent and I would take care of the rest of the bills because I earned more. I felt that if his financial situation was in jeopardy, he needed to talk to me about it.

I tried to approach him a bit differently than last time. I asked him if there was anything I could do to help. I told him about my slasher friend and how maybe she could give him advice if he didn’t want any from me. But he said he needed to figure stuff out on his own and that if he couldn’t get himself off the PIP then he would go back to work for his dad’s janitorial company.

I let it go. I was worried but I didn’t want to fight again just after patching the holes from the last blow out. It really bugged me that he thought I didn’t believe in him so I committed to giving him the benefit of the doubt. I said okay and asked him if he needed me to meal prep for both of us that week. He offered me grocery money, but I said it was fine since I’d had to deal with a lot of humans breaking in lately and I still had some leftover in the dungeon.

Fast forward a month. Boyfriend got off the PIP super fast. He worked his way off of it over Spring Break and started taking on a lot of extra assignments. In just four weeks he went to Miami Beach twice, New York City twice, and to three separate summer camps. I missed him and it was hard not having him around but I remembered how he said he needed to focus on his career and I tried not to nag.

It was hard not to nag though. With him gone, all the housework fell on me. We rent a 19th century manor, and its upkeep really does need two people. Doing all the chores plus running my business started to really drain me. Even when he was home, he forgot to banish the ghosts (my chore is to kill all invading humans, and his chore is to banish their ghosts) and he never took out the trash. I think he cleaned blood off the dungeon walls once, but then I had to basically redo it because he missed a lot of spots.

But still, I didn’t say anything because he was doing really well at work and I didn’t want to ruin that for him. Even when Humans started breaking in every week, I didn’t complain even though it interrupted my work day.

Last month though, I did ask him if we could move somewhere that needed less maintenance. There were just way too many Humans breaking in and I didn’t have the time to deal with them anymore. Even if I don’t do all the theatrics I used to as a Cryptid, killing humans through fear still takes a lot of time. He asked me if I didn’t appreciate the free meat, and I said I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t the only butchering it.

He said he didn’t want to move because he was really close to getting promoted to regional Nightmare and he didn’t want to take time off work to move. I was so surprised that I couldn’t hide how surprised I was. He saw and got offended. He asked if I still didn’t believe in him. I said that I did, but it was a huge jump to go from an 8% kill rate to getting promoted.

He got even more mad at me for bringing up his stats and he said that he had nearly 80% kill rate since being put on the PIP. I asked how many humans a week he was slashing and he told me I was being too nosy and that was proof that I didn’t believe in him.

I asked him if we could at least hire a ghoul then to keep the humans out of my office and he said he didn’t want to waste the money that we should be saving for our new house. I asked him what he wanted me to do then? I had to take phone calls for my consulting business and it was really hard to stalk humans all around the house while trying to sound like a professional to my clients.

He asked me to be patient for one more month. He said if he met quota for one more month, his boss said he’d get promoted. So I said fine and let it go.

Fast forward to now, almost a full month later.

Last Friday, I attended the Eldritch Conference. For those not in the scare field, the Eldritch Conference is the most prestigious event in our industry. It’s invitation only and is a chance to network with all the big players in the field. Mothman, the Jersey Devil, Bloody Mary and Bigfoot all spoke this year and both my former company, Grudge Industries, and my boyfriend’s current company, Forgotten Summer Solutions, were invited.

I was surprised to get an invite as a solo contributor to the field. However, my consulting firm has really been doing well and I did land a seasonal contract with the Yeti Co-op which I guess is how they heard about me. Plus, I’ve been a speaker before so I think the organizers knew I would behave myself.

I was planning on telling my boyfriend that I was going, but he was out of town on a co-ed sleepover assignment. He usually doesn’t have his phone on during his assignments, so I didn’t bother calling him. I just figured it’d be nice if we ran into each other at the conference if he made it back in time.

Which brings me to what actually happened (apologies for the long post).

So everything went great for my part of the day. I got to network with a lot of individual businesses and even got to reconnect with Blood Mary who I knew back in my Cryptid days. I told her I was dating a Slasher from Forgotten Summer Solutions and invited her to come with me to check out their booth. I thought it would be fun to grab dinner with her after since I assumed if my boyfriend was there, he’d be going out with coworkers which he often does. Plus, I admit, I was showing off a little. I don’t often get the chance to brag about my Cryptid days.

She agreed and we went over to see if my boyfriend was there.

I introduced myself to the people manning the booth. My boyfriend wasn’t there, but a few Slashers recognized my name and greeted me. They were definitely in awe of Bloody Mary (she came in full uniform) and invited us to look at their displays. They had portfolios for each Slasher on the desk as a sort of preview of what their services looked like.

While Bloody Mary looked through the portfolios, I chatted with my boyfriend’s coworkers. They said they were thrilled to work with him and that, even though he had a really rough start, it was impressive how quickly he started meeting his goals. Something about how they talked about his work kind of didn’t make sense. They were talking like he was killing a dozen humans a week, but he’d told me that he was at 80% on his assignments which typically only offer about ten humans each.

I asked them about it and they said that he’d been Slashing during After Hours which is a new goal supplement program his company launched a few months ago. Basically, anyone can sign up for After Hours and the company counts human kills done in uniform as part of their quota. I asked them if this was available to them while they were on assignment and they said no, it had to be done when they had down time. I asked them how my boyfriend was part of that when he was traveling all the time and they looked confused. One of them said that my boyfriend is still getting one assignment per week and is then supplementing his kill rate with After Hours.

At that point, I was even more confused. It sounded like my boyfriend had been lying to me then, because he told me that he was getting at least two assignments a week. If he was only getting one, then where was he going when he said he was traveling?

Bloody Mary interrupted before I could say anything and asked how their Slashers did their kills. They said that every Slasher at their company is required to use a standard issue weapon (like a machete or axe) for their kills to count. They said their company doesn’t count accidents as part of their quota (like falling or heart attacks).

Bloody Mary pulled me aside and showed me the portfolio she was holding. She said that she was going to give me a chance to explain without them overhearing and showed me the book. She said that a bunch of kills in it looked Cryptid kills. And she said, specifically, it looked like the kills I made when I was a Cryptid. I took the book from her and flipped through it and she was right, they really did look like Cryptid kills. Worse, I recognized a few of the Humans from the past few weeks. They were actually my kills!

Kill stealing is a major taboo in our industry.

I told her I didn’t know anything about this. She looked really relieved at that and said that even though I wasn’t a Cryptid anymore, it would look really bad for me if I was caught helping a Slasher cheat at their job. It could affect my business which she’d only heard good things about.

I’m embarrassed to say that I tried to defend him. He’s new to our industry so I thought it might be a mistake. He might not be trying to cheat, this could be a misunderstanding.

She said she didn’t think so because a mistake would be one or two of my kills mixed in with his, not the entire book.

I counted up how many photos were in the book and, all told, of the 146 kills, at least 100 were mine. I couldn’t really say it was a mistake at that point and I was just staring at his portfolio like an idiot. Bloody Mary asked me what I was going to do because, mistake or not, this looked really bad and could damage my reputation if it got out.

At that moment, another man walked up to booth and asked us if there was a problem. I knew that if I said anything, I would be jeopardizing my boyfriend’s job, but if I didn’t say something, I was jeopardizing my business.

I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count. I said I didn’t think that they knew he was doing it, but over half of the kills in his portfolio weren’t his and I suggested they remove it from their display before another Cryptid came by and realized it.

The other man thanked me for bringing this to his attention and asked how we knew. Bloody Mary said that she knew another Cryptid’s kills and I had to tell them that I was that Cryptid, though I was retired now. He asked me if I knew my boyfriend was doing this, and I told him no.

I told him I really didn’t want to get my boyfriend in trouble and suggested that maybe he didn’t know those kills didn’t belong to him because they happened in our house. I was grasping at straws and Blood Mary even looked sad for me. His coworkers looked skeptical but tentatively agreed. The man – who turned out to my boyfriend’s boss – said that they would investigate this thoroughly and apologized personally for his employee’s misconduct.

I was spiraling at that point so I thanked him and said I wasn’t mad, I was just looking out for both of our reputations. He promised to keep it between us and I agreed.

Then I apologized to Bloody Mary because I didn’t feel like eating dinner anymore. She said she understood and wished me well.

I went home and did a quick perimeter search of the property. Sure enough, there were human summoning stones ALL OVER the yard. Which means my boyfriend was intentionally luring humans to our house to get me to kill them so he could take credit. It wasn’t a mistake at all.

My boyfriend came home later that night in his work clothes. As soon he got inside he started yelling. He said he was suspended without pay and that all his hard work was for nothing.

I said I knew he’d been stealing my kills and he almost ruined my reputation. He said they still counted as his kills because he did all the work of luring the humans to our house.

I told him that wasn’t how it worked and he knew it. He said it was the same as setting a trap and I was taking this too seriously. I told him that, as a Slasher, he has to use a weapon to get his kills, not me. He said I was basically the same thing since I had such a high kill rate. I asked him if he was calling me an object.

(My parents exploited me by selling me as a haunted doll through a lot of my childhood and he knows I’m sensitive to being called an object.)

He backpedaled at that point and asked if I didn’t want to buy a house together. He said he was doing it for us and I should’ve understood and not said anything. I told him that when I was a Cryptid I had my pride and would’ve never done this.

He said I needed to tell his boss that he was the one who made all those kills. I said it wasn’t me who recognized them as Cryptid kills and now his boss knew too. He accused me of thinking I’m better than him because I have telekinetic powers and can move through shadows and can possess people, while he’s basically a human himself. I told him of course not and that I worked hard for those powers unlike him.

He got really mad at that and actually charged at me with his machete raised. I don’t think he was going to actually hit me, but I reacted like he was. It was all instinct. I disarmed him and I swear I heard a crack when I grabbed his wrist. I shoved him into the wall.

 He crumpled to the floor and started crying. He said sorry and sort of curled up around his wrist. He said he didn’t ever feel like he was enough for me and he didn’t even know why I was still with him. He called himself a bunch of names and said I would be better off without him.

I sort of awkwardly stood there for a minute. On one hand I wanted to assure him that he was enough and that I loved him, but, on the other, I wasn’t sure I could forgive him. He nearly ruined my reputation, and he embarrassed me in front of Bloody Mary. Plus, I still didn't know where he’d been going all those times he said he was on a business trip and apparently wasn’t.

So I ended up not saying anything. I went to our room and started packing a bag. He followed me. He was still crying as he begged me not to go. He said he would own up to his kill steals at work and he would make it right. He pleaded for me not to leave him and that he would give up slashing.

I told him I needed space to think. He tried to grab me, but I shadow walked out of the house. I heard him screaming from outside and I hurriedly drove away.

Now I’m at my friend’s house and I told her everything. She agreed I did the right thing walking away from him, but when I asked her what I should do she hesitated. She said that my boyfriend wasn’t right to kill steal but, as a fellow Slasher, she understood what he was going through. She said I wouldn’t understand the pressure to meet quota because I was always surpassing mine when I was in the field. She said that a Cryptid could never understand a Slasher.

She also said that nobody would have found out about his kills if I hadn’t brought them to his boss’ attention. She said the only time kills are on display like that is at the Eldritch Conference and by the next one, he’d have had kills of his own. She thinks that if I’d just confronted him at home, he wouldn’t be on suspension.

So now I’m worried that I overreacted when I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count.

AITA?

----

Thanks for reading! Several amazing supernatural citizens (aka my Patrons) gave great advice to our poor OP over on my Patreon! Please go check them out here (X)

(I will definitely be posting some of them here in the near future!)

My next supernatural AITA is already up to my patrons!

It's called "AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied about his human job?"

Patrons get to see many of my stories a week ahead! If that interests you please check me out here (X)!

[torubeth]

degradation taken too far (mature content 18+)

context/warnings : it’s smut, so kids shoo! hell of a lot of degradation. they’re so mean i hate them. (swearing, words used : slut and slutty) angst to i have no idea what. and as always, its not proofread :p gojo ver.

✩ ryomen sukuna ‘is that all you can do? all your yapping earlier about ridin’ me was just talks? answer me’ his sudden shift in demeanour has you feeling really small. sure he is a rude ass prick but not to you. never to you.

‘no- i can take it. i really can ryo’ tears sting at your eyes as you struggle to take in his full length. his hands giving your waist a small squeeze.

‘yeah and that’s all you’ve been saying for the past goddamn fifteen minutes. either you take it like a good girl or i’ll just have to find someone who will. trust me, i can’ he eyes held no remorse of the words he just spewed and that’s when you break.

correction, you shatter.

somewhere in the back of your head you knew he’ll never leave you but him wording it out makes it seem like it’s bound to happen.

and so tears stroll down your cheeks, your hands and legs giving out on you, your body going limp against his and you whisper the same thing over and over again.

‘don’t leave me ryo. i’m sorry. didn’t mean to upset you. i’m so sorry. don’t leave’

quickly his arms wrap around your body protectively, your face between his shoulder blade and neck, wetting the area with fresh batch of tears.

‘i could never leave you. you’re-’ you’re it for me. ‘you’re always the one that keeps me sane. there’s no way i’ll ever leave you. i’m sorry baby, forgive me. i didn’t mean a word of what i said’ he says.

when he didn’t get a response from you ‘look at me’ he whispers. slowly you leave the comfort of his neck and meet his eyes.

‘i didn’t mean it. you could leave me on deathbed and i still wouldn’t mean it’

‘i can’t leave you ryo. i love you way too much’ you sniffle, new tears threatening to spill so you go back to huddle against his neck.

god. he knows you mean it. and that’s what makes him feel like a dickhead.

‘me too, i- i lo-’ he struggles, just as your palm reaches up to cover his mouth.

‘i know ryo, i know’ you whisper, placing your forehead against his, both of you basking in the quietness of the surrounding.

✩ geto suguru ‘fuckin-! ah shit! some insane grip you have on me baby. can’t move if you clench and lock me up like that’ he smirks against your neck.

‘and a bit quiet today ain’t ya? you sure had a lot to say to satoru earlier heh’ he remarks.

‘we were just catching up suguru, nothing-! nothing more’ you whine.

‘catching up you say? does catching up require smiles and touches? do they angel baby?’ he raises his eyebrows.

‘no..’ you avert your eyes away from his.

‘that’s what i thought. so for that, now you pay’ he pulls out suddenly, and pushes all the way back in making you yelp out loud.

‘sugu! ah fuck, i don’t think i can go another round. s’too much!’ the pressure was starting to get to you and you were starting to lose stability.

‘hah, i know you can baby, this slutty pussy’s all you’re good for anyway. fuck, doesn’t matter whose it is, as long as you’re filled. am i right?’ his words pierced straight through your heart.

since when did he-?

out of reflex, your hands reach out to touch his face to make sure that this was a dream nightmare. otherwise there’s no way he-

‘don’t touch me with those filthy hands’ he spits but makes no effort to push your hand off.

‘do you really think that’s all i’m good for?’ your voice is soft, filled with pain, and suddenly it’s like he’s broken out of his trance.

what the fuck am i doing, he thought.

slowly he pulls out, all whilst holding your hand against his cheek.

‘absolutely not. no. fuck, did not mean it angel. i promise. i- i don’t know what came over me-! didn’t mean it. please i’m sorry. next time if i ever lose my shit with you, i want you to take the nearest sharp object and plunge it into my chest’ he heaves out a guttural sigh.

‘you were really mean you know..’ you wipe your eyes.

‘i know baby, fuck. i didn’t mean it. i did not mean it. i’ll never do it again princess, ever’ he repeats.

his face lands on your chest, thanking all the gods and the stars out there for giving him another chance.

he’ll never screw up again and that’s a promise.

✩ nanami kento ‘you really couldn’t wait for a few hours? just had to go and think with your cunt, right? have you no- ugh! no shame?’ his thrusts were sloppy as his hands were placed around your hips.

‘kento- slow down baby, i- i don’t think i can last’ you whine, hands clutching at the sheets.

‘no. you asked for this you little slut. so shut. the. fuck. up. and take it!’ each syllable was accompanied by a harsh thrust.

the usually composed, sweet and calm nanami was nowhere to be found. he’s never once called you a ‘slut’ and what caused this? you rubbing him through his pants and riling him up at his office dinner earlier tonight.

he warned you off multiple times but did you listen? no.

‘why are you so quiet now? i thought this is what you wanted’ his voice comes out raspy and cold.

a quiet but audible whimper escaped your lips, making him halt his actions.

slowly he pulled out, gently laying you on your back as your body shook with each sob.

‘sweetheart…? why are you…’

you look up at him, eyes puffy and swolllen ‘i’m sorry kento, it’s just that, you’re never home these days and i missed you so much’ a cry that’s sure to crack his heart leaves your lips.

‘i just wanted you all to myself for tonight but i didn’t mean to be a bother-’

his warm body hovers over yours, ‘you’re never a bother baby. always know that. you will always be at the top of every and any list i make. there’s nothing more i want than coming home to you everyday after work. and i didn’t mean to lash out at you. you didn’t deserve that, i’m sorry’ he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

‘you will always have me sweetheart, never forget that. now let me make it up to you yeah?’

(rblogs appreciated💪🏼)

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

“Show, Don’t Tell”…But This Time Someone Explains It

If you’ve ever been on the hunt for writing advice, you've definitely seen the phrase “Show, Don’t Tell.”

Writeblr coughs up these three words on the daily; it’s often considered the “Golden Rule” of writing. However, many posts don't provide an in-depth explanation about what this "Golden Rule" means (This is most likely to save time, and under the assumption that viewers are already informed).

More dangerously, some posts fail to explain that “Show, Don’t Tell” occasionally doesn’t apply in certain contexts, toeing a dangerous line by issuing a blanket statement to every writing situation. 

The thing to take away from this is: “Show, Don’t Tell” is an essential tool for more immersive writing, but don't feel like a bad writer if you can’t make it work in every scenario (or if you can’t get the hang of it!)

1. What Does "Show, Don't Tell" Even Mean?

“Show, Don’t Tell” is a writing technique in which the narrative or a character’s feelings are related through sensory details rather than exposition. Instead of telling the reader what is happening, the reader infers what is happening due to the clues they’ve been shown.

EXAMPLE 1:

Telling: The room was very cold. Showing: She shivered as she stepped into the room, her breath steaming in the air.

EXAMPLE 2:

Telling: He was furious. Showing: He grabbed the nearest book and hurled it against the wall, his teeth bared and his eyes blazing.

EXAMPLE 3 ("SHOW, DON'T TELL" DOESN'T HAVE TO MEAN "WRITE A LOT MORE")

Telling: The room hadn't been lived in for a very long time. Showing: She shoved the door open with a spray of dust.

Although the “showing” sentences don’t explicitly state how the characters felt, you as the reader use context clues to form an interpretation; it provides information in an indirect way, rather than a direct one.

Because of this, “Show, Don’t Tell” is an incredibly immersive way to write; readers formulate conclusions alongside the characters, as if they were experiencing the story for themselves instead of spectating. 

As you have probably guessed, “showing” can require a lot more words (as well as patience and effort). It’s a skill that has to be practiced and improved, so don’t feel discouraged if you have trouble getting it on the first try!

2. How Do I Use “Show, Don’t Tell” ?

There are no foolproof parameters about where you “show” and not “tell" or vice versa; it’s more of a writing habit that you develop rather than something that you selectively decide to employ.

In actuality, most stories are a blend of both showing and telling, and more experienced writers instinctively switch between one and another to cater to their narrative needs. You need to find a good balance of both in order to create a narrative that is both immersive and engaging.

i. Help When Your Writing Feels Bare-Bones/Soulless/Boring

Your writing is just not what you’ve pictured in your head, no matter how much you do it over. Conversations are stilted. The characters are flat. The sentences don’t flow as well as they do in the books you've read. What’s missing?

It’s possibly because you’ve been “telling” your audience everything and not “showing”! If a reader's mind is not exercised (i.e. they're being "spoon-fed" all of the details), your writing may feel boring or uninspired!

Instead of saying that a room was old and dingy, maybe describe the peeling wallpaper. The cobwebs in the corners. The smell of dust and old mothballs. Write down what you see in your mind's eye, and allow your audience to formulate their own interpretations from that. (Scroll for a more in-depth explanation on HOW to develop this skill!)

ii. Add More Depth and Emotion to Your Scenes

Because "Show, Don't Tell" is a more immersive way of writing, a reader is going to feel the narrative beats of your story a lot more deeply when this rule is utilized.

Describing how a character has fallen to their knees sobbing and tearing our their hair is going to strike a reader's heart more than saying: "They were devastated."

Describing blood trickling through a character's fingers and staining their clothes will seem more dire than saying: "They were gravely wounded."

iii. Understand that Sometimes Telling Can Fit Your Story Better

Telling can be a great way to show your characters' personalities, especially when it comes to first-person or narrator-driven stories. Below, I've listed a few examples; however, this list isn't exclusive or comprehensive!

Initial Impressions and Character Opinions

If a character describes someone's outfit as "gaudy" or a room as "absolutely disgusting," it can pack more of a punch about their initial impression, rather than describing the way that they react (and can save you some words!). In addition, it can provide some interesting juxtaposition (i.e. when a character describes a dog as "hideous" despite telling their friend it looks cute).

2. Tone and Reader Opinions

Piggybacking off of the first point, you can "tell, not show" when you want to be certain about how a reader is supposed to feel about something. "Showing" revolves around readers drawing their own conclusions, so if you want to make sure that every reader draws the same conclusion, "telling" can be more useful! For example, if you describe a character's outfit as being a turquoise jacket with zebra-patterned pants, some readers may be like "Ok yeah a 2010 Justice-core girlie is slaying!" But if you want the outfit to come across as badly arranged, using a "telling" word like "ridiculous" or "gaudy" can help set the stage.

3. Pacing

"Show, don't tell" can often take more words; after all, describing a character's reaction is more complicated than stating how they're feeling. If your story calls for readers to be focused more on the action than the details, such as a fight or chase scene, sometimes "telling" can serve you better than "showing." A lot of writers have dedicated themselves to the rule "tell action, show emotion," but don't feel like you have to restrict yourself to one or the other.

iv. ABOVE ALL ELSE: Getting Words on the Page is More Important!

If you’re stuck on a section of your story and just can’t find it in yourself to write poetic, flowing prose, getting words on the paper is more important than writing something that’s “good.” If you want to be able to come back and fix it later, put your writing in brackets that you can Ctrl + F later.

Keeping your momentum is the hardest part of writing. Don't sacrifice your inspiration in favor of following rules!

3. How Can I Get Better at “Show, Don’t Tell”?

i. Use the Five Senses, and Immerse Yourself!

Imagine you’re the protagonist, standing in the scene that you have just created. Think of the setting. What are things about the space that you’d notice, if you were the one in your character’s shoes?

Smell? Hear? See? Touch? Taste?

Sight and sound are the senses that writers most often use, but don’t discount the importance of smell and taste! Smell is the most evocative sense, triggering memories and emotions the moment someone walks into the room and has registered what is going on inside—don’t take it for granted. And even if your character isn’t eating, there are some things that can be “tasted” in the air.

EXAMPLE:

TELLING: She walked into the room and felt disgusted. It smelled, and it was dirty and slightly creepy. She wished she could leave. SHOWING: She shuffled into the room, wrinkling her nose as she stepped over a suspicious stain on the carpet. The blankets on the bed were moth-bitten and yellowed, and the flowery wallpaper had peeled in places to reveal a layer of blood-red paint beneath…like torn cuticles. The stench of cigarettes and mildew permeated the air. “How long are we staying here again?” she asked, flinching as the door squealed shut. 

The “showing” excerpt gives more of an idea about how the room looks, and how the protagonist perceives it. However, something briefer may be more suited for writers who are not looking to break the momentum in their story. (I.e. if the character was CHASED into this room and doesn’t have time to take in the details.)

ii. Study Movies and TV Shows: Think like a Storyteller, Not Just a Writer

Movies and TV shows quite literally HAVE TO "show, and not tell." This is because there is often no inner monologue or narrator telling the viewers what's happening. As a filmmaker, you need to use your limited time wisely, and make sure that the audience is engaged.

Think about how boring it would be if a movie consisted solely of a character monologuing about what they think and feel, rather than having the actor ACT what they feel.

(Tangent, but there’s also been controversy that this exposition/��telling” mindset in current screenwriting marks a downfall of media literacy. Examples include the new Percy Jackson and Avatar: The Last Airbender remakes that have been criticized for info-dumping dialogue instead of “showing.”)

If you find it easy to envision things in your head, imagine how your scene would look in a movie. What is the lighting like? What are the subtle expressions flitting across the actors' faces, letting you know just how they're feeling? Is there any droning background noise that sets the tone-- like traffic outside, rain, or an air conditioner?

How do the actors convey things that can't be experienced through a screen, like smell and taste?

Write exactly what you see in your mind's eye, instead of explaining it with a degree of separation to your readers.

iii. Listen to Music

I find that because music evokes emotion, it helps you write with more passion—feelings instead of facts! It’s also slightly distracting, so if you’re writing while caught up in the music, it might free you from the rigid boundaries you’ve put in place for yourself.

Here’s a link to my master list of instrumental writing playlists!

iv. Practice, Practice, Practice! And Take Inspiration from Others!

“Show Don’t Tell” is the core of an immersive scene, and requires tons of writing skills cultivated through repeated exposure. Like I said before, more experienced writers instinctively switch between showing and telling as they write— but it’s a muscle that needs to be constantly exercised!

If I haven’t written in a while and need to get back into the flow of things, I take a look at a writing prompt, and try cultivating a scene that is as immersive as possible! Working on your “Show, Don’t Tell” skills by practicing writing short, fun one-shots can be much less restrictive than a lengthier work.

In addition, get some inspiration and study from reading the works of others, whether it be a fanfiction or published novel!

If you need some extra help, feel free to check out my Master List of Writing Tips and Advice, which features links to all of my best posts, each of them categorized !

Hope this helped, and happy writing!

[twinsarekeepers]

“This isn’t the Arch, seaweed brain. You’re not pushing me into the stairwell again.”

First of all, LINE DELIVERY?? Leah Sava Jeffries is an ACTRESS because ‘seaweed brain’ is actually so corny and it would simply feel like fan-service if they included it earlier or in another context but this was so natural and I was so swept up by all the other amazing things happening that I was excited about it but also keyed into the rest of the scene.

But the way this perfectly displays her fatal flaw. She will not let this boy trick her again (spoiler: he does). She was caught off guard at the Arch because she wasn’t familiar with his game but now she’s ready. She WILL die for him and that is final.

“Yes, I am.”

This was CRAZY?? Percy Jackson #1 mentally unstable man because how is he determined to win every ‘sacrifice myself’ off with her? And he says it to her face too. He does not care for the games anymore, he’s fully telling her that he needs her to live.

“I’m not going to let you this time. It doesn’t work that way!”

This made me so incredibly sad. Annabeth is still thinking in transactions. She’s thinking about how he made a sacrifice in the Arch so it’s her turn now. This is how relationships work. This is how every relationship she’s had works. She literally can’t comprehend how he doesn’t see it that way. How he could be selfless enough to sacrifice himself for her TWICE. How he could care about her enough to believe she deserves it even after she was the reason they were in the Arch in the first place (my baby my baby say it with me now you’re my baby).

“It’s why you’re here!”

“Excuse me?”

This was so soft like I just *screaming crying gif*. The last time she said ‘excuse me’ to him she was pissed off about him bringing up Athena but now she’s just confused and sad. Like, she trying to figure out what he means by this. Does he think she’s so heartless and robotic that she’d just let him die for her own gain?

I also love how they don’t have her say ‘what?’ because it just adds this extra layer of how Annabeth has trained herself to be more mature in everything she does, even her language, because she believes that if she’s not perfect, she’s not worthy of love and affection and maybe even existing (literally sobbing wtf).

“When I was choosing my team, I told Chiron I needed someone who wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice me if the quest required it. He agreed. That was you.”

I was confused at first about this because I thought Annabeth knew Percy thought this about her until I went back and watched the choosing ceremony again. He’s definitely keeping his voice lower as he speaks to Chiron and both Chiron and him are raising their voice as they address the other campers so makes sense that she wouldn’t have heard him.

But also, this just adds so much to literally everything. Because, in the beginning, Percy didn’t think him and Annabeth would become friends. He genuinely did think that she would sacrifice him if she had to and he thought he’d be able to curb it. He thought he’d be able to fight Annabeth if it came to it because she might choose the quest over his mom and he couldn’t allow that.

But now here he is, after getting to know her, and seeing her vulnerability and bravery and strength and courage and wisdom and passion and everything that makes her so beautiful and wonderful and amazing and his friend. She’s his friend and she’d never betray him. She’d never sacrifice him. She’d rather sacrifice herself before she ever did anything to harm him.

And he’s apologizing to her. Listen to the way Walker says the last line (again, THE ACTING). It’s literally a confession because he feels so bad that he ever believed that about her. And now he’s making her do it. He’s making her do this thing that he once thought she’d have done without hesitation. He’s thinking about the Fates cutting that string and he’s thinking about his own words to Chiron and how Chiron agreed and he’s thinking about how Annabeth said that prophecies aren’t always clear and he fully believes that he’s figured it out. This is fate. Annabeth would sacrifice him and complete the prophecy. She’ll be the friend that betrays him but not because she wanted to and he will fail to save what matters most, his own life.

This entire exchange was very insane. It’s my Roman Empire. I can’t stop thinking about it because it shows their motivations and their viewpoints and their internal struggles so so so well like I can’t even … I’m having a malfunction.

[lady-phasma]

Armand N$FW Alphabet

I’m trying not to make these what I want to do to/with him but they are headcanon. Note: I headcanon him as omnisexual so the below works with all genders.

Warnings: I don't really think I need to put this given the title but MDNI. Mentions of sex, implied trauma, just graphic in general.

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Armand is kind and soft afterward. No matter the scenario he will check on his partner’s emotional state and offer them comfort if needed. As for himself, he won’t ask for it but sometimes he needs it (especially after anything D/s related). Although he’s usually pretty chill and relaxed afterward, at times he can be energetic and chatty. The more intense, the more chill he will be.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

This is heartbreaking, but I don’t think Armand would have a favorite of his own. He’s not vain in that way and is really insecure. He does like to show off his tiddies though. As for his partner: eyes. I think he would be enamored with the eyes of all his partners.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

A lot. I’ll throw in some weird TVC headcanon I’ve had for over 20 years: vampire cum is pale pink. It’s a blood thing, like their tears. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this stuff. Armand cums a lot. I mean a lot. (More detail under S below.) He’s indifferent to it with his partners as long as they climax, he doesn’t have a cum kink but it’s turned off by it either.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

All of them! But seriously, maybe that he enjoys being a switch. I think Armand is much more Dominant with women, but not always. He’s very into whatever his partner is into and adjusts easily. It’s a secret because he wants to be whatever his partner needs, but he also truly enjoys the fluidity and flexibility of being a switch within the context of D/s.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Very experienced and very talented. No matter what parts his partner is rocking Armand has experience. He’s very open-minded about sex and, although maybe not particularly laid back, he has learned a lot in his time. He doesn’t like everything, but he has probably done it at least once.

F = Favorite position

As with most things, this will depend on Armand’s partner. However, he really enjoys being on the bottom and watching his partner if at all possible. Even when he feels Dominant with his partner he enjoys being underneath them. I don’t know that he has an absolute favorite, but he wants to be able to see his partner.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Armand is very serious most of the time, but not uptight during sexy times. Silly things happen during sex and he’s probably experienced it all anyway. There’s no point in making his partner nervous or embarrassed. He’s not going to be giggling during the act, but he will certainly laugh when appropriate.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He is so well groomed! Series canon shows us that he cares about his appearance. He is nothing if not fastidious. His pubic hair would never be neglected and it definitely matches the drapes and his glorious chest hair.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment?)

Armand enjoys intimacy to a degree and depending on the circumstances. He needs it more than most. It doesn’t have to be deep, but it has to be present. He is highly attuned to his partner’s emotions at any given moment so he requires that connection. Unfortunately, he doesn’t require the same attention in return. He is deeply invested in his partners and their mental/emotional state during sex.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

This act is all about efficiency and need for Armand. It’s not a self-love situation. It’s also not perfunctory exactly. He enjoys it and needs to do it. But he doesn’t light candles or watch porn. If he feels the need it’s possibly because his partner isn’t available or in the mood. It’s not a harsh affair, but it’s not going to take very long. I want to watch this so badly!

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

I’m going to skip the general D/s stuff because I have a couple posts about his D/s interests here and here. He’s definitely into degradation for himself (but would find it difficult to do to a partner) and he’s very into praise (for both himself and his partners). Probably his biggest kink is hands, touching and being touched (see W for more info about this). Vampires have naturally perfect manicures so their hands are generally pretty sexy, but the act of touching communicates a lot for Armand. Suck on his fingers, scratch your nails down his back, let him reciprocate, or just a soft graze of the back of your fingers against his cheek, hands might be his biggest turn on.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

In his own home or domicile, for sure. He needs to feel safe to let his guard down completely. He doesn’t care where, but he will be most present and relaxed in his own space (or that of his partners). He does enjoy a little public action and isn’t above public displays of affection. However, he can be himself most comfortably in a safe, familiar place.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

I interpreted this two ways: Armand gets excited by seeing his partner get excited and that he gets turned on by words as much as physical touch. Praise him, tell him how beautiful he is, how much you want to do to him and what (or what you want him to do to you), tell him how much you truly desire him and he’s ready to go. But watching his partner react to his words/touch makes him horny in a different way entirely. He can’t get enough of watching their eyelids flutter or them bite their lower lips involuntarily.

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Hard limits would be “dirty,” human bodily functions. He’s too old, too fastidious, too him to be into any of that. He doesn’t enjoy being restrained or tied up. If his partner holds him down a safe word can trigger immediate release, but the time to untie knots, etc would take too long and he’d have to use his strength to break them. That doesn’t interest him. Pin him down because he lets you overpower him? That’s sexier anyway.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Armand loves giving oral! He is enthusiastic and talented. Not only does he get completely engrossed in the act, he likes to use it to overstim his partners if they really enjoy oral. He likes receiving as well, but is usually less focused on his on enjoyment than that of his partner. In light of that, if his partner is submissive or just enjoys giving, he will happily receive.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Like most things, this depends on the mood/vibe of the situation, but Armand is typically slow and sensual if he’s in charge. However, slow and sensual doesn’t exclude rough this alphabet is from a template so I wanted to point that out. Whether he’s in charge or not, fast and hard can be a lot of fun for him, but maybe likes that best when he’s submissive.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Armand loves spontaneity in his sex life. Anywhere, anytime. But if the quickie turns into something more, that’s fine by him. He likes to flirt and imply, goading his partner into initiating the quickie even if he won’t initiate himself. He especially enjoys quickies as a surprise. He doesn’t mind if it’s in public or private, quickies are fun and add interest to his sex life.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

So many. He likes trying new things with people. He enjoys pushing his boundaries and helping others push theirs (with consent). If he doesn’t enjoy it he won’t do it again. He definitely enjoys acts that are taboo or unconventional because he’s beyond such human notions at this point. Excitement is difficult to experience after 500 years. He’s not a thrill-seeker in general, but he does like novel and experimental sexual exploits.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Forever. I headcanon vampires as having a short refractory period and Armand is no exception. If he is turned on by his partner he is turned on and insatiable. He’s rarely pushy (though he can seem needy), but he will always be ready when they are. He is motivated by his partner’s pleasure so if he finishes first he will bound back quickly to satisfy them. It’s not a stretch to imagine him going all night with very little downtime if he paces himself. Can his partner handle it though?

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Armand doesn’t own that many, but he enjoys using them when his partner does. He would happily use them on his partners if they wished, delighting in pleasing them. There is a shyness about him that might make him reluctant to have toys used on himself by a partner since that requires an amount of attention that can make him uncomfortable. He quickly relaxes and gets past this with the right partner/circumstance and can enjoy the occasional toy.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He isn’t a fan of physical teasing (like edging), but loves to flirt. Drawing out the pleasure for his partner or himself is fun for him, but rarely to the point of it being uncomfortable. All of his flirting is used to heighten what will happen later on, so teasing once that has begun doesn’t serve him. He wants his partner to feel good.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Armand is very quiet. Sighs, moans, small groans are his love language. Whispering a command/consent or encouragement or his partner’s name in his silky voice is enough for him. He doesn’t need to be loud or overly vocal to let his partner know how he feels, but he can’t help but moan and praise. He’s not going to scream your name, but he will let you know when you’re being good for him or taking him so well.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He is obsessed with touch/physical affection as validation. He needs to be perceived as desirable and having his partners touch him in any affectionate way is crucial to him. (Even if that affection comes from D/s or CNC.) He needs affirmation that he's beautiful and wanted.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

See gif above. Also, he’s uncircumcised. He has a very proper and polite cock.* It’s as beautiful as he is. It’s not terribly long (maybe 6-6.5 inches/15-16.5 cm) but has a nice girth. Did I mention it’s beautiful? Fairly even in tone with a head the color of his fingertips. Let’s not neglect his balls, though. They are small-ish and tight, accentuating his overall length. Very prim and polite as well.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

This completely depends on his partner and their moods. He can be insatiable to the point of neediness if he’s enamored with his partner. If they aren’t upset with him, his libido is genuine and turned up to 11. If they show the slightest bit of disapproval he has a tendency to use sex to manipulate them and gain their approval/affection.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

As I mentioned in A, he will be energetic after if it was a fun, quick, light-hearted event. But if it was an intense scene or emotionally heavy, Armand will be drowsy and relaxed after providing/receiving the appropriate aftercare. Unless it was very close to dawn he probably wouldn’t get incredibly sleepy, but he would definitely be chill and calm after.

Note: yes, some of these headcanons/traits are a result of his trauma, if you feel compelled to point that out, go for it, but please don’t assume I wasn’t aware of which are poor coping mechanisms and maladaptive as I wrote them. I didn’t invent him, I’m just obsessed.

*Thank you Stephen King for that term. Polite, college boy cock is one of my favorite descriptions.

This is the alphabet template I used.

[love-quinn]

— DEGREES OF SEPARATION

summary — they say each person is only six degrees of separation away from any other person. you’ve just dumped patrick and unbeknownst to you, he’s a lot closer to your new boyfriend than six degrees.

warnings — told mostly from patrick's pov, sex is explicitly mentioned (no smut is written), swearing, patrick being a cocky bastard, mentions of male masturbation (in both the contexts of pat and art), implied that patrick does not give head 16+

pairing — art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader (formerly), canon compliant artrick

pronouns — she/her, reader is referred to as a “girlfriend”

word count — 2.7k

note — i have truly the most amount of art donaldson fics in my drafts, i'm slowly getting through and trying to write them all. this was meant to be a silly little thing but i accidentally made it serious my bad. also lowkey reader isn't in this much, also i switch tenses like nobody's business.

Patrick has no idea what it is about you, but he’s starting to hate you a little bit. 

You were nowhere near the first girl he's dated, you weren’t even his longest relationship. Sure, he prefers not to bother himself with actual relationships, he likes the casualty of just hooking up with someone just fine. Having to be a boyfriend requires a lot of mental energy that Patrick typically reserves for tennis and chain smoking.

He didn’t mind putting in the effort when the two of you were together. You were pretty low-maintenance, he’d go up to Stanford every few months anyway, at least when he was dating you he didn’t have to sleep on the floor. He got to see his best friend, play tennis with someone competent, get some ass and all he had to do was call you once every few days. He didn’t even mind it, he liked talking to you.

Then, of course, you’d dumped him and now he was right back where he started.

He had been at your dorm, he’d spent the last few hours with you between his legs and then he’d gotten a text from Art asking if he’d wanted to hang out. Patrick wasn’t exactly going to say no, Art didn’t even really know he was seeing something. That had apparently pissed you off enough that you’d let him go without even making a comment about how you hadn’t had a turn yet. You’d messaged him an hour later telling him that you didn’t want to see him anymore and that you were keeping the half ounce he’d left in your room in his haste to leave.

It was fine. He got to regale Art with stories of the two of you, not bothering to mention that you were the same girl as six months earlier and that you had been the only girl in that time. 

He almost felt like he had to share every detail of the more intimate parts of your relationship with Art. Art wasn’t fucking anyone, at least not with the regularity that Patrick was (even when the two of you were long distance), he was probably getting some sort of a kick out of hearing about it anyway.

Now, four months later, and things have been flipped on their head.

Patrick isn’t adverse to change; if anything, he thrives in the chaos of change. If things are always changing then Patrick always has a way to have the upper hand. He doesn’t quite feel like he has the upper hand anymore.

He’s on Art’s bed, trying to roll himself a cigarette without getting too much tobacco on Art’s sheets. Art’s at practice, he doesn’t even know that Patrick is here, that he’s used the spare key attached to his keyring to get in, but he’s not going to give a shit. The window’s shaky, but Patrick’s able to shove it open. 

When Art comes in, Patrick’s shoved half the shit off his desk to make enough room to perch on it so he can stick his hand out in the air. Art doesn’t even give it a second glance. “I wouldn’t sit there.”

“I’m sure your textbooks will live,” Patrick waves him off. He picked that side because it had the least amount of dust on it.

Art dumps his stuff on the floor, shaking out his duvet from Patrick’s mess. “I didn’t get the chance to…” he struggles to hold back a smirk as he deliberately avoids looking at his friend’s face; he wants to seem as nonchalant as Patrick always does. “Disinfect it.” He settles.

Patrick hops off the desk, scrubbing the backs of his thighs. “Dude, what the fuck?”

Art looks sufficiently pleased with himself. “Okay, you can’t talk. I was in a hurry.”

Patrick was thoroughly enjoying grilling his best friend. “You have a bed right there. You couldn’t do it there?”

Art didn’t say anything. Patrick dropped his cigarette out the open window from laughing so hard. 

It takes less than a week for Patrick to realise that Art has a girlfriend and that the event back in his dorm wasn’t a one time thing. It was to be expected, Art did always have a harder time letting go than Patrick did. Patrick doesn’t even have to open his mouth before Art is shutting down the unasked question they’re both thinking; no, you cannot meet her.

It doesn’t matter that Art’s hiding you from him though, because he posts about you constantly. Patrick doesn’t use FaceBook a whole lot, and neither did Art really. But Art decides that there’s something about you that decides he needs to take photos of you.  He even considers buying a fancy digital camera but he doesn’t quite have a hundred bucks to drop on one. He settles for his phone camera, which takes blurry but glowing pictures of you in any scenario you let him; photos of you hunched over a spiral notebook with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, of you mid-sip with a smoothie in your hand. Then, as part of Art’s cover photo, a photo of you in a sundress that would’ve undoubtedly had Patrick excusing himself multiple times to the closest bathroom if he’d had the pleasure of seeing it in person. 

Patrick’s scrolling absent-mindedly as he stands outside of Art’s lecture hall when he first sees it. There’s an entire folder on his Facebook dedicated just to you, and he spends the remaining forty minutes of Art’s lecture going through each and every one.

Art finally comes down the stairs and sees Patrick, head between his knees on a metal bench trying to avoid the glare from the sun. “We going?”

Patrick looks up so fast he hears something in his neck align itself. “Yeah.” They had plans to hit the court after Art’s last class. “Just let me go piss first.” Patrick shoves his phone in his pocket and ducks off to the nearest bathroom.

While he’s in there, Art decides to give you a call. He apologised profusely when he brought up Patrick’s arrival earlier in the week. His nose had found your jawline and he’d kissed along the sharp line. “My friend’s coming to visit, I never see him, so I’m probably gonna spend the week with him if that’s okay?”

You’d nodded, palm of your hand on the top of his head, twirling a select few of his curls around your fingers. “Of course, honey.”

He’d pressed a kiss right under your jawline. “Jus’ don’t want you to think I’m trying to leave you for him.”

You hummed and he felt it deep in his chest. “I appreciate that,” you said honestly. Your mind flashed back to texts from Patrick; sorry, not coming. going out. tomorrow? It had honestly been easier to get ahold of Patrick when he wasn’t on your college campus. “You have your own life, though. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Art looked up at you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Not worried,” he corrected gently. “Just thinking of you. Want to make sure we’re on the same page. He’s really important to me but also…” he trailed off.  “He’s my best friend. He’s also a massive asshole. So, I guess I wanted to kind of just… lay it out there,” he laughed. That was the thing about Art. Things that were weighing heavily on his chest would sometimes bubble up with so much force they would bring something else with them. Most of the time, it was laughter. “That I don’t want him to ruin the way you think of me, so I am going to be spending most of this week keeping him away from you.”

You’d laughed at the time and then leaned down and let him kiss you. You’d let him do more than that, too, but then you’d had to run to make it to your afternoon lecture on time. 

You don’t answer but he does get a text a few minutes later, got an essay, want to get a head start. love u, which he sends a heart back to. 

When Patrick gets back from the bathroom, he finds Art smiling down at his phone. “That your girlfriend?” he asks, leaning over to try and see Art’s text history. Art pulls his phone away.

“Stop,” he pushes him. 

Patrick blows out a puff of air, bumping into Art as the two of them walk side by side. “I just don’t get why you won’t let me see her,” he says casually, as if he doesn’t have every inch of your body completely memorised. “I want to see what she looks like.”

“I don’t want you picturing her,” Art says. “You’re not allowed to see her. You’re not allowed to imagine her, and no, you’re not allowed to meet her.”

Art wasn’t the boss of him. Fuck Art. If Patrick wants to imagine you then who is Art to stop him?

Over the next week, Art does his due diligence in not revealing a single important thing about you to Patrick, and it’s driving him crazy. It’s not like Patrick doesn’t know this information, it’s not like Patrick needs to see a photo of you to remember the way your mouth tilts up when he says something stupid. He wants Art to be the one to show you. He wants to see you through Art’s eyes.

He sees traces of you through Art’s spaces. There’s a sticker on his water bottle that he knows was a gift from you. A pink spiral notebook is nestled amongst Art’s books for his classes. There’s clean bedsheets. That’s enough to know that Art has an external influence. 

He doesn’t like this. He’s never been in this situation before. He’s always felt ahead of Art, better at tennis, better with girls. He’s not stupid, he knows how Art would always listen to Patrick’s stories, rapt with attention, half-hard down the phone line. He liked that. He was the one in control.

He liked being that way with you too. You’re soft, you’re sweet, you’re sunshine incarnate and he wanted to ruin you. Ruin you for anyone else, to be the only guy who’s ever been in your bed. Doesn’t even matter that he wasn’t your first. He liked that you don’t play tennis, or that you don’t care when he calls you. He liked you, and he couldn’t have you.

Why the fuck was Art allowed to? 

It’s gnawing at him. For the first time in the six or so years they’ve known each other, slept beside each other, been alive together, Art has something that Patrick wants. And he doesn’t even give a shit. 

It’s the way that Art doesn’t even have to try. You’ve blocked him on FaceBook, but Art posts you often. You like it – being admired. It wasn’t something you got from your last boyfriend. There were a lot of things you didn’t get from Patrick. Good morning texts, soft compliments, his hands exactly where you liked them. 

With Art it’s like everything fell so completely into place. 

The game goes by quickly; Patrick’s not feeling it. He lets Art win. They go back to Art’s dorm as it’s getting dark and Patrick is sitting again on Art’s desk, pointedly not thinking about the image of Art on his knees with you sitting prettily amongst Art’s things. 

Patrick’s smoking, barely trying to get the smoke out the window, blowing it out in lazy sighs. The tension in the air is so thick Art has to wade through it to reach his friend. Patrick tries to think of something to say that isn’t accusatory, but it’s hard when he’s sitting where you once sat. 

Patrick’s never been a yeller, especially not with Art. He’s never had to be. Art’s easy. But now, swirled in bitterness and smoke, he wants to start. To ask him how it feels to have everything he wants and to have it so well. The girl, the ease, the warmth. The love Patrick never realised he wanted. 

“What’s wrong?” Art dumps his stuff on the floor but he has the good graces to do it in a corner where it won’t be in the way. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not,” Patrick snaps, sniffing. He feels like he’s going to explode. 

Art rolls his eyes. He doesn’t take it to heart but he doesn’t let Patrick get away with either. “Either stop sulking or tell me what’s wrong.”

“Why the hell won’t you let me meet her?”

Patrick realises, with humiliating force, that he wants Art to introduce you because he knows you’ll never let him in the same room as you otherwise. This is his only shot. 

Art’s tone flips from casual to cautious. “What?”

“What, for the first time in our lives, you have a girlfriend I haven’t met?” Patrick drops his still-lit cigarette out the window, not bothering to look as it falls down six floors. “You don’t expect me to think that’s weird? You won’t even show me a picture.”

Art watches him the whole time. When he finally speaks, Patrick doesn’t expect him to sound so annoyed. His voice is low, monotone, and unfamiliar. “Because I’m not using her to make you feel better. She’s not a fucking trophy for you to look at whenever you want. I know you Patrick. You want to look at her so you can count all the ways that you could have done better. Because you can’t handle me having something just for myself.” Art got really close. “I’m not sharing.”

Something shifts between them in a way Patrick dreads. Art’s right, of course. Patrick, even now, has never viewed you as anything more than something to have. And right when Patrick needed it the most, he just let Art win 

It’s not about ego, not anymore. He doesn’t want to control you. Make you miserable as long as you’re his. You’re the first person in his life that Patrick wants to give everything to, To wake up beside, to share smiles with, to have the liberty of thinking about every second that he damn well wants to. 

“It’s not that serious,” he says placatingly. He knows how to appease Art, how to flip his anger into amusement. “Come on, there’s a couple hundred girls at this school, she’s just one of ‘em.” His chest hurts. 

“That’s the thing, Patrick.” Art rubs his temples. “She’s not. And I’m not going to let you in my head, fucking me up, fucking us up, for whatever reason you want to. I love you, man.” He steps forward, putting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He rubs a comforting line along the curve of Patrick’s neckline. “But this one’s different. She’s mine.”

Patrick wonders what it’s like for you; to date Art so soon after being with him. They’re pretty similar - do you hate that? Two sides of the same coin, two sides of the same dorm room. Fire and ice. Which is which?

When you see Art’s MRTA shirt do you think of Patrick’s hat with the same emblem? When Art took you to see The Devil Wears Prada did it end with you on his lap in the back of the theatre the same way it did when you’d gone to see the new X-Men? When he kissed you did he taste like the cigarettes you hated so much? Did you mind it, coming from Art?

“I’m happy for you, Art,” Patrick says instead. Art has everything Patrick’s ever wanted, and of course he’s happy for him. But for the first time, Patrick feels like he’s lost something. Something that he maybe didn’t realise he wanted until it was gone. He can’t tell what he’s missing more. You or Art.

At least Art can bear to be in the same room as him. And if Art’s as serious as he seems to be, eventually you’ll have to as well. It’s not much, but he’ll take what he can get. 

[snoopychris]

busy woman

warnings: video sex, masturbation, dirty talk, kinda sub matt, matt's still kind of an ass but not as much, a few sabrina carpenter references

mateo81

free tonight?

cherrychapsdick

depends on the time? 

have to do a live stream at 6:45

mateo81

perfect

u free b4 or after?

cherrychapsdick

both 

free from 4:30-5, 6:15-6:45 and then 7:45 till EOD

mateo81

4:30 works fine for me

you’re a busy woman

cherrychapsdick 

gotta make a living somehow ;) 

mateo81

i’ll see u at 4:30 then :))

matt hopes that the click that came from his phone was silent enough to not disturb the quiet work time the classroom was given. his eyes scan the room for a few moments, noticing the way each person in the room was in their own little bubble of the world. the jocks in the back row near the right were hitting each other and stealing each others things. the more studious girls in the middle row, each listening to some different sort of music. and then there was you. you were isolated in the front row today, the headphones over your ears blasting music loud enough for him to faintly hear. your phone was tightly wrapped around your fingers alongside your pencil. he sighs quietly as he gets back to his own schoolwork, glancing at the professor besides him.

“dr thomas? my mom just texted and she needs me home earlier than expected so i’m gonna head out at 4:15 ish. all of last weeks tests are graded. grades are updated.” matt smiles, jotting down a few more ideas on his paper. he quite enjoyed the professors presence, but he still couldn’t wait to get all of the requirements needed for his masters degree. matt’s eyes go back down to his class work, getting distracted shortly afterwards when someone walks up to the desk. he doesn’t look up instantly, instead deciding to use context clues. the first thing that he uses to determine who’s at the desk is the jangle of the jewelry. the second thing is the dr martens on the feet of the person. the final thing is her voice. your voice. matt’s eyes look up at you, a small scoff leaving his lips. 

“dr thomas… i’m not feeling too good. would you mind if i left early? my works done and turned in.” your voice sounds so sweet. so… spoiled. matt thinks. he bats his eyes at you, a look of shock in his eyes. you failed your last test and you’re asking to leave early? matt didn’t get it. he lets out another scoff as you walk out the door with your professors permission, beginning to pack up himself. he bids his farewell and begins walking go his car in the parking lot, rolling his eyes when he sees you standing next to his vehicle to get into your own. 

“following me, matt?” 

matt shakes his head as you unlock your car, his arms crossing as he leans against his door. “that mercedes on daddy’s car insurance plan?” you swallow as you lick your lips, shaking your head. “no.” matt chuckles as he unlocks his car door, glancing over at you. “you have to take out a loan for it then?” his eyes widen at you, pursing his lips. he knows the answer is no. he also knows, well, he thinks, you’re lying to him about your dad’s involvement in your finances. your eyes scan his tattoo covered arms up and down, pursing your lips. “you pay for all those yourself?” “well no. when i was younger my mom helped pay for so-“ “hypocrite.” matt scoffs when you shut your car door on him mid-conversation, speeding off like you had somewhere to be. he had completely forgotten that he had somewhere to be. 

matt had never driven faster in his life. he drove like there were no other cars on the road. it probably wasnt healthy that he was doing all of this for a camgirl. it had to be a level of whipped that had been undiscovered by most men. his entire ride home is spent with nothing but thoughts of you, even if he didnt know it was you. he thought of the way he had joined each of your live streams in the past week, sometimes spending more than 20 dollars just to compliment your lingerie or to tell you to move your fingers a little bit faster. he hadnt even realized how much of his brain you had been taking up, but it was nearly all of it. at some point or another during his drive home, matt had grown painfully hard. as he puts his car in park in the garage of his apartment complex. the tote bag he uses as a backpack was thrown over his shoulder for a moment, but matt decides it would be best to hold it over his crotch, just until he gets inside. Matt’s legs move quicker than he intended them to, and he groans in frustration when its 4:31 and the elevator is still going painfully slow. when he finally reaches his floor, he borderline sprints to his door, kicking off his shoes and taking off his sweater. its quickly tossed to the side and discarded, and its 4:34 by the time he actually opens his laptop. he hopes that he’s not too late.

mateo81

hi sorry, computer died ://

cherrychapsdick

perfect timing omg 

my last one on one went late

mateo81

busy busy

cherrychapsdick

*sent a link* 

here’s the zoom

u can join anonymously if youd like :)

an exhale that matt didnt know he was holding in leaves his throat when you sent the link. he clicks it gently, making sure of two things when he does. first, he makes sure hes on incognito mode so that it doesnt show his email or anything of the sorts. the second thing he does is make sure his camera and microphone are off. when he fully joins the call, his breath hitches in the back of his throat. youre wearing a light blue set. he had never seen it before. he had even gone back one day and scrolled through all of your saved streams�� and it wasnt in any of them. he goes to type a message in the chat but youre already speaking by the time his pointer is hovering over the text box. “hi mateo.” fuck.

your voice was as smooth as silk, if not smoother. “sorry i was late… my last guy took foreverrrr. can you imagine that? im dolled up all pretty and he didnt even finish.” even though he couldnt see your face, matt knew you were pouting. his fingers hover over his laptops keyboard for a moment before he begins typing, watching as youre toying with the hem of your panties. couldnt imagine that, not in a million years. I was late too, class ran late. Matt doesnt even realize what he was typing until it was already sent. he knows the chance of you knowing him is extremely slim. there was 8.1 billion people on planet earth, there was no way he would be recognizable enough to you based on the mention of a class. this subsides the anxiousness coursing through matt, palming at himself through his sweatpants. 

“you in school? college i hope… you smart? I bet you are. bet youre the top of your class. bet youre always so well-behaved… just like you are for me.” matt swallows, nodding rapidly even though you cant see him. he feels awkward only staring at you and you not seeing anything but a black screen. his fingers move faster than his brain does, typing and sending another message. can i turn my camera on? you giggle as you reach besides you to your bedside table, grabbing your skin toned dildo and holding it close to your body. “if you really want to. im not gonna force you. if you only wanna show your bottom half like be thats okay too.” matt licks his lip as he looks around the room, grabbing a long sleeved tshirt. it’s just to cover his tattoos. to subdue his fear of getting caught.

once his shirt is on and his pants are off, he positions his camera for you to see him— part of him. the part of him he’s probably the most proud of. there’s a faint click in his bedroom, and then he’s on screen. you giggle on the other side, bringing out a self consciousness in matt that he didn’t know he had. “well well well… look at you hm? y’tellin me you walk around with that thing all day?” matt bites his lip as he gives a thumbs up, groaning as he does so— why did he even do that? you giggle once more, rubbing the silicone in your hand over your clit. “well… if it helps. i’d much rather have that than this. if you wanna keep givin thumbs up… i’ll let ya.” 

matt lets out a small whimper as he begins stroking himself to your words, quietly hoping that his body language is enough. he bites his lip as he uses his free hand to type another message to  you, watching as the silicone dick slides between your legs, your underwear still on. he’s so visibly hard that it makes you almost feel bad. “all that for me?” matt holds up his thumb again, a groan exiting his lips. when you slip your panties to the side and slide down onto the silicone toy, matt just about loses it. his hand begins moving faster than he wanted it to, but he doesn’t mind. you just look so pretty bouncing like that. “wish it was you… fuck wish it was you! bet you’d… fill me up so good. so so good. mhm��� holy shit.” matt’s mouth drops wide open at your words, precum leaking all around his tip. 

your eyes— even though he can’t see them— haven’t left his throbbing member since you laid eyes on it. some of the people you usually do this with are just older men who haven’t gotten it up properly in years. something about this one is different. there’s a sense of familiarity within the call. your lip is being held tightly between your teeth as your movements start to teeter, slowing down while looking at matt. “d-do you want me to cum for you, sweet boy? i can hold it if you want. make the 30 minutes you’re paying for last all 30.” matt groans at your words once more, spreading the precum over his tip. 

no. please. don’t wanna hold you back. matt’s message in the chat is clear to you, and you take it as permission to let the feeling wash over you. your cum begins to coat the dildo you were riding, the creamy white substance becoming clearer as its spread all around. “mmmmph!” you yelp, throwing your head back onto the pillow, giving matt a much clearer view at your pussy. your face remains out of sight, as does matt’s when his spurts of cum begin to coat his webcam. his eyes are tightly squeezed shut, opening them to watch you ride out your orgasm. you sit back up on your bed, sliding out the toy and tossing it to the side. “oh look at you… came all over your camera like a good boy. really had fun today. i’m sorry i didn’t make it last longer… just got really worked up i guess.” 

the pout on matt’s face is there. he wishes you could see it, but he just opts to send another message in chat. you do a lot of stuff in 15 minutes. never really came that fast before. u got a gift or sum. his typing was never this unprofessional, but he still wants to make sure there’s no evidence of matt being, well, matt. “oh well thank you. i’ll see you another time okay? oh! oh my gosh i didn’t even mention the pay. um… i should’ve before we even started. usually it’s 50 for a first time one on one. then next time it would be 60 cause like a dollar per minute. you know usually… um. because i was late and we didn’t do the whole thirty minutes just… 40… is fine… my cashapp is in my account. you text me and keep me updated okay? i’ll see you another time.” matt smiles to himself as you speak so sweetly to him, leaving the call to clean himself off. it doesn’t take him very long, but by the time he’s done, he’s gotten a few texts from his brothers asking if he wants to go out. a new bar opening or something. he hesitantly agrees, throwing himself back on the bed for a few minutes before getting ready for the night. 

the hours ticked by slowly for you, the only source of pleasure and enjoyment being long gone after your call with mateo. you wondered where he was right now and how he was doing. it was unusual. you hadn’t ever really gotten attached to any clients before. you’re pulled from your thoughts when there’s a knock on your door, standing up and looking at your roommate on the other side. “cmon cammy i need you to come with me! how am i ever gonna pull girls if there’s nobody there to distract the hot guys? hm? what’s the point of having a hot roommate if she isn’t gonna put her tools to good use!” you giggle at his words, looking back at your bed. “give me 15 minutes. i’ll be ready. can we go to that new place on hill street?” you smile, shutting the door in his face. the getting ready process doesn’t take you long, already having been slightly glammed up for some of your clients who paid more to see your face. you glance down at your lingerie set, grabbing a matching blue top from your closet— one that’s just slightly more bar appropriate. you let out a small huff as you grab your bag, walking back into the kitchen. “let’s go then.”

the bar is more packed than you or matt could’ve expected. neither of you really wanted to be here. matt would much rather be in his apartment watching tv while he watched sonic run around the living room like he usually would on fridays. crazy enough, you would rather be camming right now. you lick your lips slightly as you flirt your way into another drink, smiling at the unlucky gentleman and walking back onto the dance floor. at some point along the way, you bump into an unknown figure, groaning when it’s just matt. “what are you doing at a college bar?” he asks, his voice cocky as ever. “i’m a college student. what are you doing at a college bar? trying to pick up a younger girl or something?” you quip back, rolling your eyes. matt can’t help but notice the way your blue top looks familiar.

he’s seen the color before, but never the top itself. matt swallows slightly as he realizes he forgot to pay earlier, shaking his head at your question. “no… just here with my brothers. stay safe tonight okay? it’s new and dangerous out here.” he whispers, pushing away from you. you furrow your brows at his word, making your way over to talk to your roommate. “tucker i think our teachers assistant got laid.” you mumble, taking a sip from your espresso martini. tucker chuckles as he takes a swig of his beer, waiting for further explanation. “he was… actually nice to me for once.” 

the conversation begins to flow, both on your side of the bar and matt’s. matt can’t stop thinking about the color you were wearing. he feels the guilt eating him alive. he can’t believe he didn’t pay cherry earlier. there’s a point when chris is deep in conversation with nick that matt uses as an excuse to pull out his phone. he quickly opens cashapp, sending the money to the username he’s become so used to lately. You sent $40 to cherrychapsdick! 

on the other side of the bar, nearly at the exact same time, you felt your phone buzz in your skirts pocket. you pull it out for just a moment, smiling at the notification. mateo81 sent you $40! 

a/n: not to sound like an ao3 writer but my apologies for not writing/uploading anything... i got into a car crash and then midterms beat my ass. anyway!!!! also like... support ur writers by reblogging and commenting! but i wont force u. but also i love reading reblogs and comments.

tags (reply or comment to be added but it may be full soon i dont remember. im not a professional) @mattsstarlet @oopsiedaisydeer @marrykisskilled @ifwdominicfike @frankoceanfanpage @mattssslutbby @sophand4n4 @matthewsturnsgf @izzylovesmatt @m11rx @chris-hallelujah @sturniolotoast @mattsbrat @wastelandzella @le4hsblog @mattsd0llfac3 @st7rnioioss @isabellewhatt @sturnslutz @freshhhloveee @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @ivysturnss @slutformatt17 @emely9274 @princessesgarden @cykss @throatgoat4u @blahbel668 @ivyyyyyysposts @h0e4fictionalme-n @sofieeeeex @littlebookworm803 @allylovescody @ribread03 @cheesecakedolll @chrislova @ikyoudreamofme @jetaimevous @muwapsturniolo @sturnsrecord @13hoax @whore4mattsturniolo @sophsturns @chrissweetheart @cl1tlover3000 @applecidersturniolo @babytrapsosa @backwardshatnick @camzeecorner @leoslaboratory @princesspeach0-0 @sturniolosrtewsexy @mattswifeyy

divider creds to @bernardsbendystraws !

[astrids-blog333]

A Ruin of His Making

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: You’re engaged to an emperor you hate. One night, in the palace halls, hatred turns to something much louder, and far more public.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, enemies to lovers, hate sex vibes, power imbalance, semi-public, possessiveness, manhandling, dirty talk, ref to past trauma.

A/N: Set post Gladiator II, deviates from the original plot (help sorry I can't resist). All physical interactions are consensual within the story's context, despite emotional intensity and imbalance. The reader is not weak or passive; she is angry and complicated and chooses to stay. That being said, if you are triggered by cnc situations, maybe skip this one <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.6k

The city smells of sweat and heat and gold-painted victory. You stand at the far end of the atrium, among garlands and silks, your fellow nobles and senators are fawning and chattering like carrion birds circling a lion.

They say Lucius Verus has returned from war.

They say he’s changed, but you never knew him well enough to tell the difference anyway.

The guards enter first, tight-faced and too tense for a triumphal return. Then comes the man himself. He's taller than you remember, broader, somehow. His cloak hangs from one shoulder, dirt-streaked and travel-worn, and there’s blood at the corner of his cuff that no one dares mention.

He does not smile. He does not bow. He does not stop. The crowd parts for him like wheat under a scythe. His eyes scan the room once and find you.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

Not even when he walks directly toward you, ignoring the extended hands, the simpering greetings, the half-kneeling senators who hold out rings for him to kiss.

You stand with your back straight, chin lifted. You are not some doe-eyed virgin waiting to be gifted into this marriage like a prize pig. You were someone’s wife once. And though that man is rotting beneath the stones of a family crypt, he left you with a name. And scars.

Lucius stops a foot too close.

You feel the heat rolling off him, the stench of sweat and leather and rage barely held at bay. His jaw is dark with stubble, his mouth a tight line, unsmiling.

"You didn’t bow," he says, voice rough with the weight of months spent shouting over battlefields.

You arch an eyebrow. "I am not yet your wife."

He smiles at that. Crooked. Wolfish. “Not yet. But soon.”

You hate the way his voice drags over those words, like he’s already tasted them and has decided to spit them back out.

"Did the Senate send for you?" you ask. "Or did you run back early for your wedding night?"

Laughter dances in the crowd, polite and forced. But Lucius doesn’t join in. "I came because Rome grows soft in my absence," he replies. "And because I don’t trust them to protect what’s mine."

The air between you pulls taut.

"Is that what I am?" you ask, voice flat. "A possession?"

He leans forward. Close enough that you can see the smudge of dried blood at the collar of his tunic. You don’t know if it’s his.

"No," he murmurs. "You’re a puzzle. A provocation. And they promised you to me without ever asking whether I could stomach the taste of something so bitter."

Something ugly curls in your chest, a kind of fury that never burned out properly.

"And I suppose you think I’ll be grateful to be claimed by a monster?"

Lucius tilts his head, studying you. "Gratitude isn’t required. But you will belong to me."

He says it so plainly, so calmly, as though the matter were already settled in blood and ink. Perhaps it is. You never had much say in it to begin with.

"You don’t know me," you snap.

"I know enough."

A beat. The space between you closes, breath to breath. His voice drops lower. "I know you didn’t cry at your husband’s funeral. I know he hit you. I know you learned to lie still and quiet and pretend that was love. I know that scares you more than I do."

It hits you like a thrown gauntlet, because it’s true. There is no pity in his words. No sympathy. Just knowing. You hate that he’s read your history like some battlefield report. That he’s looked at your wounds and seen something useful.

"Then you’re a fool," you whisper, throat tight. "Because I’d sooner die than lie beneath another man who thinks he owns me."

Lucius doesn’t flinch, instead, he steps closer. A breath between you. You don’t step back. Not even when his voice curls behind your ear like smoke.

"What a shame, I happen to need you alive."

You slap him.

The sound cracks across the chamber like lightning. Every eye turns. Every whisper hushes.

His head turns with the blow, but he doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t even lift a hand.

He turns back slowly, a smile blooming like blood across his face.

There’s something almost unholy in his expression, a delight and fury which you cannot decipher for the life of you.

"Careful," he says softly. "You’re starting to excite me."

You stare at him, chest rising, blood roaring in your ears. You don't know if you want to scream, cry or push him away. Instead, you step back. Only one step.

Enough to remind yourself that you still can.

The feast had barely begun to die down, but already, the guests have begun to trickle out. The heavy scent of wine lingers in the air, mixing with the distant traces of roasting meats and sweet spices. You’ve stepped away from it all, retreating into the quiet of the balcony that overlooks the garden.

Lucius had left the feast earlier, his back straight, face unreadable, no parting words to anyone but the occasional curt nod. You watched him go, and for a moment, something like relief flickered within you.

But you hadn’t expected him to come find you.

The silence on the balcony is deafening as the shadows stretch across the marble. The cool air bites at your skin, tension now gathering between you and the man who’s just stepped into the frame of the door behind you. Lucius.

You don’t turn. The weight of his presence alone makes you stiffen, your back rigid. You can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, a whisper that still manages to echo in the stillness of the night. “Enjoying the peace?”

“I thought you’d be too busy being the hero to notice,” you say, a sharpness to your words, though you refuse to turn to face him.

“You think so little of me?” he asks, the amusement in his voice somehow making it even more infuriating. He’s close now, so close that you feel the heat of him behind you. Every inch of space seems too small for the way his presence presses against you.

“I think you’re entitled,” you mutter, fingers tightening against the stone railing in front of you. “And I think you act like you're entitled. To everything. To the power. The land. The people. And whatever part of me you can claim.”

He steps closer, his boots soft against the marble as his hand rests on the stone next to yours. His voice drops lower. “You think you’re the only one who’s been forced into this?”

You scoff, unable to hold back a short, mocking laugh. “Please. You live for this. For control. For dominance.”

His face is inches from yours now. You don’t flinch when he leans in, his breath a whisper against your ear. His voice low and venomous. “You think I enjoy this, do you? Do you really believe I enjoy being forced into a marriage I don’t want? To a woman who can’t even look me in the eye without thinking herself superior?”

The words sting, but you don’t show it. Instead, you match his venom with your own.

“If you’re so miserable, why don’t you find a way out?” The challenge is clear in your tone, daring him to try, to do anything that might make him leave you be. “But you won’t, will you?”

Lucius steps in even closer, so close now that his chest nearly brushes against your back. You can feel the heat of him, the power he exudes, and yet you still refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning to face him.

His fingers trail dangerously close to your neck, and you can’t help but shiver at his touch. “You want to make me angry, don’t you?” he says, his voice thick with something darker. “You want me to lose control.”

Then, with a suddenness that has you gasping for breath, his hand shifts, gripping your chin and tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes sends a chill down your spine, but there’s also something dangerous flickering there, a hunger.

For a moment, the world is silent. He holds you in place, staring at you. You barely breathe. You can feel the weight of his stare, the storm building in his chest.

“You have a sharp tongue,” Lucius murmurs, his grip tightening around your chin, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips. “But I’m starting to wonder if you really want to use it.”

You feel his thumb trace the shape of your mouth.

Without thinking, you jerk away, snapping, “I don’t want this.”

Lucius steps back, giving you space, but you can feel the tension in his movements, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. The air is thick between you and Lucius, and the moment feels like a ticking time bomb.

The silence stretches, suffocating, but somehow neither of you seems willing to let it end. The distance between you feels impossibly small, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to move.

He looks at you like a predator eyeing its prey, and you feel it in the pit of your stomach, an unsettling pull.

“Like I said, you want to make me lose my temper, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dark, but laced with a wicked, almost amused edge.

You want to hate him, to despise every part of this situation. But it’s getting harder to ignore the way his eyes burn through you, the way he looks at you as though you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“You think you can scare me?” You bite back, stepping forward, though the words come out sharper than you intended. Lucius watches you carefully, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“No,” he says, voice dropping lower, just enough for you to catch every word. “I don’t want to scare you, but I know I could.”

You’re both too proud to back down. You hate him. He doesn’t like you, either. But there’s something else there, something neither of you can ignore.

Lucius takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, and in a single movement, his hand reaches for your arm, pulling you toward him. The movement is swift, like a coiled spring finally snapping, and before you can react, you’re pressed against the cold railing of the balcony, his body a solid wall in front of you.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the intensity, the rawness of it. You’re angry, so fucking angry, but that anger isn’t enough to push him away.

You manage to fight through the fog of emotion, trying to spit out something sharp, something to cut him down to size. But the words die in your throat when he presses his thumb to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I thought you were supposed to be strong,” he murmurs, the challenge in his eyes matching the taunting tone of his voice. “Or is that just a front?”

The words cut into you like shards of glass. You try to turn your face away, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers tighten on your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You want me to hurt you, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low, almost too soft for the sharpness of the question. “I can see it in your eyes. You want me to make you feel something, anything. Don’t lie.”

You want to scream, want to tell him to go to hell. But something in you won’t let it. You hate him for it. You hate the fact that you don’t want to pull away, don’t want to run.

You press your lips together, jaw tight with defiance, and finally you speak. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Lucius chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “No,” he says, his voice a mockery of sympathy, “you’re not. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Before you can respond, before you can even think of another insult to throw his way, Lucius closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, ruthless, punishing. It’s not gentle, not at all.

It’s a kiss that takes, that demands.

You can’t help but gasp, the shock of it flooding through you. You don’t want to respond. You don’t want to let him win. But as his hands move to your hips, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, something inside you unravels.

The kiss deepens, and you’re lost in it, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressing against yours, the way his tongue demands entrance, the way he doesn’t give you the space to breathe.

“You’re a fool,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and dark, laced with satisfaction. “You think you can control this. But you can’t.”

You're drowning in him, and you despise that your body is reacting to him before your mind can stop it.

You push against him, trying to break free. But he only pulls you tighter, his hands sliding down your back, pressing you harder against him.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget that you’re supposed to be angry. Forget that this is supposed to be a confrontation.

You barely register the first sound of tearing fabric.

Your back is pressed to the balustrade, the cold stone biting through the thin silk of your gown, but Lucius doesn’t give you the chance to think. His hands are already on the fastenings at your waist, tugging hard enough to make the seams strain.

You gasp, a noise laced with fury and arousal, and push at his chest. “Is this how Roman emperors take what isn’t theirs? In gardens, like dogs?”

Lucius breaks the kiss to laugh, a laugh so low, rough, and amused in the most infuriating way. “If I were a dog, darling, I’d have taken you by now. But I’m patient. And you’re very, very close to begging.”

Your palm cracks across his cheek before you even realise what you’re doing. The sound is obscene in the quiet night, but it only seems to deepen that look in his eyes, hunger laced with something wild.

He catches your wrist before you can drop it, pinning it to the stone behind you, and leans in close enough that you feel the scrape of his breath against your jaw.

“That's the second time you've slapped me, do it again,” he growls, eyes blazing. “I dare you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, trying to twist free. “I’d rather sleep with a beast.”

His mouth finds your throat. Biting. Sucking. “Liar,” he mutters. “You’d rather sleep with this beast.”

And then his other hand rips through the neckline of your dress, fabric tearing, your breath hitching, and suddenly you’re half-bared to the open air, marble halls echoing behind you, columns offering far too little cover.

You try to cover yourself with your free hand, but he shoves it aside easily. “Oh no, don’t be modest now,” he says, voice syrup-thick with mockery. “Not when you’re standing there like a goddess meant to be ruined.”

“You arrogant bastard-”

“You like this,” he cuts in, tone taunting. “You like being manhandled. You like me doing it.”

You want to shout. Want to slap him again. Want to deny everything.

But the heat between your legs betrays you. The way your hips press forward into him, your legs shifting restlessly, you can feel how wet you already are, and you hate it.

“I hate you,” you hiss, even as he hooks a finger under the torn edge of your bodice and yanks again, exposing you further.

“I know, you keep saying that,” he breathes. “You hate me, and yet here you are, letting me touch you like this. Moaning into my mouth. Parting your legs. Do you know how sweet you sound when you're angry?”

He kisses you again, more teeth than tongue, and your wrists are pinned again before you can react, your body arched and open to him, your gown falling in tatters around your ankles.

“I should scream,” you pant when he moves to your jaw, biting there too, as though claiming.

“Do it. Let them hear. Let them see.” His voice is low, wicked. “Let the whole palace know that you're mine.”

You hate how that word coils low in your belly, how it makes something flutter in your chest.

With one arm, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you gasp as your back slams into the stone column behind you, your feet no longer anchoring you down. You can feel him hard against you, thick and hot even through his tunic. He grinds into you, just once, and it forces a sound out of you that doesn’t sound like hate at all.

His mouth brushes your ear. “There’s the real you,” he whispers. “You’re dripping. I could take you right here. Against the stone. Would you stop me?”

You should. You don’t.

“Coward,” you hiss, trying to reclaim the moment. “You think I’m impressed? You’re nothing but-”

He lets go of you so suddenly you stumble, but only for a moment. He catches you again, strong arms around your waist, and then he’s carrying you, half-naked, down the colonnade.

You wriggle against him, fists pounding his chest. “Put me down-”

“I will,” he snaps. “When we reach my bed. And not a moment before.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, but all he does is laugh, cruel and triumphant.

The doors of his chamber slam open under the force of his boot. He doesn’t even pause; he strides through the room and drops you onto his bed like a prize. Like a victory.

You scramble back, shaking, hair wild, lips swollen.

He unfastens his belt, watching you all the while with that same awful, smug amusement. “Still planning to insult me, or are you going to lie back and spread those pretty legs for me?”

You launch a pillow at him. “You’re the most arrogant bastard I’ve ever met!”

“And you’re the loudest little whore in Rome.”

You gasp, half outrage, half heat, and he’s on you again before you can draw breath. He's laughing low in his throat as you claw at his tunic.

“You’re still fighting me,” he says, dragging your ruined gown off the rest of the way, “but you’re wetter than any Roman virgin. Were you always this easy to break?”

“You haven’t broken me-”

“Haven’t I?”

He’s between your legs now, and the teasing stops being verbal. His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and you whine when he draws one circle around your clit, just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You hate me so much you can’t stop shaking.”

You try to push him again, but this time he catches your hand, kisses the palm, and presses it against his chest.

“Go on. Keep hating me.” His eyes gleam. “But don’t you dare stop moaning.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Because his fingers are slipping lower, slow, deliberate, two of them curling inside you, and the sound you make is more like a sob than a gasp. You want to turn your face away, but he’s already watching too closely, already smirking like he knows.

“You feel that?” he says low, pushing deeper, twisting his wrist. “How wet you are? It’s obscene.”

“Stop-” you manage, but it’s pathetic. Your thighs are shaking.

“No,” he breathes. “You don’t want me to stop. Say it. Say you want it.”

You grit your teeth. “I want you to choke on your own ego.” He laughs again, lips brushing yours, still fucking you slow with his fingers. “Admit it, little bride. You’d rather choke on me.”

“Fuck. You.”

His grin widens. “Believe it or not, love, but that's the idea.”

Then he slams into you with his fingers, harder now, and you arch off the bed with a strangled sound. Your nails dig into his shoulders, seeking something to hold onto that isn’t your dignity.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “You’d let me take you anywhere, wouldn’t you? Against the column, the floor, right in front of the Senate. You like being ruined.”

“You’re disgusting,” you pant.

“And yet you’re dripping for me.”

Every roll of his fingers is pushing you closer, making it harder to breathe, to speak, to hate. You try to close your legs, to regain even the smallest control.

“Don’t,” he snaps, pushing your thighs apart. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” His voice dips. “But I want to see the moment you break. I want to feel it.”

You growl, but your hips are still grinding down against his hand. You’re trying to win a war on a battlefield he’s already set aflame.

Then he pulls his fingers free, wet and glistening, and holds them up between you.

“Look at that,” he says darkly. “And still pretending you don’t want me.”

You slap them away.

He grabs your wrists again, pins them above your head, and grinds his cock against you through the thin barrier of his clothes. You moan despite yourself.

“Say it,” he breathes, teeth gritted now. “Say you want me.”

“I don’t-”

He lets go. Just long enough to shove his tunic over his head, exposing the scarred stretch of his chest, the line of muscle down his stomach. You don’t mean to stare, but you do.

“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re staring. That’s new.”

You lunge up to push him, but he grabs your thigh and flips you onto your stomach like a rag doll. You yelp, trying to twist back.

He presses your chest to the bed with one hand, pulls your hips up with the other, and drags the head of his cock through your folds.

You go still.

The moment stretches.

“Ready to beg now?” he asks, tone silken.

“I will bite your fucking throat out.”

“Then I’ll fuck you while you try.”

And with no more warning, he drives into you.

You scream. Not in pain, not entirely. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, but it’s the invasion that overwhelms you. He doesn't ease in, doesn’t wait. He sinks all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust and stays there, one hand locked on your hip, the other on the back of your neck.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hiss, voice trembling.

But you clench around him.

He groans, deep and unrestrained, and begins to thrust. Rough, relentless. The bed slams into the wall, your moans torn from you against your will.

“You sound like a whore,” he mutters, reaching forward to grab your throat, pulling you up against his chest.

You gasp, back arching, hair falling in wild tangles as he fucks into you from behind. Your legs tremble.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Say you want me.”

“No.”

He slides one hand between your thighs again, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, relentless circles.

You break.

Your body clamps down on him so violently that it makes him stutter. He thrusts through it, snarling, riding it out as you tremble and shake, breathless and wrung out.

“Liar,” he hisses in your ear. “You wanted this. You needed this.”

You’re still spasming around him when he flips you onto your back, fast and rough, before he plunges in again. This time you cry out with every movement, overstimulated and gasping.

“You should see yourself,” he pants, rutting into you. “Hair a mess, mouth open, legs shaking. Ruined.”

“Fuck… fuck you-”

“I am.”

He leans down, bites your lower lip, and slams into you harder. You moan into his mouth.

“You’re done pretending,” he whispers. “You can’t lie anymore.”

You claw at his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”

“Then why do you keep pulling me closer?”

You hate how right he is. Hate how good he feels. Hate the second orgasm building already, tighter, fiercer.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he says, tone mocking. “My poor little bride, soaking and speechless.”

He slams into you again. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.

“Thought so.”

Your eyes roll back.

He fucks you like he’s trying to prove something, not just that he owns your body, but your pride, your defiance, every last bit of control.

When the second climax hits, you cry out so loudly he has to smother your mouth with his palm.

“Too loud,” he growls. “Don’t want the whole palace hearing how well I fuck my bride-”

But he doesn’t really care. You can see it in his eyes. He wants them to know.

You collapse beneath him, breathless, soaked, undone.

He comes not long after, hips snapping, voice raw as he spills inside you with a shudder and a growl of your name.

Silence, for a breath.

Then he shifts and leans over you, bracing himself on shaking arms.

Lucius moves slowly. And when he withdraws, you feel the thick, wet ache of it. You shift, a low hiss escaping your throat.

“Too much for you?” he drawls, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Pity. You took it well enough while I was ruining you.”

You manage a scowl, though your body’s trembling with aftershocks. “I should kill you.”

“You’d miss me.” He grins. “So would your cunt.”

He rises from the bed in a single motion, his body shadowed by the low lanterns, and you don’t expect it when he leans down, hooking his arm beneath your knees and lifting you from the sheets.

“Put me-”

“No.”

Your fists beat weakly at his chest, but you’re too sore to mean it. His seed still slicks your thighs. You’re marked, ruined, utterly dishevelled. And now you’re being paraded.

He strides from the bedchamber and out into the marble corridor of his private suite, bare, flushed, and grinning like a wolf. His bathchamber lies across the hall.

The door is open.

So is your mouth when a figure, a servant, pale and wide-eyed, turns at the end of the corridor. Sees everything.

Lucius does not flinch.

In fact, he smirks.

“Get out,” he says, not even glancing their way. The command is casual, but lethal.

They flee.

You burn.

“Scandalous bastard,” you hiss.

“Shall I drop you in the corridor then?” he offers, eyes glinting.

You don’t answer.

Steam curls from the bronze basin sunk into the floor, warm and waiting. The scent of oils hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin even before it’s wet.

Lucius doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask. He steps straight into the bath, water clinging to the muscle beneath as he lowers himself, and you, into the heat.

You hiss when it touches the rawest places. Bruises. Scrapes. You still feel where he stretched you.

His hold on you tightens, not to restrain, but to shield.

“I was going to warn you,” he murmurs near your temple, voice silked with cruel satisfaction. “But you just had to be difficult.”

You half turn in his arms, scowling, exhausted. “You enjoyed it.”

His teeth flash. “Of course I did.”

He reaches for a cloth, dips it into the steaming water, and wrings it out with a lazy flick of his wrist. The motion is slow, like the way a man sharpens a blade, not because he needs to, but because he enjoys the ritual of it.

Then he touches you.

The cloth slides up your thigh. Gentle. Unreasonably gentle.

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m not him,” he says, low and close behind your ear.

The cloth moves higher, over the place where his fingers left bruises. It’s tender, the touch. Not apologetic, but… reverent.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He doesn’t reply.

Just continues, slow, precise. Cleaning you as though you belong to him and no one else may touch. The cloth traces your waist, your belly, your breasts. Over the angry red marks blooming on your throat.

“Filthy little thing,” he says, almost absently, as if it’s a compliment. “Look what I’ve done to you.”

You shift against him, half-hearted. “Is this what passes for aftercare in the palace?”

“I could leave you filthy, if you prefer,” he offers, mock-casual, dragging the cloth up between your legs now with unbearable slowness.

Your breath catches.

He smirks against your neck. “Didn’t think so.”

His free hand is splayed across your stomach, keeping you against his chest. You’re in his lap, flushed and quiet.

When he finishes, he doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, pushing your wet hair aside to press his mouth once to your shoulder, unhurried, like claiming land he already owns.

Then he reaches for a towel, presses it into your hands.

“You can walk,” he says. “Or I can carry you back.”

“I can walk,” you mutter again, clutching the towel.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding a little.”

You pause. Then glare.

“From me,” he adds, calm as marble. “You’ll forgive my pride.”

You turn away before he can see your face twist with fury, and shame, and something deeper, quieter, that gnaws at your ribs.

But you only make it a step before he steps into your space and lifts you again, without asking, without effort, arms locked tight beneath your knees and back. The towel shifts, slipping down one shoulder.

“Lucius-”

“I’ll carry what’s mine.”

You tense, heart pounding, as he strides from the bathchamber bare-chested and unbothered, with you cradled like a spoil of war.

And then, the worst.

Not a servant.

A senator.

A senior one, older, important. His brows lift, his jaw tightens, and for a long moment he simply stares.

You freeze in Lucius’ arms.

Mortified.

Bare legs, damp collarbone, bitten lips.

You try to twist, to cover your face in his chest, but the towel shifts again, and Lucius doesn’t even slow his pace.

“Domitius,” he says, cool and smooth as ever.

“Emperor,” the man replies after a beat, eyes still sharp with thinly veiled judgement.

Lucius only smiles.

Then shifts his grip around you, just enough to make it clear you’re not just some fleeting mistress. No, he’s holding you like a bride.

“You’re not dismissing him?” you whisper furiously as they pass.

“Why would I?” he murmurs. “Let him tell the court how you looked when I was carrying you home.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Shall I walk slower?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re trembling. Again.”

He carries you back into his bedchamber like nothing happened.

Deposits you on the rumpled sheets with the same hands that had bruised your thighs and cupped your face like glass.

Lucius lies beside you. He doesn’t reach for you. Just watches.

The fire’s down to embers now, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

“You’ll hate me again tomorrow,” he murmurs, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head toward him. His hair’s a mess. A dark curl falls over his forehead. He doesn’t brush it away.

“I already do.”

There’s no heat in the words anymore. Just a strange, exhausted ache. Like you’ve both burned through something and don’t know what’s left.

You lie in silence.

Until, after a long while, you feel his arm shift and settle across your waist. Not tight. Not demanding.

Just there.

You don’t move.

He breathes, slow and steady, and just before you drift, you feel him press his forehead into your shoulder.

Almost like he’s praying.

You wake to sunlight cutting sharp across the marble floor.

The bed is warm. Too warm. Your legs are tangled in silken sheets, and your mouth tastes of salt and heat and something darker still. You shift and wince.

Everything aches.

Your thighs. Your hips. Your throat.

You drag the cover up as you sit, slowly, wincing again when the bruises sing beneath your skin. There are fresh marks on your wrists. On your collarbone. Teeth, fingers, his name written across your body in touches no one will dare speak of aloud, but everyone will know.

The door creaks.

Lucius enters fully clothed.

Hair swept back. Tunic dark and rich, imperial red. There’s a goblet in his hand and a parchment tucked under one arm.

He looks at you like a man admiring the aftermath of war.

“Sleep well, betrothed?”

You glare. “Barely.”

A slow smirk.

He steps forward, sets the goblet down beside the bed and takes the seat across from you like you’re in court again.

“I expect the palace has already heard.”

“I expect the city has.”

He tilts his head. “Let them. What can they do?”

You stare at him, this man who had torn you open with teeth and hands and never once begged forgiveness. He’s not softened in daylight.

You pull the covers tighter.

He watches.

“Say it,” you snap, before you can stop yourself.

“Say what?”

Whatever insult he’s been sitting on. Whatever cruel line he’s crafted for the moment he saw you like this, rumpled, silent, aching from him.

Instead, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees.

“I like you better ruined.”

Your breath catches.

And he smiles, slow and hungry, like he already knows that when he touches you again, you won’t fight quite as hard.

I'm so tempted to write a part two to this, but I have another Lucius fic idea I want to write first. If anyone would be interested in a part two to this, lemme know and I can bump it up in my priorities 🤗

[throw-down-enjoyer]

Organ donation, compassion fatigue, and Japanese perspectives on brain death

I don’t think Shidou’s sin was actually a crime (as in, it was perfectly legal) and I’m going to explain why. This is essentially a very long Kirisaki Shidou Is Not An Organ Harvester post

To start: Shidou’s sin was convincing the families of braindead patients to donate their relatives’ organs. He confirms doing this in his T2 voice drama, and the way he words it makes it clear he thinks of it as murder. (He does say that this is only half of his sin, but we’ll get to the other half later.)

You know, I… continuously tried to persuade the relatives of braindead patients who were against organ transplants.

“In order to save the life of someone you don’t know, please let me kill your family member,” I told them.

It doesn’t even take much thinking to realize how cruel that is, but… I didn’t realize that until the very end.

Translation used: https://youtu.be/9xmokVJ-6x4?si=VgcIp5LCdNnUwqUW

Brain death is the irreversible, complete loss of brain function, meaning there’s no chance for a braindead patient to ever come back. Because of this, some people may feel that removing life support from a braindead patient doesn’t constitute murder. It definitely doesn’t constitute murder from a legal perspective, but it makes sense why someone might think of it as murder— especially in Japan.

Japanese perspectives on brain death

In evaluating Shidou’s case, we have to consider the cultural context within which it was written. Many people in Japan do not consider brain death as human death, and brain death cannot be declared without consent from the family and the intention to donate organs. In fact, braindead patients are not removed from life support until their heart stops beating. Shidou isn’t being dramatic when he frames his words as basically saying, “please let me kill your family member.”

Brain death is a very contentious topic in Japan—Doctors are put under scrutiny for declaring brain death and performing organ transplants. It’s important to know that in Japan, brain death only exists in relation to organ transplants. And only certain designated hospitals will do this. Even more so, if a person writes an advance directive asking to be taken off of life support in the case of brain death, doctors are not required to follow it. And many of them don’t, out of fear of the patient’s family lashing out at them.

Only in 2010 was Japan’s Organ Transplant Law revised so that organ transplants could be performed without prior consent from the brain dead patient (now only requiring consent from the family).

Here’s a couple of scholarly articles on the topic if you’d like to read more about it.

https://doi.org/10.1186%2Fs12910-021-00626-2

https://doi.org/10.1353/nib.2022.0019

Another very important facet of this discussion is how low organ donation rates are in Japan. To give you an idea, here’s a chart showing the per million population of donations after brain death (DBD) and donations after cardiac death (DCD) in a few different countries.

Sourced from this article, which has some other interesting statistics as well: https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tpr.2023.100131

As you can see, Japan’s rates are astronomically low in comparison to other countries. This helps to contextualize why Shidou had to try so hard to persuade families to donate, and why he later became extremely desperate when his wife’s life was on the line.

I’ve seen a lot of people confused about Shidou’s crime, and many speculations about him doing heinous things such as organ harvesting or purposefully botching surgeries—but I think this is because we’re approaching the case with a western perspective. As we know, many (if not all) of the Milgram prisoners represent a controversial social issue. Brain death is not nearly as divisive in western medicine as it is in Japan, so it’s easy to overlook the idea that all Shidou actually did was take organs from braindead patients. Perspectives on brain death in Japan have changed a lot in the past couple of decades, but it’s still quite controversial; because of this, I truly believe that this is the point of contention behind Shidou’s case, and there’s nothing more sinister secretly going on.

Compassion fatigue

Compassion fatigue is commonly thought to be the manifestation of secondary traumatic stress and burnout, caused by caring for others who are in stressful situations. This commonly affects people who work in healthcare.

I believe Shidou experienced compassion fatigue from working in the hospital, as he exhibits some of the symptoms—in particular, a reduced sense of empathy and a detachment from others.

I feel that Throw Down makes a lot of sense when you view it from this angle.

Lyrical analysis on Throw Down

Shidou expresses that he no longer remembers what it feels like to take away in order to give.

Pomegranates represent death in Greek mythology, and I believe that’s what they represent here too. Shidou has become desensitized to death; the pomegranate no longer has any flavor.

If it’s not needed, I’m not interested

Shidou only thought about what was physically necessary to keep a patient alive, and remained emotionally distant.

They’re dead either way, so it doesn’t really matter to him.

Now slowly close your eye, put your regret on display

Wish for being there for someone

With the same expression no matter who comes

This is the part that most makes me think of compassion fatigue—Shidou had difficulty expressing empathy for grieving families and had to fake it.

I don’t feel scared because I don’t know

Shidou didn’t understand what it was like to be in that situation. But now that it’s happened to him… he understands. And, looking back, he understands how unkind he had been about all of it. This is why he considers himself to be a murderer, why he truly believes that he has killed many people.

Ethics is a delusion

This is a line that definitely struck me as odd for awhile, but I think it makes sense in the context of his situation. His sin was not illegal—but is it ethical? That’s what all of this—whether you forgive him or not—hinges on.

The other half of Shidou’s sin

Going back to what I said earlier, Shidou’s sin wasn’t only convincing families to donate their relatives’ organs. His sin is also transplanting his son’s organs in an attempt to save his wife.

I believe that Shidou’s family got into a car accident, which resulted in his older child experiencing brain death and his wife being left in critical condition (and the younger child presumably died immediately). Considering the views surrounding brain death in Japan, it would have been difficult to find a donor, so Shidou became desperate enough to transplant his son’s organs. Since he’s the father, there wouldn’t have been any issues with receiving consent for the transplant.

Some people believe it’s the other way around—that he transplanted his wife’s organs into his son—but I believe otherwise, for multiple reasons.

In Shidou’s T1 voice drama, he expresses relief at the fact that his judgment is being determined by Es, who is a child. This makes sense if he feels that he killed his son.

Instead of being told by the law that I won’t be forgiven, I wanted a child like you, Es, to tell me that.

I feel sorry that you had to be given this role. And, I truly apologize for being so insistent about sentencing me to death as well… But, you’re perfect. You’ll give me the ending I’m most suited for.

Translation used: https://youtu.be/C4MiQ3V3YjQ?si=hPmlUkc6BfdcacNg

Additionally, a few scenes in Triage…

As stated before, I interpret the pomegranates to represent death. Shidou brings home three pomegranates, one for each of his family members. He later hands his son a price tag from the pomegranates—a representation of Shidou sentencing him to death.

And at the end of Throw Down, an organ tag falls out of the flower person. The name seems to read “Rei Kirisaki” and has XY marked, probably indicating that the donor is male.

Not to mention, it’s much more plausible for the flower person to represent Shidou’s wife rather than his son. When the person falls apart, there’s a shot of a red rose—the flower most known for representing romantic love—falling out of them.

Final thoughts and conclusion

To summarize: Shidou used to routinely try to persuade the families of braindead patients to donate their relatives’ organs. Despite that the prevailing thought in Japan is that brain death is not human death, Shidou did not think of it this way.

Shidou’s family later got into an accident; he transplanted his braindead son’s organs in an attempt to save his wife, but it was a failure, resulting in her death. This situation made him reflect on his past actions—he did not consider it murder before to discontinue life support on a patient, but now that he did it to his son, his perspective has changed. Everything he has done is within the confines of the law, but he is now burdened with immense guilt and thinks himself a murderer. Not just in regards to his son, but to all of the patients that he had pulled the plug on.

Side note: I don’t think having low empathy is inherently a bad thing (I have naturally low empathy), but in this context it would make sense for Shidou to feel bad about lacking empathy.

Side note 2: Shidou is a surgeon, so it is entirely possible he personally performed the transplant on his wife. Operating on family members isn’t illegal or anything, but is widely considered to be unethical and not really a good idea.

Well, that’s all I had to say—Feel free to either add on to this theory or debate me on it. This post ended up quite long, so thank you for reading!

[samsayswhatever]

The people calling Saxon a victim are pissing me off. Thanks to your compilation of all their scenes, it’s much easier to tell what happened. Firstly, Saxon doesn’t look scared, or paralyzed. People keep saying that.

He obviously orgasms. That’s what his facial expressions and body language build to. Only after he cums does he look more aware of what they’re doing and looks a little freaked out/comfused. Post nut clarity is not the same as withdrawing consent! Feeling sick when he remembers what happened fully the next morning is not the same as withdrawing consent! You can’t retroactively withdraw consent, that would require your partner to be psychic.

Lochy only even looks at him once Saxon cums, and he is just as high and drunk as Saxon, and minor note: Chloe has her hand on his throat, steering his attention. If Saxon were obviously freaking out and not into the hand job, Lochlan didn’t see it. Now, don’t take mind altering drugs and have group sex if you can’t check in on all your partners’ consent, but like, Saxon doesn’t say or do anything to indicate he wants Lochlan to stop before he blows his load and then Lochlan turns and smiles at him like “I did it, are you proud of me ☺️”

From the editing, Saxon thinks about him and Lochlan making out while being jerked off. He literally stares at Lochlan’s ass and looks turned on. Lochlan is physically getting him off and is also who Saxon is thinking about to get off. He’s not a little bunny rabbit paralyzed in fear. He wants to fuck his brother.

Both of them upon remembering should be a little horrified like “We did that? Ewwwww 😭” because incest is weird, it’s not natural, and they both liked it when they were under the influence anyway.

When we get Lochlan’s flashback, there’s more context from his specific POV. That brings into question Saxon’s objectivity, but it also confirms that Lochlan is only aware of Saxon being into it, from his POV. He couldn’t tell that Saxon “didn’t want it.” The only way he could be sexually assaulting Saxon is if he did not receive enthusiastic consent prior to the sex act. That is not shown to us.

Saxon does not tell Chloe and Chelsea “Lochlan forced me,” he claims “you guys forced me.” In his mind, he’d rather blame Chloe than Lochlan. Would he do that if he genuinely felt violated by what Lochlan did? Or would he do it if he were in denial about his own role in the threesome and the fact that he was fully into it? Like why protect Lochlan here? The girls know everything. He could tell them “I didn’t ask him to jerk me off!”

Chloe and Chelsea seem pretty nonchalant about the whole thing too. Would they assume it was no big deal if Saxon were assaulted? They casually tell him that he’s into his brother and that Chloe didn’t force Lochlan to make out with him or jerk him off. Chloe doesn’t see Lochlan as a perpetrator or Saxon as an unwilling victim. She saw mutual consent and enthusiasm. Chelsea says “I don’t know if there’s a drug that could make me get with my brother,” and she could be referring to Lochlan, but she’s talking to Saxon. Ergo, she sees it as Saxon getting with his brother, ergo, something Saxon actively chose to do.

Saxon obviously consented to the threesome in the first place, anyone who denies that at this point is bonkers, and still hung up on that bogus “Lochlan spit out the pill” myth. They’re equally stoned. Saxon verbally took responsibility for Lochlan to his parents. Saxon failed at every step to be responsible for his (unrealistically) naive brother. He coached Lochlan into having sex with an older woman (and judging by Lochlan’s flashback), a prospect that did in fact terrify him (which I bet Chloe loved lol).

Saxon is not fully incapacitated or at least not more so than Lochlan. Lochlan has no real authority or influence over him. He doesn’t intimidate Saxon, he has no blackmail on him, he doesn’t cajole or coerce him. There is no unethical power imbalance in Lochlan’s favor.

Saxon could still be a victim, if the cards fall that way when we find out more. Realistically I think the show is not interested in the nuances of “jerking someone off without getting explicit verbal enthusiastic consent is assault,” the way twitter and tiktok and Reddit are. But that’s the only way Saxon could be a victim in all this: he was paralyzed by his own arousal. Is that inherently consent? I’m not sure.

Like if Saxon is turned on by it but doesn’t want it, but is also capable of pushing Lochlan’s hand away or saying “stop,” but he does neither, and it’s less that he’s afraid of Lochlan and more that he’s afraid of his attraction to Lochlan, was he assaulted? He can be conflicted without Lochlan being labeled a rapist (which is what a large section of this fandom love doing more than anything).

I worry that the show is not going to show us any more context and so everyone will continue to insist Saxon was essentially raped, especially as the show is leaning into Saxon’s guilt and self loathing.

Thank you for your thoughts!!

I agree that Saxon is not the victim of Lochlan. However, I would say that they are both the victims of their repressed upbringings and suppressed desires. I think the shock throughout ep 6 show that neither of them had come to terms with consciously desiring each other, and therefore didn't consciously try to manipulate each other into this outcome.

The camera focus's on Lochlan's happy expression multiple times, and in media we are trained to see the one happiest about something "evil" happening to be the villain. However, I think reading happy=evil is a very uncritical take here. I think Lochlan is happy to get his brothers attention, and he's not really thinking about much else.

In the threesome scenes Saxon mostly looks mildly afraid/turned on at first when his eyes are closed, then he opens his eyes and sees Loch's hand and is confused for a moment, and then he closes his eyes again for a while before he cums.

However, I think Loch has been watching Saxon this whole time, but Chloe keeps steering his attention away, as you say.

The mildly afraid look (bottom left image) comes across because his brows are pushes slightly together and his jaw is dropped. However those looks also appear when while feeling sexual desire or yearning.

His confusion is breif, but his brows are pushed together significantly, which can again be interpreted as fear (upper right). However that fear(?) only stays on his face when he doesn't know what's going on. That fear shows up BEFORE he realizes it's Loch.

Once he realizes it's him, he closes his eyes again, and goes back to just feeling pleasure for a second (bottom left) before he's starts cumming and is lifted off the bed and then maintains eye contact with Loch until the end of his screen time.

In the very last shot of Saxon, his eyebrows slightly lift again (bottom image). This could be fear, or shame, or as you said it's a second of post nut clarity. But it doesn't last long, and it's not a very exaggerated look. It's likely a mix of many emotions at once that he can barely process. And I fully agree that this look doesn't have any bearing on whether he consented previously.

Loch smiles like crazy when Saxon cums (bottom left), then for a brief moment Loch's smile drops (bottom right image). And the sex scene ends. The next thing we see is Saxon waking up next to his brother naked. If this is all there is to remember about the night, then it's likely Saxon just fell asleep after he came. Lochlans smile dropping could be because he saw the post nut clarity look. If so, he's even more likely to think Saxon hates him through out th enext episode.

However, I think his smile dropped mostly because he's lost his brothers attention because Saxon's asleep. Now Loch's not very excited to be left alone in this sexual situation with Chloe, and the tightening of her grip on his neck emphasizes that.

If Loch was just as excited to jerk of Saxon as he was to fuck Chloe, then I don't think his smile would fall like that. He would have kept smiling, and turned his focus to Chloe. But he didn't. His eyes lingered on Saxon until the very end.

Later Saxon breaks down & throws up and he begins to fully process what happened. However, his main reactions seem to be shame about what he's done and anxiety about what's going to happen next.

Saxon has been trying all week to treat Lochlan as an adult, but I don't think he fully sees him that way. He still says things like, "he's legal," like he's trying to remind himself that his kid brother is an adult now. Even all the stuff he's doing to push him to buff up, and get laid feel like he's trying to give Lochlan characteristics that he could identify as "grown up."

But since Saxon's view of Loch isn't quite there yet in many ways, I think this threesome realization is hitting him hard. I think he's painfully aware of the power imbalance, and that is freaking him out even more than just the gay incest.

I want to talk more about this, but this post is getting insanely long, so you can see my continued thoughts on consent on this post.

[beholdthebangs]

Stress Reliever Pt. 2

Kent x F!Reader

~ 18+ ~

Part two to Stress Reliever - reading part one isn’t required but offers a lil more context (and smut, duh)

Synopsis: Smut - After you have a threesome with Kent and Sam, initiated by the latter, he’s no longer happy with the arrangement leaving you and Kent to figure out where to go from here. A night alone with him provides clarity on where you stand.

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: cheating/affair, drinking, creampie, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, daddy kink, vaginal sex, oral sex, light choking, praise

A/N: I will write about Kent as long as someone wants to read it. I’m so down bad for him. Plz give me an excuse to write more, thank u. (Sorry to Sam and Jodi.)

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Sam sits on your couch with his feet propped up on the other end, crossed at his ankles. His arms are stretched and rested behind his head. It never takes him long to make himself comfortable when he drops by. You, on the other hand, sit on the edge of the loveseat adjacent to him as he’s left no room for you, posture rigid as you glance at him, lips pressed together. You wring your hands together, eyeing them as if you’ve never really studied the curves of your fingers or the shape of your cuticles before. “So… should we talk about the other night?”

Sam chuckles but it doesn’t hit your ears the way it usually does. It’s uncomfortable, and it reminds you of every time you’ve tried to have a serious conversation with him in the past. It’s a defense mechanism to not let the subject get too deep. The way he rubs his fingers across the tight skin of his clenched jaw is a giveaway to his real feelings on the matter. “If you wanna.” Clearly he was hoping to brush past it, but that was never an option. It hangs in the air like a cloud over you.

You hesitate, not having formed any words to start such a conversation despite the inevitability. Of course you have your opinions, but based on the way the night concluded, you’re worried that the two of you aren’t on the same page. “What are your thoughts?”

Sam sits up a bit, legs still stretched over the length of the couch. “It was fine. Definitely a one-time thing.”

You nod, slowly at first, but the motion becomes more insistent as he examines you expectantly. “Yeah, yeah. It was fun, but just the one time,” you mutter.

Sam grins. “Glad we agree. Thanks for doing that. Sorry if it was uncomfortable for you.” He pushes himself off the furniture to grab your hand and stand you up, only pulling you back down onto the cushions, snuggled in his lap now. His arms wrap around your torso as your back rests on his chest. “I was feeling bad for him and it was the only thing I could really think of. Yoba knows how much better my life got when I started fucking you.” He kisses your cheek. “But it’s better when it’s just you and me.”

You bite your lip, thankful that you don’t have to mask your emotions as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You can understand his perspective. A threesome that includes your father doesn’t sound especially appealing which is why the situation was so unexpected in the first place. It feels like your positions had since switched. You’d spent almost every waking moment thinking about it since it happened. The memory of Kent’s gruff demeanor slowly morphing into dominance and confidence as he did what he pleased with your body kept popping into your mind in the middle of your farm chores, while fishing, while mining. His last words to you that night were etched into your brain. The idea of walking past his house or heading into the saloon in hopes of crossing paths had tempted you but you talked yourself out of it every time. Maybe Kent had reflected on it more and changed his mind on the whole thing too. Maybe he regretted it now. That night had been the least tense encounter you’d ever had with him, and the next would surely be the worst, leading to the rationalization of putting it off as long as possible.

Sam came around the farm a lot more over the next few weeks. The topic was never broached again, him seemingly happy to leave things where they were, and you complacent in not voicing the lasting impact it had on you. He’d started bringing up a concert his band had gotten an opening spot in, even further out than Zuzu City. It was going to be a two-day trip because of all the preparation that was going into it and the distance from the quaint town of Stardew Valley. He’d practically begged you to attend but it was just impossible with it being at the end of the month. Your animals needed you and your fields were full of crops nearing harvest as the summer season was about to come to an end. As much as he pleaded, you had no choice but to miss it.

As a final celebration before the band heads out on Friday morning, they meet at the saloon. You tag along for a few drinks, buying them a round as an apology for missing the event. The trio talks excitedly about the set list, rehearsals, the other bands playing that night, all while you listen and swirl the liquid of your drink around the glass in your hand. You love the band and you love all three of its members and how clearly passionate they are about it. You’d never admit it out loud, especially to any of them, but… you don’t totally get their music. It’s not bad but it’s certainly experimental, far off from your usual listenings. The most you can generally muster up on the subject is quiet, enthusiastic support while you find something else to subtly entertain yourself with.

As your mind wanders off the conversation around you, your eyes fall to the door. A few people filter in: Willy, Clint… followed shortly by Kent. It’s as if he knew you were there, his eyes flickering to you immediately after he steps in, door closing behind him. Your heart jumps in your chest and you quickly look away before registering how much worse that must look to him. You glance back in his direction and he’s still staring, slowly moving past you and toward the bar, expression unreadable. You bite your lip and look down at your nearly empty cup. You notice Sam out of the corner of your eye, his attention pulled to you and his father like he’s trying to figure out what he just missed. And it’s nothing— he missed nothing.

A few painfully long minutes later, the older blond man nears the table with two glasses of beer in his hands. He settles between Sam and Sebastian, almost perfectly across the table from you, placing one glass in front of his son. Emily trails behind him, passing out three glasses to the rest of you.

“Sorry for intruding,” Kent says. “Just had to buy y’all a round before you go.” He holds his glass up, the four of you following his lead as he toasts to the band’s big gig. Kent pats Sam’s shoulder after taking a sip, gripping it hard enough to wrinkle the soft cotton of his graphic tee below his palm. You watch his fingers, so strong and capable and thick, recollecting on the time they were stretching your cunt not long ago. If you let yourself think long enough about it, you’ll start drooling, so you bring yourself back to earth as best you can.

Sam is staring you down. You smile at him, drinking from your own glass and drawing your attention back to Abigail who goes on about the band they’re opening for. Your eyes continue to flicker to Kent, heart skipping a beat each time you find yourselves meeting one another’s gaze. He’s still such a mystery and you struggle to read between the lines. Is he looking at you, thinking about that night? Thinking about your body and all the ways he molded it to make you both feel good? Is he thinking about what a mistake it was, or about how much he’d like to do it again?

“…And Y/n is too busy with her farm to come.” Sam’s playfully pointed words bring you out of your inner monologue, having zoned out as you swirl the last sips of your drink around the cup.

“Yeah… It’s just bad timing for me.”

“Hey, my dad’s always looking for stuff to do.” Sam elbows Kent. “He could cover it for you while you’re out of town with us!”

You smile. “I don’t know if he’d have enough time in the day to get everything done. I’m not sure if I do, either. I’ve been trying to prepare as much as I can but it’ll be close.”

Kent raises an eyebrow. “I can help ya out even if ya stay. Got nothing else going on.”

Sam begins to say, “She’s fine,” as you open your mouth to accept the offer. The end of the month is grueling, taking a toll on your body especially considering the start of a new season being just as busy. It’s a week of hell and the idea of having help to ease the burden even a little is one you’d jump at with almost anyone.

“Let her speak for herself,” Kent scolds, eyeing his son in his peripheral vision before turning his focus back onto you.

You glance at your boyfriend, his raised eyebrows and the way he sucks his teeth clearly signaling his distaste for the idea. There’s only one reason he would be so against it, leading you to think that perhaps they’ve talked about that one night more than you and Sam had. The chances of Kent telling you about those conversations feel better than trying to get it out of Sam considering how closed off he’s been about the whole event. Maybe that could serve as an added bonus. “Yeah,” you finally tell Kent, “I’d love your help.”

Despite Sam’s transparency, he doesn’t comment on your acceptance of his father’s offer. Even when you walk back to your farm for the night, hand in hand, he only talks about the concert and everything they’re going to do while they’re gone. You can’t blame him for being excited. It had been years since he’d been that far outside of this little town. He doesn’t stop talking until you lay in bed, his head moving between your legs as his tongue flicks over your clit and his fingers curl into your cunt, drawing out two orgasms before fucking you into another one. You pass out naked and tangled in the sheets together, the hours of sleep passing by in a blink, standing at the bus stop at 6 in the morning far too soon for your taste.

A group has gathered there, a mix of the band and their designated groupies for the weekend along with townspeople there to send them off with good luck. Sam’s family stands to the other side of the small field settled on the side of the road. You watch Kent kiss the cheeks of his wife and youngest son before approaching Sam to give him a tight hug and a pat on the back. You can’t help but grin as you watch them. It quickly fades as they break apart and Sam stalks over to you, his mood clearly having dropped.

He hugs you close, his hands pressed to the small of your back. “Love you, babe. Be good. Call me when you finish your work.” You open your mouth to protest considering the fact that you’ll be working into the night and Sam will be too busy to answer anyway, but he closes the space between your mouths with a kiss. It’s a bit more sloppy than you would have expected, his whole family and half the town there to witness it. His tongue lines your lower lip, hands gripping into your jaw to keep your neck strained up toward him. Breaking apart, he boards the bus without another word and Kent approaches you as you wait for them to take off.

“Feeling prepared for today?”

You sigh. “Maybe after another 8 hours of sleep. Maybe.”

He chuckles. “Can’t give you that, but I can make you some coffee while you get started.”

“I’ll take that compromise.”

You wait around for another minute while the group dissipates and the bus hisses, crawling down the road as it chugs to life. You wave as it drives into the tunnel, heading back to your farm while Kent uses your kitchen to brew you some much-needed caffeine. He meets you outside as you leave the coop having collected the animal products for the day.

You eagerly grab the cup from him, praising the taste and technique. “I really appreciate the help. It’s kind of you to offer.”

“Figured it’s the least I can do,” he replies with a shrug, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Extending an olive branch.”

“An olive branch?”

“Yeah. An apology.”

“For?”

“The other night.”

Though that night was weeks ago, it’s the only thing he could be referencing. You’re confused as to why he’d be apologizing. Maybe he did regret it and was trying to dispel the tension by helping you out. You don’t have time to reflect on his words for long before he asks you for direction. You begin harvesting, working from either side of the farm. Your back starts to ache around noon with only a fraction of the work done so you stop to stretch it out and make a couple sandwiches. Kent joins you on the porch to eat lunch while you talk about the weather, how the quality of your crops look so far, and your plans for next season. Your food is gone far too soon and the two of you divide once more to finish harvesting.

The sun slowly creeps into your eyes as it nears the horizon. Golden light brings a different hue to the dirt you’re surrounded by, silhouetting Kent as he stands before you, the last crop in the field resting in his large hand. You laugh breathily, relief washing over you to know that this is finally over. Only a few small sections of greenery remain, mostly consisting of corn, to be harvested tomorrow. “I would’ve been out here past midnight without you,” you tell Kent.

“Happy to save you some time. Feels good to sweat.”

You look down at yourself, clothing covered in dirt which has turned into streaks of mud in some spots as you’d certainly worked up a sweat in the remnants of the summer heat. “I don’t know about ‘good.’ I feel disgusting.”

“Have yourself a shower and a drink tonight. You deserve it.”

“Sounds like a great idea.” You take a moment to survey his face, unable to decipher any emotion from it. You feel ungrateful to just dismiss him after he’s helped you so much today. “Do you want to shower here? I know how Jodi is about dirt in the house. I’m sure I have some whiskey lying around when you’re done.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, the muscles of his bicep tightening against the taught skin. “If you don’t mind… I’m sure my wife would appreciate it if I came home clean.”

“Have at it. Towels are in the bathroom closet.”

Kent heads into the house as you sort out the haul, storing a few things away and shipping the rest out. Fingers crossed, it may be one of your most profitable days yet. Yoba knows you have a list of expensive upgrades you’re anxiously waiting to make. While Kent showers, you throw together pasta mixed with some fresh veggies from the day, dividing it into two bowls. You grab a bottle of whiskey —the same bottle from that night— and fill the bottoms of two small glasses with it. By the time Kent emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, you’ve finished off your glass.

“Think my clothes are too dirty to wear,” he says, pulling your attention to him. Him and his muscular torso, toned arms, and messy towel-dried hair.

“Shit,” you mumble. It’s mostly in response to seeing this man half-naked in your kitchen, but you recover quickly. “I didn’t think about that. Think you’d fit into Sam’s clothes?”

“I’ll give it a try.”

You rummage through your dressers to find a pair of grey sweats and a t-shirt. You wonder to yourself if he’d want a pair of boxers too, but figure neither party would be happy with that idea. You return with the folded clothing, handing it over. “Thanks. Bathroom is yours. I’ll change while you’re showering.”

You jump at the opportunity, excited to finally feel clean again. You spend what feels like hours soaking in the hot water and scrubbing at your skin, massaging your scalp until the heat starts to fade into cold water. Forced to get out, you begrudgingly dry yourself off. And of course, you’d forgotten to grab your own change of clothes in your haste.

Leaving the bathroom, you cross the house to your bedroom with a towel clenched around your body, held tight to your chest while acutely aware of how little it covers of your thighs. Kent is sitting at the dining room table with an empty bowl of pasta and glass of whiskey, though you notice the bottle has made its way onto the table, too. His eyes track you though you pretend not to notice.

You contemplate how comfortably you should dress. In such hot weather, you’d like to throw on a tank top and shorts, but it feels inappropriate as you survey the outfit in the mirror. A small knock on the door distracts you. “I’m going to head out, have a good night,” Kent says through the wall. You hear the front door open and scurry after him.

“Hang on!” you yell.

He stops in his tracks, his head reemerging from behind the door. “Yeah?”

“I was hoping to talk to you for a second.”

Kent hesitantly steps back and closes the door. It’s dark out now, the sun having set while you were washing off. The breeze that filtered through with Kent’s attempted departure still hits you, hot and sticky. It’s weird to see him in your boyfriend’s clothes. Those sweatpants in particular… you’ve told Sam many times how good his cock looks in them. Resisting the urge to check Kent out to see if the same is true for him, you lead him back to the dining table, grabbing your own pasta and refilling your glass. “I, uh… wanted to ask why you apologized earlier.”

He sits across from you, refilling his glass and taking a sip. “Sam told me about your conversation.”

“What conversation?”

“You told him that you weren’t… fond of that night’s events.”

“Not fond of them…” you repeat. You can’t remember a time you ever really said that.

“It was a one-time thing for us. I know I left it on a different note. I wanted to apologize for that. I hope it didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“I told Sam that it was fun, but I agreed to it not happening again.” Kent nods understandingly, though he looks a little disappointed. “Not because I didn’t want it to, but because he seemed pretty insistent,” you elaborate.

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You didn’t think I had fun?”

“From my perspective, sure. I didn’t see you again until last night, though. Thought maybe it was too awkward or you were scared to see me again.”

You look down at your food, twirling a noodle around on your fork. “I guess I was nervous to see you. I didn’t know how you were feeling.”

“You didn’t think I had fun?”

“I guess we both overthought it a little,” you chuckle.

“Guess so.”

“Did you and Sam talk much about it?”

A twisted smile tugs on Kent’s lips. “Yeah, a bit.” You move your hand in a circle, beckoning him to go on. “He said it’ll never happen again. With or without him.”

“He seemed upset when he left this morning. I mean, he was fine until… he said goodbye to you.”

“He was. He wanted to mark his territory. Doesn’t have much control when he’s not here.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing I can repeat here.”

You quirk an eyebrow upward. “I wager to guess that you said plenty of worse things last time you were here.”

“Last time was different.”

“Is it different?” you question.

“It is.” He sounds less confident than before.

You sigh. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about last time. It’s all I can focus on. I can’t even look at you without picturing it all over again.”

Kent reaches a rugged palm across the table. You put your hand in his and he toys with your fingers, callouses running over your smooth skin. Even this touch feels like fire after the past two weeks. “I’ve spent the whole time coping with the fact that I can never touch you like that again. I can’t fulfill the promise I made to you.”

You bite at your bottom lip. “Remind me of the promise?” Your voice is a little higher now, leaning into him despite the wooden table separating you.

He fakes a hum as if to try to remember. “I think it was something about… fucking my cum into you. Making sure you don’t cum unless it’s on my cock.”

“That rings a bell.”

“Yeah. Too bad your little boyfriend said no.”

“Too bad… What did your wife say?”

“Didn’t ask.”

You nod. “Maybe that’s where I went wrong. Shouldn’t have asked him.”

“That’s right, darlin. Hope you learned your lesson.”

You stand up, pulling your hand away to round the table and stand in front of him. “What if… I don’t text him right now and ask?”

“Sounds like a good loophole.” He doesn’t waste time bringing his hand to your waist, running his thumb under the hem of your soft tank top and over your bare skin. “He didn’t tell you that you couldn’t let me fuck you tonight, right?”

“Never said that, specifically, no,” you breathe, your fingers playing with the neckline of the t-shirt he wears. Kent stands, towering over you now with his disheveled hair still darker from the shower. The sight of his hardening cock pressing against the loose fabric of the sweats borrowed from his son makes you almost lightheaded. He does, in fact, look just as good as Sam does in those. You can’t help but snake your hand under the waistband to stroke him as you meet his eyes through your lashes.

“Really missed it, didn’t ya?” You nod. “Show Daddy.” You fall to your knees at his command, slipping the fabric down just enough to free his length. Kent’s hand slips into your wet locks, running his fingertips along your scalp as he admires the view of you so eagerly kneeled on the floor. “Give it a lick.” You stick your tongue out and run it flat from his balls up to his tip, taking it in your mouth with a suck. Kent pulls you back by your hair. “Lick, baby girl. Don’t rush.” You go back to pressing long licks up his shaft, your tongue flicking along the ridge of his pink head each time you cross it.

“Okay, darlin. Remember when I slipped the tip in your cunt last time?” You hum. As if you’d been able to stop thinking about it. “Take it in your mouth just like that. Nice and slow. Just the tip.” You pout at the restriction placed, wanting the leaky head in the back of your throat. Kent strokes your cheek. “You know what they say. Doesn’t count if it’s just the tip, right? Not cheating if it’s just the tip between your sweet lips,” he teases and part of you hates how much that turns you on. You whimper in response, still not satisfied, but you’ll take anything you can get. Your tongue swirls around the underside of the tip, gathering drips of salty clear fluid leaking from it before wrapping your lips over the flesh and moving down on it until you find the sensitive ridge, settling your mouth tight around it and sucking. You can tell Kent is fighting his instincts, trying not to buck his hips against you. “Good girl,” Kent reassures. “Ya want more?”

You moan around his thick cock. He pulls it from between your lips, looking down expectantly. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Manners.”

You toy with the drawstrings, giving them small tugs in hopes that it’ll bring his hips closer to your mouth. “Please, Daddy, can I have more of your cock?”

“Go ahead, darlin.” You grab his base, positioning him to your lips as you let your jaw go slack and press his dick past your lips until the wet tip prods the back of your throat. It triggers your gag reflex, muscles tightening around him as you breathe through your nose and adjust to the feeling of a long cock slipping down your throat. Even now, your lips only meet the side of your hand that rests against his pelvis, a couple inches standing in the way of taking him fully. Sam is gifted, no doubt, but his father feels like a fully-grown version. Thicker, longer, meaner as demonstrated by the way he rocks his hips as you fight against your gag reflex, incessantly poking into your throat. Sam would do such a thing because he can’t hold back. Kent does it because he knows you’re struggling to take it. He likes watching you squirm and twitch under him.

You set a leisurely pace on half of his length, dragging your tongue on the throbby vein lining the underside of his cock. He pushes you to take it deeper with each bob of your head. “Not used to taking it in your throat, huh?”

“Not this much,” you breathe.

Kent smirks down at you, proud of his petty little achievement over his son. “Don’t worry, darlin. You’re doin’ fine. We’ll work on it.” He pulls you back to your feet, your hand staying on his dick. Sure, your knees hurt from the rickety wooden floor and your throat feels like it’s going to bruise from the force of his thick tip pushing into it, but it’s addictive. Watching his face break down just the slightest as you work him is a boost to your ego given how much he tries to maintain his hard shell. You stand face to face now, your palm still running over his slicked cock between your bodies. He pulls your wrist away, sliding himself back into the borrowed pair of sweats. The outline is even better now with his head tucked into the waistband, cock desperate to be unleashed again as it presses tight to the thin cotton. Your finger traces over his exposed tip and all you can think about is jumping into his arms and slipping him inside you right here, right now.

“Can’t keep your hands to yourself. Really that eager?” You nod fervently. “Hate to break it to you, but I have more on my agenda before I let you have it.” You pout but he only laughs in response. “Why are ya tryin’ to rush? We got all night. First thing’s first, I barely got a kiss in last time.”

Kent’s index finger hooks under your chin, tilting it up so you’re staring straight at him. Your hands grip at the sides of his t-shirt as you maintain eye contact despite the intensity of it. He presses his lips to yours so gently that your eyes open for a moment to make sure it’s still Kent in front of you. His tongue wanders to your bottom lip before he sucks on it, teeth leaving behind soft nibbles. You open your mouth, fingers nestled into his hair, and he wastes no time tangling his tongue with yours. Wet sounds fill your ears as you cling to one another, kisses growing faster and sloppier as Kent hits his quota for kindness. “On the table, sweet girl. I have to thank you for sucking my cock.” His hands move to your hips, turning and backing you up until the backs of your thighs hit the dining table behind you. He helps you up onto it with an effortless grab that lifts you off your feet. Kent towers over you, kissing you and moving in closer until your back is flat to the table and his clothed cock is pressed to your core. You squirm under him and his hand wraps loosely around your throat as he pulls himself from your lips. “Pretty, pretty girl,” Kent coos, other hand pushing hair away from your face.

He slides down your body, feeling his way along your chest and lingering to grope at your tits through the thin fabric of your little tank top. You can take a good guess at his opinions on the clothes you chose to wear, a smug grin and a raised brow as his palm slides over the soft fabric. You want to argue back to his imaginary words; you hadn’t meant to come out in of your room in this, but he’d been rude enough to leave before you could make up your mind on what attire was appropriate to wear on a hot summer night with your boyfriend’s father over— especially when he’d fucked you just weeks ago. But he’d laugh in your face at your defensiveness and tell you that this is the reaction you wanted out of him, and he’d be correct.

Kent suddenly tugs your shorts and panties past your ass, aided by the fact that your ankles are crossed behind his back, holding him close. He pries you off him, sliding the fabric down your calves and dropping them to the floor. “Pretty pussy, too. Looks s’ cute before I abuse it.” He settles on his knees between your legs. His strong arms hook around your thighs, palms resting low on your stomach, pushing the hem of your tank top upward to access bare skin. While his fingers graze over you, he leans in and you can feel his hot breath on your slit. You writhe in anticipation, difficult even with the limited weight pressing on you. He kisses up your inner thigh until finally landing on your clit. His tongue is gentle at first like his kisses and you’re prepared this time for the gradual buildup, concluding with Kent sucking harshly your clit. One of his hands falls to your slick hole, two fingers dragging along the skin to gather the wet, then prodding at the tight ring. He lets them enter you slow, basking in the feeling of your cunt and the way it stretches around him like you’re being molded to the shape. His other hand, still resting on your stomach, begins pressing in on the knot forming under your skin. Your hips buck against him, back arching over the hard table below it as you grab at the roots of his dirty blond hair and beg him for more. His hand tight on your torso helps to move your clit closer to him, gain better access to attack it with his mouth, and you’re right on the edge as his fingers curl inside you.

He pulls away and you groan, exasperation clear in your tone. You glare down at him while he gazes up at you, mouth glistening with a mix of spit and arousal he’d coaxed from you. “Problem?” Kent asks.

“Yes,” you snap back.

“‘At’s too bad,” he coos sympathetically, climbing back to his feet to tower above you as you lay on the table. “Probably shouldn’t do this, then.” You hadn’t even noticed him fumbling with the sweats he wears, let alone see him pull his cock from them and give it a stroke. Only as he pushes himself inside you do you clock it. You can feel the frustration melt away with his dick spreading you open. Two weeks had clearly been too long as he feels foreign inside you. Every inch pushed into you is certainly the thickest, longest thing you’ve felt until he slides more of himself in and the thought process repeats. Kent lets you adjust after bottoming out, his hipbones pressed tight against the backs of your thighs. He strokes up and down your legs as he grinds into you, the knot in your stomach returning in full force as you whimper below him.

“Your boyfriend says you take it better when you cum first. What’s he mean?” You open your mouth to answer as Kent pulls out just to force his length back in, resulting in a breathy moan instead of any coherent words. “Taking it good for me, aren’t ya, darlin?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you agree.

“Gonna cum for me?” Kent leans into you as he sets his pace, forearms on either side of your head as he fucks into you with snaps of his hips, leaving most of his cock inside to keep you stretched around him. Your fingers loop at the back of his neck, pulling him into you and tugging into the damp strands of hair on his head. You bury your face into his neck, holding him tight to make sure he doesn’t stop again as you beg him to move faster, harder, bully his cock into you like last time. He appeases you, one hand finding the back of your head and holding your face to his skin, muffling your cries as he stretches your sweet cunt. You feel so small and cared for, if nothing else as the thing that helps Kent get off, and that’s all you need right now. You gasp as the tip of his cock nestles against your g-spot, hips only moving to nuzzle into it and this is exactly what it takes for the knot to undo itself as orgasm washes over you. You hold on as best you can while he continues his work, fingers rubbing your hair soothingly while he abuses your pussy. Kent groans as you tighten around him, surely feeling the wave of wet arousal washing over his cock and dribbling out of you, making a mess of the wooden table below you and dripping to his balls.

“C’mere, baby,” he coos, lifting your half-limp body from the table as you come down from the intense feelings brewing inside you. He settles you onto his chest, standing now with you in his arms, cock still settled inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, hips wiggling as your knees hold tight around his waist. “That’s a good girl. I knew you’d take it just fine. How’d that feel?”

“S’ good,” you whisper, weak and unable to muster up much more than that.

“Think you got enough left to let me use your cunt a little while longer?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He rubs the back of your scalp and begins to walk away from the table, past the couch, into your bedroom. Kent lays you down on your bed, his dick slipping from you and earning a disgruntled sigh from you, to which he chuckles at. While the early morning, the full day of work, hot shower, and thoroughly satisfying orgasm have brought on a wave of exhaustion, Kent is like a drug and all you need is another hit to be fully ready for more. He slips back between your legs, having shed his clothing, and slides himself into your pussy with ease. Before you settle in too much, he grabs the bottom hem of your tank top and guides it over your head. Kent’s palms fall to your breasts as he fucks you leisurely, enjoying the view as he looks down at you and pinches at your nipples. Your bottom lip is between your teeth as you admire him. His hair so effortlessly falls to the left, having grown out a tad since he came back to Pelican Town. It’s messy and boyish and reminds you of Sam though it’s slightly darker than his son’s. His features are sharp, jawbone tight against his tanned skin. Still, a certain softness overtakes his eyes now and though you fantasize about his harsh demeanor, there is something so appealing about being cared for by such a strong man. Being babied and having all of your needs met by someone who could break you in two if he had the desire for it. Your gaze flicks down to his torso between your thighs, chest defined and sprinkled with dirty blond hairs, stomach tight and toned, a line of hair naturally leading your attention down to his throbbing cock stretching the ring of your pussy. You wish you could take a picture and save this moment forever.

Kent brings himself back into you only to flip the both of you over, your body atop his now. “I know you’re drained, baby, but I wanna see you ride.”

You nod, hands falling to his chest as your knees straddle his legs and you pull yourself up just to sit back down on his cock. You set a careful rhythm, taking time to grind yourself down with each motion. Kent’s hips push upward into yours and you fight the urge to roll your eyes back into your head with every thrust as he hits so deep inside you. His big palms flip between grabbing at your hips and squeezing your breasts like he can’t decide which he likes better. They roam across your body, over your cheeks to tuck fallen hair behind your ear, fingers pressing at your lips as he beckons you to suck his digits.

While your pace is nowhere near the fast thrusts he gets on top of you, you do enjoy slowing things down and looking into his softening eyes, pupils big and dark as he meets your gaze. You enjoy the power he allows you to hold for now, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he’s back to plowing into you with your only course of action being to hold onto the sheets beneath you and take it. Kent’s hand closes around your neck, squeezing lightly as he uses it to guide you up and down, faster than before. “I can’t stop thinking about this cunt,” he admits to you. “I really didn’t mind helping you out today, but Yoba if I wasn’t hard half the day looking at ya.” You lick your bottom lip and gasp at a particularly hard thrust from underneath you, back arching. Kent lets go of your neck, fingers gripping onto the flesh of your hips so deep you’re sure they’ll leave 10 little bruises behind. Kent watches you so closely, studying your face and the way your body moves above him like he’s never seen anything more fascinating.

Reaching between your bodies, he pulls himself out of you and lets the thick member fall to his stomach, drippy and twitchy between your thighs. Kent pats your leg, beckoning you to climb off. You do so, settled with your legs folded beneath you as you wait. He pulls himself to sit with his back against your headboard, patting his lap. You move to grab his shoulders to stabilize yourself, but he spins you so your back faces his chest. He keeps you on your feet, his hands carefully guiding you back down onto him. As you sit on his lap, his length stretching you and tip pressed to the sweet rough spot inside you, Kent wraps his arms around the backs of your thighs and keeps you in a tight embrace. His lips tickle the side of your neck as he lifts you up on his cock and settles you back on it, a tender pace that leaves you at his will. Your back arches while you reach back to thread your fingers into the hair at the back of his head. “Hear how wet you’ve gotten?” he asks you, voice hardly louder than a breath in your ear. You nod. The smell and sound of arousal is obvious as his dick spreads you open and forces more of your cum to leak out and you can feel the mess it leaves behind.

Kent frees one of his hands, still able to lift you up and down his shaft while his index finger draws a line from your filled hole up to the throbbing button. You jerk when he places pressure on it, having been neglected since before your orgasm. “That’s the spot, baby girl?” he questions mockingly. You wish you could smack the smug grin from his face but that would jeopardize all the ways he’s making you feel so good right now. You just nod, wiggling your toes as they instinctively curl, bottom lip turning bright from biting into the tender flesh so hard. Kent begins to push circles into your clit while he uses your body to fuck his cock. “Ya like being Daddy’s little toy?”

You nod again, but he pulls from your clit to swat at your ass, returning to his assault immediately after. “Tell Daddy.”

“Love it so much,” you manage to spit out. You’re writhing in his arms, every inch of his cock and every flick of his finger edging you closer and closer. Kent is too intuitive to let it go unnoticed.

“Did you think I forgot?” he asks. You hum in a half-hearted request for clarification because truthfully, you don’t give a fuck what he’s talking about as long as he doesn’t stop. “You know you’re supposed to ask before you cum and you seem to have forgotten that last time, huh?”

“‘m sorry,” you mumble. “Please, can I cum?”

“Have to make a deal with me first. After I let you cum, you let Daddy fuck you into this mattress and finish in this sweet cunt.”

“Deal.” You don’t need to give it a second thought in part because the idea of it makes you wetter, and also because you’d agree to just about anything to be able to get off right now. Kent’s finger is unrelenting on your clit and you can’t help but squeeze around his thick cock while he works you.

“Not convinced, darling.”

“Yes, Daddy, I’ll let you fuck me like that. Let you cum in me if you wanna. Just let me cum now.”

Kent speeds up his movements, slipping you up and down on his length faster while his finger coaxes an orgasm out with ease. The moment he tells you to let go, you’re crying out his name and your body is tensed, holding him inside you like your life depends on it. You grasp at his hair as you find your release and melt into a puddle in his arms. Before you can come close to recovering, you’re on your stomach with your face shoved into the soft sheet stretched over your mattress and Kent is on his knees behind you, slipping himself into your soaked pussy. He gives you no time to take in his length, pulling his hips back to snap them toward you again while your legs lay trapped between his knees, nowhere to go and forced to lay and take his abrasive thrusts. As if you’d even think about trying to escape them.

The symptoms of overstimulation creep in quickly, your cunt tingly with his abuse of it and you can feel your accelerated heartbeat in your clit. “Daddy,” you whimper into the sheets.

“No complaints, baby. Promised Daddy you’d let him do this.”

And you had, so you keep quiet save for the gasps and moans you’re incapable of keeping in as he holds your hips tight and pulls them back to meet his own in time with his eager thrusts. Your skin burns under his fingers and you grip the edge of the mattress in some attempt to get your attention off the sting of them. Kent’s ragged movement shuffles your whole body with each snap of his hips, the thin sheet blanket bunched perfectly between your thighs to scrape over your clit and create wonderful friction that has you chasing another high along with him.

“Okay darlin, Daddy’s gonna cum in you now. Be a good girl and milk his cock, ‘kay?” Kent’s voice is more gruff, clearly exerting effort to maintain his dominant exterior as he nears his own edge. His question doesn’t beg repeating as you’re already crumbling, cunt sucking his cock as it yearns for his seed to fill it. Though his big veiny length fills you, it suddenly doesn’t seem like enough and your body instinctively suckles his shaft to milk it of everything it has to offer you. Kent’s groans eventually join the harmony of your high-pitched moans and he colapses onto you as he snaps his hips against your ass, hardly pulling back and only seeking to push it deeper and deeper. “Takin’ it so good, darlin. Just a little more.”

It only takes you a few moments to reach your last climax while your cunt pulses around Kent’s throbby cock and you can tell that he feels the difference with the way that he holds onto your hips and lets a long moan fall from his lips, right next to your ear. You buck against him until he’s content, painstakingly pulling himself from you and settling back on his knees behind you. He stops you from moving until you feel a thick liquid drip down your slit which he scoops up in his fingers and shoves back inside you.

The mattress shifts as he climbs off and you hear the shuffle of fabric sliding up his legs as he dresses himself in your boyfriend’s clothing. You lazily spin and prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down your body at him. He sits himself on the edge of the bed with his back toward you, running a hand through his hair. As Kent glances over his shoulder, he groans at the sight of you.

You poke him playfully with your toe. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, barely able to meet your eye. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You understand where he’s coming from but the words still hit you in the gut. It’s never fun to feel like someone’s mistake. Especially as you lay naked and dripping with their cum. “Yeah.”

Kent sighs and stands up, climbing back onto the bed next to you and pulling you into his arms. “This has the potential to cause a lot of damage. But… fuck if it isn’t the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

“I know.” You’d be lying if you said your relationship with Sam was lacking. The two of you have a lot of fun, especially sexually, but he also doesn’t have the experience and maturity that Kent has. You roleplay as Sam’s plaything, always available as his cocksleeve, but something about Kent makes you feel like it’s not roleplay. You’re happy to be his toy any and every time he wants it without attaching another label. All you crave from Kent is his cock.

“I don’t think I can quit you,” he admits. His hand strokes your hair, pulling you onto his chest as he leans into your pillows. Another palm runs along your side, over your soft skin. “Sorry I left a few marks on you.”

You look down, small purple bruises in fact littering your hips from the pressure of his fingers. That won’t be so easy to hide from Sam. “It’s okay,” you simply reply. Kent kisses your forehead. You run a finger absentmindedly over the shape of his cock through the sweatpants and he groans, his head rolling back.

“I don’t think I have another one in me tonight.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do when your boyfriend’s back?” You smirk to yourself— a promise for more. “Sneak over here when he’s not staying the night?”

“He’s been around a lot lately.”

“I hear the bathhouse is quiet in the evenings.” A poke at Sam telling him about your bathhouse adventure a few months ago, surely.

“It is,” you confirm, though Sebastian sometimes hangs out up there.

“If all else fails, there’s always the back room of the saloon.” You bite your lip as you think about it. “I’ll get your attention from across the room, nod toward it, and you can follow me back a couple minutes later. Bet I’ll have to keep my hand over your mouth the whole time.”

“Maybe the saloon is just for sucking your cock.”

“I like your thinking,” Kent agrees, his thumb tracing over your lips as he takes in the idea. “Keep your mouth busy. Don’t worry about it too much, darlin. I’ll find a way to fuck Daddy’s girl.”

“Promise?” You look up at him with big eyes. He smiles sweetly down at you.

“Course, baby. I’ve kept all my promises so far, haven’t I?” The cum dripping from between your thighs is evidence of that. Kent places a quick kiss on your lips. “I need to head home now. Call your boyfriend.”

You jump as Kent gets up, having forgotten that Sam had been insistent that you call him after you finished up work for the day. Picking up your phone, you have 13 missed calls. Fuck.

The door closes behind Kent as he heads out and you quickly call Sam back. It rings a handful of times before he picks up. “Hey.” No sweet greeting, no soft voice. Just loud music in the background that forces you to strain to hear him.

“Hey! Did you play already?”

“Yeah, got done at 10.” You glance at your phone; almost 10:30.

“Nice! How was it?”

“Good. I’ll tell you more later. You just got done working?”

“Yep. Long day,” you feign a yawn.

“I bet.” Sam sounds skeptical. “How was my dad?”

Better than he’ll ever know. You don’t say that, of course. “A big help! I would’ve been out until the sun came up if I had to do it all myself.”

“That’s great.”

“I’ll have to send something home with you as a thanks. He left pretty quickly tonight.”

Sam chuckles like he’s relieved that Kent didn’t stick around. “Yeah, sure. I miss you, babe.”

“I miss you too, Sammy.”

“I had so much adrenaline after the show. I missed my girl. Wish I could’ve fucked you to calm down, you know? Bent you over the couch in our dressing room—”

“Sam!” You hear Sebastian’s voice in the background, yelling at him for being so horny in front of them.

He grumbles something you don’t catch. “Anyway… can you send me a pic of that tight pussy? I wanna see what I’m missing.”

You giggle, mostly to hide your nerves since his father’s cum is leaking out of it as you speak. “I’m so comfy in bed. Tit pic?” you negotiate.

“Fine. I’ll send something back once these fucks leave me alone.”

“Go to the fucking bathroom,” Abigail grunts. You can practically hear Sam’s eye roll.

“Ugh. Love you, babe. Thanks for calling.”

“Love you too.”

“Don’t forget the pic.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay. Bye.”

You hang up amidst more shouting among the band members. You snap a quick picture of your bare chest and send it over, not bothering to wait for a response as it could be hours. As you lay alone in bed, you find yourself conflicted on which man to think about— the one you love, or the one you love fucking. It’s a hard choice, and in the end, they both win.

[qsmpheadcannons]

I will never get over how much more mature Philza is in his lore than everyone else. He doesn’t have to be, he can choose his own lore, but he chooses instead for his character to always be the bigger person.

And this just goes to show how good of a storyteller he is; he knows the story requires his character to fill a supporting role and he does it without erasing his character’s complexity.

It’s not like his character is never immature, but when he is immature or lashes out, it doesn’t just affect the atmosphere, it completely changes it.

He yells at Wilbur, telling him to leave and find the eggs himself if he’s so upset about it- very much in the way an angry parent scolds a child- and for a brief moment you can feel how scared his character is, and Wilbur who was previously just confused and upset immediately becomes defensive (which benefits Wilbur’s story).

But more importantly Phil apologizes immediately after he’s calmed down, something which we don’t really see from other characters that are described as calm, cool and mature the same way he is. (being more mature isn’t a source of pride for him) It speaks volumes about who his character is, and just how long he’s been around compared to everyone else.

It shows that his character is also choosing to be the bigger person. It shows that he knows better than to wait to apologize to someone he cares about; which taken in the context of his lore can imply that he may have experience with loosing friends or allies in that way.

There’s more I could say abt this, especially with what this can imply about Wilbur and Phil’s father/son relationship, but I think that deserves its own post.

[ven10]

Is Quigley Quagmire dyslexic?

I have a theory!! Hear me out hear me out-

Reasons:

1: His siblings have very English-based interests (poetry+journalism) which require a lot of writing whereas Quigley is into cartography which is largely just images and numbers. Imagine Quigley struggling with words then finding cartography, something so fascinating and exciting which doesn’t need words to do. Isadora could write couplets to capture the feeling of a place, Duncan could scourge newspaper archives for historical context on the same place but Quigley would be able to map it out clearly+ precisely without needing a single written word to do so. 🗺️

2: His insistence to the Baudelaires that he is ‘well-read’ (possibly stemming from being shamed for his learning disability+trying to cover it up). 📚

3: He knew in advance the questions that the Vernacularly Fastened Door would ask and yet, despite having the opportunity during his time in Monty’s library, he did not research the answers in the books there. 🧐 ❓

4:Maybe one of the reasons why Quigley didn’t try reuniting with his siblings until they were out of reach (kidnapped) was bc when he realised they were at a boarding school he imagined himself being humiliated (nobody and no school Ofc should humiliate anyone for having learning disabilities but let’s face it. Prufrock absolutely would.) 🏫

5: When Quigley+the Baudelaires are in the burned down VFD headquarters in Netflix!TSS, Quigley comes across a partially burnt book and reads the title as “Odes”, Klaus soon corrects him saying it must have been originally titled “Codes” because of the positioning of the letters on the page (too far to the right so Klaus was able to tell that a letter was missing). Quigley may not have noticed the gap where a missing letter should have been as he may be familiar with experiencing the ‘river effect’, something which dyslexic people can experience. 🌊

[ “Dyslexic users may sometimes see the river effect in the text they’re reading [1]. This is when large gaps occur within consecutive lines of text”]-uxmovement.com

•~👁️VFD+prejudice&discrimination👁️~•

More on a matter I touched on briefly earlier, as much as I love many snicketverse characters, given the ideals VFD pushes onto them

(ie “well read people are less likely to be evil” also that quote about noble people always carrying a book with them, just to name a few examples)

I feel like they would treat Quigley’s dyslexia as something shameful and so Quigley, in his ‘cool+capable volunteer’ persona he puts on in TSS would try hiding the fact he’s dyslexic. The whole “well read people are less likely to be evil” thing he says is just so…odd but it could make sense if Quigley was just trying to really push the idea that he is a voracious reader.

Also, another example on how vfd members (It’s really likely his parents were raised in VFD and so would have similar mindsets) would see dyslexia as shameful is how Lemony Snicket, when describing the main VILLAIN (Olaf) includes details of Olaf’s spelling errors (eg not knowing how to spell ‘poison’ in TPP) and disregard of literature.

Lemony often uses the firestarters’ lack of knowledge about literature+lack of literary skills to portray them as villainous+ignorant. However, it strikes me as more than the firestarters being ‘not interested’ in literature than actively rebelling against the idea that knowing literature in depth/being well read=being noble. I mean, Esmé BURNED ‘Anna karenina’ after vfd assigned it as summer reading. If she merely wasn’t interested in literature she would have let the book collect dust. 🔥

Additionally, in ATWQ when Lemony is asked the ❗️difference between the noble and the villainous sides of VFD❗️ the only answer he can come up with is “we read more books” (not exact phrasing)

That concludes my rambling for now ☕️ ✌️

(Also, if anyone notices any mistakes in the info about dyslexia here then please lmk so I can correct it+avoid unintentionally spreading misinformation! :) )

[minominq]

i love how sachika’s character is fleshed out and how she very much exists within the world. even if she temporarily takes a back burner within the story of gavv, she’s still there, living and interacting with the world around her. so even if we don’t see her as much as we see hanto (or even lakia, as of recent episodes), it doesn’t feel like she’s being neglected or forgotten.

i’d love for her to become a rider, but i wouldn’t mind her not becoming one, too. really, i’d understand if she never becomes one looking at the context of the story.

becoming a kamen rider within the universe requires you to have a granute organ of sorts, either born with or surgically implanted. there’s a requirement to be met and a huge risk in order to meet it. as of the latest episode, i don’t see sachika doing some crazy surgery in order to become a kamen rider.

that being said, i’m sure there are new possibilities with much of the story centered around new technology, discoveries, etc.

i’m not sure how to feel about the population of people screaming that sachika should become a kamen rider, either with her own power or by taking on someone else’s form. to me, this demand feels less about the story and the characters and more about making every important character a kamen rider.

i get the frustration that it’s always the female characters getting the short end of the stick and how those with forms are ultimately the ones that toei gives more attention to… but to say that you don’t care how, just that she should become a kamen rider trivializes her character into less of what she actually is.

sachika is her own person: a strong, independent, yet caring individual. if she were to become a kamen rider, i’d want it to be for an actual reason besides “making one of the main characters a kamen rider”, because then, i feel it wouldn’t do her character justice.

anyway, it’s 12 am and i was honestly ranting about this and i might delete in the morning but these are my thoughts.