#and I weep thinking of how many people do not get to feel that

[9amartt]

I never sensed the true feeling of unity until Allah guided me to this path, I never cried for the tears of a fellow muslim, or rejoiced at the happiness of one, until now, until Allah opened my heart to this lofty way -we ask Allah to keep us firm-. 

In the last few years many brothers and sisters shocked us with their news, some of them were good, like the ascension of some to their lord in Shahada, or the raising of others in knowledge and ranks, and some of them were considered bad news by our weak minds, like the imprisonment of some -and how many are they wa allahul mustaan- or the misguidance of others… -we ask Allah to protect us from such-, news that perhaps don’t affect us at all, but our walaa to muslims causes our hearts to react to them in happiness or grief. 

I never weeped for the misguidance of anyone until I felt the firm ground of this path under my feet, until I sensed what it is to truly lose someone to Shaytan, I never weeped for someone who died and went to their lord more than I weep for those who remain alive, while their hearts are dead. My hands never shook upon hearing about the calamity of anyone before… yet now, now that Allah guided my heart to this beautiful space, my heart is overwhelmed daily with the pains of our fellow muslims, some of them which I barely know, yet, to me, they’re dearer than my blood relatives! 

I never knew what allegiance to muslims truly was until Allah guided my steps to this place that, despite my loneliness -which only increases day by day- I feel  in it constantly surrounded with beautiful souls. I never before saw anyone spend from their precious time and effort to engage in a work for which they will get no praise or attention by mankind until now, I never met people who truly sought to sacrifice their lives for this deen until now… I never met anyone who truly resembled the sahaba until now! upon this path…

In the last few years many tears were spilled, some of happiness, some of sadness, some of fear and some of confusion, for the trials remain, and the companions depart, and the way only gets harder. Alhamdulillah. 

Upon this path I met women who were steadier than mountains, women with unwavering faith and honour, women whom when afflicted with harm you hear them say “inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon” and when asked about their state their answer always lies in “All praise is due to Allah” despite their suffering and what they endure on this way. Upon this path I met those who shed tears of agony upon merely imagining themselves in sin, people who seek to improve themselves daily, people who carry the weight of an ummah upon their back, people whose physical and mental health deteriorated just from how much worry they hold in their hearts for this Ummah. 

I met those who claimed to abandon the dunyah, and their claims were not mere speech like many others who say the same! I met those who would abandon the joys of this world just to not enjoy while others suffer! I met those who would trade their freedom for the sake of a fellow muslim’s without thinking twice! I met those who fear not the blame of blamers when defending the allies of Allah and striving to protect their honours from slander… and many souls whose worth words cannot define, we ask Allah to gather us with them under His throne. 

[Some of them we still remember and some of them were deemed to be forgotten -wa Allahul Mustaan- but Allah never forgets them even if our weak memories do.. may Allah make us from those mentioned by the angels.]

Tell me where, just tell me where else could I have found such gems?! 

I am amazed at the one who tastes a single second of this all yet still decides to retreat… what has covered your heart?! Was the harshness of the path what made you leave? Was it the delights of the dunyah that allured you!? this beautiful path, despite its beauty, comes with many hardships and pains, but Wallah, ask anyone of those who tasted its sweetness if they would trade a second on this methodology for anything on this world and see their answer! And ask those who were convinced to abandon this path thinking they would get a share of the dunyah yet shaytan fooled them and made from them a mockery, ask them what they achieved after leaving, and ask them what they would sacrifice to return for just a second to the delight of īman they once lived in! Wallah, and Allah is my witness, despite the agony and despite the pain, we would never trade this beautiful path for any of the joys of this dunyah, so oh Allah keep us firm upon it, oh Allah we are upon your covenant for as much as we can so keep us firm and make us from the righteous. 

[deoidesign]

Thanks for making a comic about a couple middle aged queers getting to fall in love and be happy. As a someone who is a little on the younger side, it’s nice to see that. That there is a possibility of me and my friends to get to grow up. Plus, Steve has all the gender, and I want it for myself.

There's not much more important in this world than hope, I think, and the idea that maybe my art can make you a little more hopeful for a better tomorrow is all I could ask for <3 So thank you for reading, and thank you for being here!

And mood.

[eleu22]

You guys do not appreciate Gaz enough so I’m here to sell him to you

this shit is important so yall better read

I truly don’t understand the lack of Gaz love -

ok well

I do at some level

I think the argument usually levied against his character id that he’s boring

but beautifully stated by tumblr user mockerycrow in their character analysis of him

CHARACTERS DO NOT HAVE TO HAVE A TRAGIC BACKSTORY TO BE INTERESTING CHARACTERS

press keep reading to fall in love with Gaz

Who is Gaz?

I’m going to start out with who Gaz is as a character

morality

Gaz is someone who has a strong sense of morality and struggles with the balance between doing the right thing and doing the morally right thing, there’s this debate between long-term morality and situational morality that Gaz struggles with

look im maybe not the most linguistically talented person on earth so im just gonna throw in a few quotes which i think gives Gaz

Gaz is someone who admist chaos and war is trying his best, trying his best to be a good person, to be reliable and to do the right thing

if thays not lovable idk what is

relationship to price

ok so i think this aspect of Gaz’s character is what people tend to focus on

and as much as the omg price’s son shit is cute i think he’s become a vehicle for people to emphasise price’s daddy factor (which like dont get me wrong keep up the good work)

but i think theres so much more to that

i forgot who wrote this but someone said something about Gaz trying to follow in impossibly large footsteps and i think thats so accurate

going back to Gaz’s struggle with morality there’s so much untapped potential in the idea that his idol, may not be an amazing person, having to come to grips with the idea that Price, his role model can look at a woman and child as interrogation leverage is something that i think people need to look into more

OK so now

Untapped Potential

so here are somethings which i

idk if this is like the correct phrasing

headcannon? idk i just think these are parts of Gaz’s character which could be rlly interesting to explore

ahem

yes Gaz is a good guy, but that doesn’t make him passive Gaz has shown moments of anger, like in the interrogation with the butcher when he lunges at him or when him and price first meet

i think the fact that Gaz is so calm and collected but has these moments are cracks in the facade he creates

i believe personally he has a lot of repressed anger whether it be at the world, at himself, at his captain hes an angry dude hes just better at keeping it under wraps

and i know we don’t really have many details on his backstory but cmon there’s no way u sign up for a job like this and don’t have any issues whatsoever

i think this quote is so good for this because he’s harnessed his anger, it’s what makes him good at his job, a knife, a weapon

i think another interesting concept for Gaz is guilt

the fact that he cares about whats right and wrong how does he feel going to sleep at night? do these things haunt him? is he irredeemable?

i think its like that one quote “the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. My guilt does not purify me.”

Final Thoughts

anyways guys thanks for coming to my ted talk

i know this was really messy but i just want to encourage some Gaz love because i think he’s a really interesting complex character who we just need to dig a little deeper into

i hope this incites some more gaz love

THANK YOU 😳

[616ioi]

@#%! 1:32 , shin asakura.

content: wet dreams, gender neutral & sub character and warning this is mature content, read at your own discretion.

Shin asakura couldn't sleep.

His mind was in frenzy mode, and his senses were overloading. His body? Hot to the touch.

In all the time he's known you, this is the first time he feels so flustered. Flustered enough, he might even scream.

He grabs his pillow and yanks it over his face as he tries to block out your thoughts. This shouldn't be a hard task.. but you're so persistent.

He is no stranger to thoughts of himself; cursing him, complimenting him, simply passing by him. But, a wet dream? About him of all people?

The images are blurry, but your thoughts are so graphic and detailed that he can't believe it. You're touching him all over, greedy hands grasping at his own as you force him them away from his weeping cock. You press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth as if that'll soothe his pain.

'I h-hate you..' His voice is so whiney.

There's no way he sounds like that. He wouldn't know, anyway.

Then you coo, the pads of your fingers trailing down his body, teasingly. You smile down at him. It's coy, yet he can spot the adoration behind it. 'Don't say that, shin. You know you love me.'

A whimper slips past his pink lips before he can stop it. His eyes widen at this strange reaction. Never in a million years did he think this would affect him. Never in a million years did he think someone would want him this badly.

He only presses his pillow over his mouth to muffle the embarrassed shriek he lets out.

Shin notes that your touch is so certain yet gentle, like you've done it many times before. Like you know what he likes.

This isn't your first time thinking of him... like this.

But, he isn't too positive. This is the first time you've slept over at sakamoto's beloved home. His eyes widen as you shift on the bed beside him. His breath catches in his throat when the dream shifts from you and back to him.

It seems like you've jumped ahead but unfortunately, things were getting foggy. He couldn't make out a lot.

Unfortunately?? Shin shakes his head furiously.

Your hands are on his shoulders as you rock yourself back and forth, using his precum as lubrication. Your thighs are covered with it. All he can see is the furiously red head peaking out from in between your legs. It looked painful... but good?

Shin bucks his hips, but you jab your thumb into his shoulder blade, eliciting a cry from him. 'What did I tell you?'

'Mffnn, I'm sorry, (name).' The dream shin can't seem to stop squirming, apologizing multiple times, seeking your affection.

'Don't you worry, cutie. You're still doing such a good job. You're so patient for me...'

He removes the pillow (it's thrown somewhere, he doesn't care) as he struggles to catch his breath and instead covers his mouth with a hand. His pupils blown wide as his mind trails off.

How would your thighs feel around him?

....Would you also praise him?

He can't seem to stop himself as his sweaty hand trails down his body and slips past his pajama pants, "a-ah.."

He palms himself through his boxers, hot muffled pants huffing out from under his palm. You could wake up anytime and the visions would end.

"Huff...huff," shin shuts his eyes tightly when an image of you kissing him flashes in your mind as if it'll help him shut it down.

His ears burn as he frees himself from his tight pants as he thinks this over. Is he really about to do this? He wouldn't even be able to look you in the eye.

But, before he could even do anything, your dream ends, and your eyes flutter open. Shin gasps lightly before pulling the blanket over his burning face.

Darn. Shin stares hard at his bulge, biting his lip in frustration. He was too slow.

note. 😼

[aventurineswife]

This isn't really a request to make anything more just a rant!

I'm just imagining SAHSRAU somehow managing to pull reader into the game and when they arrive they are just the God Emperor from 40k. Like, decked out in gold armor, long flowing hair, 14ft tall (GE is tall as hell), a Perpetual so they can't really stay dead, and some serious psychic capabilities.

It has me giggling just thinking about how some of the characters would react, especially the more devout ones. Maybe the Amphoreus npcs have an actual existential crisis seeing someone so godly compared to the titans, characters like Sunday and Argenti literally kissing the ground reader treads while others like Ruan Mei and Herta are have a singular focus on figuring out all of the readers ins and outs (more so than before).

This is an idea I've been playing with for a while now ever since I found out about this kind of AU and it's finally gotten to the point where I just want to rant on and on about it lol

No, but this is hilarious to think about. Like, imagine you get sucked into HSR, expecting to just be you, and instead, you show up looking like you walked straight out of Warhammer 40K fanfiction. Gold-plated, towering over everyone, radiating sheer divine energy—an actual god, not just a theoretical one.

The believers would either be weeping in joy or having the worst identity crisis of their lives. The Amphoreus people, who already revere the Titans, would take one look at you and just—malfunction. Like, 'oh. Oh no. We were wrong. We were SO wrong.' You’d probably get a mix of panicked bowing, desperate prayers, and people straight-up running because what does this mean for their entire worldview??

Sunday and Argenti? Absolutely losing it. Sunday would be preaching your name before you even say a word, while Argenti—this guy is already ridiculously devout—would be trying to single-handedly knight you with his banner. Probably vowing to crusade in your name while you’re just like, "Dude, chill, I just got here."

And then there’s the scholars. Ruan Mei, Herta, maybe even Screwllum—they’d take one look at you and go, "Science has failed me. I need to know EVERYTHING." You’d be subjected to so many tests, not out of doubt, but because they literally cannot fathom how you exist. Ruan Mei would be poking at your energy like "Okay but why does your aura feel like an eldritch horror and a divine miracle at the same time?"

Also, the Vidyadhara might just spontaneously combust from the sheer scale of your existence. They already believe in reincarnation and divine cycles—imagine how Dan Heng would feel if he realized you’re a Perpetual. "Wait. You don’t die? Like, at all? You just come back??" Meanwhile, Jing Yuan would be sipping his tea like, "Well. That’s new."

I also love the idea that even the Aeons don’t know what to do with you. Nanook, who is literally trying to destroy all gods, might take one look at you and just… pause. Like, "Huh. That’s not supposed to exist." Meanwhile, Xipe, the one obsessed with worship, is probably LOSING IT because they finally have something worthy of praise.

This concept is gold (literally). Keep ranting, because I love this! 🤭💖

[vigilskeep]

[ID: reply from @tianlavellan saying “hey op i hope this isn't annoying please absolutely 100% ignore me if it is but - if you're willing to ramble about neve. make me like her? i'm so sad because i just don't care for her and i wish i diddddd please help me change my mind about her?”]

she’s SUCH a male character archetype, is i think what gets me

in veilguard every companion’s world adapts to the genre that the companion belongs to. dock town is constantly in a detective story, because neve lives there. (or neve is who she is because she lives in a detective story? food for thought.) but she doesn’t play the role women usually do in those stories. by rights she should be a femme fatale or a weeping widow or a dead body. instead, she’s the lead, the emotionally calloused private eye who smokes and can throw a punch, the protector of the people

and she gets to be so many other things that are in my experience usually only for male characters!! people respect her and rely on her without question, nobody surprised that she’s capable. she focuses on work while living off greasy fried food in a lonely apartment, none of which is presented as some kind of embarrassing failure of femininity, just what she’s chosen to value. she’s allowed to be suspicious, to make you work to win her trust, to withhold her forgiveness and supportive spells from you if she chooses, without being painted as a bitch for it. she gets to be the jaded lone wolf of the team! that’s crazy! it would be so easy to play her as an ice queen “strong independent woman” whose confidence never cracks, but instead they get the dry, cynical tone and tight hold on her emotions without denying that she has emotions or making her feel like less of a person who gets to have needs and griefs and worries too. they got a really good balance of how she clearly could use more support than she’s had, without it feeling like she needs a rescue. she can live without you, she just shouldn’t have to

she’s just so cool idk... i think she doesn’t reveal as much as easily as some of the other companions, but that’s why to me it feels so much more earned and interesting when she DOES open up

[witherby]

Part 7 of mer!reader?🫣🫣🫣

Of course! I think it's time to get you and Damian back together.

Human!Damian x Mer!Reader Part 7

Masterlist with all parts Here!

Content features upsetting Mer behavior and unsafe diving practices. Wear your protective gear, people!

It takes another month for your routine to settle back into a semblance of normalcy. The specialists Bruce told Damian about had spent three days observing your behaviors and drew up a detailed care plan to help you recover as best as you could, which the facility follows with great enthusiasm.

You wake up and swim to the entrance of the tank to receive breakfast from Jon. Afterwards, he and Clark gently roll you out of the tank to apply weird-smelling salves to the patches on your tail, encouraging it to heal correctly and for new scales to grow. You sit and wait for the salve to absorb, then you get back into the water to play a little, and then it's Attention Time.

You swim all the way to the bottom floor of your tank, where visitors come admire you through the tunnels under your tank for several hours. Sometimes you have the energy to do a trick or two.

Then, it's back up to the top of the tank for dinner, more playtime, and then you get to sleep until tomorrow where you do it all again.

But the lethargy remains. The stinging, empty space in your chest only seems to grow the more you see Damian dispassionately leading tours and refusing to look at you. Of all the people that come to admire you, the one person whose attention you actually want, you cannot get.

Jon, bless him, is trying so hard to keep you happy. He talks to you every day, he gives you tons of treats, he swims with you as long as you want him to, and he's given you so many new toys that they've overtaken your cute rock collection. His effort is why you're doing your best to hide how bad you still feel.

And his company does help! It does. You can comfortably call him a friend, and mean it. But you are so tired. You miss Damian so much. You feel drained, and the urge to remain inside your little hideout gets stronger every passing day.

Every night, in the comforting darkness of your castle spire, the old bricks pressing against your body and shielding you from the rest of the world, you allow your thoughts to drift back to the boy with beautiful, emerald eyes without fail.

You think of the first time you met him, and how he looked at you as just another dumb animal in the aquarium for him to care for. You think of the first time you made him realize you were so much more — how you'd done every trick he commanded with such attitude and even mocked him back that he actually cracked a smile. You think of the first time you pulled him into the water to show him your favorite parts of your habitat, and then how he reassured you it was fine that you almost drowned him by accident because he knew you hadn't meant to. You think of all the times he snuck in after hours to spend just a little more time with you, to play just one more game, to ensure you didn't feel like another part of his job he had to do but someone he genuinely looked forward to seeing.

You think of the pretty blush on his face when you mustered the courage to give him your scales.

You think of all the gifts you left him afterwards, and how you didn't get any back.

You think of his dispassionate expression as he leads another group of visitors into your enclosure, day after day after day.

Your chest burns. You weep into the water and succumb to fitful slumber.

--

"I need a dive team to the Mer tank please! Right now!"

Damian furrows his brow, momentarily pausing his work. He's in the dolphin exhibit currently hand-feeding them when the announcement comes over the speaker system. He wonders what you're doing to have freaked Jon out, but it's not his place to care anymore, so he tries to push the curiosity from his mind and refocus on his task.

One dolphin in particular is pretty bad about taking food from a handler. It's also just food aggressive in general, bullying its pod-mates out of the way to get to the food first. Damian can't help but compare how much smarter you are to these animals. He sighs.

"Doctor Kent to the Mer exhibit!"

Hmm. Did you breach your tank again? Or maybe you bumped your body against the spire you like to sleep inside. Damian tried to tell his father that the rough brick texture could hurt your more vulnerable top half if not careful, but Bruce was certain you'd be alright. He wonders what kind of fuss you're kicking up today, if it's a real issue or if Jon hasn't been around you long enough to realize that sometimes you fake a problem because it's funny.

"All divers to the Mer exhibit please!"

Tim rushes through the door into the dolphin exhibit, startling Damian into dropping the bucket. He quickly backs up with a gasp as the dolphins swarm to the food and start gobbling it up. He faces Tim with a glare.

"Does nobody know how to follow protocol anymore? You're supposed to knock before you —"

"You need to get upstairs," Tim says, holding up an access key to your enclosure, "like right now. Vitals on our mer are really bad, we can't extract them from the spire and —"

Damian doesn't stick around to hear him finish that sentence. He snatches the key and sprints through the aquarium like the devil's on his fucking heels. His heart is racing and not from the exertion. He forgoes the elevator and starts rushing up the stairs three at a time, climbing floor by floor by floor to get to you as fast as he can.

It was a real emergency, then? What had happened? Jon was supposed to be taking care of you now. You were supposed to be recovering. You were supposed to be happier without him, now.

What was wrong with you?

There's no time to head into the locker room and get a wetsuit on. He jams the key into the exhibit door and throws it open, rushing into the room with single-minded focus.

Jon is in a wetsuit and treading water, relaying information to his dad with a worried frown. Clark is kneeling next to the tank and giving him instructions on how to get you to the surface. Dick is sitting on the lip of the tank and wiggling into a suit of his own, very unfamiliar with the gear as he doesn't dive with Mers. Bruce is on the phone and standing by Clark, looking more and more concerned as the situation develops.

When Damian bursts in, Dick startles and looks up at him, fumbling with the clasp on his flipper.

"Dami, go ahead and get a suit on. We need you to — DAMIAN!"

He doesn't think. Doesn't stop to listen to whatever Clark's rambling on about. Doesn't wait for permission before he kicks his shoes off, takes a running start, and dives into the tank in his plainclothes. He pedals his arms and kicks his feet as hard as he can and goes down, down, down, deeper into your vast tank and towards your favorite resting place. The effort is tremendous without the slim, hydrodynamic suit to aid him and a rebreather to allow him to stay down here for long periods of time. He pushes past it all and keeps going. You are in trouble and he is going to help you.

When he makes it to the spire and swims around to the entrance, he immediately sees the issue. Your body is curled into the mer version of fetal position; your arms are locked around your waist in an embrace and your tail is coiled underneath you in a tight spiral, twisted around itself and wedging you deeply into the cramped space. The angle of your body, coupled with the tight spacing of the hideaway, make it nearly impossible to pull you out.

In the wild, a mer found in this position is an almost universal signifier that they are near death.

If there's no intervention, you are going to die today.

Damian climbs into the spire with you, squeezing his body inside with a low grunt. A burst of bubbles escape from his mouth. If he can't pull you out — a dangerous move which would damage your tail and break your fins if they tried — he has to unfold you.

His back scrapes against the bricks and pain rockets down his spine. Another bunch of bubbles fly out. He grits his teeth and starts carefully pushing at you, gingerly moving your upper half, then your lower half, around and around and around to create enough space to safely push you free.

His chest is heaving. Damian is exhausted and quickly running out of breath. He cannot stop. If he stops, you won't make it.

He jerks when something jabs his ankle, arms wrapping protectively around you as his head snaps down to see what happened.

Jon is hovering just by the spire opening, holding a rebreather in his hand and shaking it insistently at him.

Damian reaches around you and makes a few grabs at it, finally curling his fingers around the device and pushing it into his mouth. He clicks the button to turn it on and almost coughs when oxygen starts to flow into his lungs. He slumps against you briefly, taking in your closed eyes and face twisted into agony.

What happened, he thinks. How did this happen to you, Princess?

His ankle is jabbed again. Damian looks back at Jon, who has his hands out in an offer of help. Damian gently starts to maneuver you around again, slowly but steadily unfolding your body, and when Jon catches on, helps do the same thing from your opposite side.

It is painstaking work. Dick eventually gets into the water to join in, but there's no room for him, so he hovers to the side ready to help carry your body to the surface when you're finally free.

It feels like it takes hours, but can't be more than twenty minutes. Twenty minutes too long in Damian's opinion. Eventually, your body is unwound enough to ease you out of the spire without injury, and the three men rush you to the surface where Clark and four other vets are waiting to take you. It becomes a flurry of activity after that.

Damian spits out the rebreather when his feet are back on solid ground. He pants and doubles over, limbs shaking from exertion, and watches the medical team assess your condition and fret over you. You're loaded onto a special stretcher and whisked from the room, and he's about to follow suit when a hand clasps over his wrist.

"No," he rasps, already gearing up the breath to scream at his father, but Bruce just shakes his head and presses a towel into his hands.

"Here," he says, voice soft and knowing. "Here, Tadpole. I just want you to get dry before you follow them into the medical bay. You can't help anybody if you get sick."

Damian clutches it, staring at his father with no small amount of trepidation. Bruce just sighs.

"I'm sorry, Damian. I am. We'll talk about it later, but I won't separate you two again. You have my word." He jerks his head toward the doors. "Go dry off and change in the locker room. I'll call Medical and tell them to let you in when you're done."

Damian throws his arms around Bruce, uncaring about how he's soaking his dad. Evidently Bruce doesn't care either, if the fierceness in which he hugs him back is any indication.

"Thank you," Damian whispers, then pulls away to head to the lockers.

[mmmilkweed]

There's no winning with these people. I'm sorry you're going through this. You're getting dogpiled and don't have the brain capacity to write a full apology yourself, so you get a friend to help so you can address it quicker. People take this as insincerity. But if you'd taken enough time to gather yourself you'd be accused of trying to brush it off.

This is what I mean when I say they will never be satisfied. First it's a nothing burger white lily comic. Then it's the discord. You take steps to fix it. But people don't think you've groveled enough or in the right way, so now it's a nothing burger au about having an unrequited crush on your teacher. You apologize. You didn't grovel hard enough. Now they accuse your first two apologies of being fake. You write one yourself. You didn't grovel hard enough.

Humans are social, and rejection hits harder than acceptance. We're not really meant to be able to process this level of interaction. And getting brigaded by what feels like the entire fandom (it isn't. I know it feels like it is, but these are VERY online people) is gonna send your animal brain into panic mode. This will pass. Both the accusations and the feeling.

You'll get through this.

the first one WAS written by me, and then made to look 'professional' by my friends. The second, I kept stressing how I'm afraid of my words coming apart, like they have many times before, I'm sorry im using your kind message to talk about this, but i think i'll break again if i don't tell at least someone.

i was scared and i felt alone

i just woke up

is it so wrong that i took the help form a native english speaker?

I saw it only as a template, a structure to keep my wandering words at bay.

had i not taken the template and made it my own? I can't explain enough how i could not trust myself to find the words i needed, or the thoughts to express myself. The agony from a day before bleeding directly into the morning. Funny thing about that - today i woke up weeping, dreaming my apology hurt even more people. I'm already dreading going to bed tonight, knowing i'll wake up in the same state tomorrow. And here, have the notes of the first apology. The thoughts, the feelings are ALL MINE! I simply no longer trust myself to type them. Paranoia has me in its clutches, I'm looking over every word i type, even now, trying to see if there's a second meaning behind it.

Oh Anon, I'm sorry I'm using you as an excuse to vent about this, I really am.

I thought a lot, and i mean a lot about your message. I've cried several times about it now. ''and rejection hits harder than acceptance.''

Even though my discord was flooded with kindness, with messages that truly did help a little.. I still feel so utterly alone. I can't even look at my wife without feeling guilty. I can't look at my contemporaries without feeling like a wolf in sheeps clothing, even when so many of them told me they see i had no ill intentions. I went to church today - I could not stand before God, I stayed in my pew holding back tears. I begged for his forgiveness too, even when I know he knows my intentions were never to hurt anyone, even when I know he stood beside me through all of this. I feel like one of his lambs, left behind by the herd. No, not left behind. I am willingly staying behind because I'm afraid of hurting people again. There's only a small resemblance of peace within me, knowing He'll stay behind with me. I'm sorry, I know listening to religious people can be a trigger to some

i hope you can forgive the rant. I thought I could do well isolated, but i still find myself panicked and.. alone.

[lizzobetumblin]

Melissa hated her feelings. 

She buried them in a chest in the 5th grade (along with her ability to express them). Other peoples' feelings on the other hand was her forte. She could process, decipher and regurgitate other peoples emotions effortlessly. This gift could’ve taken her through college, all the way to a degree in psychology. Distinguished Dr. Jefferson with a PhD and a cozy office and impressive roster of high-profile, weallthy clients was a shiny idea. Fate would have a different hand for Melissa her talents were exhausted on mediating family fights, friend group drama, and charming her way out of confronting her own feelings. 

“Feelings.” Even saying it out loud to herself seemed silly. Something reserved for ‘cry babies’ and water signs. Typical Sunday nights started tame, reading or writing fan-fiction and drinking cranapple juice. And then like clock work her father would yell her name, 

‘MELISSA!!!’ Emotionless, she’d get up dust off her Winnie the Pooh shorts and make her way downstairs. On the long walk down the hall to the stairs leading to the living room brawl, she’d go through her check list: 

1.) Don’t cry.   

 2.) Stay neutral; Deescalate

3.)Don’t take anything personal. This isn’t about you

She padded down the carpeted stairs in her old soft socks to see her mother tightlipped and tear streaked thinking, 

‘she broke rule number 1’. Her father, Michael was proud and angry, his big belly filled with self righteousness. She knew he would be unyielding in his resolve and at this point her only option was to deescalate.

 ‘Rule number 2’. Then her sister the water sign and calamity for the evening sat on the floor nearly fetal, face red and raw with emotion. 

‘Its not your fault’ Melissa wanted to say ‘You just didn’t follow the rules… you’re loved.’ But she couldn’t say that because she’d be breaking rule number 3. It wasn’t about how Melissa felt. Even though she felt like screaming,

“VANESSA, YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. DAD—YOU JUST HAVE PENT UP ANGER BECAUSE YOU GREW UP IN THE HOOD OF DETROIT AS A BLACK MAN IN THE 60s AND 70s. YOU NEED A HEALTHY OUTLET LIKE.. I DONT KNOW… THERAPY?!?!?! THIS IS A WASTE OF ALL OF OUR TIME. I LITERALLY JUST WROTE THE BEST SAILOR SATURN x CHIBI USA FANFICTION EVER AND THIS IS KILLING MY VIBE!”

Instead, she decide to hear every one out. She decided to help. To calm her dragon of a father down. To be a translator for her emotional sister. To not take it personal. To stay neutral. To not cry. 

9 years later, at her fathers funeral she still never broke the rules. She played her flute and spoke at his memorial. She was present for her mother because it wasn’t about her. When other peoples' emotions bubbled up she stayed neutral. She sat through both services and she did not cry. It wasn’t until she excused herself to make a phone call outside did she collapse onto the stairs of the funeral home and weep alone in the cold Detroit snow. 

It’s okay to break the rules sometimes, she reminded herself. As long as no one else sees it.

Traumas began to compact on Melissa, as they do. Humans tend to collect traumas like pebbles on a long hike. We toss them into our backpacks and keep moving forward. Some hikers would falter, but Melissa was built for this. She’d carried the stones of her family’s traumas uphill for years. She was strong. 

When men began to befriend and reject her, saying ‘you’re too good for me’ but not too good to make them feel good. She carried that. 

When childhood friends began to cut off the strings of her heart, saying ‘We can’t be friends anymore’. She carried that.

When her family separated like dandelion seeds, it seemed like they’d never be together again. Melissa slept on so many couches, floors and car seats sometimes she didn’t know if she’d see them again. 

She carried that. 

Dying was never an option though sometimes she didn’t mind the thought of it. Peace and warmth were two things she’d desperately yearned and hadn’t felt fully since the womb. Then one night in the pitch black of the hot, sweaty, roach-infested studio in southeast Houston she slept in she wondered:

‘Why can’t I break the rules?’ She’d seen everyone else in her life break them like popsicle sticks. And she didn’t just want to break the rules, she wanted to break them boldly and loudly and annoyingly and honestly and sloppily like every one else gets to do. It was in that moment, tucked in a thin jacket inside of an 8-foot high instrument cubby in the inky darkness—it hit her. 

‘Is my suffering for a high purpose? Or is my suffering trying to kill me?’ 

She cried. 

She escalated. 

She took it personal. 

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to scream in a microphone in a sea of shadowy faces. She drank whiskey and wove her pain into rock music. 

‘Music is my boyfriend’ she declared. The only man that kept his baggage to hisself. And it healed her. It gave her voice reason and purpose. 

The pebble-laden hike became lighter with time. The incline eventually evened out to flat, beautiful landscapes where the breeze finally met her back. She knew it wasn’t gonna be easy or sunshine but even the rain cleansed her and it was beautiful too. 

Somewhere in the rain she decided rules were meant to be built and broken. Like trust and love and friendships and families. Because every thing deserves the opportunity to change and grow. 

So... She broke rule number 1 on stage while singing a beautiful song. Dr. Jefferson (PhD) screamed for her to stop but she didn’t listen and the tears flowed like rivers of emotion down her cheeks. 

Rule number 2 was broken when she grew older and saw the injustices of the world. Marching with hundreds in protest she realized not everything needs to be pacified. 

And one day when she finally fell in love, she broke rule number 3. No matter how much training she’d done she couldn't help but take every thing her lover said and did personal. But it was ok. Because in all her resistance she realized breaking rules was her power. 

Melissa began to fall for her feelings. Her feelings gave life purpose. They weren’t always logical, as feelings seldom are. They were sloppy and embarrassing and rude and so fucking uncomfortable. But they were hers. And they were real. And when she sat alone sipping wine, staring at the moon…They were the only ones still by her side. Ready to break the rules for her because they loved her. 

And she finally loved them back. 

[hcneymooners]

✸ TRITWWISIYTSTICS ⤷ chapter i. i feel i could right you.

(read on ao3.)

synopsis: here. cw: mentions of death and grief, implied animal death, mentions of injury, azzi's lack of self-preservation.

notes: please let me know what you think. my cycle started and i feel evil and tired, so i would love to know anything you would like to tell me. my inbox is always open, and i love you.

azzi wished people would stop dying, if only to get a moment to herself. as soon as thought left her, she felt swollen with its rot. 

it was just so easy to get exhausted now. she was so tired of lying: about how many supplies they had left, about how well-versed she was in her tasks, about how lonely she wasn’t. the worst were the ones who hurt themselves on purpose, who bled so that they had something in this mess to understand. she wanted to cup her hands around their jaw and bear down until there was a creak and a whimper of pain and tell them, “stop trying to die. this isn’t something you should want. stop trying to die. i’ve been spending months trying to bring back my family, to make them alive again.”

but she didn’t. she was just less careful with their ivs.

she was tired of waking early in the morning when the mists were thick and warping for a single moment of peace. despite the (dis)quiet of the house, she found that she still felt haunted in that wide, open space. she tried her hardest not to look at the locked room to her left when she exited her own, or the picture with the room’s key next to it. 

the country had only taken six days to collapse, though it spent years building up to the days she lived in now. she remembered the first plane that had been shot down just a few state lines over from where it had fled its own airport. there had been several planes butchered in the same manner, several crashes ablaze with flame, blood, and bone. azzi specifically recalled this one, not because it was the first, but because her entire family had been inside of it. 

she couldn’t remember how she’d managed to save her own life. she had been reluctant to go on the trip, had felt something immovable in her chest whenever her parents spoke of her coming. so, she stayed. she had stayed with inês in the stomach of her old home, their backs pressed together in her queen-sized bed. and then, she had only inês. inês like a sister. inês like her child. 

then inês had died, too, and left azzi to weep and wake on her own. 

azzi felt the top of her head ache at the root, the spot where she’d once torn out her hair in grief, still raw in spirit. she ignored it and grabbed the basket atop her counter as she made her way to the garden. she wasn’t hungry herself, but the soil gave her something to do that wasn’t destructive, self- or otherwise. 

when she walked outside, rain lightly lashed the side of her face, and she could see the swell of the clouds, their bellies dark grey and awkwardly ridged. she only turned to the side to slip off the wide-brimmed wicker hat she’d taken from a returning scout, and set it atop her curls to keep her vision clear. 

her outfit was slightly impractical: a long, cotton skirt the color of cow cream and a large grey woolen sweater that had belonged to inês’s father. she’d almost burned it after she’d buried the girl, so irrational with her grief, but had saved it in the end. now, it kept her warm, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost feel inês with her thin body and buttery, brown hair breathing warm and close against her neck. 

the skirt was bound to get dirty, but azzi didn’t mind whatsoever. this was the cost of sustaining herself. this was her proof of work, of living. her mother would’ve hated her for dirtying it. the thought made her mouth twist uncomfortably into an upward shape that could’ve been called a smile.

she bent slowly, her bones shuddering under the motion, and began to dig her fingers into the soil. she tucked the oiled fat of her fingertips underneath the small rocks and wiggling worms. it was still damp from yesterday’s storm, and it clung to her skin like it couldn’t bear to be parted from her. 

the carrots were late this year, she noted, and the herbs too sparse. but something in the dirt always came through. azzi had learned to trust that. she had to. it was a relief to be able to grow, to be able to avoid the commune’s large mess hall with its horrible silence and relentless, dull pressure.

the edge of the property was far beyond the line of trees, where the hills folded into one another like unmade beds. azzi always gardened with her back to the view, with her face bent toward the home she lived in. she’d never built a gate, despite inês’s nagging. you can’t just let the world walk in, she used to say. 

but azzi believed in openness. in letting things pass through. she borrowed from the land and thought, maybe, if she let it breathe, it would never take more than she could give. she borrows so much from the world—soil, rain, death, survival—and on some level, she knew it would ache to borrow back. the land remained porous because she was.

so there was no gate. no fence. nothing to keep the world out, or her in.

besides, she liked looking at their house. it was a rather large cabin, built and abandoned by a louisana-native who had been an architect before the floods swallowed his homeland. it pulled high into an a-frame, but spots of the south decorated it like sugar spots on a banana peel. 

the porch was vast and encircled the waist of the house like lovers’ arms, four thick columns split into two on either side of the wide wooden stairs. there was a balcony just outside the circular window that birthmarked the roof, but the glass couldn’t open, so it was more for the outside view. that was azzi’s room. 

since there was no gate and no one here, azzi liked to watch over where she lived as she worked. but that also meant that she could be snuck up on. an easy death. 

that’s why it didn’t startle her when she heard it: something soft shifting through the brush. not a deer. not a scout. but also, not a threat. just presence.  a footfall, a pause. the feeling of being observed.

azzi didn’t look up right away. she slowed the pull of her hands, letting a small head of lettuce roll into the empty belly of her basket. the long brown line of her neck twisted meekly as she let the moment stretch, her lungs expanding and contracting with delayed anxiety. she let it linger. the rain had stilled, and now the brim of her hat acted as a small shield from whomever was behind her. her hands were wet with earth.

carefully, she turned around. her shears hung loosely from her hand, the blades dull with mud. there was nothing practiced in her stance, nothing defensive. only the slow, reluctant curiosity of someone who had long accepted that danger, if it came, would not be outrun.

but what met her wasn't an animal. it was another woman. 

tan skin, despite the season. a sweep of wet blonde hair, dirt-streaked and pulled into a loose, messy bun that clung stubbornly at the nape. the roots were darkened, rusted by sun. her cheeks were flushed from effort or wind, maybe both, and a smudge of soil clung just beneath one of her impossibly blue eyes. she stood half-shadowed by the trees, close enough to be clear, but far enough that azzi had to squint a little through the mist.

and slung across her back was a rifle, its matte black stock dulled by rain, the trigger jutting gray and ugly like a sneer.

azzi still didn’t move. she just took her in.

the woman’s eyes swept the space like she was cataloguing it. she glanced at the porch, the rows of struggling herbs, and the way azzi’s cotton skirt clung desperately to her shins. then their eyes met, and for a moment, the air went thinner.

the woman didn’t speak right away. she just gave a small nod, more acknowledgment than greeting. something unreadable passed across her face. it was something like relief, but sharper.

“you always leave it open like this?” she asked, voice low and dry-edged, like she hadn’t used it much lately.

azzi didn’t answer. her fingers twitched once against the shears, then went still. she just said, softly:

“i didn’t want a gate.”

“you’re leaving yourself wide-open,” the woman remarked, raising a pale brow.

azzi’s mouth twitched. “i know.”

and even though azzi knew the answer, she asked her next question anyway:

“did you come from the commune?”

the woman eyed her for a second, took in the wide hat and its little tie beneath azzi’s chin. she decided to be honest. 

“no.”

azzi nodded, though she was unsurprised. the direction the woman had stepped out of spoke from the land miles beyond hers, not the carefully curated path to the main base that fell to her other side. 

“you’ll have to go there if you’re interested in staying.”

the woman pressed her lips together, then said, “you ain’t a part of it?”

azzi tilted her head to the side, and the motion made her look unbalanced. her eyes were sweet and full, brown like a doe’s.

“i am, but i live on my own. they know of me, but since i take care of myself, they leave me be. it’s a relief, i think, to know that they don’t have to completely take care of me. we’re struggling as is.”

azzi wasn’t sure why she was sharing. providing this information only revealed that both she and the commune were weak, an easy annihilation if the woman was so inclined. she didn’t even know if the blonde was alone.

“mmm,” was the answer she got back. 

azzi shifted in place, aching to drop back to her knees and finish cultivating. 

“are you going to kill me?” she asked, just to be sure. azzi’s voice was light, but the question hung heavy between them.

“absolutely,” the woman said, deadpan. then, with no fanfare, she reached for the rifle at her back.

there was a tight pause before, with a few quick motions, she showed azzi how the clip was empty. 

azzi smiled, all teeth, and her skin almost split with the effort. it hadn’t done that in a while. satisfied, she lowered herself back to the ground and gently pushed away a rabbit who had been nibbling at the top of what just might have been a carrot. maybe they weren’t late, she thought with an inner laugh.

“you think they’d let me stay?” the woman called out.

“yes,” azzi responded. the commune never turned away anyone. it almost always irritated her.

“think they’d let me live on my own? like you?”

“mmm,” azzi said, “no. they would probably assign you to me, actually.”

“and why’s that?” the woman asked apprehensively.

“because,” azzi said, with a somber look over her shoulder. “i’m on my own now. i don’t have anyone left. so, i’m the only one with any space left.”

✸

azzi didn’t wait for the official decree. she could now picture cd’s tight smile, her short hair curling at the edge of her jaw as she welcomed that strange woman in.

instead, she dug into the dirt until her nail beds were red and raw. she planted the small bits of the iris that had been left over on the kitchen sill, its petals drooping just as her body had been doing since its owner passed. she sat, small and trembling in the dark as the loss rocked through her. she was learning that grief was a staircase she was almost always climbing. every day, she either got lost or found the landing, but she would never stop stepping on it.   

after, she grasped the top of her basket with both hands and hauled herself up from the ground. the weight of it almost swung her back down, but she only braced her knees and carried on. it was good that the wicker was heavy. it meant the earth, and she, were both capable of production. 

just before she climbed up the porch, she turned and looked out onto the land. the dirt was bloodied with the sunset, the sky shimmering with pale fire as the moon slipped into its opposite’s place. she watched it as it rose, and when it reached the highest peak, and the sun reached its lowest, she opened her mouth and said thank you to both. she repeated what her old neighbors had taught her, just before leaving:

“i am part of your natural world, and i am grateful to live off of you. i am grateful to breathe with you, to walk with you, and to call you home. i am connected to you and i commit myself to taking outstanding care of you, as you do me. i do what is in my power, i am conscious of you. i love—i love you.”

she always stumbled through the last line—everyone she had ever said that to was no longer there to affirm that they loved her back. 

she stepped through the door, the evening light pink and yellow like a fever-filled throat. the colors weren’t necessarily her choice, but the solar grid was twisted and makeshift, so this is what came through. it could be worse, so she let what passed through, well, pass through. 

the kitchen slowly filled with the scent of thyme and boiled bone broth, small bits of fat dripping off the tiny slabs of deer meat she had straining over a simmering pot. the meat was running out, which she didn’t mind, but the woman might. she hoped they could figure something out. azzi was never one for the killing. inês had been braver than her: knife, shotgun, and all. they were balanced that way.

she’d just washed and tucked the produce away, her knife bridged on the oven-warmed plateau of a second piece of flatbread a little larger than usual, when the door creaked open. there wasn’t a single shard of surprise that was felt in her chest. something different settled in. it was so strange, so much stranger that azzi put the knife down. she barely shifted. only pressed her fingers into the edge of the counter, the grain of the wood grounding her.

she supposed it felt rather close to being right about being chosen.

the woman stepped inside without fanfare, shoulders still damp, the rifle still slung over her back. mud flaked from her boots. her mouth was tight, her jaw working like she was chewing on the fact of being here.

azzi didn’t greet her. just scooped a generous handful of meat into the clay bowl closest to her, drizzled it with slick deposits of vegetable soup, and slid the flatbread gently beneath. she placed it all on a pale green porcelain plate, then set a second bowl on top to keep in the heat. like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“you’ll probably want to wash up first.” she looked up to find the blonde’s sharp eyes on her. “take your boots off, please, and set them by the door. the wood is hard enough to clean as is.” 

“you’re azzi,” the woman said, not quite a question. more like a fact she’d been told, somewhere along the way, and it was now being confirmed against the body it belonged to. 

azzi nodded, her curls bouncing with the affirmation. she was already wiping her hands on a linen scrap. “yes.”

she disappeared for a moment, her body folding into the hallway, into muscle memory. the quiet choreography of care. the way you did when someone needed you to know what to do. she returned with a dented basin, a thin bar of pale soap, and one of her better towels. rough but clean. she’d picked it quietly. unconsciously. the one with the frayed edge, she always folded inside.

 her movements were brisk, but not unkind. familiar. this had been routine once.

“water’s hot,” she said. “you just need to turn the valve. red knob. you can leave your things by the fire. put your gun by the door. i’ll handle the rest.”

the woman—to azzi, her name was still unknowable—still hadn’t sat down. her eyes followed azzi’s dirt-nailed hands. then, finally, she sagged like her spine had been holding too much. her knees bent slowly, almost reluctantly, as if suspicious of gravity, and she lowered herself to the floor, resting her elbows on them. her breath whistled slightly through her nose.

azzi stopped, her body stilling gracefully. she took the other woman in. she noticed the way her lashes clung together in wet little spikes. the way her fingers flexed, like she couldn’t quite unclench them. she was running low. her body was fraying. you could see it in the body, even before the eyes gave it away with their glazed water-blue weight. 

“you’re not gonna be able to wash yourself,” azzi said. not softly, not sharply either. it was just the obvious state of things.

the woman looked up, surprised. then gave a quiet laugh that scraped up and out of her, sharp and exhausted. “no. not really.”

azzi nodded once, then disappeared into the kitchen.

she returned with a small glass vial of oil, jasmine and pink salt, and knelt beside her like it was nothing. like it was the only thing left to do. she worked with care. even without a proper hospital, her bedside manner was inscribed deeply into the lining of her tissue, young as it was.

wringing out the cloth just enough, she pressed it gently to the blonde’s neck, then the crook of her elbow. the skin there was scraped raw in places. she rinsed dirt and flecks of what she knew to be blood from her collarbone, from her jaw. there were scars twisted around her stomach. azzi didn’t ask why.

“lift your arms,” she murmured, and the woman did. mute. trusting, if only because she was too tired not to be.

“tell me if anything hurts,” she murmured.

the woman didn’t, though everything did. 

the water ran in slow rivulets down her chest, catching on the curve of her ribs. azzi tried not to look. not really. but some things revealed themselves no matter where your eyes landed. by the end, she smelled thickly of jasmine, with a hint of rose and the mountains. 

she smelled like one of azzi’s ghosts.

afterward, azzi took the towel and dabbed gently at the woman’s face, smoothing away the last of the dirt from behind her heat-pink ears. then she picked up the comb she’d placed on the floor and began to work slowly through the damp blonde strands, careful not to tug. the hair was heavier now, a wheat-deep gold that was even darker at the ends. she left it loose. didn’t explain why

“my name’s paige,” the woman said at last, voice low, almost hoarse.

azzi paused mid-stroke. then resumed. “that’s a nice name,” she said, pulling the comb’s teeth all the way through.

they ate in silence. just the fire cracking and the muted clink of ceramic. the house sighed in the beams, wood settling like old bone. the birds had stopped. azzi knew it was late, then.

after, azzi stood in front of inês’s room for a long time. not opening it. there was pain just being near it. paige watched from behind her, building a shape of her in her mind. not consciously. just the way you do, when you’re trained to. 

she noted the way azzi’s fingers hovered. how some gripped the others like they could hold them upright. she watched azzi’s grief clutch her hips with invisible hands, saw the way her limbs lifted and curled awkwardly toward the doorknob like it might burn her. her eyes flicked, almost against her will, to the framed photo on the wall.

two girls. one with dark eyes and darker hair, her grin wide, teeth just shy of too large. the other, unmistakably azzi, pressed against her, eyes squeezed shut with joy. pre-collapse. you could tell by the light.

the key next to the frame hung limp on its nail, dust-heavy and stiff. a relic.

“i can take the couch,” paige said gently. quiet, but not unsure. an offer. a line in the sand.

azzi didn’t look back. just let out a quiet breath, a break in her ribs. something fell loose from the crack.

 “no,” she said. “your body can’t handle that right now. it’s fine. i’m in the master.”

she left before paige could reply.

the master was larger than the rest of the house let on. the ceilings stretched higher here, and the walls were painted a soft, dusty cream. the air was warmer. thicker. it smelled faintly of that same jasmine azzi had soaped paige down with, and something a bit more exotic. fig maybe.

the room had been called the marie antoinette room by the architect who designed it. inês had liked that.

the name showed itself without much effort. a chandelier hung, long since stripped of power, but still glinting faintly with dust and its crystalline skeleton of decadence. the bed sat like a small stage in the center, canopied and curtained. its sheets were peach and muslin, clearly survived by someone who had loved it enough to protect it. azzi stepped further in, approaching it with an odd methodology. she folded the quilt back with care, not ceremony.

she had changed into a loose, mid-thigh nightgown, the color of ink. dark indigo, almost black. it caught the light in a way that made it almost look like water, its folds as still as laminar flow. it didn’t belong to this world. or this collapse. paige clocked it. registered the choice.

they didn’t speak as they lay down. just turned their backs to one another like they’d done it before. paige didn’t question the arrangement. not yet. but she noted the oddity of it. sleeping beside another body could be a kind of truce. or a kind of failure. or both.

since the garden, paige had known: azzi was worn down. something in her had stopped flinching. her sense of self-preservation was a sleeping beast, or maybe a murdered one. she was eager to fall on some level, her body constantly primed for the angel of death’s intermittent arrival. for a mistake. for whatever would come first.

azzi reached out, paused, then pulled the curtain closed.

darkness swallowed them.

it was a clean black. not moonless. just total. the kind of dark that was unable to be stimulated. paige felt suspended in it, and maybe that was what made it so easy to plummet, her mind shutting off for the first time in weeks.

they lay back to back. no noise. no light. they lay back to back. no words. just separate prayers whispered into a space neither of them believed in.

azzi didn’t sleep.

her body stayed taut with quiet alarm. the heat of another person so close, unbearable in the gentlest way. 

she didn’t sleep. she couldn’t. her body was humming, wired with the intimate electricity that arrived with a break in solitude. here was someone else, someone warm and breathing. the feeling of being perceived hadn’t worn off. if anything, it pulsed stronger now that paige was so close.

the pressure of a body beside hers, not touching but undeniably there, stirred something dreamlike. she stared into the dark, eyes wide.

paige hadn’t even touched her.  but she’d allowed azzi to tend to her. and that was worse.

they had shared water, and all the while paige had looked at her and seen someone there.

azzi had always been best under pressure. applied or not.

she didn’t sleep. 

but when morning came, she felt something as though she fit better inside her skin.  behind her, paige curled close to the diamond ridge of her spine, knees tucked in. seeking warmth. azzi lifted her hand and slipped two fingers into the curtain’s split, so that she could see the sun.

as the pale fire of a new day bled in and burned her, she thought that something in her felt rested.

© hcneymooners.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

The other day I was reading about the “mail-order brides” during the Gold Fever/Gold Rush in USA. Men ordered/purchased a wife via mail, and one of the many reasons some of them did that was because of loneliness, and I couldn’t help but think “yep, that would be König”. Just imagine him living alone in his farm or ranch, he only goes to town once a month to buy essential supplies, hides his face, and barely socializes with folks. But deep inside he is just a lonely man who desires a family, and a woman to call his (and one who can help him with his… needs) But he is socially inept, so he takes the easy route and orders himself a wife, that way he doesn’t have to bother with interacting with other people and gets himself a pretty wife

Oh my god 💞

König wanting to wed and bed her the minute she arrives by train... She thought he would court her for a while before they marry, she thought they would do this decently, that they would get to know each other first, she’d rent an apartment from the small town and then decide if she wanted to live with him…

But he says everything’s settled, he already took care of everything, they’re getting married today and spend their wedding night in the saloon before leaving for his settlement tomorrow.

She’s too bewildered to even speak, so it's no wonder she gets herded to the altar right away, a pretty, meek little bride is just what König ordered! Gets wed to this giant hulking gold digger while still wearing her traveling clothes, the priest only looks drunk and bored as she peeps her vows. The man she's now wed to looks down at her with unbridled affection and curiosity, but soon enough, she catches him eyeing her waistline, her bust, the corset she wears feeling tighter still by his indecent stare.

He's far from a gentleman, and dresses like a weather-worn cowboy, and she suspected as much from the way he wrote and how unpolished his handwriting was. But at least he seems kind. If anything, he's smitten that she’s not some old hag who deceived him by claiming to be an unmarried young lady, that she is everything and more he wished for based on the few letters they exchanged.

The wedding is over in a few minutes, and there’s no coffee and cake, no party under some big tree, no relatives or friends to congratulate her on her wedding day. There’s only this huge, intimidating man who looks at her like she just dropped down from heavens, his eyes slowly sparking aflame with both softness and lust.

He takes her to the saloon to eat, and then she finds herself in a greasy little room upstairs, changing into her white nightgown, getting ready to sleep and only sleep, but her nightmare of a day is not over yet. Her hand flies over her mouth, she nearly screams as she turns around and finds this horrible man of lowly European descent thoroughly naked behind her.

She’s in so much trouble, that much was certain from the minute he saw this man, but seeing his… equipment in the dim candle light of the old saloon is too much after everything she's gone through. She's verily about to faint.

It’s just her luck to dream of adventures and a happy, exciting new life and then find herself thrown into the arms of some barbaric, foreign giant... He said he’s looking for a companion in life and hinted at being a little lonely, but men who wish to court a lady don’t do it like this: by dragging them to the altar and then presenting their cocks to them before even two hours have passed!

The rowdy noise of cancan downstairs is a filthy backdrop to seeing a naked man for the first time in her life, and she never knew male parts could be so... big. Or jumpy. Or leaky... This man is clearly serious about this commitment, and thinks there’s no need to get to know each other, she’s his wife now and they need to consummate the marriage right away.

He’s breathing heavily while grabbing that weeping weapon in his fist, telling her she’s more beautiful than he ever even imagined. He pleasures himself slowly while watching her try to cover herself in her thin, faintly translucent gown, and she still can't find any words – the man is behaving like a scoundrel or a highwayman, not at all like the sharp dressed, eloquent gentlemen she's grown used to in the city. The slick sounds of lewd fapping are accompanied by moans of how she’s the answer to all his prayers, and her hair stands on end, she feels like she’s walking on tar here in the distant frontier with nothing but greedy men and drunken brothel keepers around her, now face to face with a giant, throbbing cock out of all things...

She coldly orders him to sleep on the floor while she takes the bed – she’s not letting this nasty, hairy beast near her anytime soon, not when she still has her wits about her. Defeated when she won’t let him “consummate their love” tonight, the man withdraws to sleep on the floor with a sullen groan and a long sigh.

She never sleeps a wink that night in fear of finding him by her side, groping his way through her dress, but to her surprise this man only snores on the floor as if he's used to sleeping there.

Civilization is far away when he leads her to his shack the next day and shows her the first small specks of gold he has found, apologizing for the state of his abode so unkempt and unclean. She has to give it to him that he's indeed kind and doesn’t want to make her suffer unduly, because the table and the bench are wiped in a hurry before she sits down, as if she’s a queen visiting a humble subject. He makes her a bath next to the fire and washes in the water after her, giving her flirty, promising smiles throughout the whole splashy ordeal.

Before long, the giant cock is presented to her again as the man excitedly waits for permission to take her, telling her he has never seen anything like her, that she makes his heart run wild.

The only thing running wild in her sour opinion is his cock, bouncing up and down from the need to be inside her, nearly leaking seed on the floor she suspects she has to wash and scrub tomorrow anyhow as his wife. Evening after evening, she rejects his advances, but after a week or two, her will breaks.

She tells herself it’s only out of pity that she lets him finally crawl over her and lift her gown, that it’s only to stop the man from spiraling into madness that she allows him to test how nicely that thick, leaky cock glides through her folds.

“You’re wet, Sonnenschein,” he pants with happy excitement when she notices her swollen, sloppy state, then plunges his cock deep into his wet little prize with a filthy moan. He tells her she’s tight and hot, and takes her like she’s some kind of an angelic whore, falls panting all over her breasts when he’s sated and done, says that she’s his salvation and that he’ll do anything to make her feel at home here.

She feels exactly like a desperate mail order bride, lured here with the promise of a good life and gold, but when she starts to wait for him to come home instead of dreading the end of the day, that's when her hell truly begins.

It just won't do to start wanting him, to trick her heart to be content with whatever this is. To enjoy his "love" would be even more shameful than anything else so far. The truth of the matter is that she's tormented by a lustful, wild man who takes her on her knees or on her stomach like an animal while moaning about how tight she is, how soft she is, how he can’t concentrate at work because of her.

But when he groans that he loves her just before he cums, she feels a distant sting near her heart, a burst of a small bonfire somewhere in her gut from his words. Far from romantic, but so authentic and pure they’re ripped out of him with a pathetic, cry-like moan.

And just when her heart is about to turn and grow full with softness, he barges in and takes her standing, needy after work, deciding that she looks far too alluring while stirring the stew over the fire. His sunshine of a wife waiting for him with warm food and a soft little cunt, it's exactly like it was always meant to be in his dreams... He’s kind and attentive, but doesn’t know a thing about ladies and that they’re not supposed to be taken by the fire like this, but the dramatic pout on her lips turns into a helpless grimace before this animal has given her three full thrusts.

And it’s only by accident, she tells herself, that it happens. It’s only a coincidence that she finds herself short of breath and shivering, then crying with pleasure from the way his cock sails inside her, hasty and needy as if she’s nothing but a momentary relief for this man.

But she knows she’s far from that. He always stays after the hurried lovemaking – if you could call it that – swallows and tells her things that are supposed to be sweet, perhaps. He whispers loving nonsense in her ear with a stupid, quivering voice, tells her that she’s so tight he’s about to lose his mind. That she brightens up his life and makes this shack a home, a palace, even. That he wants to give her children and grow old together.

She prays the heavens to save her from such a future, but when she accidentally comes with his cock inside her, the man breaks down entirely. Repeats the awful, pathetic “I love you” until he comes, too, and sounds like a man who's getting his sould ripped apart from his bones. It’s sinful lunacy what he’s doing to her in that shack, and dares to sprinkle it with love out of all things, and she doesn’t know if she hates him, or if she loves him too.

Annulling this marriage is nearly impossible, and the sooner he gets her pregnant, the sooner she’s even more trapped, just like the poor rabbits this man lures into the snares placed around the shack. He spends every little speck of gold to buy her silks, satins and gowns, proper woolen scarves and soft little leather shoes, gives her a gentle kiss every morning before he leaves to wash gold. Every evening after meal, he praises her cooking skills and then takes her on the creaking old bed like she's a common whore. The silly, girlish dreams of being whisked away by a mysterious, romantic gentleman are somewhere far away when this giant spills his seed inside her with a thick, arduous groan, then proceeds to cover her in kisses too sweaty and hot.

“I know you don’t love me,” he whispers between the one-sided sucking and nibbling that’s about to make her cry. “But I will make you happy... I swear it, on my life.”

She can only stare at the ceiling, filled with the dancing flames of the fire as he falls asleep with his cock still inside her, the soft snore on her breasts both happy and sad.

[evilminji]

So, I was reading some Percy Jackson fic stuff today and....I had a Danny Phantom thought.

And thought you might vibe with this at least a little bit.

Anyways, you know how the Phandom frequently has Clockwork be Kronos, or at least a piece of Kronos that regrets his actions towards his children?

Now, Danny being adopted by Clockwork. Who keeps bringing him little pieces of clouds and stars to bake into cookies and turn into marshmallows, and always has a pitcher of fresh rainwater for Danny to drink from if he feels thirsty.

Danny is very much vibing with this. He gets to Eat Space!!! The Sky is a part of him now, and he can FEEL that final frontier so very much at hand. He can close his eyes and See.

Earth below him, kept safe and warm under him, like a mother duck with an egg.

Looking up, Space is right there. It rolls against his back like a friend. The Sun bears down on him, as if bearing witness to him.

And then Danny...Dreams. He dreams of a Time that is not his own, but yet is, all at once.

Time's sickle takes him apart. Methodically, but as painless as he can make it. Kronos his son weeps, even as he and his siblings his babies reach for their Father's pieces and carefully, lovingly, place each and every single one amidst the sky.

"Forgive us" they say.

"We did as we must. We could not let you continue" they weep all over again.

"We will take care of the world you leave behind" They promise.

And so, Ouranos watches. Even with the weight if a Prophecy, and Fate upon them, his children would forever love their parents. He could've been stuck underneath the ground, where that detestable Tartarus was locked away.

But every child of Sky and Earth took the care to place their Father amidst his element. His pieces became the very Sky itself.

And then Danny wakes up.

His hands shake, and his everything aches with fleeting memories. The Infinite Realms are home to dead Gods and Titans. Who's to say, the Father of the Titans could not be spawned with it's embrace?

The next time Clockwork hugs him, Danny knows. His very skin sings with love and joy, that at least one of his children did not forget him.

But no matter how many pieces of the Sky he may eat, no matter how many memories of Old Man Ouranos Danny regains, that has passed.

Time greets the Sky once again, Father and Son reunited, but this go around it falls upon Kronos to be the Father, and Ouranos the Beloved Son.

In the back of his head Danny hears a song. One that Ouranos and Gaea used to sing for their little ones. He knows where the other half of the melody is. Soon, they shall be reunited.

(Hope that's at least halfway coherent? I know some people are gonna be mad that I'm making Danny more than Just Some Guy again, but is that not the spirit of fanfics? To take your specialest blorbo and Put Them in Situations?

Anyways, TL,DR: Danny's Space Obsession is in part his previous life as Ouranos, the Sky, Father of the Titans. Kronos, as Clockwork, is raising his Father's reincarnation and returning his pieces to him, now that pesky Prophecies aren't in the way.

They decide that letting Clocky be the Dad this time around suits them just fine.

Danny hears the song he and his wife, the Earth used to sing, and will answer her call soon, ((who Gaea is is up to interpretation, although I the show itself practically tosses Sam into this role)) once he's NOT a mess from the split memories)

Oh THIS? This is lovely! I DO vibe. Honestly can't think of anything I want to add, but I SURE DO WANNA MAKE SURE EVERYONE SEES IT.

Look at it! o/ *smacks it on your dashboard*

[dollfacefantasy]

okayokay so i was hoping you could write something for leon x chubby!reader? i swear there is not enough of that genre out there- i was thinking the reader could be feeling insecure about their weight and leon comes home to them upset on the couch :(( after some comforting and fluffy stuff he CARRIES reader to the bedroom. (as a chubby girl i fold for anyone who can carry me lol) any leon would work for this hes so precious i just wanna keep him safe and sound in my pocket ☹️🫶 anyways i tried to keep this broad enough for you to use your imagination,, i love you writing!! <3

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!chubby!reader

summary: you're feeling down about yourself and leon just can't have that

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), face sitting, features reader's weight insecurities and people being critical of her weight

word count: 3.6k

a/n: thanks for the request! i hope it was what you were looking for :) reblogs and comments are appreciated <3

You didn’t expect today to be a good day, but now, in your position curled up and wallowing on the couch, you wish your intuition had been wrong. You lie on the plush cushions, face pressed against a pillow, limbs retracted and held close to your body. You weren’t crying, but it felt like every couple minutes your eyes began to sting with the threat of tears falling. You tried telling yourself to get a grip, to grow up and just move on. This shouldn’t still hurt you so much.

But, like always, beating yourself up didn’t do anything to improve your emotional state. You continue half-paying attention to the movie you put on. It was your comfort movie, one that you put on whenever you were down. Right now though, it wasn’t helping. Your partially unfocused eyes fixate on the screen and watch the lead actress move about. She looks good constantly, her outfits flatter her figure and flaunt her features. All you’re left thinking is why can’t I look like that?

The story playing out in front of you has a bitter taste this time and only serves to remind you of all the words you heard today. Whenever you were around your family for extended periods of time, the conversation moved in this direction. One moment you’d be laughing over a funny story or reminiscing about the past, and then the next, you were being recommended diets or invited to come to the gym in what was your relatives' version of subtlety. And no matter how many times it happened, it still hurt like it was the first.

Sometimes, Leon could spare you from it. When he came around, all the attention would be on him, a newcomer who they didn’t know so much about. But on days like today, when you had to endure their company on your own, it was bound to happen.

Leon didn’t even know he was protecting you with his mere presence. You’d never told him about the passive aggressive remarks or the whispers across the room. He had enough problems of his own to deal with. You didn’t want to pile on by weeping to him, sounding like some shitty after school special. So instead, you resigned yourself to this, sinking into your self-pity until you were distracted enough to forget about it until next time.

Not much more of your movie plays before you hear the familiar sound of Leon’s keys outside the door. He comes in, offering you a small smile as he takes his jacket off and kicks his boots aside. You straighten up a little bit but not too much. Normally, you’d try to conceal all of this from him, but you were just too worn down today.

He’d been out dealing with some last minute things for work before he got a little time off for a couple weeks. He walks behind the couch to the kitchen, taking a moment to ruffle your hair as he goes by.

“How’s your day going? You had to go to that thing with your family right? Everything went well?” he asks from the kitchen.

“Yeah. It was fine,” you respond simply, “How’s yours? Get everything done?”

“Mhm,” he hums. You couldn’t see him, but he was watching you. He could tell something was up. He takes a few swigs of his drink before heading to the couch and sitting down with you. Glancing over at you a few times, he observes the way you’re watching the movie. The slight frown on your lips, your uninterested eyes.

“Hey, c’mere,” he says gently, “I missed you today.”

With a gentle tug of your wrist, he guides you across the couch. You slide over on the seats so you’re leaned against his side looking up at him. Like always, you put your head on his chest, his fingers find their way to your head and stroke it lovingly. His other hand makes his way to your side, tenderly squeezing your waist, and in-turn, gripping the plump flesh there. You loved the touch, but right now, it further amplifies your self-consciousness. You’re painfully aware of the shape of your body at this moment.

“You feeling ok?” he asks softly.

You simply nod in response, but it’s like he can see the gears turning in your head, cranking out one bad thought after the next.

“C’mon, tell me what’s wrong, pretty girl,” he coos, dragging his thumb over your cheek.

He called you that a fair amount, but in your current state, it just grated on your already frayed nerve endings. You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Nothing’s wrong,” you reply.

Your answer doesn’t satisfy him though. He’s not convinced. Any other day you’d talk his ear off about how you couldn’t believe someone did this or how there was no way another said that. You’d be all over him too. It seemed like you could never get enough of kissing his face or nuzzling his neck. But today you were quiet. Quiet and stiff.

“I know it’s something, baby. You can tell me. There’s nothing in this world I’d judge you for,” he murmurs before kissing your forehead.

You really wanna tell him. It shouldn’t be hard. The rational part of your brain knew all he’d do was make you feel better. Give you some smooches, whisper compliments against your skin as his hands rub you all over. The other part of you though, the irrational, scared girl hidden inside, kept you anxious. She kept you believing that this was something you had to bear alone. Even the fact that you were insecure in the first place was embarrassing.

In a move that made you feel overwhelmingly pathetic, you just shake your head. You push your face against his chest and remain silent. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat helps a little to calm you, but you still can’t force the words out.

He only grows more concerned as you shy away. He thought you just didn’t feel good, maybe a little gloomy, maybe had a headache. But this was clearly something deeper. His arms tighten around you, rubbing your back.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asks, “Talk to me. Breaks my heart seeing you sad.”

You can’t even stop the hot tears from sliding down your cheeks at this point. Sucking in a harsh breath, you cling to him. He sees you’re crying even though you’re quiet. He whispers a few more reassurances, trying to coax you into sharing what’s the matter.

“It’s just… do you… are you… are you attracted to me?” you choke out. Even the way you phrase it makes you wanna curl up and die.

He’s stunned. Honestly, that’s the last question he expected to hear between your soft gasps.

“What? Of course I am,” he says without a second thought.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to lie to me. I can take it,” you sob, keeping your face shielded against the muscles beneath his shirt.

“Yes I’m sure. Hey, hey,” he says. His tone drips with worry as he guides your face to look up at him, “Where’s this coming from, baby? Did I say something that made you think that?”

“N-no,” you cry, tears wetting his shirt by this point, “I- it’s just… I don’t…”

“Take a deep breath. It’s ok,” he whispers, “I just wanna know why you would be worried about that, babe?”

You follow his advice and get yourself calm enough that you can speak, but again, you can’t actually get the syllables out without losing it.

“Cause just look at me,” you weep and gesture at your figure.

“I am looking at you,” he says, still not understanding the issue.

“You’re telling me this is what you want?” you cry. You say it almost like an accusation. Like the word liar is on the tip of your tongue.

“Yes? I can’t help if you don’t tell me what the problem is, and I’m really not seeing a problem,” he says. He’s such a sweetheart. Doesn’t get defensive with you, doesn’t tell you to cool it. He’s understanding as ever, and it just makes you feel worse about your blow up.

“You really like me even though I’m chubby?” you finally blurt out.

His eyes soften when the words reach his ears. 

“Oh, baby…” he coos and pulls you onto his lap. It makes you uncomfortable at first, being on top of him, but he doesn’t even react to your weight on his thighs. “I love your body, every single part of it. You never need to worry about that.”

After that, everything comes spilling out. Every derogatory comment, every side eye, every single condescending smile. You ramble on about all of it through your tears. He nods along and shakes his head in disapproval when you tell him about your cousin’s birthday party when someone asked if you really needed a slice of cake. Or Christmas when your aunt cornered you to sell you on these diet shots her doctor prescribed her and how she could get you some easily.

“I never want you worrying about that kind of shit,” he tells you once it seems like your rant has come to a conclusion.

You sniffle and nod, burrowing into him further.

“I mean it. Cause for one, you're more than that. You’re sweet, so fucking sweet. You’re smart, funny. You’re you, and that’s what I love. I love talking to you, can’t get enough of your voice,” he murmurs as he kisses your cheeks and temple, “I notice all that before I’d ever notice whatever bullshit they tell you to feel bad about.”

“I know,” you whimper. Before you can say anything else, he keeps going.

“And you asked me if I’m attracted to you? That’s an easy answer, babe,” he says. He lifts you a little, shifting you on his lap so you’re straddling him. His hands squeeze your hips and rub up and down your sides. “You don’t understand how attracted to you I am. I cum harder jerking off while I think of you than I ever did fucking anyone else.”

You gaze down at him. Heat rushes through you at that admission. Your crying has come to a halt now as you hang onto each word of his.

“I mean, really honey? What wouldn’t I like?” he purrs, “You seriously believe I wouldn’t love how soft you are? All the curves I feel press up against me when you give me a hug or you wanna cuddle?”

His hands run along your skin with more teasing now.

“Your tummy? Fucking love it. Love how you get all squirmy when I rub and kiss it how you like,” he breathes as he tugs you forward so your front is against his. He kisses your lips softly. “Love feeling those round cheeks covered in tears and drool when you start losing it for me. And your thighs? I can’t get enough of ‘em clamped around my head when I’m eating your pussy. Fucking things squeeze me till I think I’m dreaming.”

Well, didn’t you feel stupid now. As Leon continues preaching about your body like he’s referencing a divine being, his hands roam your body, sending shivers up your spine. His fingers knead the flesh of your ass before coasting around to your tits and taking handfuls of them.

“I can only say so much, dolly. Think you should just let me show you how much I love it,” he breathes against the shell of your ear.

“Ok,” you agree. So simple it draws a small chuckle from his throat.

Without the slightest hesitation, he stands up, taking you with him. He hoists you up and doesn’t even let the smallest grunt slip from between his lips. You let out a tiny squeak which turns his chuckle to a full laugh.

“Leon…” you start with uncertainty.

“Nope. None of that,” he shushes you.

He boosts you up, getting you comfortable in his arms. Your legs lock around his waist just as he starts to move. Padding away from the couch, he takes you to the bedroom. He’s not straining himself at all. He glides through the doorway with you cradled against his abdomen like this was the most natural thing in the world. In all honesty, you weren’t too much for him in the slightest. All the training he did for his government job had prepared him to carry more weight than you.

He sets you down on the bed, crawling on top of you. His lips meet yours as he leans down and connects the two of you in a series of wet kisses. His hands glide beneath the fabric of your shirt, feeling your skin and the warmth of your body. After making out for a while more, he pulls back. He kneels above you, breathing heavily as he peels off his shirt. His toned abs and chest come into view. You’re still taking in the sight of him as he starts undoing his pants. To match him, you slowly begin to remove your own attire.

Soon enough, the both of you are nude. You expect him to get back on top of you and drill you into the bed until you’re seeing stars. But instead, he flops down next to you on the mattress, looking at you with a lopsided smile.

“You want me on top?” you ask as you begin to move yourself into position.

“I do. But not how you’re thinking.”

You pause, trying to figure out what he meant. It clicks in your mind suddenly as you're looking at his smug expression. He wanted you to sit on his face. He’d asked you to once or twice before, but you usually got out of it by playing up your neediness and acting like you needed his cock that very moment or you would explode.

There was no excuse that would spare you from this now though. You look him in the eyes and shake your head. His only response is to playfully nod at you and give your hips a little tug, urging you up his chest.

“Leon…” you whisper nervously. You wanted to, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“Don’t give me that,” he teases. His tone transitions to a more genuine one as he says “Let me do this for you.”

You hesitate once more, but another light pull of your hips has you tentatively scooting forward on top of him. You brush by his chest and neck until you’re hovering above his head. He lets out a sigh just from feeling the heat of your thighs on either side of him. His elbows bend around your thighs, keeping you in position. He looks up at you and finds your nervous eyes to give you a comforting look.

“I’m gonna crush you,” you say as if to warn him.

“You better,” he responds.

And that’s all the talking he needs to do before pulling your hips down and mashing your cunt against his mouth. You gasp as you feel his tongue licking you up and down already. He groans when he tastes your slick. Diving in further, his mouth opens and closes as he pleasures you. He sucks on your clit and massages your entrance.

Your arm shoots out to hold onto the headboard for balance. Your hips involuntarily rock back and forth, smearing your arousal over his chin and lips. He keeps you in place for the most part, but he doesn’t restrain your movements. If anything, he devours you with increased fervor.

“That’s right, baby. Ride it,” he mumbles against your folds.

He tightens his grip a bit as he licks broad stripes over your pussy. His nose nudges your swollen bundle of nerves, ripping sharp whimpers from you. You roll your hips into the sensation. He nearly whines while feeling the fluid motion. He keeps lapping at you like it was the task he was born to perform.

Then you feel a thrum on your hip, his fingers tapping. You look down, at first worried he needed you to get off. But looking down, you find his hooded eyes gazing back at you and his index finger gesturing behind you.

You turn to look and see his cock, rock hard, flushed red, leaking a few drops of pre cum onto his abdomen.

“You see how attracted to you I am?” he asks.

You moan loud as he returns to eating you out like it’s his final action. Seeing him so worked up from merely pleasuring you drives you wild and has you gushing all over his chin. You whimper and grind down onto his mouth some more. Your head falls back, your chest heaving and bouncing as you accept the euphoric feeling below. You reach down and tug at his hair. He practically growls and continues to work you to the edge. He pays some special attention to your clit and fucks his tongue into you to finally get you there.

“Be a good girl and cum all over my face,” he commands between licks.

You release with a yelp. Your hips buck as your body spasms. Thighs tremble violently before tensing and pressing against his ears. He smirks against the velvety junction and keeps going through the high.

Once you start to come down, he releases you from his grip and gives you a firm smack on the ass. You slump over and crumple up next to him on the bed. His face is shimmering with your release. His fingers swipe across his chin, collecting your slick that had coated the skin there. He sticks the digits in his mouth and hums in satisfaction as he licks them clean.

“Could eat that pussy for hours, it tastes so fucking sweet,” he says as he starts moving towards you again.

Now, it’s actually time for him to crawl on top of you. He rocks his hips against you as he goes in for more kisses. His cock drags against the smooth skin of your thigh, the sticky tip sliding back and forth. His wet fingers hold your jaw and keep your lips puffed out for him to kiss.

While he kisses you more, he spreads your thighs and slots himself between your folds. He moves himself up and down through the wetness that had gathered.

“Pretty, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your lips, “My gorgeous love doll.”

Teasing himself and you by gliding his tip over you a few more times, he then moves it down against your hole and enters you fully. He moans, his breath hitching as he sinks into your warm, wet embrace.

“Good girl. Squeeze around me just like that. So fucking tight,” he grunts.

He takes a moment to just feel you. Feel your walls pulsing around him. Feel your heated, squishy form against his firm one. But then he starts to move. He slowly works his shaft back. A long drawn out “fuck” leaves his mouth before he whispers a crisp “good god” while pressing back in.

He begins to pump into you with an even pace. He strokes nice and deep, keeping his movements consistent for you. You flutter around him and squirm slightly as he prods at your most sensitive spots. He leans back to look down at the spot where the two of you connect.

He watches his cock slide in and out of you, disappearing into your cunt time and time again. He’s obsessed with how your slick coats his shaft, dripping down to the base. His thumb comes to swipe over your clit quickly and give you some extra sparks of euphoria. You whine and arch your back at the touch.

“I know you have the perfect pussy. Made all for me,” he breathes, grinning as you shiver from the pleasure he inflicts upon you, “So responsive and sensitive just for me.”

You whimper and nod. Your hands claw at his back, digging into the muscles across his shoulders. He keeps slamming into you. His eyes roll back as his release builds. He mutters more praises and collapses on top of you again. He grinds and rolls himself into you rhythmically while you start to cling to him. It becomes harder to keep still as pressure mounts inside you, begging to burst.

“Wanna see my beautiful girl cum for me,” he mumbles while pressing sloppy kisses to your neck.

You pant and nod again. It was impending. All you needed was a few more thrusts. He swivels his hips, angling himself and swiping across more spots that drive you wild. It’s just a few moments later when your body seizes again and you let go with a loud cry. He can’t hold it either as he starts to shoot ropes of cum in you. You’re both shuddering, faces tense with absolute pleasure. He’s softly whimpering in your ear while your nails make deeper crescents on his shoulder blades.

He continues bucking into you, fucking his cum deeper. It’s almost like he can’t stop. It just feels too good. He can’t pull himself away even though the high is over and he’s already started to tumble down. You’re so blissed out that you don’t even complain of overstimulation, just let him go the few extra moments till he’s satisfied.

Once he is sated, he doesn’t pull out. He just stops moving his hips. His arms tighten around you, and he nestles his face in the crook of your neck where he can take in your scent with every breath.

“See what you do to me, baby?” he pants, “Wouldn’t change a thing about you. My girl, think you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

[2-dsimp]

I remember hearing from bird owners on the internet never to pet a bird's wings and back due to it arousing the bird, so many bird owners say to just pet their heads.

So, if someone where to "accidentally" brush past a certain Harpy's wings and lower back, or to playfully mess with the feathers a bit, how would said harpy react?

Love to mess with others and want to rile up Lynx a bit heh

Cw: Fem! Reader, NSFW🔞 creampie, knotting, praise, Lynx being a horny birb, overestimation, cum inflation, breeding, exhibition, use of public toilet stall, possessive/obsessive tendencies. Slight degradation.

Synopsis: You decided it would be a good idea to figuratively and literally ruffle the harpy’s feathers and you ended up getting more of a reaction than you bargained for.

☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:.｡. .｡.:

"My muse~ you know how I can’t bear to resist you on a daily basis.”

The harpy scolded, his voice low and husky with desire. Using his clawed hands to cover your lips in order for your explicit sounds not to escape the bathroom stall y’all were currently boxed inside of.

“So Why would you do that when I was just about to be handed my Grammy?"

The singer could feel himself getting closer, his own pleasure building up inside of him as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. He struggled to hold on, gritting his teeth as he tried to savor the five minutes. That he so desperately asked for, just to momentarily hold off on accepting his trophy for having the best selling album.

Using the excuse that he needed to use the bathroom to get rid of his cold feet. When in reality the moment you ruffled his sensitive feathers. Lynx damned near almost snatched you up and fucked you on stage. But thinking about his managers pleas on not causing havoc. The birdman instead hustled you into the nearest bathroom stall.

“You must’ve done this on purpose. Did you really want me to give you my knot that badly baby?"

He panted, relishing in the harsh wet smacks of his balls against your plump ass. His long lashes fluttered shut as he humped you frantically knowing that time was running out. Twitching sporadically as his fleshy pointed cock. Kept spurting out copious amounts of clear precum which continually fattened you up.

"Fuck! You’re sucha bad girl, getting me all worked up. I can feel your juices splashing on my knot, such a dirty chicky you are~”

The Harpy no doubt felt his impending orgasm threatening to burst from his leaking dick. like a pressurized dam, his family jewels throbbing to unload his hot jizz inside of you. As he felt you squirting on his meaty rod that was hitting all your weak spots.

"Imma stuff you up with so much cum, that your gonna leave a snail trail wherever you go. That way people will know that you’re taken."

Lynx trilled melodically, his tail feathers swishing as his plumaged fluffed up from the sensation of your cunt clenched down on his length that was bullying its way against your womb.

“You’d like that right? My pretty mate? Of course you would!”

He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck biting and licking at the sweat dripping from your skin. Not even taking not of how you were crying fat tears of overstimulation from being stuffed to the brim with his growing knot lodged inside your clammy walls. His shaft still fucking itself into your weeping quim as he prepared to let go. Since it was almost time for him to get back stage and accept his reward ceremony.

“Don’t worry I’ll take care of you more later on, so for now just open up that cute womb of yours so I can flood it with my hatchlings yeah?”

With a bodily shudder racking through him he pressed his body flush against you. His wings hugging you within a protective cocoon. Whilst he released his hot harpy sperm deep inside of you, filling you up completely with his seed. He let out a breathy, guttural keen of exhilaration as he continued to ride his high inside of you, his knot still expanding in depth within your pussy as he proceeded to ground himself empty completely inside of you.

"Mmm, you feel s-so good, my muse… You think I can squeeze in one more load inside of your pretty pussy?"

Lynx drawled out , his voice scratchy and needy as he slowed down his movements. The Harpy stayed inside of you, his cock still twitching as he enjoyed the feeling of being buried deep inside of you. From hearing your small moans in response his penis already returned to half mast eager to fuck another batch of his baby batter inside you.

[sunni-stuff]

I've been thinking about pirate!Ghost for the past couple weeks. I needed to get this out now.

-🌤! Tags: Afab, Uncontrollable Horniness, nsfw, age-gap. (early to mid 20s.)

The Sea Dogs were an entire ship full of ragtag men, each with his own story and reasons for joining the crusade across countless seas. Captain John Price, the leader of this crew, was a renowned figure known for his leadership and countless achievements. He had led his crew through years of wear and tear on the unforgiving waves, making their name heard far and wide.

None were as infamous as Ghost, his trusted gunner, known for his quick dagger throws and even quicker shots. A hulking man with a standoffish demeanor and unwavering cautiousness, Ghost never fully showed his face. He wore a black bandana tied around the lower half of his face, with black paint smudged around his eyes, revealing nothing yet leaving his harsh brown orbs to pierce the soul of anyone who stared too long.

To those who did not know him, Ghost was intimidating, deadly, and most of all, someone to avoid. He was fine with this. He relished the benefits his appearance gave him, how people shrank away at the mere sight of him, even from a distance. It made sense–who in their right mind would want to be near a man who had put a bullet through so many men that he couldn't count them all on his fingers?

Ghost was ruthless.

A silent marauder who took what he wanted without a second thought, plundering from men and women alike. Wherever he walked, the bodies and blood of the lives he took at sea seemed to follow. The culprit, his calloused hands bore the weight of his trusted flintlock, a companion who would even accompany him to his very grave.

A dirty bastard indeed.

Too dirty for the likes of you.

You.

You, who he sees, enter the blacksmith's forge. You, who wore a simple white dress with a black corset tied tightly around your waist. You, who smiled so innocently to the islanders as you carried out your chores. Running errands for your father all around the quaint island, carrying a simple woven basket filled with bread and biscuits in your delicate arms.

His mouth runs dry.

Ghost can't take his eyes off you as you walk past him, saying, “hello.” to a nearby merchant. Your sweet voice renders him speechless, drowning out everything else around him. He can’t hear Price bartering anymore. He can’t hear Gaz and Soap ribbing on who can pull in the most lasses. All he can hear is the sound of his heart beating and your brief yet lovely hello. He watches the sway of your hips beneath the fabric of your dress, how your stays lifts your delectable bosom with each breath.

He wants—needs to sink his teeth in you.

Ghost is desperate to touch you, to possess you completely. He craves the feeling of his hands on your skin, his lips ravishing yours as he listens to the sweet moans in his head. He wants nothing more than to thrust himself inside you and claim you as his own, burying his thick cock deep within your weeping pussy.

You’re a real peach. All smiles and fluttering lashes. A young thing, he assumes, based on the way the people dote on you so as you pass by shops, making your way back to your father’s bakery.

He’s an older man, one weathered by storms and battles, which do nothing to deter him from his new conquest. After all, the older the berry, the sweeter the juice.

And Ghost believes himself sweet enough.

Ghost discreetly adjusts the growing bulge in his pants and conceals any weapons he may be carrying.

He couldn't afford to scare off his darling pet.

And with that, Ghost followed after you, a maiden worth more than any treasure.

🌤 I had really bad writers blocked and was unable to write for a while, but this has been floating around in my pea brain for so long, so please enjoy.

P.S. This wasn't proofread.

[onlyswan]

summary: in which jungkook misses you before he even leaves.

idol!jungkook x reader / angst, fluff / word count: 3.7k

content/warnings: they both cry, they’re so in love and anxious of being apart 🥲 pls somebody give my babies a box of tissue damn it!!! / making out :") might be one of my favs i’ve written heh cherry koo ily

> in which masterlist!

note: hi hiii this serves as a prologue kinda to the giving up drabbles <3 and as to not confuse the timeline, this one takes place in sept 2018 and the first giving up drabble june 2019 ^^ hehe reblogs/feedback are appreciated + as always i’d love to chat abt ur thoughts 🥺

—

“i’ll call you when i arrive at the dorm, baby. let’s pack the rest of my things together, hmm?”

you hum softly in agreement, hiding your face on jungkook’s chest so he won’t see you yawn.

you’re so adorable, he thinks to himself with a grin.

matching his outfits with you in preparation for his travels has always been one of the little ways you spend quality time together. yes, you will be physically apart for most of this year and the next… but if he just pushes that fact in the back of his mind for an hour or two so he can make you laugh with his purposely horrendous choices, he thinks he may be able to leave with a lighter heart.

one last kiss is granted to your forehead, and you nuzzle your cheeks against his warm hands to cherish every ounce of his touch you can manage to steal.

you peek from the small space of the door to smile at your lover, which he then returns rife with fondness. you wave and bid your silly bye bye’s to each other, and it’s you who ultimately closes the door despite the voice in your head bewailing its protests.

it creates a clicking sound as you push it all the way, and after that, the defeaning silence fills your apartment like a toxic gas that makes it impossible to breathe. with no other soul left to witness it, your walls involuntarily come crumbling down. your eyes become blurry with unshed tears, and they fall one by one, some getting caught by your eyelashes. they hang heavy until they inevitably roll down your cheeks, as if they’re desperate not to crash and break, as if they’re horrified of their fate towards doom… much like you are.

recognizing the sensation of your weak knees threatening to give way, you lean your forehead on the hardwood to relieve some of the weight burdening your shoulders.

your chores have piled up while you were recklessly spending every second you had left with your boyfriend. you have better things to do than to cry. however, you can’t control your face that contorts to express the pain of having your heart mercilessly squeezed in your chest, tighter and tighter as the distance between you and jungkook grows, and it will only continue to do so.

you wind up as a heap on the floor, an intricate collection of love yet to be given and shards of memories calamitous and beautiful, knees hugged to your chest as you weep.

you swore you wouldn’t do this. you fucking swore you wouldn’t do this to yourself.

since losing your family, you’ve been alone, trying to survive in this world like a leaf in the eye of a storm, carried by a raging river that travels to an unknown sea. you then promised that no matter how much you affection you’ve grown to have for someone, if there comes a time that they make you feel lonely (skin-on-skin or heart-to-heart), you will be the one to walk away first. even if it hurts, even if it leaves you empty inside. for one, you’ve never liked wasting your time. you know what you want and what you need— someone who will stay within reach. your day-to-day life is far too draining for you to find the energy to beg for love and attention… and for the love of god, there’s already too many people you wish were still by your side.

your friends have witnessed you annihilate hearts and egos, leaving behind a string of jaded lovers.

but jungkook, with his bunny-like smile and endless gestures of kindness… has somehow slithered his way into a space in your heart where no one has ever been.

the apartment feels too empty with him not around. he’s not knocking rhythmically at your door from the inside to announce his arrival. he’s not in the kitchen humming songs while chopping vegetables. he’s not in the shower yelling at you because you forgot that turning on the sink makes his water cold. he’s not in the living room watching a movie on your laptop. he’s not snuggled closely with you and snoring execessively by your ear.

it’s going to be like this for a while. it’s always going to be like this, you realize.

you’re so fucking lonely.

you’ve only gotten used to him being here, and now you need to re-learn what it’s like to be without him.

you’re forced to gasp for air as you sob uncontrollably, interrupted by occasional hiccups that make your body jolt. you taste the salt in your tears as they seep into the crevice between your lips, can feel them beginning to poison your skin.

you let jungkook come too close. he slept on your bed and he learned that you’re always cold. he enveloped you in the safety of his warm embrace and you couldn’t will yourself to leave after the first time. you’ve surrendered to him the control over your body, and also your heart, which you may be breaking alongside your rule but… walking away would mean forsaking yourself.

for the first time, you are crying not because of the absence of love, but the abundance of it. humans are essentially a collection of dead stars that are brought back to life when they are consumed by the electric ache of love and yearning. you are addicted to the antidote that is the touch of another body that burns the same.

you’re free falling.

if you were to choose the cause of your madness, you would choose this.

because for the first time, you are not cursing a name, but the universe and its twisted ways. in your one-bedroom apartment, you don’t feel small; your arrogance is as big as the sun that threatens to swallow the earth whole. the empty space on your bed is now in the shape of the man who loves you.

the back of your head hits the door, and you sigh at the new predicament that presents itself to you: the fluorescent lightbulb at your doorway is flickering as if to signal its impending death.

your bad vision begs you to look away.

it’s too high. it’s too high for you to reach. jungkook isn’t here anymore.

you bury your face in your hands, another wave of tears spilling over before you could get a hold of yourself. your cries are unapologetic; you sound like a little child who got their hair pulled at the playground.

you would much rather wait for him than find a solution. you want to bear the weight of him in every possible way there is. you want to have him in mind every time you flip the light switch, because you always seem to forget that it’s dying after a long day at school.

but for now, all you can do is sit on the floor and smell his perfume on your clothes as you wait for his call.

—

jungkook is still frozen on the driver’s seat, struck with a suspicion that he left something behind in your apartment, but he can’t figure out what else there is besides his heart in the palm of your hands.

he opens up every single compartment of his backpack, but he soon carelessly discards it at the backseat because he has no idea what it is he’s even looking for.

“what is it? what is it? what is it?” he mutters absentmindedly to himself, wide doe eyes still actively darting around the car as he mulls over what could possibly be missing. “am i an idiot? am i just making things up in my head?”

but he is leaving for tour after all, it would be a big headache if he forgets to bring something important.

something important such as…

proceeding with a final inspection, he starts patting around his body, from his chest down to the pockets of his sweatpants.

“ahhh-” he makes a noise of enlightenment when he discovers one of them to be completely empty.

it then becomes vivid in his mind— the memory of him lazily setting down his wallet on your study table before he crawled on your single-sized bed as if it’s his own.

“…shit. i need to go back.”

—

he has a smirk plastered on his face as he jogs his way up to your apartment floor. radiating with pure excitement unbeknownst to himself, he even begins to skip a step with every long stride he makes across the staircase.

thanks to his forgetfulness, he found an excuse to be with you for a few minutes more.

the fourth door straight ahead, he still remembers chanting in his head the first time he visited your building on his own.

he stands before it with the intention to surprise you, but ironically, he is the one who ends up freezing in place. your muffled sobs escape through the narrow cracks of the door, and his hand slowly slips away from the handle until it drops back to his side. his vision becomes unfocused, mind going blank, only registering the shortness of his breath and the powerful punch to his gut.

that sweet, heart-fluttering smile that comforted him must’ve killed you inside.

—

“i won’t forget to call after every show.”

“that does sound nice but…” you scrunch your nose cutely. “i won’t be upset, if that’s what you’re worried about. go straight to sleep when you’re exhausted. i know you won’t have much time to rest.”

“please! you can watch me sleep too.” he pouts. “you know i always make it work. while i eat, while i shower! that won’t change. i need to see you and gain strength… or else i seriously think i won’t survive this one.”

and jungkook hopes that he’s not too much of a burden for loving you.

although, you did tell him once in passing— that anyone can be passionate, but not everyone will bravely go on stage every night to showcase those passions, even if it means testing the very limits of the human body.

“i can’t allow that to happen, can i?” you click your tongue, copying the angry frown of your boyfriend, who you find so, so, so cool.

his features soften after you pinch his soft cheek.

“your hyungs might kill me if i make their little one mope around missing me too much.”

“w-what do you mean?” he becomes flushed with embarrassment. “what kind of things do they tell you?!”

“nothing much.” your eyes shine with a glint of faux innocence. “when we were trainees, jungkook did this… since meeting you, he’s gotten more stubborn… can you tell him to wake up earlier if he plans on showering for an hour? you know, just things like that.”

“aish! jimin-hyung!” he releases a deep sigh to express his exasperation, knitted forehead not doing much to diminish the roundness of his eyes. “i bet one of them is jimin-hyung! i’m right, aren’t i? you- you’re getting too close with him! i can’t allow this- really, i- ah! no! no!”

the burst of laughter that fills the room only confirms his suspicion. you roll over on the bed to cover your face, half of your body collapsing on top of his, and you clutch your aching belly when he begins to aggressively shake you in a joking manner.

“listen, you can’t become best friends! you hear me? don’t! my secrets… what’s going to happen to them? who else can i tell them to?!”

immediately recognizing his poor choice of words once they have left his mouth, jungkook purses his lips in regret, and it’s his turn to feel his lungs burn from the lack of oxygen.

“oh, really?” you slowly sit up as you stare at him with raised eyebrows. “and what kind of secrets do you need to keep from me? huh?”

he doesn’t waste a second to reply, scrambling as to not leave any space for you to formulate more doubts in your head.

“nothing! nothing, baby!” he flashes a dreamy smile in return to your sharp glare. he gently cups the back of your head to pull you back closer, puckering his lips as he tries to meet you halfway. “come here- give me a kiss.”

you ignore his advances, moving away from him with a scoff you don’t even bother to hide. the annoyance bubbling up inside of you feels irrational, and yet you can’t stop it from controlling your body language.

his jaw slacks in disappointment. he despises being denied affection, more importantly, a kiss meant to be shared with you.

“are you mad?”

you turn your back against him, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, but jungkook doesn’t waste time in chasing after you.

“baby!” he whines, seizing your arm and tightly embracing you from the side before you can escape. “i was just joking- i promise- i swear. you’re even the first person i share my secrets with nowadays!”

you sigh in defeat, eyes fluttering shut as you allow him to caress your face and pepper your cheek with loving kisses. loud, and slightly wet, which you used to not be fond of when it came to the lovers you had before, but as for jungkook and his dewy lips, you weirdly don’t seem to mind.

“please don’t be mad.” he coos lightheartedly before ducking his head to press his lips against yours. “i don’t want us to fight before i go.”

“i’m not mad.” your reply is quiet, and it drips with hesitance. “i just don’t want to think about you having secrets while you’re away.”

you turn to communicate directly with his eyes. if you feel sick to your stomach imagining him as a person you’d never have the grace to forgive, you don’t show it.

“you understand where i’m coming from, right?”

he meekly nods.

this is another reason why he is eager to spend all his free time with you, albeit through a screen smaller than the palm of his hand, and perhaps buy you trinkets from every city that welcomes him because everything reminds him of you. he wants to give you the reassurance that he doesn’t have any plans on doing something that may hurt you. this will be excruciating, he knows, but it is also a chance to prove himself as a boyfriend worthy of your tears and sacrifices. this can’t end before it begins. he doesn’t think he’d be able to bear that. he just celebrated his first birthday with you. it hasn’t been long since you uttered the three words he’s been anxiously waiting to hear.

“i love you. please give me your trust for now… i won’t waste it. you’ll see, at the end of this, we’ll be stronger. i promise i won’t forget my responsibilities as your partner even if we’re physically apart.”

he tenderly strokes your hair, eyes filled with galaxies memorizing every inch of your face. he’s scared, too. he’s scared that he’s overestimating himself. too ambitious, too greedy for wanting both the world and the most beautiful person he has ever seen in it to love him. he’s scared of getting too exhausted. he’s scared that you won’t be there anymore when he opens his eyes.

“i will probably mope around, though, missing you too much…” he pauses, then he makes up his mind.

him getting more stubborn since he met you— it might just have some truth to it that he’s too sheepish to say out loud, especially if his members were around to hear it.

“yes, i will seriously be a handful.” he nods to himself. “so i’m already apologizing early.”

“what are those responsibilities exactly?”

“to show you that i love you!” he exclaims in a tone that screams obviously. “to make you happy, to keep you safe… to stay committed to you- yah, you already know these things!”

but still, it’s nice to hear him say it. this bed of roses is a bed of thorns; he has chosen to sleep on it with you.

you giggle heartily at the sight of his face getting flushed. “you’ve been doing a great job then, baby.”

the praise causes his doe eyes to sparkle with glee. “really?”

“really!” his heart skips a beat when you softly cup his face in your hands, wearing that kind smile he can’t help but fall in love with over and over again. “don’t worry, i won’t let you miss me too much. i have my share of the responsibilities too.”

—

he swallows the lump in his throat, shakily sitting on the floor with his back against the door. he doesn’t know how long he stays there. he only knows that it’s near sunrise because the lights across the hallways have gone out one by one.

with an elbow resting on top of his knee, he fiddles with the laces of his shoe with no rhythm or rhyme— silently crying with you, clueless as to what he should do. he didn’t learn about this in school, nor during dance practices. no one teaches you what to do when you hurt a person you love but there’s no fault to fix and apologize for.

every now and then, a tenant passes by, and he is overwhelmed with the urge to scream at them to fuck off and mind their own business.

adding to his frustration is his phone, which has been vibrating with calls and text messages. he only spares them a dismissive glance before clicking the off button. yes, he fucking knows it’s already 5am. yes, he’s still with his baby. however, he is forced to send a reply to his manager when asked if they could finish packing his luggages for him to save time. no. no, no, no.

on the other side of the door, the pitter-patter of mechanical rain tickles your ears. your nimble fingers doesn’t cease on tapping on the keyboard even as your eyes stray to the contact name above the conversation, just to make sure that it’s your boyfriend you’re texting.

to: my jungkook

babyyy the sun is about to rise

so i’m not sleepy anymore :(

you're not home yet?

wait. if you're still driving just reply later

be a good driver before a good bf for now ☺️

ohoh i don’t mind if you don't have time to call anymore. just text me rq before you take off pleaseee so i know you're safe and sound

and after the flight ofc!! 😭

i love you! ❤️

seconds later, a pounding at the door makes your body jolt in shock. you carelessly rush to stand up, the safety measure of looking through the peephole not even crossing your mind before you swing it open.

jungkook stuns you with his presence, chest heaving with every breath as he studies you in a fog of haze. your messy hair perfectly frames your pretty face. your parted lips are raw from the crime of your sharp teeth forcibly putting an end to your crying. your eyes are still damp with tears, and they shine every time the warm light hanging above your head flickers.

if you could only read his mind, you won’t have to worry about him wanting anybody else.

once again, he finds himself helplessly infatuated. why do you have to look utterly bewitching even when you cry? fuck, and your texts… how did he get so lucky? you fuel something carnal inside of him that he has difficulty putting into words.

and so, he allows his actions to speak for himself.

“jungk-” his name is interrupted with a high-pitched whimper caught in your throat. your trembling hands desperately grasp the sides of his hoodie as you stumble backwards, struggling to recriprocate the unrestrained fervour of his kisses.

he’s out of control. he has never kissed you like this before. you don’t know if he doesn’t feel your weak fists punching his chest or he just doesn’t care. you feel dizzy… dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

you’re confused why he’s still standing at your doorway. you’re terrified of losing your balance. you’re crushing a pair of sneakers underneath the soles of your feet and it hurts. but his fingers are tightly tangled with your hair, the others playing a saccharine hymn along the keys of your spine, and for the pleasure he gives, you can endure to live with the pain.

the familiar taste of mint on his tongue is far too addictive for you not to indulge. you can’t stop craving for more of it, more of him, and you let your lungs burn.

but soon it mixes with the salt in his tears as his emotions crash on the shore like a tsunami. the seal of your lips is broken by a quiet sob, and in shame, he ends the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

“____, what do i do? i don’t want to leave.”

your heart shatters into pieces as he sniffles, voice cracking as he musters up the courage to confess to you in between.

“jungkook…”

the words of sincerity feel heavy on his tongue. he’s never been good at this; always relied on his ability to feel. in spite of that, he wants to bare all of himself to you, and he prays that you believe him when he says- “i can’t imagine my life without you anymore.”

“so don’t. you don’t have to think about things like that.” you sigh as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, subtly swaying your bodies to soothe him. “come on, love. why are you crying…? you know where to find me, don’t you?”

you feel him nod before he mumbles pensively. “here… or school, or the restobar.”

“that’s right.” you chuckle. “just don’t lose your key. i’m not going anywhere.”

but he fears it’s his goddamn mind he might just lose. he squeezes his eyes shut, embracing you tighter as he counts the seconds in his head. he will let go after thirty, then perhaps he will stay for another ten.

in another lifetime, jungkook wishes that he could tell you the same.

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—