#all fantasy based muses

[florestxiv]

"Farewell, my first friend. My enemy."

Bonus:

[batgeance]

updated my pinned with a few rules to better establish this portrayal. i'd appreciate them being checked out but essentially what we all already know anyway:

1) my bruce and the gotham he exists in do not recognize "superpowers" and if your character is a "super", hero OR villain, any plotting or writing we do is entirely au to his primary timeline. i'd prefer to stay within his main world, but i'm open to writing outside of it because i do love your portrayals of muses with abilities <3

2) arthur is this bruce's brother. end of story. and i'm always talking about jessie's arthur specifically. she doesn't know this but that's where i'm at. also very attached to abigail and nix and bruce’s nieces and nephew obviously. nothing but love for the wayne next gen.

and 3) just mentioned where bruce is at in his timeline. his struggle with his name and what batman vs wayne means to gotham etc etc

[endbeginning]

and if i said.... pet.er peve.nsie.....

[likemosaic]

⭐ (eh, sure why not!)

send a " ⭐ " and i will list muses i would be interested in throwing at yours. / @knightshonour

i feel like i can be a real knightshonour fan now that i've consumed b*rserk. feel like i can give rowan a plot worthy of his excellence :thumbsup:

i know we can make aus but let's start with coco, because she is my only muse with a bloodborne au. because i'm really bad at dark souls games. since she's djura's apprentice as his mind is slowly lost, it would be interesting to see rowan's take--whether they would be friends as two of the "last sane men" kind of deal, or foes, since djura could very much be a threat. her gun is big and that surely helps (or hinders). she's also fuckin 19 so who the hell is holding her responsible for this dementia ridden old man. rowan set her free.

slightly bloodborne tangential, raksha (whose page i gotta work on) would easily fit into a soulsborne or "monster hunting" verse, as her "werewolf form" is based off of v*car am*lia (blocking so this doesnt show up in the tag). whether she'd count as good or bad is up to our plotting. she does have a family and children who she loves dearly, but she also suffers from uncontrollable werewolf transformations, so it's up to rowan's monster killing discretion. five kids rowan. five.

griffith, rosine, and lancaster are all there from berserk. i don't think i need to elaborate on that gang of pieces of shit lol. rowan would probably kill all three for fun.

hermes is the world-crosser and boundary breaker, so he's likely to show up in any of rowan's verses, though perhaps not for rowan specifically. it's possible the person hermes was interested in enough to come into rowan's world died, and rowan was involved somehow, and hermes takes an interest through that. though they may not get along--hermes is an amicable guy, but he's also fond of trickery and merchants, so put on your salesman hat rowan.

some muses that work for a general fantasy verse: anuriel (a trickster god who would take pleasure in taunting rowan/making his life difficult); morrigan (a volatile witch who rowan may have to hunt or enlist for assistance) and zefir/zephyr (same as morrigan, may have to be hunted for thievery/a bounty or enlisted for assistance); hawke and/or daario (would likely be mercenaries in this generic fantasy world, hawke being magical [and possibly illegally so] while daario focuses on physical strength but also outwitting his opponent). both hawke and daario might participate in a generic fantasy tournament type deal but that may not be rowan's scene, even though he's a knight.

[gh0stsp1d3r]

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ. this is the face nerd!Rafe makes when u give him head for the first time ever… yeah…

A heated make out session with his extremely hot tutee already felt like he was acting out some weird fantasy he’s seen in his favorite porno’s. But this? Oh, this was being saved in his memory for the rest of his life.

Your hands traveled down his body, giving him a small smirk as you kissed the skin of his stomach, pulling your tongue out and licking his happy trail, your hands moving to his belt, throwing it off of him. He watched eagerly, his eyes widening as you pulled off his pants and then his boxers, his hard cock springing against his stomach.

“You’re bigger than I thought you would be.” You mused, a shade of pink covering his cheeks now.

You went back up to kiss him again, his lips hungrily moving against your soft ones. You pulled away after a moment, and traveled back down to his cock.

“Wait, wait, are you sure?”

“More than sure.”

Oh fuck. That was hot.

His hips bucked when your mouth finally wrapped around his aching tip, letting out a low moan.

“Oh shit.” He murmured, his hands flying to your head. You put your hands at the base of his cock, while you let your mouth work around his girth. You swirled your tongue around it, and he felt like he was going to ascend into whatever heaven there was.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He groaned out breathily when you looked up at him through your lashes, “you’re- you’re really fucking pretty.” He let out a noise that could only be compared to a whine, his hands tangling further in your hair, gently pulling at it without even realizing. His mouth formed an ‘O’ shape as he stared down at you, his eyebrows creasing together.

You set a faster pace, your mouth speedily moving up and down on his length, while he let out the most delicious sounds you think a person could make. You felt drool forming on the corner of your mouth.

His head fell back on the pillows behind him, despite his attempts to keep looking at you. He raised his head again, letting out a guttural groan when you swirled your tongue once again.

“Y/n-“ he spoke, you still looking up at him with those beautiful eyes that were slowly killing him. He couldn’t take it anymore. You felt his warm cum shoot into your mouth, him letting out a shocked groan, his head falling back against the pillow again.

You pulled away, kitten licking the tip of his cock, swallowing all of his seed.

“Oh god, oh god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He spoke rather embarrassed, covering his face with his hands. You smiled at him, tilting your head in confusion.

“You’re okay.” You said with a giggle, him looking at you now, moving his hands away from his face.

He gave you a sweet smile, “Uhm.. thank you. You’re- uhm- really, fucking good at that.”

“Really? Thank you…” you replied. He blushed under your gaze, and you smiled at his shyness. It was adorable.

He sat up on the bed, moving closer to you now. “Uhm… this might be a little… late, but, I- I really like you. And I was wondering if- uh- if maybe you’d wanna go on a date with me? Like- like a real one. With clothes, maybe.” He said with a nervous chuckle, you laughing along.

“I’d love to,” you replied, raising your hand so you could cradle his face, the both of your lips touching again, and the both of you falling back into his sheets.

[ddejavvu]

I can’t stop thinking about being a suspect in a case and being interviewed by Hotch 😭 like being so nervous and him taking it as like “??? are you even gonna try hiding it??” and you’re not gonna be honest and be like “i’m not nervous because i’m guilty i’m nervous BC YOURE A HOT OLD MAN” because this is a serious case and serious situation so it’s just Hotch trying to coax it out of you, you being all flustered looking suspicious but actually like needy for this man, and the team who caught on like “oh wait no. shes just attracted to him. why do we have hot people on the team?”

SSA Hotchner's scrutinizing gaze studies your weak posture, your fidgeting fingers, your spotty eye contact, and he muses, "You're not very good at controlling your body language."

"What?" You look at him, eyes wide and round and full of nerves. You've never been questioned before, not even by a low level security officer, much less an FBI Agent. You suppose that's making you nervous, yes, but what's really wringing you out is the fact that the one they sent to your interrogation room is just plain hot.

He's gorgeous, all sharp features that are always angled towards you, and dark eyes you'd expect of a criminal, not its captor. His suit is crisp and his voice is low; he's the pinnacle of professionalism and he's making you squirm with his undivided, discerning attention.

"You're nervous," He accuses, and you let out a soft huff in the back of your throat.

Who wouldn't be?

"You're fidgeting, you can't look me in the eyes, you lean away from me," He lists, leaning forwards in his chair to watch you repel like a magnet, your back pressing into the metal bars behind you as he proves his point.

"I'd think someone with the criminal expertise to commit six murders without witnesses would have a better handle on their outward appearance."

"I'd think so, too," You manage, not without stammering, "Agent- Agent Hotchner, I- I'm not-"

"You're not guilty? You're the closest thing we have to a suspect," He doesn't let your stuttering deter him, leaning ever-closer until you're flattened against the back of your chair and he's still advancing. He rises from his seat, inching closer and closer as he continues, "You miraculously discovered the body at an odd hour of the night when you had no business being at the scene of the crime, you called it in, you told the police you knew nothing, you're telling me you know nothing, but still," He's inches away from you now, and every nerve in your body is aflame with mortification at the very unhelpful fantasies rushing through your head as he pins you to the chair.

"-You insist on your innocence, but I don't think you're innocent at all. I think you're trying to toy with us, but we don't play games, you won't win. Understand?" His dark eyes bore into your own and you're painfully attracted to them, biting the inside of your cheek to stop from begging him to back away before you lose control and surge forward to kiss him. He refuses to blink, but you're doing it enough for the both of you, lashes rapidly fluttering as you try calming your pounding heart. He watches you for one, two, three, four, five seconds, expecting a hurried confession at any moment, but the door clicks open before you can stammer something humiliating.

"Hotch," It's a dark-haired woman, and god, does the FBI recruit people based on attractiveness? She's stunning and she turns her beautiful eyes on you in sympathy, "Back off, Hotch. She's innocent."

He narrows his eyes at her almost imperceptibly, turning away from you, "You found the unsub?"

"No," She admits, "But it's not her. Okay? I just know."

"You just- Agent Prentiss," Agent Hotchner stands straight, "That's not protocol."

"I know," She gushes, but she strides confidently through the room to ease you upright and out of your chair, "Just- let me handle this, okay? Come on, honey, we'll talk somewhere private."

Agent Hotchner lets her take you away, and he must trust her, even if he's watching her with narrowed eyes. Maybe this is some interrogation tactic, maybe the woman leading you by the shoulder through the precinct is the good cop, and he was the bad one.

She leads you past a cluster of people all leaning against desks or hunching over files, and a slim blonde woman shoots you a knowing smile. What she knows, you're not sure, but you wish so badly that it were comforting.

The woman walking with you leads you straight to the front door, taking your purse from where they'd confiscated it earlier and handing it back to you.

"You're free to go," She smiles at you, eyes nothing but kind, "I'll tell him you proved your innocence."

"But- what," Your fingers are almost too limp to keep your bag in their grip, "I don't understand-"

"I do," She grins, "He's handsome, I get it. He tends to forget that."

Your cheeks sear with flames that you wish would turn you to ash right then and there, so that you could be carried away on the breeze and not have to answer for your embarrassing instincts.

"Don't worry about it," She laughs, clearly sympathetic to your panic, "Trust me, you're not the first person that's squirmed in their seat under the intense gaze of Aaron Hotchner. He's a smart man, but never smart enough to figure out when someone likes him. You're free to go, honey," She repeats, reaching out to squeeze your arm, "And if you ever get dragged into an investigation again - which I hope you don't," She grins, "I wish you a very ugly investigator."

[qqueenofhades]

THE EMPIRE OF BONES is here!

It's serious Fuck It, What The Hell Hours, and so here it finally is, another of my original novels for your (hopeful) reading pleasure. This is a big fat fantasy novel filled with all the things I love:

Complex and detailed historically-inspired settings

Lots of political and magical intrigue

Explorations of war, slavery, empire, history, memory, magic, power, religion, family, and destiny

Diverse and flawed characters

Extremely sassy djinni (if you’ve read Bartimaeus by Jonathan Stroud, then you know)

IDIOT GAYS. Like, this baby can fit all kinds of moronic homosexuals. I cannot stress enough how many queers there are and how many of them are very, very stupid. Many of them cannot use their words and avoidable mishaps ensue.

Based (loosely) on my fic The Key of Solomon, so if you've read that, you'll like this.

@silverbirching has described it thus: "It's like. Everything I want in a book. Basically a queer magic political thriller set in an alternate-universe Roman Empire. Carthaginian noblewoman gets embroiled in a conspiracy against the 400-year-old immortal emperor and finds the Ring of Solomon. Gay Jewish boy makes incredibly terrible romantic decisions while pretending to be a wizard. There are two empresses and they are the worst and probably my favorite characters."

Buy it here:

Amazon: Kindle | Paperback

Lulu: Paperback | Hardcover

If you have enjoyed my many, many fics for various fandoms over the years, my political and historical writing/general internet presence, if you're on the hunt for something new to read, trust my taste in books, or just want to think about something the hell else for a while, I hope you'll consider checking it out. There is also a sequel in the works, assuming my muse ever returns to me after Hell Year, so yes.

[valentine-cafe]

. ˚◞♡ switch antihero x switch villain male reader  ꒰ kinktober: hate-fucking ꒱◞ ₊˚

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ 781 alessio / switch villain male reader ꒱ you and the mercenary have quite the history together. from intense fights to hours of heated fucking. a constant fight for dominance. one night, you decide to steal him away to your base in an attempt to get back at him for 'last time' 

𖹭. content warnings◞  explicit content . sooo much switching . degredation . dumbification . hand job . fingering . dirty talk . penetrative sex . bondage . creampie . multiple orgasms . 5.4k

𖹭. receipts◞  had to sacrifice my first born child for this but nevertheless hope you enjoy!

. ˚◞ ꒰ 🍰 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 ꒱ m.list . guidelines . characters . lorebook ⊹ ۪ ࣪ 

“Not every day I find myself a cute little mercenary.”

The roll of his emerald eyes only brings a chuckle from your lips. That’s rare. The mere idea of annoying him brought shivers of excitement over your skin as you duck your head closer to his restrained form.

Indeed, to get your hands on The Reaper - or as you know him, Alessio Arias, is quite the impressive feat. Even more so to have him bound and helpless in a chair. The sight urges your tongue to wet your lips.

His brow raises. You can already see that smirk at the corner of his lips — if it weren’t for his black half-mask concealing it. While you might wish to rid him of it, a part of you finds it ever as attractive to keep him fully geared. Would feed into the humiliation of it all. Wouldn’t it?

“Getting a bit too excited over there?”

Perhaps you should curse the fact that you neglected to restrain his legs fully. Damn him - all manspread and simply showing off like that. It made it difficult to beat the allegations of your. . . arrangement.

“Can you blame me?” No, no one could. Not even when you swing a leg over and settle into his lap. Hands reaching out for the backrest of the chair so that you might crane over him. In turn, he is such a doll to lean his head back so that you have the perfect view of his face. His exposed neck that thrums a pulse you oh so wish to sink your teeth into.

You cannot help but cup at his face. He’s too pretty to be your enemy. And you are simply too obsessed with him to pretend as though you are his.

Pretend? No. You aren’t pretending.

This whole shtick is what makes it all the more fun.

The click of his tongue is what brings you out of your mini swirl of fantasies. “If you needed a good fucking s’bad you could have just called me up, querido.” His croon is less than affectionate.

Still, you bite your lip and muse in turn. “Who said anything about fucking me? Maybe I just wanna get back for last time.”

You dare to roll your hips. Slowly. Tantalising. In a way that will nurse that bulge in his black leather pants that you already anticipate. It never takes long to get him up and going — that’s the difference between your lovely enemy and the other eyesores you’ve brought to bed.

Not that you would admit that to him, however.

“Aww but your pretty little ass certainly wasn’t complaining when I stuffed it full last time.” He doesn’t hide his groan when your hips begin to move into his. Neither does he attempt to grind back, however. “Always begs for it. Try to act as tough as you want - we both know you’re already clenching round nothin’. Slut.”

His words spark irritation through your entire form. Even more so when you imagine that stupid grin behind his mask. If there is another thing that Alessio is good at - it is getting on every last one of your nerves. So much so that you discard the whole grinding agenda and immediately set sails at fumbling with his jean’s front button and zipper.

“Yeah?” Your face cranes closer. The only downside to that damned mask is that you do not have the ability to shut him up with your lips. It swells more irritation in your abdomen. Yet - that all bubbles away at the sight of his already, blatantly hard cock in the bulge of his boxers.

“I’m the slut?”

Your fingers stroke along the curve of fabric. You bite on your grin at the sound of his low groan. The sight of his throat which bobs with effort to keep his noises on the low. Restraints scratch into the chair and the sound reverberates through your base. It follows your short snort of laughter as your nails hook into the hem of his boxers and drag it down.

“Would you look at that.” The tut that falls from your lips is nothing short of mocking. And so you swipe your tongue to sate yourself of the need that dries your mouth. Your hand wastes no time. It wraps around his pulsating cock and gives it a little squeeze.

Oh, what a delicious sound he makes.

Alessio throws his head back. Dark hair tousles and dangles. Thick lashes flutter and at last, his hips steer into yours. In a stuttered buck that is enough to have you chuckling.

“Yeah. Slut.” Your hand makes a small, jerky motion that has a grunt of similar nature vibrate from his throat. The vein on his underside throbs against your palm and it’s enough incentive to flush your hand along the sensitive skin and rub with purpose.

The man swallows down the lump of pleasure that forms in his throat, mixed with agitation and the slightest of need. Which he denies heavily. You deserve to know nothing of what he’s thinking nor what he wants.

. . . What is the point though? You already know. You always know.

“H-ahh,” he breathes out, you anticipate his attempted words to be the usual ones of sass and clapbacks. And you are ever right. You roll your eyes as the man, despite the heavy strain. At the linger of a moan that threatens to come forth.

“Fanculo a te. Tu — tu mi guardi sempre. I tuoi occhi mi implorano di scoparti. E sono io la puttana? F-nnhgh.” ( Fuck you. You... you always look at me. Your eyes beg me to fuck you. And I'm the whore? )

Any further comment on your behaviour vanishes, as your fingers wrap to squeeze around his cock, hard. Pushing your finger down the one vein and moving it upwards.

With a slight twist of your hand. While keeping your thumb in place. A pace begins to build, and quick enough that previously restrained moans all flutter out of his throat. What a symphony swirls around the room. What a creation of such splendid music, is his voice.

With each moan that falls from his lips, it gets harder to ignore the tightness in your own pants. The bulge grows quite obvious. Oh, what it took to keep your hand moving around his cock and not simply switch places and shove his face into your crotch. You weren’t too sure. But the will was strong enough.

Perhaps it was spite.

Spite from all of the time he has berated you and called you a desperate whore. He’s the desperate whore, it is something he has been since the time you met him.

A swipe of your thumb across his tip. You breathe out quietly. The digit moves across the soft tip to smear the precum out on it. Only to press down on the slit and spread a smile of delight on your face.

“Awwww, pobrecito- was that too much?” The croon echoes into the room, but you, with your merciless heart. Keep working your hand roughly at the twitching dick in its hold. All attention honed on him. On his whines. His desperation. Those bucking his hips and cusses he throws at you.

“Hhhah— Ngh- shut-th- — Shut the f—fuhhngh.” Well, that certainly was an attempt.

An attempt that calls your cackle, while shivers rush up and down his spine. If there is one thing he despises more than the fact you make him feel all sorts of pleasure. It is the fact that your laughter is so very addicting.

It didn’t matter in what the laughter directs to. Your laughter is beautiful and he gas wished many times before to sit and just listen to it for fucking hours. He hates it.

It is rare indeed to make The Reaper break into a sweat. Yet here you are, as he ever so slowly began to reach his orgasm. All because you kept going so slow.

A loud groan emits from his throat at the pace. It felt too fucking good to be this slow. Your hand makes shallow jerks against his dick, and then slowly moves its way up to the tip with long strokes.

“Fuck- Hurr- Hgnh ahngh, Hurry it up.”

The audacity to gasp at the demand that you are given. His brows furrow as you look almost offended. “You truly are an absolute whore, aren’t you. Arias?” You chuckle. Squeeze a bit harder than before and watch as a jolt shakes straight through him. Hips bucking in desperation while his fingers drag along the palms of his hand.

If only you’d noticed that the binds had fallen off long ago. But he liked to play these games. Wondering what he’d get out of it.

“Repeat it hm?” The frustrated demand from you spits towards him and earns the smallest of chuckle. The nerve of this man.

“Hurry. it. up.” He groans and bucks his hips once more.

So close, he’s so close. Just a bit more. Fuck if you think he’s a whore, he’ll get back at you.

And as though his prayers are answered. With the spite and need to have him back at his quivers and whines. You dig your thumb against his tip and rub a few tight, merciless circles. Before you are at it again. Quick, tempered pumps and jerks to his spasming dick.

“So fucking demanding. I’ve got you bound and whimpering - yet you have the nerve.”

A swell of spit aims at the head of his cock. One that your thumb catches and swirls around the sensitive bundle of nerves. As if you need any more lubricant with the way he spills precum like a fountain. The messy action, however, bursts a tremble of a moan from his throat. A series of pants and needy bucks follow close behind.

You are unsure of the slew that leaves his swollen lips. Whether they be begs or a string of curses - maybe both. All you can focus on is the warm feeling that spills onto your hand. The surge of pride through every fibre of your body.

Still, you glance down to view the fruits of your labour. The beautiful sight of his cum shooting thick, sticky strings all over your palm. A mess to both himself and you. One that sparks a wide grin to your lips.

“As I said earlier.” Your croon meets his ear as you dare to give a few more pumps to his twitching dick. Kisses pepper against his reddened ear. Another badge to your pride. All while you murmur in a way that you know he’ll make you pay for if he were not restrained at this very moment.

“Slut.”

A flick to his tip. Like the cherry on top. You would be a liar if you say that it is not a sight for sore eyes. One that moves your muscles and urges you to change position immediately.

Your knees find the floor right before his chair. Hands still eagerly cup around the clearly pulsating cock. Your grin only widens at the strained pant that he lets out. To add onto your satisfaction - you’ll tell yourself that he is trying his utmost hardest to not spill all over your grasp once more.

“Might as well have a taste while I’ve got you like this, eh?”

Your thumb nurses at your favourite vein. The groan he releases. The way his head hangs back. Oh, it should be a sin.

Lashes kiss at your cheeks as you shut your eyes to savour the taste of his cum that still stains your tongue. The taste that you think of an embarrassing amount of times when you should be working on your latest schemes in the middle of the night.

And yet -

To your displeasure. The taste remains a fantasy.

All you can let out is a yelp at the skid of the chair. A pressure circles your wrists and you meet the cold surface of metal before you can even so much as shoot your eyes open. Restrains especially designed for your beloved enemy now clamp around you instead.

Bound. To the very seat you so proudly hoisted him onto.

With that damned grin right above you.

“Might wanna work on your restraints next time, hermoso.”

Leather bites into your skin as a gloved hand grips at your jaw. Tight. It wrenches your head back so that your body is forced to arch at the back. Suddenly, you really regret not installing those leg restraints. For the way in which he stands between your thighs halts any motion to squeeze your legs shut.

A mechanical chime fills your ears when he presses at a button behind his jaw. The mask dissipates to reveal that stupidly handsome face you have longed for night after night. Longed to kiss. Longed to fuck to tears.

Of course the bastard is grinning. Who wouldn’t when they now have the switch on their enemy?

“Oh and you were so fuckin’ confident -” Alessio huffs a laugh. His head dips low and for the first time tonight - you taste the sweetness of his lips. Tinted with a flavour of coffee and cigarettes that you love so much. To have his lipstick stains on yours should be considered a blessing.

Alas, you are a bit too sour to care. A bit too wounded in pride at the realisation that you restraints failed.

“Fuck o- ah,”

You should have expected him to immediately stick a hand down your pants. Stroke at your own dick that has been begging for attention since you slipped into his lap.

Your lips press together as the mercenary wastes no time in undoing the fabric. A firm yank leaves you bare like him - wait — You pout at the realisation that he’d pulled his pants back up. How boring. You wanted to see the evidence of your handiwork.

Well. You had other issues to worry about. Especially when two of his fingers press through your lips and apply pressure to the back of your tongue.

A whine, deep and full of annoyance. At the reactions that you grant the man.

With the loss of control, your mouth all but falls open. Tongue sticks out, with a droplet of saliva connected to the tip of your tongue making its slow departure and landing on the seat.

“Ahhgh—”

“Tryin’ to speak huh? Yeah, good luck with that.” The mental roads his words lead you down. The feeling of his hand pumping away at you furiously.

There was no time to register that your hips were bucking against his hands, fucking into it like a rabbit. A harsh spank meets your ass cheek suddenly. His fingers pull out of your mouth and steal a loud squeal from the depths of your lungs.

Vibrations rush all the way down to your cock, and all you do is whine pathetically once more. You moan and spill into his hand. How helpless.

Your erotic noises slip out into the room, reverberating through the walls. You suck in a deep breath. Sigh shakily at the growing desperation to cum. Your throbbing cock is already sensitive enough from the previous sight of the mercenary’s emerald green eyes so full of lust and rolling back into his skull.

All because of you. He knew how arousing he was.

How he got to you.

Another grave thing you despised the man for is his incredible understanding of your body. It as though he knows you like the back of his hand. As if he’s known you for years now.

Well maybe the two of you have been messing around for a few months now — but still. Your cock weeps with pre-cum each and every time you lay your eyes on him. When he touches you. Everything felt like absolute bliss. As though you float in zenith.

Small grunts break through your throat, betraying the restraint that you so stubbornly attempt to put back into place.

“Stop fuckin’ holding the pretty noises back. Wanna hear ‘em.” He whispers into your ear. Only to grin at the look that you give him. It’s filthy. The pure look of spite and anger. Hatred.

You really are adorable aren’t you? So adorable. Earning your little prize of the pace speeding up. A rough hand squeezes hard at the base of your cock, while the burning tip of it is squeezed in between his thumb and index.

“F— Fuck! Offf— ngh, you don’t haah— hnghn, you— ah. Don’t deserve, a-ah-ny, of them.”

A single roll of his eyes is all you receive. Black eyelashes, feathery and heavy as his eyelids, brush against your left brow as Alessio leans down against your back. This follows a few rough and tight pumps.

With heavy and hot breath against your ear. His next sentence is what sends you into orgasm. “Yeah, you’ve always been fuckin’ boring. Gonna force the sounds out of you huh? Fuck you rough, show you that you’re the dumbest slut I’ve ever known.”

With a small tut, he shakes his head and continues: “I mean, come on. Can’t even make proper restraints. Look at you now. Where are you huh? You stupid whore.”

Dick cumming and crying, his hand clamps down tighter. Pulling hard a few times before he slaps the tip of it. It draws cries of pain and pleasure out of you with demanding touch. What a cruel, cruel man that holds your heart. What a cruel, blissful man.

You wish to splutter a slew of curses at him after your orgasm sizzles out - yet all that leaves your lips is a whine. The quiver of your lips. Similar to your pretty little hole that takes two of his fingers before you could so much as speak.

“Fuck. Little hole’s still so tight?” His grunt finds your ear. “With the way I fuck it? What a damn surprise.” Fingers curl with emphasis against that one, damned spot that has your eyes looping. What more can you do than buck into his hand and spill your pretty noises?

His degradation stings your heart. Pulses at your dick. It’s always been something of his that makes your heart race and your breath hitch. You always feel spurts of pre-cum when he begins his train of mockery, embarrassingly enough. Tonight is no exception.

Long fingers piston without mercy. Alessio’s free hand shoves your thighs up onto the arms of the chair so that he might excess you better. Your vulnerable position has him grinning. His eyes twinkle. His low whistle fills the air.

“Look at that baby - fuck what a sight.”

Fingers curl and torture the spot that makes your body quake. Curse him and all his experience. Sure you have been around a bunch yourself - but he is on something else.

His digits shallow. Fuck into you at a quick, messy pace that urges keens from the back of your throat. It does not take too long before you spill all over his hand once more. This time with a squirt to your cum that arches his brow. As though he is impressed.

The deep tuts that fill your ears tell you so as he slowly withdraws from your throbbing hole. All with a tilt of his head and that grin ever present.

Poor you. Left sprawled out on the chair. Tense and shaking. The thrums of pleasure still cascade through your body. It is what you hoped for out of tonight - but you cannot help the bitter taste at the back of you tongue. Oh if only your design on those restraints had been stronger.

For crying out loud. Even you crack the code within a few minutes. What a waste of material.

“Pobrecito,”

Alessio returns your words with a click of tongue and brings a thumb to stroke along your jaw. Your head is tilted up to meet his warm lips once again. This time you enjoy their taste and the heat that pours into your mouth. A delightful contrast to the chill of his tongue piercing that grazes your pink muscle.

The kiss almost distracts you from the familiar shuffle of fabric and buckle. You crack an eye open to peep at his skilful hands that already fumble with his pants.

A part of you wishes to chastise him. Hadn’t you already gotten those off? Such a waste of time.

Nevertheless, you play the pathetic little villain about to get their ass pounded into next week while he undoes his pants. Your thighs quiver - but you’ll let him believe it is from the way that his large hand grabs and squeezes at it. Rather than from your own excitement.

His lips trace your neck. His hands hoist at the hem of his black boxers - an opening.

Perfect.

Using the same window of opportunity, you stun him with an abrupt shove to a pressure point. A strike to his side with hands free of those disgraceful excuses of restraints. The motion surprises even you. A part of you still had doubt that you could sneak a fast one on him.

Yet when his wrists are in your grasp. His hair tight in your other and his body bent over the table you often hatch your newest schemes upon - well. You knew that you had struck luck.

A pant leaves you. A grin follows. The sight of his rapid blinks followed by wide emerald eyes makes victory return in bubbles through your heaving body.

“Well would you look at that,”

“Oh for fucks sakes.”

“What?” Your lips meet his ear. Your hips shove against his ass. “Got a bit too confident, querido?”

You are no fool to his strength. It’s what wounded you in the chair in the first place. Which is why you steered him to this very table where the rest of your tools and gear scatters about.

You act fast in the snatching of your newest device. You are not dubbed his enemy for nothing after all.

A nanite-infused metal that wills a clamp around his lower back. Magnetically fixing itself onto the table to trap your beautiful rival against it. All bent over and ready for you. Locked. Helpless.

There’s no stopping your hand from landing a spank on his bare ass. Now it is your turn to spit. Smear the mixture of your saliva and remanets of your cum on his awaiting hole. “Oh and here I thought you’d given me a challenge.” You sigh dramatically. Pressure builds around your hand in his hair and you promptly shove his face down further into the metal.

“Well aren’t you a fucking boaster.” The man mutters, as he clenches his fists and groans.

There is a particular wish to wrap his hands around your neck. Squeeze at it and watch the cross eyed look he knew you would give him. To shut you up. Take the smart words out of your mouth.

Alas, the cursed binds he now wields are stronger than the last pair. You always are prepared. After all.

Oh that sweet voice of his, annoyed that you won, all over again: “You bitter, Arias?” It’s all you can say, laughing out at sneer that befalls the man’s expression

Such a breath-taking face, with such a beautiful expression on it. But not prettier than the face you are about to make him have. Fucked out and at your mercy. You are very much planning on keeping him here, even when you are done fucking him. Until he figures out a way to break out of the binds.

“Why don’t you just lean back and enjoy hm? Might be a while until you even get out of here anyways.” The mock goes straight to his leaking dick. Promises of a night he know will leave him in a state of blissed-out numbness.

All he can do is limp his head into the table and groan when he feels two of your fingers mimic his earlier actions. Press through the ring of tightness and slowly, agonisingly stroke along the soft walls. You lean your head over him and tower his body. Flush him further into the metal as your fingers continue their strokes.

He’s always been a bit on the louder side when you have either your fingers or dick inside of him. Lips part and spill the prettiest of sounds that have your cock pulsing at the tip. The way your precum spills is a clear indicator of needing to be inside of him.

Soon, you withdraw your fingers when the need becomes too much. Here you are teasing him for being a slut - while you are here, leaking and eager to get inside of him.

Your hand reaches down to take your cock into your grasp. Slap the head a few times against his thigh. The noise of frustration he lets out has you chuckling. Before you ever so slowly begin to press in. Feel his walls tense. Tremble.

“Fucking hell,” you hiss through clenched teeth. “And you said I was tight? You’re fucking clenching baby,” you murmur. Before you give a few testing rolls of your hips against him.

His eyes flutter. Lips press together in a thin line as he squirms around in the slightest. His pants fan the table and you cannot help the evil desire to patronise him a few times.

Your fingers flex around his dark hair. Squeeze at the strands and yank his head up as you simultaneously snap your hips into him. Now it is your turn to grunt at the sight of ripples that ease over his ass at the impact. It causes you to continue the motion. Once. Twice. Shallow and hard until little whines ease out of his throat.

“What was that about being a whore?”

You huff out a laugh. The pride and taste of victory quickly gets to your head. The once shallow thrusts become tempered. Quick. Until you are fucking into him with an intensity that makes the table skid across the floor every now and then.

Of course your lips find purpose too. They trail heated kisses up and down his neck. Teeth join the mixture with rough bites to sate the burning desire that coils within the pit of your stomach. Every thrust plaps against his ass, creating the most beautiful of noises to pair with his choked moans and whines.

“F-Fu- hhngh - a-h - wait -”

“Wait? Oh you don’t want me to wait, hermoso. You want it harder.”

And so your hips begin to slam. Angle at that one spot that has him gasping. To further feed into the intensity - you yank on his hair and force an arch to his neck and back. Slip a hand down to grab onto his cock and give a few merciless pumps. As though you are not already doing his head in.

“Right?” Another snap. Another choked whine. “Right. Arias?”

It’s spoken through clenched teeth. The sudden anger of earlier and previous counters spill out of you like a tempered waterfall. You cannot stop the way that you begin pounding his tight little ass against the table. All while he sprawls out and drools. Unable to do anything but part his lips and whine every time you hit against his prostate.

It is quite funny. He’s got such the big mouth when he is here. Beneath you. Taking your cock as well as he always does; he’s nothing but a whining mess. One that drools all over you table. Attempts to strain his moans have long since died. All he can do is submit. To you and your manhandling.

You dig your thumb against his dick again. Swirl at it until you feel it spilling. The sensation huffs another laugh from your throat. Harsh and metallic, much like the table your poor enemy thumps against with each sharp movement.

“Cummin’ already? Where’s that mouth of yours? Huh?”

Another emphasis when you shallow your thrusts. Time them in slow yet hard pounds that have his body keening. His mouth falls open and his eyes flutter a little.

You tighten your grip. Tug on his hair. So that you might witness the pretty sight of his eyes rolling back and his black lips that part in a moan that riddles with all sorts of sinful melodies.

“Qu-Querriddooo - h-anh- fuck please -”

“Begging.” You aren’t sure whether the noise that leaves you is a snarl or a laugh. Maybe a combination of both as you feel your own orgasm begin to bubble. Judging from the wetness on your palm - you can only assume he’s squirted more than one.

Your teeth dig into his red ear. Despite shallow thrusts you pick up in pace again. Skin slapping against skin creates a sinful, high-tempo through your base as you draw climax after climax in only the cruel way that you can. Until he is shaking. Whimpering.

“Wh-What a pitiful - mess.” You grunt into his ear. It takes all of your restraint to bite back your own whine when you feel yourself cream him full. You draw back only to see the mess of your cum trickling down his thighs.

What a sight.

Another spank to his ass reverberates through the room and you waste no time pulling out to the tip. A grin settles itself on your lips at the sound of his whine. Needy despite his deep voice - albeit a little pitched from pleasure and overstimulation.

“Yeah? You miss it? Work for it.” Another spank to his thigh has him gulping. And oh, how pathetic does he look in his attempts of pushing his hips back. To take you back in and fuck himself onto your dick once more.

It’s a cruel want. One you cannot watch for too long. Not with the way that you leak. Throb. Beg to be back into him — and here you are. Mocking him for pleading with you.

With a tap to the metal band - the nanites disperse and scatter to his wrists instead. A synchronised motion flips him over onto his back and you use your strength coupled with his slack to shove his body into a sitting position.

The metal splits in half and forms cuffs around his wrists instead. They hold him firm to the table once more. So that you might bear witness to his red face. Teary eyes and messy hair. All while he stares up at you with panting, whining lips.

“Know you miss it, slut.” You mutter into his red ear. Grip at his side and press back into him. Balls smacking into the back of his thighs with heavy thrusts that you quickly bleed back into.

A combination of your groans fill the room. You reach back down to palm at his squirting dick while your lips pepper all sorts of affection along his neck. And bites along his collarbone.

He left such evident marks of his claim on you last time - why not return the favour?

“You feel that?” You huff. Your face draws near to his. Lips but a breath away as you press your tongue to his lower. Your groan vibrates through the both of you.

Your thrusts weigh out. Shake his body in a way that has a little - ah ah ah - leave his throat. All while you heave out a chuckle.

“Feel the way you take me? Like you were made for it? Yeah?”

Your lips tease a kiss at his. The way that his head chases after is too much to resist. You push your face closer and clam your lips onto his. Easing kiss of utter heat and feralness onto him. All while you fuck through both of your orgasms. Again and again - and again.

“P-Pretty boy - pretty, stupid boy - ngh.”

𖹭. taglist◞ wanna join the taglist? fill out this form

𖹭. remember◞ you make a writer's day every time you like, reblog and/or comment on their piece. if you enjoyed my work, please considering doing so<3

. ˚◞ ꒰ 🍰 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒔 ꒱ tip jar . masterist ⊹ ۪ ࣪

[novantinuum]

jen's "Hard-Light Hybrid Steven" headcanon dump

Okay so I'm just making this its own post, because frankly at this point... the original post is so hard to get all the pulp out of due to the headcanons being spread over multiple reblogs and half of it being in the tags.

So here we go. Self indulgent headcanon time. This is how I'm now personally interpreting things within the realm of my own fic work and the post-canon storylines that live in my mind. This is NOT, however, a work of meta- I am by no means suggesting this to be what I see as "canon," only having some fun playing around with ideas I think are cool on a speculative fantasy anatomy level. Take it as you will basically, lol. This is ultimately just for me.

With that stated:

"jen what the fuck do you mean when you say hard-light hybrid Steven, what are you even suggesting"

Essentially I am proposing that Steven becomes progressively more hard-light based in form as he ages. When he was born he was two almost entirely separate halves mashed together- organic and gem- and those two halves slowly but surely merge over the years (hard light replacing organic matter) until one day they are literally inseparable, and Steven is one permanently cohesive being... entirely hewn from hard-light, but with a level of anatomical complexity that still makes him a complete anomaly amongst Gems and humans alike. Instead of the innards of his body being solid light, he is still formed of cells- only now, those cells are entirely hard-light.

His gem is somehow mimicking the form of organic matter with a level of detail that's absolutely unobtainable by shapeshifting or tailored reformation alone. Steven has become the single most complex hard-light system to have ever existed.

Some more specifics on how I imagine this merge working:

Much of the "merging" is natural over time, basically his gem branching out new bits of hard-light circuitry within his body as it integrates within his system.

However, this process is sped up significantly by all the spills and injuries Steven deals with throughout his childhood... because his body's instinctive response to injury is simply to replace damaged cells with hard-light analogues. An almost instantaneous patch job.

Steven's component halves being so distinct early on is a large reason why he takes so long to harness many of his powers.

This is also why Steven's (mostly) organic half is so weakened during the split in Change Your Mind- at that point there's a lot about his anatomy that's been converted to hard-light, so it's basically as if White Diamond yanked the power source out.

(Same idea for why he's so weakened during the movie when his gem's on the fritz... his gem's connection with the rest of his body got partially severed for a time, which. Is not Good for someone who at this point is more hard-light than not hard light.)

At a certain point post-canon, it becomes impossible for Steven's organic and gem halves to be separated. They are so tightly integrated that attempting to remove the gem would only poof him.

Now, here's the thing though...

Steven does not realize that Any of this is taking place until the blunt reality of his strange new anatomical nature is put on display for all to see... when he actually DOES poof.

Here is how (in my own post-canon musings, which I have simplified here because y'all don't live inside all the intensive lore that jangles about my brain) I envision that taking place:

So, Steven would be in his mid to late twenties at this point. He's married to Connie, and they have an infant son.

Recently, there was a fairly severe Gem incident that left Beach City and Little Homeworld pretty damaged. Things are still being mopped up from that.

Steven, Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl head out on a quick mission one day to intercept one of the last few supporters of the Gem who attacked the Crystal Gem's hub of operation, and at first it seems like it's gonna be a straightforward trip.

Then, Steven sees the Gem in question pull a destabilizer wand on Garnet, and- unwilling to watch her to get ripped apart like that again- throws himself in between. He can take it, he thinks. These things never hurt him one bit as a kid

He cannot take it.

He poofs.

His gem unceremoniously falls to the ground, along with the clothes he was wearing and whatever he had in his pockets.

Cue the others going "what the actual FUCK" because based on everything they've ever witnessed and known about him no one had "Steven poofs" on their bingo card.

The insurgent Gem is captured and dealt with, but now... oh, boy. There's literally no playbook for this. Nobody knows what to expect.

Steven's gem is quiet for WEEKS. During that time, the Gems end up consulting the Diamonds on Homeworld to ask for intel on diamond reformation, but none of them are much help- Rose and Steven are the only ones who have actually poofed. Beyond them, this is completely unprecedented.

In a very vague sense, Steven is aware of what must have happened during this time... (even if a part of him wants to deny it, because How???)

He can pick up vague snippets of what's happening just beyond his reach... catching voices and what must be faint sensations of familiar people handling his gem, but beyond that he has no awareness of the passage of time, and he has no means by which to reach out to them mentally.

It takes almost two months for him to finally reform. When he does, his gem quickly shifts through its previous three forms and then just... outright h a n g s for a while on the new one... as if what's trying to "load" up is so complex it's goddamn buffering.

(my brain can only think of This image uyhjfsdbyuhjfg)

No one really knows what to expect but when he finally reforms, he... looks mostly the same? Still rather human in appearance, externally? The only notable difference is that his irises are pink now. (But with no diamond pupil- not unless he's going Full Power Mode.)

Steven also reforms WITH an outfit much like a Gem would.

The second he's back, he runs to embrace Connie (who is sobbing in relief) and asks how long he was out.

And he did NOT anticipate that answer to be two months.

As it turns out, he missed quite a few baby milestones while he was gone, and he feels horrible about it- it's not his fault of course, but he feels so bad that Connie had to go that long without his support, and that there's all those special "firsts" with his son he'll never get to experience.

This whole incident marks Steven's final "retirement" from participating in real combat- he outright tells the Gems to not involve him in any other combat situations unless the whole ass planet is under threat, basically. The potential risks are just not worth it now that he knows how long he'd be out of commission, should he poof once more. He can't put his family through that again.

Now, with all that outlined...

Ways that Steven is Weird now:

He looks rather human- his hair looks like hair and his skin looks like skin- but after he reforms, literally every "cell" of his body is fashioned out of hard-light.

However, if one were to theoretically slice him in half (which I PROMISE I am not going to do, this is only a thought experiment ahahah-), his internal anatomy would glow much like the Gems' do. (See below image for what I mean.) The "human-like" appearance of his skin and hair and other externally visible features does not extend very deep.

He "bleeds" pink now- but it's only surface, and is all just excess hard-light. No real blood.

His body would no longer show up on a radiograph- just the gem.

Many of his anatomical features (not all of them, though) are now vestigial in certain ways-? Like, various functions have overtly been taken over by his gem... he doesn't need to breathe or have any lifeblood beyond light pumping through his system, so his heart and lungs serve no necessary purpose anymore... but all of these organs still "exist" as like an echo of what once was, perfect mimics of their organic form but hewn from hard-light.

That being said, Connie enjoys the reassurance of his heartbeat, so he retains that function while conscious.

(Not to mention, "breathing" is literally just a habit for him by this point.)

HOWEVER, when he sleeps (another thing he technically doesn't Need to do but does anyways) his breathing and heartbeat stops entirely and it kinda spooks Connie out. The literal only evidence she has that he's still kicking during these times is the soft hum of his gemstone.

He does not have a biological NEED for food or water anymore and can fully operate on exposure to light alone, but he still really enjoys eating and drinking anyways. In fact, he's still able to absorb energy from food... so it's basically like he's over-charging his battery or whatever. He also still experiences taste (so still posesses some form of taste receptors) and instinctively feels "hungry" at meal times, so like... the running theory is that he must have hard-light analogues for all these receptors and neurotransmitters and hormones that communicate sensations like hunger in his system even though their function is entirely redundant with his gem powering everything.

Furthermore, his memories and sense of self and everything one might refer to as "the soul" is stored exclusively in his gem now. Which means, if one could manage to analyze his brain like one could with a human brain, there would be entire sections that simply... don't light up the way that others (such as the parts of the brain that govern motor control, as an example) do. This is because all the "data" once stored there has migrated.

He can fully shapeshift now, if he wanted to.

He can also still visually "age"- it's all based on his mental state, same as before.

But despite being hard-light in nature now, he can still interface with organics in fusion because his form is still so organic in shape and function. He's still the bridge between humanity and gemkind. I like to think that... theoretically... a Gem might be able to fuse with an organic too, but the sheer burden of trying to shapeshift and maintain such cellular complexity is what stops this from happening.

Steven, though? His very existence as a hybrid acted as a template by which hard-light could learn to understand organic life. He is still an intensely unique being, even IF he no longer consists of any actual organic matter.

_

I am sure I will probably add something to this later, but for now, those are all my musings.

Anyways, thank you for taking a brief visit to the deepest recesses of my brain, where I am chewing at the drywall and bouncing around the room like a cat who has just devoured the goddamn motherlode of catnip. Good night! !! :DDD

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

The Radio Times magazine from the 29 July-04 August 2023 :)

THE SECOND COMING

How did Terry Pratchett and Neil gaiman overcome the small matter of Pratchett's death to make another series of their acclaimed divine comedy?

For all the dead authors in the world,” legendary comedy producer John Lloyd once said, “Terry Pratchett is the most alive.” And he’s right. Sir Terry is having an extremely busy 2023… for someone who died in 2015.

This week sees the release of Good Omens 2, the second series of Amazon’s fantasy comedy drama based on the cult novel Pratchett co-wrote with Neil Gaiman in the late 1980s. This will be followed in the autumn by a new spin-off book from Pratchett’s Discworld series, Tiffany Aching’s Guide to Being a Witch, co-written by Pratchett’s daughter Rhianna and children’s author Gabrielle Kent. The same month, we’ll also get A Stroke of the Pen, a collection of “lost” short stories written by Sir Terry for local newspapers in the 70s and 80s and recently rediscovered. Clearly, while there are no more books coming from Pratchett – a hard drive containing all drafts and unpublished work was crushed by a vintage steamroller shortly after the author’s death, as per his specific wishes – people still want to visit his vivid and addictive worlds in new ways.

Good Omens 2 will be the first test of how this can work. The original book started life as a 5,000-word short story by Gaiman, titled William the Antichrist and envisioned as a bit of a mashup of Richmal Crompton’s Just William books and the 70s horror classic The Omen. What would happen, Gaiman had mused, if the spawn of Satan had been raised, not by a powerful American diplomat, but by an extremely normal couple in an idyllic English village, far from the influence of hellish forces? He’d sent the first draft to bestselling fantasy author Pratchett, a friend of many years, and then forgotten about it as he busied himself with continuing to write his massively popular comic books, including Violent Cases, Black Orchid and The Sandman, which became a Netflix series last year.

Pratchett loved the idea, offering to either buy the concept from Gaiman or co-write it. It was, as Gaiman later said, “like Michelangelo phoning and asking if you want to paint a ceiling” The pair worked on the book together from that point on, rewriting each other as they went and communicating via long phone calls and mailed floppy discs. “The actual mechanics worked like this: I would do a bit, then Neil would take it away and do a bit more and give it back to me,” Pratchett told Locus magazine in 1991. “We’d mess about with each other’s bits and pieces.”

Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch – to give it its full title –was published in 1990 to huge acclaim. It was one of, astonishingly, five Terry Pratchett novels to be published that year (he averaged two a year, including 41 Discworld novels and many other standalone works and collaborations).

It was also, clearly, extremely filmable, and studios came knocking — though getting it made took a while. rnvo decades on from its writing, four years after Pratchett's death from Alzheimer's disease aged 66, and after several doomed attempts to get a movie version off the ground, Good Omens finally made it to TV screens in 2019, scripted and show-run by Gaiman himself. "Terry was egging me on to make it into television. He knew he was dying, and he knew that I wouldn't start it without him," Gaiman revealed in a 2019 Radio Times interview. Amazon and the BBC co-produced with Pratchett's company Narrativia and Gaiman's Blank Corporation production studios, with Michael Sheen and David Tennant cast in the central roles of Aziraphale the angel and Crowley the demon. The show was a hit, not just with fans of its two creators, but with a whole new young audience, many of whom had no interest in Discworld or Sandman. Social media networks like Tumblr and TikTok were soon awash with cosplay, artwork and fan fiction. The original novel became, for the first time, a New York Times bestseller.

A follow up was, on one level, a no-brainer. The world Pratchett and Gaiman had created was vivid, funny and accessible, and Tennant and Sheen had found an intriguing romantic spark in their chemistry not present in the novel.

There was, however, a huge problem. There wasn't a second Good Omens book to base it on. But there was the ghost of an idea.

In 1989, after the book had been sold but before it had come out, the two authors had laid on fivin beds in a hotel room at a convention in Seattle and, jet-lagged and unable to sleep, plotted out, in some detail, what would happen in a sequel, provisionally titled 668, The II Neighbour of the Beast.

"It was a good one, too" Gaiman wrote in a 2021 blog. "We fully intended to write it, whenever we next had three or four months free. Only I went to live in America and Terry stayed in the UK, and after Good Omens was published, Sandman became SANDMAN and Discworld became DISCWORLD(TM) and there wasn't a good time."

Back in 1991, Pratchett elaborated, "We even know some of the main characters in it. But there's a huge difference between sitting there chatting away, saying, 'Hey, we could do this, we could do that,' and actually physically getting down and doing it all again." In 2019, Gaiman pillaged some of those ideas for Good Omens series one (for example, its final episode wasn't in the book at all), and had left enough threads dangling to give him an opening for a sequel. This is the well he's returned to for Good Omens 2, co-writing with comic John Finnemore - drafted in, presumably, to plug the gap left Pratchett's unparalleled comedic mind. No small task.

Projects like Good Omens 2 are an important proving ground for Pratchett's legacy: can the universes he conjured endure without their creator? And can they stay true to his spirit? Sir Terry was famously protective of his creations, and there have been remarkably few adaptations of his work considering how prolific he was. "What would be in it for me?" he asked in 2003. "Money? I've got money."

He wanted his work treated reverently and not butchered for the screen. It's why Good Omens and projects like Tiffany Aching's Guide to Being a Witch are made with trusted members of the inner circle like Neil Gaiman and Rhianna Pratchett at the helm. It's also why the author's estate, run by Pratchett's former assistant and business manager Rob Wilkins, keeps a tight rein on any licensed Pratchett material — it's a multi-million dollar media empire still run like a cottage industry.

And that's heartening. Anyone who saw BBC America's panned 2021 Pratchett adaptation The Watch will know how badly these things can go when a studio is allowed to run amok with the material without oversight. These stories deserve to be told, and these worlds deserve to be explored — properly. And there are, apparently, many plans afoot for more Pratchett on the screen. You can only hope that, somewhere, he'll be proud of the results.

After all, as he wrote himself, "No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone's life is only the core of their actual existence."

While those ripples continue to spread, Sir Terry Pratchett remains very much alive. MARC BURROWS

DIVINE DUO

An angel and a demon walk into a pub... Michael Sheen and David Tennant on family, friendship and Morecambe & Wise

Outside it's cold winter's day and we're in a Scottish studio, somewhere between Edinburgh and Glasgow. But inside it's lunchtime in The Dirty Donkey pub in the heart of London, with both Michael Sheen and David Tennant surveying the scene appreciatively. "This is a great pub," says Sheen eagerly, while Tennant calls it "the best Soho there can be. A slightly heightened, immaculate, perfect, dreamy Soho."

Here, a painting of the absent landlord — the late Terry Pratchett, co-creator, with Neil Gaiman, of the series' source novel — looms over punters. Around the corner is AZ Fell and Co Antiquarian and Unusual Books. It's the bookshop owned by Sheen's character, the angel Aziraphale, and the place to where Tennant's demon Crowley is inevitably drawn.

It's day 74 of an 80-day shoot for a series that no one, least of all the leading actors, ever thought would happen, due to the fact that Pratchett and Gaiman hadn't ever published any sequel to their 1990 fantasy satire. Tennant explains, "What we didn't know was that Neil and Terry had had plots and plans..."

Still, lots of good things are in Good Omens 2, which expands on the millennia-spanning multiverse of the first series. These include a surprisingly naked side of John Hamm, and roles for both Tennant's father-in-law (Peter Davison) and 21-year-old son Ty. At its heart, though, remains the brilliant banter between the two leading men — as Sheen puts it, "very Eric and Ernie !" — whose chemistry on the first series led to one of the more surprising saviours of lockdown telly.

Good Omens is back — but you've worked together a lot in the meantime. Was there a connective tissue between series one of Good Omens and Staged, your lockdown sitcom?

David: Only in as much as the first series went out, then a few months later, we were all locked in our houses. And because of the work we'd done on Good Omens, it occurred that we might do something else. I mean, Neil Gaiman takes full responsibility for Staged. Which, to some extent, he's probably right to do!

Michael: We've got to know each other through doing this. Our lives have gotten more entwined in all kinds of ways — we have children who've now become friends, and our families know each other.

There have been hints of a romantic storyline between the two characters. How much of an undercurrent is that in this series.

David: Nothing's explicit.

Michael: I felt from the very beginning that part of what would be interesting to explore is that Aziraphale is a character, a being, who just loves. How does that manifest itself in a very specific relationship with another being? Inevitably, as there is with everything in this story, there's a grey area. The fact that people see potentially a "romantic relationship", I thought that was interesting and something to explore.

There was a petition to have the first series banned because of its irreverent take on Christian tropes. Series two digs even more deeply into the Bible with the story of Job. How much of a badge of honour is it that the show riles the people who like to ban things?

David: It's not an irreligious show at all. It's actually very respectful of the structure of that sort of religious belief. The idea that it promotes Satanism [is nonsense]. None of the characters from hell are to be aspired to at all! They're a dreadful bunch of non-entities. People are very keen to be offended, aren't they? They're often looking for something to glom on to without possibly really examining what they think they're complaining about.

Michael, you're known as an activist, and you're in the middle of Making BBC drama The Way, which "taps into the social and political chaos of today's world". Is it important for you to use your plaform to discuss causes you believe in?

Michael: The Way is not a political tract, it's just set in the area that I come from. But it has to matter to you, doesn't it? More and more as I get older, [I find] it can be a real slog doing this stuff. You've got to enjoy it. And if it doesn't matter to you, then it's just going to be depressing.

David, Michael has declared himself a "not-for-profit" actor. Has he tried to persuade you to give up all your money too?

David: What an extraordinary question! One is always aware that one has a certain responsibility if one is fortunate and gets to do a job that often doesn't feel like a job. You want to do your bit whenever you can. But at the same time, I'm an actor. I'm not about to give that up to go into politics or anything. But I'll do what I can from where I live.

Well, your son and your father-in-law are also starring in this series. How about that, jobs for the boys!

David: I know! It was a delight to get to be on set with them. And certainly an unexpected one for me. Neil, on two occasions, got to bowl up to me and say, "Guess who we've cast?!"

How do you feel about your US peers going on strike?

David: It's happening because there are issues that need to be addressed. Nobody's doing this lightly. These are important issues, and they've got to be sorted out for the future of our industry. There's this idea that writers and actors are all living high on the hog. For huge swathes of our industry, that's just not the case. These people have got to be protected.

Michael: We have to be really careful that things don't slide back to the way they were pre the 1950s, when the stories that we told were all coming from one point of view and the stories of certain people, or communities within our society, weren't represented. There's a sense that now that's changed for ever and it'll never go back. But you worry when people can't afford to have the opportunities that other people have. We don't want the story that we tell about ourselves to be myopic. You want it to be as inclusive as possible

Staged series 3 recently broadcast. It felt like the show's last hurrah — or is there more mileage? Sheen and Tennant go on holiday?

David: That's the Christmas special! One Foot in the Algarve! On the Buses Go to Spain!

Michael: I don't think we were thinking beyond three, were we?

So is it time for a conscious uncoupling for you two — Eric and Ernie say goodbye?

David: Oh, never say never, will we?

Michael: And it's more Hinge and Bracket.

David: Maybe that's what we do next — The Hinge and Bracket Story. CRAIG McLEAN

[mrsjellymunson]

The Biology Tutor

Independent Study 02: Creative Writing

Series masterlist

Prev parts: Lesson 1: Female anatomy Lesson 2: Male anatomy Extra Credits 01: Communication skills Extra Credits 02: French Independent Study 01: Art

Pairing: virgin!Eddie Munson x fem!tutor!reader

Series summary: Eddie’s failing Biology class, so you decide to offer two different styles of tuition, textbook-based and *ahem* practical.

Chapter summary: You reflect on your unexpected lunchtime study session.

WC: ~2.2k

C/W: 18+, SMUT, MDNI!! Lots of fantasies and intimate musings… Gracious and copious thanks to @the-unforgivenn for numerous rereads and talking me off the word soup precipice 😉

My masterlist

Thoughts of Eddie have been plaguing you all afternoon. You might as well have skipped classes for all the good your attendance did. You could barely concentrate on what any of your teachers were droning on about, your mind much preferring to conjure all kinds of salacious Eddie-related images.

Once at home you grab yourself a drink, throw your backpack down onto your bed and kick off your shoes, trying to figure out quite how to get that boy out of your head. Might journaling help?

Retrieving your notebook from your nightstand and your favourite pink pen, you flop down onto your front and begin to write.

Initially, you just want to reflect on your day and your unexpected ‘private time’ with Eddie. So you start to make some notes about how well the tutoring part went, how well he did, and yeah, okay, how goddamn cute he looked whenever he got a question right. You ponder why that felt so rewarding. Do you simply like helping people learn? Or is it more because you like being the reason that Eddie smiles?

You write a little about how sweet he was, and his obvious nerves when you first suggested you might kiss. How chaste, almost wholesome, it all started out. 

You add more detail, like how his lips felt as they connected with yours, and how it surprised you in the best possible way when he started to kiss you back. You remember how wet and messy everything was. How fucking hot. You scribble honestly about how much you enjoyed kissing him, how much you think he enjoyed kissing you, and how much you want to do it again. And you acknowledge that although it seems peculiar after everything you’ve already done, somehow, what you did today felt so much more… intimate.

You write almost an entire page about how strong but gentle his tongue was, how it felt as it slid into your mouth and around your own. How he started off slow, tentative, but then gained confidence. How, without being instructed, he started turning his head and moving his tongue experimentally, licking and sucking. And, to your delight, how he was getting it right so goddamn much of the time.

You add a little about what else you’d fantasised about Eddie doing with that tongue, but stop yourself before you go too far.

Okay, maybe just another couple of lines…

You write about how he surprised you when one one of his hands gripped the back of your neck and his other had pulled you closer. How that made you appreciate what latent strength might be stored in those wiry muscles. And how you’d wondered about whether it would feel warm if it cupped your face, and how you know the answer now. When he’d gently held the back of your head he was definitely warm, hot even, the heat of him searing into your memories and onto the page. Now, in your notebook, you muse what it would be like for him to touch you like that again, to cup your cheeks, look deep into your eyes. Would you want that? The frenzy with which you're writing suggests that yes, you might.

You mull over what else you’d thought about, like what it would be like to hold his hand. You ponder whether your palms would fit together nicely, and whether you’d be well matched, size-wise. Or would his be larger, swamping you, encompassing you. You think about his hot palm and thick fingers enveloping yours, your sensitive skin so very close. What would it be like to go out in public like this, watching everyone stare as they put the pieces together? Surprisingly, the thought doesn’t freak you out as much as it previously might have.

You note down how he’d whimpered and moaned, and how that made you think about all the ways you want to try to draw more of those beautiful sounds out of him. 

You describe how strong and defined the muscles of his back felt. And the size of the bulge in his pants that he was sporting when you pulled away. And add exactly how that made you feel, just to, you know, get it out of your head…

As you spill your innermost thoughts onto the page, you recall how you’d considered the texture of his calloused skin. But this time you allow your imagination free reign as you conjure Eddie’s strong, large hands and the rough feeling of his fingers as he runs them over your thighs, your back, your throat. You write about how much you want to feel them on your breasts, over your ass, in your cunt. How you want him to explore every inch of you, with both your guidance and his experimentation. You want to continue to teach him, of course, but you also want both of you to discover things together. 

Then, you write down that question he asked:

“So, uh, where do you want me?”

You describe the heat you’d felt, what it made you want to do, and how you’d vividly imagined taking Eddie in the study room. How much you’d wanted to perch him against the study room table and climb on top of him.

You describe how you’d pictured him, braced against the edge of the table. Shirt off, no pants, boxers discarded somewhere across the room. You wonder how he might look. Would his abs be tensed? Would his hip lines be prominent? How much detail of his tattoos would you be able to make out? 

Would he be instantly hard? Or would you be treated to the sight of his cock engorging as you watched, rising to full attention simply from your presence and the heat of your gaze? You imagine observing his pink head filling and swelling, maybe even leaking a little precum that would glisten under the fluorescent lights.

How would he look at you with those deep chocolate eyes? Would he be unsure, timid, nervous? Or would there be a hot hunger behind them, a primal lust that he wants only you to satisfy?

You’d be naked, but would you feel nervous and fold at his gaze, covering yourself and uncomfortable under his scrutiny? Or would you saunter towards him confidently, maybe with a finger at your lips, swaying your hips? Forcing him to wait as your body drifts agonisingly slowly closer and closer.

He might stutter over his words as you moved, babbling nonsense, filled with that delicious combination of fear and want that you find so alluring. Or he could be confident, beckoning you to him, spilling praises and pet names and whispers of adoration.

Would he be too scared to touch you, unsure and not knowing what to do with his hands? Or would he reach out for you and grab at your arm, your hip, your waist, any part of you he could reach, pulling you to him?

How would he smell after a day of physical activity, or even post PT? The aroma of weed, his cologne, that vanilla chapstick that you’re sure he must’ve stolen from someone? Musky, sweaty, masculine? You imagine what it would be like to lick the salt from the sensitive skin of his collarbones and neck, and humming as his heady male taste floods your senses. Would he whimper softly at this, or groan with satisfaction?

You’d definitely kiss him, feeling those soft, plump lips against yours all over again, and slide your tongue into his mouth and sigh as you feel his start to move against yours. Would his confidence soar as you make those pretty noises again, encouraging him to explore further, deeper, harder?

Would you take the lead and lay him down onto the cool tabletop, and spill soothing words as you clamber up over him, gliding your soaking folds over him, drenching him with your abundant arousal? Or would he lie back, pulling you down with him, pressing your chest to his and letting you know just how hard he’s going to fuck you?

You might grasp his thick length, make him whine as you angle his cock at your hole and sink slowly down the length of him, his hands scrabbling to find purchase on the table, whimpering as you take him fully inside you. Or he could hum with approval, telling you how good you are for him, calling you his Princess, gripping your hips with his big hands as he manoeuvres you over his swollen cock, sliding into you from beneath.

You could take it slow and steady, noticing every pull and drag of his impressive member, allowing him to feel every part of your wet heat as you move atop him. Or you could use him, quickly bouncing, his ample girth stretching you as you pivot your hips for your own pleasure, slamming his tip exactly where you need it.

His hands might be soft and loving, gently touching your face and reverently running over your hair as he mumbles sweet things about how beautiful you are, how fucking lucky he is to have you like this. Or he might grip the back of your neck, tangle his fist into your hair, perhaps even hold one thick thumb across your throat, and gruffly huff hot breaths full of obscenities into your ear as he pumps himself in and out of you.

Would he let you take what you want, be your pliant and willing fucktoy? Or would he plant his feet on the table and thrust himself up into you, chasing for your release as much as his own?

Would you angle yourself against his pelvis, feeling the friction of his glossy thatch of dark hair against your clit as you roll and circle? Or might you suck your fingers and move them between you, maybe even push them into his mouth first, before you slide them down, down, between your heaving bodies to your most sensitive bud, drawing circles and lines, your head dropping back as Eddie watches, aghast, feeling you clench around hi- h- h-

Your empty pen scratches the paper, threatening to tear through the delicate pages. Dammit! You fling it aside, and quickly grab another at random. Red this time, the colour of passion. Appropriate…

-around his throbbing length.

Working with more intent, would Eddie watch, mouth agape, practically drooling? Or would he take your lead, replacing your fingers with his own, experimentally touching, circling, pressing? Watching your face contort as his technique improves, his gorgeous dimples popping as he gets it right, both of you nearing your peaks.

Maybe he’d even grab you and lift you from him, bend you over the table and enter you roughly from behind, feral grunts emanating from his chest. And you imagine you’d love every second, even the feel of the edge of the desk digging into the flesh of your thighs.

Whichever position you were in, he’d make you cum, you’re certain of that. But would you be first, spasming around him as he groans with approval? Would he then chase his own release, pummelling your sensitive core and making galaxies erupt behind your eyelids?

Perhaps you’d cum together, Eddie pushing himself impossibly deeper, his intense thrusts repeatedly pushing his fat tip against your special spot, your rippling walls milking him as his hot spend fills you up fuller than you’d ever thought possible. Would he stay inside you, panting, holding you close as he softens and your combined breaths become steady?

You wonder how he’d behave afterwards. Would he help you dress, stroke your hair? Would he dash off to find something to clean you up with? Would he sit with you as you both recover, humming as you cuddle, murmuring sweet, romantic things to each other as his seed leaks out of you onto the hard chairs of the study room?

Would he gently lift your chin, look deep into your eyes, and tell you that he lo—

Panting, sweating and unsure where most of this, let alone that last part, came from, you discard your pen with a clatter and slam your notebook shut, not for the first time wondering whether it’s possible to retrofit a padlock to it just in case anyone you live with decides to get curious.

You’re definitely not feeling calmer. This absolutely hasn’t worked. At all. In fact, you’re more frustrated now than you were before you began writing.

Running a hand slowly over your face, your fingertips pause at your lips, skimming lightly over them. You close your eyes and remember all over again how Eddie’s plush, pink, pillowy lips felt against them just hours ago. 

Gently, you open your jaw a little, and run your index and middle fingers over your teeth and across your tongue. Enjoying the sensation, you can’t help but wonder how Eddie’s rough, talented musician’s fingers would feel doing exactly this.

Turning over and flopping back on your pillows, your other hand runs across your belly and over the top of one thigh, and you pause your thumb at the crease of your hip, just able to feel the lacy edge of your panty elastic beneath your clothes.

You glance towards your bedside table, knowing exactly what’s inside that closed drawer. And you seriously contemplate trying a very different form of reflection this evening…

Thanks so much for reading! 💗

I hope you enjoyed seeing what reader got up to whilst Eddie was in the shower 😉

Series masterlist

my masterlist

Lesson Three is in progress - let me know if you’d like to join the taglist. 

Taglist Pt 1: @airen256 @bimbotrashcan @urlbitchin @guiltyasquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @rustboxstarr @bl4ckt00thgr1n @bexreadstoomuch @cozmiccass @yujyujj @cluz1babe @thunderg @aysheashea @paleidiot @cadence73 @eddie-munsons-wifey @siriuslysmoking @neville-is-my-husband @aestheticaltcow @jjmaybankswifes-blog @lightcommastix @ungracefularchimedes @spenciesprincess @joejoequinnquinn @freshoutthewomb2 @sunshinepeachx @tlclick73 @hellfirenacht @yourdailymemedelivery @wendyxox @madaboutmunson @80s-addict @skrzydlak @eddiesxangel @bunny7232 @starksbabie @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @abellmunsonmovie @sheneedsrocknroll92 @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @wonderlanddreamer @leatherfaceologist @munson-blurbs @paradisepoisons @lokidokieokie @rcailleachcola @fckyeahlames @kurdtbean

[sysmedsaresexist]

what are your thoughts on the community theory that autism may cause more fictives?

I come to you, anon, a broken man. I am in shambles. My life has been ripped apart.

I just spent a straight hour writing a response. It was a beautiful response, with sources, and pretty colors, and oh, about 2k words.

And it's all gone.

BUT!!! I, Quill, am not one to be discouraged. I'm going to redo this. FROM THE TOP!!!! (and now saving draft every 5 seconds istg-)

TL;DR: I really genuinely love the theory and think it has a lot of merit. However, I also really disagree with how some parts of the community handle this theory, and the stereotypes of autistic systems that come from it.

Alright. Mod Quill here, yes, I am an autistic system, currently a bit itchy inside because I should've been almost done this post and nearly into my latest fixation (don't starve together), and instead I'm rewriting this all and delaying my gratification. I am being so strong and brave right now.

[EDIT, before I actually get started, now that I'm done my ramble: in the following essay, I discuss introjection as a whole, rather than just fictives. I personally only have fictional introjects, but we all absolutely despise the term fictive being used on our system, so we avoided the term.]

Let's start with the fact that introjection is incredibly normal. My GOAT, Piaget, discusses at length how schema develops, and that's based a lot in introjection. Introjection, as a concept, is the idea that we, as people, unconsciously take on the beliefs, personality traits, sometimes even emotions of those around us. This can be for a lot of reasons.

Introjection (Defense Mechanism) was an interesting article I found discussing this idea, especially as it discusses introjection VS internalization, identification, and incorporation. Basically, when y'all try to find good articles online about introjection, those other words are usually fair game as well. This article is largely setting out to define various types of introjection. It describes normal introjection (bringing up Piaget, love that guy, he's my main man as a teacher) and brings up how introjects (i.e. the emotions/traits/beliefs/etc) can be distorted via fantasy. When that happens, it's considered secondary identification, and (she cites Freud here but I am not going digging more for MORE research atm), "Such secondary identification aims to reduce feelings of separation and hostility, and increase feelings of closeness, between the self and the external object, and thus it is regarded as a defense mechanism." So, in basic terms, introjection as a coping mechanism is often meant to reduce separation and increase closeness between an individual and the object of their introjection.

This can be seen very readily in CDDs. For instance, a hypothetical child is seeking more secure attachment with an abusive parental figure; they then form a dissociative part that is literally that abusive parental figure, making that person a part of them. This is a highly pathological defense mechanism.

So where does autism come in? Well... It's a disorder featuring:

A constant feeling of loneliness or ostracization for many individuals (discussed here)

A feeling of requirement for masking or mimicry of others in order to fit in (discussed here)

Diagnostic criteria that clearly show an inability to connect with others, rigid thinking patterns (akin to a fixed-mindset, just musing here), and an inability to maintain healthy relationships.

So... autistic CDD systems would then be individuals with a dissociative disorder, who (due to their autism) often report feeling more disconnected with themselves than their peers, who already rely on imitation as a conscious form of survival in an attempt to achieve closeness...

So you mean to say, Autistic CDD Systems Introject More???? HUH.

It's spelled out right there. It's fairly blatantly obvious. And genuinely, I don't think anyone was really doubting this. I don't think anyone is really out here saying that autistic people don't experience significant dissociation/introjection.

However, there's a lot of people recently shouting to the hilltops that there's no proof that autistic systems experience higher amounts of introject alters. And...

Duh? Obviously? There's already a significant lack of research into introjects in CDD systems. Why on earth would they then skip forward to research into introjects in autistic CDD systems? The medical world isn't going to skip around like that -- particularly, well... because why would they even research this to begin with?

Genuinely, I think that's my frustration with the recent discourse about this topic. There really is no reason, in my eyes, why the medical world should focus on this topic. What benefit would it have for patients? Introjects are simply another form of alter, same as any other. I suppose, potentially, it could lead to more ideas on how to help autistic CDD systems with their introjects in particular, but... is it that much different than just treating autistic CDD systems as a whole?

There's really no reason to be so up in arms about this idea. You're not going to be getting proof that this theorized correlation is actually scientifically valid; that's just not going to be happening anytime soon, unless someone has a really invested interest in autistic CDD introjects.

However...

HOWEVER!!!!!

That also does not mean I necessarily agree that every autistic system is like this. Because, for instance, I am not like this.

If you don't know, hi, I'm Quill, a mixed-origin CDD system featuring 15 parts. The origins aren't really important to this conversation, but we like to use accurate labels. We have 4 introjects, all of whom are fictional in nature. One is very close to source, one is so separated we forget she's an introject, and the other two are somewhere in the middle. And, despite what most people would assume, as I am a level 2 autistic individual as well as a system...

Only one of those introjects is from a hyperfixation of ours -- one that was brief, lasting only about 2 days, and that has never caught me up again -- and she's the one who immediately source separated.

Now, I am someone who struggles with hyperfixations. I scream internally while I autistically click the next 5 hour FNAF marathon when I'm supposed to be grading. I know so much lore. But yet, despite the sheer number -- undertale, MLP, FNAF, Petscop, most recently DST -- I haven't split introjects from any of those fixations.

And, well, that makes sense. Because introjection isn't just about attachment to an object. It's about taking something you need from that object. And it's unconscious in most cases.

(Semantically, I suppose that means that introject isn't really the best term for created parts who are fictional in nature, but I do not care about semantics all that much when it comes to people's self-identified labels in a minority group).

So, in the cases of my introjects:

At a time when we felt incapable, angry, and confused, we split a confident, strong, and (healthily) angry part.

At a time when we felt we were at risk of losing everyone and everything because we couldn't keep them happy, we split a character who found her lost loved ones and kept everyone happy.

At a time when we felt we needed distance from our conflicting emotions, we split someone who canonically has never been conflicted.

At a time when we were in desperate need of love, we split someone we knew would seek that love out without fail.

It wasn't based on our hyperfixations; it was based on our needs.

I think that large swaths of the system community online forgets that CDDs are borne of childhood trauma. Splits in CDD systems are caused by trauma-responses* -- you're stressed out, so your brain puts what you need to handle that stress (such as the memory of the event, the feelings you need to handle it, the personality traits that would be helpful) into a new part. In the case of introjection, a CDD brain is still doing that -- it just relies on a blueprint provided by the world around them. In the cause of autistic systems, I think they find it especially easy to rely on those blueprints.

I mean, autism comes with its own difficulties with personhood, dissociation, and lack of feeling like oneself. There's evidence to indicate that, rather than an autobiographical sense of self based on seamless memories, autistic individuals lean toward a patchwork sense of self. Extend that to CDD systemhood, an inherently dissociative, traumatic experience that comes with memory problems that further prevent autobiographical self memory, and you've got a compelling reason why introjecting whole characters (with themes and narratives that fit the experiences trying to be integrated) might be more common in autistic systems.

And... all of that -- all of the nuance, all of the discussion of trauma and the inherent struggles of being autistic -- somehow has been boiled down repeatedly, on both sides of the argument, to "Autistic systems split more introjects because they hyperfixate."

This idea led to me feeling completely isolated in system communities. I found myself in groups with the following (incredibly limited) views on autism and systemhood:

Introjects are not more common with autism at all, and anyone saying so is spreading misinformation.

Introjects only split due to traumatic experiences, and autistic people experience more trauma than others, so they split more introjects.

Introjects split more frequently in autistic systems due to hyperfixations, so if you're really autistic, you have more introjects.

And... none of these are right. All of them lack nuance, and all of them patently ignore the facts about trauma and how it impacts the brain in CDDs.

Based on the community experiences I've seen, there is a blatant correlation between autism and introjects. To ignore that correlation is to be blind to the community entirely. However, to say the correlation is only due to hyperfixation is to ignore many, many other possible reasons why autistic systems split more introjects -- of which my post only addressed some potential reasons -- and, in doing so, isolates many systems. It also stereotypes autism to hyperfixation, which is only one of the thousands of potential sprinkles on someones autism sundae, and leaves some individuals (such as myself) feeling even further isolated.

(And to suggest that it is because autistic people experience "more trauma" than others is to begin the 2025 Trauma Olypmics, and I refuse to entertain a torch bearer for those particular games.)

I understand where many individuals are coming from when they express frustration over the theory; I've been in that exact position myself, demanding proof of the correlation due to my own isolation from the community. And, with a disorder that already, inherently, feels so isolating already, on top of another disorder with its own share of isolating feelings...

I just desperately hope that people can be open to others experiences. I think it's entirely possible that someone attaches so firmly to a hyperfixation that they split a new part from it. I also think the theory I presented here -- that autistic individuals introject more readily due to a propensity for introjection in part borne of trauma -- is also entirely possible. I think there's thousands of possible explanations, and I think there's thousands of "right answers."

And I also think that none of this matters beyond a simple intellectual curiosity, and coming to understand myself more. I wrote all of this up due to my passion for the subject. I am autistic, and I want to be seen, and heard, and I want people to understand it more. I want people to broaden their perspectives and maybe see someone else's shoes, even if they aren't comfortable wearing them yet.

If another system is like mine, yay! If another system is unlike mine, yay! Regardless, every system is unique -- just like how every representation of autism is unique. And I think we should find beauty in the theories that present themselves, and enjoy the ideas more than the outcomes.

Fun additional reading that came up in the process of my buzzing about this for multiple hours:

Experiencing Self and Others: Contributions From Studies of Autism to The Psychoanalytic Theory of Social Development -> According to a friend (paraphrasing a tiny bit), "the abstract, in my reading, is basically saying that comparing autistic and non-autistic kids can help us understand more about how theory of mind and mental modeling of others can develop, particularly in relevancy to concepts of internalization/introjection." They did read through the whole article (while also warning me to never use scihub) and indicated for me that this really doesn't discuss autism in correlation to introjection, and even seems to suggest that autistic people can't introject (in the non-pathological sense) due to their inability to connect to others. (I genuinely think this is in direct opposition to the first study I mentioned, about how introjection is a defense mechanism, especially as autistic people experience significant amounts of trauma due to their disorder anyways.)

Making the thought thinkable: On introjection and projection -> Can only access the first page, which discusses a bit about echlalia and inner worlds. However, the title makes me curious about what this could offer in terms of the Autistic System Introjects Debate(tm). I want to go digging a bit more to see if I can get around the paywalls on this. This is a complete wild card to me.

Whose memories are they and where do they go? Problems surrounding internalization in children on the autistic spectrum -> A very interesting article that came up while my friend was reading the Experiencing Self article. Again, I cannot access anything but the abstract myself (fucking pAYWALLS) but it's promising. Here's a quote: "The author suggests that, instead of internalizing shared experiences leading to growth, children with autism can feel that they add to themselves by taking over the qualities of others through the ‘annexation’ of physical properties that leads to a damaged object and can trigger a particular sort of negative therapeutic reaction." (Emphasis mine) Friend suggests full article is a goldmine. I'll leave that for you all to go digging for, if you'd like to know more.

(*Footnote: I mean splitting in the most basic, CDD medical understanding of the disorder way possible. Obviously, as a mixed-origin system, I understand there's more than one way to split a part than simply through traumatic/stressful experiences.)

[dreaisgrayte]

NSFW I See All | Kyojuro x reader

A/n: just a lil something ♡

MDNI/stalking/smut/mentions of plastic surgery/a bit psychotic/crazy loves crazy

I did it all for you. Our marriage fell apart because I was too complacent. I pushed you away with my lack of attention and late nights at work.

I will never make that mistake again.

You look beautiful tonight, your eyes aren't as puffy as the night you handed me the divorce papers. I could tell you'd been crying and it made my heart ache to know I'd been the reason. Yet, here you are, dining with me at the small Cafe you'd been frequenting after our separation. Though, all you seem to mention is my name. How much you loved me and how little faith you have in this ever working out.

Given the way you don't meet my eyes fully you don't know. How could you? I spent most of my money to make sure you wouldn't know. All I can think about is how good my plastic surgeon is and how delicious you'll taste cumming on my tongue like before I'd let you down.

I'd become a hungry man, starved even. I prayed to only drink your ambrosia, feast upon the supple flesh of your body, and worship you for eternity. I required no sustenance unless given by you.

"Kyojuro was good to me," my name from your lips brings my attention back to the physical you. For the last 3 months I'd been consumed by fantasies that the real you was a shock to my system. I was being selfish thinking of what I wanted to do with you when you're in front of me, craving the attention I hadn't been giving you.

I reach out to caress your bare arm, the contact nearly making me grow erect. A gentle smile curves the corners of my mouth upwards. "I can be good to you too." The words were said in earnest, but what I truly meant was I can be better for you. There wouldn't be a moment of dissatisfaction for you. I would fuck you until you were peacefully asleep, food ready when you awoke in the morning.

A smile flutters across your lips, the ache growing in the pit of my stomach as you lean forward. "Even if I'm still in love with my ex husband?" The boiling sensation floods over until I'm dripping with anticipation.

My cock had been tortured enough by the realistic memory of your cunt taking it to the very base. The temptation to grab your hand and lead you back to my car was growing by the second. "Especially then." I huff out and you lean back with a far off grin.

"Would you like to come back to my house?" You muse, your eyes finally staring into my own. "Back to our house?" Her words sink in after a beat and my eyes widen as I slowly turn to meet her gaze. "Really Kyojuro? Did you think your own wife wouldn't recognize you? Or could it be how careless you are about your surroundings?"

"What?" A cloudy emotion curls around my stomach as I watch the woman I've been obsessing over ever since I lost her.

You fold your hands under your chin, a leizurly grin molding your lips. "I was there Kyojuro, every time you were watching me I was watching you twice as hard."

I can feel my cock harden at the thought. "I knew there was a reason I couldn't let you go." I laugh, ready to leave this place and fuck you hard into the mattress of our room. You smirk.

"No, Kyojuro, I was the one that didn't let you go."

[johnwickb1tsch]

Sympathy for the Devil ~ Part 9

A Donaka Mark x housekeeper!Reader fic, based on @discoscoob 's concept & bot! Warnings: Donaka Mark is a bad man with a soft spot for you. dark romance, possessive behavior, nonconsensual voyeurism, red flag red flag girl!🔺, psychological games, power imbalance, eventual dubcon/nsfw. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER!!!

one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight.

Nine.  九

You wake up the next day certain you will be fired. But when the axe does not fall, you relax slightly, going about your tasks. It occurs to you that maybe you should leave–but you don’t really want to, and only part of that has to do with your fascination with Donaka himself. The coming weeks seem almost normal, and you begin to think that Mr. Mark decided to be a gentleman about it all, and pretend it never happened.

What a fool you are. 

Your first inkling of your idiocy comes when you are called into Mr. Mark’s office, after dinner, when usually you are hanging up your apron and calling it quits for the day. 

You approach his massive carved ebony desk with folded hands, feeling all for like a naughty school girl. Donaka Mark sits behind it, every bit the lord and master of the house. He has discarded his suit jacket, the top buttons of his black dress shirt undone, so handsome it hurts. His eyes are sharp as obsidian knives upon you, and a cold chill runs down your spine as you come to stand beside him, as he directs. 

That is when he produces the colorfully-covered journal you usually keep secreted in your underwear drawer, the little book dwarfed in his hands. Your heart does a swan dive–you hadn’t even realized it was missing. 

He does not seem amused. 

Maybe you can’t blame him. In that book, amidst your more pedestrian musings and accounts of your day, you have detailed every torrid little fantasy your rotten brain ever concocted about this man. Scorching alternate endings to all your encounters in which you were too smart, or too much of a coward to actually see through. Not to mention, the completely fictional bonus scenes too. It’s like an X rated love letter that rambles on for pages and pages and dear lord, it’s in his hands.

He throws the book down on his desk with a clap that makes you jump out of your skin. With narrowed eyes he looks up at you, his voice low and dangerous. "Care to explain this?"

Your mouth makes a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, your blood turning to ice in your veins. A flood of unbearable embarrassment washes through you, and you begin to shake like a leaf. Never in your life have you ever been so mortified, or, so angry, that he has that obviously private book in his hand. 

"How dare you read that?"

Rage flares in Donaka's dark eyes, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. 

"How dare I read this filth, written about me, in my house? I have every right."

You are quaking, tears in your eyes. The things you wrote about him in that diary...it’s not all filth. Some of it…is foolishly sweet. And he read it all.  Your chest feels like it's pressed in a vice. You feel like you want to throw up...or just die, there on the rug of his office, rather than speak to him further about this. A timely earthquake would be most appreciated; a fissure in the floor to jump into, quite ideal. 

Donaka takes in your reaction to his intrusion of your privacy with secret pleasure; he knows he's got you right where he wants you, completely at his mercy, humiliated and vulnerable.

He leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on your face, drinking in your misery. "I read every single word," he delights in telling you.

You look away, utterly unable to meet his eyes. "Congratulations, Sir," you rasp past the lump of sand in your throat.

Donaka can't help the cold smirk that appears on his face as he watches you look away, unable to meet his eyes. The way you address him as "sir" makes a shiver of satisfaction run down his spine.

“I've got to say, I'm impressed. I never would have guessed your imagination was so...vivid. You seem like such a nice girl.”

A shuddering breath escapes you. You’ve resisted him all this time, taking solace instead in writing in your journal. It was better that way. Safer. But this man is not the type to be satisfied with just words on a page. That's why...he runs a billion dollar corporation, and you...sweep floors.

Donaka watches your defeated gesture, savoring it like a fine dessert. 

“Just what did you intend to do with all this?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you defend immediately. Dear god, you think. Please don’t let this man think I was planning a ‘Tell All’. 

“This is a lot of energy gone into nothing?” 

He doesn’t have to tell you. “It’s just…my journal. To clear my head.”

“Your journal. Of things that never actually happened?” It sounds pretty stupid when he puts it that way–you feel every pound of pressure he puts in that statement, and you think you really just might faint right there beside his desk. “Do you actually get satisfaction out of that?” He sounds genuinely curious.

You close your eyes, so you don’t have to look at his blazing dark stare boring into you as you nod.

“Just give it back, and you never have to see me again.”

He laughs at you, a cruel little chuckle that pierces you to the core. “No, this little treasure is never leaving this house. And you’re not going anywhere.” 

You can do nothing but shake your head, trembling in your very bones. 

“You’re brave in many ways, y/n,” he tells you, fingering the cover of your damning treatise on The Art of Being Creepy About Your Boss. “But in others? Such a coward.” 

It’s the understatement of the century, and you can’t stand it anymore. You turn on your heel to leave–and a grip like iron encircles your wrist, so tight the bones creak. You get your first real taste of how strong this man is, when he jerks you down into his lap like you are a ragdoll made of straw. A yip of a scream escapes you, as he manhandles you like he owns you.

You feel so small, enveloped by his massive frame, his long arms wrapped around you.

"Let's have story time, shall we?" he says with a wicked chuckle, cracking the journal to a random page, and he begins to read the explicit scene you wrote starring the two of you, against the bookshelves, in the library. You can feel his deep, baritone voice vibrating against your skin as he recites, his arm around your waist holding you tight, preventing you from escaping.

“The strength in his hands makes me weak, those veritable paws gripping my thighs and lifting me, the desperate fury of his kiss pressing me back into the shelves so hard there will be linear bruises imprinted upon my skin. Perhaps I will look upon the souvenir tomorrow with equal parts pride and horror, still unsure if I am a victim, or if I welcomed the beast’s ravishment with open arms. Both feel true. The lush wetness between my legs suggests the latter, and as he explores my center with those long, blunt fingers I embrace the prospect of my ruin, bewitched by his skillful touch… Sweetheart, I’m flattered!”

You are dying in your mortification, your face on fire, your every nerve ending aware of this man. You physically cannot stand it, going feral in his arms, squirming in his lap like a fish on a hook, desperate to get away from this hell of your own making. It’s like pushing on a steel wall; he does not give a millimeter up to you. 

"Forget travel writing, I think your calling is the x-rated romance novel," he congratulates you cruelly when you finally go still with exhaustion. And maybe it’s true–you can feel the bulge of his erection pressing into your behind, and fuck if despite your desperation, you start to ache between your thighs, your unhelpful lady parts casting their usual vote for what is undoubtedly a form of suicide.  

He leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Look how you’re trembling. You’ve tried to deny it all along, but you want me."

"I want you to let me go." You push at his muscle-corded arm around you again, fruitlessly. You haven’t resorted to nails or teeth yet–somehow, you suspect you would not like the result of such an escalation. 

Donaka's grip on you just tightens even more, squeezing the breath from you. “You know…something about reading this makes me think that’s not what you really want.” 

Suddenly he stands, dropping you on his desk hard, tossing the little book away so that he can use two hands to pin you down. You might have screamed, had it not knocked the breath out of you. "I liked your ideas about this desk," he growls, taking your mouth in a punishing kiss, pressing you down into the wooden surface with his full bodyweight, his slender hips wedged between your legs. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole, starting with your mouth. 

This. This is what you expected all along. 

"Please, Donaka–" you plead when you are allowed to draw a breath. But his fingers in your hair control your head, pulling your lips to his again. His kiss is fueled by a fierce, primal hunger, his tongue delving deep into your mouth, seeking and claiming every inch of you as his own. His free hand moves over your body, exploring and caressing every curve and contour, squeezing the soft meat of your bare thigh, sliding under your panties to cup your ass.

"I'm not angry that you wrote the words," he snarls against your cheek. "I'm angry that you dared to deny me, lying to my face while you wanted me all along." His eyes lock onto yours, his gaze intense. "Your charade ends tonight."

“But I–”

You whimper as he tugs at your hair, forcing you to meet his eyes again. "No more excuses, you little coward," he snarls. "Did you think you were going to tame me with a potato chip?”

"I wasn't playing with you," you protest, on the edge of tears. "I never meant to hurt you!" 

“Hurt me?” His tone is incredulous, but in that moment it dawns on you that that is indeed the root of his fury. He’d offered you sweetness, at least his version of it, such a rare and unheard of thing for him, damn near showing vulnerability–and you’d denied him. So now…you were getting the stick, and despite the flood of arousal between your legs, you weren’t really sure you liked it all that much. There were no straight lines with this man. Everything was a jagged edge, or a shade of grey. 

"You didn’t hurt me, you infuriated me,” he insists, his lips on your neck. “You knew what I wanted, what I needed, and yet you still dared deny me." He returns to your mouth, his lips hovering just above yours. "You wanted the thrill of bedding the bad man, but none of the blame. That’s fine, bunny. I’ll be your villain.”

At hearing that you renew your struggle, trying to worm out of his grasp.

Donaka's grip on you tightens even more as you writhe, his weight crushing the breath from you, his hips pinning you like a butterfly on a board. There truly is no escaping him like this.  “Give it up," he admonishes, his voice a low, dark rumble. "You wanted me to make you. I read all about it, and I’ll give it to you, sweetheart. I'm not letting you go. Fight me, I like it. Or submit, I like that too. Either way, you're mine tonight."

You’ve known all along that he is a dangerous enigma, and that was why you tried to exorcise your desire for him in words on a page, and not play with fire, not taunt the beast and offer him your tender flesh because you knew you would get bitten. 

But deep down...God, you’d wanted it anyway. You’d wanted to know, just once, what it would be like to bare your throat to a man like Donaka Mark, wondering if he might find you enticing enough, worthy enough, to kiss rather than kill simply because he could. 

“I hate you,” you hiss through your tears, but all you win is his dark laughter. 

“You wish that you hated me, baby. I read all about that too.” He kisses you again, almost tenderly this time, though his hold on you is still bruising. He kisses your cheeks, savoring the wet tracks of your tears. “Don't cry. I’m going to make your wicked little fantasies come true.” 

He kisses you, a deep, punishing lock of lips, and his hand disappears beneath your skirt. When he touches your soaking wet center he smiles against your mouth. You know it is not a nice smile, but still you moan as his thumb circles your clit confidently, as though he knows exactly how to handle you–as though you already belong to him. When he withdraws you watch with horror as he licks his thumb clean, his eyes all for you. 

“Tastes like little liar,” he sighs with narrowed eyes. “But we’re going to fix that.” 

You scream, when he savagely tears open the front of your dress, the black buttons flying to every corner of the room. He ducks to kiss your freshly bared skin, impatiently pulling down the cup of your bra, presenting your mounded flesh for his delectation. When his lips close on your nipple, his tongue flicking, you feel it simultaneously in your throbbing clit. An involuntary moan escapes you, and you know this is the beginning of the end.

“That’s my good girl,” he encourages between ravishing your sensitive flesh, his hips locked against yours. “Tell me all about it.”

“I do hate you.” 

He laughs, a short bark of mirth before kissing you again. You feel him reach down to work his buckle and buttons and zipper, taking himself out with one hand, the other still holding you down. He’s so impatient he simply pushes your panties to the side, his thick tip sinking past your entrance with embarrassingly little resistance, you’re so wet. He growls as he bullies himself inside, lost in the sensation of you, drunk on the heady high of triumph at last.

When you open your mouth to protest he makes the final thrust that fills you completely, tearing a sound from your throat instead that sounds suspiciously like enjoyment. Your head rocks back against the desk as your body adjusts to this delicious invasion.

This is bad. Very bad. But it feels so very good. 

He pauses for a moment to savor it, looking down at you with a smirk, and maybe you invent it out of desperation–but a smoldering warmth in his eyes.

You are so fucked.

“I just knew you’d have the sweetest little pussy.”

He kisses you, moaning in your mouth as he thrusts, losing himself as he wrecks you with his unfairly endowed cock. When his tip hits your cervix you flinch, your body still trying to get away, even while the rest of you has accepted the inevitable. “Too much?”

“Yes,” you hiss, still writhing beneath him.

“Be good then,” he warns you, his voice rough in your ear. “Or I’ll have to punish you.” 

He ducks to your breast again, his tongue wreaking havoc as his thumb slips between you, moving in time with his manhood stretching you to perfection, hitting just the right spot like he was made for you…

“Fuck,” you pant, out of frustration and need and worst of all…the knowledge of absolute defeat. 

You feel him smile against your skin, surrendering to pleasure while he works inside you once more. “Someone’s finally catching on…” 

You let out a growl…but you’re not fighting him anymore, your back arched as you strain for the release that is building in your hips, that maddening promise of euphoria coiled in your loins, the gratification you’ve craved from this man since day one. The tightening of your walls around him wins you another ragged groan, his forehead pressed to your breastbone as he concentrates on making you cum first. A part of you wishes he’d just get off and leave you alone–but he’s not going to do that. There’s no way in hell, you’re in his claws and so you might as well wring every little bit of enjoyment out of it that you can, before you meet your inevitable demise…

“Come on baby,” he coaxes. “Give me what’s mine. From now on, this is where your pleasure comes from, and I intend to keep your schedule full.” 

“This is not–becoming a thing,” you insist, short of breath, because it feels like he’s in your lungs.

He laughs at you, a wicked chuckle that raises your every hair follicle. “No? Do I have to keep you on the edge until you beg me for it, pretty girl? We could do this for days.”

Is it possible, to cum out of spite? You think it might be, as you wrap your legs around his narrow hips in a bid to control the timing of his thrusts. He lets you, caught up in the moment you start participating rather than fighting. You clench upon his perfect cock buried inside you, desperate to indulge yourself before he can torture you by withholding it. 

Your orgasm takes mercy on you, rising to the occasion valiantly. The rapture of it destroys you like a chain explosion, filling your loins before ripping up your spine, hitting so hard you arch and lift him from desk for a few, beautiful moments of ruin. He moans with you, fucking you hard as your needy, turncoat of a cunt milks him, sending him over the edge to spill inside you. He fills you with hot spurts of his essence, his powerful body locked against yours as though to make sure you get every drop. 

For a few long moments he collapses on you, his breathing heavy in the bend of your neck, his lips gentle behind your ear.

“Was that so terrible?” he asks you smugly, sitting up on his elbows to sweep the wisps of your sweat-plastered hair from your forehead. You close your eyes, lulled by the unexpected tenderness in his touch.

“I still hate you,” you sigh unconvincingly.

“Mmm hmm. I can tell. Are you on birth control?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked that beforehand?”

“Don’t be smart, just answer the question.”

You growl, winning that smirk that quickens your heart. He just thinks you’re cute, goddamn him.

“No, I’m not going bear your demon spawn,” you grumble with an eye roll.

“Hmm.” He smirks down at you, his eyes sweeping your face, then lower, and for a terrifying moment you can’t tell if he’s pleased by your preparedness, or contemplating the thought of filling you with his child. The latter scares you more than anything else he’s done so far tonight.

Spitefully you muse, “I kinda wish I had a venereal disease to give you though.” 

Now he narrows his eyes. “Very funny.”

“You’ll find out, I guess...”

He puts his hand over your mouth; it's so big it envelopes the whole lower half of your face.

“Let’s have silence now.” You glare–and you lick his hand, though you don’t make a sound. He looks at it with a frown, then wipes it on your cheek.

“Come on.” He withdraws, righting himself, then you, papers fluttering to the ground as you make your dismount from the desk. Whatever he was working on is surely ruined by sweat…and other bodily fluids. He doesn’t seem to care, for the smug way he smiles at you. 

You might have fallen, if not for his strong arm steadying your shaking limbs. He gives you a moment to find your legs, and as you rest against the solid warmth of his chest, enveloped by the spice of his cologne, you are consumed by the warring urges to kiss him and to hit him. This man. This man could prove to be the death of you through confusion alone. 

He tilts your face up to his, surprisingly gentle now. It’s hard to believe this is the same man from five minutes ago, when he presses his lips to yours. 

You try to button your dress, but it's a lost cause. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because he is pulling you away, towards the door. In the hallway you try to break off in the direction of your room, but he snorts at you, guiding you in the opposite direction with a hand on the back of your neck. 

“I’m not done with you yet, bunny…”

“Donaka…” You only narrowly resist the urge to sob. “You won. Just let me go…” All you want to do is be alone to lick your wounds, and reflect on what the fuck just happened to you. Your thoughts are a complete jumble; you are a walking well-fucked vessel filled with shame and confusion and you hate to admit–total gratification.  It all went by so fast and maybe deep down you wanted it but he just took you and you– 

As though he knows you are trying to pick all this apart and doesn’t intend to give you the chance, Donaka jerks you to him, pulling you into a punishing kiss that melts your bones all over again. You make a small, kittenish sound that betrays your begrudging enjoyment. You swear you feel his smug satisfaction emanating from his pores.

“Don’t you get it yet?” he asks you darkly, a dangerous sparkle in his midnight black eyes. “You’re mine now.”

[seaslugfanclub]

~Wanting the Unwanted~

Hans x Reader

I’m yearning fr rn. This is totally OOC, but that’s because unlike the OG Frozen where Hans has NO ONE, he has you. I think reader inserts should affect the universe they’re put in, including changing possible villains.

Enjoy!

————————————————————————

The Westergaards didn’t give a shit about the youngest prince. Everyone knew that….Hans knew that.

Hans knew he was nothing more than an afterthought to his family, less than that even. He was used to the empty glances given to him by his parents and brothers, void of any familiarity and affection. Hollow. A far cry from how families are supposed to look at you, based on what Hans had read from the countless books in the royal library.

The idea of a family was nothing but a fantasy to Hans, just as imaginary as fighting dragons and saving princesses.

Hans had long since accepted his place in the castle, any bitterness long being replaced by apathy. The youngest prince would’ve been far more affected by his neglect, scrounging for any scrap of recognition like a dog, if it wasn’t for his secret saving grace. His proof of what actual love looks like.

You.

For Hans, his invisibility to his family had become a gift in disguise. Once he had completed his daily lessons, all he had to do was give one of his brothers a half-baked excuse about meeting a lord in the countryside, ask a stablehand to ready Sitron from the royal stables, and leave the palace grounds by late afternoon. And just like that, he was a free man, going to see the one person who actually mattered to him.

If it were any one of his brothers, their absence would be quickly noticed in the castle. They would need months in advance to notify Han’s father—the king, about any business trip or personal vacation they might have. But not Han’s, guess that was a perk to being unwanted and unneeded. And thank God for that, because he liked to spend a few days at your cottage.

The ride to your cottage always filled Han’s stomach with butterflies. Even if it was the hundredth time sneaking away to you, the combined giddiness of rebellion and the anticipation of seeing you made it feel like it was the first secret rendezvous all over again. Hans, giving Sitron a light squeeze to make him trot faster.

It was always dusk when Han’s finally arrived at your house. The light from your windows spreads warmth throughout him, no matter the season.

Any residual feelings of despair or vendettas for his family would wash away the moment your front door swung open, revealing your smiling face. Hans barely had the chance to unmount from Sitron before being swept into your arms.

‘This…This is what it’s like to be loved..’ Hans mused to himself as he buried his face into your hair, arms wrapped tightly around you, the both of you just basking in the shared presence of each other before parting slightly, just enough for you to press your lips against his. Days of longing now a fleeting memory.

The next few minutes were filled with sharing what eachothers days were like during his absence, with you walking close to Hans as he set Sitron away in the small stable beside your home. Once his prized horse was settled in and fed an apple that you had fished out of your pocket, you grasped Hans’s arm, pressing him close to your body as you led him inside for supper.

Most people who grew up in high society would sneer at anything less than an estate. But to Hans, your small home was more luxurious than any castle in Europe. As he sat down at the kitchen table, he took a moment to look around your home, as if to mesmerize any detail he may have forgotten over the past couple weeks. The first thing he always noticed was the smell.

It was warm, slightly musky, with floral notes from the numerous herbs you had drying in the kitchen. A welcomed change to the castle, which always smelt cold and sterile, a mix of old varnish and lanolin.

Hans always felt like a stranger in his own “home”, as if simply existing in the palace was a taboo. He wasn’t allowed to touch any of the fine china that lined the hallways, or step too heavily on the carpets, hell— he couldn’t even sit on the sofa in the parlor.

But here? Everything was handcrafted and meant to be used. Various trinkets, either made by yourself or found while browsing through the markets covered virtually every surface. The hardwood floors were chipped and warped from age (Hans personally loved walking over them, it made him feel like he was in a funhouse). The walls were nearly invisible from the amount of paintings and family photographs that were framed. You had brought up in passing that you’d love to take a couples photo with him when you both had the time, and Hans couldn’t wait to see it proudly displayed amongst the images of your family.

Your furniture was old and used, the table he was sitting at was made by your great-grandfather, but it still had many years left, probably going to be passed down to your own grandchildren.

Hans’s musings were interrupted by a plate of warm stew being set in front of him, served alongside some bread you had gotten at the market this morning. He closed his eyes, taking time to inhale the rich scent as the steam tickled his face. As always, he waited for you to sit down beside him before he began eating, not without thanking you for the meal first.

Conversation flowed easily between you two as dinner went on, the meal having to be occasionally paused so you could both laugh without fear of choking. You would talk about anything that came to mind, Hans asking silly questions just so he could listen to your tangents. Somehow between conversation dinner was eventually finished, Hans allowed to eat as much as he wanted, unlike supper at the palace, where he only got to eat the scraps left over by his brothers.

Once dinner was finished, Hans was in charge of cleaning the dishes. A chore he didn’t mind, especially after you were the one who cooked such a hearty meal. It was nice to be trusted to do a task, even if it was something so little as washing a few plates. He had just moved onto the silverware, when he felt your body behind him, your breath tickling his neck. Hans continued cleaning, using all his strength not to drop any utensils into the sink when he felt your hands find themselves on his hips, your face now pressed into the crook of his neck.

You peppered kisses along his neck, whispering praises and how much you had missed him as Hans tried his best to finish drying the dishes. His resolve shattered when he accidentally glanced down, meeting your calling eyes. They were half lidded, pupils large with anticipation, wordlessly beckoning Hans to abandon his task and follow you upstairs…

…and who was he to deny you?

————————————————————————

Hans laid awake long after you had fallen asleep, his head resting on your chest, body draped across your own. Moonlight shone through your bedroom window, reflecting off of your bare bodies tangled in the sheets. Glancing up at your sleeping face, Hans smiled at your partly opened mouth, face partially buried in the pillow, hair stuck to your face from now dried sweat. Looking up at you in the dead of the night, Hans could only wish he could always come to bed with you, always be with you. Not to sneak away from the castle as if your relationship was something to be ashamed of.

If he was anyone else, he would’ve married you years ago. He wouldn’t have to be apart from you for weeks on end. Even if he was 13th in line for the throne, his family would never allow Hans to wed anyone who wasn’t noble blood. They’d have your livelihood ruined if your relationship was ever discovered, and Hans wouldn’t put it past his brothers to do something to hurt you.

Hans would rather swing from the gallows than be the reason you were hurt.

Hugging your body a little tighter, Hans tried to think of other things. Knowing that stewing in negative thoughts would do nothing to help him sleep.

He thought of tomorrow, waking up buried in sheets after being allowed to sleep in. How he’d walk down the stairs to find you making pancakes for breakfast, proudly bringing up the freshly made maple syrup from the sugar shack down the street.

After having breakfast that couldn’t be beat, you’d then brainstorm what you wanted to do for the day. Usually when Hans visited, he wanted to go to the market. The food and items sold there were something he always looked forward to. But recently, he also just wanted to spend a day inside, curled up beside you on the couch as you read your own respective books. Occasionally speaking up to share something interesting in your readings.

As Hans silently planned what tomorrow could be like, he felt his eyes dropping, exhaustion finally settling in.

Your relationship couldn’t be hidden forever, and one day you’d both have to confront reality. But now, you two are together. Wrapped in warm blankets, surrendering to sleep, both dreaming about tomorrow's plans.

[abstractnaturaldisaster]

is it over now? (was it over then?)

part one

part two: if she's got blue eyes, i will surmise that you'll probably date her

Eddie had felt completely numb after leaving Steve's apartment. He wasn't really interested in doing anything with his band even though they definitely owed the studio a new album but Eddie wasn't feeling inspired after the abrupt departure of his most recent muse.

He didn't want to be that guy who wrote songs about his exes or aired dirty laundry in public through cryptic lyrics. It worked for other people but his band's vibe was a lot more fantasy and concept albumy and he couldn't quite find the energy to allegorize his current heartbreak. This is where the reality of the music industry really sucked because at some point their label didn't give a shit about Eddie's need to wallow and his manager could only negotiate so many extensions.

Thankfully, all previous qualms he had with writing about his ex and their breakup ended when he saw another fucking TMZ headline about Steve leaving a club with another model. This had to be the thirtieth person Steve had been tied to since their breakup. Eddie's best guess was that his pact with Robin to be each other's whatever to get the media off their back had ended.

Lyrics started flowing out of Eddie as he swiped out of twitter and into his notes app.

Your new girl is my clone And did you think I didn't see you? There were flashing lights At least I had the decency To keep my nights out of sight Only rumors 'bout my hips and thighs And my whispered sighs

Eddie knew it was probably a low blow to flaunt his escapades after he'd worked pretty hard to keep them under wraps. He didn't need the world to know he had pity sex with some random guy he picked up because he really got Eddie's last album. Eddie fucking hated how pretentious some fans were about his lyrics. Like sometimes a sword is just a sword, bestie. Anyways, an NDA and really shitty coffee later, Eddie pretended that mistake hadn't happened but was petty enough to make it clear to Steve that he wasn't the only one finding solace in someone else's bed.

He put together a rough melody on his acoustic and sent it over to his band to see what they thought. He wasn't sure if they'd be into it but it was fucking therapeutic to get the feelings out of his body that were festering there. Gareth was over the moon because he had been anti-Steve from the beginning and was super on board with some pretty boy actor directed snark. Ronnie, Jeff, and Freak were a little harder to bring around as they felt like they should at least sort of protect their darker brand but once Freak laid down a pretty sick base and Ronnie added some haunting piano it was undeniably a Corroded Coffin song. They packaged up a rough draft and sent it over to their producer to work his magic. Before Eddie knew it the song was approved for a sound on TikTok and Eddie and the band were thinking of video ideas to promote the single which would apparently be ready for streaming in the next month. Eddie wasn't quite ready to concede an entire angsty breakup album but it did at least feel good to get a start on producing what the studio was looking for.

Eddie sat back and scrolled through the sound on TikTok and thought about Steve's reaction to the sound or the single a perfectly healthy amount, thank you very much.

@lololol-1234 (it's not quite fixed yet but i hope you don't mind the tag)

part three