#Why did the good times have to end? (Champion Verse/Good end verse) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

djarinsbeskar · 3 years

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Foul - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - To break one of boxing’s rules (i.e. hitting an opponent below the navel, ear or while they are down), which can ultimately lead to point deductions if they are repeated.

A/N: The results of my Boxer!AU poll told me that the majority were interested in a jealous/protective boxer so I hope I have delivered! As always, relaxed fit = unedited, no beta. We also have a sneaky introduction to Paz in the Boxer verse which is super exciting! His concept art has been completed by the insanely talented @ronnieiswriting when I said I saw a mix of Jason Momoa and Winston Duke as our heavy. PLEASE heed the warnings in this chapter. There is nothing explicit but the topics hinted at might be triggering.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! (unprotected sex), blood and violence, toxic masculinity and derogatory speech, hints at discussions of non-con, somewhat possessive behavior, spanking, dom!Din and everything that comes with it.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He might as well have been in hell. A colosseum of decaying humanity and dirt floors that erupted in a burst of dust like poisonous ash every time his next opponent fell. The hollow thump of pure muscle meeting the ground of the makeshift ring only drowned by the cheers of spectators. Masked, shadowed—unseen as they dropped hundreds – thousands sometimes – on which gladiator would remain standing in the end.

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won’t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren’t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

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A few who might be interested! @thepoisonofgod @absurdthirst @highsviolets @astroboots

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #boxer!din #the mandalorian smut #mando smut #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x reader #mando x you #pedro pascal #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfic #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars smut #star wars fic #star wars fanfic

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fungal-wasted · 2 years

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The Great Knight are OK AU

Also known as the selfindulgent AU in which i give ghem happiness. So in this universe, through various shenanigans the Five Great Knights decide to expand on their group, but in doing so they gotta challenge their current views on themselves, their duty, and what being a Knight really means. There is a lot of adoption too, this is a happy AU.

Below the cut are a few headcanons I have on the individual Knights. It got kind of long so I will leave timeline changes for another post lol. Ah and many of these can be subject to change. I just like taking the two scraps of canon lore we have on most of them and go with my imagination c:

So all 5 came to serve the King under different circumstances and for different reasons.

Dryya

Dryya was the first, she was known as a fierce warrior, with an eye for detail and great speed.

She is a good leader and that's why she was chosen for the position.

She is the White Lady's favorite knight too.

As a quiet hobby, she likes knitting and embroidery.

She is kind of the mom of the group. A little strict but wise nonetheless.

She is the most well versed in diplomacy out of the five, leading to people to believe she is of noble birth, she won't deny or confirm.

Her biggest flaws are not taking care of herself and having a hard time to accept new ideas.

Hegemol

Hegemol joined after her. He was a common bug, but with a passion for mechanics.

He worked making the giant bug robot things you see in Crystal Peaks, but began using one as an armor since he thought it was practical. The Pale King was impressed with the achievements of this bug and granted him the position.

In a way it was his way to aknowledge hardowrking people and what they did for the Kingdom.

Hegemol is a really soft spoken guy, surprisingly, but he is quick to think and has a great sense of humor.

He hums while he works.

His biggest flaw is that he isn't great at social clues or reading the room. He will take things too seriously or not enough.

Ze'mer

Ze'mer was the third. She was a traveller that knew of many places beyond the Wastes. She didn't plan on staying for long but she fell in love with the wonders of Hallownest.

At first her presence was a bit worrying for the Pale King. Her existence basically meant that the mind PK granted wasn't unique.

She was also a strong warrior, being able to take on beasts without even getting hurt.

She could become a powerful ally. Which is why PK chose her to become a Knight to serve the Kingdom. She agreed, since it also meant that other outsider bugs like her could be welcomed in better conditions.

Her biggest flaw is that she avoids conflict too much. She doesn't like to argue or have her views challenged, and she ignores her problems until they overwhelm her.

Isma

Seeing that having allies was a good idea, the pale beings looked for other candidates.

She's a mosskin, blessed by Unn. She was a protector of the area, and was rumored to use magic drawn from a similar force then Unn's dream.

This basically means she has some power over plants and acid

She is often tasked with recuing bugs.

It was the White Lady who asked her to join. Isma saw a chance of benefiiting her people and being their protector and took it. She swore to fight for the lives of innocent bugs.

Her main flaw is that she can be condescending and thinks she understands people, even when she really doesn't.

Ogrim

I'm a little open for different headcanons for him. For this one I'll say he was a Colosseum fighter. A pretty popular one amongst bugs, for being both a champion but also a really charming guy.

He ended up regretting this life, he felt like taking down weaker fighters was not honorable at all, and hurt more than helped. He was also kind of rough and not methodic, which made him doubt his own skill.

So, after meeting Isma as she was on duty, he decided to leave his past self and start as a new man, training to be a Knight

He was welcomed by the King, both thanks to Isma's influence and the word that had spread of this defender.

Rumors say Ogrim is his favorite knight and they share a lot in common, considering they both left their previous "identity" behind.

Ogrim likes to sing.

His biggest flaw is that his loyalty sometimes blinds him, and his judgement can be skewed.

#hollow knight #ogrim #dryya #hegemol #ze'mer #isma #fierce dryya #mighty hegemol #grey mourner #kindly isma #dung defender #five great knights #headcanon #the great knights are ok au #ok i cant think of a better name just take this #god........... them.....#im never making anything serious with this au beyond memes or short posts but also #this is for myself but if you like it feel free to use a few of these #sorry for any typos btw the spellcheck isnt working for some reason

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kiwibirdlafayette · 2 years

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Hi friends. Remember how I said I could write an essay about c!Tom Syndicate and his characterization.

guess what I did LMAO

Ted talk below ft. My personal interpretation of Tom’s Mianite character in mainly S1 and a little into S2 based on how I perceive his actions and interactions -

Disclaimer: If I feel off the mark it's possible, and if you disagree with what’s said, that's also totally fine. I’ve never watched the entirety of Tom’s POV, I aim to someday and will inevitably add onto this. Also. All mentions of characters refer exclusively to the RP-verse, none of this pulls into consideration dynamics of the irl CCs, ofc.

-or, me overanalyzing what drives him, why he comes off as solely and only “evil and chaotic” (despite being a lot more complex than that) and how the difference in the dynamics of devotion make the killing Dianite at the end of S1 all the more impactful, as it directly influenced how he perceives relationships with others through the season, and drove the change in dynamics with the others through S2.

From the start, we come to know two universal truths about Tom’s dynamic with his god in Season 1- 1) Dianite, as the god of Evil is ruthless, and isn’t forgiving when Tom messes up, and 2) Tom’s loyalty lies in whoever will reward him the best regardless of whatever he need go through, even if those promises of glory are empty.

So, like, while it’s kind of defined that while Jordan's devotion (and borderline 'blind faith'; but a topic for a different essay) gets him adoration and love from his goddess, when Tom is devoted to his god, he gets gifts. Every time he kills for his god, or completes a task of some sort, Dianite awards him with fancy armor and swords and stuff and the like. And when he’s failed, those things get taken away. What this does is create in his head the concept of a ‘devotion transaction,’ where loyalty, love and affection is something you have to earn the right to hold onto; and can be stripped away at any time. I think this act alone is what shapes Tom's whole relationship with love and loyalty; and shaped the dynamics of his relationships to a type of dependence and a constant need to prove himself to maintain those ties.

Or alternatively, the only way to stay close to someone is to do everything in your power to keep their favor, lest you be smitten down, or worse, abandoned completely. This plays into whereas Jordan's devotion to Ianite is a ‘I will do anything for you even if it kills me or may not be for the greater good because I love you so much I trust your every word’, (becoming a love language of acts of service out of unconditional love) Tom’s devotion comes more from a place of fear to appease or be killed because Dianite has him in a literal-metaphorical death grip, translating into his love language of overwhelming clinginess to what material and emotional ties he has and lashing out when it feels like those he can depend on are against him and seem to be trying to sever those ties (World War Mianite).

The lashing out could also be a thing he picked up from Dianite who does that when Tom seems to be betraying him, but I don’t particularly want to get too much into that. The bottom line is mainly that he hates being alone, he hates having no one to depend on, and that notion alone is enough to make him take desperate measures.

Because despite wanting to be a lone wolf, or so badly to be on his own, he needs other people to survive, just like he needs Dianite to survive. On his own, one could say he’s kinda pathetic /lh, unrealizing how much his friends actually lift him up from that.

I can’t remember who put it how, but I really align towards the idea that Tom isn’t inherently a bad person, nor intentionally wants to be the villain of the story- He just wants to have fun in the end. However, he’s so dependent on his god because in a way Dianite acts as his lifeline, the guy who picked him up because he wasn’t Mianite’s kind of champion in the same way that Tucker was, Dianite's the guy who helps him out when the ‘good guys’ are only ever against him. Almost in a way he leans on Dianite, he puts his devotion before most other things even if it means putting aside fucking around times because if he can't prove himself to his god, then it opens up the possibility that everything he's depending on could go away. His god is not merciful, his god could drop him at a moment's notice, and he'd have to be godless among his peers who have Mianite and Ianite (respectively) behind them to back them up. And Tom wouldn't have anyone. This of course, not to say that he thinks that Jordan, Tucker, and Sonja, etc. are solely and only against him (and don't care about him) but more so that at the beginning, he cares more about self-preservation in an anarchy server dominated by war then necessarily accepting that his friends don't want to kill him at every turn. It isn’t till the end of the season when we see that shift, and how that builds towards his infamous betrayal of his god.

So that reliance on Dianite, and focus on what Dianite wants versus his own needs/the need to connect better with his friends (who he is taught by Dia are only against him because of who he follows'') translates into the "overexaggerated evil chaos destruction" that became his primary character archetype where instead of the chaos being fueled primarily by his own funky little brain, he basically does all that he does to appease Dia and keep the god on his side, and ultimately keep him alive. Because from a nuanced perspective, it’s not really that he’s following Dianite, he’s Dianite’s mercenary- or, instead of it being a “we help each other out”, its a “you do my dirty work” kinda thing.That difference in dynamic ends up isolating himself from the rest of TR also then giving him that validation that yes, he can be independent from those Mianite plebs and 'doesn't need nobody' (ironically all while continually being unconsciously chained to Dianite) However as the season progresses (and in my personal headcanon involving Syndisparklez) his attention starts to shift once he realizes that he belongs to that group just as much as Jordan, or Sonja does despite being on the opposite side of Mianite and Dianite’s feud. And unlike Dianite, they indulge on his wanting to just have fun and mess around, versus the “everything is a puzzle piece falling together in working towards some specific end goal and every little mess up only sets us back” mindset that Dianite imparted through the way he defined devotion when it came to his champion. And once he starts to slowly accept that kinder reality and hang more with his friends (god alignments aside), he loses that emotional and material tie to Dianite (but never loses the dependency of never wanting to be on his own) and starts to depend more on his friends, clinging to them as he had wanted to, involving himself with more things they did because it gave him a space to just be him.

And it is this arc of moving away from "fighting for his god to prove himself so that he's always being there for him” into ‘wanting to prove himself to his friends to show he does care and that everything not be a turf war'' that feeds into the impact of the cumulative event of him killing Dianite at the end of S1. It serves as a literal act of severing any ties he had with devotion and putting the ties between him and his friends at the forefront. At the same time, it symbolically visualizes Tom pulling himself away from Dianite’s grip, telling himself he doesn’t need Dianite: he is capable of pulling off chaotic stunts on himself, able to hold his own against the Mianitees and Ianitees, and isn’t just some pathetic little bastard man that was pulled out of the ground. And the by becoming Mecha-Dianite, Tom essentially becomes a pseudo-physical manifestation of his liberation from Dianite's chains where he doesn't have to depend on anyone. He can depend on himself, he is capable and he doesn't need to drive himself into the ground trying to prove his worth.

In season 2 when Dianite comes back, Tom has this different sense of self about him, because this Dianite is different, and he’s different. He holds onto the Mecha-Dia status like a badge of honor; he won’t fear this god. And he finds eventually he doesn’t have to. This Dianite isn’t inherently "evil", in fact, he’s near opposite. He still rewards Tom, but not in the way S1 Dianite did where he was breathing over Tom’s shoulder just waiting for him to inevitably fail some specific mission; in fact, since he’s dead he’s barely there. S2! Dianite also has greater affections to Mot, whom he treats more so how Ianite treats Jordan, where loyalty-devotion translates into genuine love. And in a way I think that fact plus his newfound separation from the notion that he needs his god to survive prevents him from falling back into old mindsets. Instead, he redirects a similar, but different emotional dependency from what should've gone to his god, now to Jordan (in not necessarily a romantic sense, despite what my normal behavior on this account might suggest).

Because even though he might have persona-autonomy, and isn't bound to a single individual defining his worth, he's still not someone who thrives on complete and utter independence. Tom still remains someone who needs and relies on having someone to fall back on to help him out, give him things, build things for him and so and so forth - and the need for that kind of connection continues to drives him to be so energetic and passionate for his relationships with others-- but instead of it being out of fear, it's out of affection. A kind of nuance in someone's love language where time spent together is driven not by needing it otherwise you have nothing, but clinging onto someone because they've brought into your life a "stability" (in quotes cause nothing about Tom isn't volatile) that keeps you alive, and fuels a different kind of fire. Even if he can't prove he's the best to them, it doesn't really matter anymore, because he needs them out of seeking a type of unconditional love since being completely alone or isolated would just drive him batshit. While a state of self-identified independence juxtaposed against emotionally dependency was so hurtful to him in the past, it has shaped into something that ended up more positive; as a way of becoming infinitely bonded to those he cares about, giving them his all and fighting with all his heart to hold onto them.

if you made it this far. thanks for reading my brain worms ily smooch smooch /p <333

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PS. hopefully this art makes more sense now ;]

#tom syndicate #mianite #character essay #character analysis #lafakiwi talks #lafakiwi writes #lord im just puttin it out there im tired of it being in my drafts #please. please be nice im havin anxiety about this #my ask box is open if yall ever wanna discuss this stuff ngl hahaha /nf #if you listen to Stay by Morgan Clae thats the vibes of this interpretation #that song kinda jumpstarted this brainrot cause ive been tryin to figure out the more complex aspects of his character and this song.#just got it right on the nose

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elfyourmother · 2 years

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i just finished That Part post stormblood ( :(💔), so i am curious about Yotsuyu's situation in the Gisele-verse :o

I wrote a little fic here but the gist of it is that Gisele managed to save her after the Asahi business and convinced Hien to let the world alternately think she died there and/or was returned to the Empire in the prisoner exchange.

I should explain that a large part of Gisele’s deep sense of empathy for her despite everything is rooted in a very real sense of “there but for the grace of Hydaelyn go I”. As Gisele sees it, she could have very easily ended up the same way given how elven women were treated in Thedas, had she not been brought to the Circle. Even then, she knows what it’s like to be used and not have autonomy over one’s own body. And her grandmother was a sex worker in Orlais who was ultimately betrayed by a patron. So Tsuyu’s story hits a little too close to home for her to ever want to condemn her outright, no matter what she did.

Gisele shamed Hien over his handling of the man who had pimped Tsuyu out. He genuinely didn’t understand, I think, being a man; Gisele explained to him in no uncertain terms what it was like to be a vulnerable woman at the mercy of cruel people, she had lived that way her whole life until she became a Grey Warden. And that was why ultimately he agreed to it, in the end. Gisele doesn’t excuse her atrocities but she runs on compassion and she didn’t want her to die; there’s no taking back the harm she caused, but she would rather Tsuyu had a chance to heal, and in the process contribute something good to the world, in helping others. Gosetsu helped also, like a lot; if he was willing to forgive her for what she had done and specifically to him, then Hien could hardly say no.

So Tsuyu ended up going to the Rising Stones, at Gisele’s behest (Gisele is Antecedent as of the end of Dragonsong. It’s more a figurehead role, to recognize that she became the heart of the order and not just its champion, also for what she meant to Minfillia). But Tsuyu was adamant that she was not joining the Scions; she has a fantastic head for numbers and so Tataru contracted her to help her manage the Scions’ finances (thus the junior accountant riff). I joke about it a lot by comparing her to Spike on Buffy when he had the chip, hanging out with the Scoobies because he really had nowhere else to go, until he slowly became one of them. The thing is, Tsuyu was very cynical about the whole thing and figured were holding onto her as a bargaining chip, and she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. She had never been treated with genuine kindness and compassion before and believed not so deep down that she didn’t deserve it. She didn’t believe she warranted a second chance at anything and was waiting for the inevitable to happen. When it didn’t, well...

You haven’t gotten to the current expansion yet so I’ll just say that by the time Endwalker rolls around, Tsuyu genuinely considers herself one of the team, albeit a noncombatant like Tataru. And a large part of that is due to how close she became with Krile and Tataru while the rest of the Scions were on the First in Shadowbringers. Tsuyu was more than just moral support, she took on a lot of duties helping coordinate the Scion outer circle’s efforts, and also gave them a lot of intelligence on Garlemald that was valuable to Estinien’s mission.

She and Gisele had a complicated relationship that turned romantic eventually, but it took time.

#yotsuyu tag #gisele surana #otp: le soleil et la lune #sevarix blogs #ask bisho

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natromanxoff · 3 years

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12 - Nicknames...

Hello Playmates. Firstly a slap on the wrist for me. In the last thingy that I wrote I said that we were at Madison Square Gardens when John Bonham died. Well, according to someone in the good ol' U.S. of A. we were in Boston that night, so I was a day out. Also this very kind person, who "didn't want to burst my bubble," informed me that David Lee Roth said the same thing every night. I'm sure he did, I just said that I liked his onstage patter. There has to be some sort of joke about bursting bubbles and pricks, anybody know any?

Did we all get our Spring magazines? Credit to young Jacky and Val, they still do a great mag. In it were the answers to the last competition, and I have to be honest, I didn't have a clue about most of the questions. But here is a little bit of trivia. Q.8 (who, according to Roger, first suggested Another One Bites The Dust be released as a single) The actual very first people to suggest AOBTD be released as a single was The Royal Road Crew. We were lurking around at Musicland Studios while the fab ones were mixing, and I think it was Jobby who said it would be a huge hit. When we told the band they just glared at us and told us to mix some more cocktails. I suppose Mr Jackson saying it sounds more impressive than "Our pissed road crew said ..."

Q.10 (where did the "young man" who was stung on the knee by a wasp come from?) I had completely forgotten about "Two Sharp Pencils." The verses in that song, The young man from Dundee and The lady from Bude, were two stupid rhymes that I used to recite, and RT liked them and made a song out of it. I really hate to take to much credit (lying bastard) but 'Two Sharp Pencils' is also one of mine. It's very hard to explain, but the pencils are placed in a good looking girls ears, and whilst holding the pencils you can pull her head to .......... Enough said. Don't go all sexist on me, it was only a joke.

Q.20 (it was a question about who's nickname was who's) Nicknames. I did not know that Deaky's nickname of Birdman was common knowledge. Here's a little competition from your's truly. Does anyone out there know how he got it and when he got it, and anything else that goes with the story?????? Still on the subject of nicknames, some of you smarter people might have guessed that most of us had them, and that Crystal isn't my real name. It's actually Susan. When I started to travel with the band the first person to inherit my drum keys was a young guy, compared to the rest of us, who had worked with bands like the Thompson Twins. He wore stupid clothes like bondage pants, so Trip gave him the name - Mr. Modern, and it stuck. Whilst on tour in Japan, Mr M met a charming lady who we named Madam Butterfly, and this charming lady gave him his very first dose of the clap. By the end of the day Modern was getting very pissed off with us all, because every time he saw anyone, we would all clap him. I wrote on the gong flight case "Mr Modern has the Crap," and the last time I saw the case it was still on it. The last drum monkey we had, on his first day of rehearsals plugged a 110v keyboard into the 240v power supply and blew it up. British people here might remember a TV program called Auf Wiedesein(!), Pet. Ratty remembered the name of the arsonist in it, and so we had - Moxie. In-between these two wonderful people we did have someone else. We had a European tour coming up and Modern had moved on, so I interviewed a few people at Pembridge Road. I told one guy he had the job and asked him if he had anymore questions, and his first was "Who does Freddies gear?" He only knew me as Crystal, so I replied that Ratty did it. "Who looks after Brian?" Jobby. "Sound?" Trip. "Lights?" Idiot Boy. By this time he's looking a bit bewildered, and I said, "Obviously these are all nicknames and here's a little tip, you're gonna get one, and if you don't like it don't say anything otherwise it'll stick." Sound advice. A few weeks later we all turn up in good old Munich to start rehearsals. I'm in Rogers suite and said, "I suppose you should meet your new roadie at sometime." So I get on the phone and call his room, and when he answers the phone I said, "Hello Shag Nasty," and the dickhead said "I DON'T LIKE THAT." Welcome Shag.

We had to start how we meant to carry on, so we all headed to the Sugar Shack that evening. This could have been Spike's first day as well. Us old timers know how to pace ourselves, but dear old Shag has to drink himself into oblivion in the first hour, and proceed to pass out. A red rag to a bull. We pile him up with glasses, bottles, ashtrays and anything else we can find, and after a few hours Brian decides to head off, and being a nice guy said he would get Shag back to the hotel. We get him down to the limo and throw him in the back while Brian gets in the front, and on the way to the hotel he decides to decorate the limo with, amongst other things, diced carrots. So far this is not good job security. During sound checks Roger would spend forever tuning his kit, and during the show, with the heat of the lights and his pounding, would continue tuning during the show. On one occasion, sound check over and kit perfect, we head off until showtime. During the first number of the set RT is looking a bit put out, and after the first song starts frantically re-tuning the drums. This continues for quite a few songs until he starts to look relaxed. After the show Shag is summoned to the dressing room, and RT said, "Er Shag, after the soundcheck did you re-tune my kit? And the reply was, "Oh no Rog, I wouldn't do that, I just tightened up the loose ones." Back in Berlin and it's five minutes before show time, and Gerry comes up to me and says, "Look's like you've got your old job back for tonight." Why? I look round and Shag is being carted off on a stretcher, with an oxygen mask, drip and everything. What else can this clown get up to? For the last two million years Queen have finished the show with Rock You, then Champions, when the lights would come down, FM running around like a madman, RT standing up and hitting all his cymbals and playing just the bass drum with his right foot, BM playing the never ending power chord whilst keeping an eye on the drummer and JD wondering where we're going clubbing. As the lighting rig came to a standstill, Rog would sit down, and cue the rest of the band for the finish with two smacks on the snare drum and then an almighty crash of the cymbals, and it's over for another night. Play the tape. Shag had done this a couple of dozen times already, so you would think he knew. Wrong. On one night, Rogers doing his standing up bit and our beloved Shag thinks, "The stool is in the way." so he removes the offending stool. When Roger goes to sit down, there's nothing to sit on and he goes arse over tit off the back of the riser, and he's lying there winded. I tell Shag Nasty to hide for a while and try and get the drummer to his feet, and needless to say he's very pissed off. The lights have stopped and Brian has played the longest chord in the history of the universe. Roger finally gets back behind the kit, does the two hits and cymbal crash to finally finish the show, and then completely trashes his kit. I'm glad I didn't have to rebuild it. Needless to say, Shag did not last to long. Until next time.

Crystal

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #brian may #john deacon #crystal taylor #crystal's tales

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mediocre-writerr · 4 years

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this is what it takes [quinn fabray]

Quinn Fabray x fem reader

Request: Quinn Fabray x reader, that takes place with Valentine’s kissing booth that Finn does (Reader is very outgoing and has a high status on the pyramid) and him and the r are competing for Quinn’s love and attention with a happy ending for Quinn and the r

*not my gif*

Out of all the shapes in the world: a circle, square, a freakin’ straight line! It was a triangle. You had to have been in a love triangle. With the quarterback and the head cheerleader.

With all the high school stereotypes, it seems as if quarterback and head cheerleader would have to be together. But you were also on the top of the social pyramid, you were the captain of the girl’s volleyball team.

Which had a better record than the football team...just saying.

You were walking down the hallway with your letterman jacket when you saw Finn at a kissing booth he had set up.

“Mr. Hotshot you’re literally gonna spread mono around the school.” you say leaning against the wooden board that created a barrier between the two of you, “All because Quinn Fabray doesn’t want to kiss you.”

“Ms. Wannabe last time I checked you couldn’t get her to kiss you either.” he says with his shit-eating smirk.

I chuckled loudly, “Woah guys! Hotshot here won one championship game in all three years of being the star quarterback and now he thinks he’s all that!” you exclaim sarcastically, “Try winning all three state championship games and a national champion AND the captain.” I say copying his own shit-eating smirk.

He looked at a loss of words before Quinn passed by. The two of you watched her as she walked by. You smiled to yourself softly. There was so many things that made you fall for the blonde.

How she carried herself. How she was so beautiful. How beautiful her voice was not only when singing, but talking. How intelligent she was.

God she’s beautiful.

But all Finn saw was beauty and social status, but she was so much more.

“Well, good luck lover boy.” you say patting his back, going to run off to catch up with Quinn.

As you ran towards her you were met with a bunch of people’s waves and high fives. You may have been on top of the social status, but you always tried to be nice to everyone. That’s how you became popular.

You touched her shoulder gently and she smiled at you softly, “Hey Fabray.” you say.

“Y/L/N, hello.” she says trying to fight back a smile.

“How are you doing today?” you ask politely as you swerve through the crowds of teenagers.

“Pretty good,” she says simply.

“That’s awesome!” You notice her shivering a little bit, “Are you cold?”

“A little. I underestimated how cool it was today.” she says rubbing her arm with her hand.

You immediately shrug off your letterman and place it over her shoulders, “Here take this! I have a hoodie in my locker that I can go grab.”

A smile appeared on her soft features, “Thank you.”

You nod smiling back at her as the two of you continued to walk, “You know Valentine’s day is coming up and I wanted to know if you would like to go on a date with me?” you ask confridently or as confidently as you can.

She stops to turn and look at you, a serious look in her eye. And you could tell that she was fighting back and forth in her head, “You don’t have to give me an answer right now. Just think about it okay?” you add on so she doesn’t feel pressured.

“Okay.” Quinn nods with a small smile.

No one has ever done that before. No one has ever relieved pressure on her and let her know that it was okay.

Finn? Never.

Sam? Never.

Puck? Oh don’t even get her started on that.

You give her a small kiss on the cheek before parting ways. Happy with how you left her and feeling confident in your stance on how she feels about you.

Glee club started and you took a seat next to Mike, waiting for everyone else including Mr. Shue to come in. You watched as Quinn and Finn walked in side by side.

Even though you couldn’t hear their conversation you could tell that Finn was trying to make a move of his own. They sit in front of you and you pretend you’re not listening, when in reality you really are.

“So ice rink for Valentine’s Day?” he asks still having his shit-eating smirk on his face.

“I don’t know Finn. Y/N already asked about Valentine’s Day.” she says and you smile to yourself knowing she’s still thinking about you.

He scoffs, “Really? You’re thinking about spending Valentine’s Day with Wannabe? C’mon Quinn, you and I have something special. Come with me.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt at persuasiveness, “I need time.” she says simply as Mr. Shue comes into the room.

“Then kiss me at my kissing booth! If you feel the fireworks you drop Y/N and go out with me.” he keeps pushing, but she’s not listening.

The entire glee club you were preoccupied in your mind. Trying to figure out ways to get Quinn to be yours.

She deserves better than what all the guys’ she’s ever dated have given her. Sam was the closest thing she got to something healthy and stable. You want to give her that.

And you had just the idea.

The next glee club you went up in front of the class for your assignment about love. Naturally, you decided to dedicate this song for Quinn.

While Finn is peer-pressuring her into getting him to kiss her. You decided to sing her a song to let her know that she can take all the time she needs.

“So I’d like to dedicate this to Quinn. You know, it’s no secret to everyone that I’ve had a crush on you for as long as I could remember. But this one’s for you.” you say, throwing your guitar over your shoulder, “But before I’d like to give you these.”

You hand her a bouquet of her favorite flowers and she smiles softly. Finn who was sitting behind her just scoffs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Baby, tell me when you’re ready, I’m waiting. Baby, any time you’re ready, I’m waiting. Even ten years from now, if you haven’t found somebody I promise I’ll be around. Tell me when you’re ready I’m waiting, I’m waiting.” you sing the last verse and she’s smiling widely.

The rest of the glee club claps and a bunch of whoop’s fill the room.

“Yeah you win her heart Y/L/N!” Santana yells and you laugh softly.

She smiles at you softly getting up from her seat to give you a hug, “Meet me at Finn’s kissing booth after glee club.” she whispers in your ear and you nod.

Once glee club ends, me, Finn, and Quinn headed towards his kissing booth.

“Are you ready to kiss me Quinn?” Finn asks with a smirk.

She hands him a dollar and you start to question everything.

Why did she bring him here? Why did she make you watch? Why did she give him a dollar? Is she gonna kiss him in front of you? What?

He takes the dollar and puckers up his lips and it makes you feel a little gross. Like you can’t believe Rachel Berry wants to kiss those lips.

But to your surprise she cups your cheeks and pulls your face towards her. It took you a few seconds, but you finally start to kiss back. It’s so sweet and so soft. It was everything you ever imagined it would be.

You placed your hands gently on her waist, tasting her vanilla chapstick off her lips.

She finally pulls away and the two of you turn towards Finn. He was just staring in shock at how played he got.

“Valentine’s Day?” Quinn asks.

“Valentine’s Day.” you say nodding.

#quinn fabray #quinn fabray imagine #quinn fabray imagines #quinn fabray x reader #quinn fabray x fem

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other-cullen-ficrecs · 3 years

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MLM!Cullen Fic Rec List

Inspired by this post. Here is my fic rec list of some of my favorite fics with queer Cullen. Happy Pride :) 🏳️‍🌈 🏳️‍🌈 🏳️‍🌈

Cullen/Dorian

Only True in Fairy Tales by Dragonflies_and_Katydids

Summary: In which Dorian is a special forces operative, Bull is his partner, and Cullen is the guy they're sent to rescue. Hijinks ensue. // Words: 110150

Modern AU. Dragonflies_and_Katydids makes me read the weirdest stuff. But their work is always captivating. The more ridiculous set up the better outcome, I promise. This one is both ridiculous and absolutely perfect. And somehow one of the very few modern au fics in which Cullen's lyrium addiction is well transfered without making it literal.

Fashionably Late by tsurai

For the tumblr prompt: Cullen/Dorian Soulmates AU? <3 "Maker’s breath, this is absolutely the worst timing, he thinks distantly." // Words: 1038

This is but a tiny thing but I'm a sucker for a soulmate AU. Would I love it more if it was 150,000 words? Yes. But I'm just greedy.

COLD HANDS, WARM HEART by spicyshimmy, stonelions

Summary: Cullen and Dorian's friendship deepens. Cullen is a romantic. Dorian is literally cold. Cullen is no longer certain what he would consider surprising. Mages and Templars working in perfect cooperation, perhaps. Evil and corruption disappearing into the ground along with the blight, blood magic falling so far out of favor it ceased to be. A united Thedas: that would be a surprise. // Words: 25369

I think this is most recced Cullrian fic and for a good reason. Slow burn, drama, all the delights.

Light In This Darken'd Time Breaks by RamonaDecember

Summary: Cullen wouldn't say he hates mages, not anymore, but he can't see himself ever trusting one again. Dorian is no exception. The mage is off-color, self-important, and all together too much for Cullen to deal with. So why is it that every time Cullen is at his lowest, Dorian seems to be the only person by his side? // Words: 121289

Slow burn with 121289 words, what more do you want?

Cullen/Bull

Jump In by Dragonflies_and_Katydids

Summary: In which Cullen is almost terminally awkward, Bull and Dorian are literally brothers (because why not?), and Bull tries really hard to be good. Or: In which Dorian tries to set up his brother and his roommate, if he can avoid killing them for being so clueless. (You might get cavities from reading it. Don't say I didn't warn you.) // Words: 33700

What did I say about Dragonflies_and_Katydids and ridiculous premises? But if you're as delighted with awkward Cullen as am I - enjoy.

Dragons from Stars in an Empty Sky by Midna_Ronoa

Summary: The one in which Bull takes Cullen dragon-hunting. // Words: 10423

Fluff and smut and dragons!

Stuck on the Puzzle by thespectaclesofthor

Summary: Once, back in Kirkwall, Cullen had an arrangement with a member of the city guard that satisfied his needs. But time changed all things, and he despaired of ever finding a similar arrangement again - that was, until he met The Iron Bull. Problem being that Bull seemed to care far more about sorting out the nitty-gritty of such an arrangement than Cullen ever has. // Words: 235586

No fic rec lists that can involve Bullen canot do without Stuck on the Puzzle. If you haven't read it - please give it a try. As far as I'm concerned - the best fic in the fandom. And definately one of the best fics in general. <3

Cullen/Dorian/Bull

Exit Light by Dragonflies_and_Katydids

Summary: In which Cullen is suicidally depressed, Dorian is a high-functioning alcoholic, and Bull just wants them both to be happy, except when he wants to crack their heads together for being emotionally stunted idiots. // Words: 77427

This premise is actually very close to canon, compared to some other stories by the same author recced here. The angst? Delightful. The smut? Delicious. The exploration of issues? Delectable! Cheff kisses all around.

to burn cool and collected by toomanyhometowns

Summary: Dorian hums. "Here is the function of the spell: Upon invocationne, ye caster's spyryt shal sterte to ye form of whomsoever mofte recently achieved releafe by hys hande." He taps the page in punctuation and looks back up. "And then there's a lot of text about the vast joys we may experience together, et cetera, et cetera." // Words: 16121

Ok, this list shows more than anything that my main delight is issues and angst wrapped in with porn. Anyway - cracky premise (body swap!), and angsty, sexy outcome.

Hold by queeniegalore

Summary: Everyone knows Cullen doesn't trust magic. But he trusts Dorian and Bull, so maybe they can make this work. // Words: 6654

Issues? Trauma? Kink? I'm a one trick pony when it comes to recs.

Cullen/Cole

Okay now that we’ve gotten the obvious out, let’s enjoy the trully unexpected enjoyment.

Into The Light (Cole/Cullen Ficlets) by Sinister_Kid

Summary: A series of what I hope are tasteful Cole/Cullen fics that don't exploit or overly sexualize Cole's developing character. Based on a prompt I filled out of boredom in which I imagined the spirit actually hearing someone's pain like a physical noise in his ears that caused discomfort. Explores the option of making Cole more human, with my own original take on how that affects him as a character, and depicts Cole developing romantic feelings for the Commander as he discovers what it means to be human. // Words: 20454

I admit I don't often read Cole shippy fics but this one stays true to the info in the summary and it is careful and tasteful. Also Cullen learning to speak with Cole properly - <333

Cullen/Varric

Verse & Volley Triptych by boycoffin

Summary: POSSIBLE TITLES: This Shit Was Even Weirder: A Surprisingly Not-Doomed Romance In The Shadow of the Apocalypse The Commander and the Rogue already taken, Antivan maritime smut with an elf girl in it How The Hell I Ended Up With That Guy: A Tale for The People Who Keep Asking Me About It In Bars The Short and Curlies that's just terrible Love Among the tropey garbage A Tale of Two Names pretentious and unclear The Penman's Paramour Memoirs of a Moron (That He's Going to Regret Publishing and Will Never Hear The End Of for As Long As He Lives) // Words: 133354

One of the very few fics in which I can not only accept but love 1st person POV. Crack. Slow-burn. Pennames. Lovable OCs. DELICIOUS. Also a fic that made me start this blog, so love all around.

Cullen/Krem

Last but not least, my delightful fave (maybe, possibly, probably) and involving a shameless self-plug because it’s the month of pride.

Swordplay by orphan_account

Summary: The Bull's Chargers are undisciplined, untested, and unprofessional; but Cullen can't stop thinking about their lieutenant. // Words: 3910

I have a soft spot for whoever Krem being shipped with not knowing he's trans at first. But also oblivious, pining Cullen <3

If you have been starving, a creature of bone by missivesfromghosts

Summary: Cullen is content with where he is. He has a life and a purpose. He’s doing the Maker’s work and he’s cut the Chantry’s leash on him. He barely thinks about the fact that he’s trans anymore. The last person who knew he was born anything different, barring his sister Mia, died during the Blight. This works for him. That is, until he starts falling for Krem. // Words: 769

A tiny thing but I have a soft spot for the idea. Also what's better than a ship with trans character? A ship with two trans characters. Keep that in mind for further recs actually.

Sweet, Merciful Andraste by Tainaron

Summary: PWP. Honestly, Cullen should invest in walls and a ceiling that don't have holes if he's going to keep having such loud sex. Pure, unapologetic smut between trans men who love each other. // Words: 4187

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ What more do you want from me? Sometimes porn is just porn. Enjoy.

Champions of the Just by Tainaron

Summary: En route to Griffin Wing Keep before the battle of Adamant, Cullen falls prey to an injury that reveals a shameful secret about his trauma with magic. As Cullen struggles with his past, his duty to the Inquisition, and his love life, he becomes increasingly uncertain if he’s the target of an assassination attempt or just his own personal demons. // Words: 67885

Well, I also have some plottier and angstier fics in my rec disposal. This one actually explores the problems Krem and Cullen could encounter in their relationship and all within the canon plot line. Plus bonus points of Cullen actually interacting with other Chargers.

cabbage: a love story by psikeval

Summary: Krem’s grin fades into a quiet smirk, his eyes warm and amused, and Cullen does not forget how to move his legs because he is a grown man, a leader of soldiers, commander of the Inquisition’s army. He breaks the silence by coughing loudly, because he is also an imbecile. // Words: 18932

Creme de la creme of Krem/Cullen fics <3 Fluff, crack, porn <3 This delightful series has it all!

#fic rec #pride month #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cullen rutherford #bi cullen #cullen/krem #bullen #cullen/bull #culrian #cullen/dorian #culric #cullen/varric #cullen/cole #rec list

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swimfuel · 3 years

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after idk how many months im still heavily brainrotting over your "scott summers is a knight of doom" and your comparison of him w/ dave. hussie ran and tripped and fell so marvel could walk.

do you have any more classpect hcs for any other marvel characters? o5, champions, etcetc? your analysis are genuinely good

anon trust that you are not alone in this because every once in a while i remember that scott summers is a TEXTBOOK knight of doom and i immediately need to sit down

however i’m sorry to say that i don’t necessarily have any other hcs as solid as #that because scott was my #1 meow meow for months on end BUT i do have some thoughts that ill put under the cut!! disclaimer that it’s been a little while since i’ve read anything and i’m not nearly an authority on any of these characters

emma frost:

the easiest immediate grab for me is slayyyqueener emma frost as some kind of mind player (beyond the shallow association of psychic = mind)

emma interacts with the world through LAYERS upon LAYERS of fronts!!!! i think it’s really telling that, when i think about her powers, i don’t immediately think about the whole mind-reading/mind-control/whatever/etc — i think about her incredibly frequent use of psychic suggestion/projection to create illusions and fronts !!!

three outstanding but contrasting examples of this:

house of m #6 where she uses layers psychic commands to hide herself and her compatriots (a tactical use) — this was the very first example of her powers that came to mind, but she’s used very similar strategies innumerable times throughout the comics; her manipulation of others’ perceptions and expectations is a key part of her “fight style”, if that makes sense? she’s as powerful a psychic as anyone else, but she’s the only psychic i’ve seen with such emphasis on this style of psychic suggestion

some other comic (i’m thinking it’s either from late utopia era or some time in krakoa era, or maybe something else entirely but it was very lighthearted) where she’s going out on the town dressed in pjs or something with her hair and makeup undone etc etc etc but she uses psychic suggestion to make everyone around her think that they’re seeing her in full glam (personal use)

aaaand the elephant in the room…. inhumans v xmen and death of X with the whole illusion scott thing. i cant comment on this one because UMM.. as a cyclopswasrightist LOLLL I DIDN’T READ IT…. but from general osmosis i know that it generally revolved around emma using her abilities as 1. a crutch for her grief and 2. a way to keep the mutant cause alight through martyring scott and 3. a way for him to not be remembered as an m-pox victim. god can we just give it up with the inhumans i promise nobody gaf

so with that down pat… heres the hard part ? i struggle a lot with class assignment so i’m just going to run through some ideas:

thief of mind:

i think it could work! she has some of the showiness of the thief but it’s tempered by the calculations of a cerebral mind player

the thing with thieves is that their aspect-related selfishness is typically not selfishness for selfishness’ sake? … thieves do things that align with their own (typically… unique) moral code and what they see as the Right Thing To Do, with very little regard for the standards of others. that is VERY EMMA even as she goes through her reformation-era (see: wh*don’s run)

and the thief of mind classpect madlib (one who steals mind/through mind) works pretty well both considering her modus operandi and her skillset! actually wow this is really well-suited to her i actually can’t think of another class for her? so i guess it’s decided? emma frost is the THIEF OF MIND 🙏

jean gray:

okay so i haven’t read a TON of the older comics and a lot of krakoa era stuff makes me wanna vomit so i am not nearly as well versed in jean’s stuff as i am with emma but i did read some of the newer stuff with young jean

but before i begin can we please just laugh at this panel together. why does this artist look like they trace from optometrist ads

anyways she definitely suffers from the witchmaid subjugation bullshit, i think? where the maid follows a somewhat typical path of “subjugation —> realization —> agency” the witch is more continually limited by the narrative except when it demands for their particular talents and explosive power/influence over their aspect… the realized witch ultimately suffers for the advancement of the narrative

i thinkkkk… i think i’m gonna go with witch! considering the passion that defines jean and the scale of the power she wields (and is often too dead or cockblocked by the narrative to Actually Wield) as well as how she literally just cannot catch a break (it’s a bit strange to me how the mage is seen as Thee Suffering Aspect when the witch is right there but i digress)

god okay shooting into the dark here but maybe heart for her aspect? again, going past the shallow association of psychic/empathy powers = heartmind, she has the witchtrait of being surrounded by her aspect all her life — ie. identity issues and empathy

i think it’s fucking insane how neatly the dave/sollux/scott comparison lines up with the jade/aradia/jean comparison. holy fucking shit. i don’t know how intentional it was but jesus christ in heaven

god sorry i am just so sleepy i’ll come back with more thoughts later but here are some last shots in the dark

hank = a mage (for very similar reasons why edward elric is a mage: got their ass beat in the pursuit of knowledge/ways to solve their Big Problem)

kamala = a maid (?????) (if for no other reason than she reminds me So Much of my friend who is also a maid and more that i don’t feel like explaining)

amadeus = a page (light?) [pagebluster and overcompensation —> genuine development]

rogue = indya moore (not a classpect just a very very good fancast and this list feels incomplete)

#mail #wow i spent a while on this i even pulled out my decade old copy of house of m

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wyattvsmusic · 2 years

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Logic - Vinyl Days ALBUM REVIEW

Logic’s retirement from music was very much short lived but he “ended” on a really great note with No Pressure, which was definitely a return to form and easily one of his best albums. I was a bit confused with the release of Bobby Tarantino 3 as it sounded exactly like what Logic said he was steering away from on No Pressure but he later clarified that the project was a bunch of leftover and only came out to help him get out of his Def Jam deal—which is what it sounded like. Vinyl Days marks Logic’s final album on Def Jam, which he talks about heavily on the album, especially on the song Sayonara which is a big thank you note. It’s very much similar to his Last Call song he made on YSIV fashioned after Kanye’s Last Call and J. Cole’s Note To Self. Like the title suggests, Vinyl Days is all about sampling and taking things back to the essence of hip hop’s roots, which Logic has always championed with the Young Sinatra mixtapes. Logic has never been ashamed to show his influences, which I see nothing wrong with especially because the point of the album is that Logic is having fun making the kind of hip hop he grew up on and fell in love. The love for J Dilla and Madlib is quite clear on songs like Tetris and Quasi and pays homage to groups like Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, and Wu-Tang Clan, on songs like Bleed It, Rogue One, and Porta One with RZA. The album plays like a mixtape as there are plenty of J Dilla sirens as well as Funk Flex drops—who acts as the hype man throughout the album as if he was premiering it live on the radio. It’s a pretty cool idea and adds more to the classic hip hop spirit of the album. Logic still sounds like Logic and he does not run out of bars on the album. His flow is always top notch and his punchlines and wordplay are on point as well. It’s very different from the way he was rhyming on No Pressure as that album was more conceptual and this album’s concept is much more freeform which is a nice change of pace as some songs are brief displays of lyrical exercise, such as the song BLACKWHITEBOY where Logic spits so many bars that it’s hard to keep up. Though Logic pays a lot of homage to his inspirations, he still makes plenty of time for more original sounding songs like Clouds which sounds like classic Logic. My one issue with that song is that the Curren$y verse with the different beat seems like it was tacked on at the end for no reason. It would have made more sense if he rapped on the same beat. Logic does rap a lot for the sake of rapping but there is more focused content on the album such as the song Therapy Music with Russ as they both share their perspectives on what therapy has done for them while also dropping plenty of hard bars. The soulful beat on the song Breath Control with Wiz Khalifa also sounds like a mix between vintage Logic and Wiz while the drums remind listeners of their previous collaboration Indica Badu. Early Logic collaborator C Dot Castro reunites with Logic for their first song together since 24. Not only does Logic show up to rap, but his impressive guest features did not hold back with some amazing verses such as Nezi Momodu whose verse was so great, making for the best first impression ever. Action Bronson’s verse is one his best in recent memory and Royce’s verse has such incredible rhyme schemes that it takes multiple replays to catch all of it. AZ’s verse shows that he is sharper than ever and Blu’s verse on Orville shows why he’s one of the best. The only things I really didn’t like about this album were the length as it is obnoxiously long, the many voicemails left by different celebrities that make up the interludes messing with the flow of the album, Like’s verse was too short and The Game’s verse didn’t really fit the song despite it being very good. I love how Logic gave each featured guest the perfect beat for them to rap over, leading to my next point which is that the production is fantastic. It’s nothing new for Logic or in general but it is great quality classic boom bap with great chopped samples and loops. The hints on this album to his next album College Park have me curious about what Logic’s independent career is going to look like because Vinyl Days is an excellent way to leave the label he’s been signed to since his first album and marks that Logic’s place as a true student of hip hop who is free to experiment has been solidified whether you like him or not.

Fav Tracks: Tetris, In My Lifetime, BLACKWHITEBOY, Clouds, Therapy Music, Ten Years, Orville

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sp00kworm · 4 years

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Under the Old Oak (The Lord of Darkness x Reader)

Pairing: The Lord of Darkness x Reader

Warnings: Adult Content

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The forest was vast in the Kingdom. The Princess had her champion, even if he was not truly hers, and the realm was restored to peace and warmth. The winter, however, still arrived, though it was not as brutal as it once was. The snow was light, and the air was bitter, but no gales battered the lands. It was almost a peaceful winter. You’d spent the winter mornings breathing the cold air, wandering the woodlands in search of foxes and squirrels as you scribbled ditties into the journal. Music was perhaps the only joy you had anymore, and even Princess Lili was amused by the folk tales. The winter, however, was gone, and so spring had overtaken the trees, bursting forth bluebells heavy with flowers and delicate snowdrops which swayed in the breeze. The trees were bursting with new buds of growth, light, new green leaves bursting from curled up shells, but there was not yet enough of them to block the sun and create a canopy. You let out a breath of warm air into the cool morning and watched it drift away into the trees before you avoided a fairy circle of toadstools and tutted.

“You are mischievous and rude.” You uttered to the giggling sprites which had laid the trap on the route they knew you took every morning, “And to think I bring you cakes!” You teased as you threw your lunch muffin in the air.

The sprites gasped and darted for the muffin, their sparkly magic light glowing as they each took a sniff and a nibble at the candied fruit decorating the top, “It was a joke!” They giggled as they dragged away the muffin into their mossy homes, “Thank you!” They jeered together as crumbs fell into your hair. You brushed the mess out of your hair before continuing down the mossy path, bouncing around the poisonous toadstools and circles of stones before you reached the stream. It was shallow with the lack of rainfall yet, and you hopped along the deep-set stones, wetting your boots as you went across to reach the soggy bank on the other side. The mud slapped against your boots and you laughed as you headed towards the old oak tree. It sat away from the bank; its roots protected from the constant onslaught of water which would cause it to rot in the silty dirt. With a sigh, you tugged your scarf tighter and sat back against the mossy bed at the base, breathing in the fresh air as the stream trickled on in the background.

After a few more moments of peace, you reached for your satchel and pulled free your journal from the leather bag with your pencil. Your hand harp came out next and you undid the cloth around it to play a little tune, filling the air with a simple set of scaling notes to check the tuning of the instrument. With a twist of one string, it was into the correct range and you opened your notes to look at the new song you have been working on. It was an old ditty, something that your grandmother had sung you as a child before she passed, and you were determined to rewrite the lyrics for the new legend. The old one was a sad tale, of the darkness being born and spreading sadness throughout the land, but you figured the new tale should be something joyful, with an ending that reflected the new era of light that had been bestowed on the world.

“What have I written?” You asked yourself as you opened the page the song was scrawled on, barely able to read your own writing half of the time. With a squint, you started to pluck at the strings, softly, letting the notes gently hang in the air as you opened your mouth to hum the words quietly.

“Under the old oak tree, boughs cast shadows of dark and silt.” You swayed softly, “In the shadow sits eyes of glittering green, watching a maiden of white and snow.” The harp sung with you as you gently continued into the old verse and rolled the words around in your mouth, thinking about how to change them.

“Darkness, temptress, wanted one true love. The Maiden’s honour was not his to tempt, and hero slayed him with the sword.” A couple of sprites listened quietly in the branches over your head before glittering and dashing down into the water to pluck at the new water clovers growing in the silt. With a hum and a flourish, you continued, “The fairest maid denied his request, leaving him in shadows and dust, only for her handsome champion, to part ways when the sun rose up.”

A rabbit snuffled at your boot as you continued, “Daylight blinds her heart, when demons sit afar.” With a soft whistle you continued on, tapping your foot to the beat as you blended into a soft, harp solo and finished with a gentle smile. The rabbit sat quietly, chewing on bluebells before it twitched, its eyes wide with fright as its ears flicked. It twitched again before bolting for the trees and its warren. You jumped with fright as a fox tore past you, hot on the creature’s tail, its teeth snatching at the cotton tail of the rabbit. With a gasp you looked away as the fox caught it by the back legs and tried to ignore the scuffle as it continued into the grass and plants away from you. There was a rush of fur and you looked on sadly as the fox carted its kill past you, dripping with blood. There were squeals in the brush and you tried to take solace in the fact that the mother was feeding her new pups.

Silence stretched out as you scribbled in the notebook, singing soft lines as the air grew warmer and warmer around you, stretching past midday. A few sprites came along to sit on your harp as you continued to sing about the end of the Darkness.

“Darkness sleeps in hearts of man, cruelty and hate combined he thrives.” You whispered, “Yet light blinds and he sleeps he sleeps.”

“A beautiful ditty.” A voice rumbled from behind you, “In details, however, it is wrong.” A beautiful timbre caressed your ears, deep and filled with wisdom of a thousand ages.

You clutched your handheld harp close and looked around the clearing, “Who are you? Where are you hiding?”

“Nowhere. I do not hide. You are sat in the shadows.” The voice purred, “Here I am.”

You flinched as you peered at the long shadows of midday, “The shadows? No creature is shadow.”

“I am no creature.” It purred, “I am the shadows. I am the darkness you are sat in.” It promised, “Can you not see me?”

You looked at the floor and then peered hard at the shadows of the roots before two burning green eyes appeared in the darkness followed by a great smile, pointed fangs snapping before the smile melted away again.

“I am weak here, but I listened to your song. I heard you speak of me, sweetest thing.” The green eyes burned as they watched you.

“Why are you listening?” You asked, fear clutching at your heart, “I’m singing a song of what happened.”

“And your song is beautiful. You speak of the Darkness. I am he.” The Darkness purred as though his mouth was pressed to your ear.

“The Darkness is dead and gone. He was destroyed.” You whispered to the green eyes, “Everyone knows he is dead.”

“Dead?” The creature laughed, “Darkness cannot die, for the folly of man is where I reside. Every human is cruel and foul, and so I will never see an end.” He promised with another hiss, the teeth snapping in the shadows and disappearing once again as he moved along the shadowed roots, peering out from another hole.

“Are you here to goad me…Am I to face the pits of your foul home?” Resolve held your words together as you peered into his burning eyes.

A great, deep chuckle resounded in your ears, and you felt the exhale against the hairs on the back of your neck. He laughed again at your shivering.

“Do you think me a liar? I have told you. I heard your song and came here to listen closer.” A black talon peaked from the shadow before curling back into the darkness.

“Isn’t lying your speciality, oh Lord of Sin.” You spat as you took a step back towards the sunlight.

“Lying? It is a sin, but I do not lie. Witches have pacts with me, I do not lie to them about power. I did not lie to the oh so fair maiden in your tale. She was to be mine. If she did that, she would have been a Queen.” He hissed from the shadows, “Do not twist my words, mortal. I too was lied to in that story.”

“Did you not deserve it? You corrupt the innocent and wanted permanent darkness and death. Those are hardly good things.” You took another step towards the light and the Darkness hissed at you with scorn.

“Think of another tale to sing. Your telling of mine is foul.” The eyes receded back into the shadowed roots before glowing, then disappearing, as the creature closed his eyes. There was silence. You rushed into the sunlight and peered around the clearing as you tried to catch a glimpse of the green eyes burning in the shadows. You rushed back for your harp and bag before making sure to run into the trees and back towards the town.

It got warmer as the week progressed, the leaves on the trees were beginning to unfurl properly and soak up the warming rays of the new sun. After a week you dared to enter the woods again, taking the same path you always did, jumping toadstools until you reached the base of the sprites’ tree.

“I brought you a biscuit.” You offered up into the branches, “They’re lavender and honey, you said you all liked that last time.”

The sprites chittered before taking the biscuit from your fingers and letting crumbs fall into your hair. You brushed at the crumbs and smiled.

“Have you felt anything weird lately?” You asked, “Anything untoward?”

The sprites paused in their eating to look at you confusedly, their little pointed faces confused, “We sense all manner of things. Black and white, light and dark. All are normal in our woods.” One sang before another grinned and tugged at your ear, “White as the unicorn, black as pitch. All is the same to the Fae.” She giggled and the rest sang a soft little rhyme about the fox and the hare.

“You’re all so useless sometimes.” You sighed.

The sprites paused in their dances, “We told you the answer. No lies we speak.” They sang again as they took the food and disappeared back into the moss and birdhouses.

You huffed at the branches, “Useless Fae and their riddles.” You kicked a pebble into the small stream as you slowly moved across the steppingstones.

The water had made new pond weed and sludge grow over the steps and you yelped as your boot slipped and landed in the stream, filling with icy cold water.

“Oh, by the Gods!” You cursed as you hopped along the rest of the stones. When you reached the bank, you hopped a little further, into the dryer dirt before standing on a great pile of moss and upturning your boot. Water splatted onto the dirt and you huffed again as you hopped to the oak and tucked your boot against the trunk along with your other, hoping the warmer air would dry the inside of it.

As usual, you opened your bag and plucked your hand harp from inside the fold, unwrapping the cloth from it carefully before listening to its gentle noise. The soft plucking of the strings rose up into the canopy and you smiled at the noise you had always loved. Your grandmother was the finest harpist you had ever met, and you wished you had her level of skill as you plucked at the notes for the song she had first sung to you as a babe.

“Darkness see the Light, on the break of day. Season turn cold to warm, with her never ending sway. Once the dawn doth break, the dreams are chased away. Darkness see the Light, on the break of day…” You hummed softly, plucking in a gentle cadence as the sunlight worked through the new green leaves, dappling across your face. Soaking in the glow, you let the song die on your lips as the birds sang high above, hidden in the mass of leaves from predators and prying eyes.

“Such a wonderous song.” A dark voice rang out from behind you. Once more, you startled and peered into the roots beneath the giant tree, “Sweet thing, have you come to sing for me again?” The Darkness purred from the depths, his green, burning eyes morphing into the burning orange flames of fire, “Or do you sing of me again to tarnish my name?” He teased as he raised a single claw before curling it back into the shadows, begging for you to come closer.

Fear curled along your spine, “I don’t sing for anyone. I sing for myself.” You promised as you turned on the moss to see the eyes burning into your skin, looking as though into your soul, “I would not sing of you if it were not the song’s lyrics. I have to play this for the town festival.” The confession ran like water and you covered your mouth with a gasp.

“Lies cannot be spoken to me.” The Darkness chortled, “Your songs are tales. Beautifully woven to enchant even the deafest of ears.” He complimented, “I would like to hear another, if you would be so kind?”

“Why should I play for you?” You asked, spitefully, “You almost ruined the world.”

The Darkness laughed again, “Ruined? I merely changed the order. There is balance in the light and dark, and one day that balance will be mine to destroy. The shadows will have their time once again. It is the order of things.” He observed mildly as you held your hand harp closely, trying to avoid his intense gaze.

“Would you destroy everything to have it?” You asked, curiosity burning away at the anxiety in your gut.

The Darkness hummed, “Perhaps. But perhaps it would be best to turn the humans to my own side.” He grinned, as though a new nefarious plan was forming in his mind, white teeth glittering in the roots of the tree before he spoke again, “Play for me little harpist. One more song, I beg of you. The sound is like nothing I have below.”

“And what is it you have below, Darkness.” You asked as you opened your book.

His smile faded, “Screams and bellows. The sound of the foulest torture. There is some music in my power, but it is not that of…” His mouth moved before he spat the word, “Innocence…or purity. There is little joy in it.”

“You do not lie…do you?” You whispered as the eyes burned.

“Why would I lie about such things?” He spat, “Sing for me, please. Play a song.” There was tiredness in his voice as his mouth disappeared into the blackness of the shadows and dirt.

“I can sing for you.” You nodded gently and sat before the shadowed roots, ignoring the burning orange gaze as you remembered the next line of the song.

“Behold the singing song bird, watch the bubbling stream. Before the dawn breaks, naught can be seen. Dreams of sorrows past, chased by the burning light. No more will they bother you, despite the aching blight. Darkness see the Light, on the break of day.”

The Darkness’ eyes lowered with the song, his gaze low and tired as his claws slid back into the roots, disappearing into the dark chasm of his own shadows.

Your voice came to an end, and you opened your eyes not to see the Lord of Darkness nor his gaze. There was silence as the leaves rustled over your head, flapping against one another as you sat, staring into the roots, wondering where the creature had disappeared to during your tale.

A groggy noise of discontent sounded, “Why did you stop singing, song bird?” He asked, a single eye peering out from the shadows.

With a smile you chuckled, “I thought you had fallen asleep.”

The Darkness smiled, fangs exposed as he laughed, “I was close. Your music is gentle, like a Mother’s song to a babe.” He complimented, “You surely sing for the court?” He asked.

A blush graced your cheeks, “No, I sing for myself.” You reaffirmed, “One day I will maybe share my songs with the world…but not for now.”

The Darkness watched you for a moment, “I could make it happen.” He tempted softly, “There would be no one that didn’t know your name.”

“I won’t fall for your temptation.” You huffed, “I would rather sing and make the children happy than be forced to entertain the King and his finicky court.”

“Then perhaps a world without a King is what you truly desire?” He asked with another purr.

“Don’t twist my words against me. I want nothing from you.” You told him as you laid your harp back in your bag.

The Darkness opened his other eye, “Nothing? After such a graceful performance…” He tutted to himself before he twisted a finger into the dirt and you watched your boots wiggle, as though there were invisible feet within them, “Consider this a small token.”

You watched as your boots marched their way over, under the influence of some sort of magic, before jumping and landing in your lap, cosy, lined with rich fur and utterly bone dry. They shined bright with wax polish and smelled as though they were new.

“I…” You stuttered, “I can’t accept these. They’re made for royalty.” You brushed the fur inside.

“Take them. It is payment for your music and for your craft. Wear them well, little bird.” He purred before you watched his eyes grow tired again, the orange turning green and disappearing into the roots randomly before he hummed and disappeared entirely, “I will see you again.”

“Yes…See you next time.” You whispered as the roots twisted and knotted back into place, the Oak hiding where the creature had once been beneath it, “Maybe I’ll have something new for you.” You pulled on the heavy boots and smiled at the warmth and the fit before rushing back over the stream.

You jumped from the rocks and smiled as you looked back into the trees. The sprites bolted from their homes.

“Darkness clings and darkness takes hold.” They whispered in your ears, hidden along your coat collar, “Temptation is the beginning of sin.” They rushed before ripping through your hair, “Careful little one. Darkness tempts in other ways.”

“What do you mean?” You asked but they disappeared up into their homes, leaving glittering dust behind them. You looked up and listened to the silence of the birds before rushing to make your way home before the darkness decided to set in. The sprites cowered in their moss homes as the night rolled in that night, and the wolves howled beneath their trees.

“Does the bird’s song ever wake you?” The Darkness asked from his shadowed hole, his eyes watching your fingers move over the harp, “You only come to sing as the Sun raises to its highest point.” He observed, “Does someone else occupy your time?” He asked with a hiss.

“No.” You plucked a string particularly forcefully, “I’m busy in the mornings.” You confessed, “I have to cook and clean for myself now.” You felt tears well in your eyes.

“What troubles you?” The Darkness asked, the tips of his claws peaking from the roots.

“My Mother passed.” You confessed, “She was all I had left.” You whispered and the Darkness reached out before recoiling from the sunlight with a howl, forgetting himself as his eyes flared with anger.

“Does her passing not anger you. Such sorrow is ill-fitting. I have heard your song in the night.” There was a flicker of something in the shadows, “Can I not offer you some solace, bird?”

“I want nothing of your tricks, Darkness.” You spat, “I want to remember her in her chair, not as a walking corpse.”

The Darkness recoiled at your spite, “I offer no such thing…Only my company. If you would have it?”

You did not keep your shock to yourself, “Truly? You won’t trick me and drag me away into your hellhole?”

He laughed, “No, sweet thing. Where would the fun in that be?” The creature teased before tugging at your bag, “Sing your sorrows. Soon, your heart will not feel the pain anymore.”

You took hold of your bag and took out your hand harp, tightening one string with a watery smile before you sung late into the afternoon, beginning the process of healing your own heart.

“Will you stay a little longer?” The Darkness asked as the sun reached to dip below the horizon. You’d been visiting for so long that you couldn’t remember the time before you did. Your days creating were much more fun with someone to critique your lyrics.

“It will be night-time soon.” You muttered over the rain which pattered against the Oak’s leaves. You were protected underneath it’s canopy, huddled in your fur, your boots tucked against you as you looked out at the rain. The stream bubbled with fresh new water, rushing harshly against the rocks.

“Night is just the day without light. What troubles you so that you cannot walk in it? There is nothing to harm you in these woods.” He offered, eyes flickering with green jealousy.

“There are wolves and mean sprites at night. Even forgetting that, I can’t find my way back without being able to see where I’m putting my feet.” You joked as the Darkness’ fingers tested the space outside of the roots, his claws curling into his own palm.

“Wolves are not after prey such as you.” The Darkness rebuked, “If I were here, no evil is greater than I. We would be alone, to enjoy the silence.”

You noted the whimsical tone of his statement, “Alone?” You asked gently, “Alone to do what? I have no songs about the night.”

He did not miss the joke, “All I would ask is that you sit, and talk with me.”

The rain hissed as it poured against the trees and greenery. You were both quiet for a moment as you digested his request.

“Perhaps not tonight.” You replied, “I…”

“I do not need an explanation.” The Darkness’ tone was harsh, “I understand that your kindness does not go that far.”

“This is not a kindness. I do not pity you.” Taking a handful of leaves, you began to peel them from their stems.

“If not pity, then why do you still come?” He asked with a snarl, his pointed teeth clenched.

Peeling another leaf apart, you wondered why you still entertained his request, “I suppose that I have come to enjoy your retched company.”

“You flatter me, harpist.” The anger seemed to dissolve from him, “Then why not come, entertain me in flesh, tonight?”

“Not tonight.” You smiled as you stood up, gathering your harp and shaking the sticks from your coat, “I heard there will be a storm soon.”

The Darkness moaned softly in the shadows, “Yes. Such a wonderous event. The fear, the agony and the unrest to the land. A time for my shadows to spread further.” He purred inside the roots before his burning gaze rested on you, “Meet me then, in the thunderstorm, I beg of you, my sweet.” His claws peered from the shadow before receding.

The taste of blood covered your tongue from biting your cheek, “When?”

“The day after next.” He whispered as you dipped your hand into the roots. The cold touch of the shadows made you shudder before there was a press of something to the back of your hand, “Wear something to dance.” The Darkness hummed before his lids grew tired and he disappeared into the roots. You jumped and took your hand back as the oak tree groaned and moved back its old roots, hiding the opening once more.

Thunder crashed for most of the next day before the real storm swirled over the land, black clouds twisting in on one another, rolling and spewing torrents of hammering rain. Wind blew down the mountainside for most of the morning. Carefully you chose and outfit in the afternoon, shuddering as the rain bounced off your windows, twirling in the fine silks and singing with the harp clutched in your hand about angering the mother of the skies. You watched the sun set as you ate, spooning your food into your mouth as fast as you could manage before you stole away into your room to grab at the large coat. The rain lightening as you stepped outside, your harp protected in your bag from the torrents. With a smile, you bounced into the woodlands from the cottage’s backdoor, mouth open wide as you sung once more.

“Rain and wind, thunder and howl, across ye plains. Birth of life, green and root, into the soil ‘gain. As the sun sleeps, douse the land, with water o’plenty. Watch and wait for Mother to sing, about when the larder was empty.” You sang as you rushed into the woods, listening in fear for the wolves as the rain slowed to a drizzle. Your hood flew from your head as you rushed beneath and over the homes of many animals, hunkered down away from the foul weather.

Suddenly, you were laughing, twirling into the stream as the rain soaked your hair and the water filled your pumps. A great thunderous crash made you face the sky, looking into the clouds as blue electricity singed across their surface. Another crash was accompanied with a flash of light and you grinned at the power of it before jumping from the stream and throwing your coat off, the silks attached to your shoulders flaring as you plucked your harp from your bag and played over the rain and thunder, spinning in the moss beneath the Old Oak.

“Sweet harpist.” The Darkness purred and you opened your eyes as black silk and cloth rippled in front of the tree, the roots closing with a groan of upset behind his giant figure. The clothing covering him draped over his giant, ebony horns, falling in waves that rippled with the wind. You peered into the hood and saw his orange eyes. His eyes watched you, panting, sodden with the rain falling from the sky. His clawed hand reached from within the cloth covering and you span from his reach with a gentle pluck of your harp.

“You tease me.” He offered before another thunderous crash sounded, along with his laughter. The cape hood and cape around him billowed again in the wind, the encrusted jewels clinking, and you looked to see as the silk around his arms in two cuffs ripple gently. His form was interchangeable, and you watched him float before two cloven hooves thudded to the ground from beneath the bottom seam of the cloth.

“Are you going to dance with me, my lord?” You asked as you span to play your harp away in your bag, thrown beneath the tree.

The Darkness nodded from within the hood and offered his red, clawed hands once more, “Let us celebrate this night.” He rumbled; his voice distorted as the thunder rumbled again overhead.

In his palms, your hands were dwarfed by his own, and you held onto them tightly as the Darkness drew you in closer to him, his silks blending with your own before he led you around in a small circle, one arm outstretched and the other placed at your hip. The cadence of the rain grew louder and louder as you both twirled past the oak tree and through the woodlands, trampling flowers and brambles as you span around in each other’s embrace. Rain soaked you as you laughed and ducked beneath his arms, and the Darkness howled with laughter as the thunder crashed and boomed overhead. A lightning flash revealed his red face, sharp, angular, and long with a mouth of white teeth, his incisors long and sharp. He leaned over and you reached to catch his face, pausing your dance in a great meadow which was soiled and boggy with water. Gently, you took hold of his cheeks, running your wet thumbs over his boiling skin. His hooves sunk in the mud as he leaned closer to you, staring into your eyes as the rain dripped from his great horns.

“I suppose you think me a monster?” He asked as the thunder rolled above you both, drowning his bitter laughter from your ears.

“You’re the Darkness. You are not man nor monster.” You whispered close to his lips, “You are balance and sin.” It seemed like your tongue was loosened, “The sprites warned me…about temptation but you have given me nothing but comfort. There has been no agony, only laughter.” You reached to his pointed ears and closed your eyes as the rain rushed over you both.

The Darkness raised his great cloak and shielded you both from the downpour as his lips pressed against your own. It was gentle at first, hot and intimate, before his teeth nipped at your lower lip and his pointed tongue pressed into your mouth, hot against the coldness of your own mouth from standing in the rain. The Darkness wrapped you tighter beneath his cloth, the silk brushing your damp skin as one large hand cupped your face, his thumb tipping your head higher, and his other skated down your chest before cupping the small of your back.

The kiss was long and passionate, filled with the decadence of the night, some things that the light simply could not offer to you. He pulled himself away from your lips, leaving you gasping for air as you recovered, wrapped in his great cloak.

“I feel…many things, when I am with you, little one.” The Darkness confessed into the folds of his cloak, his eyes looking into your own, meeting them with a confidence you had never seen before in an courter, “I would make you my ruler.” He confessed as he pressed your hand to his hot chest, underneath the cloth.

You looked up at him as rain dripped from his horns and over your own face, dripping down the bridge of your nose in speedy tracks, “I don’t want to be a master.”

“Then play for me, for all time. Play music and inspire my name into those once more.” He begged softly, clutching your hands before he hissed, the thunder crashing overhead once more.

“Can we be together?” You asked in a whisper, fear making your fingers tremble.

“For eternity.” He promised, “Beyond and after the ends of time. Sing songs of Darkness and Love for me.”

“Eternity…”

There was another rumble, and you took his hands again, before the lightning struck a tree in the distance sending fire and wood exploding into the sky. His hood disappeared with a gale of wind before the cloth and silk wrapped around you once more and the Darkness hefted you into his arms, bleeding black with shadows and darkness as the storm and its plight fed him power. You leaned back in awe of the sky, rain burning your eyes as the clouds rolled above you. A great growl sounded from your lover’s chest before he laid you back against a great stone tablet, made for the harvest ceremonies of the fae. Your back met the stone gently before the silks slapped and stuck to the rock and you moved backwards as a furred leg rested against the edge. Red and black merged on his skin as he took hold of the silk and pulled you to the lip of the table, his eyes hungry for a taste of you.

“Can we do this here?” You asked, breath escaping you as his huge form covered you, the black material shielding you from the rain as he stole another deep kiss.

“Yes. Anywhere. Whenever. I adore you.” He heaved as he pulled away, his words heavy in the air as he leaned back to tear as your clothing, exposing perfection to his gaze, “You are temptation.” He uttered with another heavy groan as lightning struck the earth again, “Glorious Sin.” He moaned as his tongue laved at your neck, tasting the flesh, “Surely this is what innocence tastes of. Purity and…” The Darkness broke off into another guttural moan as he kissed down your chest, pressing his tongue to your nipples, enjoying them as they hardened into sharp peaks. His hot breath pebbled your cold skin and he moved over your stomach, squeezing, and enjoying himself as he reached the dip of your hips. His tongue dipped to wrap around you, and you writhed against the table as rain crashed against the hillside.

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