#a black and white filter on everything they consume and it makes me want to skydive with no parachute

[bisaster-energy]

devastating. someone has consumed the entirety of a media just to interpret it shallowly

[juubli]

Here are some of process snapshots of this piece of Astarion in Baldur's Gate.

I am a messy painter and I often adjust and change the designs as I paint. (Mostly because I don't have the patience to do proper line art haha)

I start out with a rough sketch, I usually sketch ideas out on my ipad and move to my cintiq to work with colors.

Next I block in rough color thumbnail. I keep this part messy as I just want to figure out the value structure and the overall mood.

At this point, I have collected a myriad of screenshots and reference images from the game, pinterest, and also from artists work that inspires me.

With the references on one screen, I start to paint the details, I work from foreground to midground to background. (Sometimes I'll bounce between the depth when I get bored from painting one thing for too long)

Sometimes after I block in the colors I'll make adjustments. I didn't like how warped the perspective was getting on the building on the screen right side, so I adjusted the vanishing point and added more tiers to the design. I went back into the game and looked at more how the stairs were designed and figured it out more thoroughly with a sketch on on top.

I think sitting down and doing the details is the most time consuming part. I still want the focus to be on the character despite all the detail going on the background. At this point I'm toggling on black & white filters constantly to check the value, grouping everything in the background together, making sure the lighting frames the subject in focus. At this point I realized, I forgot to paint Astarion's hair LOL, and that the bg was getting a bit too detailed, so I used a more textured brush and painted away some of the edge details of bg buildings.

Last, I make final adjustments, and I make a overall lighting/fx adjustment folder. Adding in some noise, adjusting the contrast, color balance, and lighting over all and call it done!

Link to Print shop!

[levithestripper]

Patience Is a Virtue

summary:

stuck in winchester due to a quicker-than-usual winter and confined inside king ecbert’s castle with nothing to do, ragnar finds himself trailing behind athelstan, being strung along to god knows where. but his little priest promises it's worth it, and ragnar makes good on athelstan’s promise.

warnings: fluff, smut, porn with a sprinkling of plot, corruption kink, god complex, church sex, oral sex, semi-public sex (?), religious imagery and guilt, degradation kink, praise kink, aftercare.

length: 7.6k || read on ao3 || join my taglist

a/n: born of a thought i had with @grantairescurls :) the brainworms consumed me while writing this and i somehow managed to finish it before the new year. ending the past two years with an athelnar fic may become a tradition around here who knows. ANYWAYS i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did while writing it. doubles as day 16 of my three year old kinktober series i'm struggling to finish lmfao.

Winchester is a fascinating place. The landscape is similar enough to Norway’s, albeit missing the country’s magnificent mountains and rolling hills that Ragnar has somehow grown bored of. It has grown even closer in similarity these last few months, with winter bringing heavy snowstorms, covering the courtyard in fluffy white snow that glitters in the cold sunlight.

Free of King Ecbert’s all-knowing gaze, he walks beside Athelstan, eagerly waiting to see where his priest is leading him. But he’s known for being impatient, voicing his restlessness to Athelstan, a man who has enough patience for the both of them. “Where are you taking me, little priest?” Ragnar asks, trying to push the right buttons to irritate him, but it fails. 

“Patience is a virtue, Ragnar,” he replies, a knowing look on his face.

Ragnar rolls his eyes with a dramatic groan, earning himself a quiet chuckle from his friend. “Well, are we close, at least?” 

Athelstan doesn’t answer him on purpose, knowing it’ll annoy him further. Before Ragnar can continue to complain, Athelstan announces they’ve arrived at their destination. “We’re here.”

They stand in front of two giant wooden doors at the end of the long cobblestone hallway they found themselves in. The black metal handles make it look like the entrance to a dungeon. 

Ragnar looks at Athelstan with confusion. Ath must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere! Ath surely can’t be serious when he says this is what he is so eager to show him! “Didn’t realize you’re a comedian, Athelstan,” he smirks. “Come on, where are we going, truthfully?”

Athelstan turns to meet his gaze, unaffected by Ragnar’s cockiness, far too used to him and his shenanigans. “I told you, patience is a virtue.” He leaves Ragnar’s side, walking up two pointless steps, and takes hold of the cold metal handles, pulling both doors open in a grand reveal of what lay behind. Light flooded the dark hallway, causing Ragnar to raise a shielding hand to his brow. 

Through squinted eyes, what he sees takes his breath away. Larger-than-life stained glass windows filter the massive amount of winter sunlight into a rainbow of colors across the beautiful stone floors. Despite the colorful sunlight, the room is still relatively dark. The ceiling is taller than the hallways’, at least three stories worth of height between the two, the top coming together at a point. Hanging from the pointed ceiling is a fancy—and expensive-looking—candlelit chandelier, adding to the specific atmosphere in the room that Ragnar can’t find a descriptor name for. In the center of the room is a marble statue depicting what appears to be a stable of some kind. The wall behind the statue hangs a large wooden cross with a bronze man nailed to it. 

“This is what I wanted to show you.” Athelstan looks as if he is in his God’s heaven. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Ragnar slowly trails behind him, head craning back to absorb everything before him. “Is this what you talk so much of back home? What is it called…” he mumbles under his breath, searching for the word in English. “A… church?”

Athelstan smiles at the effort Ragnar is putting towards getting the correct answer all on his own. “Close. A chapel,” he says in Norse, then repeats the new word in English.

He nods, trying to commit the phrase to memory. “What is the difference?” he asks, returning to Norse. 

“A chapel is a place for private prayers, while a church is for congregations led by a priest.” Ath lets Ragnar take his hand within his callused one, keeping him close. 

The Vikingr’s eyes light up at the mention of a priest. Finally, something he knew something about! “A priest? A priest like mine?” 

Ragnar’s words cause a red dust to bloom across Athelstan’s cheeks. “I’m not a priest, Ragnar.” 

He shrugs. “They’re basically the same thing.” Ragnar turns and points at the marbled statue in the center of the room. “What is that? It’s not like anything you’ve told me about.”

Athelstan looks to where he is pointing and pulls Ragnar towards it with the hand the Vikingr still held onto. “This is a nativity scene!” 

He looks at him with a confused expression, suddenly lost again. “A nativity scene? What is a nativity?” Ragnar asks, the English word feeling foreign and unnatural on his tongue.

He gnaws on his thick bottom lip as he mulls over the easiest way to explain it in Norse. He sighs. “A nativity is the place of someone’s birth. And a nativity scene is a depiction of that.” Ragnar circles the statue, looking at it from every angle imaginable as if he were sizing an opponent up for a fight. He crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his elbow into the meat of his forearm, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. 

“Why?”

It’s Athelstan’s turn to feel puzzled now. “What?”

“You heard me, Ath. Why? What is the point?” 

Ath moves to stand beside him. “It’s a recreation of the birth of our Savior.”

Ragnar interrupts him. “Our savior?” he questions, voice full of snark.

“Shut it and listen,” he smacks his bicep. “It’s how the faith celebrates the birth of the son of God all year round. Every year around this time, churches will put together beautiful masses to commemorate the birth of Jesus. It’s an important symbol in the religion, making the Lord tangible for all the world. Etching it into stone makes it permanent, ensuring parishioners never forget that He was once a helpless babe like they were.” 

He doesn’t respond immediately, absorbing Athelstan’s words and attempting to understand them to the best of his abilities. “God’s son?” Ragnar squats in front of the marble baby. The stone infant slept in a pile of straw compiled within a trough, surrounded by who Ragnar assumed were his parents and extended family. Ragnar trails his finger across the babe’s cold forehead, feeling the finely chiseled details against his skin. “Is this the eldest son?”

Athelstan sits cross-cross next to him, nodding.

“Like Thor?”

Ath makes a face. “I suppose so.”

“Who are your god’s other children? Why are they not here?” Ragnar shifts to sit as well. “Why dishonor his other children this way?”

“Jesus is God’s only son.”

Ragnar chuckles. “Your god must be stupid, then. Betting everything on one son, only for him to die before having sons of his own.”

“Everything was a part of His plan, making Jesus’ death far from stupid,” Ath counters, leaning against Ragnar’s shoulder. 

The Vikingr sighs deeply. “Do you worship him still? This Jesus.”

Athelstan shrugs. “I see the Lord in the blooming of spring flowers, but I hear Thor in my ears when I run into battle beside you. I feel the Lord in the summertime breeze, but I pray to Freyja to protect my norse sisters when they enter motherhood.”

“You’re a confusing man, Athelstan. No matter how much I learn about you, you never fail to reveal something I’m incapable of understanding.” Ragnar’s words earn him a giggle from the man beside him. 

Ath turns his head, his chin digging into the soft tissue in Ragnar’s shoulder. “You’d be bored if I were any different.” Ragnar’s silence is telling, confirming Athelstan’s statement as correct. 

Ragnar doesn’t stay silent for long. He never is quiet for long, always spouting the first thing that comes to mind. “Why is there no table?”

“Table?” Ath questions. 

“The table!” he repeats as if that would clarify it. He gestures with his hands, trying to visualize the image in his head by drawing it in the air. “The table the priest hides behind!”

Ragnar’s words finally clicked inside Ath’s head. “Oh! You mean the altar?” He nods. “Chapels don’t have altars since they’re designed for individual prayer.”

“That’s a shame,” he says with a coy smirk, a devious glint in his icy-blue eyes.

Athelstan raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah? Now, why is that?” Ragnar invades Ath’s personal space, noses just barely touching. It doesn’t startle him in the slightest, having grown quite used to it in the past handful of years being Ragnar’s partner.

Teasingly, he licks the tip of Ath’s nose. He leans in, whispering hotly in his ear. “If there were a table,” Ragnar refuses to call it by its proper name, purposely to irk him, “I could bend you over and fuck you on it.” He finishes with a sultry drag of his tongue up the shell of Athelstan’s ear, biting the lobe when the younger man shudders underneath him.

Athelstan’s expression looks as if he can’t decide between being aroused or being appalled. “Ragnar!”

“What, little priest? Does the idea of fucking on your god’s table make you uncomfortable?” Ragnar slides a rough hand over one of Athelstan’s thighs. “Or does the thought of defiling your Lord’s precious altar fill you with an embarrassing feeling of desire?” Ragnar’s words are hot against his ear, drawing another shudder from him.

“Ragnar!” Athelstan exclaims, his face a bright shade of red. 

His smirk broadens as he drinks in Ath’s reaction. “Hm? Did I strike a nerve in you, my love?” Ragnar goads, teasing his hand further up Athelstan’s inner thigh, fingertips sending tingles straight to Ath’s slowly hardening cock. “Maybe I should take you right here instead, take you apart piece by piece in front of your beloved stone nativity.”

Athelstan grasps his wrist, halting his hand from edging along any further. “We can’t—I can’t. Not here.” 

“Then explain why your cock is telling me a different story, my love,” he hums, breaking free of Athelstan’s hold to cup the man’s groin in his palm. Ragnar feels his own cock twitch against his thigh. “Let me show your god exactly how I worship you.” Ragnar closes the barely-there gap between them, lips pressing against his messily, hungrily. Athelstan practically melts under his ministrations, just like always. He grips Ragnar’s wrist again, trying to keep himself grounded, or else he feels as if he might float away. 

“Ragnar, we can’t, it’s wrong!” Athelstan isn’t sure if he’s saying it to convince himself or Ragnar. Maybe both. When he’s kissing him, he can’t be sure of much. “Seriously,” Ragnar kisses him again. “We shouldn’t—” Another kiss. “We can’t!” Another kiss, this one sloppier than the rest.

Ragnar mocks him teasingly. “We can’t! We shouldn’t! It’s wrong! You should give me a real reason, little priest.” He moves to kiss down Ath’s neck, sucking on the spot he knows will make the man whimper and shiver. “Don’t try and hide how badly you want this. You know I can see right through your little disguise, sweetheart.” Ragnar squeezes Ath’s quickly thickening cock, pulling sweet, embarrassing noises from him. Athelstan’s resolve is quickly deteriorating, much to Ragnar’s pleasure.

“This is no fair; you’re no fair, Ragnar,” Ath complains, forgetting to add malice to his insult. His blush has spread down the column of his neck, making Ragnar want to suck pretty purple bruises into the soft skin there. Ragnar’s quick to act on his impulses, leaving an impossible-to-hide bruise in his wake. “What—What if someone walks in?” Ath manages to stutter out.

He chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating in his chest. “So what?” he snickers, kissing a line down Ath’s neck, roughly tugging on the neckline of his tunic so he can continue along his shoulder. “Who cares if someone finds us. It wouldn’t stop me.” Quickly finding the blue fabric irritating, Ragnar pulls it over Ath’s head and tosses it behind them without a care. Taking off his own shit as well, Ragnar pushes him to lie on his back, shoving his tunic underneath Ath’s head as a makeshift pillow. “So what if your beloved god watches me fuck you? He should be honored to watch one of his creations be so thoroughly taken care of,” he hums, his words sending another wave of sparks through Athelstan’s body.

Athelstan doesn’t have a response for him. And even if he did, he doesn’t think he’d be capable of speaking without stumbling over every word. So he stays silent to keep from embarrassing himself further. The lack of any comeback made Ragnar grin maliciously.

“Not talking, my little priest?” he asks coyly. “Now, now, why could that be? I know you’re good with your words.” As Ragnar speaks, his deft fingers quickly begin unlacing Athelstan’s trousers. “Perhaps,” he licks his lips enticingly, his grin morphing into a familiar cocky smirk, “perhaps you want me to turn you into a dirty little sinner. Maybe you just don’t wanna admit how hard the thought of defiling your beloved god’s house makes you. ‘Cause then,” Ragnar leans down to whisper in his ear, his breath hot against his lover’s skin, “you’d be a filthy heathen like me.”

All of the willpower Athelstan had mustered up ‘till down crumbles around him at Ragnar’s words, the thought alone making his pretty pale blue eyes roll backward in his skull. “Fuck, Ragnar,” he groans, his voice shaking as if he might start crying any minute. “Fuck it, fuck everything, fuck God—I need you right now!” Ath exclaims, wiggling out of his trousers and kicking them away. He fumbles with the ties on Ragnar’s pants, desperately trying to push them down his thick, muscled thighs.

Ragnar cheekily nips at the shell of his ear before helping Athelstan relieve him of his pants, leaving the pair in just their undergarments. “Didn’t hold out for as long as I thought you would, sweetheart. Are you that desperate for me to defile you? To ruin you in front of your god?” Ragnar kisses down his sternum, laving his tongue over the sparse freckles he found dotted across his lover’s chest. He teases his fingertips along the waistband of Athelstan’s underwear. “Is that right, Athelstan?” 

Instead of words, Ath whines pathetically, embarrassment flooding his senses. He felt his cock throb and leak beads of pre at the sound of Ragnar saying his name in such a lustful, inappropriate manner. “How long do you truly expect me to hold out for when you seduce me like this?” He unties Ragnar’s ponytail but leaves the braided sections alone, running his fingers through his now mostly loose locks. “You should leave your hair down more often.”

“Only if you promise to pull on it,” he says with a smirk, earning himself a deserved smack on the shoulder. With a giggle, Ragnar unceremoniously tugs down Ath’s underwear, watching intently as his cock slaps against his lover’s toned abdomen. Laying between Ath’s now spread legs, he mouths over his jutting hipbones, kissing everywhere but where Athelstan so desperately wishes he would. Ragnar lifts Athelstan’s legs to rest on his broad shoulders as his rough, weathered hands wrap around his thick, supple thighs, keeping him from squirming away. Nipping at his inner thigh with his teeth, Ragnar slowly makes his way down to Ath’s groin, littering small kisses as he goes. 

Slowly regaining his confidence, Athelstan teases him right back, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Starting to think your bark is worse than your bite, Ragnar.”

He cocks an eyebrow at him. “Oh? How so?”

“You’re going so slow it’s almost like you’ve got cold feet or something,” Athelstan smirks, egging him on.

Ragnar returns his gaze with sharp eyes, telling Ath everything he needs to know with just one look. If he wasn’t before, he’s sure in for it now. Ungentle hands spread the globes of Athelstan’s ass apart. The rush of cool air to the newly exposed skin makes his whole body shiver with anticipation. Ragnar licks a hot, thick stripe from Ath’s hole to just below his balls, drawing an unexpected yelp from him. The yelp soon turns to moans as Ragnar continues, each lap of his tongue sending his nerve endings into overdrive. Slowly working his hole loose, Ragnar slides a free hand up Athelstan’s chest, stopping when they reach his red, bite-swollen lips. “Go on, pretty boy, make them nice’n wet for me.”

He wastes no time, opening his mouth for two of Ragnar’s fingers, sucking on them fervently. Ath licks them from base to tip, acting as if they were his cock and not mere fingers. Once Ragnar deems them wet enough, he pulls them from Athelstan’s lips, a string of spit connecting them briefly before it breaks, now sticking to Ath’s chin instead. “Good job,” Ragnar hums, sliding his spit-slick fingers down Athelstan’s taint and over his entrance. “Do you feel your god? Can you feel him watching us? Watching you?” he taunts with a click of his tongue. Ragnar presses the pads of his fingers against his entrance, threatening to sink inside but never following through with it. 

Athelstan nods, embarrassment bubbling to the surface once more. 

“I don’t think he’ll still be your god after this, little priest,” he licks over his top teeth with a gross wet sound. “I think I’ll be your god instead.” With that, Ragnar presses two fingers inside him, and Athelstan’s jaw drops in a silent scream. The sudden stretch burns slightly, but he likes a little side dish of pain with his pleasure. 

Ragnar sits up, folding his legs underneath him. Athelstan’s legs are still propped up on Ragnar’s shoulders, stretching to stay up there as he moves. He unhurriedly thrusts his digits in and out of Ath’s tight hole, watching smugly as a lewd expression spreads across his lover’s face. Using his free hand, Ragnar holds Athelstan’s left leg steady, peppering light kisses along his meaty calf. 

“You can—fuck—you can add another finger; please add another finger,” he begs, fighting to keep his eyes open and focused on Ragnar. 

He chuckles, but it sounds like it came from the Vikingr’s chest instead of his throat. “What if I don’t?” The pads of his fingers just barely brush against Ath’s sweet spot, enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Weren’t you the one just lecturing me about how patience is a virtue?”

Athelstan huffs in frustration, mildly upset that his words were successfully being used against him. He chooses to ignore it for now, focusing on the first question posed to him instead. “I’d be upset.” He looks up at him with a devilish gaze as if he were daring Ragnar to go through with his threat. They both knew he wouldn’t. Ragnar enjoys taking him apart far too much to deprive him of it just to fulfill an empty threat. 

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we? A God has to keep his subjects happy, after all.” Ragnar slips out of him, wetting his ring finger with his own spit before pressing all three inside. Athelstan blesses his ears with a moan that sounds almost as pretty as he looks. “There we go,” Ragnar mumbles, spreading his fingers apart methodically, occasionally curling them against Ath’s sweet spot. After a few minutes, he deems Athelstan’s hole to be loose enough and pulls out, his knuckles glistening with a combination of their spit. Ragnar removes Athelstan’s legs from their home on his shoulders, motioning for him to sit up.

Quick to obey, he braces himself on the heels of his hands. Ragnar meets him the rest of the way, bending over slightly to kiss him. It’s sweeter than their previous kisses, but it’s not that way for long, Athelstan taking the lead and licking into Ragnar’s eager mouth, turning the sweet kiss into a sloppy makeout. Athelstan anchors his hands in Ragnar’s hair, tugging on it harshly, earning himself a low grumble from the older man. “Let me suck you off, love?” Ath whispers, lightly dragging his teeth down Ragnar’s neck.

He growls, the sound rumbling in his chest handsomely. “Like you need to ask.”

Athelstan wastes no time swapping positions, pulling Ragnar’s underwear down before settling between the man’s spread thighs. He doesn’t beat around the bush, far too eager to get his mouth around Ragnar’s thick cock. Laying down on the cold stone floor, Athelstan presses his face against the crease where Ragnar’s inner thigh meets his pelvis. Breathing in his scent, he lifts his head up and kisses the tip, licking a bead of pre-come off and swallowing. Holding Ragnar’s gaze, Athelstan slowly took him into his hot, wet mouth. Unable to keep his head up, Ragnar closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of Ath’s lips around him. 

“Didn’t know you had such a sinful little mouth, Ath,” Ragnar groans out, putting all his effort towards not fucking his lover’s throat ‘till he can’t speak correctly.

He simply hums around him, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to his core. Sinking down to the base, Athelstan chokes slightly when the tip hits the back of his throat. He gradually quickens the pace as he loosens his jaw, allowing for more of Ragnar’s cock to fit down his throat. Returning the favor, Ragnar yanks on Ath’s dark brown curls, keeping him from pulling off for a few seconds. Spit and drool drip from the base of his cock and down his heavy ballsack, eventually pooling on the gray stone beneath them. Ath’s chin is also slick with spit, his beard damp and curling even more due to the moisture. 

With each bob of his head, the room echoes with sounds of him slurping and the occasional gag. One would think Athelstan had no idea he was in a church based on how he was acting, slobbering around a heathen’s cock as if it were what he was put on this Earth to do. He tongues the thick vein running along the underside of Ragnar’s cock, drawing a strangled moan from the man. Ath does it again before moving upwards, focusing all his attention on the overly sensitive head. He teases the slit he finds there, eagerly lapping up all the pre-come that had begun to dribble out. The action causes Ragnar’s cock to throb and his leg to twitch, and he’s quick to tug on Athelstan’s hair again, a silent warning that he’s close. Noticing this, he promptly pulls off with a wet pop sound. His chest heaves as he quickly tries to catch his breath.

Somehow, Ragnar looks in worse shape than Athelstan does, long hair matted against his sweaty forehead, his cock a deep shade of red and oozing pre-come. The perfect depiction of Satan’s temptations laid out in front of him, just begging for Athelstan to come and take a bite. He doesn’t think twice about going against his Lord’s wishes or what it would mean for his soul, far too enraptured in the delicious spread before him to care about some pretty garden his Lord had to offer when he could have Ragnar Lothbrok instead. Not even the King of Kings can win a fight against the King of the Northman. Ragnar beats everything his Holy Father offers him with little effort. Athelstan looks him up and down, drinking in the sight of him as if he were about to devour him whole.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Athelstan shuffles on his knees to straddle Ragnar’s hips, his cock bobbing enticingly in front of Ragnar’s face. The Vikingr gazes up at Athestan, taking in the beauty before him. His rough hands grab greedily at supple hips, thumbs meeting at a belly button surrounded by a thick trail of coarse hair. Ragnar feels Ath’s hungry eyes on him, an unneeded boost to his severely overblown ego. “You look good enough to eat, my love,” he digs his teeth into his bottom lip, returning Ath’s hungry gaze with one of his own.

“Good enough for a God?” Athelstan asks, voice dripping with lust.

Ragnar pretends to contemplate the question as he rolls his hips upwards to grind against Athelstan’s. “Depends on what His sinful little disciple can offer Him.”

Licking his lips, Ath splays his hands over Ragnar’s chest, tracing over long healed scars with his fingertips. “He can devote his life in service to Him.” Athelstan can’t articulate why, but speaking of himself in the third person like this stirs something within him that makes a pleasurable heat pool in his abdomen. “Devote himself to loving Him, serving Him, obeying Him.” He leans down as he speaks, slowly coming nose-to-nose with Ragnar. Athelstan shifts further down Ragnar’s abdomen, ass now nestled just above Ragnar’s cock. “Would He like that?”

Ragnar’s mouth curls in a devilish grin, grinding against his plush ass. “He’d have to renounce his previous Lord. This God doesn’t like to share with others.”

He kisses the edge of Ragnar’s mouth, knowing how it drives him mad. “Will his new Lord take care of him for eternity?” Ragnar turns Ath’s head to face him properly, his pointer and middle fingers holding his chin as he captures Ath’s lips in a heated kiss. The passion within his embrace serves as Ragnar’s answer, something Athelstan effortlessly picks up on. 

Ragnar pulls away enough to whisper against his lips, switching back to first-person language, his brain too addled with lust to adequately phrase sentences that way for any longer. “How about you make yourself nice’n pretty for your new God?”

“How does He want me?” Athelstan nips at Ragnar’s ear before kissing it, almost like an apology for biting him.

“On all fours, face down,” he slaps Ath’s ass, and Athelstan yelps in surprise, “ass up like you’re praying.” Athelstan gets off of him, but not without a furious red blush flooding from his cheeks to color his pale chest beautifully. Sitting up, he watches how quick Ath is to obey his request. It merely fuels the flames of Ragnar’s ego, making him even more eager to take Athelstan apart piece by piece and put him back together in his own image.

Ath makes a show of bending over, swaying his hips as he goes, and arching his back, making him the picture of temptation. “Like this?” he asks innocently, spreading his legs and looking over his shoulder at him, resting his weight on his forearms. 

Ragnar settles behind him, shamelessly running his hands over the globes of Athelstan’s ass. “Mmhm, just like this. Such a sinful little worshiper you are. Defiling your previous Lord’s house, throwing away your chance for holiness without a second thought.” Ragnar fists his cock, spitting on it to get it wet again. He taps it against Athelstan’s still loose hole, watching it clench desperately around nothing. 

Athelstan’s cock throbs pathetically at Ragnar’s words, sending a whole body shiver through him. He presses his ass into Ragnar’s hands, silently pleading for Ragnar to bury himself deep inside. All it accomplishes, however, is getting the Vikingr to smack his thick cock against him again. 

“I think,” he hums, pausing solely to draw out Ath’s torment, “you should beg your abandoned Lord for forgiveness.” Ragnar presses his cockhead against Athelstan’s entrance, barely dipping inside before retreating. “You are sinning in his house, after all.” Athelstan gasps at his proposition, and Ragnar takes advantage of his lover’s shock, deciding it to be the perfect opportunity to push inside him. He bullies his way inside, not stopping to give Ath time to adjust until his balls are pressed against Ath’s thighs.

“Ragnar!” he yelps, the sudden intrusion knocking the breath from his lungs. On top of having been a while since they last laid together, Ragnar’s cock is far thicker than the three fingers he prepared him with, so there’s a slight burn in the stretch as he bottoms out. “Fuck, you’re so stupidly big!” Ath whines, gripping the makeshift pillow in an attempt to stay grounded. 

He tsks at him. “That’s no way to talk to your Lord, Athelstan. Don’t you think?” Without waiting for a response, Ragnar pulls out nearly all the way, leaving just the tip. He grips Athelstan’s hips roughly, the pads of his fingers squeezing the soft, unmarred skin there.

He panics at the sudden empty feeling, immediately backtracking, determined to be a good boy for Ragnar. “No,” he choked on his words, his brain moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. “No, it’s not; please forgive me!”

“I’m not who you should be apologizing to, remember?” Ragnar goads as he sinks back inside at a gruelingly slow pace. “Or should I pull out to help jog your memory?” Keeping one hand on Ath’s hip, Ragnar sinks his right hand in Ath’s dark brown curls, tugging his head up to force him to look at the cross directly behind the nativity scene before them. “You tell me stories of how Jesus died for your sins, only for you to shame him by sinning in his chapel.”

Athelstan whimpers and whines, shamelessly canting his hips back on Ragnar’s cock. “Please don’t pull out,” he begs, sniffling. Despite how he sounds, Athelstan doesn’t think he’s ever been this aroused in all his thirty-five years of life. Made to gaze upon the man he had once dedicated his life to serving, on his knees in mock prayer, but it wasn’t Jesus he was praying to this time. It looks unlikely he’ll ever pray to the Heavenly Father or His son again after this, having found something much sweeter and far more rewarding. Something more real to Athelstan than the figure on the wall or the marble Blessed Virgin Mother in front of him ever will be.

The unmistakable sound of Ragnar snarking breaks him out of his thoughts. He’s remained unmoving since bottoming out a second time, providing a deep-seated, pleasurable pressure within Ath’s abdomen. “I’m not above using you as my own personal cockwarmer until you start begging, darling,” he threatens, only this time Athelstan knows it’s not an empty one. 

Unfortunately, Athelstan’s bratted too close to the sun more often than he cares to admit. This might end up one of those times if he doesn’t play his cards correctly. “What do you want me to beg for, Ragnar?” he questions cheekily, playing dumb, knowing exactly how to get the reaction he wants from Ragnar. 

Ragnar yanks on his hair as a warning. “You’ve been good up ‘till now, little priest,” his deep voice rumbles low in his throat, words sticky with pent-up desire, the little self-control he has left quickly deteriorating with every passing minute. “I wouldn’t go fucking it up now if I were you.” He emphasizes it with a slow, punishing roll of his hips, cockhead brushing against Athelstan’s sweet spot. “But if you don’t want me to fuck you after all, keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart.”

The moan Ath lets out is utterly sinful, and Ragnar hasn’t begun to fuck him in earnest yet. He briefly debates his options, but it wasn’t a hard decision. Solidifying his gaze on the nailed God before him, Athelstan began to pray for the Lord’s forgiveness. “Lord, I seek Your forgiveness and healing. Help me to release the weight of the guilt and shame that I carry.”

“Aww, there we go, little priest. Beg to your nailed god,” Ragnar taunts. He pulls out again and truly starts to fuck him now, thrusting into him quickly. The hand on Ath’s hip squeezes tightly, sure to leave bruises later. Ragnar tugs Athelstan’s hips back on each thrust he gives. The chapel echoes with sounds of skin slapping against skin and Athelstan’s choked, moaned prayers. Sweat slides down the ridges of Ath’s spine and pools in the divots at the end of his tailbone. “Imagine how disappointed he must be in you, Athelstan,” he says with a yank of his hair. He drapes himself across Ath’s back so he can whisper into his ear. “Once a pious little monk,” Ragnar delivers a particularly harsh thrust, hitting a pleasurable bundle of nerves inside Athelstan. “Now reduced to a devilish sinner by a blasphemous pagan.”

Athelstan wonders briefly about where in the world Ragnar could’ve learned that word, but the arousal thrumming through his body made any coherent train of thought impossible. He was barely managing to get out his prayers, let alone anything in addition to that. “Grant me strength, ‘O—oh fuuck—‘O Lord, to learn from my previous mistakes and help me grow,” Athelstan stops mid-sentence, interrupting himself with a slutty moan. “Ragnar, Ragnar, fucking hell, you’re so deep,” he whines, rolling his hips back on each thrust he gives.

His lips curl in a cocky smile. “How’s it feel, sweetheart?” The hand in Ath’s hair twists, making him groan loudly.

“It feels s’good, Ragnar!” He moans, white-knuckling Ragnar’s abandoned tunic. Ath fights his eyes from rolling back in his head, desperate not to appear as how slutty he feels. It doesn’t work. “Harder, Ragnar, please!” He almost forgets to continue his prayers, but a perfectly aimed thrust to his prostate reminds him of his orders. “‘O Lord, I thank You for even though I am a sinner, in the kindness of Your mercy!” Athelstan feels shame flood over him and the omnipotent eyes of Jesus Christ boring into him from across the room. Judging him, condemning him, and casting him down from the light of heaven, sentencing his soul to the fiery pit of hell for eternity. But that humiliating feeling is accompanied by a shameful pleasure that greedily spreads throughout his entire body, making his extremities tingle.

Ragnar is more than happy to oblige, fucking into him at a punishing speed, hips moving at a godlike speed. Each thrust hits Athelstan’s sweet spot dead on, ripping a loud moan from him every time. “You’re still so tight, Ath.” He bites the fleshy junction of his shoulder and neck, leaving a blotchy red mark in his wake. “It’s like your god made you to be wrapped around my cock like this.” He releases his hold on Ath’s hair, moving to fist Athelstan’s red, leaking cock instead. His hand nearly engulfed his cock entirely, just the tip peeking out from above his fingers. “What do you think, hm? You think he made you just for me?”

Ath manages to nod, biting his lip so hard it nearly bleeds. He’s given up praying for forgiveness now, his mind all-encompassed by Ragnar and the arousal coursing through his veins. “Just—Just for you, always been just for you!” He cants his hips into Ragnar’s hand, needy for any and all friction he could get against his poor, neglected cock. “Please, please, please, Ragnar!” he begs, unsure exactly what he’s begging for, just that he needs more of whatever it is. 

“Please, please, please!” Ragnar mocks and Athelstan can practically see the conniving smirk he wears in his mind’s eye. “Please what, little priest? Can’t give it to you if I don’t know what it is.” Athelstan’s whole body shudders from his next thrust, eyes quickly rolling back from the intensity of it.

He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out are incoherent moans and slutty whimpers. “Please—oh, right there! Please, just, more, more of—fuuck—everything, please, Ragnar!” Ath’s arms give out from underneath him, his weight resting on his shoulders, cheek pressed against the cold stone floor.

“More, hm?” Ragnar slows his movements, earning himself a pathetic whine from his lover. “Even with all your pleas for forgiveness, you still want more?”

Ath nods with another high-pitched whine.

“Do you think your precious nailed god would approve of that desire?”

He shakes his head no.

“Perfect,” Ragnar growls, standing up straight once more, drinking in the sight before him as if it were the perfect cup of ale. He takes his hand off Athelstan’s cock and places it on his hip, spreading his cheeks apart with his thumb and forefinger. Reestablishing the pace he had previously, Ragnar watches his cock disappear inside him, a creamy white ring of pre-come circling his base. “I hope he’s watching when I paint your pretty insides and fully claim you as mine,” he pairs his words with a punishing thrust, far harder than anything else he’d delivered previously. “Watches me take you from him for good this time.”

Each thrust is like electricity, sending tingles from his toes to his fingertips. “Yours, Ragnar,” he hiccups, “Yours, make me yours!” 

Ragnar lands a harsh smack to Ath’s asscheek, a slightly pink handprint blooming across his pale skin. “Always have been mine, little priest. Ever since I stole you from your comfy little monastery.” He angles his hips so he hits Ath’s sweet spot with every thrust. “I wanna hear you say it. Tell your beloved god who you truly belong to.”

“You! I belong to you!” he cries, voice bouncing off the walls, echoing his shame for all close enough to hear. 

He yanks Ath’s head up, forcing him to speak directly to the cross instead of begging into the floor. Ragnar hoists him almost entirely off the floor, now barely able to graze the stone with his fingertips. “Look him in the eye when you speak, sweetheart. After all, you can’t disgrace him further by being rude, and I’m sure you don’t want that.” Ragnar’s words are soaked with liquid sin, the droplets burning a hole in the consecrated floors of this sacred building he’s corrupting with each passing minute. 

Athelstan hums a yes and repeats himself, staring into the cold, metal eyes of Jesus, his former savior, who died to atone for humanity’s sinful souls. Even though it’s only a statue, Ath felt as if it were Jesus himself nailed there, flesh and blood dripping to the floor with cold splats. He can practically see him there, gold and brown colored metal morphing into pale skin marred with rivers of red. “I’m sorry, ‘O Lord! Please bless me with your kind mercy!” he cries out in his thoughts, but deep down, he knows it’s not a genuine apology. He knows God knows as well. Ath doubts his soul will be cleansed, but he can’t doesn’t care any longer. He has a new God. 

“Tell him who you belong to.” Ragnar’s thrusts don’t let up, somehow gaining in force instead. 

Ath swallows thickly before speaking, eyebrows pressing upward, his face screwed together in overwhelming pleasure. “You! I belong to you!”

Ragnar twists Ath’s curls in his fist. “Who? Say my name, Athelstan. He might believe you’re talking about him.”

“You, Ragnar!”

“Hm? I can’t hear you, Athelstan; you’ve got to speak up, or else he won’t hear you, either,” Ragnar goads, grinding his hips hard against his ass. 

The curve of Athelstan’s spine is nearly pornographic. Ath scrambles to find something to hold onto but comes up empty-handed. “I belong to Ragnar! You, Ragnar!” he yells, stretching his arm backward to grip the back of Ragnar’s head, fingers anchoring in his hair. “Oh, my God—oh, my god fuck—I’m close, Ragnar, please!” 

Ragnar releases his grip on Ath’s hair to wrap his arm around Ath’s stomach, holding him closer than believed possible. He presses his sweaty forehead against Athelstan’s shoulder, his thrusts growing uneven and sloppy as he approaches his limit as well. “Fuck, Ath-Athelstan,” he stutters, the mask he wore cracking at the edges, revealing just how desperate he really is. “Fuuck, yes, that’s it, you’re so fucking hot like this, baby. Fucked open and needy, just for me and no one else.” Ragnar splays his fingers over the tensed muscles of Athelstan’s stomach, pressing down gently.

“No one else, all yours, my love,” Ath babbles, leaning his head back to rest on top of Ragnar’s. His chest heaves with each gulp of air he takes, the lower half of his ribs showing slightly every time his stomach sucks in. “Gonna—oh, fuck, there—gonna cum!” 

“Cum for me, Ath, make a pretty mess all over my hand, fuuck,” Ragnar moans out, words warbly and uneven as he does his best to speak without stumbling over everything. “You’re so pretty, so good for me.” His thrusts quickly lose whatever rhythm they had left as he reaches his climax, spilling his cum deep inside Ath’s spasming entrance. 

Athelstan’s cock throbs and twitches when he feels Ragnar’s orgasm, his own cum spurting all over his stomach and Ragnar’s hand. His legs shake violently, toes curling and uncurling in tandem with each spurt of his cock. The short nails of his left hand rake across Ragnar’s back and side, making the man shiver. As they both come down from their highs, a mix of Ath’s cum and sweat drips wetly onto the floor. He can feel Ragnar breathing heavily against his back, finding his equally exhausted presence comforting.

As his cock softens, Ragnar carefully slips out of him, a rush of cum quickly following. Shivering, Athelstan shuffles to turn around before Ragnar does. Now face to face with his lover, Ragnar kisses him gently, as if Athelstan would break if treated too roughly, a stark difference from how Ragnar was manhandling him a few minutes prior. He tilts his head to one side and cups Athelstan’s unmarred cheek with his clean hand, thumb stroking his sweaty cheekbone. Ath licks into his mouth, nose pressing into Ragnar’s scarred one. The kiss lasts for both years and only a handful of seconds simultaneously. Neither knows who pulls away first. “Are you okay, Ath?” he asks, rubbing his nose against Ath’s.

He nods with a hum. “Are you?” Ragnar nods, too. “Didn’t know you had that in you, baby.”

Ragnar snickers, kissing the tip of his nose. “And this surprises you?”

“Nothing about you surprises me. Not anymore.” Athelstan scrunches his nose cutely after he kisses it. “We’ll have to be quick about cleaning up; someone might come looking for us.”

Ragnar snags his tunic off the floor and uses it to wipe away the cum dripping from between Ath’s legs. “Did you mean what you said? About belonging to me and only me? Forever?” he asks somewhat quietly, the insecurity he shows uncharacteristic of him. 

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ragnar,” Ath says softly, his voice soothing, like a wool-lined blanket on a cold winter’s night, calming any worries Ragnar might be harboring within him. “You know that.”

Dropping his now-soiled tunic, Ragnar wraps his arms around him in a tight hug, corded muscles flexing beneath his skin. “Good; perfect. You’re perfect.”

Athelstan drapes his arms over Ragnar’s shoulders, hugging him back just as—if not more—tightly. Ragnar traces shapeless designs into the skin of Ath’s lower back, pressing soft, grounding kisses along the column of his neck. He kisses the bite mark he left, which is now starting to bruise. They slowly sink to the floor, Athelstan sitting in Ragnar’s lap, legs on either side of his waist, head resting against the lower part of his shoulder. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. I love you, too,” Ragnar says, almost as if he’s been saying it to him for decades, not years. As if every time he’s said it, it’s always been for Athelstan, even before he knew him. As if his love is reserved for Athelstan and Athelstan only. He lays his cheek on the top of his head, careful not to dig his chin into Ath’s skull. “When we go home in the spring, we’ll hold the biggest feast our halls have ever seen.”

Ath gazes up at him the best he can. “What for? What’ll we be celebrating, other than a successful return like always?”

Ragnar holds his hand, lacing their fingers together. “A wedding.”

“A wedding?” Ath questions, getting a nod in response. “Who’s?”

Ragnar breaks his gaze, looking up at the ceiling. “Our wedding.”

Blindsighted but elated, Athelstan shifts to look at him properly, refocusing Ragnar’s eyes where they belong—on him. “Our wedding?” Ragnar calmly nods like he didn’t just propose to him. “You need to work on your proposal skills, darling,” he giggles as a stupidly wide, toothy grin spreads across his face.

“Is that a yes, then?” Ragnar asks, donning a toothy smile of his own.

Athelstan holds Ragnar’s face in his hands and kisses him. “You dumbass, of course, it’s a yes.”

Ragnar kisses him again, then litters small kisses across his cheeks, chin, forehead, and anywhere else he can easily reach. “Perfect,” he kisses Ath’s lips. “Next time I take you, it’ll be on our marriage bed.”

“Ragnar!” Athelstan gasps with a slight laugh. His words made his softened cock twitch in curiosity. “You can’t just say that!”

“Yes, I can.” Ragnar squeezes his waist. “We both know you love it,” he teases, pressing his thumbs into Ath’s soft abdomen, messing up the dark hair there.

He rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh, unlacing his hand from Ragnar’s so he can drape them over Ragnar’s shoulders again. Ath holds his own hand, lacing his fingers together. “You’re so insufferable, you know that?”

Ragnar grins cheekily, far too proud of the fact. “You love it, don’t even try and deny it.”

“What if I do deny it? What’ll you do then?” Athelstan asks, licking his lips and shifting his hips to brush against Ragnar’s cock, who’s making an effort to chub up again. 

He nips at Athelstan’s nose as a warning, a grin still spread across his face. “Something we can’t get caught doing in here, baby.” He reaches back to grab Athelstan’s tunic, blue eyes never leaving pale ones. Ath slips it over his head and stands, tugging on his trousers. Ragnar copies him, minus a shirt. They gather their things and clean their fluids off the floor as best as they can manage with the little supplies available. Once it looks like nothing sinful has occurred, the pair leaves the chapel hand in hand, eagerly heading for Ragnar’s chambers. 

taglist: @moonlighttfoxx, @demon-of-the-ancient-world, and @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics.

[tamelee]

Hello, I wondered what you think of the proshipping/anti shipping debate, and maybe where you position yourself?

From what I’ve seen, pro-shipping is usually people saying that you can ship everything you want since you have to "separate reality and fiction"… and most of the time it sounds like an excuse to create/consume incest fanfictions or child porn without guilt

On the other hand, in the anti-shipping side you have people who are treating some media as "irredeemable" for literally nothing… Like, "oh, this story is saying directly into your face that what thing one character has done is bad? So that means the story is not spreading awareness of this harmful behavior"

I think there are wrongs on both sides, but in general I disagree more with the proshipping community, because most proshippers I’ve interacted with are just people who don’t want to accept that there can be consequences to their actions, what they create, and what they consume. I’ve seen a lot of them saying that fiction has no impact on reality, which isn’t true at all. Most of the times proshippers handle sensitive and "problematic" subjects carelessly, sometimes even while spreading misplaced ideas, but don’t want people calling them out on the matter… (by calling out I don’t mean harassment of course, harassment isn’t and never will be a good solution to those problems)

The subject can be pretty complex, I’m curious to hear your thoughts about it! If you want of course, I would understand you not wanting to talk about it… And I’m sorry if expressed myself badly, since I don’t speak english very well

Take care, you’re doing amazing art pieces💙

Hi ^^ it is expressed very well, dw!  And thankyou so much 🧡!!

↓🍵;

Well, you specifically talk about shipping, which I think is completely fine. But the debate itself claims so often to be more than just that, using ‘shipping’ for something much too broad to define through these two terms which meaning is questionable. 

The debate is only interesting to me because of the whole fiction=/=reality aspect (at least I personally think that is an enjoyable debate, especially reading the arguments.) The most famous and skilled literary theorists and scholars can’t agree on this matter even today because there are too many variables and barriers like culture for example. A lot of opposites are both deemed true and false at the same time and it often lands on a slightly disappointing “it depends”. You say it yourself also. As well as you “leaning more toward one side” because it’s impossible to put a term on it unless someone would write down a bunch of guidelines to which they then commit to. But then you’re more defined by that than by your own thinking or even preferences. 

It isn’t so black and white that you can just.. idk, simply throw it all into two terms to define a preference that includes your entire life-experience and gain a Universal agreement by what it even means in the first place with everyone else on the internet, as if that’s how it works with this topic y’know? As if suddenly a shipping-filter will shame our literary masters out of any logic “because a fan/shipper wants ‘x’ to molest ‘y’ through non-con sex in fanwork’ and to say whether that’s okay or not in general depends on which of the two terms you used to define yourself in your bio and literally nothing else. And I don’t see how that logic connects when it is used like that and so often in this case. 

I know, this is an exaggeration, but I hope you know what I mean regarding the debate. This isn’t about your ask directly. The “it depends” is kinda frustrating for me too, because I’m always searching for an answer that makes sense for anything >< But what doesn’t here is as I said before, that people don’t even agree with each other either about the meaning of ‘pro/anti’-shipping’. Even the general definition is (or used to?) different and has literally nothing to do with reality/fiction just.. shipping. Whenever another popular post shows up people share that as ‘the next truth’ or even I receive it for clarification for an older post, but then another says something along the lines of “maybe that’s true for them, but to me it means....” 

So, where would I position myself? Well, “it depends” on who asks and what it means to them. Nah, I don’t think a single term about shipping can define how I think about the relationship between fiction and reality, what is right/wrong/acceptable/etc which you’re right- is very complex. At least, I refuse to do that if I can help it. I’ve seen enough misunderstandings and the harassment that you’re talking about to think that this isn’t going about it the most efficient way despite some parts being interesting and definitely topics worth talking about whether it is about shipping or something much broader.

“On the other hand, in the anti-shipping side you have people who are treating some media as "irredeemable" for literally nothing… Like, "oh, this story is saying directly into your face that what thing one character has done is bad? So that means the story is not spreading awareness of this harmful behavior"

And you’re completely right about people using ‘whatever/however/whomever’ as an excuse to justify anything, but that itself is kind of common human behavior and I genuinely don’t know what to say about it. Though you bring up something that (and similar extreme views) is why I would definitely lean more towards a separation of fiction and reality. Not to justify anything, but if anything else... I’ve always rooted for the freedom of expression/creativity whether I agree with it or not because censorship has always been tricky and sometimes outright dangerous. Who's going to decide what exactly? The fact that no one will agree with each other remains regardless. (And yes, I think there are definitely things I don’t want to see either of course, but discussing all that is a whole different topic.) 

However,

“I’ve seen a lot of them saying that fiction has no impact on reality, which isn’t true at all.”

You’re right again, but to quickly note; fiction=/=reality or fiction having impact on reality isn’t the same thing. Storytelling has always shaped beliefs and perspectives all over the world. In fiction especially, morals and ethics are often explored. Almost always a story is a problem in some form or another that needs to be solved because that’s satisfying, but how are you going to do that? And how will you write it in a way that people root for your character? And how else can you do that than involving the encouragement of a readers’ own reflection of their values and beliefs while simultaneously sharing and possibly influence them with your own? 

No one can deny this though? And if they do I wonder about the argument tbh. 

If a story can inspire it can also do the opposite. It’s not one or the other. 

Storytelling is such a powerful tool and imo it should be used wisely which means something else in every case because... aaahhh “it depends” >< 

[lillslillslilly]

CHAPTER SIX

Chapter Six

Her key rattled in the lock as she pressed on the handle of the door, failing at the first try. Her mind was preoccupied; every single axon in her brain dedicating itself to only filter thoughts involving Maxine, the napkin with her phone number, Maxine, the book, Maxine, the strange situation earlier at the coffee house, Maxine, which book to lend her, and Maxine some more. Captivated – she was her own prisoner, and her mind was the jail cell. It controlled her. Her mentality was completely engulfed by the thought of Maxine, and nothing could interfere with that. Though, she didn’t want anything to interfere, anyway. The thought of her name warmed her cosily like a campfire; the idea of her curls softening under her touch meditated her; the sound of her voice floated her into the clouds.

Pure muscle memory: she continued to rattle the lock until finally, a click unlocked access to her apartment, the herbal fragrance of incense biting straight at her nose as she swung the door open.

“Hey, how was work?” Nikola greeted Victoria from the squash-orange sofa as she placed her coat on the table by the front door. Their apartment opened straight into the living room, which was rather hippie – scattered oranges and whites and greens; strange collages and artwork on the walls; large-leaved green plants in pots. Though the room seemed to identify as ‘scattered’, everything had its place, and it was actually thought out well to compliment the theme (the only theme the three of them could decide on, which they defined as ‘cosy’). 

“Hmmm, not too bad. How was your day?” Vic replied, stumbling towards a long white cabinet housing a record player and a whole shelf of vinyls – her sacred collection. She crouched to search for the ‘C’ section of her shelf, located ‘The Ride’ - an album by Catfish and The Bottlemen - and slipped it out, setting it on the player above.

“Yeah, not too bad. El helped me with a shoot so I could update my portfolio,” Nik spoke as she rummaged through a handful of print outs. “Ooh, turn it up. This is a great song,” she added, nodding her head up and down to the beat of ‘7’ playing from the record player sat a few feet from her.

Vic hovered over the player, increasing the volume slowly. Most of the music in their apartment was her influence, the majority of the records and instruments lying around the flat being hers, though the three of them all devoured the albums equally.

She collapsed onto the sofa next to Nik and started to look through the array of photographs that had been placed upon the sofa cushions and the glass coffee table in front of them both. Yellow sunset lighting engulfed Elliott. His shadowy curls were pinned with a yellow hairclip on the left about an inch and a half above his ear, which a black, heart-shaped earring dangled from. His jawline was perfectly sharp, and his skin was glowing clear, the golden highlighter upon his bones shimmering in certain photographs. The same highlighter sparkled in the inner corners of his eyes, saluting the black liner upon his waterline. His torso was covered by a black tank vest top, outlining his figure. His trousers were flared at the leg like the sleeves on a bell-top, making him look much taller than he truly was.

“These are so cool, Nik. You are so talented. God he’s pretty,” Vik praised as she analysed each of them, before stopping and lifting a specific one in the air. “This one is my favourite, wow.” This time, he was consumed by the same lighting, though his configuration was slightly blurred by it. In his hand lie the etch of a cigarette penetrating smoke, which was captured perfectly as it defused into a typhoon.

“If he doesn’t use this as an album cover one day, I will be disowning you all.”

“I’ll bare that in mind,” Nikola laughed, collecting each photograph into a neat pile, eventually slipping them into a folder.

She hesitated before speaking again, deciding whether to say what she had planned to.

“He called me on his way to work, by the way. He said we were invited to dinner?”

Vic’s hands grew clammy and her body fidgety.

“Yeah. I’m not quite sure what happened. Somehow, he and Max’s roommate know each other, and she invited us all to theirs Sunday.”

“Yeah, he explained a bit…” Nikola began, hesitant once again.

“Nik, you can tell me. Please tell me.”

She upturned her bottom lip, cranking a considerate smile as she gestured Vic to sit closer. She wrapped her arm around Vic’s, comforting her.

“You should speak to him about it. Trust me.”

Vic released a sigh of disapproval before agreeing with Nikola. She knew that if Elliott was up to something, it would be best to hear it from him.

“How are you feeling about the dinner though?”

Vic’s expression was un-readable now. Her mind was loud with all of the worry and stress but also joy and curiosity regarding their upcoming dinner party, that not even her face could decide on an expression to signify how she felt.

“I’m not sure. Kind of excited, but also absolutely horrified. And nervous. Mostly nervous.”

“Okay, you finish work at one tomorrow, right? I’ll meet you when you finish, we can go and pick up some bits to take Sunday, choose you an outfit and then everything will be prepared – nothing to worry about. And if you get overwhelmed at any point whilst we are there, just let me know, okay? It’s okay to be nervous.”

There was something about the way that Nikola always knew what to say or do in every situation and her immense control of emotions that instantly comforted Victoria and allowed her worries to subside a little. Victoria lent into Nikola’s hug a little tighter – a voiceless agreement.

“I like her.”

Nikola’s smile grew, still soft, but now also pleased.

“I know.”

_____

Max was curled up onto the sofa, lavender candles alight on the table in front of her, fairly-lights glowing around her, and a movie flickering on the screen before her. She hadn’t been home long, only giving her enough time to change into her pyjamas and set up the room. She’d settled on watching Beauty and The Beast (the Emma Watson version, obviously).

She was engrossed in the film until the light of her phone screen flickered in her peripheral view, which then gained her full attention. She had been waiting for this, wondering if the notification would ever arrive – it had. Her eyes pounced to the text on the screen.

Hello, love.

She pulled herself up into her seat, the adrenaline in her body speeding up her reaction. Typing quickly, she sent the message, which encouraged another notification.

Hiiii

Pink pen? I never would have taken you for a pink pen kind of girl.

Ahaha, it’s Wrenn’s. I don’t know how it ended up in my bag, though…

How are you?

Sleepy. Not all of us have a gallon of caffeine in our system right now. And how are you?

Hahaha. Yeah, I’m okay. You should rest! x

Rest? Nah, I’ve got Pride and Prejudice to read. Have you heard of it? ;) x

Nope, never. You should tell me all about it when you’ve read it! :) x

Sure thing :)

So, do you read anything other than romance?

Sometimes… it depends on my mood…

I’ll take that as a no ;) x

Okay, fine. Maybe not BUT I’m open to suggestions!

What do you have in mind?

I guess you will find out in the morning…

Good night, Maxine 💗

Good night, Victoria 💗

______

Like clockwork, at exactly nine a.m. Maxine strolled through the door of the coffee house, as she did most mornings, flashing a poisonous set of peals from her lips completely cultivating Victoria.

“Good morning,” she yawned through her smile.

“Hello, love. And how are we this morning?”

“Well, it’s nine in the morning on a Saturday, I’ve not got a drop of caffeine in my system and I’m about to spend the next 9 hours conversing with people.”

“Hunky-dory then?” Vic teased, causing Maxine to exhale a chuckle. Vic’s ears hugged the sound – its calling was like a flower’s to a bee.

“You could say that. How are you?”

“I’m all good. Oh, I have something for you,” she reached into her bag, which sat underneath the checkout, and pulled out a dark coloured book.

“It’s no romance, sorry, but it’s really good. Maybe it’ll expand your taste a little.”

“Expand my taste?” Maxine echoed, voice full of tease, like a parrot. “Are you saying my taste is bland?” she continued, articulating the last word with mockery and emphasis, which made Vic fluster.

“Hmm, maybe a bit.”

She loosened her grip on the book as she held it out for Max, though she held on enough to avoid it from dropping. The other girl reacted to this by also lifting her hand to receive it, unintentionally connecting their skin, freezing everything around them. A swarm of electricity dove onto Vic, where their hands met. A pulse of tingles, like pins were pressed against her, tickling their way down her hand, up her arm, and throughout her entire body slowly, reaching each pore of her skin one by one. Once it made its first round, it circulated again, channelling tingles of nerves and desperation and infatuation around every inch of her. It lasted for so long that Vic completely lost the ability to control her body, making her a statue, completely mesmerised by the view in front of where she stood. Her heart accelerated – each pulse of electricity igniting it.

But was it keeping her alive or was she only now just discovering what it was like to be living?

“Carrie,” whispered from the other girl’s lips, in nothing more than half a shaky exhale. Did she feel it too?

It took a moment for Vic’s ears to sync back up to her brain, and another for her brain to sync but up to her mouth, where she remained unresponsive.

“Stephen King,” she finally mumbled, slowly withdrawing her hand, disconnecting the invisible live wires between their skin. This awoke her, bringing her back down from the high she’d just been exposed to, now able to finally re-sync her senses, though her mind was still slightly misty similar to that of the autumn morning.

“Oh, it’s not too scary, I promise. Eerie, if anything.”

“Thank you,” the earthy-eyed girl spoke.

In the process of concocting Max’s morning caffeine, Vic found the nerve to strike up another conversation, in desperation to marinade herself in Maxine’s presence.

“Did you want me to bring anything to dinner tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to, but you can if you’d like. I’m going to whip up a few things, you know, buffet style.”

“Perfect.”

_____

The afternoon had announced itself rather quickly for Vic, brewing caffeine for countless people, not really giving her much time to rest before Nikola had arrived declaring the end of her shift. Her current state: propped on the bathroom floor, Elliott to her right, painting streaks of bleach into Vic’s hair. He mocked her, calling this a ‘breakdown resulting in a makeover’. After stocking up on crisps, fruit and ingredients for Elliott to make his signature brew to accompany the three of them to dinner tomorrow, Vic had found herself lurking in front of the hair dye. She’d impulsively decided that she’d spend her afternoon incorporating purple streaks into her hair, though Elliott seemed to be doing most of the work.

“Ellio, can I ask you something?” Vic asked, legs crossed like a kid while Elliott worked away – painting an image of a mother doing her child’s hair.

“Of course, mi corazón.”

“Can you explain yesterday now?”

[arielhopepeace]

Part Two



18+ only

TW: prostitution, mention of drugs, mention of death, extreme violence, guns, murder, abuse in general, smut (not with Javier it’s COMING though I promise)

5,900 words

  When I wake up towards noon, I instantly bound to my ratty couch, moving the few packages of cocaine to my closet instead. I don't want anything to do with this, but I don't have a choice. Why would my father have the drugs stored here? Would the DEA not think to check his daughter's house?

My heart is pounding violently in my chest, the anxiety of everything consuming me until I'm a trembling, perspiring mess on my bedroom floor beside my closet. Emotion pulls at my bottom lids, tears threatening to cascade down my cheeks, but they don't. If I can't cry for three men who met their demise yesterday at the hands of my father, then I'm sure as hell not going to cry for myself.

I ready myself for the workday, knowing that I'll probably just attend the whorehouse near my apartment against my better judgement. I'm doing my best to push my emotions down, wanting to just forget and move on like I've done since my mother's passing.

Her death unknowingly helped me to cope with what the rest of my life was going to entail. Having to sell my body against my will, live in a foreign country with my father who beats me, and be put into treacherous situations daily. None of that scares me more than when I lost her. I learned how to cope with my intense emotions from the beginning, hardly allowing myself to cry. But now when I want to, I simply can't.

My pulse begins to steady as I finish up my makeup, covering the slight bruise that has formed on my cheekbone from the rough slap to it last night. It aches to the touch, but I decide not to linger on the memory. I slip into a tight black dress as well as black heels, giving myself one last glance in the mirror before I leave with a sigh, dreading the short walk to work.

The day is already stifling, but I thoroughly enjoy it, allowing the wind to whip my hair behind my shoulders as I stride along the sidewalk.

There's a man standing outside of the slim white building of the whorehouse, his head leaning against the wall with his throat exposed. He breathes in the smoke from his cigarette, blowing it out into an opaque cloud above him.

"Mr. Pilot," I say with a smile as I approach him. "Almost didn't recognize you."

He beams, tossing the filtered tip to the ground, smushing it beneath his shoe. "I'm flattered that you did." His large brown eyes meet mine over his sunglasses. "And call me Javier, if you'd like."

I can't help but giggle at his charming persona. My eyes flick down his body, taking in his appearance, as well as his tightly fitted jeans. He's wearing a light blue shirt with short sleeves that hug his tanned biceps, making me briefly lick my lips.

"I'm Rose," I say softly.

Javier smirks. "Is that your real name?"

My eyes narrow as I smile playfully at him. "Seeing as you're standing right outside where I work, you'd know that it's not."

"How come I've never seen you in there?"

"I prefer to get my clients on the field. They're not as—sleazy."

He scoffs as he crosses his arms. "They're men, aren't they?"

I giggle. "Touché." My eyes scan him once more. "Are you coming in, Javier?"

His mouth twitches up a bit, looking somewhat reluctant. "I can't, but maybe I could treat you to another drink later."

My body moves closer to his, my confident strides concealing the apprehension in my chest. "I don't date, Mr. Pilot."

He gives me a small grin. "Neither do I, sweetheart. Maybe after the drink, I could take you back to my hotel room."

I lean in and kiss his cheek near his sideburn. "Sounds like a deal, Javier. I'll be at the same bar later tonight."

"So will I," he beams, tossing me another ghost of a smile as he walks away, my eyes on his ass as he leaves.

The man is damned good-looking. He has a confidence to him that doesn't strike me as cocky, and to me, that's one of the hottest things a man can be; confident. I never look forward to having sex with clients, but him and Harry are both two rarities.

Once it's nearly sundown, my last client leaves, giving me a few hundred before he does. I clean myself up in the bathroom, wiping my stomach free of any release that has spilled onto it. My thighs ache as I fit my feet back into my heels, making my way to the front door of the building to leave.

"Have you got time for one more?" I hear, my face instantly lighting up when I see Harry standing there gazing at me with a shy smile.

"Harry," I breathe out. "Why are you here?"

His eyes never leave mine, pinning me in place. "I wanted to see you. We don't have to do anything, y/n. I just missed your face, I guess," he chuckles sheepishly.

"Why don't we go to my apartment instead? I kinda hate it here."

Harry nods, reaching out to grab my hand that I happily take. We walk the short distance to my apartment, feeling that palpable tension from his presence. I want to ravage him, but I'd also really like to bathe myself before that. I feel—dirty.

"Was everyone friendly to you today?" he asks as he peers down at me.

"Yes," I laugh. "I actually have to go out later to meet a client at a bar."

He cocks his head. "Why didn't you just have your business at the house?"

"He said he couldn't. So, I agreed to meet him at the bar and then maybe go to his hotel afterwards."

Harry releases my hand as I unlock my apartment door, his tall frame stepping in after me. "That sounds dangerous, y/n."

"I've done it before and never had any issues. Why would it be any different this time?"

"God, can you at least carry a knife on you or something?" he asks as he shuts the front door, locking it behind himself.

"Where would I keep it?" I look at him with my hands on my hips. "If I'm naked, there's nowhere to keep it."

"Maybe just get a small one and tape it under your heel," he shrugs. "I don't know. I just don't like it."

I approach him, wrapping my arms around his neck as he snakes his hands around my waist. "Are you jealous, Harry?" I tease, resulting in a quiet laugh from him.

"Maybe a bit." His expression turns serious, "But I really am worried about your safety. I know how evil men are."

My smile fades, stepping away from him as my mind flashes back to last night. "Harry, I need to tell you something."

"What's wrong?" he asks with immediate concern.

"José came here last night and stored a bunch of keys. He said you guys got raided."

Harry's brows raise. "What the fuck? We're under strict orders to keep you out of our business."

"He said my dad told him to store it here, and then he—" I chew on the inside of my cheek.

He strides towards me, lifting my face in both of his hands. "What did he do to you?" he asks with his tone dark, nearly making me shudder.

"He pointed his gun at me and threatened to do—horrible things. He slapped me so hard that I have a fucking bruise on my face now."

Harry's face scrunches up with ire, his eyes leaving mine. "That fucker."

"Please don't say anything. I know my dad won't care. He was only here on orders."

"He lied," he spits, backing away from me with his hands on his hips. "He'd never hide it here, unless he forgot to tell me. There's no way he'd actually bring it here." Harry is pacing, talking under his breath to himself. "I have to go, y/n. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," I say softly. "Are you upset with me?"

Harry instantly walks up to me, cupping my face in his hands to give me a deep, tongue-filled kiss. "Not at all, sweet girl. You did nothing wrong."

"My dad won't see it that way."

"Something isn't right, y/n. Either your dad has done something without running it by me, or José is setting you up to get caught."

My eyes blow wide. "Well, it has to get out of here. I don't want to go to fucking prison for something I'm not even involved in!"

"You won't, I promise. I'll come back later tonight to have it moved, yeah? I promise, y/n," he kisses me swiftly again. "Here." Harry pulls out a hundred dollars, placing it into my hand.

"But nothing even happened," I say with a slight whine. "I feel so guilty that you're paying me."

"I want to, darling. I kissed you, didn't I? And for a kiss like that, it should cost me."

I giggle, admiring him. "Fine. Go do what you need to do. I'll see you later."

  With my conversation with Harry still making an uneasy feeling bloom in my bosom, I begin my small trek to the bar where Javier is hopefully waiting for me. I feel somewhat apprehensive about our meeting. Not only do I have the thought of being caught with several keys of cocaine heavy on my mind, but also the haunting words that Javier might be dangerous.

The bar is full when I enter, smelling heavily of tobacco. I look everywhere for Javier, moving past the wooden bar top to look further into the establishment.

"I thought you weren't coming."

I turn to see Javier, looking as stunning as he did this afternoon. "I was thinking the same about you."

He gestures his head to the bar. "I've already ordered for you. Neat tequila?"

My heels click onto the floor as I follow him, seeing two empty barstools towards the end of the long counter. "It's all I know how to order, really."

"I can order anything you like. Just tell me."

Getting into the seat beside him, I giggle. "This is fine for now. Thank you, Javier."

He eyes me quickly, seemingly trying to hide it as if I'm not here to have sex with him. "Are you still wanting to go to my room?"

I nod. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

His broad shoulders raise quickly upwards. "You seem tense."

"I just had a little bit of an unsettling conversation with a client before I got here. I'm sorry."

Javier's gaze softens. "Hey, don't apologize, sweetheart. He wasn't mean to you, was he?"

"No," I smile fondly. "He's actually pretty enjoyable."

He shifts in his seat. "Good." He leans in to my ear, "Are you as eager to leave as I am?"

I giggle, downing the rest of my drink quickly before I stand. "Yes, I am."

Javier flashes a wide grin, putting some money down on the bar top before getting out of his seat. "Then let's go."

He takes my hand, my heart racing in my chest from the anticipation of being able to unwrap this man. It's not often that I actually look forward to seeing someone naked, but god I want to eat him alive.

Javier opens his Jeep door for me, allowing me to hop in and buckle myself. When he gets into the driver's side, I fling my body at him, sealing my lips to his, savoring the taste of tobacco and alcohol.

"Let's save it for my place, cariño," he says gruffly, sneaking in one more quick peck before we leave the parking lot.

My hand is on the bulge in his tight jeans, my eyes blowing wide at the size of him. "God, Javi, you're so big."

He chuckles, moving my hand to my own lap. "I love how badly you want me, sweetheart. But we have to wait."

"I don't want to," I breathe, my fingers fidgeting in my lap. "You're so fucking hot."

With a smile and a gentle laugh, his eyes flick to mine. "So are you, baby. So are you."

We pull up to an apartment building and I cock my head to the side. "No hotel?"

"I upgraded."

I smile, stepping out of the car and having him guide me up the steps to his place. My hands are desperately pulling at his clothes, trying to undress him in the hallway as he unlocks the front door.

"God, you're gonna hate me in a second," he says quietly.

"Why would I hate you?" I ask, kissing his neck.

The door to his apartment opens and inside are two formal-looking men, my heart falling into the pit of my stomach. There's a blond man with a mustache very similar to Javier's, the man seemingly not from Colombia, and a tanned man with large muscles and short brown hair, standing beside the other with a firm expression on his face.

"What the fuck?" I say lowly to myself. "What's going on?"

"Y/n, I'm DEA Agent Steve Murphy," the blond man approaches me with an outstretched hand. "Would you mind talking to us for a minute?"

"No," I say firmly. "I won't talk to anybody."

Javier enters the apartment, leaving me standing in the hallway. "I'm Agent Javier Peña," he says with conviction. "And that's Colonel Carrillo."

The buff man nods. "We're not here to hurt you, y/n."

"Fuck you," I curse, turning to Javier. "You set me up."

"You were followed last night, y/n. We caught him after he left your apartment and he was covered in cocaine. Did he leave anything in your apartment?" he asks with soft brown eyes, his hands on his hips.

"Not that I know of," I lie. "Why would he even have cocaine?"

"We know who you are, y/n, and we know who your father is. All we want is the information to bring him and Escobar down," Steve says to me bluntly. "Your cooperation would be appreciated."

"There's nothing to cooperate about. You have me mistaken for somebody else."

"Okay." Steve approaches me. "If we go to your apartment right now to search it, anything we find will be held against you and you specifically. You know that, right?"

My eyes flick from his to Javier's, then to the Colonel, fear and anxiety consuming me. "Fuck."

"We're just trying to protect you, y/n," Javier says gently. "We know you're innocent."

I sit on the living room couch, my head leaning back against the cushion. "There's a few keys in my closet. They're not mine."

Javier nods, kneeling before me on the carpet. "The man who brought it to you, José, do you know him?"

All I do is nod, not meeting his eyes.

"We have him in custody. We're going to send a team over to your apartment right now to get the cocaine," Colonel Carrillo says firmly.

"No!" I blurt, remembering Harry is supposed to be there to move it. "They'll know I'm a rat. Please don't."

"You're Javier's informant now. You'll be staying with him for your protection, but only us four will know about it," Steve says with his hands on his hips. "The embassy won't like a drug lord's daughter and prostitute staying with one of our agents, but we want you safe. We need you."

With Javier still in front of me on his knees, I glower down at him. Harry was right about him being dangerous, but not the kind of danger either of us pictured. This is dangerous for everyone.

"I don't want to live here," my voice rasps.

"You can still go about your life. You'll be telling your father and any associates that you're staying with a woman from the whorehouse, but they're not to know where you live." Javier gazes at me with his delicate eyes. "We need you on the inside, y/n. Regardless of what you think, these are bad people and they need to be stopped. I know you love your father—"

My outburst of laughter cuts him off. "You have no fucking idea what you're talking about," I spit. "You're all gonna get me killed."

"We'll do everything in our power to make sure that's not the case," Steve gives me a polite nod. "Carrillo?"

"Let's move," the man answers, leaving the apartment with Steve trailing behind. "Stay here with her, Peña. We can't have her running away."

He turns his head to nod at them, his attention back on me once the apartment door closes. "I'm sorry I lied to you. It's just for your safety."

"Fuck off," I curse, crossing my arms over my abdomen. "Just let me go to my dad's so that he doesn't think I'm a rat. I'll tell him I'm staying with someone from the whorehouse or whatever you want."

Javier sighs, shaking his head. "You're not going anywhere without me."

"Fine. You can follow me."

"I'll have to put a wire on you."

My throat feels dry as I swallow the lump that has formed in it. "What if they find it?"

"Do they ever search you?"

I shake my head.

"Then you'll be fine. I have some stuff in my car. Can I trust you to stay put?"

My eyes feel bleary as I nod, the suppressed emotion ebbing against the cracking, stubborn dam within my mind. "What if they kill me?"

"I won't let that happen."

Holding back my tears, I nod. "I won't go anywhere. Just get whatever you need."

  When Javier returns, I unzip my dress, dropping it down to my midsection to allow him to place the wire on me. Feeling his breath against my skin ignites it, even if I'm pissed at him for leading me on and into a DEA trap. Now I'm a snitch against my will, just like everything up until this point has happened against my will.

"I'll be listening the entire time from my car. I want you to say 'car' if you need me to go in there, okay?" he says with his eyes focused on his task.

I peer down at him. "You'll just go in there guns blazing by yourself?"

He chuckles. "If I have to. I let Murphy and Carrillo know where you're going, so they have my back if I need it."

"Have they destroyed my apartment yet?"

"They're there now, yes."

I sigh, Javier's eyes looking up from my chest. "I really am sorry, y/n. I didn't want you doing anything to me just for you to find out I'm actually a DEA agent whose been lying this entire time."

"You sought me out just to get information from me. It's fine. I'm used to being used."

He straightens his stance, beginning to lift up the top of my dress as I quickly take over. "I didn't mean for you to feel used. You're just the only one we felt like we could trust. We've been on you for a month."

"Did you follow me home last night?"

Javier shifts, nodding. "Wanted to make sure you got there safely."

"But you didn't bother to stop José from hiding coke in my apartment?"

"We didn't know he had it until after he left the building when we caught him. He escaped the raid and came to you. We still don't know why he dumped what he made out with on you."

I shrug. "He said it was orders from my father, but another associate thinks differently."

"What associate?"

My weight shifts to my other foot, the guilt of telling Javier everything beginning to weigh on me. "I've told you plenty for tonight. Can we please just go?"

There's no way in hell I'm giving Harry up. There's no doubt that he already knows about him, but I'm not going to implicate him any further. He's the only decent man amongst them, and I'll be damned before I give him up.

  This is the first time I've driven to my dad's house without that serene, peaceful embrace to surround me. I'm uptight, on edge, and wearing a fucking wire.

What the fuck am I supposed to do if they happen to search me this time? I wouldn't be surprised if my dad would be the one to pull the trigger.

Javier's car pulls off the road before I reach my dad's gate, tucking himself away into the trees where nobody can see his vehicle. I put in the code, being granted access as I pull up to the house, my heart pounding rapidly, audible in my ears.

There are several cars here, and I know that means they're having a meeting. If I just burst in here unannounced, my father is going to be pissed. He never wants me around for his meetings.

On one hand, I'll make the DEA happy with a boatload of information, but on the other I'll be implicating every single person in this house, including my dad. Truthfully, I don't care if he goes to prison for the rest of his life. Him and all the men that do this deserve it and I know that, so why do I feel so fucking guilty? Does Harry deserve that fate, too?

With shaky hands, I twist the doorknob, stepping inside to be enveloped by the smell of tobacco. There's obviously several people somewhere in the vicinity with the aroma being that strong, I just have to find where.

I go out to the backyard, seeing several men all sat around a table outside near the pool. This is exactly where those three men died on their knees before my father. It's dizzying to me how everything looks perfect, like nothing ever happened.

"Y/n?" my dad turns in his seat, all eyes suddenly on me. "What are you doing here?"

"My house was raided. I was on the way home from a client's place and I saw the police going in, so I stayed back. José brought a bunch of keys to my house last night, and they caught him. I guess he ratted," my voice is shaky, adding to the emotion of my mostly fabricated story. "I didn't want them to catch me, so I came here. What do I do?"

Harry is suddenly at my dad's side as they both walk towards me, his hands on his hips. "I tried to go get it, y/n, but they were already outside when I pulled up. He already knows."

"Nobody saw you?" my dad asks with an arched brow.

I shake my head. "No, I came straight here."

He eyes me, pulling me in for an unexpected hug. "It's okay," he says. "You can stay here for tonight if you need it."

His kindness throws me completely off guard, almost bringing me to tears, but I know it's merely faux fatherly love for his associates to see. "That's okay. I'm going to stay with one of the girls from the whorehouse."

"Will you let me know where?" Harry chimes in.

"Sure, whenever I get the address, I'll let you know," I lie. "Dad, why did José bring the coke to my place?"

My father shakes his head. "I thought it would be safe there. I'm sorry. I panicked when we got raided and your place was the first I thought of."

Of course he did. Business is more important than my safety, and always will be to him.

"That's okay," I play it off. "You did what you had to."

He looks back to the table of men who all eye me. "I have to get back. We're discussing a better plan to take on the DEA. It's important, y/n. You need to leave if you're not staying the night."

I nod. "Right, sorry."

"I'll walk you out," Harry says quickly. "You'll catch me up on anything important?" he asks my dad with a small chuckle.

He responds with a laugh and nod, walking back to his meeting where he begins to speak quick, fluent Spanish to everyone there.

When we get inside the house, Harry immediately embraces me, pulling my lips to his. "I was so worried about you, y/n. I thought they caught you."

My eyes well up with tears, hating to have to lie to his face. "No, they didn't."

"Hey, what's wrong, darling? Talk to me."

I shake my head, another crack forming in my imaginary emotional dam. "Nothing. I was just scared, is all."

"I'm so sorry. I really wish your dad would've consulted me before he moved things there. I would've advised against it."

The fact that Javier can hear all of this utterly kills me. Harry is just getting more and more implicated into this business, and he's going to go down for the rest of his life.

"It's okay, really," I smile, savoring his touch against my cheeks. "Just be careful, okay?"

He nods, smiling. "Always." His eyes flow gently down my body. "I see that your client wasn't dangerous after all."

I swallow, shaking my head. "No, he wasn't. He was nice."

"Did he take you to his hotel or whatever?"

"Uh, no. He ended up getting too drunk to go anywhere, so I left," I shrug. "I saw the police go in the apartment right after that."

"I'm sorry, y/n," he says gently, his hand leaving my face to go up the hem of my dress. "Were you still wanting someone tonight?"

My breath catches in my throat as I look around us, seeing only my father's vacant house. "I—"

His fingers thrust into me, the metal of his rings icy against my searing flesh. "God, I love how wet you get for me."

I can feel my cheeks burning from the arousal that Harry makes me feel, and knowing that Javier is listening to all of this.

"Not here," I pant, biting my lip gently. "What if someone walks in?"

Harry withdraws his fingers from me, unbuckling his slacks to free himself from them. "They're in a meeting, darling. But we could move to the bathroom where I can really undress you if you'd like."

I lift my leg, allowing it to rest onto his outstretched arm as he lines himself up with my entrance. "No," I breathe. "Need you now."

He smiles, dimples in his cheeks as he pushes forward, making me cry out with pleasure. My back is against the cool wall, my eyes squeezing shut from the stretch of him. His fingers rub my clit expertly, making me tighten around his cock.

"Nothing gets me off faster than hearing you cum, baby," he groans, giving me a swift kiss. "Need to feel it, y/n."

I go to moan his name but refrain, not wanting Javier to know who he is. "I'm so close already."

His hips move a bit faster, tunneling deeper into me and making me yelp out a cry of pleasure. Within minutes, I'm crumbling, my hands squeezing his clothed biceps as my walls flutter around him. My head is tilted back against the wall as I scream, the pleasure of his strokes making my legs weak.

"Fuck, so good for me, y/n. So fucking good." Harry quickly withdraws and I stumble to my knees, displaying my tongue for him. "God," he groans, stroking himself quickly as he releases into my mouth, the liquid sitting warm against my tongue.

I move forward to lick his tip clean of any leftover orgasm, my tongue gliding over my lips as I swallow everything he gave me. Harry tucks himself back into his pants as he reaches for my hands, stabilizing me back onto my feet.

"You," he kisses me, "are," another one, "fucking," a third kiss, "addicting."

I can't help but giggle, enjoying every playful peck he gives to my lips. "So are you." I pull my panties down and off my body, stuffing them into his pants pocket. "You keep those safe for me."

  Back at the car, Harry gives me a deep kiss, his hands on my ass as he squeezes it.

"When can I see you again?" he asks as he gazes down at me.

"I'll be at the whorehouse from now on, even though I hate it there, and wherever I end up living. Hopefully one of the girls answers their doors for me."

"Please let me know. I want to make sure you're safe."

I nod. "I will."

Harry steps away, fishing into his pocket to give me money. "You're the only woman I sleep with, did you know that?"

Taking the bills, I laugh, my face aching from my incessant grinning. "Why? You're hot. You could have anybody you want."

He chuckles, pulling me in by my chin to kiss me again. "I only want you."

"That's pretty romantic talk towards a prostitute."

His brows furrow. "You're much more than that."

Deciding to not get into it any further, I open my car door. "Good night, you."

Harry laughs, bending down to look at me in my seat. "Good night."

Driving away, I wait anxiously for Javier's lights to flare up behind me, and after a few minutes they do. I'm really not looking forward to living with him for god knows how long, but if he'll keep me safe from all of this, I guess I don't really have a choice, do I?

  Back at his apartment, I park my car around the back with his, not daring to meet his eyes as he walks around to greet me.

"You gonna tell me why you weren't saying his name?" he asks quickly as I follow him to his place.

"Whose?"

"Don't play dumb, y/n. I know you weren't saying it on purpose."

I watch as he unlocks the door, my gaze never falling to his. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Javier tosses his keys aside, slamming the door shut behind me after I enter the apartment. "These men are dangerous. Do you understand that? They will kill you given the chance, regardless of how nice they seem to be."

"I don't think he'd hurt me."

"Who? What's his name, sweetheart?" he asks with a nice facade.

"I'm not telling you. He's a good guy, and I won't snitch on him."

He places his hands on his hips as he looks to me incredulously. "It won't be hard to find out which one he is. He's fucking British, for fuck's sake."

"Fine, then you'll figure it out. I'm not telling you." I reach down the top of my dress and yank off my wire, the rip of the tape stinging my skin. "Here's your fucking wire."

Javier looks at the discarded device on the floor, his eyes on me again. "All I'm trying to do is help you, but you're resisting every chance you get. Why?"

"I didn't ask for this life!" I shout. "Do you think I want to spend my days fucking men who make me want to vomit? Or have my dad be some pathetic, murderous, drug lord? No!" My eyes once again fill with tears, the dam suddenly crumbling to the ground, the damage flowing down my cheeks. "I'm fucking miserable," I sob, falling to my knees on the floor as I hold myself. "But I still feel guilty for giving them all up."

Javier sighs, coming to my side on the floor as he wraps his arms around me. "Shhh," he coos. "It's okay. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"But I do!" I cry. "I don't have a fucking choice."

"If you're my informant, you don't have to be a prostitute anymore. You can just stay around your dad."

"I don't want to do that, either. I hate him. He's the only one I don't feel guilty about turning in. All of that fake nice you heard was only because he was having a meeting. He never hugs me or apologizes. He's fucking scum."

Javier soothes me, rubbing my arms as he holds me in his chest. "Then help us take him down."

Letting out a steadying breath, I nod, my eyes blurry with tears. "Okay."

He releases me, taking off my heels for me and setting them aside. "Let's get you to bed, y/n. You've had a long day."

I stand with my hands in his, looking slightly up to him. "Do I really not have to go back to the whorehouse?"

He shakes his head. "No, you don't."

Tears begin to pour from my eyes again, my arms wrapping around his neck as I hug him tightly, sobbing into him. "Thank you."

His hands are on the small of my back, rubbing me slowly and tenderly. "You don't have to thank me, y/n. I'm asking a lot of you, but being my informant doesn't require you having to go back there. So, just don't. Keep up appearances with your dad, and he'll never find out you don't go anymore."

I nod, pulling away to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

"So you don't hate me, then?" he laughs slightly, his eyes on mine.

"No. I guess I was just disappointed that you didn't actually want me." I look to the floor, "Could you show me where I'm sleeping?"

Javier nods, leading me to his bedroom where there's a comfortable, unmade bed beckoning to me. "I'll be on the couch."

I nod. "Thank you, Javi."

"There's a shower right in there if you want to use it before bed. We can get you a toothbrush and stuff tomorrow, but you could use mine if you want for tonight."

I scrunch my face up. "No, that's okay. Mouthwash will do for now."

He leans against the doorframe, gazing at me. "You like this man that you were with tonight?"

"I do."

"Romantically? You seemed to enjoy yourself."

I laugh. "I don't know. I've never really experienced romance in my life. I'm only twenty-three, and I had one serious boyfriend back when I was seventeen till nineteen."

Javier smiles, nodding. "You deserve that; romance."

Scoffing, I turn and unzip my dress. "Yeah I'm sure men will come flocking to me once they find out I'm a prostitute."

I hear him coming into the room, going into his dresser drawers to hand me a shirt and a pair of boxers. "The right men won't care about your past."

Taking the clothes, I step out of my dress, turning my back to him again once I realize that I'm without panties. I slide on his boxers, enjoying the snug fit of them. My hands wrap around my torso to unhook my bra, tossing it aside as I slide the shirt on over my body. It smells like fresh laundry, making me soak in the scent with a small grin on my face.

"I'm convinced there are no right men, Javier. All of them want something from you, and that's that."

He gives me a small smile, tucking out of the room as he tosses me a subtle, "Good night."

"Good night."

****

[nqgmx]

✧ THE GUN (2018) - film review / analysis

watch here!

so i'm currently so hyperfixated on nijiro murakami so that basically means i now have to watch his entire filmography, no matter how bad the film is or how badly the subs are translated, so today i watched the gun and oh my gosh it was,,, interesting!! i have SO many thoughts so sorry if this review is a bit of mess, plus i literally can't stop thinking about this film and i have no idea why help

the gun is neo-noir drama directed by masaharu take staring nijiro murakami, alice hirose and lily franky. the film follows nishikawa toru, an emotionless college student who one day, stumbles across a murder scene and, without thinking, picks up the murder weapon - a handgun - and slowly becomes more and more obsessed with it as it consumes him.

firstly i want to say something that's been so heavy on my mind since i watched this film... the gun is a metaphor. it has to be. my friend lina (@metaromancia) and i are convinced that it is. for what? who knows, but it can't be that simple. like, toru becomes so infatuated with this gun in such a unique way in the sense that throughout the film, it's shown that he can't be interested in women in a typical way (it's shown that the only way that he can be intimate with women is through sex), yet he's so obsessed with this gun the same way that men would typically be obsessed with women (not in a sexual way, but more in the sense that it takes up all his thoughts and time). at first i was thinking whether it's a metaphor for intrusive thoughts (specifically sexual thoughts as sex is a common theme) but it doesn't really make much sense, then i was thinking whether it's a metaphor for mortality, as at one part toru says something along the lines of 'i'm happy to die when i die', suggesting that the gun is a metaphor for the concept that you can really die any moment, but the ending debunked that theory. seriously, i'm so interested by this as it has to mean something, but i don't know what it is and it's seriously bugging me.

another thing that's been heavy on my mind is toru's character: he has such an interesting character that is unlike one i've ever seen before, mainly because he's just so empty. one scene that really stood out to me is the scene when he initially finds the gun, and how that's the only scene (excluding the ending) where he's shown feeling a positive emotion. throughout the rest of the film, he's shown to just be feeling more typically negative emotions, such as annoyed or angry. i was saying to lina earlier that i found that the only moment in which he felt a 'true' emotion was when he couldn't shoot his neighbour and it caused him to break down, and at the end of the film, the scene on the train when the film turned from black and white to colour. ugh, i don't know, i could talk about his character for ages, i just found him to be really interesting and unique!! i might do a full character analysis but who knows, i won't put it in this post as it'll be very long

finally i want to talk about the film itself: i'm probably really biased saying this because i love love love neo-noirs but i really enjoyed the cinematography!! there were some moments where, to be honest, the cinematography was so ugly (like the moment where toru was about to shoot his neighbour and there was these awful overlays ew) but there were a few moments i really loved, especially the moments with more traditional noir-style shots. i kind of hated the black and white filter at the beginning, but at the end when it turned to colour, that moment was super effective, especially as everything was bright red; i did seriously love that moment. however one thing that really made me upset is the subs, like they're SO BAD like they're translated so wrong it makes me so upset because i didn't totally understand the dialogue so i can't comment on it. plus i can't fully appreciate the writing as i kind of had no idea what the characters were saying but on the plus side i could fully appreciate the visuals! also the acting was SO GOOD from all the actors, even if they just had a tiny role. like nijiro's performance was so good hello?? i'm obsessed

anyways i apologise for this being so long for my first post(?) but i just had so many thoughts and ideas about this film i really needed to get them out!! this did mostly turn into a ramble though so again, apologies!! :D

[dropintomanga]

Staying Humble and Young at Heart as a Manga Fan

So I found out about an event that happened around Anime NYC weekend last year that involved Crunchyroll working with a organization dedicated to teaching manga literacy to black kids at a public school in the Bronx.

Tony Weaver’s Weird Enough Productions has gotten a lot of attention for spreading the love of anime and manga to marginalized communities. Crunchyroll News interviewed Weaver about the power of manga literacy. It was a really good interview where Weaver provided some great answers. There’s one question and one answer that reminded me (and should remind others) of what’s the most important thing when it comes to fandom.

This is what was said.

Q: Have you noticed any interesting data or trends with young readers as manga has become more and more accessible and accepted into the mainstream?

Weaver: The most wholesome thing I’ve noticed is that young readers are extremely welcoming. If you think about it, anime has been mainstream for at least a decade at this point, but the young readers that are driving its popularity right now don’t seem to be focused on elitism or pointing fingers about who a “real” anime fan is. They’re just really happy they get to enjoy the content. That's the sort of attitude I like to encourage.

I love this answer because I feel like kids just love consuming and sharing their interests with no filter. I work at a non-profit organization that actually does outreach to schools full of kids of color that are from low-income families and schools in the Bronx (like Weaver did his event for) are a big target to us. In my work, I’ve gotten to know the anime and manga interests of black kids through student essays and my department overhears the students who stop by our organization talking about anime a lot.

I also think about anime elitists and who comes off as one. Most of the time, I feel that they’re WEIRD - white, educated, industrialized, rich, democratic. I see a lot of fan anime opinions come from mostly white folks who want to dictate what we should like. In my experience, black anime fans aren’t spouting elitist stuff about who’s a real anime fan. They keep it real and talk about how cool anime is to everyone.

Though, regardless of race, when you get to explore more anime/manga due to being shunned outside of fandom, you can start to do the shunning at some point. Once we learn more about the details that make a certain anime/manga series appealing, we take pride in having that knowledge and put ourselves on some sort of pedestal. I know I’ve done this a few times. Weaver did a 2022 interview with CR News and he expressed concerns about that as well. This is what he said.

“Weaver: Yeah. I think what happens sometimes is that there are a lot of anime fans who have been othered so much that they begin to identify with that otherness. So, mentally, the only way that they know themselves and that they understand themselves is through the feeling, “I like this thing that's different from everything else. You watch cartoons, I watch anime! I'm different.” Because they have been othered so much — there's so much pain associated with that — rather than finding areas of common ground to relate to people, they're like, “No, I'm different! I watch stuff with refined storylines.” 

And when you go up to them and say things like, “oh well why isn't Avatar: The Last Airbender an anime?” And they’re like, “it’s not an anime because it wasn't animated in Japan, it was animated by a Korean animation studio.” Okay. Studio Wit sub-contracts their animation to animators in Korea. Are the first three seasons of Attack on Titan not an anime since it was animated by people who live in Korea? I don't know, you tell me. What do you do?

With the stories I tell, the people that I talk to, the communities that I get the privilege to be a part of, what I try to do is talk about how the magical thing about anime is not how it separates us from the general public. The magical thing about it is not like displaying your refined taste because you understand all the Biblical allusions in Neon Genesis Evangelion. That's not what it is. 

The magical thing about being an anime fan is that you can turn to a random person and go, "Hey, this is Shinji, and he's about to get in the robot," and instead of looking at you like you're crazy, that person says, "Oh? What happens next? What kind of robot is it? What's he fighting? Why does he need the robot in order to fight it?" I think that level of possibility and that broad wealth of storytelling...that's what makes it special. That's what makes it a community I want to be a part of.”

Anime and manga are about getting hyped to see characters struggle, fight, and manage to reach their goals and sharing that hype with those who feel the same as you. I’m not ashamed to admit that I feel various emotions when I witness certain heroic events in shonen manga and love talking about them to others who want to listen. 

I feel that we’re always beaten down by comparisons as we get older because knowledge that’s supposed to help us (i.e. allusions/references) can end up ruining important relationships we need in our lives. I get that certain fans can be problematic, but they aren’t the majority despite being heavily focused on too much. Show that the world of fandom is often wondrous even if it’s not clickbait-worthy.

I applaud people like Weaver because the young readers are one of our hopes in ensuring that our current renaissance of manga will lead to even greater times for manga reading in the West. There’s some kids out there who are doing amazing things and are very thoughtful about the state of the world.

And if you ever feel stressed due to wanting to stand out as a fan to others, as Weaver highlights and as Gintama’s Gintoki Sakata once said, holding on to the kid inside you is the best way to enjoy life. 

[jaijaitbinks]

"Just let your desires consume you."

His everything burned. He burned and burned so hot. Swore he'd never let himself walk into an open flame ever again, never let it surround him and suffocate him in thick smoke. But damn him and his empty promises, because this fire was far better than anything he'd ever felt before. It sank deep into false veins, seeped into metal armor and limbs like water to a cloth. His core thrummed away in a steady rhythm but it felt like an upcoming heart attack, his titanium entirety cold but felt like a shell containing a wild, unforgiving fire. His ears felt scorching and clogged up but it felt like a filter was blanketed over it, muffling everything but the voice of sin—a pureblooded heathen. A degenerate, a profligate being, a demon of temptation and horrors.

A beauty in his corrupted black and gold eyes.

The touches he gave made him want to scream in wonderful agony. The dip in his bare palm, the same one that hid in fists capable and exposed to the gore of creatures and beasts and monsters, caresses him like a pillow cradling a sleeping head. Monster-eradicating hands caress a monster of metal, wires, and oil.

His hand moves up and down, up to fondle the tip, down to stroke the rest. A torturous pattern that makes him wail beneath his teeth but curse against his ear. A shiver wracks his body from head to toe.

"Let me consume you."

The fire he loves pulls away, replaced by an inferno. The villain's own heat rests bare against his, and his clothes feel restricting despite him having no flesh and bones—nothing possible to resitrict. Almost iridescent tears weep and smear between them both. Almost wide tears shred through cheap futons.

"Please. Consume me."

His eyes advert and fall on black and red and white cloth, torn to hell and scorched in some places. It encompases evil and sin and hatred and darkness. It defines monstrosity and destruction. It's a symbol of all that is wrong, all that a world hates, all that a world fears.

"I'm begging you. Love me honestly."

But the man who wears it—oh, the man who wears it encompasses warmth and beauty and passion. He defines heroism, strength, balance. He's a symbol of perserverence and bravery and unbridled perfection. He tortures, but sweetly. He loves, but selfishly. He hurts and suffers, but not with intent. An enigma, a walking contradiction.

This cyborg body is the exact same, he realizes. When he pictures taking those two halves and melding them into a being, he realizes he gets a person. When he observes that person, he realizes he can't tell if it looks more like his beloved villain or himself.

And if he was a hero and this man was a villain, then who was in their right place right now? Who should fall?

His body comes up, teases at the cyborg for just a little more, and envelopes him in a heat he loves far more than he should, both out of pride and mental stability. Their mouths fall open and share the smoke and steam, welcoming it into their lungs in unison. His hands fall on warm hips, his eyes close for some semblance of self-control.

He decides that he will consume him, he will let him consume. He'll feed him as much as he pleases, keep him loud and hot and wild, because this—he—is the only fire that could kill him if it didn't let him in.

He'd die if this fire wasn't killing him.

[0risha]

RECOGNITION

series m.list

PAIRING : sukuna x fem!reader

SUMMARY : when an exchange student comes to jujutsu tech, Itadori is set on finding out why the King of curses is so interested in you.

TAGS : fluff, the tiniest bit of angst, jjk anime spoilers, some curse words, reader is described as a black female

NOTES : i’ve read a couple of works where sukuna meets his reincarnated lover so I wanted to try it out too, hope you enjoy. was supposed to make progress with my wips but I was in a sukuna mood. (◕ᴗ◕✿)

Sukuna feels your presence before he sees you. It’s one of those cliché moments where time puts its hand up to signal a standstill. Yuuji can feel it too when you pass by, your long braids swishing with each step.

He’s sure that he’s never seen you before but his shared body buzzes in remembrance. All the while, his emotions are overtaken by the unbridled feeling of wanting. 

After that, Itadori never took it upon himself to ask Sukuna about the matter because the curse didn’t seem to want to.

Sukuna had become more and more suppressed, his usual pop-ups were a rare occurrence, even when Megumi was around. However, for the whole month you’d been at Jujutsu Tech, the King of curses had been intent on observing from his throne of woven carcasses, body hunched over to just watch.

You’re an exchange student, Itadori recalls Gojo’s past conversation about a new second-year that would be coming from the states. You’re strong — at first, Itadori couldn’t help but think that this revelation was the reason for Sukuna’s interest —your cursed energy being perfect sediment for close combat and dealing precise blows, all the same, Itadori could feel a grappling hook of something that seemed to be festering.

It’s dark and brooding and it stirs every time you come into contact with him. And Yuuji thinks he might go crazy because he wants to know your connection with Sukuna and it’s not like he can ask you because your aura screams — unapproachable.

His chance comes when all the first-years are assigned to a mission, you're there for extra measure. Gojo’s shaman instincts telling him that this mission was far too exceeding for him, Nobara, and Megumi.

Though just as Gojo predicted, it goes terribly wrong and Itadori keels over with an empty hollow where his heart should be.

His last thoughts are consumed with a screeching mantra of his late grandfather’s words. In the crevice of his flickering mind, they're big bold letters that drip with poisoned regret.

Before his vision goes black, the last thing he sees is a heart-broken Megumi and your face which is flooded with guilt.

When Itadori comes face to face with the King of curses, the stench of rotting death overpowering his senses, he mulls over the terms laid out by Sukuna to come back, alive.

To be reunited with his friends and become some type of savior —sukuna's words, not his— he'd give up the reigns of his body so Sukuna could talk to you whenever he chose.

For the exchange of his life, the rules weren’t bad, a part of him knows that this selfish override could cause problems for you in the future, but he still agrees.

When he wakes up to a pure white ceiling and the smell of bleach he doesn’t expect to see you towering over him. Moving up to a sitting position, his cheeks nearly bleed red because he’s naked. His eyes frantically flit over to Gojo who’s sitting in the corner of the room, watching the exchange. The white-haired sorcerer shrugs in a ridiculed manner —silently telling Itadori that it wasn’t his problem.

“You called me,” your voice filters through the bright room. His eyebrows crinkle in confusion. Sukuna must've did something.

When his eyes flit back to you, he’s met with your monotone expression, your cascade of braids framing your face. And for the third time in his life, he’s scared. 

Your cursed energy, which for your level should leave little to no residual, is flaring with onyx undertones. Its sharpened jaws nearing closer and closer to Itadori in a beckoning manner. He's not sure why it's visible in the first place.

Gojo stays silent.

Brat, let me out. Sukuna, for the first time in weeks, pops up with a wide mouth on the palm of his hand. Without a second thought, Itadori allows him. 

Whilst wading in his domain of subconsciousness, he watches the exchange. Your expression stays the same as you study Sukuna’s marked face. 

“So hostile,” Sukuna bares, his powerful aura sifting through the room. You roll your eyes and crack a smile. Seamlessly ignoring the other man in the room— who you know Sukuna has a grudge with. 

“Am I not supposed to be?” you cross your arms and ask. “Being friendly would get me in trouble.”

“You remember me?” The King of curses cuts straight to the point, the question being so unexpected that Gojo shuffles in his seat, his spine rigid with anticipation. 

You nod stiffly. "I didn’t at first, not fully at least, but after coming into contact a few times, yeah.”

“It’s a shame I don’t have control over this body,” Sukuna presses a palm to your cheek, no doubt a loving caress. His deep baritone voice causing your skin to erupt into a turnpike for goosebumps to situate. “Do you remember how we parted last?”

“A sorcerer killed me or something,” you scratch the back of your neck under his intense stare. “Right through here,” you confess, pointing to the middle of your sternum.

“And you’ve become one?” Sukuna quirks an eyebrow, shoulders stiff with anger. 

“I didn’t even know I knew you until a month ago, calm down,” you wave in dismissal. Itadori takes note in the way Sukuna visibly relaxes, your words washing him in a bucket of warmth. “Is that all? I’ve got a mission in thirty minutes.” 

“I’m coming with you.” Sukuna jumps off the steel table, his bare feet touching the cool ground. You turn your eyes away from the bottom half of his body, ears growing hot in embarrassment.

“Eh? Is that allowed?” You turn to Gojo who’s still analyzing the situation beforehand and he shrugs with complacency. “Don’t let anyone see him,” Gojo warns, his stare serious even under his blindfold. You're not exactly sure what Gojo's thinking but you grasp the opportunity.

When you leave the autopsy room with a naked Sukuna by your side, careful to avoid any areas where Sukuna’s aura might be felt, you make it to Itadori’s dorm.

“Here.” You throw him Yuuji’s formal uniform and a pair of brown boots you find in the corner of his room. “I’m not wearing this,” Sukuna interjects.

“Huh?” Your upper lip curls up in confusion. “Then you’re not coming with me.” You turn to leave but he catches your arm in a tight grip.

“Fine, since you’re so damn adamant.” He releases his grip on your arm to slip into Yuuji’s clothes, when he finishes he turns to you with a glare.

“Good boy,” you praise, patting his tattooed cheek.

Internally, Itadori’s too bewildered to tease the curse. In all of his time spent with Sukuna in his body, he’s never seen the King of curses voluntarily listen to somebody else’s demands. The murky water he stands in ripples as he sits to observe everything that’s transpiring. 

When you both reach the site you were assigned to, you sigh in annoyance. “What is it?” Sukuna asks, hands in pockets as he studies your face.

“I was hoping to have an easy day, they’re not dangerous or anything but there’s more than a dozen in there.” You point to the abandoned building, its steel beams bending with age.

“I’ll exorcise them for you.”  

This is going completely against this guy’s morals, Yuuji thinks. 

Your eyebrows fly to your forehead as you grow giddy with happiness. “Really?” You exclaim clambering up to wrap him in a hug.

“If you don’t let go, I won’t.” He grumbles, head in your neck while inhaling your sweet scent. 

“Okayyy,” you inhale, trailing off, Sukuna not too far behind. 

The exorcism is completed in fifteen seconds, tops. You stare in amazement at his lithe movements. His sharp fingers extinguishing cores with precise stabs— the same way he did his vessel. When he’s done he turns to you with an eyebrow raised, his hands wet with unspoken substance. You turn away with a humph. 

“Was it not fast enough?” He walks towards you, concern written all over his expression.

“It was too fast,” you proclaim.

“Huh?” 

“You’re a show-off,” you turn to exit the building, your braids whizzing past his face. You hear his roaring laughter behind you as you make it outside.

The smell of freshly churned earth enters your nostrils as you walk down a fenced sidewalk with bent daffodils. “Where are we going?”

“A ramen shop.” His gaze flicks over to study your face which is softened with what seems to be tranquility. His heart tides over with pride once he realizes that you feel content with him, a 1000-year-old curse.

However, he knows it’s the result of your memories that tie in with his; shared massacres and intertwined fates. Multiple restarts of what seemed to be a never-ending cycle of mingled hearts. But this time jump was different than the others. 

You being a sorcerer is not the only obstacle, at all.

“Sukuna? Hey– you’re spacing out.” You wave a hand in front of his face to grab his attention. 

“We’re here.” He looks up to see a small ramen shop, its logo old with age. As he enters the shop, he somehow finds contentment in being in a place that you like. 

—

“You know you’re probably attracting sorcerers and curses alike as we speak?” You inquire, grabbing your ramen bowl from the waiter who nervously glances at Sukuna. His tattooed face also attracting unwanted attention. 

“Mhm, I’ll just kill them if they interfere.” You whip your head to turn to the waiter who you’re relieved to see, had already left.

“I knew you’d say that,” you stuff your face with a handful of steaming noodles. 

“Sukuna?”

“Mhm?” 

“What’s gonna happen between us?” You flick your index finger back and forth. “It’s not like the other times, I’m a dedicated sorcerer.”

“So?” 

“You’re the King of curses, I’m a sorcerer.” You repeat, dropping your wooden chopsticks to place your head on your propped fist. 

“Already made a deal with the brat, I can talk to you whenever and wherever I want,” he pulls his face closer to yours. 

“Yeah? What happens when they execute Itadori?” You curl your hands into balled fists, an unfamiliar emotion welling up in your throat. Somehow, it doesn't fit. It crosses your veins in a parasitic manner and your eyes glaze over.

“I’ll just come back.” He states matter of factly, voice coated with arrogance.

“You promise?” You whisper, holding out your pinky finger. You nearly scoff at your own action.

Ignoring the finger you bare out, he presses his lips against yours. It’s the same as he can remember, centuries ago. His body elates with a hum of electricity. And it's as if his body's creating a second space of void in which he feels his every sense being sharpened; the smooth curve of your full lips and the salty taste of previous ramen.

But before the kiss can go any further, you're pulling back.

“That was uh…” You blink once, twice, trying desperately to collect your thoughts. When you look back to Sukuna, you instead are met with Itadori’s clear face.

“The hell are you doing, brat?” Sukuna bares his teeth on the right side of Itadori’s cheek. ”I- I’m sorry just got a little uh.. flustered.” 

“The fuck are you getting flustered for?” Sukuna growls. 

“I- uh..” 

“It’s okay Yuuji, you can switch again another time,” you sympathize with the boy. His cheeks are coated in red.

“It’s getting late, eat some ramen so we can go.” You chuckle. Itadori nods as his hand reaches towards a pair of chopsticks.

“Touch my ramen and I’ll kill you again, you damn brat.”

back to m.list

[fandomscraziness22]

From that prompt list, "I got you, it's gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay," for Juke? ❤️

(let's ignore this is a million years late k thanks)

Some days Julie thinks she's moved on from the grief of losing her mom. Of course it will never fully go away; it lingers, like a scar on her heart that only she can see. But the overwhelming feelings have faded, and she's settled into a rhythm of senior year, band practices and hangouts with Flynn.

But sometimes, it comes out of nowhere. The physical ache of a phantom limb, a part of her that will never heal. It pulses through her body like a tidal wave, pulling her under and leaving her gasping for air. The tears clog her throat and her nose runs and she can't move a muscle to get out of bed.

Julie's father comes to check on her, and she can barely muster up the strength to pull her head outside of her blanket cocoon. He takes one look at her, and sorrow forces creases into his face.

"What do you need, mija?" His voice is soft, but not pitying (never pity from him; he knows just as well as she does what this pain does to people).

Julie tries to think through the haze of grief clouding her mind. She wants her mom, but that's the one impossible thing she will never get back. She wants someone to hold her and sing her to sleep and tell her everything's going to be okay even if she doesn't believe it and to just sit with her in this

"Luke," she murmurs, the loudest her voice will get today.

Ray nods and comes closer to rest his hand on her forehead, warm and comforting and real. "I'll be downstairs if you need to send Luke for anything else." Julie's lips twitch up the slightest bit, a warm trickle of love for her father peeking through the fog.

They sit together for another moment before Ray gives her a soft kiss and leaves, letting Julie sink back down into the ocean surrounding her. Time passes in fits and starts; a moment lasts a million years, and a minute for only a blink. For Julie, grief is hard and ragged and makes her feel fuzzy—but not the good kind, where you feel soft and warm like a good hug. No, this is the fuzziness of black spots in your vision and losing awareness of yourself.

The bed dips behind her, a hand tangling in her curls, but she barely feels it. Tears still stream down her face, and her mind is horrifically full, Rose Molina consuming her thoughts. How wonderful her voice was. How she laughed when Carlos made a funny joke. The little eyebrow raise she would give her husband when he lost his keys for the fourth time that week. The comforting hands covering her own on the piano, explaining how to find C and why the black keys were different than the white ones. How she wore colorful clothes with bright patterns near the end, wanting to contrast the reality of what was to come with the happiness she wanted them to find in everyday life.

Another wave pulls her under, and suddenly Julie's gasping for air, sobs ripping from her chest and shaking her body. Her mom is dead. She's never going to give Julie a hug again, never going to harmonize with her, never going to challenge her to a silly game or race her down the block. Never going to see her graduate high school.

Warm arms cover her, pull her into a solid mass of life, and Julie knows it's real, but everything hurts and she can't breathe and it's all too much.

"...match my breaths, Julie. Come on, you can do it. In slowly."

His voice filters in softly, a life raft in her storm. She grabs onto it, focuses on his gentle tone and soft presence. He's still talking, and now Julie can begin to parse out the words.

"Breathe with me, Jules." So she does, turning her attention to the way his chest is rising and falling, much slower than her own. She begins to match his breaths, trying to sync up with him (the way she does when they write together—two styles becoming one).

More senses come back to her; the blanket under her, Luke’s breath on the back of her neck, her dry throat and puffy eyes. Julie’s breathing easier now, not drowning as much as floating in the aftermath of the turmoil.

Luke is still murmuring to her, keeping his voice low. “I got you, it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. I’m here.” As always, his voice soothes her emotional seas, pulling her further from harm and pointed pain. 

Julie finally feels herself relax into Luke, and she knows he feels it too by the way his arms tighten around her. The ache is still there, but the intensity has passed, leaving her with bone-deep exhaustion. 

She clears her throat and whispers, “Can we lie down?” Luke nods, and together they scoot forward and reposition themselves, LUke’s arms bracketing hers and pulling her back into his chest. Julie’s head nestles under Luke’s chin, and his fingers rub soothingly up and down her arms. 

“Thanks,” she whispers. And Julie knows Luke understands that her gratitude extends far beyond simply calming her down. 

“I’ll always be here, Julie. And nothing can take that away.”

[sazandorable]

About moderating and banning content on AO3!

Okay so! I haven’t had the spoons to do this for a while but I cracked and ranted about it on twitter which is... not... conducive to long rants, so!

This is a h u g e discussion part of the l o n g history that led to the creation of AO3, which older, more informed, and more articulate people have talked about at length and can be found around if you look (I reblog some of it in my AO3 and fandom history tags for the curious). So I won’t go into that here, nor into the practical reasons why it’s not even possible to put that system in place anyway.

Arbitrarily, or the purpose of this post, because it’s the biggest topic I’ve seen brought up lately, I’ll be talking about fic depicting underage characters in se*ual situations, but honestly I could hold the exact same conversation on literally any controversial content.

This is about why you, specifically, if you are a content creator and especially if you are marginalised and especially if you are queer and especially especially if you are sensitive to fiction depicting certain things... do not, actually, want a banning system on AO3.

What? Of course we do. There’s a lot of p*do shit on AO3 and p*do shit is gross. No one should condone that, wtf? It would be easy to do — just periodically delete the entire Underage tag!

What will happen if that is done is that people will re-upload and continue to write it, they’ll just stop tagging and you will run into it with zero warning nor ability to filter it out. Again, this is not a theoretical — we know this is what happens. When I was a teen, adult content (all adult content) was not allowed on FF.NET; it was everywhere regardless, and without tags. The exact same thing happened on tumblr when adult content was banned as well. It’s not a matter of “staff not handling it well” — it just doesn’t work.

To keep safe the people who need to be able to exclude that tag, that tag needs to exist and be used.

Well, shucks. A reporting system then?

A reporting system would operate in one of two ways:

-an algorithm, which would delete a lot of stuff we wouldn’t want it to delete.

-humans, which is... the bigger problem.

An algorithm sounds great. We do want it to delete everything.

Okay. What about the daddy k*nk fics between consenting adult characters? What about the fics featuring characters that are children in the canon but are adults in the fic? What about the fics about teenagers exploring their se*uality together, written by adults about the experiences they remember having or wish they could have had? What about the thousands of SasuNaru and Drarry and other shounen and YA fics that will get written, by teens or by people who remember being teens? What about the se*ually explicit fic written by teens who are se*ually active in real life? What about the fics about CSA as trauma, about healing from it? What about the fics written by survivors of CSA to cope about their trauma? What about the fics that clearly show that it’s evil and traumatic? What about the super dark, harrowing, but beautiful and artistic that I’m glad I read even though it fucked me up for days? What about the ones that were really shitty but also horribly hot?

Well, some of these are still not okay, but maybe some might be. It depends on how it’s written. We’ll have humans moderating content and deciding, then.

Okay.

The thing is, I don’t know which of the things I just listed were okay for you to be depicted in fiction and which were too much. Odds are I don’t agree with you. Odds are if I asked 10 people randomly picked off the street, not everyone would agree.

Odds are, even if AO3 arbitrarily decided on which of those are allowed and which are not, you would not agree with their choice, and you would still be unhappy with the decision. (Or you would be happy, but your friends wouldn’t.)

Odds are, different AO3 content moderators might not agree on whether a given fic qualifies or not — is it artistic enough? Does it show enough that these actions are evil and wrong? Can the author prove they’re a teenager? Can the author prove they are a CSA victim? Can the author prove that this is to help them cope with their trauma? The author seem to be functioning alright, they mustn’t really be traumatised!

You know what I mean! There’s absolute, objectively gross shit out there that is not artistic and should not be published.

I agree that there’s vile stuff out there that makes me sick and that I think is very clearly just ped*philic trash. But there is no way to, 1) stop those from getting published anyway, 2) take those down and preserve the safety of everything else.

If we start forbidding some things, there’s two ways to go about it.

One single, clear, arbitrary rule — for instance, absolutely no adult content featuring characters under 18 (leaving aside the fact that this would not even work for the reason cited above). So we lose all the stuff from teenagers, all the coming of age stories about adolescence, all the stuff from CSA survivors; people who need to write it can’t publish it anymore, and people who need to read it can’t anymore either (and as a cool bonus, they’re told it’s wrong and made to feel bad about it). Depending on whether the rules applies to characters that are under 18 in the canon, we lose entire fandoms.

Or, subjective moderation by humans, according to what they estimate to be gross.

Let’s assume all moderators can agree on what’s gross or not.

If there is a system in place to ban some underage works because “gross shit”, then that means other gross stuff can be taken down on account of being gross and harmful.

Yeah! Gross stuff should be taken down! Come on, surely everyone agrees on what’s gross and harmful.

Ah.

But the problem is.

Here is a list of things I have seen — with my eyes seen — called harmful to be depicted in fiction:

Murder

Non-con

Inc*st

Cannibalism

Torture

Self-harm

Mental illness

Drugs

Racism

K*nk

Non-negotiated k*nk, but healthy k*nk is ok

Spanking k*nk

BDSM where the woman is a bottom, but woman top is ok

Healthy depictions of BDSM

Unhealthy depictions of BDSM

Queer people doing bad things

Abusive relationships

Rival/Enemies to lovers

Redemption stories

A happy relationship between a 17 yo and an 18 yo

A happy relationship between a 20 yo and a 60 yo

A happy relationship between a boss and their employee, or a college teacher and a student

A happy relationship between a 14 yo boy and an older teenage boy, because that’s reminiscent of older men preying on younger gay boys IRL

Se*ual content featuring a character whose age is unclear in canon and some people headcanon them as being underage, some as being a young adult

Loving, consensual fluff between characters that are evil villains, because it romanticises them and their actions

Dark content shipping female characters

Fluffy content shipping female characters, because it’s misogynistic to act like lesbians are only soft all the time

Consensual s*x featuring a canonically asexual character, because it implies that all aces can and should still have se*

Fics about the same canonically asexual character hating s*x, because that erases the experience of s*x-positive aces

Shipping a character who is perceived by some fans as queer-coded with a character of a different s*x

The tendency to ship a black character with white characters

Fluffy drunk s*x, because that’s not actually consensual

Sleep s*x, because that’s not actually consensual

Trans characters not experiencing dysphoria, because that idealises the trans experience

Consensual s*x between adults that are not married

LGBT+ content, because kids shouldn’t see that.

I guarantee you: you, I, and 10 random people plucked from the street will not agree on what, in that list, is and isn’t okay to publish and consume fiction of.

So why should your taste be the one followed? Why should it be the taste of mods you don’t know? Why should anyone get to dictate? What if the mods think your OTP is gross and your NOTP is fine?

This is the slippery slope argument.

Yes, it is the slippery slope argument. Because we know it happens. Because we’ve been there, because I’ve seen it happen myself twice already and I’m not even thirty. Because we know people do complain loudly about all of these things.

And because the second there is a banning system in place, assholes will use the system to abuse it and get stuff they just don’t like taken down using the “it is gross” argument, and one day you’ll wake up and the beautiful fic that helped you come to terms with your abuse/trauma/identity/orientation/k*nk for feet will be taken down and wonderful vulnerable creative people will have been harassed out of fandom because they argued with 1 person who didn’t like their foot k*nk fic that happened to also feature, for instance, a CSA trauma backstory.

Again: not exaggerating. Not theoretical. It happens, we know it happens, AO3 was created literally because it happens.

I still fucking hate that stuff.

That is completely fine and normal. No one likes everything. Me too! Most of the dark stuff is niche and the creators know only few people will like it the same way they do.

(For the record, I get grossed out and triggered by fics about an asexual character who does not like s*x having s*x with their partner to make them happy. Deep in my gut everything screams that that’s fucked up, terrifying and harmful, how can people write that. But I recognise that there are people who love and need that, and I leave those people and their content alone.

OTOH, I read a lot of otherwise dark shit and I enjoy it in the same way I enjoyed, say, Hannibal, in the same way some people enjoy true crime documentaries, horror movies or r*pe fantasy k*nk. It helps me explore stuff that I like to see in fiction, in a safe, controlled way. I’m also asexual, 90% s*x-repulsed IRL, and, obviously, I would never abuse a child. For that matter, I wouldn’t kill and eat people, either, nor would I do 90% of the tamer k*nky stuff I read.

Of course, Hannibal was fucked up and lots of people probably think Hannibal was gross and should not have been aired — but as exemplified by the fact that it was created, aired and watched, lots of people thought it was fine, interesting and even fun to watch.)

You can and should curate your experience and protect yourself. The AO3 website now allows you to exclude certain tags, and people have developed tools to help with that such as plugins that save your filters or hide fics that contain certain words.

But no, it isn’t going to, and it shouldn’t, get banned.

[adxmparriish]

everything he needs - read on ao3 track 3 of DEDICATED - a jurdannet roulette collab fic with @hazelsheartsworn @figonas @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @laequiem

SIDE A: TRACK ONE -> TRACK TWO -> TRACK FOUR -> TRACK FIVE SIDE B: TRACK ONE -> TRACK TWO -> TRACK THREE MASTERLIST

writer: lizziebxnnet words: 3.2k rating: explicit -> dom/sub undertones, light bondage, orgasm denial, overstimulation, cock ring

Instead of Faerie bowing to us both, I bow to her. I’m all too willing to oblige. All the anxiety I felt earlier, the rapid beating of my heart I so hated, is replaced by something else. Want, need, pleasure, pain… I am nothing but Jude’s. There is no more room in me for anything else. “Let’s play,” she says. Yes, my evil seductress, let’s play. I am your pawn.

tags and fic under the cut

I am edgy.

Anxiety rolls around inside me, a living monster with claws and fangs crawling beneath my skin.

It’s no secret that most days being High King brings me little joy. I’d much rather laze about, drink wine, kiss Jude until I’m senseless, or simply be. The duties, while not always unbearable, drive me over the edge more often than I’d like to admit.

As the moon rises and filters silver light into our chambers, I glance over to our bed. Jude, beautiful as ever, is draped over the sheets looking at me. There’s a glint in her deep brown eyes that scares and arouses me. Her grin is mischief reincarnated, and I stare back at her with intent. Adjusting the crown on my temples, I turn to face her completely.

“I think I’d rather be on the other end of your knife than deal with any of this,” I say.

“I’m inclined to agree,” she replies, flopping over to lay on her back. She still wears her silk nightgown, some flimsy black thing she purchased at the sex shop. The straps are barely there, and a low neckline leaves little to the imagination. It hardly covers the mocha skin of her thighs, although I can hardly complain. “How would you feel about… a little game?”

I raise a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“Of course not,” she says with a wink, rising from the bed and moving to the dresser. It does nothing to calm my anxieties.

She opens the first drawer, rifles through it, and then pulls out one of our new toys. In her other hand, she holds a remote. The skin of my face grows warm. She pads over and shows me what she has.

It’s a cock ring, but there’s a small attachment on the side of it. She flips a switch on it, then presses a button on the small black remote. Immediately, buzzing reaches my ears and the ring begins to vibrate. I reach out to touch it, feeling the vibrations under my fingertips. Jude looks up and when we meet gazes, I can feel her excitement thrumming through her.

The ravenous beast under my skin loosens its grip, and I find want growing in its place. Wanting her, wanting this, wanting to try something new. To be under Jude’s control would be the most wonderful of changes — a much-needed release from duties and being High King. I want to just be hers, to be Jude’s husband, her plaything. I smile at her, my beautifully wicked wife, and surrender to her.

Not bothering to wait for a second longer, she pops the buttons of my pants and yanks them down. I’m half hard already, the mere thought of what this day will bring exciting me. She sits our new toy on the floor beside her as she kneels in front of me. She scoots closer, then looks up to meet my eyes. I stare at her, transfixed by her beauty. Chestnut hair, long and lush, falls down past her shoulders. Her legs, so strong and powerful and covered in soft, tan skin, fold underneath her. Her hands, callused and sneaky, reach out and grip my cock. My breath hitches in my throat.

She strokes me lightly, teasing. I close my eyes and my head falls back, exposing my neck. When I feel the warm heat of her mouth on me, I gasp her name. Her plush lips swallow me down, her tongue tracing the line of a vein that runs down the shaft. I reach out to touch her, to twist her hair between my fingers, but she swats my hand away. She’s such a treacherous, wicked thing.

I feel a fire begin to burn in my belly, my release within reach, but as if she can read my mind, she stops. She pulls off with a pop, and I open my eyes to look down at her. She has the toy in one hand, my cock in the other. She strokes me a few times, then slides it over me, securing it at the base. The pressure is slight but still intense. She licks the tip, collecting a bit of come that has collected there. Damn the meetings, I think. Nothing is more important than this.

She presses a button on the remote, and I see white. The vibrations rattle through me, making me groan. Pleasure ripples in my blood, and then as soon as it begins, it stops. I don’t know if I’m relieved or aggravated. I glare at Jude, but she seems emotionless. I know better, though. I know she’s relishing in the game of her own creation.

She’s switched masks. She’s the same Jude, the same woman I love so dearly, but she is a different version. She’s always High Queen, but now she’s mine, and I am hers. Instead of Faerie bowing to us both, I bow to her. I’m all too willing to oblige. All the anxiety I felt earlier, the rapid beating of my heart I so hated, is replaced by something else. Want, need, pleasure, pain… I am nothing but Jude’s. There is no more room in me for anything else.

“Let’s play,” she says.

Yes, my evil seductress, let’s play. I am your pawn.

* * *

Sweat collects on my brow, and when the vibrations finally stop, I fear I might come purely from relief alone.

I look to Jude sitting beside me and notice the smallest of smiles playing at her lips. The Living Council is either clueless or pretending to be, and I’m not sure which is more ridiculous. I can feel the redness on my skin, and hear the panting breaths leaving my mouth. For more than an hour, I’ve sat in front of all of them and been brought to the brink of ecstasy more times than I can remember, only to be denied over and over again. I feel deranged, manic, unhinged. I want to come so badly that it is all I can think of. My hand longs to grab myself and rip off the wretched ring, but I don’t. I sit. I obey.

I know that, late into the night when Jude and I are in our chambers, I will be rewarded. It’s the only thing that keeps me grounded.

“I don’t think it’s wise to trifle with the Court of Teeth,” someone says, and I should know the voice but I don’t.

“High King? What do you suggest?” someone else questions me, and I turn my head to the sound.

As fleeting as a strike of lightning, the vibrations start again. I grip the table, knuckles going white, as sensations rock through me. My eyes are open but unseeing. I can hear nothing but blood rushing in my ears, the pounding of my pulse. I shiver as everything aches, my cock almost sore from being denied for so long. I think someone says my name, but I can’t respond. My normally sharp tongue denies me.

“Are you alright, darling?” Jude asks from next to me, her hand laying on my forearm, and I almost come undone. The mere touch of her fingers against my skin causes a cascade of feelings, all of which crash into me roughly.

The buzzing stops and I deflate, my breathing ragged and slow.

“I fear I am not, my Queen.” I look up and the entire table stares with looks of concern on their faces. My already warm face flushes darker, embarrassment flooding to the surface.

“Excuse us,” Jude says, gripping my arm and pulling me upright. “Cardan needs to lie down and rest.”

I can hear people bidding us farewell but I don’t look at them, don’t even acknowledge that they spoke. I am led forward by Jude’s firm grip and sure steps. All I know is her and my own desire that swims through my veins. We walk for what feels like hours but I’m sure is only minutes, and then we reach our chambers. When we’re inside, Jude makes quick work of my clothes, stripping me carefully. When my pants are off and thrown to the side, I look down.

My cock is bright red, almost angry. Jude’s hand grasps it and I choke on a moan, my hips bucking in her grip. She looks up at me in wonder.

“So good,” she says, stroking me twice before letting go. “My beautiful, obeying husband.”

I ache at her praise. She leads me to the bed and I fall on my back. Jude begins stripping her own clothes, but when she pulls off the belt holding up her trousers, she tosses it on the bed next to me. She climbs on, pushing my arms up to the headboard. Involuntarily, my hands grab the wooden bars.

Jude straddles me, her body completely naked now, and bends forward. If I tilt my head forward just a bit, I could capture a nipple in between my teeth. I don’t, though. In this game, I don’t touch unless Jude instructs me to do so.

“Remember our colors?” she asks, and I nod. It’d been the first thing we established when we uncovered this new world, this new game. Green for go, red for stop, yellow for let’s slow it down.

She takes the belt and wraps it around my hands, then the bars of the headboard, before fastening it and pulling it taut. I pull and nothing budges. Our eyes meet and the glimmer in hers captures me in a trance. She leans down and kisses me.

Her tongue traces my lip and I open to her immediately, letting her consume me. When she takes my bottom lip between her teeth, pulling gently, I melt into her touch. Her hands are in my hair, fingers tracing the sharp point of my ears. My tail thrashes, then wraps around her leg. The tuft on the end strokes her inner thigh, right below her core, and she gasps into my mouth. I breathe it in, bathe in it.

I cry out as the swell of her ass brushes against my cock, and it twitches, aching for release. Immediately she sits up, pulling away and denying me.

“Jude,” I beg, pulling at the belt that holds my wrists.

“What?”

“Take this damned ring off,” I demand. Her brows raise, and I know at once I’ve made a grave mistake.

Her strong, threatening hand grabs my throat and squeezes, just hard enough to catch my breath. My eyes widen, my arousal grows even more, and my hips undulate. I fight for some kind of release, some relief of the pressure and pain growing, and find nothing. The lack of oxygen makes my head spin, but I force my eyes to stay open.

Jude leans down, her lips brushing against my ear. “You, my dearest Cardan, are not in charge.”

She eases on my throat, releasing me. She traces the line of my jaw with her fingernail, slowly and carefully. I can’t tear my gaze away from her, not that I would want to. In her element, she is ethereal. I shrink under the power she holds in the palm of her hands.

“You want to come?” she asks. It feels like a trick question, but I nod regardless. She shakes her head, disapproving.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, my Queen,” I say.

“That,” she declares, “is too bad.”

Despite her words to me, she turns and reaches down, removing the ring. I groan at the small release. She shimmies back so her sex looms over me, and I lick my lips. She is dripping, heat radiating from it. Any other time, I’d lean forward and taste her, my tongue dipping between the folds. Instead, I wait, my cock practically pulsing as it aches between my legs.

The warmth of her mouth engulfs me and I groan, her name a curse on my tongue. My hands yank at the belt holding them, the leather digging into my skin. I feel crazed, so much pleasure and pain swimming together and making me drown. I can’t focus on anything except her mouth, her tongue, the slick of her core tantalizing as it hovers over my face.

She hums as one hand roams, pinching the skin of my thigh, and tears prick at my eyes. A shock runs through my system and it takes everything I have not to release into her mouth. I am dizzy with desire.

“Baby,” Jude murmurs against my cock, her tongue licking a long stripe, “taste me.”

Like a starving man at a feast, I don’t waste a single second.

I lick at her, tasting every sweet inch of her. It distracts me from the wicked ways of her mouth in the most pleasing way. She moans at my ministrations, her hips bucking when I catch her clit between my teeth lightly. I devour her, unable to satisfy the hunger growing inside me. She is a long drink of water after a hot day, and I am parched.

Every inch of me burns for her, and I feel my orgasm building in my spine again. I moan into her center as it climbs, higher and faster and stronger.

“Jude,” I plead, “I’m going to come.”

Her wet mouth moves away from me, and my eyes sting as I’m denied again, my climax crashing to a halt. Every part of me hurts, longing to release. I feel like a bow, stretched taut and thin. Tears leak from my eyes and through the mist, I can see Jude’s face hovering over me. I blink the wetness away, and her hands brush the tears from my cheeks.

“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs, kissing my face. I almost forget about my throbbing cock through the haze of her words, but it’s still there.

Jude places her hands on my chest and then lowers herself, her sex wrapping around me as she moves down. I whimper at the feel of her, so warm and tight and lovely. Her mouth hangs open at the sensation, and her eyelids flutter closed. Again, I am struck by her beauty. She is radiant as sweat curls the hair by her face, drips down her neck, and pools in the swell of her breasts. I long to reach up, to cup one in my palms, but the damned belt still holds my wrists. She opens her eyes when she’s fully seated.

She wastes no time. She bounces in earnest, taking me under her power even more than I already am. I buck my hips to meet hers. The sound of our skin slaps together, and it makes the sweetest song. She leans forward, changing the angle so I go deeper, and my eyes roll in the back of my head. Pleasure like I’ve never known rolls through me like a wave, and I make an embarrassing noise in the back of my throat. My mind is nothing but Jude, Jude, Jude, Jude. It recants through my brain like an enchantment.

“Jude please — “ I begin, but a moan cuts me off when she rolls her hips.

“Not yet,” she replies to me, already knowing my request. I slam my head back against the bed, jerking my wrists against the belt tying me down. I want to come so badly it blinds me, makes me crazy. I whine and Jude looks at me.

“Color, Cardan.”

“Green,” I say immediately, sure as ever. She denies me but I relish it. I will come with her permission or not at all.

She smiles at me, and I glow under her approval. I am nothing if not her servant.

“Harder,” she commands.

I plant my feet against the mattress and bend my hips, pounding into Jude with reckless abandon. She forgets herself, crying out and gripping my ribs. Her nails dig into my skin. She closes her eyes as I meet her, over and over, the slapping of our skin ringing through our room, although I can hardly hear it over the pounding of my heart.

“Cardan,” she shouts, throwing her head back, “Gods, you feel so good.”

“Fuck,” I chant, slowing down and fucking her slower, deeper, hammering into her so hard that it jolts her.

Finally, a sweet release comes as she fiddles with the belt, untying my hands. I immediately have one hand on her hip, the other at her clit. My thumb circles and flicks it, making her groan loudly. Her hips falter as her own release threatens to overcome her. If I can’t come, I’ll be sure she does.

I can tell she’s close. Her breaths are short, her eyes are closed, and her legs shake. I grip her hips and flip us over. I pull her close, letting her legs dangle over my shoulders, and take her roughly. I pick up the pace, grab her by the back of the neck and kiss her hungrily. It’s clashing tongues and teeth, but it drives me wild regardless. Her warm breaths tickle my lips as she pants, completely overwhelmed. I circle her clit with two fingers, and a throaty sound rips from her throat.

“Come for me Cardan,” she demands, meeting my thrusts with her own.

In an instant, my body responds to her command, and like a wave crashing on the shore, I come. My vision goes black, then I see stars. It’s blissful pain as it rocks through me and leaves me breathless, every inch of me completely spent. Jude, delirious all the same, follows me. Her hands grip my back, nails digging into my skin as she unravels. We moan into each other’s mouths, kissing until we’re dizzy with it. I fuck her through the aftershocks of our orgasms, then collapse against her.

I clutch her, desperate for her closeness. She returns the grip, pulling me into her chest. I nose her neck, leaving wet kisses down her pulse. She hums happily as I cradle her in my arms. She rubs my back gently, and when I roll us so my back hits the mattress, she lays her head on my chest.

When I push her damp hair from her forehead, she grabs my wrist. It’s red, lines from the belt creasing the skin. She kisses it, then grabs my other wrist and does the same. My heart, so often cold and hard, is warm. I touch her face, my thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She smiles at me, and I can’t help but smile back.

“Your games are evil,” I say to her, making her smile wider. “Although I should have known. You’ve never been an innocent one.”

She laughs. “Neither have you.”

“I cannot argue with that.”

My fingers play in her hair, brush against her skin, and trace the round curve of her ear. Moonlight filters through our curtains and casts shadows across her face. We are both exhausted but I kiss her anyway, slow and sweet. She melts into it, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I love her, devastatingly so. Not telling her seems criminal.

“I love you, darling Jude.”

Her lips meet my jaw, and she kisses me there.

“I love you too,” she says.

As always, I wonder how I got so lucky to win her affections. When her fingers graze my neck, touching my pulse point, I realize for the first time, I don’t much care how we got here. What truly matters is that we are in this moment, basking in the love we’ve built. Whether I’m lucky or blessed, or somewhere in the middle — all of it fades to black in the warmth of Jude’s embrace.

.

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@slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @figonas @laequiem @hazelsheartsworn @jurdannet @jurdannetrevels @thefolkofthefic @kingandfireheart

[a-dorin]

mishap

pairing: din djarin x reader 

word count: 1.402k

warnings: angst, cursing, spoilers, spoilers, spoilers for chapter fifteen (u have been warned !!!) a lil bit of crying, some yelling, slight canon divergence from chapter fifteen 

a/n: hey y’all. i don’t really have much to say about this one other than to avoid it because it contains spoilers from chapter fifteen. this is a very self-indulgent blurb/fic too ahah. i hope you guys like it! :’))

“you know,” an elbow gently digs into your rib-cage, “he’s quite the looker. you got yourself a good one.”

you pause, nearly tripping over your own two feet, “what are you talking about?”

migs mayfield arches a brow, “oh shit. i -- uh, uhm.”

“you were the one who retrieved the coordinates, right?” 

mayfield hesitates, bringing a hand to the back of his neck, “yeah, yeah. i was the one who retrieved the coordinates. your uh -- lover boy was the one who stood guard.”

your gaze darts over to the mandalorian only a few steps ahead, the beskar gleaming as rays of light filtered in through the leaves, “mayfield, is there something you’re not telling me?”

a twig snaps under his foot, causing him to stiffen, “no, no. the mission was a success. we managed to get what we needed, then we got out.”

“right,” you affirm, “was there a reason why you complimented di-- mando, then?”

“oh you know,” mayfield shrugs, “you know what they say. there’s always beauty beneath the helmet. he probably has some luscious locks of golden--”

“no one fucking says that,” you snort, readjusting the blaster situated in your belt, “listen, if there’s something you’re not telling me, i won’t hesitate to tell them to take your ass right back to garbage planet.”

“garbage planet,” mayfield scoffs, “yeah, i’m jumping for joy to return to that shit show.”

clenching your jaw, you can’t help but notice din as he strides towards the two of you, fennec and cara in tow. fennec is quiet, lips etched together in a solemn frown while cara carries a smug smirk on her face. almost as if she was about to deal out a brutal blow to the prisoner now turned comrade. 

boba fett’s ship was stationed nearly a few hundred feet away, hatch opened, ready for the next step of the plan. as much as you wanted to focus on retrieving grogu, as much as you needed to maintain a level-head, you couldn’t. 

there was something about the way mayfield seemed so sincere only minutes ago that had your mind reeling, anxiety, confusion, and hurt bubbling up. 

did din really break his own creed? 

fennec shoulders past the huddle, sharing a brief moment of eye contact with you. her brow furrowed with concern, but she kept moving, sauntering over to the ship. 

“i wanted to thank you for your help,” din’s tone is nearly monotone, yet, you can sense an inflection of gratitude. 

“it wasn’t a problem,” mayfield dips his head. 

“i never realized that you were such a good shot,” cara chuckles.

“oh, you saw that?” mayfield’s eyes widen, lips curling into a cheeky grin, “what happened back there was from a lot of pent up stuff. besides, don’t you have to arrest me or something? you guys got a kid to save.”

“not any kid,” cara cuts in, motioning her head towards din, “his kid.”

“well no shit officer,” mayfield rolls his eyes, droning on, “good luck, and i mean that.”

“you know,” cara swivels on her heel, folding her arms across her chest, “it’s a real shame that the prisoner died in that explosion.”

in an instant, you notice the way mayfield’s entire demeanor shifts. his lips part, the smile broadening, “w-what? what are you talking about?”

“yeah,” din adds, placing a hand on mayfield’s shoulder, “what a shame.”

mayfield gives the three of you once last look of gratitude, cara clearing her throat, “so, what’s our next move?”

din exhales, “we move forward.”

within minutes, boba is punching in coordinates to your next destination. however, something about the aura that filled the air told you that you were not traveling for grogu quite yet. the air was still, almost stagnant, nowhere near the static, adrenaline-inducing battle preparation you were used to. the tiny ship was quiet, the hum of the engine white noise in your ears. 

it feel as if there were just a few more loose ends to tie up. a few more pit-stops. 

the quiet before the storm. 

din was in close proximity, one hand on your thigh, the other resting on his helmet. fennec sat in the cockpit with boba, filling him in on the run-in while cara joined them, providing you and din with a little bit of privacy. 

which, you already knew what happened. there was almost nothing to say. 

“you’re quiet.”

his voice, so calm and cool, brings you to reality, away from the thoughts tormenting your mind. 

“it’s been a long day,” the words were nearly silent, barely a mumble. 

din coughs, hand squeezing your thigh, “you don’t have to lie to me.”

“mayfield said something,” it takes everything in you to keep your eyes off him, to keep staring at the metallic floor, “it just rubbed me the wrong way.”

“what did he say?”

you bite your lip, formulating some sort of way to say it. to say what you want to say without sounding selfish. 

“um,” you inhale sharply, “he said you were good-looking. and that i was lucky to have a man like you.”

you stiffen as din chuckles. yet, it’s strained, almost forced, “did you believe it?”

“i don’t think he’s a liar.”

“he’s a--”

“was there a mishap back there? did something happen that no one else is supposed to be aware of?” 

tears brim your lids, shame burning through you. maker, were you so selfish for this. for accusing din of abandoning a creed he’d known his whole life. the hand slides off your thigh, settling on his own lap. 

silence overcomes the space, eerie and unforgiving.

there’s a clink of beskar as din leans his head back, his posture so painfully still. 

“there was a mishap. things weren’t going as planned. i had to--”

“you don’t have to continue,” you shake your head, “i knew it the moment mayfield let it slip. i can’t imagine how awful that was.”

“i’m surprised you’re taking it so well,” his voice is hushed, “you’ve been begging me for months to see one glimpse of my face. just one. yet, it was a necessary cause. it was so that they could get a scan of my face, for the coordinates.”

“so the imperials know what you look like too?” a single tear rolls down your cheek, splattering on the fabric of your trousers. 

“i’m not sure about that one.” 

“i see,” you whisper, shifting away from din. 

“hey,” his hand hovers above your knee, “you can tell me how frustrated you are about this. i know it’s a sensitive subject between us. if anything, i wish it was you in there with me. but it was just the cards we were dealt, okay? there was nothing i could do.”

lifting your head, eyes connect with the inky black visor, “were you scared?”

“terrified.”

there was something about his voice, how it seemed so broken and vulnerable. this was a man donned in one of the most resilient, most strong material of the galaxy, who was stripped away of his familiarity, a simple, three-word creed that had shaped his entire existence. 

your heart shatters at the mere thought of how utterly terrified din must had been, how he flinched when the imperials spoke to him. how his eyes probably darted between mayfield and the nearest exit, desperate and guilty.

a way out. a way of the gut-wrenching feeling that was threatening to consume him whole. 

yet, din sacrificed those mere minutes of vulnerability in order to save his child. grogu, the tiny creature who he had grown an immense attachment to. 

and maker, how you loved din immensely for making that sacrifice. 

leaning forward you press your forward, nearly flinching at the cool sensation, “i’m sorry.”

a hand cups the back of your skull, “you don’t have to be sorry.”

“i just can’t even imagine how surreal it all felt to show your face in front of--”

“it’s over now,” he murmurs, “it was nothing compared to the fear that consumed me when i left you with grogu at those rocks. i thought they took you too. i was petrified, cyar’ika, absolutely petrified.”

“they still have him, ya know,” your lashes flutter as you let out a shaky breath, “we still have a long road ahead of us, din.”

“i know, and as long as i have you by my side, i know i can do anything.”

[nexility-sims]

Hello! I hope you are having a great day! I just happened across your story, and I was absolutely blown away by the detailing and just everything (OMG it was so perfect) If you don't mind, can you please tell me how long it took you to set up and shoot scene 14? From the building to the posing and then editing?

this is so incredibly sweet !!!! thank you for taking the time to send such a kind note. 💓💓💓💓💓💓 like, i know people read it, but 😭 i’m touched ! anyway, it’s impossible for me to answer questions with simplicity, so ... i apologize for the wall of text: 

this scene was a little different than the usual. i built the room a long time ago (like last year), since it’s essentially fernando’s work office, and i’ve used it for another scene. however, i would say decorating a room like this one probably takes me ... half an hour? maybe an hour, if i have to close the game and go download more clutter for it. i’ve mentioned before, but most of my sets are box rooms, not actually part of a larger cohesive structure. this one, actually, is part of a building ! i didn’t build it, tho; it was a lot i got from the gallery. y’all will never see the exterior of it because ... it’s not the exterior i use for nakawe palace, lmao. i don’t think building sets for stories has to be as complicated as i make it, but this is what i’ve chosen !!!!! 

for the posing, i can’t totally recall ... i want to say in the ballpark of 15 minutes? i rarely make my own poses, so that saves a ton of time. the more heated arguing is from a single pose pack; everything else is the result of me clicking through random poses and using the tool mod to make it look right. i honestly spend the most time rotating sims back and forth by 5-10-15 degree increments to get the correct visual effect sdjkfksgs

editing ! once i’ve adjusted the in-game lighting to my liking, reshade (now gshade) does the heavy lifting for me. in photoshop, i have an action set that i like to use—it just makes everything richer and more dramatic. i slap on a black and white filter because the preset i use is slightly more sepia, then another layer to brighten things up. this takes ... <15 minutes, since the most time consuming part is clicking through screenshots.

i actually let this post sit in my drafts for a few weeks before i went back to write the dialogue and such. i was a little afraid of it, lmao, because this is a pivotal scene and also a shouting argument (which is, for me, harder to write). the dialogue probably took like 20 minutes? including revising? the two paragraphs i attached took perhaps ... 15 minutes when i drafted it the other week, then another 15 minutes when i edited yesterday. i have to budget 5 minutes for the absolute misery of rereading my rough drafts dfjkldfhdkg 

TLDR; SO LIKE THE ANSWER IS ... perhaps an hour and a half, spread across several weeks? i usually do my scenes in one go, but not the ones i’m posting as of late. 

[dragonsareourfuture]

Death Note/GN!Reader — Pick Up Lines

A quick little scenario in which your Death Note sweetheart uses a terrible pick up line on you! I feel as though these all kinda suck since I write this a while ago but it’s fine. It’s fine.

Mello

Staying up late every night and watching security footage was not fairing well for Mello. Dark circles started to form underneath his eyes, and you pointed out that he was turning into L, all he needed was black hair and a haircut. He simply responded “The day I cut my hair short is the day the world ends.”

Usually when Mello got tired he would turn into a grumpy, adorable gremlin but, mixed with the excessive amount of chocolate he consumed due to boredom, he had turned loopy. Matt had relied on his headphones to keep him sane, whereas you were left with no escape from the babbling blond.

Mello rambled on and on about how he was going to beat Near with every fiber of his being, slowly getting sidetracked into a conversation about sheep.

“They’re so fucking fluffy. Standing around, eating grass, taunting me.” The blond mumbled, his head resting on your lap as you stroked his hair, listening with genuine interest.

“Mhmm, how do they taunt you?” you inquired, wanting to know more before your boyfriend fell asleep and you never got to find out why he felt so threatened by white, fluffy animals.

“They just...do  .”

“Well, I’ll always keep you safe from the mean, mean sheep.”

Mello shifted so that he was gazing up at you. He lifted his hand to your face and gently smacked your cheek with his palm, rubbing his tired eyes with the other hand.

“Aw, babe you’re so sweet when you talk like that... You make me melt like chocolate in the summer~ ”

“I do what?”

Before Mello could answer, unconsciousness grasped him and pulled him down into the dimension of sleep. You sighed, disappointed that you wouldn’t get to hear more, yet also relieved that Mello could finally get the sleep that he needed.

“G’night, Mels,” You whispered, brushing his bangs to the side and kissing his forehead, “You make me melt, too.”

Matt

Matt’s been acting strangely clingy all day. As soon as you noticed this fact, you immediately figured that it was an anniversary or either one of your birthdays and it had slipped your mind. However, upon further inspection of your phone calendar, today appeared to be nothing special.

You were seated on the couch, watching a bit of television while Matt washed the dishes. You had insisted that you could handle that task yourself, but the goggle-wearing sweetheart had insisted that you relax.

Suddenly you heard the sink turn off and footsteps lead up to the couch. You turned around to see the redhead wrapping his arms around your shoulders from behind.

“Hey, I lost my phone number...can I have yours? ” He asked with a sly smile.

“Matt, you have my number. Is that a pickup line? You know we’re already dating, right? Is my number not working?” You interrogated, grabbing his phone from the coffee table and calling your cell from it to ensure that your phone number still worked.

“No- it’s... you’re supposed to go along with it!”

“Well, come up with a better one next time, dumb ass,” You tossed Matt’s phone back at him, the device landing in his lap. He pouted and shoved it into his jacket pocket, getting up to return to the kitchen.

“You’re no fun.”

L

The room grew dim and increasingly empty as the hours ran further into the day, eventually turning to night. Despite the signs that you should be on your way home, you stayed with the only detective who thought it appropriate to work into the ungodly hours of the night.

You glanced over at L, back turned to you with his nose practically pressed against the computer screen. You rolled your eyes and switched on the main light of the room, saying, “You’re gonna ruin your eyes reading in the dark like that.”

L did not respond but, at the looks of it, kept on reading the minuscule words on his screen with intent.

“Do you need anything? Water? Maybe some cake?” You asked, giggling at the end of your words for no other reason than the tiredness getting to your brain.

“No, thank you.  I already have you, and you’re sweeter than cake, anyway,” L droned matter of factly, not even tearing his eyes away from the luminescent screen.

“Awww! Oh my god, L!” You squealed, running up to L and enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug.

“Ah...(name), I c-can’t breathe...”

Near

You could practically hear the blood flow to your brain as you spun around in a desk chair at painful hours of the night. The screens that filled the SPK headquarters shone in your eyes, keeping you awake along with the unhealthy amounts of caffeine you had consumed.

Your white haired boyfriend sat crouched on the floor by your feet. The clicking of building blocks rang throughout the otherwise empty room as he stacked them on top of one another, paying no mind to anything else.

You sighed, placing your chin on the palm of your hand and deflating on the spot. No amount of caffeine could keep you here as late as Near always stayed, no matter how much you wanted it to. You hated that he was here alone all the time and, even though he always tried to convince you that he didn’t care, you knew it took a toll on his mental state.

You shifted in your chair, about to heave your body up when Near’s monotonous voice kept you still.

“(Name).”

You waited for him to continue, and spoke up when he stayed silent, “What’s up, babe?”

“Do you like LEGO ?” Near inquired. His eyes finally met yours as he twirled a LEGO piece in between his fingers.

“Uh, I guess—“

“Because I want to build a world with you... ”

You froze, wondering if the caffeine was getting to your head or if Near had actually used a pickup line on you — and a goddamn adorable one at that.

A weak smile tugged at your lips. You slid off the office chair and dropped to your knees on the cold tile beside Near, throwing your arms around the boy without another word.

Though he stiffened at first, Near melted under your embrace. He buried his face into your shoulder and wrapped his noodle arms around your torso. You stayed like this for either a minute, or an hour. It was so quiet that you could hear your hearts beating in sync. Everything was so perfect, so loving, so-

“ARE YOU GUYS STILL HERE!?”

Your heart nearly burst from your chest at the sound of a door banging against metal and the rough tone of Rester calling out to you.

Near grumbled and shoved his face into your neck, trying and failing to escape the booming echo of footsteps that approached your little heap on the floor.

“Yeah,” your voice came out ragged and small, but enough for Rester to hear and follow, “right here.”

“You both look exhausted! Come on, let’s get you to sleep.”

When Near barely moved a muscle, you took it upon yourself to pick up his limp body from the floor bridal style and carry him to bed. Though you almost dropped the poor boy more than once, you’d say you did a fairly good job. And, once you were both snuggled up in bed, you got a good nights rest of a solid three hours of sleep. It was the most Near’s gotten in weeks, so you were not complaining.

Light

Though you were already in a relationship with Light, the cheesy lines and swooning from him never ceased. You wouldn’t have to fend him off with a stick but he loved to be all over you even when he already won you over, and you loved that about him.

This was mainly exhibited when you two were alone together, him finding public displays of affection to be childish and overall unnecessary as everyone you hung around with at school respected your relationship quite nicely.

The two of you were strolling on the sidewalk after a headache inducing day of school. His arm was resting lazily over your neck as you walked while all attention was focused on you and you alone. You ranted about the difficulties of the day and, although they were mostly all minor inconveniences, they really got under your skin once all added up.

When you had finished, you huffed and rubbed at your temple.

Breaking the silence that followed, Light blurted,  “How would you like to be the goddess of the new world?  You wouldn’t have to deal with that crap anymore.”

You laughed, reaching up to lace your fingers with the hand that dangled by your shoulder. “Dude, I barely know what taxes are. I don’t think I can handle being a goddess.”

“Aw, that’s a shame,” Light pouted jokingly.

The two of you came to a stop in front of his house, him pulling you flush against him and just staring wistfully (up/down) at you. “Do you want to come in? I’m sure Sayu will be delighted to see you.”

“Oh, I’d love to but I don’t want to intrude—“

“Nonsense. Come on.”

And so, Light guided you into his home, his mother and Sayu cheerfully greeting you at the door and whisking you away into a night of wonderful conversation and a lovely dinner.

Matsuda

You took advantage of the daylight, working nonstop so that you wouldn’t have to stay after hours to get your unfinished work done.

Through your tireless efforts, you failed to notice a pair of familiar eyes glancing back at you every so often. You only noticed a change in your boyfriend’s behavior when he came rolling up to your desk in his wheely chair, resting his chin on his elbows and looking at you expectantly.

“Hey, what’s up, Teddy Bear?” You greeted, barely tearing your eyes from the papers splayed out all across your desk.

Matsuda grinned from ear to ear every time he heard that nickname. It made him feel wanted and loved whenever he was around you. Sometimes, this caused the filter between his brain and his mouth to thin, allowing whatever he’s thinking in that moment to slip out.

“Do you have a map? Because I’m getting lost in your eyes... ” he said dreamily.

Your head shot up in an instant, puzzled by the seemingly random affection, only to see Matsuda covering his lips as a dark blush began to rise on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Th-that’s not...I-“

“Honey...” you shook your head and sighed, placing your pen down flat on the desk, “That is the literal worst line ever but it sounds wonderful coming from you.”

“O-oh. Thanks?” He chuckled nervously, massaging the back of his neck as his skin became slick with sweat.

You leaned over the desk and pecked his lips before collecting your paperwork in a neat stack, placing it all carefully in your shoulder bag, careful not to bend any corners. “Why don’t I finish my work in that nice little coffee shop across the street. Join me?”

“Y-yes! I’d love to. It’s getting a little stuffy in here, anyway.”

Misa

“Ughhhhh I’m so tired! What a day!” Misa exclaimed, stretching out her arms above her head as she walked over to her folding chair. The white, feathery wings fastened to her back smacked people and equipment as she passed them, but you saw her as nothing but elegant.

Your girlfriend plopped her butt down into the fragile chair, giving Matsuda a scare when it nearly toppled over. With beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, he handed the girl her coffee.

“Aw, thanks, Matsu! And you too, (Name)! I wouldn’t be able to do any of my scenes without you guys cheering me on!”

You chuckled, cheeks turning a dusted shade of pink at Misa’s praise. “Dont give us all the credit, babe. You’re the one giving your all up there.”

Misa twisted in her chair to grab at your hand and intertwine her fingers with yours. “You’re too sweet, honey! Y’know, if it were up to me, you’d be the one wearing these wings!”

“Oh, I don’t know, I couldn’t take your place!” You said, gesturing to the fountain where Misa’s scene had just been filmed.

The blonde giggled and brought your fingers to her lips, giving them a couple kisses before shaking her head. “I meant I’d have you in these wings because you’re an absolute Angel , silly!”

Before you could even begin to respond, Matsuda beat you to it. “Aww my gosh, you guys! Could I be the best man at your wedding?”

“Hmm...” you pretended to ponder while tapping your chin with your index finger. “How do you feel about being the flower boy?”

“Done!”