#This has been. An unpleasant realisation.

[links-in-time]

Gay for Clay

Okay, so I wrote this ages ago and apparently I completely forgot to post it. This cosy fic is inspired by the time my girlfriend and I went to an event called Gay for Clay organised by one of our local pride teams. It was a really fun evening and it just got me thinking about Link's relationship with pottery.

Anyway, I hope you guys like this short but sweet Ravioli fic. 💜🩷

"Come on Mr Hero, we'll be late!" Ravio announced cheerfully, as he entered the bedroom.

His hands laiden with a tray of breakfast for the two of them. Bowls of porridge with swirls of apple sauce. A pot of tea and a jug of apple juice for after. He'd even picked a bunch of daisies while waiting for the kettle to boil, and placed them in a small vase on the corner of the trey.

His fiance, or rather, the lump under the blanket Ravio knew to be his fiance, groaned.

"Don't be like that," Ravio admonished with a strained smile. "Come on, I made your favourite for breakfast. And I'm going to make pie for dinner tonight. You love my pies."

Ravio placed the tray down gently on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed next to the lump.

"Mr Hero, don't make me make you get up!" Ravio warned, in what he hoped sounded like a serious tone.

From beneath the blankets Ravio heard the lump scoff a laugh.

"I'd like to see you try!" Came a muffled response.

A spark of mischief flared inside the Lorulian, and he dove sideways on top of the blankets. The man beneath him squealed and groaned at unwanted pressure in unpleasant places.

"... 'right, alright. G' off me Rav you loonatic!" Link moaned, waving about madly to release himself from his blanket prison. "I smell porridge and tea," he said blearily.

"Yes, you should eat it while it's still hot," Ravio remarked, picking up a bowl and spoon and shoving it towards his partner.

Link sat up a little straighter and accepted the bowl with a nod of thanks. The apple sauce was something Ravio made and had been a very welcome addition to Link's breakfasts. He swallowed several mouthfuls before he squinted at his partner.

"You're being extra nice this morning," Link said slowly, spoon half raised towards his lips.

"Am I?" Ravio replied, his eyes fixed on the teapot in his hands as he poured out a cup.

"Do you want something? Did you do something? Did Sheerow do something?"

Link listed off the usual questions. But he hesitated when Ravio didn't respond. Instead his lover just set about pouring another cup of tea. Link frowned.

"Did I do something?" He asked quietly.

"Oh Lorule No!" Ravio responded quickly, realising he'd made Link worry. "Sorry Bunny, you haven't done anything. Well, actually you have. But not to me, it's... Sorry I'm getting this all muddled up."

Link sat and stared at his fiancé, eyebrows raised as he watched the man struggle to string a sentence together. He found it funny that around strangers and customers Ravio could be the most smooth talking man you'd ever met. But face to face with his lover all alone, he could melt into a puddle of nonsense.

"Rav, what's going on? Why do I have to get up? Isn't the shop closed today?" Link asked, taking another spoon of porridge and reaching for his tea.

"Yes. So remember on your last adventure you found your way into the village pottery?"

"Ha, yeah, which time?" Link chuckled, savouring the tea and the memory.

He had no idea why, but Hylia, or perhaps it was fairies, decided to hide rupees and useful nick-nacks inside pots. It wasn't his fault that the most efficient way of extracting these items when one is in a hurry, is to simply smash them. Okay, maybe there were less destructive ways to open a pot. But hey, he was the hero of courage, not wisdom!

"Link," Ravio chided him.

Link knew he was in real trouble when Rav used that voice. They were in a very happy relationship. Complicated and strange, but happy. They hardly ever argued over anything other than Ravio's merchandise taking over the house. Never anything serious. But Ravio had just used his serious voice so Link snapped to attention.

"After the last incident the Potter complained to the princess. She decided to compensate the poor woman by decreeing that you had to help replace a portion of the pots you broke," Ravio reminded him, his voice softening.

"Oh. Yeah. I remember now. That's today?" Link replied begrudgingly.

"Yep!" Ravio was trying to stay upbeat, and not let Link spiral down into a bad mood.

"Urgh!" Link groaned.

So much for that hope.

***

Link decided not to wear his favorite red tunic and under-dress. Instead opting for one of his old green ones and a brown shirt. It meant he would have to wear trousers. But he'd rather that than ruin one of his nice skirts of dresses.

Ravio walked slightly ahead of Link as they made their way into town and meandered towards the Potters shop. Ravio waved at a few people as they passed by. It still felt a little strange for him to be out and about without his hood on. For Ravio, he often still felt like a stranger in Link's Hyrule. But after an episode where Ravio had collapsed due to heat stroke on one particularly hot day, his boyfriend had convinced him to leave the hood and scarf at home from then on.

Those who didn't know about their relationship often assumed they were brothers. Their near identical features often lead people to think they were twins. If not for their hair of course. But given that Link had changed his hair colour a few times, people didn't really think it odd that Ravio's was jet black.

As they neared the pottery the owner appeared at the door and caught sight of them. For a split second Link thought about turning and sprinting in the other direction. But when he saw the woman smiling and waving at them, he knew there was no point in trying to run. He'd have to do his duty and obey his sister's ruling. After all, he'd done that plenty of times with much more at stake than today.

"Good morning gentlemen," the potter greeted them.

She was a little younger than forty with dark brown, flyaway hair and eyes to match. A short woman with a warm smile. She wore a simple gray dress and a bright blue apron over the top.

"Morning Miss Rainna," Ravio smiled broadly. "Lovely day!"

"It is," she replied, trying to catch Link's eye.

Sheerow suddenly careened into her view and fluttered on to Rainna's shoulder.

"Oh, hello there little one. I didn't see you," she chuckled, giving Sheerow a little belly rub as he puffed out his chest. "Good morning to you too."

"Link, I'm glad to see you today. I was, perhaps a little worried you might not come," Rainna admitted, her gaze dropping to the ground.

"I'm sorry you thought so," Link replied. He brushed past Ravio to stand before the woman. His gaze was also downcast. "I'm also sorry for my behaviour. I have no excuse for destroying your property and, though I'm here at the behest of the Princess, I also wish to make amends. What is a hero if he cannot help the people he swears to protect?"

Ravio looked at his partner in silent amazement. It was at moments like this he thought Link really showed who he was born to be. Not the grouchy late riser who complained all the time because his adventures had worn him down. But the humble, loyal man who had fought for his homeland and it's people time and time again. The Link who was at heart, a good man.

"Thank you Link, and who knows, you might even enjoy yourself in my shop."

***

As Link sat at the strange machine in front of him, Ravio at a similar station to his left, Link eyed the pots and jugs around the room. The back room of Rainna's shop was her workshop, a room filled from floor to ceiling with shelves. Most of the shelves contained pots of varying sizes. But also plates, bowls, jugs and cups. Anything and everything that could be worked from clay could be found in Rainna's shop.

His heart raced at the thought of breaking open every single one of them to see what might be hiding inside.

"Right, I'll show you the basics," Rainna announced, settling herself at a station in front of the two boys. "Then perhaps you can help each other out after that?"

She began by forming a ball of fresh clay and throwing it onto the spinning disc in front of her. Link was surprised by the force with which she slapped it down into the center of the disc. As the wheel span and the ball of clay spun with it, Rainna used her hands to cup and shape the ball until it stretched out into a long thick-

Link blinked. A laugh caught in his throat. Beside him he could feel Ravio tense as they both watched the demonstration.

Rainna worked the long piece of stretched out clay back down into a ball, adding a splash of water from a nearby bucket to prevent it drying out. She pressed her thumbs into the ball and began to widen it out to form a hole in the center. Link swore he thought he heard Ravio whimper before he pressed his fist against his mouth, as though in deep focus. Link rolled his eyes. At least they were both thinking the same thing and he wasn't the only one with a dirty mind.

In what seemed like no time at all Rainna had formed a perfect pot with a narrow base which flared at the middle before narrowing again towards the opening at the top. She slid it carefully off of her wheel and carried it over to a shelf of similarly shaped pots waiting to be dried.

"And that's all there is to it," she sighed, as she turned back towards the two boys. "Any questions?"

Link and Ravio shook their heads in unison.

"Alright, I'll be around if you need help. I'll probably be in the shop or at the kiln out the back if you need me." Rainna assured them, before cleaning off her hands in the sink and disappearing back into the shop.

The workshop fell silent at Rainna's leaving. Link and Ravio turned to look at each other. At the sight of Ravio's smirk, Link couldn't hold it in any longer. A small chuckle quickly turned into a deep laugh. Link's joy was infectious and Ravio was soon laughing along with him.

"Do you think she realises?" Ravio hiccuped between fits of laughter.

"If she does, she can keep a straighter face than either of us Rav!" Link huffed, trying to rain in his amusement.

"Darling, neither of us has straight faces!" Ravio pointed out.

A moment of silence passed between them as his joke settled. But Legend was soon laughing again.

"You smug ass!" He chortled.

Ravio beamed as though to prove Legend's point. Then he let out a long sigh and turned to examine his pottery wheel.

"Well, it seems simple enough," Ravio said, looking over the sack of clay beside him.

"You know you don't have to be here Ravi, this is my punishment." Legend pointed out, as he scraped off a fistful of clay and began shaping it in his hands.

Luckily he'd taken off most of his rings for today. But he couldn't do without all of them. He'd just have to clean them thoroughly later.

"I know I didn't have to come too Bunny Butt, but I wanted to spend the day with you, and I thought this might actually be fun." Ravio said softly, focusing on copying what Rainna had shown them.

"That's actually pretty sweet of you Ravi. But call me Bunny Butt anywhere except our bedroom again and I'll turn you into a pot! Got it?!" Link warned, pointing his ball of clay in Ravio's direction.

"Got it!" Ravio replied, holding his hands up in mock surrender, causing Sheerow to hover above his shoulder before coming back down again.

***

Getting started was difficult. Ravio struggled to slap his clay into the middle of the wheel. Link kept having to shift it or throw the ball for him. Once that was done they both attempted to copy the movements Rainna had used to shape the ball into the long shape, then down again into a small centered ball.

Link wasn't usually a fan of textures that dried out his sensitive skin, but with plenty of water on his hands, he found working with the clay was quite satisfying. It was soft and slippery and caused his mind to wander back to more salacious thoughts. Link shook his head. Now was not the time or place.

He did his best to focus. Ignoring Ravio's one sided chatter with Sheerow. Link controlled the speed of the wheel with his foot pedal and worked at what he thought was a steady speed. He pulled out the sides of the pot and slowly shaped them into the bulb-like shape he was aiming for. After what seemed like hours, but was more like fifteen minutes, Link had something that looked a bit like Rainna's pot. It was a little lop-sided and the rim was probably a bit on the thin side. But for a very first try, Link thought he'd done pretty well.

As Link looked over at Ravio to see how he'd faired, he couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter. Ravio's arms and apron were covered in the wet slip from the clay. He had somehow reduced the amount of clay on his wheel and was struggling to keep it under control. Link watched in amusement while Ravio held onto the long wobbly object as it wiggled in his grip. His face focused in an expression of total concentration, with his tongue sticking out slightly. He looked ridiculous, and adorable.

Link stopped chuckling and just sat watching his struggling partner for a moment. Ravio had rolled up his sleeves, the water freely dripping off his elbows while he worked. The tip of his little pink tongue poking out between his lips, oh so invitingly. He was so, perfect in all of his little imperfections. Link sighed contentedly to himself, before awkwardly pushing himself to his feet without the use of his dirty hands.

Ravio looked up and slowed down his wheel as Link stood beside him.

"I know I'm making a mess of it, but..." Ravio began, but Link didn't let him finish.

Link bent down and pressed his lips to Ravio's. Ravio kissed back and closed his eyes, a soft moan sounding in his throat. As Link withdrew Ravio stayed head raised, eyes closed.

"Mmm, what was that for Bunny?"

"Because you're so darn cute. And I thought you might need cheering up," Link replied softly.

"Cheering up?" Ravio replied, opening his eyes and tilting his head in confusion.

"Yeah, because anyone who tries to make a pot and ends up with that!" Legend pointed to the floppy phallus on Ravio's potting wheel. "Would probably want to hide under a rock!"

Ravio chuckled, looking back down at his work, then glancing sideways at Link's.

"Yours looks brilliant! Are you sure you haven't done this before?" Ravio pouted.

"Never, but it's quite nice to work with actually. Perhaps after all these years of smashing pottery I learned something about how they're made?" He jested, tempted to clap his hand onto Ravio's shoulder.

"Hmm, I still say you're cheating somehow. No one's that good at doing something without practice," Ravio groaned, slumping a little in his seat.

"Well," Link said softly, as he bent down to whisper in Ravio's ear, "I was pretty good at doing you the first time!"

Ravio cleared his throat as a wave of pink flushed his face and ears. He kept his attention on his potting wheel however, and eventually Link followed his gaze.

"How about I help you fix that a bit?" He suggested, taking the teasing note out of his voice.

"I'm not sure it's salvageable," Ravio groaned.

"Well, I'm a sucker for a lost cause. Come on. You work the pedal and I'll try and shape it into something less offensive!" Link insisted.

In order to work together, Link ended up sitting on Ravio's lap, instructing the man beneath him on how fast to make the wheel spin. Link managed to wrangle Ravio's clay into a rounder shape and even sculpted it into a respectable looking bowl after a few minutes. However, there wasn't enough clay left to bring the sides up into a full pot. After Legend had finished off the rim of the bowl he asked Ravio to stop the wheel.

Carefully, Link slipped the bowl off the wheel and held it up for Ravio to see it better.

"Huh, it doesn't look half bad. It's not a pot but, considering how it started out!" Ravio exclaimed.

"It's like I keep telling you Ravi, sometimes you just have to take things slower and persist until you get something right," Link replied.

Link attempted to slowly dismount Ravio's lap while concentrating on not dropping their bowl. While Ravio remained as still as possible so he didn't knock Link over.

"You know," said Ravio, as he looked Link up and down for a moment. "I think that's the first thing we've ever made together."

"What d'you mean? We make things for each other all the time," Link replied with a small frown.

"Yes, for each other. We've never made anything with each other before. It feels kinda nice. Knowing we each had a hand in making something," Ravio explained, tilting his head as his eyes rested on their bowl.

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

***

After Rainna had been called back in to give Ravio some more guidance, Link and Ravio set about their work with a little more focus. At the end of a long messy day, Link had produced what Rainna said was a satisfactory amount of work. And that Ravio had contributed. She thanked Link for coming to her aid, but he waved her off, telling her that he was only happy to fix problems of his own making.

That night Ravio made pie for dinner as promised and found he was just as ravenous as Link usually was after a day in the orchards.

"That's what hard work gets you Ravi, an appetite!" Link probed, elbowing Ravio softly in the arm.

***

It wasn't until about a week later that either of them thought about their day in the potters workshop again. The postman dropped off a package with Ravio at their front door. Link looked up from the sink as he placed another cup on the draining board.

"What is it?" He asked, mildly curious. "Something for your shop?"

"No, it's addressed to both of us," Ravio replied, examining the label as he placed the box on the kitchen table.

Link quickly dried his hands and stepped over to Ravio's side.

"Well open it then," he encouraged.

Ravio grabbed some scissors and cut the strings binding the box. He opened the lid to find it packed with straw, just as some of his more delicate objects were usually packed. Together they dug through the little box, laying the straw on the table until they found a paper wrapped object inside. It wasn't heavy, but it had a significant weight to it as Link picked it up out of the box. As he began unwrapping the object, Ravio noticed a note beneath it in the box and read it out loud.

"It says, 'Dear Link and Ravio. I wanted to thank you again for your help in replacing some of my stock. You left this in my workshop so I had it glazed and fired and have sent it to you as a gift and a memento of your experience. I hope it reaches you in one piece. All the best Rainna.'"

Link finished unwrapping their gift and couldn't help but smile at the bowl in his hands. Rainna had chosen a forest green glaze for the outside and a vibrant royal purple for the inside. The rim itself was painted gold and on the bottom she had inscribed the letters L R.

"I love it," Ravio declared, carefully taking the bowl from Link to take a closer look.

"It's a bit gaudy!" Link replied, eyebrows raised.

"Have you seen the two of us in our favourite colours?!" Ravio rebuffed with a smirk.

"Touche!"

"I'll have to find a special place to put it. Perhaps in the bedroom, it's not likely to get knocked over there."

"You don't want to use it?" Link asked.

"No, I think it's too special for that," Ravio replied, looking up from the bowl at his boyfriend.

"It's just a bowl Ravi," Link pointed out.

"Yeah but we made it together. And that makes it special to me," Ravio insisted. "Come on, help me choose a place for it. I know you'll only move it if you don't like where I put it!"

"Hey, I only moved a few of your things when you moved in!" Link retorted, as he followed Ravio out of the kitchen.

"All of my things Bunny, you moved all of my things."

[damiemontclair]

Post about covid babies being in school now made me realise its no fucking wonder I'm burnt out. I'm 24 and I have been in the education system since I was 2 (and a half). 22 fucking years. 7 of them in higher education. I was supposed to be out by the time I turned 23 btw. Gods willing I'll be out before I turn 25.

[lunarharp]

played dragon age 2...just simple scribbles

[tmae3114]

ear defenders my beloved

[jorvikzelda]

had the most draining morning of my entire education so far (don’t worry though it will get worse) and now you’re telling me I have to pull myself together and STUDY???? bullshit

[doebt]

Im fr i genuinely like dont hate retail. YES i havent worked there very long but its nice being able to help people and see all the different people and be able to show them where the baby shampoo is or whatever. i like it TBH

[soup-mother]

i have very complex thoughts on this but one funny realisation about being a trans woman and a lesbian and wanting games and stories about women like me being loved, is that like struggle to find good gay media makes you realise how like.... straight women want better too? like the vast majority of stuff aimed at girls and women is sorta just insulting? like i modded Harvest moon so i can be gay but trying to play the default "girls" version just sort of felt like it didn't respect the player at all. like "here's some men, be happy with it".

and related is just how like....if I'd grown up as a girl it's not like i would have been happier. because everything girls are expected to like fucking sucks basically, it's patronising and has the most insulting "morals" and it's just like wow patriarchy sucks.

like it's hard to find "gender affirming" games etc because like.... a lot of stuff aimed at girls doesn't respect girls, and it's hard getting into the mindset that I'm not some alien outside invader for like... having an issue with sexism and not wanting to settle for insultingly patronising ideas of what "girls" are and want.

and while it's not on the same level, like being a trans woman and being exposed to so much media for "boys" and "men" felt almost disgusting? like it was going wink wink "this is what guys like us are into, aren't you a guy?". like you were expected to not have an issue with it and not want anything more...kind i guess? more genuine or focused on emotions? just "here's what men want, here's what women want, they're two seperate categories"

see also: how awful h scenes in eroge are, where like that appeal to the idea of what "men" should want and masculine fantasies genuinely just makes it unpleasant and shit. like wow we really believe in this gender bullshit? it ruins fucking everything lol.

anyway gender thoughts about media and capitalism and whatnot. gender ruins everything once again, you're not a "fake" woman or whatever for not falling for patriarchal brainwashing and being perfectly happy and content living up to perfect standards of aesthetics and beauty standards and acceptable hobbies. it's all just culturally enforced bullshit, turns out people just want games and stuff that are good and respect them and are fun.

[ja3yun]

The Doll House | Drabble: Kill for You

demon/doll!heeseung x fem!reader warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, creampie, no prep, handcuffs, blood kink, biting, death, gore, blood, knife, not-proofread, anything else lmk wc: 4.3k synopsis: when you wake up in hell handcuffed and scared, there is only one prince of hell that can save you a/n: based off this ask! this is just something quick i did and isn't my best but i have so many people asking for more tdh drabbles that i though i would cave <3 this one is not as bad as i think it is but there is a lot of blood and heeseung rips a man apart so...be warned. reblogs, likes, feedback, and comments are all welcome! (this could also be read as a stand alone?? idk)

the doll house masterlist

Your eyes flutter open, the lids heavy and sticky as if glued together. The throbbing in your head is relentless, a pounding pain that seems to echo in the very marrow of your bones. Your mouth is dry, parched as if you've been wandering in a desert, and the air is stifling, thick with a heat that makes it hard to breathe. The oppressive warmth is suffocating, pressing down on you with an intensity that speaks of more than just physical discomfort - it feels like the very essence of torment.

You try to lift a hand to your aching head, but your arm refuses to move. Panic sets in as you realise your wrists are restrained, bound by cold, unyielding metal. The sound of chains rattling echoes through the dimly lit room, a harsh realisation of your imprisonment. Your eyes dart upwards, following the chain to where your wrists are shackled to a pole above your head. The cuffs dig into your skin, a painful nip that serves as a concluding punctuation to your negative thoughts - somehow you’ve been kidnapped.

The heat is overwhelming, a furnace-like blaze that sears your skin and fills your lungs with each laboured breath. The air is thick with the acrid stench of sulphur and burning flesh, a scent that is all too familiar, a contrast between the land of the living and this infernal abyss floods back to you with terrifying clarity. You've been here before.

This is Hell.

The memory of past encounters with demons and the stark Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as adrenaline surges through your veins. Each time you have been dragged to hell it has been at the hands of Heeseung, to show you his world or try and entice you into making a deal. Yet, he has never gone as far as this.

Every cell in your body screams for release, for salvation from this nightmarish reality. The heat seems to amplify your fear, each beat of your heart a desperate cry for help.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps approaching, each one a heavy thud that reverberates through the chamber. The temperature seems to rise even further, if that's possible, and the smell intensifies, a rancid mix of decay and coal. The sound sends a new wave of dread coursing through you. You strain against your bonds, but the metal holds firm, cutting into your flesh.

“Heeseung, I swear this isn’t funny!” you shout as you hear him approach, ensuring your discontentment with his actions is conveyed.

The door creaks open, and in the dim light, a hulking silhouette appears. Much to your surprise and heartache, it isn’t Heeseung who strides through the doorway but rather someone else, a demon you presume, his eyes glowing with a malevolent light. His gaze locks onto you, burning with an intensity that matches the inferno around you. He moves closer, each step a reminder of your vulnerability, each moment a testament to your peril.

"Heeseung? Is that what he’s going by now?" The demon speaks with an uninterested sigh, his voice dripping with disdain.

The demon strides towards you in a lazy, almost leisurely manner, as though he has all the time in the world. With you locked up here, chained to a rusty pole, he might just have an eternity. Despite the terror gripping your heart, you can’t help but notice his appearance. The sight is far from unpleasant; his chiselled abs and defined v-line momentarily distract you. It’s a poor excuse, but in the face of such danger, you’re just a girl.

He stops before you, towering over your bound form, his presence overwhelming. The heat radiating from his body adds to the already suffocating warmth of the room. You can feel the tension in the air, a palpable mix of fear and fascination. The demon’s handsome features contrast starkly with the darkness of his intentions, a cruel reminder of your predicament.

"I do forget how easily impressed you humans are," he smirks, rubbing a hand over his toned stomach. "Do you like what you see? I wore it just for you."

You shudder at his words but can’t help a small, begrudging gratitude that at least his current human appearance is more settling than the hideous creature you imagine lurks beneath. In scenarios like this, you must take the good with the bad.

"Who are you? What do you want with me?" The questions tumble out, driven by desperation. As far as you know, you’re insignificant to anyone but your two beautiful dolls back home.

The demon scoffs, rolling his eyes as he turns his back on you. "Don’t flatter yourself. You hold nothing of value to me," he chides, his tone dripping with scorn. He licks his lips, then twists his head to look over his shoulder, his eyes piercing into yours. "But you mean a lot to someone I need to speak with."

You scrunch your brows in confusion, his statement only adding more questions. It can’t be Jaeyun he needs to gain the attention of—no one knows about him or his should-be guardian ways. Sunghoon is just a soldier, and most people believe he’s still locked away in his cell. That leaves Jongseong or Heeseung.

The demon picks something up from a table in the room and drifts back over to you, his eyes an eerie shade of red wine. The object glints ominously in the dim light, and your heart skips a beat as you realise it’s a dagger, its blade sharp and cruel.

“You see,” he says, his voice soft yet menacing, “sometimes, to get someone’s attention, you need to send a message they can’t ignore.”

Your pulse quickens, panic bubbling up inside you. “Who do you need to speak with?” you ask, your voice trembling.

The demon chuckles darkly, tracing the blade of the dagger along your cheek, not cutting but letting the cold metal press against your skin. “Oh, you’ll see soon enough. Just know that your pain will be his torment.”

The cryptic words hang in the air, each one a dagger of its own, slicing through your hopes. The demon’s intentions are clear: you are a pawn in a game of unimaginable stakes, a tool to be used and discarded. And as the heat of the room continues to rise, your desperation grows, knowing that every passing moment draws you closer to a fate you can’t escape.

There is a nauseous feeling in your body, your chest heaving with the rapid beat of your heart as the demon brings the blade to your arm, pressing deep into your flesh. The sharp pain sears through you, and a scream rips from your throat, echoing through the hellish chamber. Blood wells up around the blade, trickling down your skin and staining the metal a dark crimson.

The demon watches with a twisted satisfaction, his eyes glinting with delight. But just as he seems ready to inflict more pain, the door swings open with a casual creak, and Heeseung strolls in, his presence commanding and nonchalant.

"Lay another mark on her, I dare you," Heeseung says, his voice calm but carrying a dangerous edge.

Heeseung’s words exhibit boredom as if your life isn’t on the line. Yet, you know him well enough now to recognise that the darting of his doll-like eyes from your face to your injury is enough to show you he cares; he wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Instinctively, your body tries to run to the comfort of Heeseung despite his unkindness to you in the past. Even if he has instilled fear in your body, manipulating and coaxing you to do things you wish never to speak of, he is still a place of solace, your body and soul drawn to him as though he were a magnetic field.

“I was wondering if you would show,” the demon smiles widely, a stark contrast to the sadistic pleasure he showed with you moments ago.

“I’m not here for you; I’m here for my girl,” Heeseung explains casually, shrugging his shoulders. Yet, you don’t miss the tensed fists just behind his back. It makes your heart skip a beat to know that somewhere in that non-existent heart of his, he cares and will try his best to get you out of this.

Amusingly nodding, the demon chuckles lowly. “I know, this pretty little thing was the only way to reach you. She calls and you answer, how cliché.”

Heeseung's gaze sharpens, his eyes narrowing as he steps forward, a slow and deliberate movement that radiates power. "You’ve had your fun. Now it’s over. Release her, and I might consider letting you leave here in one piece."

The demon’s smile falters for a moment, but he quickly recovers, trying to maintain his bravado. “And if I don’t? What then, Heeseung? Are you going to risk everything for this human?”

Heeseung’s eyes flash with a dangerous light. “You misunderstand the situation. It’s not a risk for me; it’s a certainty for you. Lay another mark on her, and you’ll find out exactly what happens when someone crosses me.”

The demon hesitates, the confidence draining from his face. He glances at you, bound and injured, and then back at Heeseung, weighing his options. The room grows unbearably tense, the oppressive heat pressing down on you like a physical weight. You’ll never complain about a sauna ever again.

The blood from your arm drips onto the floor with each passing moment, your eyes pleading with Heeseung to make all of this end as quickly as possible. A small smirk flashes on his face and disappears just as quickly, assuring you that he has a plan.

When the demon makes no move, Heeseung speaks up again, his voice deadly calm. “Tell me why you’ve called me here before I tear you apart.”

The demon sneers, trying to muster some of his lost bravado. "You've been so busy playing dolls that you’ve forgotten you have an army to run."

Heeseung’s eyes flash with anger, his smirk turning cold and dangerous. "So you put my love in danger because I'm not holding your hand? Are you all that fucking incompetent that you can't do your job?"

My love. You’re eyes widen slightly at the endearing term. There is a part of you that wonders if he means it, if the phrase that rolled so easily off his tongue was heartfelt or just another branch to add to his plotting plan. Hearing your heartbeat fasten with fear and adoration, Heeseung knows you registered his words and yet he doesn’t care.

“We are doing our job yet you’re fucking around with angels and bitches like her,” the man spits, holding the knife with determination. Any second now, the blade could be pierced into one of your main arteries, rendering you dead in a matter of minutes as you stay hanging helplessly against the pole.

“Call her that again. I dare you,” Heeseung snarls, walking closer to the man. His actions strike fear into you because what if one more footstep is the difference between life and death for you? 

As the demon goes to speak once again, his jaw locks and his tongue pulses as though he is choking. He suddenly drops the knife, much to your relief, clinging to his throat as if that will somehow allow much-needed oxygen to pass into his lungs.

Heeseung’s eyes flash a vibrant red, an innocent grin working its way across his cheeks. “What’s wrong? Can’t speak?” The feigned concern in his words makes your body crawl, his sinister actions unsettling you, even as a secret part of you loves it.

Perhaps it’s the fact that after this, you’ll be clear of danger and you can get out of this. Another part is pure vengeance. In hell, you feel the sins inside you heighten: lust, greed, wrath, you name it. Every bad part of you calls to be released.

Suddenly, Heeseung lunges forward, gripping the demon's throat as his fingers sink in with force until the man's face begins to turn blue. The pressure is immense, veins bulging as the demon struggles for air, his eyes wide with terror. Heeseung’s grip tightens even further, his nails piercing the skin, drawing dark, thick blood that oozes down the demon’s neck.

Heeseung’s fingers dig deeper, the demon’s gurgling attempts at speech becoming more desperate. Blood pours from the wounds, splattering onto the floor in gruesome pools. Heeseung’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears into the demon’s throat, his fingers piercing through flesh and muscle with a sickening squelch.

The demon’s eyes roll back, his body convulsing as Heeseung's grip tightens further. With a final, brutal yank, Heeseung rips the throat from the demon's body, the detached flesh dangling grotesquely from his hand. Blood sprays in an arc, coating the floor, walls, and over you and the Prince of hell, the metallic scent mixing with the sulphurous air.

The demon’s body collapses to the ground, twitching and spasming as it rapidly loses the battle for life. Heeseung casually tosses the mangled throat aside, wiping his bloodied hands on his trousers with a look of disdain. But he isn’t finished. Heeseung’s eyes glow with a fierce intensity as he crouches over the still-twitching body. With merciless precision, he plunges his hand into the demon's chest, feeling around for the pulsating heart. The demon’s mouth opens in a silent scream, his body arching in agony.

“You’re a fool to pick a human suit, this is too easy,” he laughs, staring crazily into your attacker's eyes.

Closing his fingers around the heart and with a feral growl, Heeseung bursts the main organ before he rips it from the chest cavity. Blood gushes out in torrents, the heart still beating weakly in Heeseung’s grip. He holds it aloft for a moment, his expression one of savage triumph, before crushing it in his hand, the remnants of the heart splatter onto the floor, a macabre testament to his power and strength.

Never bring a knife to a demon fight.

Lying lifeless, a broken, bloody shell of himself, the demon remains still, finally moving on from the pain. Heeseung stands, wiping his hand on the demon’s clothes with an air of finality, his lips upcurled in disgust. It’s been a while since he got his hands dirty but he has to set an example to the other soldiers of his legions. If he starts getting soft now, they’ll eventually overrun him. 

Turning back to you, Heeseung’s expression softens slightly, though the remnants of his violent act still linger in his eyes. “What the fuck happened, Y/N?” he asks annoyed, as if you were the one that asked for any of this to happen.

“I-I don’t know, just please get me out of here,” you stutter, your mind still trying to process the nightmare it just witnessed. Watching a man be brutally torn apart before your eyes has left you shaken to the core.

Sighing softly, Heeseung’s gaze sweeps over your body, his attention fixed on the wound on your arm. With careful deliberation, he reaches out and gently takes hold of your arm, his face drawing nearer to inspect the injury.

His touch is surprisingly gentle, contrasting sharply with the violence you’ve just witnessed. The warmth of his hand against your skin feels oddly comforting, a reassuring anchor in the midst of chaos. Heeseung’s expression softens, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he examines the wound.

“I’ll take care of this,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing contrast to the lingering tension in the air. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin as he carefully inspects the cut.

What you don’t expect is for his tongue to run over the slit, collecting the blood that streams from it. At first, your face is horrified, the ministration causing your stomach to churn, yet, as he laps up your wound, you feel relief, his muscle easing the sting and allowing your arm to relax, even if only slightly.

Heeseung is engrossed in the taste, the sweet metallic now overpowering all of his senses, and the sensory overload rushes directly to his cock. His member twitches in his pants as it begs to be released, Heeseung’s arousal flowing through his body, so much so that between each healing lick he is moaning out profanities.

Your body gets hot as you hear him get off over the taste of your crimson nectar. There is a first for everything but you never thought one day you would be in hell, handcuffed to a pole, and have Beelzebub exploring his blood kink right in front of you.

“You taste so good, Baby,” he whispers, his attention finally drawing from your arm to your face. 

It is at this moment that he sees the perfect opportunity. You, who are so determined to never lay with Heeseung again, refusing to cheat on your precious puppies, are all tied up and in the perfect position. 

Once you catch that desire-driven look on his face, you squirm slightly, attempting to free yourself from the restraints. But what Heeseung interprets as defiance is actually reciprocation. There's an undeniable thrill in seeing him defend you, dismantle your tormentor with a ferocity that leaves him splattered in blood - it makes you ache with need, your pussy crying in lust. You yearn to break free from these confines and throw yourself at him.

"You're so vulnerable, darling. What if I hadn't answered your calls?" he murmurs, his crimson-stained hands already unfastening the buttons of your jeans. You whimper as his fingers hover tantalisingly close to where you crave his touch. “You were screaming for me earlier, do you think you could do it again?”

His question is loaded, a subtle way to ask for your consent. He wants to make sure as much as he would love to just ravage you right here without a care in the world, he understands - even as a prince of hell - that he would be no better than the dead demon beside you if he took what he wanted without asking.

Swallowing your guilt and pride, you nod, finally giving in to him after months of cat and mouse. “I’ll scream hell down,” you whisper, keeping an intense stare on him.

It’s all the go-ahead he needs before he’s yanking down your Levis and panties, leaving you bare on your bottom half. Hurriedly, the prince frees his cock, stroking it a few times. “You can take it with no prep, right, sweetheart? Or are those dolls not fucking you good enough.”

You whimper in protest, the biting metal against your skin almost painful as your body yearns to be close to his, rattling them harshly as you try to break free. The mention of your lovers goes unheard as you disregard what he's saying and any guilt you should feel. Lust and impatience pulse through your veins, overwhelming all other emotions.

His bloody hands grip your thighs, harshly guiding your legs to wrap around him as he puppeteers you into place. Despite your lack of words, Heeseung takes your mewls of need as the go-ahead to delve in without working you open. Truthfully, Heeseung’s cock is a lot bigger than Jaeyun’s or Sunghoon’s, so prepping you would have been a great thing to ask for, but as your cunt leaks onto his stiff shaft, you know as well as he does that there is no time to be wasted, both of you craving this as much as the other.

With one harsh thrust, he plummets into you, the stretch from his girth both agonising and pleasurable. The pain heightens your experience, his cock bottoming inside you, eliciting a half-moan, half-shriek. You hate to admit it but you missed his cock and how you can feel the veins drag along your walls.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby. Are they really not fucking you?” he lefts out a sharp laugh before moving his hips in a steady rhythm. “You needed my cock, didn’t you?” 

Responding with fervent affirmations of "yes," your knuckles turn white as you clench your fists, yearning to touch him, feeling his smooth, doll skin yield beneath your nails. You needed his cock more than anything, all those times of pushing him away and deflecting your desires, this was a long time coming.

He grips your hips tightly as you hang there helplessly, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he finds a harsh pace that sends butterflies in your stomach. He missed being inside of you, feeling how your walls hug him tight as your body overcomes with bliss. 

Suddenly, his lips meld with yours, causing his rhythm to momentarily falter until he adjusts, finding the perfect angle to hammer into you. Heeseung's tongue slips between your lips, and you taste him on your tongue, your saliva wetting his mouth as your bodies move together in an urgent rhythm.

“Fuck, Heeseung!” you yelp, your lips retracting from him as he hits a soft spot inside of you, each punch of his tip now making you see stars. From that first night you spent together in the mansion all those months ago, you haven’t had the privilege to experience anything this otherworldly, Jaeyun and Sunghoon taking you to the moon but it pales in comparison to the galaxies that Heeseung promises you.

Smirking, he bucks his hips faster. “Scream it, sweetheart, tell me you’re mine,” he coaxes, his frantic eyes trained on your closed ones. He needs to hear you say it, even if only once.

However, once he realises that no words are falling from your lips, he takes his hand and wraps it around your neck, oh so similarly to how he did the demon. “Fucking say it or I’ll end you right now.”

The fear that washes over your being heightens your arousal, your walls collapsing slightly onto his member. It’s embarrassing how much degradation, pain, and fear turn you on. Despite the tiny part of your brain with a conscience screaming out to stop you, you yield, looking him in the eyes with your glossy ones. “Y-yours. I’m yours Heeseung- Fuck!”

His fingers wrap around your airways, his rhythmic thrusts growing more insistent as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear. “You're a good girl, so good for me,” his voice is barely audible over the crescendo of your moans. The world outside seems to fade away, replaced by the primal intensity of the moment. If hell didn't know you were lost in this passion before, it certainly does now.

The praises mixed with the pain of his grip bring you close to the edge along with each kiss from the tip of his cock to your cervix. Between the warmth of the room, the heat radiating from your body, and the lack if oxygen passing through your lungs, you feel yourself shutting down, every sense overwhelmed by the brutal fucking.

“I’m gonna-” you warn, pulling yourself up with whatever strength you can muster in an attempt to gain some control. Typically, your hands would be raking down your partner's back, grounding you as you come undone, however, the metal doesn’t provide the same comfort that you’re used to.

“Cum over my cock, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel,” he urges, chasing his own release as you start to milk his dick, drawing out the doll's cum with fervour. 

With one loud scream of his name, you release your essence over him, your hands that were once gripping the cuffs now go flaccid, letting the waves of your orgasm take over. Your mind is not in the space to warn you that doing so would hurt your wrists but like the masochist you are, the nips from the restraints only add a sadistic pleasure to your climax.

Your embrace entices Heeseung, guiding him towards climax as he releases deeply inside you, his grip around your throat tightening briefly before easing, letting you gasp for air. His hips maintain their rhythm, driving his essence into you as if intent on securing it forever.

"Take it all, sweetheart," he murmurs huskily against your neck, teasing your sensitive spot before nipping it firmly.

The sudden rush of sensations overwhelms you, pleasure mingling with the faint sting of his bite. Heeseung's movements grow more urgent, each thrust seeming to imprint his desire deeper within you. His whispered encouragements and the rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting fill the air, creating a symphony of passion.

With every surge, he drives deeper, claiming you completely in the throes of ecstasy. His touch, both tender and possessive, ignites a fire that burns through you, each moment building towards an inevitable crescendo of shared release.

As you both come down from your highs, the only sound in the room is your heavy breathing and squelching from your combined fluids as Heeseung thrusts a couple more times before slipping out of you. 

He admires his work; your worn-out body, the blood from the demon that has transferred onto your beautiful skin, and the cum dripping from your cunt and mixing with the chartreuse-covered floor. You’re a vision to him and if he was enamoured by you before, he’s just become dementedly obsessed.

Your eyes close and your legs go weak, losing their grip on his waist as you slowly begin to pass out. It’s not good for a human to be down in the pits of hell, not for as long as you have, thus, moving with a hint of urgency, Heeseung breaks your cuffs as though they were made of plastic and cradles your body against his.

“Shhh,” he whispers as he nuzzles his nose into your neck. Heeseung refuses to be vulnerable but you bring out a side of him that no one has ever been able to before. He wants to protect you, to worship you, to have you by his side at all times.

And he’ll be damned if this is the last time he has you.

[weasleyreidstyles]

Serendipity Masterlist

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

series status: currently on hold (but not for long!!🙈)

“serendipity is the phenomenon of discovering something interesting or valuable by chance”

no use of y/n, but your general nickname is Meadow. All characters are aged up to be over 18. and bellatrix isn't mattheo's mother in this fic (just fyi)

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

general warning(s): 18+ content, angst, fluff, some canon compliance, some canon divergence, typical wizarding world violence, war, torture, drugging, hospitals, familial problems, mean!harry, mean!ron....

** indicates smut warning

~∞~ chapter one

chapter summary: on the trainride to your sixth year, your friends give you a proposition that you can't refuse.

~∞~ chapter two

chapter summary: it's your first day back as a sixth year student. Classes are more intense and your first lesson with Mattheo ensues.

~∞~ chapter three

chapter summary: the first Hogsmeade trip of the year has a rather unpleasant ending.

~∞~ chapter four

chapter summary: after you end up confined to the Hospital Wing, you're surprised when Professor Dumbledore pays you a visit.

~∞~ chapter five

chapter summary: Mattheo has been avoiding you. You find and confront him after a frustrating week.

~∞~ chapter six **

chapter summary: the growing tension between you and Mattheo snaps. He reveals something about yourself that you has scarcely any prior knowledge of.

~∞~ chapter seven

chapter summary: joyful dinner parties and a switch in point of view. Two juxtaposing starts to the christmas holidays.

~∞~ chapter eight **

chapter summary: you're given plenty of revelations: all equally as daunting as the other.

~∞~ chapter nine

chapter summary: Ginny ambushes you in the library and Ron's birthday is off to a delirious start.

~∞~ chapter ten

chapter summary: in the aftermath of Ron's poisoning, Harry learns a thing or two about where your loyalties lie when he overhears your private conversation with the headmaster.

~∞~ chapter eleven

chapter summary: intent on avoiding him, you underestimate just how desperate Mattheo is to be around you.

~∞~ chapter twelve

chapter summary: new friendships are formed and you finally learn to control your abilities. Mattheo comes to a life altering realisation.

~∞~ chapter thirteen **

chapter summary: idk how to summarise this but i will say it's pure smut...enjoy

~∞~ chapter fourteen

chapter summary: friendships are rekindled and you save Draco from certain death in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, igniting your powers in the process.

~∞~ chapter fifteen

chapter summary: now fully recovered, Draco has a task to complete. The fate of the Wizarding World hangs in the precipice of his actions.

~∞~ chapter sixteen

chapter summary: after a startling and gutting discovery. secrets are revealed and alliances are questioned as Voldemort's tyranny begins to fester into the beginnings of another war.

*invisible string fits into the plot here!!*

~∞~ chapter seventeen

chapter summary: Dumbledore's funeral reveals new allies as you navigate a world without its protector.

~∞~ chapter eighteen

chapter summary: with his new role as a secret spy of the Order, Mattheo begins to grapple with the consequences of the horrors that occur at his father's hand.

series oneshots/headcannons:

~∞~ tulips & starlight – valentines day drabble

~∞~ serendipity hcs (mattheo) – a glimpse at his life pre sixth year

~∞~ invisible string – bonus scene from chapter 16 **

~∞~ snippets of navigating fifth year with fred weasley

series taglist:

(striked out users are ones that i couldn't tag, reblogs of the individual posts have an extended taglist)

@camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8 @xluansstuff @babeylover @thejadeazalea @undercover-smutlover @adhxmoony @dreamingofonceuponatime @thepassionatereader @urmomsgayforme5 @aphroditeisamilf @devotedlycrookeddonut @purplegirls-posts @nofacenonamelikekira @foxboyapologist @lafrone @lovely-maryj @nromanovaswife @leeknows-wife @dracygf @wildlyobserving @ravenclawprincess33 @melllinaa @vellicora @lantsovheiress @emiliahoward @stunkbiggu @vcosette @prongsprincessworld @mattiesgirl @rachmmb @x-kermit-x @sun-fiower-seed @cas-planet @certaindreampost @weirdowithnobeardo @mikalovesicecream @sunasbbie @rainy-darling @faeriepigeons @lovely-blackinnon @hiireadstuff @gimalo135 @elsafromcabinsix @moonlightreader649 @blueshome @nopedefe @spencerreidsthings @navs-bhat @agent-tempest @magimtz23 @y0urm0m12 @sbrn0905 @leona-hawthorne @whatsupb18 @moni-cah @taylorann2013 @unstablereader @gisellesprettylies @nat1221

[lovverletters]

ILLUSION˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

❝IN WHICH ㅡ Your husband seems to have change for the better. Although is it really him? Or somebody else masquerading as your husband ❞

A/N : Unofficial comeback hihi !! I made this in 3 hours please don't judge my word vomit

T/W : bad relationship, mentioned of murder, not edited, yandere theme, twist at the end

«────── « ⋅ʚ💌ɞ⋅ » ──────»

[name] sighed for ninth time of the day, everything is going horribly for them.

Early this morning, they had accidentally burnt the breakfast they were cooking for you and their husband, Mauve. He did not take kindly to it and yelled at them before leaving for his work.

It only worsen as they had forgotten their lunch and had to work on an empty stomach while their less than pleasant boss chewed them up for their failing performances.

Then, their car broke down and had to be towed away while they went home on a cab with the world most unpleasant driver ever.

It felt as if the world was against them. Pinning them against the corner like a bully demanding for their lunch money.

Now, they sat at the dinner table staring at the food that's slowly growing colder as they waited for Mauve to come home. As the clock struck 10 and their husband was still not home, [name] sighed once more before cleaning up the table.

Despite their very best effort to avoid addressing the glaring issue of their crumbling marriage, [name] couldn't ignore it anymore.

Mauve and them hardly resembled a married couple, they don't spend time with each other due to clashing schedule and even if they were free, they'd much rather be alone than with each other. The two of them would bicker and argue over unnecessary stuff, don't even mention being physically intimate with each other. They're practically practicing abstinence.

[name] has been the only party making effort to keep the relationship going but Mauve was not doing the same.

It is clear as day that the spark and love they have had simply dried up.

" I should just divorce him at this point .. " [name] muttered before falling into a deep slumber.

«────── « ⋅ʚ💌ɞ⋅ » ──────»

The next morning, they awoke to a delicious aroma coming from the kitchen. [name] sat up in surprise at the smell and walking to the source of the wonderful aroma.

To their surprise for the second time, they sees Mauve flipping pancakes in his suit and ties. Upon hearing their approaching footsteps, Mauve turned over and greetes them with a smile.

" Good morning honeybun, I made pancakes for breakfast. Come take a seat " He plated the freshly made pancakes and placing it on the table.

Huh? Honeybun? Where did that come from?

[name] were puzzled at Mauve's odd behaviour. He glanced at them worriedly when he realised they had not yet taken a seat and had been standing at the doorway with a gaping mouth.

" What's wrong honeybun? Why are you standing there like you've seen a ghost " Mauve placed a gentle hand on their shoulder.

" Whㅡ what's the special occasion, Mauve? " they dumbly said.

" Hm? Don't I always makes us breakfast everyday? " He said, albeit a bit confused.

[name] blinked. Once. Twice.

" No? I'd always do the cooking " They replied with an equally confused face.

Mauve went silent before rubbing the back of his neck nervously with a sheepish smile.

" Ah, I don't? I was just messing with you honeybun~ "

They squinted their eyes at their ' husband ', feeling suspicious of his change of behaviour. Just yesterday he was yelling at them for burning his toast and today he's done a complete 180.

" You don't usually call me petnames either. What is up with you today? " They sat down on the chair and begun cutting up the pancakes.

Mauve closed his mouth once again and stayed silent, [name] could almost hear the cogwheels in his brain turning to form a response. After a while, he finally spoke with a deep sigh.

" Look. [name], baby. I've realised all these years I've been a dick to you and not treating your right " His voice quivered.

" Yesterday, I had an epiphany of sort and I don't want to lose someone as amazing as you, [name]. Will you give me a second chance in loving you? " He held their hand in a gentle grasp, his eyes reflecting his sincerity.

[name] was at a loss for word. They genuinely didn't expect to hear that from their husband. They were ashamed of the tiny flame that sparked within them at his words.

They were conflicted, however after contemplating for some time in their head. They finally made up their mind. [name] placed their own hand atop of Mauve's and gave him a gentle smile.

" I honestly don't know what happened to you yesterday but .. I'm willing to give us a second try to make it work " They said softly.

A grin broke out on Mauve's faceㅡ something they had not seen in years. He then pull them into an embrace and littered kisses all over their faces.

" Thank you, baby. Thank you so much " He happiky hummed onto their skin.

[name] couldn't help but grew flustered at his onslaught of affection. They were not used to it but it wasn't unwelcomed. They slowly reciprocated Mauve's hug and buried their face onto his shoulder.

Finally, something's going right for them.

«────── « ⋅ʚ💌ɞ⋅ » ──────»

He almost felt bad for fooling [name] on thinking that their pathetic excuse of a husband could ever change.

For someone as successful as Mauve was, he is incredibly stupid for neglecting the most amazing spouse a person could ever wish for. Honestly, he felt his blood boils seeing [name]'s astonished reaction to him performing simple husbandry dutiesㅡ it shows that the bastard never treats his spouse right.

It disgust him greatly to be Mauve's döppleganger, to share the same likeness as him. But without it, he wouldn't be able to intervene and replaces him.

Nonetheless, he'd already removed Mauve's out of the picture. If there's one thing he doesn't regret is watching the light slowly dimmed from Mauve's eyes as he kills him.

Now, he shall fulfill his position as [name]'s husband, 'Mauve'.

THE END˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

[konigsblog]

younger!stepmom!reader x perv!loser!stepson!könig plsplsplsplspls

tw/cw; stepcest, perv!loser!stepson!könig x stepmom!reader, smut, non-consensual touching, dub-con, groping, manipulation. MDNI 18+

note; könig is aged to be in his mid-twenties in this.

ever since you married könig's father, he hasn't been able to keep his filthy hands off of you. he's way too touchy-feely, brushing it off as him just building a relationship with his new stepmother, a perverted and deranged weirdo being your new stepson.

he stalks you constantly, steals your lingerie and uses it for his own enjoyment. könig wraps your lace panties around his lengthy shaft, his muscular body large and aching. he hasn't been in the military for long, only in his mid-twenties. he's never been in a relationship before, conventionally unattractive and unpleasant to be around, clinging to his stepmother for affection and pleasure.

könig is a loser, he's been deprived of the warmth and tightness of your gummy, velvety pussy around his meaty, girthy shaft, fantasising about fucking you while watching taboo, stepcest porn on his computer. könig spends the majority of his time on leave groping you, rubbing up against you and kissing you messily, forcing your face into his. you have to push him away at the realisation that he's trying to slide his big, hung cock into you, his thick fingers curling inside your tight hole like the creepy pervert he is, with his leaking dick bigger than his father's.

he'll compliment everything, from the clothes you wear, the perfume scent on your neck, to your cooking. he's a big boy, he'll eat anything and everything, asking for seconds and thirds just to appeal to his beloved stepmother.

due to his stepfather marrying later on in his life, he has extreme mommy issues. his craving for a relationship is intense, unable to differentiate his stepmother from a girlfriend.

[seventeenpins]

a slight miscalculation - pt. i

pairing: Joel x F!Reader

word count: 8.3k

summary: Sarah is off to college, and Joel is about to be living in an empty nest. They road trip out together, and as she spends her first night in her new apartment, he's staying in a nearby hotel. Letting go of his inhibitions for the first time in a long time, he tumbles into a one night stand that becomes very complicated, very quickly.

content/warnings: smut, age gap, mycologist!reader, dick sucking, implied pussy eating, fingering, no outbreak au, reader likes to hike, reader also infodumps, joel miller has a big cock, he also has anxiety, reader has anxiety too, and a cat, reader is in early 20s--exact age not established, one (1) use of daddy, alcohol and weed consumption, joel is a diligent condom wearer, set in present day, discussion of girl scout cookies, joel is sweet and soft and hasn't been eviscerated by the death of his daughter

a/n: I'm intending this to be about five parts. This may change, but right now it's looking like five. I've been struggling to write for a while, unable to focus, but I think I'm back at it? as always, your feedback is hugely appreciated, and i'm kissing all likers and commenters and rebloggers deeply and with tongue 🩷

check out pt. ii

For the first time in nineteen years, Joel is completely adrift. Sarah's starting college in just two months.

It's the kind of realization that hits him like a bucket of ice water, a sudden shock and then an unpleasant trickling of anxiety wrapping about him in nasty tendrils. And then he feels guilty, because he's so, so happy for Sarah because he knows that she's thrilled, but fuck she's gonna be two time zones away and now what's Joel meant to do on Thursday movie nights when he's here without her?

It's terrifying, and it's new. And it's not that he's new to anxiety. He's usually anxious, and he has the Sertraline on his bedside stand to prove it. But if his general anxiety baseline usually hovered around a 6.4, where he was at now far surpassed a 10. It felt exponential, and totally exhausting.

When he voices his fears to Tommy, to Joel's horror, Tommy just doubles over in laughter.

"Jesus, Joel," he wheezes, wiping fake tears from his eyes in exaggerated movements, "You looked so serious I thought you were gonna say you'd killed someone."

Joel scowls. "The fuck you laughing for?"

"She's going to college, it's not like she's dying!"

"How'm I gonna be there for her? What if she needs me? What if-"

"Joel-," Tommy pats him gently on the shoulder, "She can always call you, and you can always call her. And we both know she's got a good head on 'er shoulders."

Joel snorts in concession. "Yeah, yeah. Better than yours and mine put together, and then some."

"Exactly." Tommy agrees, "And if there's ever anything that really goes wrong, you got me. We can drive out together and make sure she's okay."

Joel nods and feels the tiniest bit of tension leave him. One step at a time.

Just over nineteen years ago he found out he was about to be a dad. Suddenly, he had a purpose. Having a kid at twenty-two wasn't something he'd ever intended, but somehow he knew he loved his baby girl from the moment he knew she was a possibility. He spent a solid seven months running around, hustling, doing everything he could to get the very best for his kid. He'd take on doubles, working himself to the bone to make sure they had the best crib, and the best stroller, too. He was thrilled and terrified and so, so green.

Now, his heart feels so big he doesn't know how to handle it. His baby girl is an honest-to-god adult, moving out and going to college, and he has no idea what he's gonna do with his time now.

He has work, of course. But beyond that? He's really gotta to widen his circle, he realises, because who's he gonna hang out with? His brother?

He'd only just turned forty-one and had absolutely not come to terms with an empty nest--the few friends from high school he'd kept in touch with were so much further behind than him. The ones that had kids had them later in their twenties and thirties, and now they're raising middle schoolers while Joel's kid is a real fucking person, leaving home and everything. All the scrapping and saving he'd been doing since before Sarah was born–for his little girl to be able to follow any dream she chose–it was finally paying off. The precocious young woman she is, she graduated early and spent nearly a year working retail to save up some cash. She'd applied to colleges all across the country, and a few international ones, too. Joel had been crossing his fingers for months, hoping she'd choose something near Austin, but cheered with her all the same when she got her acceptance letter from Oregon State University. The previous summer, just before she'd started her applications, she and Joel and Tommy spent a miserable, wonderful week hiking round the Pacific Northwest. She fell in love with it, and the university offered a few of the majors she wanted to consider.

Joel didn't know what he'd do with his baby girl so far away, his life, his reason, but he sure as hell wasn't gonna tell her that. He will not clip her wings. His baby's gonna change the world and he's not gonna hold her back. He is, though, gonna require regular phone calls and check-ins and god they grow up so fast.

"Y'all should road trip out there," Tommy suggests one night over the dinner table.

Joel knew the conversation of how Sarah would get to the West Coast would come up, and it oughta be sooner rather than later. He was half afraid that she wanted to head out on her own, that she didn't need her dad anymore. Worried she would say she wanted to get a plane ticket, or take the Amtrak all the way to Corvallis. But he knows he needs to loosen his grip a little, so he braces himself when he turns to her.

"What'dya think, Sarah? You wanna be stuck in a car with your old man for a cross-country trip?"

Sarah rolls her eyes, but her face breaks into a grin. "Can we, Dad?"

This was too good to be true, he knew, but he wasn't gonna give up one last opportunity to spend some time with his girl till winter break.

"Course, baby," he tells her, and that flicker of anxiety quells just the tiniest bit.

The next few weeks fly by, and the knot of anxiety in Joel's chest feels like it's consuming him from the inside out. He's taken some time off, more than Sarah or Tommy can remember, but he's constantly trying to suggest ideas for activities to Sarah. For the most part, she's a good sport, understanding how much it means to her dad. She took pity on him, and let him drag her to places that ideally she would've gone to when she was little, but she humored him and he appreciated her dedication. He did his best to step back when she was heading out to spend time with friends--her time here was limited, after all, and she was always a social butterfly.

There are five weeks till classes start, four weeks, three, two, and in the blink of an eye, they're loading up the truck with all of Sarah's things, and Tommy is hugging Sarah goodbye, teary eyed. He gives Joel a hug, too. Joel would never admit it, but fuck he had really needed that hug.

They would take the scenic route. Make a memorable trip of it. Joel would make sure she settles in safe and sound, and then he'd head home.

6am Sunday.

You wake with a start. It's just over a week before term starts and your entire body aches. Fuck, you think to yourself, definitely overdid it with that last hike.

(The hiking part wasn't itself a problem, but one of the trails had washed out. You thought you'd found your way, but the "easy" three and a half mile hike took about five hours, leaving your calves bruised and your heels blistered.)

You roll over in your hotel room bed and, at the sound of a slight yelp followed by a gentle thud, realise with a sudden start that you just catapulted your cat off the corner.

"Shit, sorry goblin," you tell Spatula, who glares up at you with disdain as he licks at his paw. You reach down and, despite your inadvertent cat launch, he immediately rubs up against your fingertips and lets you scratch behind his ears.

"I'm sorry, baby," you soothe.

He meows, loudly. Howls, really. You take it as an apology accepted.

You sit up properly and look at your phone calendar. Nothing immediate. You don't need to get keys to your new apartment till tomorrow, nor do you meet your roommates till then–they're both moving in today, and moving is already horrible without having to navigate around the belongings of two other people. No, thanks. You can afford one more night at the hotel, and it'll make everything go that little bit more smoothly tomorrow. Besides, you have a bit of reading you'd like to get through, maybe stock up on non-perishables till you have a full-sized fridge, and get to know the city just a little.

You move gingerly, testing the ache in your muscles as you unfold yourself from the position you've been sat in and pull yourself from the bed. It hurts, but not something that won't be fixed with a little movement.

A plan forms. First, a walk, to try and loosen up your tight muscles. Then, errands. You have a whole list, with everything categorised by store, but then you enter IKEA and exit fifteen minutes later, only to find that five and a half hours have passed and it's evening now.

How was it that IKEA harnessed such a malicious power. How could anything harness that?

You need a fucking break. And a goddamn drink.

"Hey Dad," Sarah calls from the adjacent bedroom as Joel sweats, hauling another box towards her. The drive has been good, but it has been long. His legs ache. His back aches. There are parts of him that he didn't know existed that now ache.

"Yeah?" he calls back.

"Are you sure you're okay with me staying here tonight?"

Joel lets out a breath. He wants to be okay with it. And there's no way his nineteen year old would want to hang out with her dad when she could be spending the very first night in her brand new apartment. But he also wishes she wanted to spend one last night, hanging out in a hotel room with her dad. They could watch shitty movies together. Make the most of the final night before this cataclysmic shift.

But no.

That'd just be him being selfish. He can handle a night by himself. He's gotta handle a whole lotta them soon enough.

"O'course baby," he nods, hoping the smile he's plastered on his face looks totally genuine. "But we're still doin' breakfast in the morning, right?"

She nods, vigorous, and then waves her phone around. "I was looking up places! There's a diner called Tommy's," she laughs, "Wanna try that? 9:30?"

"Let's do it," he smiles, and this one is a little less forced.

"How much more do we have?" Sarah asks, nodding towards the box Joel's still holding.

"Last box," he grunts, "What else can I help with?"

He places the box down and lets out a slight, almost silent whimper. Sarah catches it, though.

"Maybe you should take it easy the rest of the day, Dad," she tells him, "We both know you have old man back."

He rolls his eyes but nods. "Guess you're right," he shrugs, "That my cue to take off?"

Sarah blushes but turns to him sheepishly. "Yeah, I-"

"No need to explain," Joel assures, "I know you must wanna get unpacked and settle in, get to know your roommates an' all."

She jumps up and, almost startling him, wraps her arms around him in a bear hug.

"Love you, dad," she grins, and she squeezes just a little tighter than usual.

He squeezes back, and they both pretend there aren't tears in his eyes.

As you step through the doors of the hotel bar, you decide you like it. The lighting is comfortably low. It's not loud, but it's not quiet, either. Colorful bottles line the shelves, the light of the filament bulbs glinting off the glass in rainbow prisms.

You take a seat at the bar and give a nod of thanks as the bartender passes you a small menu. It's unsurprisingly extortionate, hotel bar and all, but it'll do.

"Old fashioned, please," you tell the bartender, who nods in response. A minute later, he hands you a glass, delivered with a twist of orange and a cherry on top.

With your first sip, you feel your shoulders start to relax and some of the tension loosen from your body. The warmth of the burn envelops you and your stress starts to unravel, leaving only the buzz feeling good.

You order a second, and as the glass is handed to you, a voice to your right catches your attention.

"This seat taken?" a man asks.

You shake your head and offer a quick smile, gesturing towards it, "All yours."

"Much obliged," he nods, and slips into the backless stool next to yours.

The bartender comes over and passes him the same menu, but without looking at it he asks, "Could I get an old fashioned?"

You smile and catch his eye, tipping your glass towards him. "An excellent choice," you praise, "Though if you don't have a sweet tooth, I'd recommend asking Jeff there if he can go easy on the simple syrup."

"Oh yeah?" He asks, and then he leans in conspiratorially. "T'tell you the truth, I do have a bit of a sweet tooth."

You raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Suddenly, he breaks into a grin and it's dazzling.

"Yeah," he laughs, "I've got cookies stashed in secret locations all through my house."

You raise an eyebrow. "If I keep 'em in my pantry, my brother'll find 'em and eat 'em all," he explains, "But ever since my kid was a girl scout, I always get cravings for girl scout cookies, so I buy an armful o'boxes and try and preserve 'em throughout the year, till I can replenish."

"What's your favorite girl scout cookie?"

"Caramel deLites, hands down."

"Oh yeah?"

"Absolutely," he nods.

The bartender, Jeff, sets the man's drink down with a clink. You catch one another's eye and both erupt into a fit of laughter.

You're not even sure what's funny. Maybe it's just been a long day? Maybe the whiskey was getting to you?

Whatever it is, it feels good.

The man takes a sip of his drink and lets out an aaaahh and it's goofy and charming and then he extends his hand.

"Joel," he tells you, "Joel Miller". You shake his hand, introduce yourself, and then take a sip of your own drink.

"So, tell me about yourself," you smile, "You coming from out of town?"

"Yes ma'am," he nods, "Come up here from Austin."

"Texas?"

Joel nods.

"That's a long trip."

"Yeah," he laughs, "It really is."

"So, you're a nice Southern boy, huh?"

"Well," he swishes his glass and tries to bite back a smile, "I don't know that I'd go quite so far, but my mama did raise me to be a gentleman."

"That so?" you ask and his blush deepens.

"I... have been known to get up to some trouble, but I like to think I've mellowed in my old age." He gestures at the beautiful little smatterings of silver at his temples, and you cackle.

"Okay, that's hot," you tell him and he chokes, but you keep going, "Old age, though? What are you, like, forty?"

He exhales, chagrined. "Forty-one."

You roll your eyes. "That ain't old."

"It feels it sometimes," he smiles, "My kid is grown. My little brother's married with a kid of his own on the way. My back hurts, pretty much all the time."

You snort. You also notice, without trying to look, that he doesn't have a wedding band. Doesn't have a tan line for one, either. Interesting.

"But more than that," he continues, "I guess I feel- I don't know. A little... aimless?"

"Yeah," you nod, and you let the moment sit. "I get that."

He lets out a little breath, and then turns back to you, focused.

"What about you? Where're you from?"

"Oof," you exhale, "All over. Spent a bit of time on the East coast. The Midwest. Lived a few months in the South, even," you tease as you bump your shoulder into his and he laughs. It's a surprisingly familiar gesture, but miraculously comfortable.

"Ever make it to Texas?"

"Naw," you shake your head, "My time in the South was all in Mississippi. After that I moved out to California, and I've been slowly working my way up the West Coast."

"And what have you been enjoying about the West Coast?" Joel asks.

"The mushrooms," you grin, and Joel frowns.

"Like, the kind you get in a little baggy from the dealer down the street, or-?"

"No," you laugh, "Or, well- Okay, sometimes. Gotta say it is great out here for that, too. But I mean fungus as a whole--mushrooms, mold, yeast, lichen. But I'm most interested in mushrooms. They're just really fuckin' cool, and there's so much we don't understand about them. And, they're delicious."

"Huh," Joel ponders, "T'tell you the truth, I've never thought much about mushrooms, besides enjoying 'em as a pizza topping."

"Most people don't," you agree, "But fuck, like-- Okay, so we know there are over five million types of fungi on Earth, but we've identified less than two percent of them. Some fungus aids decomposition. Some fungus is bioluminescent. Some are known worldwide for their delicious flavours, and others are known by the slow, horrible ways they kill you."

Joel raises his eyebrows, and suddenly you feel a little self conscious.

"Sorry, I do this," you laugh, rubbing at the back of your neck, "I get very excited about fungus and manage to alienate everyone around me."

You half expect him to stand up and walk away.

Instead, though, he leans in closer. "Don't apologise," he tells you, "I'm learning something new. Tell me more?"

"No, I should stop. Otherwise I'll never stop talking," you wince.

"How about just one more fungus fact?"

You sit for a minute, pondering. "This is- well, I guess this is one of the reasons I find fungus so fascinating. So, fungus can't photosynthesise the way that plants do--they can't produce their own food from sunshine, and water, and carbon dioxide. Instead, their mycelium-- they're these thread-like networks--they branch out beneath the earth, seeking out food, growing in the direction where it can find the nutrients it needs and breaking down organic material all around them, sometimes living organisms, as a parasite, and sometimes dead organisms as a decomposer, or both. And it's just- It's this hidden world, that exists right beneath the surface even in some of the extreme places on earth, temperature-wise. And most days, we don't even think about it."

You punctuate your thought with a large swallow of your drink, which is half-watered down now that the ice is melted, and doesn't hit quite as hard as you'd hoped, but then you look up at Joel and he's smiling at you, pensive, and--

"That's- That's actually really interesting."

Before you can respond, though, Joel glances at his watch and balks. It is getting late. "Shit," he shakes his head, "I think I oughta call it a night," he says, pulling back. "Early morning tomorrow, and if I stay at the bar I'll just keep drinkin'."

Fuck. That's a dismissal. Of course you went on too much about mushrooms. You'd fucked this up. You'd thought this was going well, but now it felt like a bucket of cold water was dumped over you. "Oh," you nod, matching his posture, and try to swallow down the sudden wave of disappointment. "Of course. Have a good night, Joel."

Joel stands up and then looks you up and down, considering. It's not brazen, but it isn't shy, either. And then understanding flashes across his face.

"Wait- Sorry, that's not how I meant it." He reaches out towards you and you melt into his touch. "I'm messin' this up." He chuckles, but it sounds pained. "Now look, I don't wanna make any presumptions. And I'm really hopin' I'm not coming off as some--dirty old man. Jesus, I haven't done this in a while. But I'm in room 308."

Your eyebrows shoot up. What you'd taken for disinterest was just--nerves?

"I reckon I'll be awake for a while yet. You're welcome to... drop by."

The disappointment melts, making way for a fluttering in your stomach.

"Twenty minutes," you assure him, "308?"

He nods and he brakes into a sheepish grin, shedding what you now realise had been something of an anxious wince. "308."

You watch him leave. When he's out of sight, you toss back the rest of your watery drink and go to pay your tab, but Jeff tells you it was already settled. You thank him and tuck your shaking hands in your pockets. You feel an electricity running through you as you take the elevator up.

When you get back to your room, you hop into the shower, just to freshen up--you keep your hair dry but scrub your body. Once you're clean, you brush your teeth.

Stepping back out of the en suite, you survey the hotel room. Spatula is lounging on the corner of the bed, entirely uninterested in your movements. You top up his dry food bowl and place a kiss between his ears before slipping out.

When you knock at Joel's door, you hear a slight rustle and clatter and then the door swings open, Joel's staring a little wide-eyed, like he didn't actually expect you to show. He's wearing grey sweats and a Johnny Cash t-shirt that looks like it's been around nearly as long as you have. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, an anxious tell that's desperately endearing.

"C'mon in," he smiles, and you step in, closing the door behind you.

You reach out to cup his face, delighting in the feeling of coarse stubble beneath your fingertips. Your first kiss is chaste. You both lean forward and press your lips to one another gently, exploring.

Then, you let out a little moan and Joel shudders. Heat surges between you, and his hands are cradling your head and brushing your cheek and he's pinning you against the closed door. You're kissing again, nothing chaste remaining, learning the taste of him, his rhythm, the crashing waves of give and take between you.

You wrap one leg around him and smirk when he lets out a throaty groan as you grind against his hard cock. You're pretty sure he's not wearing underwear, the thick bulge seemingly unconstrained in his grey sweats, the whole length pressing against your thigh.

Your head falls back and you let out soft, breathy noises as his lips trace along your collarbone, up your throat, and against that tender little spot behind your ear. When he puts your earlobe between his lips and presses his teeth gently against the skin, your knees go weak and he chuckles, strong arms wrapping around you, holding you up.

"Bed?" he asks, and you breathe yes and then, with a yelp and a throaty chuckle, you're lifted up and spun around and both tumbling into the duvet.

You're grasping at each other, desperate to keep your hands on one another. The only times you part is when you undress, and even then, you're helping each other--pulling the hem of his shirt over his lifted arms, pressing into him as he reaches around and moves to unhook your bra, but then he realises you're not wearing one and lets out a groan, his thumbs brushing alongside the tender skin along your ribs, moving gently as if to cup your breasts, but then he pulls back.

Normally you might wait, do this part slowly, draw out the tease just a little bit longer.

Tonight, though, you're ravenous.

As you fiddle with the buttons of your pants, you tug at the drawstring keeping Joel's sweats on his hips. The bow comes loose in one smooth motion, and he lifts his hips and you pull the sweats down.

Your mouth immediately waters seeing him bare, laid out for you. You watch a bead of precum drip down the head and pool on his belly. The coarse hair of his happy trail glistens with it. He's thick, uncut, and looks painfully hard, his cock head ruddy. "Fuck, you're beautiful," you tell him, and his cheeks redden but he grins. It's boyish, the way he grins, and devastatingly charming.

And, what you're saying is true. His body is gorgeous, something you wish you could sketch. Soft flesh over hard muscle, visible tan lines where his chest and shoulders are noticeably lighter than his arms. The muscles and veins along his throat are driving you absolutely fucking insane as he swallows and looks up at you.

He's got freckles on his shoulders, too, and without thinking, you lower yourself down to kiss at his shoulder. He shakes, just a little, and lets out the most beautiful gasp. It's addictive, pulling these noises from him. You follow the curve of him, giving him a taste of his own medicine--tracing feather-light kisses along his collarbone, up the tendons of his neck, behind his ear. You can feel the blood pulse in his veins as your lips brush along him. Joel goes from panting lightly to full on groaning, rutting his hips up towards you and, frustrated, meeting only air.

"Can I taste you?", you ask, and Joel lets out a half-strangled sound and nods, vigorous.

You scoot back, lower yourself, poke out your tongue and, without any preamble, lick at the slit of his head, tasting the salty, tangy precum.

Joel tips his head back and groans and you decide to be kind. You grasp onto his hips and take him in your mouth, slowly sinking down, inch by inch by inch and now you can feel him at the back of your throat, your saliva dripping down the shaft and collecting in the hair between his thighs.

You bob your head up and down, taking him deeper with each thrust, but your throat is full and there are still inches to go. You relax, doing everything you can to take him deeper, and he starts to thrust up gently.

You let him fuck into your mouth but release one of his hips, allowing him to move as freely as he needs and freeing up your hand, which you shove into your underwear, rubbing furiously at your clit.

It doesn't take much to lose yourself in it, to focus only on the sensation. You're so wet, slick coating your fingers, making the glide that much smoother as you touch yourself. Joel tastes so good, too, the intrusion of his cock the most delicious thing, feeling the way he shudders when you moan, the way he moans when you shudder.

"Fuck-" Joel gasps, and then there's a hand guiding you gently off of him.

You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"

He swallows, hard, and nods. "More than okay. Felt too fuckin' good."

"Oh yeah?" and you lean down, as if to take him back in your mouth, but he chuckles and pulls you back again.

"It's been... a while. For me. And-" He drags his palm down his face, wearing an almost pained expression. "Christ, you just look too fuckin' good down there, mouth stretched 'round me while you touch yourself. An' it feels too fuckin' good, too. I ain't ready for this to be over yet but if you keep lettin' me fuck your throat like that it's gonna be over real quick. And I wanna feel that pretty pussy myself."

You sit back up and he pulls you towards him so you're straddling him.

"You gonna fuck me, Joel?"

"Yes," he breathes, "Yes, baby, please-"

You do an awkward wobble and then stand up, shedding your pants and letting your panties drop, stepping out of them, one foot and then the other, and the way he's watching you is addictive. He watches you with beautiful eyes, drinking all of you in, and suddenly the moment has changed into one of those quiet, intimate moments where you both exhale a laugh.

You straddle him again, and lean down to kiss him, and the electric current surges up. He grabs you by the jaw, meeting your desperation. His lips on yours are exactly the balm you need and you can taste the whiskey on his breath.

"Feels fucking good," you tell Joel as you slide up and down his length. He's not penetrating you, not yet, but the lips of your pussy are spread and you're gliding along him, feeling his head at your clit and thrusting back till you're nearly seated on his balls.

He watches you, nearly unblinking, drinking it all in. Then, he lets out a groan, and half-sits up, suddenly focused.

"Shit," he closes his eyes in frustration, "I don't have any condoms. Shit shit shit-"

You push him back down and kiss him again. Then, you hop off the bed and sift around in your jean pockets.

"Ah-ha!," you exclaim, once you've found your treasure. Joel raises and eyebrow and you wink. "Saw they were selling them in the lobby. Figured it might be a good idea."

"Shit," Joel laughs, and presses his lips just to the side of your mouth. "Clever girl," he tells you, and a shiver goes up your spine.

He leans to help, but you shoo him away and he watches, entranced, as you neatly open the condom wrapper and, with a small amount of difficulty, roll it down his cock.

"Feeling okay?" You ask him, "Shit, I shoulda gotten the Magnums. Is your dick okay? It's not being choked to death by an inappropriately sized rubber, is it?"

Joel snorts. "We'll manage," he says, and then he grips you by the hips, lines himself up. He draws his knuckles along your cunt and groans, "Fuck, so goddamn wet for me-" and, the moment you look at him and nod, he holds the head of his cock against your drooling lips and presses into you.

It's a big stretch as he lowers you down onto him, the intrusion almost painful, but before you can even take a breath, it melts into absolute pleasure. You've fucked people with longer cocks before, and you've fucked people with girthier cocks before, but never have you fucked someone with a cock that's both this long and thick and it feels like you're being split in two and it's perfect and you realise, with a sudden flip of your stomach, he isn't even fully seated inside you yet.

Then, you manage to focus on the words Joel is saying-that had really just been background noise for the past ten seconds or so-and suddenly you're tuning back in for "Tha's it," his voice low and hoarse, surprisingly gentle, "Good girl, takin' this cock so well, look at you."

His brow is furrowed and he's looking at you with such dark eyes, nearly black, the pupils are so blown. "Just a little more, that's it, just one more inch, you can do it, christ, look at you, takin' all of me."

His tone is reverent and it sets a fire through you. You can feel more slickness build and drip out of you, and from the way he moans, you're certain he can feel it too despite the condom.

"So fuckin' wet," he groans, "Soakin' my cock- grippin' me so nice-Fuck--"

He leans towards you and cradles your head in his hand, kissing you hard.

When you both pull back, you know your lips must be kiss swollen and red. His are--they're soft and bright, and you want to eat him whole.

"You're gonna be the death of me, woman."

He's thrusting into you lazily, holding you in place, but you need more, you need all of him.

You push forward and move his hand from your waist to your clit. As you manoeuvre him, his nostrils flare, and you'd wonder if he was angry, if not for the way you felt his cock stiffen even further inside of you. You start to move your hips, to rub up against the thumb on your clit, and to feel every fucking inch of him.

Urged on by the way he groans, you start to ride him, properly. Holding each other close, you fuck down onto him and he leans back, awed.

"Enjoying the show?" you ask.

"Damn- right- I- am-," Joel breathes, every word punctuated with a shuddering breath after you drive back down onto his cock, "Jesus- you- look- so- good- like- that."

You like being watched. Being admired. It sent an extra thrill through you, and your hips stutter, just a little, and now you're following a new, faster rhythm.

"Fuck, that's it, baby-" he praises, "Shit, yes- bounce on it."

You lean forward and kiss his throat, and then he makes this noise, half-strangled and beautiful.

"Shit, honey-- honey, honey, hold on-," he holds you still and you're glad he has, because your brain hadn't quite processed his words.

He's looking at you so earnestly.

"Baby, if you keep ridin' me like this I am gonna blow my load in the next twenty seconds and I don't wanna end this quite so soon."

You hum, a moment of consideration. You stare into his eyes, and part of it is calculated seduction, but another part is getting genuinely lost in the way he looks at you. The crinkles round his eyes. The way he seems able to focus on you, in a way that feels as frightening as it is exhilarating.

"How about this," You smile, "You get yours, and then you can eat me out till I get mine. And if you're ready to go again by the time I've come, we can see where we're at then. Hmm?"

You see a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, and take a moment to appreciate how much he's clearly trying to control himself.

After a moments of avoiding your eye, he looks at you again and he looks utterly wrecked. "You- talkin' like that?" He shakes his head and tries to even his breath. "Fuck, I nearly came right there."

"It's okay," you soothe, and you cup his jaw and resume you movements, riding him like you had before. "You can come if you need to-" your fingertips stroke the stubble of his chin, "You're close, huh? It's okay, daddy, you can let go."

Joel lets out a strangled noise and busts immediately.

You savor the way it feels, the pulse of his cock as he spills into you. No, into the condom, you correct yourself, but you can always pretend-

After his balls relax and you can feel him start to get soft, you hold the condom down as you pull yourself off, and you're nearly unseated when there's a sudden squelch noise that sends you both into tumbles of laughter.

It takes a while to calm down, and you find yourselves heaving, tangled in the sheets, and wrapped up in each other. The condom is hanging limply on Joel's now-soft cock and it's oddly cold and gooey as you accidentally roll against it, and that sends you both off again.

"Fuck," Joel snorts, and tugs at the condom, starting to roll it off his length, "I'd almost forgotten the weird texture of a used condom. Fuckin'... Slug-like."

"That-" you declare, "Is visceral. And I hate it. Thanks."

He snorts, and you suddenly have a question.

"Condoms not making too many appearances in your life?"

"Not many, no."

"What, you usually fuck raw?"

"Just haven't been sleepin' with anyone," he shrugs, nonplussed.

"Well, I gotta say, the good people of Austin have been missing out."

Joel shrugs again, and it comes off as casual, but you notice the way his ears tint pink. "Just- not been something I did. But now, I guess, I can. And with way less guilt."

"Why guilt? Are-" you venture, dread pooling in your stomach, "Are you married?"

His eyes flit up to you sharply, and then soften immediately. He lets out a breath and shakes his head. "No. Nothin' like that. I was married, but I've been divorced nearly twenty years now."

The tightness immediately uncoils and you realise how tense you were only a moment ago. I am not a cog in the machine of a collapsing marriage. Thank fuck.

But now your curiosity is piqued. "So... why the guilt?"

"Sorry, I- I really didn't mean to get into it. I'd rather not get into it. It's- complicated."

"Of course," you shrug, and it isn't a problem because this is just a hot fantasy hookup that you'll remember fondly, and it'll be wonderful masturbation fuel for probably the rest of your life, but you don't wanna make the poor guy go into his life's trauma, especially when he's looking at you so fucking earnestly and you are actually really fucking fascinated but no, you would not let this become a problem.

"Thanks," he says, and then steps out of the room. You hear the clang of the bin as he steps on the pedal, then drops the condom, takes a piss and washes his hands.

"You hungry?" He asks, and you realize very suddenly, you're absolutely famished.

"Yes," you jump up and he laughs when you run, bare-assed and shameless, over to the corner of the room filled with brochures and traveller info and finally, you raise it in triumph when you find it, the list of nearby takeaways.

"Okay," you look at the list, "There's one place at the top of the list here that's apparently highly rated, but I actually have plans there soon and I wanna wait till then to eat there. Hope that's okay."

Joel comes over to you and rests his head on your shoulder. "No problem."

"But... alright," you continue. "There's pizza. Or... more pizza. Or, look--there's a Southern-style place, that'll make you feel right at home!" Joel pokes you in the side and you swat at him as he grunts a laugh.

Suddenly, a warning sound starts playing on loop in your brain. It was dreadfully domestic, wasn't it? This was an absolute stranger you'd just met in a hotel bar? But... it also felt... nice? And it felt nice in ways that you'd never found yourself enjoying before. Even with long-term partners. Maybe because this was so low-stakes, you reasoned, such an inevitably temporary situation, so you weren't putting the same kind of pressure on yourself.

As soon as you think that, the eternal curse of overthinking shows itself and you suddenly feel desperately self conscious. Before you can pull away and make some excuse, though, Joel's arm wraps around you and his thumb starts rubbing little circles into a tender bit of skin between your hip and your tummy. The anxiety spiral you'd been teetering on the edge of suddenly vanishes.

"How about-," he nods at the list, "Pizza?"

After Joel calls in your order, the pizza delivery service tells you to expect your food in about thirty minutes. You remember you have a little box of edibles. You ask Joel if he minds if you take one, and he doesn't. You offer him one, and he automatically declines, but then as he starts to explain, he pauses and pivots, goes "Wait, actually. Yeah. Why not?"

A freckled kid who looks no more than sixteen pulls up with a short stack of pizza boxes and a two liter bottle of root beer. He raps awkwardly on the door after exactly thirty five minutes, and it swings open.

The room looks utterly wrecked, clothing strewn along every surface. Joel answers the door wearing a robe, his entire face smelling of sex, and his moustache still shining with the slick of your release.

"Thanks, kid," Joel nods, and hands him a small wad of cash. The kid eyes him and shrugs. "Keep the change," he tells him, and the door swings back shut.

The edibles have hit beautifully. You're both blissed out, comfortably hazy, lost in the sensation of bare limbs on bedsheets and the flavors of the pizza and it's assorted sauces. You lay together on the bed, paper plates strewn between you. In the background, an X-Files rerun plays.

"Ooh!" You sit up as you catch the premise of the episode, "I love this one! See the goo? There's a giant fungal... entity.. that's working on digesting them, and giving them hallucinations as they die."

"You and mushrooms, huh?" Joel laughs, but then looks back at the episode and contemplates the viscous yellow goo. "Jesus christ," he frowns, and sniffs, now contemplating the mushrooms on his pizza slice.

You spot his glare and snort. "I think you're safe."

He takes another bite and shakes his head as if to clear it.

"I'm getting tired," he admits.

"Me too," you agree.

"No pressure, but in case it wasn't clear, you're welcome to stay the night here."

"That's sweet," you tell him, and think it over. "If I took you up on that, would you be offended if I slip out early?"

Joel raises a brow.

"I have a cat," you explain, "And I'm working on moving into a new place, and meeting a friend for breakfast, and then I need to check out after breakfast because I won't be able to get my keys for the new place until the breakfast but I can't take my cat to a diner-"

You take a breath.

"Basically, I've got a bunch of things I need to do in the morning, but if you don't mind me slipping out around, maybe, 5-ish, then I'd love to stay."

He stares at you.

You regret saying as much as you said. You don't need to over-explain yourself to this actual stranger. He doesn't care. There's no reason for him to care. He's probably in it just for the fuck, and it was fun and if you stay then there's a chance the two of you will wake up at some point in the night, still horny and lustful and you might fuck again and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of the draw. You realise, though, you'd also be lying if you said you didn't care what he thought of you. All of a sudden, you are overwhelmed with caring what this man thinks of you.

How fucking inconvenient.

"I wouldn't be offended at all," Joel chews, swallows, wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin and speaks again. "What's your cat's name?"

You don't know what you'd expected he'd say, but it wasn't that. You buffer for a moment. "It's- Spatula."

"Spatula?"

"Yep." You feel foolish.

"Huh. Spatula."

A silent moment between you.

"Got any pictures?"

You weren't expecting that, either. "I... do? Do you want to see them?" He nods. You pull out your phone to scroll through.

Joel, suddenly scrambled around for his phone, too. It was late and he hadn't checked it for hours. Had it been on silent? What if Sarah had called and he'd missed it?

His panic eased when he saw he had only two notifications. Both from Sarah, but neither were bad. He hadn't been neglecting any crises. The first text was a selfie of Sarah and an unfamiliar person, which she'd texted to him with the caption New roomie!! The second contained an address to the place they'd have breakfast tomorrow along with Just wanted you to know I've invited a friend to join us tomorrow morning! Is that okay? Realized I should maybe have checked with you? 😬

There was an ache in his chest. He wanted to keep her to himself, get to spend one last day, just the two of them. It was the start of a whole new chapter, but more than anything, he wished he could hold onto the moment for just a second longer.

But Sarah was stressed, he knew this, so he wasn't gonna make it worse and put this burden on her. He could handle it. He had to handle it. He typed back- No problem, baby. Can't wait to meet your friend.

After a moment, he followed up with another text. Gonna turn in now. Good nite!

The less he texted right now, the better. He did not want Sarah to know anything about the night he was having.

His screen lit up a moment later. Night Dad! He takes a deep breath and wills some of the tension away.

He slips his phone aside and you scoot into bed next to him.

"This," you announce, "Is Spatula."

Joel scrolls thru, his brows raising higher with each image.

With a single nod, he opens his mouth and instead of speaking, he collapses into laughter. It comes out a wheeze- "I-- I know this won't make any sense, but your cat looks just like my goddamn brother."

You're laughing now too, both of you almost hysterical, even though you have no frame of reference. You cherish the absurdity.

Then, Joel pulls up a picture on his phone and shows you, and now you're doubling over again because his brother looks exactly like Spatula.

You don't remember falling asleep. You curse your body's internal clock because you wake up right at 5am, and even though you know you should get up and leave, you wish you could have just a little bit longer.

It's such a comfortable way to wake up. One arm is folded under your pillow, and the other is slung over Joel's hip. He's asleep, snoring softly, and strands of his hair are mussed along his forehead. Your hand is holding his tummy, but you realise there's something pressing against the heel of your hand, and then realise, with a delicious jolt, that he's hard and straining against his boxers.

It's so fucking hard to get out of that bed, but with enough barely-effective reminders--you're gonna fuck up your whole day if you're late, gotta make a good impression, Spatula's gonna be so disappointed if you're late with his breakfast--you manage to bully yourself out of the warm and wonderful bed containing blankets and absolutely fantastic dick, and you tiptoe through the room, dress quickly, and, after making a note and leaving it on his bedside stand, you slip out.

Joel wakes up with a jolt, and then rolls over to see that the alarm clock (which he dared not contemplate the number of times he must have snoozed) was telling him it was 9:13.

He was late. Really fucking late. And then the panic made his brain spin faster and that's when he noticed the note on his bedside table.

I had a really good time If you're in town for a little longer, don't be a stranger?

It's followed with your name and phone number, and a rather detailed mushroom sketch across the page. He wasn't sure what kind of mushroom it was, but it was beautiful, and clearly hand-drawn, and for whatever reason you'd decided to tear it out of, presumably, your sketchbook? And you gave it to him, and he's gonna read that note and replay last night for the rest of his fucking life. It felt incredibly precious. He placed it in a book so it wouldn't get creased or folded. Made sure it was all contained and neat, totally flat in between the pages.

Then, he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower.

After scrubbing the smell of sex off of his entire body, he dresses quickly and checks his watch again. 9:28.

He texts Sarah and lets her know he's a few minutes behind. She responds with an eye roll emoji.

Joel settles in his truck and pulls up directions. It's only a few minutes away. He won't be too late.

When Joel steps into the diner, he's charmed by it. It's old school, with a checkerboard floor and bright red vinyl seats. He scans the room till he spots Sarah in a booth in the corner. She's laughing over a hot chocolate, and her friend must be in the seat opposite her.

He catches Sarah's eye and she grins at him, waving him over.

You've been at the diner about fifteen minutes, and you and Sarah are already getting along beautifully.

You'd met on a university message board and had become fast friends, but meeting someone in person was always a little terrifying. On top of that, you'd already committed to spending at least one (academic) year with this person, so you were damn sure gonna make it work.

Sarah waves over her dad. You can't see him yet, the back of the booth too high.

But then he's standing right there.

You already have a hand outstretched, but when he sees you and you see him, your stomach flips and dread runs through you. All the color drains from his face. He looks like a deer in headlights, and you'd be surprised if you didn't look the same.

Sarah looks between you, not quite concerned, but definitely confused. Sarah smiles and tries to diffuse the situation.

"Hi dad!" She grins, "This is my new roommate! Well, the other new roommate--the one in the picture, their name is Ellie, they weren't able to make it this morning. BUT. Breakfast seemed like a great time to hand off keys!"

Joel is still frozen and white-faced. Your brain whirs, and you know you've just fucking catapulted yourself into a disastrous mess, but you do your very best to save face.

Reaching your hand out further so he can't possibly miss it, he gives into some familiar social instinct, takes it and you shake. You think of his hands, how they dragged along your body last night, touched you, felt you, wrecked you.

You introduce yourself. He nods, avoiding eye contact.

"Joel." He grunts. "Miller."

Sarah frowns at him, but turns back to the menu.

This- was unexpected. Problematic. Arguably, really fucked up. All of those things and more. But it'll be fine.

All throughout breakfast, you repeat that to yourself, letting the words bounce around your head. It will be fine, you repeat your mantra, it will be fine, and you try not to feel too hurt at the way Joel's avoiding eye contact as if simply looking at you will cause him unimaginable disgust.

Everything will be fine.

Note: The fic's premise is loosely based on the book Mistakes Were Made which is a fucking excellent sapphic romance novel that utilises this trope. Would strongly recommend the book if you're into smutty queer stories.

[vagabond-umlaut]

INVERSE FUNCTION (1)

yandere sukuna x fem!reader; stalking; insp: this song [pls listen to this after reading]

divider by @benkeibear; jjk isn't mine; pls don't plagiarise/translate/repost this ❤️❤️

Sukuna is hooked on you.

He has no idea since when, why or how– but he has a very good idea of the degree he is hooked on you— each and every small bit of you–

Your sleepy face, first thing in the morning as you open the windows to your room, and stare at the sky then the empty street below. Your peppy walk out the apartment, not even an hour later as you head to your classes, always so punctual– so neatly, cutely dressed.

The warm smiles you offer everyone you come across— be it the kids waiting for their bus, the florist, the barista who serves you coffee, or the many classmates you've whenever you step into the class, words of greeting leaving you and brightening the room, more than the sun.

And not to mention the endearing look of concentration your pretty features wear, when the classes start.

Sukuna swears he has to actively, very painfully, restrain himself from walking right up to you and kissing your face off, each and every time your eyebrows gather together and your lips pucker into a pout– only for your teeth to sink into your lower lip not a moment later, the flesh there growing angry red, deliciously so, as you continue taking notes of the lecture.

Although... the man thinks his favourite look on you has got to be the one you wear in the evening: when the classes are over, when all your friends have finally left, when you're by yourself, no longer smiling as brightly as you do. Seeming so tired, so very fragile, as you trudge on the darkening streets back to your flat...

It makes something weird, but not wholly unpleasant, curl up within his chest. So strong that it makes him want to pick up into his arms, and keep you there forever, safe and sound and well-rested. Forever with him, tucked in the safety of his embrace—

Sukuna is not too sure, but he thinks this feeling might be why he has suddenly decided to break into your house today, instead of watching you from afar like he has always done. Or maybe, just maybe...

Watching you from a distance is no longer enough for him.

He has to enter the place you call 'home'.

He has to soak up every drop, memorise every fleck of your life here.

Starting from the random tiny doodles scribbled on the canary yellow walls— to the thick hardcover books and notebooks in neat stacks on the sofa, the table, the floor— to the pressure cooker kept on the oval burner of your gas stove— to the queen-size bed in a floral bed sheet, visible if he walks past the translucent screen between your bedroom and living room— to the sketchbook lying on the bed– its pages filled with– filled with–

Sketches Of Him!?!?

Him working in the garage on a car. Him smoking at the bus stop you travel from. Him dozing in class, head propped up on a fist. Him busy eating sandwiches, binoculars on the bench beside as his gaze stays somewhere above—

The sketchbook is filled with drawings of him, him, and only him—

Something stirs and stutters and stomps on his sternum; albeit he is unsure why. Is it the fact that he finally realises he is standing right in the middle of your bedroom– the most intimate place in your life? Or is it because he is staring at these many sketches your dainty fingers have made of him– so beautiful, so careful, so unlike him?

Can it be the unease clawing at him, stemming from your knowledge of him being in places close to you, where and when he should never be? Or– maybe or– is it the thrill tingling his fingers, when he realises, you too have been at places close to him, where and when you must never ever be...

A door opens and shuts behind him.

Sukuna swerves back to find you standing outside your bathroom, in nothing but a flimsy nightgown, hair still soaking wet whilst the towel hangs off your bare shoulders.

Your eyes jump from him to the sketchbook in his hand then to him— before crinkling into two pretty half-crescents as you smile... Sort of–

"Tea or coffee, stranger?"

follow the series here 🥰🥰 // masterlist

[lisafication]

For those who might happen across this, I'm an administrator for the forum 'Sufficient Velocity', a large old-school forum oriented around Creative Writing. I originally posted this on there (and any reference to 'here' will mean the forum), but I felt I might as well throw it up here, as well, even if I don't actually have any followers.

This week, I've been reading fanfiction on Archive of Our Own (AO3), a site run by the Organisation for Transformative Works (OTW), a non-profit. This isn't particularly exceptional, in and of itself — like many others on the site, I read a lot of fanfiction, both on Sufficient Velocity (SV) and elsewhere — however what was bizarre to me was encountering a new prefix on certain works, that of 'End OTW Racism'. While I'm sure a number of people were already familiar with this, I was not, so I looked into it.

What I found... wasn't great. And I don't think anyone involved realises that.

To summarise the details, the #EndOTWRacism campaign, of which you may find their manifesto here, is a campaign oriented towards seeing hateful or discriminatory works removed from AO3 — and believe me, there is a lot of it. To whit, they want the OTW to moderate them. A laudable goal, on the face of it — certainly, we do something similar on Sufficient Velocity with Rule 2 and, to be clear, nothing I say here is a critique of Rule 2 (or, indeed, Rule 6) on SV.

But it's not that simple, not when you're the size of Archive of Our Own. So, let's talk about the vagaries and little-known pitfalls of content moderation, particularly as it applies to digital fiction and at scale. Let's dig into some of the details — as far as credentials go, I have, unfortunately, been in moderation and/or administration on SV for about six years and this is something we have to grapple with regularly, so I would like to say I can speak with some degree of expertise on the subject.

So, what are the problems with moderating bad works from a site? Let's start with discovery— that is to say, how you find rule-breaching works in the first place. There are more-or-less two different ways to approach manual content moderation of open submissions on a digital platform: review-based and report-based (you could also call them curation-based and flag-based), with various combinations of the two. Automated content moderation isn't something I'm going to cover here — I feel I can safely assume I'm preaching to the choir when I say it's a bad idea, and if I'm not, I'll just note that the least absurd outcome we had when simulating AI moderation (mostly for the sake of an academic exercise) on SV was banning all the staff.

In a review-based system, you check someone's work and approve it to the site upon verifying that it doesn't breach your content rules. Generally pretty simple, we used to do something like it on request. Unfortunately, if you do that, it can void your safe harbour protections in the US per Myeress vs. Buzzfeed Inc. This case, if you weren't aware, is why we stopped offering content review on SV. Suffice to say, it's not really a realistic option for anyone large enough for the courts to notice, and extremely clunky and unpleasant for the users, to boot.

Report-based systems, on the other hand, are something we use today — users find works they think are in breach and alert the moderation team to their presence with a report. On SV, this works pretty well — a user or users flag a work as potentially troublesome, moderation investigate it and either action it or reject the report. Unfortunately, AO3 is not SV. I'll get into the details of that dreadful beast known as scaling later, but thankfully we do have a much better comparison point — fanfiction.net (FFN).

FFN has had two great purges over the years, with a... mixed amount of content moderation applied in between: one in 2002 when the NC-17 rating was removed, and one in 2012. Both, ostensibly, were targeted at adult content. In practice, many fics that wouldn't raise an eye on Spacebattles today or Sufficient Velocity prior to 2018 were also removed; a number of reports suggest that something as simple as having a swearword in your title or summary was enough to get you hit, even if you were a 'T' rated work. Most disturbingly of all, there are a number of — impossible to substantiate — accounts of groups such as the infamous Critics United 'mass reporting' works to trigger a strike to get them removed. I would suggest reading further on places like Fanlore if you are unfamiliar and want to know more.

Despite its flaws however, report-based moderation is more-or-less the only option, and this segues neatly into the next piece of the puzzle that is content moderation, that is to say, the rubric. How do you decide what is, and what isn't against the rules of your site?

Anyone who's complained to the staff about how vague the rules are on SV may have had this explained to them, but as that is likely not many of you, I'll summarise: the more precise and clear-cut your chosen rubric is, the more it will inevitably need to resemble a legal document — and the less readable it is to the layman. We'll return to SV for an example here: many newer users will not be aware of this, but SV used to have a much more 'line by line, clearly delineated' set of rules and... people kind of hated it! An infraction would reference 'Community Compact III.15.5' rather than Rule 3, because it was more or less written in the same manner as the Terms of Service (sans the legal terms of art). While it was a more legible rubric from a certain perspective, from the perspective of communicating expectations to the users it was inferior to our current set of rules  — even less of them read it,  and we don't have great uptake right now.

And it still wasn't really an improvement over our current set-up when it comes to 'moderation consistency'. Even without getting into the nuts and bolts of "how do you define a racist work in a way that does not, at any point, say words to the effect of 'I know it when I see it'" — which is itself very, very difficult don't get me wrong I'm not dismissing this — you are stuck with finding an appropriate footing between a spectrum of 'the US penal code' and 'don't be a dick' as your rubric. Going for the penal code side doesn't help nearly as much as you might expect with moderation consistency, either — no matter what, you will never have a 100% correct call rate. You have the impossible task of writing a rubric that is easy for users to comprehend, extremely clear for moderation and capable of cleanly defining what is and what isn't racist without relying on moderator judgement, something which you cannot trust when operating at scale.

Speaking of scale, it's time to move on to the third prong — and the last covered in this ramble, which is more of a brief overview than anything truly in-depth — which is resources. Moderation is not a magic wand, you can't conjure it out of nowhere: you need to spend an enormous amount of time, effort and money on building, training and equipping a moderation staff, even a volunteer one, and it is far, far from an instant process. Our most recent tranche of moderators spent several months in training and it will likely be some months more before they're fully comfortable in the role — and that's with a relatively robust bureaucracy and a number of highly experienced mentors supporting them, something that is not going to be available to a new moderation branch with little to no experience. Beyond that, there's the matter of sheer numbers.

Combining both moderation and arbitration — because for volunteer staff, pure moderation is in actuality less efficient in my eyes, for a variety of reasons beyond the scope of this post, but we'll treat it as if they're both just 'moderators' — SV presently has 34 dedicated moderation volunteers. SV hosts ~785 million words of creative writing.

AO3 hosts ~32 billion.

These are some very rough and simplified figures, but if you completely ignore all the usual problems of scaling manpower in a business (or pseudo-business), such as (but not limited to) geometrically increasing bureaucratic complexity and administrative burden, along with all the particular issues of volunteer moderation... AO3 would still need well over one thousand volunteer moderators to be able to match SV's moderator-to-creative-wordcount ratio.

Paid moderation, of course, you can get away with less — my estimate is that you could fully moderate SV with, at best, ~8 full-time moderators, still ignoring administrative burden above the level of team leader. This leaves AO3 only needing a much more modest ~350 moderators. At the US minimum wage of ~$15k p.a. — which is, in my eyes, deeply unethical to pay moderators as full-time moderation is an intensely gruelling role with extremely high rates of PTSD and other stress-related conditions — that is approximately ~$5.25m p.a. costs on moderator wages. Their average annual budget is a bit over $500k.

So, that's obviously not on the table, and we return to volunteer staffing. Which... let's examine that scenario and the questions it leaves us with, as our conclusion.

Let's say, through some miracle, AO3 succeeds in finding those hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of volunteer moderators. We'll even say none of them are malicious actors or sufficiently incompetent as to be indistinguishable, and that they manage to replicate something on the level of or superior to our moderation tooling near-instantly at no cost. We still have several questions to be answered:

How are you maintaining consistency? Have you managed to define racism to the point that moderator judgment no longer enters the equation? And to be clear, you cannot allow moderator judgment to be a significant decision maker at this scale, or you will end with absurd results.

How are you handling staff mental health? Some reading on the matter, to save me a lengthy and unrelated explanation of some of the steps involved in ensuring mental health for commercial-scale content moderators.

How are you handling your failures? No moderation in the world has ever succeeded in a 100% accuracy rate, what are you doing about that?

Using report-based discovery, how are you preventing 'report brigading', such as the theories surrounding Critics United mentioned above? It is a natural human response to take into account the amount and severity of feedback. While SV moderators are well trained on the matter, the rare times something is receiving enough reports to potentially be classified as a 'brigade' on that scale will nearly always be escalated to administration, something completely infeasible at (you're learning to hate this word, I'm sure) scale.

How are you communicating expectations to your user base? If you're relying on a flag-based system, your users' understanding of the rules is a critical facet of your moderation system — how have you managed to make them legible to a layman while still managing to somehow 'truly' define racism?

How are you managing over one thousand moderators? Like even beyond all the concerns with consistency, how are you keeping track of that many moving parts as a volunteer organisation without dozens or even hundreds of professional managers? I've ignored the scaling administrative burden up until now, but it has to be addressed in reality.

What are you doing to sweep through your archives? SV is more-or-less on-top of 'old' works as far as rule-breaking goes, with the occasional forgotten tidbit popping up every 18 months or so — and that's what we're extrapolating from. These thousand-plus moderators are mostly going to be addressing current or near-current content, are you going to spin up that many again to comb through the 32 billion words already posted?

I could go on for a fair bit here, but this has already stretched out to over two thousand words.

I think the people behind this movement have their hearts in the right place and the sentiment is laudable, but in practice it is simply 'won't someone think of the children' in a funny hat. It cannot be done.

Even if you could somehow meet the bare minimum thresholds, you are simply not going to manage a ruleset of sufficient clarity so as to prevent a much-worse repeat of the 2012 FF.net massacre, you are not going to be able to manage a moderation staff of that size and you are not going to be able to ensure a coherent understanding among all your users (we haven't managed that after nearly ten years and a much smaller and more engaged userbase). There's a serious number of other issues I haven't covered here as well, as this really is just an attempt at giving some insight into the sheer number of moving parts behind content moderation:  the movement wants off-site content to be policed which isn't so much its own barrel of fish as it is its own barrel of Cthulhu; AO3 is far from English-only and would in actuality need moderators for almost every language it supports — and most damning of all,  if Section 230 is wiped out by the Supreme Court  it is not unlikely that engaging in content moderation at all could simply see AO3 shut down.

As sucky as it seems, the current status quo really is the best situation possible. Sorry about that.

[fayes-fics]

Comfort

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict comforts his new wife when her courses arrive…

Warnings: mentions of menstruation, non graphic references to period blood. Otherwise, just the fluffiest of fluff.

Word Count: 2k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Thanks to @colettebronte for help with the title. Request fill for anon HERE, where Benedict comforts his new wife when her period arrives overnight. This might be the most saccharine-sweet fluff I have ever written. For my usual smut peeps… err, apologies? Normal filth will resume shortly, I'm sure lol. <3

You stir from your slumber to a dreaded dampness you know far too well. 

Oh dear heavens, no! 

Overnight, your courses have arrived without warning. Or perhaps, with hindsight, there were some signs, but you had assigned blame for the symptoms elsewhere. You had put your tiredness down to the exhaustive social whirlwind of your first ball as a Bridgerton. The dull lower back pain you had felt merely due to traipsing around the extensive grounds the host was keen to show off to all and sundry.

For a few moments, you lay staring frettingly at the ceiling, unsure what to do. You can tell that your nightgown and, likely, the bedsheets will carry evidence of this unwanted early arrival. You had plans to inform your lady's maids to prepare the following night. Trust your body to be at least a day early when you least need it. 

Next to you, your new husband of just fourteen days, Benedict Bridgerton, is sleeping soundly. You roll your head to look briefly at his handsome face in repose on the adjacent pillow, then bite your lip in anxiety.

Oh god, he cannot see this!! He simply cannot! What am I to do?!?

____

You had been taught a few things in the run-up to marriage by your Mama. One of them was never to mention or address the “monthly visitor” to your husband—it was a matter for you and your maids to deal with. On the nights you were “visited”, you were strongly counselled to sleep in your room rather than with your husband so he would not have to deal with “such unpleasantness”. This may have been logical advice for a regular wife of the Ton, but your mother probably never considered how non-traditional your husband would turn out to be. 

Hours after your nuptials, upon arrival at your new marital home - a wonderful brick townhouse just a few streets from Bridgerton House - you had politely inquired where your bedchamber was. At first, he laughed, then frowned when he realised you were serious. It turned out he had not made plans for, or indeed, set up a room for you separate from his.

“We are husband and wife now. We shall sleep together,” he explained, drawing you into his arms and planting a tender kiss on your forehead.

“But… every night?” you stuttered, still grappling with what exactly was expected of you as a wife.

“Yes darling,” he confirmed, still sounding vaguely bemused.

____

Since that day, you have shared a bed every night, which has been delightful for so many reasons. Indeed, you have never slept better in your life than in the two weeks since your wedding, falling asleep securely in his arms and awakening to his handsome, smiling face…

…Well, that is until now.

Now, you have no earthly idea what to do. 

You surmise it must be early, dawn breaking, a grey, feeble light peeking around the top of the heavy velvet drape curtains over the windows. Barely enough to see shapes and rough outlines as your eyes adjust. Not wanting to awaken Benedict by igniting a candle, you gingerly push back the bedspread and slide out as quietly as possible. In the mirror across the room, you catch sight of a scarlet bloom, visible even in this low light, so stark against your white cotton nightgown. Turning back around, your fears are fully realised when you see a mirror imprint left upon the sheet where you slept.

Horrified, you fly into a flurry of movements. Wanting to hide both your nightgown and the sheets you have sullied, albeit unintentionally. You slip as silently as you are able to the linen supplies cupboard and gather terrycloths designed for bathing. One, you wrap around yourself; another two, you decide to place upon the bed, hoping it will conceal the stain until your husband leaves the bedroom.  

You cannot wait to bathe but know that running a bath would surely awaken Benedict, the noise of water being poured into the echoey copper, even if across the hallway, being bound to rouse him.

Once back next to your side of the bed, you push the covers towards the middle and start to pull at the edge of the undersheet, hoping to slide a cloth under the stain and one atop, to stop the evidence from spreading. You glance furtively at your husband as you work, who unfortunately is turned onto his side facing towards you, as he often is when you awaken. 

In all heavens, could you not turn the other way just for once, my love? 

You move as stealthily as you can, so very keen to be unnoticed. The most challenging part is trying to wedge a cloth underneath, the sheet pulled taut by your husband's weight pinning down the other side. Just as you are fighting with both hands shoved far under the sullied sheet, you hear a sudden sharp intake of breath.

Oh no! He is awake.

His eyes fly open, and he squints as he takes in the sight before him. Then, a frown passes over his features.

“What on earth are you doing, my love?” his voice is deep and rough with sleep.

You whip your hands out from under the sheet, belatedly realising you are also muttering a repeated “no no, no no” under your breath as you attempt to reach for the upper cover and hide what has happened, but it is just out of reach, kneeling as you are beside the bed.

“Darling,” he sits up slightly, rubbing his eyes, obviously thrown off by your agitated state. “Please, whatever is the matter??” his tone rising in volume and concern.

Your eyeline falls reflexively upon what you are trying to conceal on the bedsheets, and his tracks yours. Unable to handle your embarrassment, you bury your head in your hands and slump backwards onto your heels, certain this will be repulsive to him.

“I am so sorry, husband; I was not expecting this to happen today; please forgive me,” you mutter defeatedly behind your hands, ashamed.

You are expecting a noise of derision or disgust. What you do not expect is a chuckle and then a large, warm hand brushing your shoulder.

“Darling, please get up off the floor,” his ask caring, no rebuke to be heard.

Your head slowly tilts up, and to your shock, he is leaning over onto your side of the bed, not far above the stain, and is observing you mildly befuddled benevolence.

“But, I…” you trail off, even as he reaches for your hand.

“It is fine,” he cuts in, squeezing reassuringly with his fingers. “You are a woman. Such things happen. There is no need for shame,” his eyes are soft with understanding. “I do have sisters, you know,” he adds with a sanguine laugh, a shorthand to explain his knowledge of your situation.

Your mouth falls open a fraction, completely taken aback by his affable, almost nonchalant reaction; it is very different from what your Mama taught you to expect. While you flounder in surprise, he rolls away and gets out of bed, padding around to your side, crouching next to you and drawing you into his arms.

“You… you are not repulsed?” you stutter as you recover, your brow creasing.

“Of course not, my love. It is perfectly natural, and there is nothing about you or your body that repulses me,” he assures, kissing your cheek. “In fact, it is very much the opposite,” his tone sincere and soothing.

You get lost in his hazy eyes and gentle smile, accepting his doting kisses that make you feel warm from head to toe. It is then he looks down and spies the bathing cloth you have swaddled yourself in from the waist down.

“I assume your nightgown is in a similar state? And that you would like to get clean?” he guesses empathetically as you nod demurely. “Then I shall summon the staff to run you a bath,” he hums, delicately brushing the stray strands of hair that had fallen askew in your scrambling efforts.

“Thank you, Benedict, so very much” you exhale, relieved and still slightly unmoored by his reaction.

His face breaks into that crooked smile that makes butterflies flutter under your ribs. 

“Please, my love, it is literally nothing. We have promised ourselves to each other for life. I expect to see this many more times,” he explains calmly as he rings a bell to summon his butler and presently provides instructions for a warm bath to be drawn and the bedding to be changed by the maids.

“You do not wish for me to sleep elsewhere when I am so afflicted?” you check as soon as you are alone again.

He chuckles as he did before. “Whatever for? You are my wife. I want you beside me all the time. It matters not to me if you have your courses. I still wish to fall asleep with you in my arms.” His sweet sincerity makes your heart skip a beat as he nuzzles your temple. “Although it has been a few short days since our wedding, I have rather gotten used to you being beside me. I cannot sleep soundly without you, my love. Nor would I want to try. We shall share our bed every night,” he adds solemnly.

“But, what if one of us is sick?” you inquire as he helps you to stand up from the floor, pulling you into his arms.

“‘Tis no bother. We shall surely both contract the same, seeing as we reside under the same roof; at least we can suffer in company,” he jests warmly into your ear as his hands rub your lumbar spine with a pattern that soothes the ache you feel there.

“What if you must travel for your art?” you challenge.

“I would be heartbroken if you did not come with me,” he volleys back with a playful pout that you can't help but giggle at.

“What if one day we have a child, and they will not rest without their mother?” your question is almost timid, knowing there is a bloom on your cheeks at the very thought.

He cups your jaw gently and tilts your face to look up into his. His mien is so devoted that the air is stolen from your lungs. 

“Then they shall simply sleep between us, my love. It will be my child, too. You will not be alone. Not when you have your monthly courses and not in the raising of our children. Of that, I promise,” his cadence is lilting and ardent.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe shakily, scarcely able to believe that the man you married is nothing like how your mother had warned. It makes you feel so grateful you cannot stop your emotions, heightened at this time of the month, from bubbling over.

A large, warm thumb blots the tears that gather at the corner of your eyes without comment; he just accepts your state, bussing a kiss onto your forehead.

“I love you, y/n,” he breathes, warm air gusting over your skin.

“I love you too, Benedict,” your reply muffled into his neck as you mould into his strong embrace, remaining there until a lady’s maid taps on the door to convey that your bath is ready.

And true to his word, over the years, you are never a night without your husband. Through many monthly courses, through sickness and health, through children and even grandchildren. It is always his face you see just before your eyes droop closed and the moment they flutter open again. Your safe space. Your comfort. 

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb

[unholyhelbig]

Oversight one shot request - Nat and reader dealing with the aftermath of an argument that got heated, nat realising she was wrong which is rare for her and having to try and make it up to reader

Title: The Sword and the Stone [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader and Natasha get into a heated argument when Reader starts to doubt her true purpose in Natasha's life.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): angst, threats of drowning, light threats, implied sex, horrible grammar- I don't proof read.

[a/n: yeah, I really don't know what this is. Life has been so hectic lately and I'm so exhausted. Someone put me out of my misery and make sure I never have to go back to South Carolina ever again.]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

The black wax seal on the three-hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey had left a filmy residue against the mouth of the glass. It gave the warm drink an oaky edge that helped you swallow it down. The first sip had burned through your nostrils and down your throat until it lit a fire in your belly. The second seemed to extinguish the first.

You’d kept drinking until there was a pleasant buzz across your skin. You’d rolled your pantlegs up to the middle of your calves until the fabric was constricting and swished your legs around in the dark water of the pool. The scent of chlorine mixed dangerously with the bergamot undertones of the alcohol.

The moon was full and gave you a full encompassed view of the backyard and the edge of the lake lapping at the rocky shores. If you squinted, you could see the dots of red and green as buoys molded to the tides. Fishing boats navigated their way to the docks, their rumbling alerts shaking your chest.

You lifted the crystal glass to your lips and took a deeper gulp. It was warm and unpleasant but eventually ebbed to a cynical type of comfort. You placed the glass to the side and worked your fingers numbly through your hair. They ached incessantly. Your body wasn’t built for this anymore.

There was a soreness to your jaw and the underlying taste of metal that coated your throat. Before you’d walked into your shared home, the redness had started to grow a nasty, ugly purple. I’d certainly be swollen in the morning, even if you had pressed a bag of frozen peas to it.

It was a cycle. A vicious one that you’d endured for the past ten years. You were a blade in Natasha Romanoff’s toolkit. To the city, you were a composed and elegant viper; deadly when you bit but often found wrapping yourself around the arm of Eve. The crowd parted for you. Politicians groveled and clients smiled uneasily, in a scared sort of kindness.

With a groan, you laid yourself back on the patio stones and stared up at the stars. They pockmarked the sky in constellations that threatened to spin until they turned to lines of warbled light. You’d had too much to drink, and too little to eat. You’d lay here until the light in your bedroom flicked off and you could sneak in smelling of booze.

Of course, you heard your wife approaching.

When you’d first met Natasha Romanoff, you were enveloped in eternal darkness, beaten within an inch of your life. The sound of her footfalls in heels beat against your eardrums and had caused you to jerk your head up with dizzying quickness.

Now, you could pick up noise of her bare feet padding delicately against dew-soaked grass and then leaving uneven prints against the stonework. Her scent was inky and doused in sandalwood. Something that typically brought you a wave of comfort served as a catalyst for nausea.

“If you’re going to get drunk on a Tuesday night, darling, maybe an expensive bottle of whisky is not the right avenue.”

“Mm,”

The hum tickled your throat. Natasha had lowered herself to the edge of the pool next to you, delicately dipping her feet into the warm water. Her perfectly manicured fingers pressed cooly against your forehead before carding through your hair. You sighed contentedly and leaned into her touch before you registered that you were supposed to be mad at her.

“It works all the same. I’ll replace it.”

“No need. It was a thoughtless gift from Leland Owlsley after he behaved like a prick. It’s been aging for nearly a decade now.”

You made a noise that was akin to a whimper. Maybe you had underestimated the strength of the drink. Not that you would ever admit that to Natasha. You became malleable when you were drunk, and who better to work forgiveness out of you than your wife?

You draped your arm over your eyes, slurring out “Do you know the legend of Excalibur?”

Natasha scoffed, and when she didn’t give you a verbal answer, you peaked over your arm, finally getting a look at her. She was in nothing but her silk robe, the emerald green a sharp contrast to her pale expanse of skin. It had been years, and she still rendered you speechless.

She relented and shook her head, full attention trained on you. Often, you would dive into the books that lined the walls in Natasha’s study. They were leather-bound and filled with different mythos that she hadn’t read herself.

Sometimes, you would regale her with the stories of fantastical worlds that stuck with you. Of dragons that heaved heavy helpings of fire, and sea serpents that brushed their gills along the ridged edges of boats. Natasha would curl into your side, her ear pressed against your bare chest as your words lulled her into sleep.

“The blade was said to be forged with the blood of seven dragons. Each one breathed a green fire that was hotter than brimstone, and stronger than the very core of the earth. The blade, it wasn’t meant for just anyone. It may be mighty, but it’s nothing without a guiding hand.”

You hilted yourself up until you were resting all of your weight on your elbows, the rocky patio digging into your bones and stinging enough to keep you focused. Natasha had turned her head, resting her cheek on her knees and blinking slowly at you.

“For centuries, the blade was wedged in stone. Though many men tried and tried again to dislodge it, the sword would only budge for someone who was worthy, and that was Arthur Pendragon. The two worked together for decades, warding off evil, and protecting a kingdom that eventually, they came to rule.

“Arthur was considered the greatest king in Avalon’s history and served until he became too old to do so. Excalibur was not meant to be wielded by another, nor buried beneath the earth with it’s master. So, Arthur set off on his longest journey yet.”

Natasha swallowed hard. Her fingers twitched, eyes glowing under the pale light of the moon. She looked ethereal, and the snake in the pit of your stomach coiled tighter with want. You were meant to be upset with her, but the tenderness in her posture gave away her vulnerability.

“He used the last of his strength to travel across the kingdom, through vast forests, dark caverns, and steep cliffs until he crawled his way to the edge of the lake of youth. Now, stories start to differ here. But, in each, Arthur returns to sword to the ladies of the lake, determined to protect his old friend. The only one that’s ever stuck by him.

“Some say Arthur took the hand of a young siren and allowed himself to be led into the cold water. Others proclaim that he disintegrated into dust when the hilt of the sword left his hand. Either way, he was never seen again, and neither was the Excalibur.”

Some of the warmth from the whiskey was wearing off and a chill had settled against your bones. Your fingers itched to pour more of the dark buttery liquid into the glass. Natasha had moved them from your grasp with all the subtly of a god.

So, in turn, you focused on the glassy look in her eyes and willed yourself to sit up, swallowing the oaky taste in your mouth. The world spun around twice before stabilizing on the done light at the edge of the pool.

You felt a lump form in your throat, outweighing the heated effects of the alcohol. You made it a habit not to cry in front of your wife, and she rarely ever gave you a reason to. But the tensions had been swirling wickedly for months now.

“Nat,” you whispered, “sometimes I feel like I’m just your sword.”

The argument had broken out on the way home from the city. The night was a certain type of darkness that allowed the milk-white stars to shine through. It was balmy and the air conditioner whirred enough to curb the dampening interior.

You knew it was stupid to let a small thorn in your side rip and tear at your flesh until a gaping hole was left in it’s place. Your knuckles were throbbing, and a pack of peas were pressed against your jaw where a hit had landed.

You’d stepped in front of Natasha and grabbed the handle of a steak-knife and aimed it towards the ground. Your wife hadn’t even blinked, and you had no doubt that she would have misdirected the attack from the charge herself.

It was easy to strike fear into the dishwasher that reached towards whatever he could find in an act of defense. You grasped what little hair he had on the back of his head and held him under the soapy water, letting the sanitizer cling to your lungs with it’s citrus edge.

You’d gotten the money like the good loan shark you were and Natasha had pressed her fingers to the small of your back in acknowledgement before swaying off the car. You’d exited through the back, dripping with bubbles.

There were times when the weight of being Natasha Romanoff’s wife weighted you down like a pile of bricks. She was a good partner within the walls of the house. She’d pull you against her front and lean her head against your shoulder, her cold fingers wandering under the fabric of your shirt.

There were expensive bottles of wine, and perfect cuts of meat. Quiet nights where you were tangled under the covers, whispering soft nothings. Louder nights where your back was arched and stars danced across your vision.

All of this changed when you moved past the threshold of your cultivated life. You’d married Natasha knowing good and well that her family, your family, was going to be dysfunctional. The ledger for the Romanoff’s dripped a cherry red.

You were meant to be her sword, her Excalibur. You stood a few inches behind her, arms tucked behind your back and stare cold with disinterest. Though, you paid apt attention to each movement her company made.  

Years before, you had been nothing but a waitress with a high pain tolerance. You’d let Natasha mold you into the weapon that you were, and most of the time, you were content with this arrangement.

The scent of bergamot tickled your throat as she moved closer with disquieting patience. She’d withdrawn her feet from the pool and straddled your center. Her weight was familiar, but the tenderness in her stare was often hidden by her walled disposition.

You grunted, staring up at the sharp curve of her jaw and the slight flush against her cheeks. She’d been in the sun today, freckles giving her away. Her nimble fingers brushed a strand of hair behind your ear and played with the gold charm in the center of your necklace.

“Darling, you know the problem with that legend?” You shook your head, hands going to the familiar place on her hips. “The Excalibur was crafted long before Arthur was around to wield it. The fates saw him fit because of the amount of care, and love he had for the sword.”

A sigh escaped you, “I thought you didn’t know the legend.”

“Oh, everyone knows the legend.” She danced her fingers against your collarbone, your body betrayed you with goosebumps and a suppressed shiver down your spine. “But I will be the first to admit that I’ve been unfair to you.”

You blinked up at her in shock, stilling your movements. Natasha Romanoff was as stubborn as they came and never admitted to being wrong. There were moments where she tentatively agreed to a different course of action, or quietly concluded that Clint would take the lead during situations that required a softer touch.

“While I am in constant awe of your ruthlessness, I am well aware that the woman I married has a soft touch. You were a waitress bringing in tips with your dazzling smile, after-all.” Her fingers were brushing dangerously close to the hem of your pants. You felt your muscles contract under her. “I apologize, moya lyubov', for making you feel as if you are nothing but a weapon. To me, you are so much more. To me, you are everything.”

Her words became whispered against your jaw in the slightest of warmth. Your pulse thudded against your throat and her tongue pressed close to the rhythm. You groaned softly and arched upwards. Your entire body was flushed with arousal.

A salacious moan escaped her. “Do you forgive me, malyshka?”

“Mm, you’re playing dirty, Nat.”

God- you’d forgiven her even before she had uttered the words of apology. Now that her perfectly curved fingers were pushing past the waistband of your pants, you were ready to rush out whatever she wanted to hear.

“Perhaps. I mean what I say, the mere thought of you being unhappy shatters me.”

Her lips were everywhere, plush as she kissed against the corner of your lip, breathing out apologies between each nip. Natasha trailed down your jawline, your pulse-point and the curves of your chest. Her breath was molten as if fanned against your skin.

Suddenly serious, she pulled back, bracing her hands on your shoulders. She held you down with little effort, strength pulsing through her exposed muscles. You swallowed the dryness in your throat and let out a shuttered whine.

“It was never my intention to make you feel inadequate. You may be deadly, molded under my hand to protect this family with everything you have, but first and foremost, you are my wife. We’ll make sure everyone knows it. But first, I need to hear you say it.”

“Say it?” You felt the pressure build in your chest, her palms digging into your collarbone. It was a satisfying sting that made you writhe under her heavy hand, you narrowed your eyes. “Really? Right now?”

Natasha flushed, pulling herself into a sitting position. “Not that, y/n. Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.”

“Oh, you mean forgiveness. Kinky.”

“krasivo, pozhaluysta”

She wouldn’t dare beg in anything less than her native tongue. Natasha’s voice was gravelly, her eyes boring into yours with a desperation that usually was reserved for silk sheets and hazy mornings. You hated seeing her like this, clawing for affection that she so rarely asked for. Your heart seized, and you maneuvered yourself until you were in a sitting position, holding her flush against you.

Natasha tucked her nose against the small of your neck and nothing short of nuzzled you. Her disposition had crumbled and her fingers wicked into the fabric of your shirt. You held her close and listened to her breathing as it mingled with the shift of water.

There were moments, few and far between, when the calls got too close, where she would do this. Just sit and embrace the sound of your heartbeat. She kept her ear against your chest and counted the minutes. You carded your fingers through her hair and embraced her amenability.

You lifted her chin until her eyes met yours, reflecting the sweeping of the chlorine saturated pool. Her bottom lip was jutted out in an almost pout. You resisted the urge to kiss the expression off her face.

“I forgive you, Natty.” You whispered against her lips, “I’ll be your Excalibur.”

Natasha scoffed and closed the minute distance between you both. The kiss was soft, her lips tasting of the lingering liquor on your own. Her arms encircled your neck, tongue begging for entrance. You felt a frown on her features, she suddenly pulled back.

“Are you insinuating that you’d rather be with a lady of the lake?”

“Nat,” You groaned, dropping your head.

“No, no, I can totally take you to the wharf if you want the other woman.”

“There is no other woman, it was a metaphor.”

“You could have chosen a metaphor without a siren, and you know it.”

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