#and him trying to live up to her saying to trust himself

[petriwriting]

Based on THIS Request.

Thank you for @skywalkerzs for requesting. I had fun with it! thinking of doing a continuation of the next episode as well.

"JJ where have you been?" Kie asks him.

"We've been so worried." you reply. He walks up, after his outing going to see who he thought was his father, Luke. "Long story. Where are the others" he asks. "Almost back by now, why what happened?" You ask him, kie took off her gardening gloves and folds her arms, ready for whatever exaggerated story JJ is about to tell. You had stayed with kie to tend to the garden, worrying about JJ every minute, wishing to be by his side but respecting his need for alone time. whatever it was.

"Nothing." JJ says, he's defeated. "Please don't lie." you plead. "it's just my dad." he says. "oh shit," kie mutters. "He's back?" you ask. "yup. He's been holding up at barracuda mike's, I guess," he explains. "he's not trying to come back here is he?" kie asks. "Did he say anything about the place being his?" you add. "no it wasn't about that." JJ says flatly running his fingers through his hair. "Cause' the town council thing is tonight." she adds, shes worried for him just as you are.

"It's fine." he insists. "Kie can you give us a minute?" he asks, the wind is gently breezing through his hair now, it's a mess. "Yeah totally." She says, grabbing some of her gardening tools to put away, then disappearing. Kie was smart enough to know something was up, but she wanted to respect the privacy of her two best friends.

"Luke," JJ begins, he is anxious and you can tell. "My dad," he corrects himself. "He told... He told me he wasn't my real dad." he says. "was he serious?" you ask, luke was an abusive alcoholic, so for you it was hard to trust anything he ever said. "It wasn't a joke... He was being, weird- I don't know. But I get this." JJ shifts his feet and rummages his pockets to pull out a note. "it's from Wes Genrette, It says talk to your father." he explains, you run your thumb over the note. "look at this. It says 'talk to your father,' and then luke tells me that Wes Genrette... He's my grandfather. Which makes Groff, ...My father." he finished slowly.

"So Chandler Groff is your dad?" you question. "yeah." He nods. it is some heavy news. "It doesn't make any sense," JJ paces, gesturing. "But then he says, like, Larissa. you remember the painting? The one... Larissa Genrette." he steps closer to you. "She drowned with her baby? that's me. I'm that baby." he says. you sigh gently. "He's trying to work some inheritance scam. That's it, trying to make a quick buck by using me." JJ raises his voice slightly. "He's done it his entire life!"

"I'm so sorry, Jay." you utter softly, you wanted to kiss him or hug him. your heart is breaking for him. but as if on cue, the twinkie pulls up. "finally. the others are here." you say. "hey," JJ gets a bit serious. "Can we not tell them for now?" he asks. "yeah, yeah of course." you agree.

"I don't want them thinking, like, im a genrette. even if it's probably bullshit." he says. you nod in an understanding way. "of course JJ."

. . . .

The town council meeting is packed full of familiar faces. People who have lived on that island for decades through many generations, and some newer faces. It's a full house. There is subtle chatter, as the board memebers discuss the zoning ordinaces and bring up as a topic of discussion the Maybank property. You are sitting next to JJ, your hand is on his thigh. his other leg is bouncing. He's anxiously awaiting the discussion, but it seems like to kooks already have determined what will come of the property. There is some chatter amongst the pogues. The board then invites a representative from the property to come forward. "anyone feeling brave?" kie asks. JJ tries to stand up but you and John B both stop him. "whoa now," he says.

John B is then elected. He looks at Sarah for an approving nod and reassurance. He wanders up, states his name for the record and begins his defense.

"I'm not a lawyer but this doesn't make any sense..." he begins. You tense up in your seat. someone in the crowds cheers for John B. as he ends his long statement with "We could lose our home," You sigh, saddened at that reality. John B beautifully defends your home, and there is arguing and chatter amongst the Pogues and Kooks of the island. It is such an insane moment. They are trying to invalidate the sale. there's no way. That was yours fair and square.

The original owner, Luke Maybank stepped forward and took off his hat. "I'm sorry J." He says. "This can't be legal!" someone shouts. you are in shock, upset, angry and riled up. You stand up in opposition and notice JJ is frozen, he's biting his lip. Kiara is now up there rallying everyone. Her parents are threatening the officers at the front of the stand.

JJ stands, and turns right out of the church. It takes you a moment before you realize what is happening, the broken glass and JJ fighting against cops. You are shocked and processing everything that has happened. "Go! Get out!" You scream. But everyone is too late. The pogues are now outside, In a crown of aggressive townspeople, and JJ is locked into a cop car, once pope shouts for him to crawl out, he does. for a brief moment, he locks eyes with you while you hold his hands. "Go." you tell him. "Not without you." He says, grabbing your hand and running off as fast as he could manage with you trailing behind him.

. . . .

The two of you run through chateaus, mini-mansions, kook yards. eventually crossing paths with a group of kids playing baseball, in which JJ steals their bat. "Sorry!" you scream back at them, your hair flying behind you as you rush behind JJ, as he halts in front of a jewelry store. You catch up to him quickly.

"JJ what the hell are you doing!!" You shout. there's sounds of sirens in the distance. they can't be too far by now. "I've always wanted to do this," He says, before slamming his bat into the glass storefront, immediately sounding the security system. With the alarm blaring, he steps over the glass and grabs a shiny diamond ring. "I know we've only ever talked about it, but I've been wanting to do that for a long time." he says grabbing your hand and slipping it onto your ring finger. He then looks at the bat in his hands. "They wanted one island, Y/n." he pleads. you are lost in his eyes, he's mesmerizing you. "So give it to em'." he encourages, offering you the bat. You grab it, after slight contemplating. There isno time left. something in you had said, and you took the bat and smashed the rear window of the car and watched as the glass shattered all over the pavement. "Come and get me fellas!" JJ screams as he's riled up, you toss him the bat again and he busts the lamp post, before knocking things over, and lighting the trash can on fire, causing destruction to everything. You watched timidly, while you were riled up you didn't want him to end up in more trouble, but you also knew and loved him.

you knew and loved him to the point where you knew this was an outlet for him, he was letting out all his hurt And anger And even sadness. It was almost healing seeing him be so vulnerable in that moment. The way his jacket slung off his shoulder made your knees weak. He smashed the glass to a women's boutique, taking the hand of the manequinn. "Ladies," he says jokingly. He kissed the hand and smirked briskly. "Sorry, not in front of the wife," then looking at you with a wink. he continued on, and you heard the sirens blaring as the cops approached faster. a scene of destruction behind. "JJ we need to get out of here." the next thing you know you are once again running along with him, away from the cops.

[jaggedamethyst]

…look for the light

joel miller x f!reader | 2.7k

pairing: joel miller (tlou) x fem reader

content: you're tired of hearing that old slogan from the fireflies...but maybe you should give it a chance.

notes: 18+ minors dni, eventual smut for the girlies (smfh + side eye) also unprotected in the heat of the moment unfortunately…dont be like them! angst because it's my specialty, mental health depictions (illusions to death, depression, etc. do not read if that's a serious trigger) this takes place in the time jump between tlou 1 and tlou 2…tons of existential crisis otw, grief, everything unfortunately…and i still don’t believe in proofreading

also this is the longest i've written so far...of course it involves joel too...hashtag need that.

 ࿐ ࿔*:·ﾟ🍂🌿༄。°          ° 。༄🌿🍂·ﾟ*࿔ ࿐

You hadn’t arrived in Jackson on your own. At the time, you were one of a family of four. As time passed, the number dwindled along with your will to live. Back when everything was normal--or as normal as it could’ve been in a world that corrupt, you saw a therapist. You knew it was in their career description to listen. It helped sometimes, others it didn’t. Overall, though, you’d say they’d done a shit job if at the first sign of loss, you wanted to cease to exist. 

When you weren’t overthinking, you found yourself on patrol. It became ironic that you rejoiced at the sight of a fresh dead body. Knowing that the person before you had made a mistake you could now avoid lit a small fire in you. The flame didn’t last long though, quickly blown out every day with a speed just as fast as its ignition. 

To be candid, there was this guy. Well, this man. You couldn’t do him the injustice of calling him anything but a man. You saw him often--sometimes to himself, others with this girl. No matter the circumstance, though, he rarely spoke. You liked that. Something about people who acknowledged their capability to not speak made you extremely happy. Silence is a valid option. 

As an observer, you learned his name was Joel, the girl Ellie. They’d arrived about the same time as you, which explained the lack of interaction. This was, of course, aside from glances, the fake half-ass smiles you exchanged, and your time on patrol together. 

Unfortunately, he was the worst. It absolutely burned you up. That, and the fact that even when he annoyed you, you wanted to have extremely private time with him. 

The first time you actually spoke, he’d found you by a stream. You didn’t know he was showing the girl, Ellie, something that day. But as you lay with your eyes closed, taking in the sunlight--a shadow cascaded over you. 

You opened one eye to see who’d stepped in the way. Before you could get a word out, he spoke, “You from Jackson?”

“Who’s asking?” You created a sort of visor over your eyes with your hand. 

He huffed, “someone from Jackson.” 

Resuming your position on the ground, you spoke, “You some sort of Jackson cop? You seem like the cop type.” 

He scoffed. You realized he did that a lot, not speaking, making annoyed sounds. Not answering questions directly. 

“You should get back.” 

With a quirked brow, you replied, “I’m good, thanks.” 

“Wasn’t really a question.”

“Didn’t say it was.” 

By this point you’d opened your eyes again, surveying the man. You kind of felt bad for being snippy but honestly, he interrupted your “alone with my thoughts” time. Some people can cope without thinking of the same incidents in a constant loop. Not you--you liked the hurt. It reminded you to be safe. To not trust people. 

Even in that position, though, you observed the man. He looked rough, but in a way that motioned toward experience. There were hints of gray in his hair, yet he didn’t look old. His shirt was slightly opened, tattered. The sheen of sweat covering him made him all the more alluring in the sunlight. 

“Are you gonna get the hell up and get a move on or what?” 

You didn’t know him at the time, or that he was trying to surprise Ellie on her birthday. Even worse, that on this day, he’d thought of his daughter. He was coping. Anyone or anything out of place was shattering the amazing plan he had made to go a day without feeling like a disappointment. 

He didn’t know that your “alone with my thoughts” time often consisted of thinking of your family. You’d willed yourself to shut your eyes tight, picturing those you lost; it was the only time you could see them. If you got lucky, you could dream of them. If you were unlucky, you’d see images of their mangled bodies. 

It seemed that even awake, your luck was the fucking worst. 

With swift and silent movements, you stood and turned to leave. Avoiding eye contact was the only way to hide the tears prickling in your eyes. 

“Dude,” a young voice called out, “you hurt her feelings!”

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to, Ellie!” 

Like you said, he was the worst. But you definitely took it to the next level at every opportunity. 

That’s how you found yourself on patrol with Joel giving him the silent treatment. It was customary at this point. If you two went alone, he would bark out orders, you’d follow if you felt like it. If someone else happened to be there, you two would rely on an unspoken rule to only speak to them and not one another. It worked…until today. 

Entrapment wasn’t a new feeling for you. Often on patrol specifically, you would have to maneuver your way out of dangerous positions to return. But the realization of there being nobody to return to hit you today. So even when Joel and Jesse said to stay back, you proceeded. It was a miracle none of you three were bitten or worse. Your reckless act left the trek back to Jackson completely silent. 

When you reached the gate safely, Jesse spoke first. It was obvious he was shaken up but even more annoyed with you. “Kinda fucked up you did that. Did you even consider that you would put me and Joel in danger?” 

“Nobody told you to follow me, to be honest.” 

“I don’t give a fuck! When we leave, we work together… or we don’t go.” 

Joel shook his head silently, observing the way Jesse continued to rip into you. You continued the back and forth until Jesse hit extremely low. 

“Look, I know you lost people…I remember them-”

You spoke over him, a finger out in warning, “Don’t-” 

“And just because you feel like there is no worth left in your sorry ass life, doesn’t mean I wanna die right now. Not for you. Not on a stupid patrol mission.” 

It felt like he punched you. Square in the face. The way your breath left you was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Not since the day you realized your entire family was gone. As a result of that day, you grew accustomed to silent walks back to your house. You got used to the sounds your house made between the silence. 

You didn’t hear Joel’s faint footsteps and persistent calls to you as he followed behind. It wasn’t until the unusual sound of your door not immediately closing behind you that you turned around to see him there. 

“You didn’t even stop him, you just stood there like you always do!”

His signature sigh and no response. Just a sort of expectant look on his face. 

“Get. Out. Please.” 

You begged him to leave, your voice breaking. It was somewhere in the midst of you slowly falling toward the floor that he reached you. He knew what you were experiencing right now. The dull panging in your body, a faint scream at you, and a feeling that of anyone it should’ve been you to go, not your family. 

He didn’t want to admit that he recognized the bubble of sadness around you, as he’d be forced to acknowledge his own. The least he could do was to comfort you in a way he had yearned for when he lost Sarah. When he lost Tess. When he thought Tommy was gone. But he failed, as he always did, crying with you. 

He urged you to quiet your sobs, “It’s okay, shhh.” 

His attempts at soothing you were a sort of reassurance to himself--that it was okay. It could be okay. He eventually grasped your face, too, forcing you to look at him. He wanted you to believe him, despite the lack of conviction in his voice. The eye contact shocked you both. You had never seen the man cry let alone been this close to him. From a distance, it's easy to think that any dark-colored eye is just black but his…

“Brown…” You mumbled incoherently. 

“What?”

“Your eyes. I’ve never really looked at ‘em.” 

He was confused, “yeah, brown.” 

“It's just that, it's easy to overlook things…” when you’re so stuck in the past, you wanted to say. But you left it. You had a feeling he understood. 

It was hard to not lean into his touch, even harder to not want to be near him. He noticed you staring, but there was still so much left unsaid. Thinking about it, he never really allowed himself to carry out a conversation with you. But there was an unspoken attraction between you. It was easy to minimize said attraction to one where you needed each other. It was suffice to say that it was more tantamount to the way particles were reliant on one another. Even more, the way symbiosis occurred. Despite the urge to push one another away, you knew that you did, in fact, need each other. 

If not for a long time, at least for now. 

Without a word, you pushed up a bit, meeting your lips with his. He was obviously taken aback; there was so much behind the kiss…but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

You pulled at his shirt, that damned shirt he always liked to wear. Always opened slightly, but never enough to give you what you needed.

“Can I?” You broke the kiss and motioned toward the buttons, breaking eye contact for a second. 

Joel let out a characteristic sound, affirming you, “Mhm, yeah…” 

You moved your hands lower, stopping at the close of his top. “Are you sure?” 

The man understood you. The shirt acted as a sort of metaphorical barrier between the two of you. As much as it scared the both of you to cross that line, there was an unspoken respect for one another. 

He noticed your apprehension, bearing the task of taking down that wall for you both. 

Joel unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, intentional in his action. 

He watched you shiver, “I haven’t…I want…I mean-” 

That same alluring stare maintained its gaze at you, Joel allowing you the time to process and say what you wanted to. 

“I want to feel…be close to you. Not because I want to use you or something…I just,” You searched for words that seemed to escape you. 

His words interrupted your thought process, a gentle but calloused hand returning to your face. 

“You don’t have to have a reason. Use me.” 

That was enough to make you attack him full force. You’d thought of each other so long that there was an urgency. There wasn’t time for niceties or the pleasantries of preparing yourself for him. You just wanted each other immediately. 

The trail of clothing that led to your room was something out of one of those old movies you watched. Before everything went to shit. You allowed yourself a smirk at the thought--Joel hot on your trail. 

Joel observed how clean your place was. He was one to keep tidy, too. Not for the thought of expecting someone, but for lack of people except him. There were few things he held near and dear, so a large space like his home was often unused save for his bed and couch. It seemed you echoed this thought, and that made him even more eager. Knowing you had so much in common made him insatiable.

You found yourselves kissing again, seeking comfort in each other. It was sweet and slow. You couldn’t handle it, the lack of him. 

“Joel, please,” you backed towards the bed. Now fully available for him. With you demanding everything be so structured to protect yourself these days, you were willing to let go for once. 

He didn’t say anything, he never did. But the way he hovered over you, maintained eye contact and pushed into you said enough. 

His pace was somewhere between painfully slow and slower. He felt your wetness, the way you were ready for him already, and it made him harder. He knew he wouldn’t last long if he went any faster. 

You reached up, pushing the hair out of his face. It was a distraction from how good it felt, even the purposely slow pressure, but you wanted more. 

You bucked up into him. He hissed and grunted in your ear, that’s new. 

The southern drawl was even more apparent on the man. “Shit. I’m tryin’ to…make it last,” his head met your shoulder, breath against your skin. “Cant.” 

“Don’t.” 

You couldn’t see his face, but you figured a look of surprise flashed there. It only took a second for him to pick up the pace. Those grunts filled the room; his wordless communication was now music to your ears. 

You continued that way for not much longer--but the high was unlike any other. He reached down to rub between you, making sure you’d finish. The thought of him caring about you in that way and the pointed pressure of his strong hands doing so was enough to make your body pulse against him. 

He pushed you back down, keeping you still, “Don’t move, baby.” 

It was a lot. 

His movements became even more erratic, but it felt so damn good. 

“Where should I?” 

You arched a brow, “You want a little Joel running around here somewhere?” 

He chuckled, so sweetly, too. Fuck. 

“Wow, even full like this you still got a mouth on ya. I’m gonna work on that.” 

He pulled out suddenly, and before you could even complain, latched his mouth onto you until he finished and your voice went dry from calling out his name. 

Okay…

The usual urge to freshen up never came. The smell of Joel was all over you, and you liked it that way. You breathed in and out, processing what happened, fighting to stay awake. The sound of the man’s snores was enough to keep you awake in itself. 

It wasn’t until you heard the snores stop and Joel stirring that you spoke again.

“I’m sorry.” 

Joel turned his head toward you, clearly still half asleep, “For?” 

“For that day, in the woods, when we first met. I was mean.” 

“I understand. A random guy shows up asking questions. You get defensive. It happens to the best of ‘em.” 

There was silence. One long enough that Joel sat up to get out of bed--you stopped him when you spoke. 

“I was thinking of my family,” a pause, and with it, your eyes burned a bit. “I don’t know why I act the way I do. I don’t know why I’m… harsh. Part of me thinks it's because they are always looking at who I have become and are so disappointed. The other part of me thinks that they don’t see me at all…or that they can’t…that there’s nothing more after this. I dunno which feels worse but I know it drives me fucking crazy.” 

He silently reached for your hand, deliberate in his response. “I like to think that the big moments we share with the people we lose are more important than anything after.” He nodded, assuring himself before continuing. “Good or bad, their memory only survives as long as we are thinking of them.” He paused to look toward his wrist, almost out of muscle memory. “Our families may not be here, but even mentioning them proves that they were real. I know my baby girl was real, I can’t fail her by going on like she wasn’t.” He inched closer to you, “If it takes me being sad to know that there was someone I loved here before, I’ll stomach it any day.” 

You nodded slightly. 

“Thanks.” 

A hum resonated from him, and he made his way out of your house. He was elusive as always, and definitely just as attractive..if not more so now. But his words stuck with you. 

That stupid catchphrase from the Fireflies…you’d heard it often. The aftershocks of the group persisted even after they’d slowly dwindled in numbers. When you’re lost in the darkness…

Wiping your eyes, you pulled the covers back a bit more. A lot of time had passed, but for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel like it was ripped from you. 

After a few minutes, the Sun started to rise, heat emanating from your window. You felt the warmth slowly reach your face--closing your eyes. 

For once, you’d look forward to sleep, and even more, the possibility of dreaming.

[venusswhite]

A Thousand Years | Arcane Vi x Fem Leitora (Part. 1)

After losing everything, [Name] tries to rebuild her life. But what happens when a ghost with pink hair returns?

notes: English is not my first language, and I initially wrote this fanfic in Portuguese. With the help of online resources, I rewrote it in English.

Part. 2

“I will love you ’til the end of time” - Lana Del Rey

You were living with your parents when the war began. Your family lived in a small house on the outskirts of the city. Your mother sold trinkets, and your father repaired them. It was a simple, hard life, but it was a happy one.

Until that day…

It was nighttime when screams and gunshots were heard. The Enforcers were committing genocide in Zaun. You woke up startled, feeling your father lifting you from your makeshift bed on the floor, followed by your mother covering you with a cloth that went over your head.

Everything happened so fast. One moment, you were in your father’s arms amidst the chaos. The next, you heard gunshots too close for comfort and your father shouting:

“Darling!” — a term of endearment he used for your mother.

Curious and worried, you lifted the cloth covering your head, a decision you would regret for the rest of your life. You saw your mother, bleeding, beside your father, who was crying uncontrollably as he tried to stop the bleeding. She was struggling to breathe, each breath coming with more difficulty.

“Come on, Darling! Get up! We can’t give up now!” your father yelled, holding you in one arm while trying to lift your mother with the other.

“Dad?” you called out, crying and scared, noticing more Enforcers approaching.

Your father turned and, upon seeing them, threw himself to the ground to shield you. More gunshots rang out, and you felt a hot liquid hit your skin, followed by a burning pain in one of your arms. Then, everything went dark…

“Eyes on me!” I woke up dazed, seeing a tall, bearded man in front of me holding a blue-haired girl who didn’t seem much older than me.

“It hurts…” I complained, feeling something warm pressing against my arm. When I looked, I saw a pink-haired girl with a sorrowful expression wrapping a piece of cloth around my bleeding arm.

“Can you stand?” the man holding the child asked.

“I think… I can.” I stood up with help from the pink-haired girl.

“We need to move. There’s no time.”

“What’s going on? Where are my parents?”

The man sighed, his gaze saying more than his words:

“I’m sorry, child. I’ll take care of you, alright? Just trust me.”

He then held the older girl’s hand, and she extended her free hand toward me. Reluctantly, I took the pink-haired girl’s hand.

We walked for hours. Along the way, we encountered two boys: one taller and stocky, the other thin. Their expressions mirrored everyone else’s: sad, uncertain, and fearful.

The blue-haired girl was now awake, tear trails marking her dust-covered face. The pink-haired girl tried to stay strong, but fear was evident in her eyes. The two boys looked around in utter desperation.

After hours of walking, we arrived at a warehouse hidden behind a bar.

“Come here,” the man called, making me sit beside him. He removed the makeshift bandage from my wound, which was caked with dried blood and had an irregular hole.

“This will hurt a bit…” he warned, picking up a pair of tweezers.

The bullet was lodged in the wound. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to muffle my screams in my old coat. The other children watched in shock and sympathy.

“All done. Now keep the wound covered, alright?” he asked with a slight smile, and I nodded.

“I’m so sorry this happened to all of you. My name is Vander…”

One by one, everyone introduced themselves:

“[Name]”

“Claggor”

“Mylo”

“Violet… and this is my sister, Powder,” the pink-haired girl added, looking at her sister, who was clinging to her with trembling fear.

“Alright. I’ll get you water and food. Take care of each other. I’ll be back soon,” he said, leaving.

Silence filled the room. Vi and Powder sat on one of the beds, while Mylo and Claggor sat on another.

“Can I sit here?” I asked, approaching the two sisters.

“Sure,” Vi replied.

“How’s your arm?”

“It hurts a little, but it’ll pass. Do you think that man is really trustworthy?”

“I don’t know, but he’s our only hope.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

The rest of the time was spent in silence. Shock and fear still held everyone captive.

After some time, Vander returned with food and water for everyone.

“I also brought clean clothes and blankets.”

After eating, I went behind a curtain Vander had set up for us to change. I removed my bloodstained clothes and cleaned myself with a damp cloth, returning to an improvised bed beside a bunk where the sisters were already lying.

Despite my sadness and fear, sleep soon overcame me.

Years passed. The new life was hard, but gradually, everyone adjusted. At first, nightmares plagued us all, and it was normal to wake up in the middle of the night to someone screaming and crying. But Vander was always there to protect us.

He taught us everything we knew about Zaun, Piltover, and the monsters who had killed innocents.

Over time, the five of us grew very close and became inseparable. Though disagreements occasionally arose, we always protected each other — whether from others when trouble found us or from Vander when we got into mischief and knew he’d scold us.

In recent months, I began to experience something I had never felt before. I didn’t know what to call it, but I always felt it when Vi was near me. It was a warm sensation in my chest, as if nothing else mattered except her.

Confused, I decided to talk to the person I trusted most and who always helped me: Vander.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked, sitting on a chair in Vander’s bar.

“Of course, [Name],” he said, sitting beside me.

“Have you ever… liked someone?” I asked, unable to meet his eyes.

“Liked in what sense?” he asked suspiciously.

“Romantically, you know?” I glanced at him, seeing a small smile forming on his lips.

“Ah, of course I have. I lost her the night I found you all.”

“I’m sorry, Vander. I shouldn’t have asked. I really am.”

“It’s alright! Why are you asking about this?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“I wanted to know what you feel when you like someone,” I finally admitted, nervously wringing my hands.

“Well… you feel like you always want to be with the person, to keep them safe and well. You might feel shy around them, want to spend the rest of your life with them. You feel many different things, [Name]. It’s not the same as liking a friend or family member. It’s a stronger, more intense feeling.”

“I see,” I replied thoughtfully. “And can a woman feel that way about another woman?”

“Ah, yes, of course. There are no rules for love, [Name]. Love is love, no matter what. But why are you suddenly asking all this?”

“It’s nothing! Just curiosity,” I quickly replied, avoiding the subject.

Before Vander could respond, Powder came running in:

“Vander, Vi won’t give me her candy!” the blue-haired girl said, hiding behind the man.

“That’s mine. You already ate yours,” I heard a familiar voice behind me, and instantly my heart raced and a strange feeling arose in my stomach.

“Powder, give it back to your sister. I saw you eating yours,” Vander said.

“That’s not fair,” the younger girl muttered, sulking as she handed the candy back to her sister.

Vi then sat beside me at the table, eating her candy.

“What were you two talking about?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I quickly replied, throwing a pleading look at the older man not to say anything, making him laugh.

“Me and Mylo are having a dart-throwing competition. Want to join?” she asked, looking at me.

“Sure! Go ahead, I’ll be right there.”

She nodded and walked off, disappearing through the door behind the counter.

“It’s about Vi, isn’t it?” Vander asked quietly after she left.

“What? Was it that obvious?” I asked, worried.

“No, relax! I just know my kids,” he chuckled.

“This feeling is so strange, but it’s good at the same time. It’s so confusing, Vander.”

“You’re still young, [Name]. You don’t have to figure out what you feel right now. There’s plenty of time for you two to explore these feelings. Take it slow, explore them…”

“I will. Thanks for listening, Dad.”

“Anytime, [Name],” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Now you’d better go before Vi comes back and drags you there.”

As soon as Vander finished speaking, Vi appeared, calling for me. I got up, hugged him, and walked toward her.

“What were you two talking about?” she asked curiously.

“Nothing important,” I replied, feeling my cheeks heat up with embarrassment, afraid she might find out.

She looked at me suspiciously but didn’t insist.

We arrived in the room where Mylo, Claggor, and Powder were, and soon the competition began. The dispute became intense between Vi and Mylo, both throwing the darts with force, their eyes locked on the target, determined to beat each other.

In the end, Vi won by just two points. Powder and I shouted, running to the pink-haired girl in celebration. She high-fived Powder, still cheering enthusiastically, and then picked me up, spinning and jumping around.

As she spun me, I couldn’t take my eyes off her face—her almost gray-blue eyes, her pink hair slicked back, the small freckles on her face… Everything about her fascinated me. Everything about her caught my attention and awakened an irresistible desire to never stop admiring her.

Maybe… maybe I was starting to like her.

Hey, everyone! I hate using “y/n,” so I’m going with [Name] instead. When Vander talked about the woman he loved, I imagined it being Vi and Powder’s mom 😭, but feel free to picture someone else if you’d like. Anyway, that’s it. Let me know if you spot any typos! Kisses!

[cherubimcore]

pairing: alastor x reader

author's notes: i'm trying to post like once a week, let's see how long until college decided to give me tons of stuff to do making me not see the sunlight for like a week ;)

part 1 part 2 part 3

the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the small, quaint house that had been in your family for generations. you sat across from your grandmother in the cozy living room, the scent of lavender and old books filling the air. she rocked gently in her chair, her frail hands knitting a new scarf, according to your grandma it was for you when winter arrives.

you had been hesitant to bring it up—to ask her about the strange things happening in the house since you moved in. about him. but you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“grandma,” you began, your voice hesitant. “there’s something i need to talk to you about.”

she looked up from her knitting, her sharp eyes meeting yours. “what is it, dear?”

you swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sweater. “it’s about the house… and the things I’ve been seeing. there’s… a demon. he calls himself alastor.”

for a moment, she didn’t react, simply watching you with an unreadable expression. then, to your surprise, a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“so,” she said softly, “they’ve finally caught on to us.”

your brow furrowed in confusion. “what? grandma, what are you talking about?”

she leaned back in her chair, her eyes gleaming with something that looked almost like… relief. “i always knew this day would come,” she murmured. “i just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

you leaned forward, heart pounding in your chest. “what do you mean? who caught on? and why is there a demon in the house?”

her smile grew, but it was tinged with sadness. “not all demons are what they seem, my dear. some are bound to protect, even if their methods are… unconventional.”

“protect?” you echoed, your mind spinning. “you’re saying alastor is here to protect me?”

she nodded slowly. “trust the demon trying to help. he may seem dangerous, but there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

your thoughts raced, memories of alastor’s unsettling grin and cryptic words flashing through your mind. had he helped you—protected you from something lurking in the shadows? was there something more dangerous than actual demons in this world?

“grandma,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, “i need answers. what is going on? why is he here? why me?”

she reached out, taking your hand in hers, her touch warm and reassuring. “it’s not the right time yet, sweetheart. there are things you need to learn, but it’s not my place to tell you… for now, trust him.”

you stared at her, frustration and curiosity swirling in your chest. “cut—”

she shook her head gently. “no more questions for now. you’ll understand when the time is right.”

you leaned back, biting your lip as you processed her words. trust Alastor? trusting a demon seems absurd, but alastor had been a good company in the house, almost… refreshing. it sounded absurd… and yet, deep down, something told you she was right.

“alright,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “i’ll try.”

your grandmother squeezed your hand, her eyes filled with a wisdom that made you feel like a child again. “dood. you’re stronger than you think, (y/n). and when the time comes… you’ll know what to do.”

you nodded slowly, unsure of what the future held but certain of one thing: nothing in your life would ever be the same again.

the unease gnawed at alastor like a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch. It had been days since he discovered your celestial lineage, a secret so deeply buried even you seemed unaware of it. he remembered the casual way you introduced yourself—no hesitation, no guarded expressions, no inkling of the divine power coursing through your veins.

and therein lay the dilemma. should he tell you? was it his place to reveal the truth, or would it shatter the fragile equilibrium you both had found? alastor prided himself on being a creature of chaos, a manipulator who thrived on the suffering of others. yet, when it came to you, something inside him recoiled at the thought of causing you harm.

he hated it. hated how much you’d begun to occupy his thoughts. hated how he, the radio demon, was starting to care.

alastor tried to carry on as if nothing had changed, but it was futile. his usual antics—broadcasting fear, weaving nightmares, reveling in the madness of hell—felt muted, as if the very essence of what made him who he was had been dulled. he found himself visiting you more frequently, lingering in your presence under the guise of casual conversation or harmless amusement.

one afternoon, the temptation became too much.

he found you in the garden again, the very place he’d stumbled upon you days before. you sat on the same bench, a book resting in your lap, though your eyes were closed as if savoring the moment of solitude. the ivy-covered arches framed you perfectly, sunlight casting a halo around your form.

alastor hesitated, an unfamiliar sensation tightening in his chest. he had no heart to speak of, no soul to feel with—yet, in that moment, he felt something dangerously close to longing.

“ah, there you are, my dear!” his voice rang out, breaking the stillness. he watched with satisfaction as you startled slightly, your eyes snapping open. he strolled toward you, his grin in place, as ever. “hiding away from the world again, are we?”

you smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “just needed a break. things have been… overwhelming lately.”

“overwhelming, you say?” you noticed his eyes were softer than usual. “may i join you?”

you raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by his request. “only if you promise not to narrate my every move with that radio voice of yours like that one time.”

“ah, but where’s the fun in that?” he sat beside you, his movements precise, almost theatrical. “i shall do my best, though i make no guarantees.”

for a while, the two of you sat in silence. It wasn’t the tense, awkward kind but a comfortable stillness that neither of you wanted to break. the garden seemed to hold its breath, as if recognizing the significance of the moment.

eventually, alastor spoke, his voice quieter than usual. “you once said this garden is your sanctuary. a place to escape.”

you nodded, looking around at the lush greenery and blooming flowers. “it is. everyone needs a place where they can just… be.”

he considered your words, his gaze drifting to the wildflowers growing near the bench. with a flick of his wrist, he plucked a delicate blossom and twirled it between his fingers

“a token of my admiration, for whatever it’s worth.”

you blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his gesture. taking the flower, you smiled and twirled it between your fingers. “thank you, alastor. that’s… surprisingly sweet.”

he straightened, the familiar grin returning, though a faint blush dusted his pale cheeks. “don’t let it go to your head. i can’t have you thinking i’m going soft.”

you tucked the flower behind your ear, a playful glint in your eyes. “i wouldn’t dream of it. but maybe there’s more to you than you let on.”

alastor tilted his head, his gaze lingering on you. “perhaps there is,” he murmured, almost to himself.

for a moment, you thought he might say more, but instead, he leaned back against the bench, his eyes fixed on the horizon. the silence returned, but it was different now—charged with unspoken words and emotions neither of you were ready to confront.

as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the garden, you found yourself wondering about the enigmatic demon beside you. what secrets did he keep hidden behind that ever-present grin? And why did you feel drawn to him despite the danger he represented?

unbeknownst to you, alastor wrestled with similar thoughts. your celestial lineage was a puzzle he couldn’t ignore, but more than that, you were becoming someone he couldn’t bear to lose.

for the first time in his existence, alastor faced a choice: continue down the path of manipulation and destruction or protect the one person who had managed to touch something long thought dead within him.

the garden remained quiet, a sanctuary for both of you now—a place where, for a fleeting moment, demon and mortal could simply be.

taglist: @vxllys @songbirdpond @sirens-and-moonflowers

[lucygraysboy]

“you don’t have to apologize for askin’ questions or havin’ little trust in me, i understand it all. i don’t mind answerin’ your questions and i know that trust comes with time, it’s fine. we’re alright,” the blue-eyed man assures, smiling softly despite the ache in his jaw. god, she got him real good. that rusty, metallic taste of blood still lingers on his tongue. “yeah, guess so. but my brother? how’d you convince him to live that life with you?” there are pieces of the story missing and billy’s just trying to fill in the gaps, put the timeline together. “sorry, i just can’t picture him livin’ anywhere but at the capitol.” if he’s anything like their father, and from what she’s told him, that’s exactly who he aspires to be, he must have hated it in twelve. “he did,” billy insists, his gaze unwavering, piercing hues studying her expression. “why? i mean… you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, lucy gray. you can’t just abandon all hope and starve or freeze to death out here.” why does he care what happens to her? she’s not his responsibility, not his child or his wife, not even his friend, and yet her words have his heart sinking. she can’t waste her life away out here. she deserves much better. 

“hm? what’s that? oh.” she’s singing a song, he realizes and falls silent. hypnotized by the melody alone, listening to lucy gray’s sweet voice, billy almost forgets about the task at hand. the lyrics are heart-rending, filled with emotion. she sounds like someone who’s at peace with whatever future holds for her, willing to just give up on everything and die, or so it seems to billy. pale blue eyes filling with tears, but he’s quick to blink them away, even if his chest continues to constrict and tighten, making it difficult to breathe. he won’t let her do that. he won’t let her sit here and wait for her time to come. “beautiful song,” he whispers, lowering his gaze, afraid if he keeps on looking at her, he will break down and cry. “and i’m sorry to hear that.” are all her friends gone? is she really all alone in the world?  

the desolate scream that escapes her has the whole cabin shaking, windows rattling, and billy finds himself muttering apologies under his breath. “you’re doin’ so good, we’re almost done, lucy gray, almost done” he promises, wishing he could just wrap his arms around her and comfort her. instead, he briefly rests his other hand on her good knee, caressing it, saying i know we’re not friends but i’m here for you. though, maybe, hopefully this is cathartic in some way, maybe she needs to let it all go, wail and scream… it’s plain to see the physical pain is nowhere near the worst thing that’s happened to her, and he just feels for her. “you’re so strong. one of the strongest people i’ve met.” he works quickly but thoroughly, cleaning the wound, lathering it in iodine and using a few clean cloths to create a makeshift bandage, wrapping the fabric around her leg and tying it so that it stays in place. “there you go, lucy gray. all done. we’ll change it in the morning, see how it’s doing.” if it’s getting worse. he gathers the dirty rags, as well as the bowl with now cold water and sets them aside, near the door. he’ll wash them clean in the morning, hang them to dry if the weather clears. he wants to help her, but doesn’t know how, and so he just stands beside her, calloused fingers carefully stroking her hair, wary as though he was dealing with a wild animal. “just let it go… things will get better, lucy gray. they always do.”

“thanks…” that would come out more enthusiastically if he wasn’t coriolanus. but the fact he was, just means— it’s all contrived. “sorry, i guess i’m just not used to it.” not from him. when does he notice that things like her childhood toys mean a lot to her? “it’s all i’ve known to do so i reckon i have no choice but to say i like it.” the twang on her voice drawls, a wry laugh sounding from her. “he did. you did.” more than turned… revealed he was a killer the entire time and was just waiting the right moment to put a bullet in her chest. “stayin’ right here, i guess. since i can’t return to twelve, not now. and really darlin’… i don’t really have much care what happens anymore.” thinks she might just go curl up in that bed, close her eyes and sing herself to a peaceful death. you’re headed for heaven, the sweet old here after. and i’ve got one foot in the door, but before i can fly up, i’ve got loose ends to tie up. right here in the old therebefore. humming her song now. “when i’ve burned out both ends. when i’ve cried all my tears,” she quietly sing-talks her way through to try and distract herself from the leg pain, “when i’ve conquered my fears. right here, in the old therebefore. when nothin’ is left anymore.” the last part striking a nerve, exactly describing why she’s even singing her saddest song. she’s burned out both ends, cried all her tears, conquered her fears and nothing is now truly left…anymore. “his story’s ended. gone to heaven, if the lord allowed it.” hopefully he repented somehow, but she doubts he even saw his life ending so abruptly.

it’s fine, she thinks, she doesn’t need his shoulders for support. until she does. it jolts through her at once, pain shooting up her thigh, toes digging into the wood and her socks, a wince and her hand tightening against his shirt, other hand clutching the bottom of her seat. biting her bottom lip, trying to be usually tough, but the feeling and the look of her flesh makes her nauseous so quickly— stomach muscles caving in at how terribly pain shoots through her again. bottom lip that’s been wobbling, teeth let go when a cry rips through her throat. shifting in her seat to bury her face in the back of the chair, tears exploding out of her eyes as face is hidden, matted curls curtaining around her jaw. she’s fought the pain so long, it just keeps barreling out in heavy exasperated cries. leg pain, mental and emotional pain, exhaustion pain. it’s all collectively releasing at once. upset she’s been beaten down so much, gotten up every single time, but at her wits end— she’s gave her all and she’s completely shutting down this time. lucy gray can’t be that girl who gets up anymore, it’s why her weeping is so relentless and loud. the leg pain just added to the fuel now.

[echo-of-damnation]

Sugar So Sweet

AH! My internet works now! i can now post this here (its also on my ao3)

Tags: Jago Sevatarion/Fem!Reader, caged reader, hella smut, master/pet, impregnation, mild degradation(? i mean its petification and he cums on the cage), collared

Echo's echo: I had to join the caged up pet gang. Inspired by @lemon-russ and her *chefs kiss* wonderful Morty fic series, but this is love for my bat boys. I know Sev would treat me the reader right <3

Summary: To say you loved your life was a criminal understatement. You lived in a life of luxury that few could ever even conceive possible. You had the finest foods, a soft warm bed, and the knowledge that you were probably the safest person in the entire universe. All you had to do was be the best little pet for the head of the ship, Jago Sevatarion.

Words: 2,869

To say you loved your life was a criminal understatement. You lived in a life of luxury that few could ever even conceive possible. You had the finest foods, a soft warm bed, and the knowledge that you were probably the safest person in the entire universe. All you had to do was be the best little pet for the head of the ship, Jago Sevatarion. He was a dominating figure both in and out of your shared room with his pitch-black eyes and scar that split his face eye to upper lip. But once you two were alone together, he was more than attentive.

You roused from your little nap at the sound of familiar footsteps echo down the hall towards your room. Rolling into your side to face the door, you cozy into the little nest of pillows, sinfully soft blankets, and stuffed animals from all the planets your floating world in the cage Sev had provided for you. Your favorite stuffie was a large teddy bear that was almost as big as you that you would cuddle during the nights Sev was planet side. Your own safe space in the dark ship for when he wasn’t around to protect you, saying once he didn’t trust his brothers that shared the ship with you sending warmth through your body at the thought that he cared for you so much that he gave you this wonderful spot.

Knowing the rules for when your Master entered the room, you lazily dug yourself out of the pile of fluff sitting on your knees and straightened the collar so that the tag with Sev’s name sat perfectly between your collar bones. You wore it with pride and loved when you were let out to walk the ship with him and his brothers and the serfs could see who you belonged to, who controlled your entire world. It is the only thing you were allowed to wear along with the cuffs on both of your ankles with their little bells.

The chill of the room sent a shiver down your spine, causing your nipples to harden. The heavy door opened, and your heart skipped a beat as it always did when Sev came into the room, if you had a tail, it would have been going crazy at the sight of him. Letting the door close and lock behind him, Jago walked over to the table that held the tools and supplies to maintenance his weapons and armor. You watched him longing as he slowly removed each piece of his heavy armor. You could see new scratches and dents from his latest time on the surface of the planet he was currently in charge of.

You didn’t know exactly what he did there, simply telling you that it was no concern of pets what their Masters did. All you knew is that sometimes it was a hard job he did, sometimes coming back and leaving you in your cage for days as he would sleep and leave again. Somedays he would let you out just to lick him clean of the dark metallic substance that would cover his boots, hands, and face. One those days he would fuck you for his release only just to lock you away again. Yelling if he caught you trying to get yourself off. You feared today would be one of those days. He hadn’t spoken to you, let alone touched you for what felt like a week and the ache in your sex grew each day you watched him leave.

Once Jago had finished, he stripped himself out of the skintight black suit that provided insulation. Your mouth watered as you saw his heavy cock for the first time that day. A needy whine involuntarily escaped your throat as you watched him lazily stroke it, trying to return some blood flow to it after being held in by the tight undersuit. Jagos eyes looked over at you slowly, the warning clear. You weren’t allowed to make any sounds until he permits you. He took that privilege away from you some months ago when you kept bombarding him with questions about his time off the ship. You had only forgotten that rule once and it had taken the bruises on your ass a week to fade from the punishment. Snapping your mouth shut and turning your eyes down, you tried to pull yourself together as to not annoy your Master again.

A few moments of silence passed until you could hear the dull thuds of his bare feet walking toward you. Once they stopped, he lightly kicked the cage to grab your attention. With a jump from the sudden sound of the kick drew your eyes up to meet him. He stood just inches from the cage, still lazily stroking his now half hard cock. Your eyes grew wide, pleading with them to let you touch it, to taste it, to feel its weight pressed on your tongue. This little trick would work on occasion but on this day, Sev was not feeling so kind. He just continued to stroke himself until you could see the veins that deliciously start to bulge out. His other hand coming down to play with his balls as high breathing started to quicken. All the while all you could do was watch longingly at his cock as the first few drops of pre cum dribbled out, wishing to run your tongue against the tip of the head to taste him.

After a few more quick pumps, he was cumming on the bars of the cage. Some of it making it onto your face and chest. Feeling the warm liquid drip down your skin sent a rush of slick out of your needy pussy. Once he was done, he turned and walked toward the shower in the adjoining bathroom, calling over your shoulder, “Clean it up before I return.” The command punctuated with the closing of the bathroom door.

You sat there, half stunned, half desperate for a moment. It wasn’t unusual for Sav to cover you in his cum, sometimes he would even make you walk the halls of the ship with it dripping down your face and chest, but never had he denied you from helping. The sound of the shower turning on and the muffled hum of Sev brought you back to reality and you began to clean his mess. Deciding to start with the cage bars, you began collecting his seed with your fingers, curling them around each bar to make sure every drop is dealt with. After each pass, you brought your fingers to your mouth, savoring the slight salty flavor of his cum. The flavor coated your tongue with each new cleaning of your fingers. You could feel as it slipped to the back of your throat and down into your belly, causing you to double your efforts with pathetic desperation. All you could think about was his cum. When the bars were almost clean you began to use your tongue, curling the muscle around each cold bar, imagining you were given the honor of cleaning off the cold metal of his power armor.

With the bars clean, you turned to clean yourself. Dragging your hand over your chest to collect the slowly cooling seed, letting it cover your nipples in a little act of defiance of being denied some sort of pleasure. Bringing your hand back to your mouth to clean it, you finish by cleaning your face just as you hear the water stop. Looking around you decided that you had done the best that you could and waited for your Master to return to you so he could see how good of a job you had done.

Sev returned to the main room in a cloud of steam, a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. He walked over to your cage and inspected it for a long moment before looking at you, a slight smile turning up the damaged part of his face. “What a good girl,” he said while bending slightly to finally let you out of your cage. A smile tearing across your face as his praise washes over you. Once the door is opened, you crawl out, stretching out your limbs, enjoying the slight soreness from being confined in the small space for so long.

Sev walked over and sat on the bed, reaching into the drawer of the bedside table to pull out the brush he had bought for you. You watched him patiently until he was ready for you. “Come now pet, its time to brush you out,” he called to you.

You obediently crawled over on your hands and knees to him the bells on your ankle cuffs jingling lightly with each movement, a sweet reminder that your wonderful Master would always be able to find you no matter where you went off to. At his feet Sev patted his legs and you carefully climbed up onto him, sitting with your back to him, he began softly brushing your hair. It had been a few months since he brushed it for you. Recently you had to get yourself ready for anytime he wanted you, too tired to do it. Whatever changed this day you didn’t care. You loved the feeling of his large hands holding you, moving you where he needed you. You bathed in the affection he gave you when he tenderly detangled your hair, he hated if he got tangled in it when he would pull your hair.

“You may speak now, little one,” he said as he worked the soft brush down through the ends of your hair.

“Thank you, Sir. I have missed you,” your voice harsh with disuse.

He only hummed his response as he reached back into the drawer for a ribbon to tie your hair back. “You will accompany me today on the deck. You will be on your best behavior and do whatever I tell you,” He told you as he tied it into a bow, “We will be having guests.”

It wasn’t common for guests to come aboard but it was an even rarer case for you to be allowed to join Sev as he entertained them. “Where will I be, Sir?” curiosity overcoming you. “You will kneel by my feet at the captain’s chair. If the meeting runs longer than expected I may allow you nap at my feet,” he told you as he finished with your hair and put away the brush. Pulling you closer to his chest, causing your legs to slide to the outside of his, opening you, “First we must take care of something here,” he purred into your ear as he brought one of his large hands to cup your sex. “My my, little pet you are so wet.”

Your eyes closed on their own as you felt his fingers start to slip between your lower lips, spreading your wetness over your cunt. “Y-yes Sir. I was a good girl, and I waited,” it came out as a shudder as Sev started to slowly roll your sensitive clit between his fingers.

“Yes, you have been my sweetling and as a treat I will give you a gift,” Sev kept working your clit, tightening the coil in your lower belly, moving his other hand down to begin to finger you. A moan fell from your gaping mouth as your hole stretched around two of his large fingers. Pumping them in and out of you at a steady pace causing your slick to begin to drip down his hand.

He began nipping at your neck, “You take my fingers so well. That’s it, work yourself open for me.”

His teeth biting into your neck shot fire through you, his sharp teeth leaving marks on your skin. Humping back onto his fingers doubling your efforts, bracing your hands on his knees so you wouldn’t lose your balance. Your needy and pathetic moans echo around the room mixing with the obscene squelching of Sev’s fingers in your sopping pussy. Your muscles tightening around him as your climax built up in you.

Feeling your pussy pull him deeper in, Sev let out a groan and pulled both of his hands away from you. Leaving you on the brink of an orgasm. You let out a cry at the loss of stimulation. Your cunt feeling painfully empty. Before you could ask why, Sev lifted you up easily and set you down on his cock. Not giving you any moment to adjust to the sheer size of him, his fingers being little help to work you open. He began fucking into you with his own desperation for release now.

“So tight, so warm. My pet perfect just for me,” Sev growled into your neck. “A little toy just for me, to use and fill as I want. Isn’t that right pet?”

“Y-yes!” was all you could get out as he pushed himself deeper into you, feeling him push against your womb.

“Yes what?” he said, bringing a hand up to pull painfully at your nipple. His displeasure in your pathetic answer clear.

“Yes Sir! I am your good pet! So good! My cunt made just for you,” you began to cry as your orgasm built back up, the rough thrusting of his cock in you becoming almost too much to bear.

“Good girl. Yes, your pussy is just for me,” taking his hand from your nipple back down to your clit, pinching it between his fingers. A scream mixed with a moan leave you at the new sensation. “Would you like your gift now?” he said in between his thrusts into you.

“Please! Yes, Sir please. I’ve been good,” your head was starting to spin with the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body.

Moaning into you, he quickened his pace, bringing his other hand to rest just below your belly button. You knew he could feel himself just below your skin. “My good girl deserves her treat. I’m going to cum in you. Fill you up till your belly bulges. How does that sound?” You could only nod your head, unable to form words. The only sound your body could produce was your desperate moans.

“I’ll fuck my cum into your pretty womb. Fill it with my seed till your round with my sons,” his rhythm skipping as he approached his climax, “Keep you fat with my children. Let everyone see that my pet was a greedy whore for my cum.” Weak pleas fell from your lips, trying to let your Master know that you wanted nothing more than to show off your devotion to him by carrying his sons.

A few more thrusts and he was filling you, his cum warming your belly. True to his word he filled you until a little bulged formed just under his hand on your belly. You followed him soon after feeling his cum in you. Your pussy gripping down onto his cock, milking him empty. Falling back against him as your body went limp with the power of your orgasm. Sev slowly rubbing your middle, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “You took me so well, sweetling. We must go now though. Our guests will be arriving soon, and I don’t want to be the last to show,” he said as he slowly pulled out of you. Some of his cum leaked out and he placed a hand over your hole. “No no, be a good girl and keep it in you. I don’t want my gift to go to waste.”

Too tired to speak, you weakly nod, trying your best to tighten your abused hole to keep his seed inside of you. He let you catch your breath a moment longer before pushing you off his lap and onto your feet, steading you as you regained your balance. Grabbing your hand, he led you over to the table with his armor so that you would be able to put it back on him. Trying your hardest to focus on the task as the after glow of your orgasm radiated through you.

Once he was redressed and armored, he turned to you, lifting your chin up with one of his fingers so that he could place the tenderest kiss against your lips. You melted into his touch as a purr came from your chest. Sev pulled back, a small smile on his lips as he tidied your hair back up. Taking a golden chain that sat on the edge of the table, he hooked one end onto your collar and the other to a ring on his hip, connecting you to him.

Leading you out of the room you fell into step behind him, as you both walked toward the helm. Your head held high as the other occupants of the ship averted their eyes as you and your Master walked past. You could feel his cum slowly leak out with every step you took, one of your hands coming to rest where your womb would be. Pride filling you as you thought about becoming pregnant with his sons and wishing that this time will be the one that does it.

[cosmicjoke]

Something else people don't ever seem to mention when talking about Levi choosing Armin over Erwin, especially when they try to claim it was the wrong choice, or a bad choice for humanity, is the quality in Erwin as a leader that Levi most respected, which was his ability to make "the hard choice". To make decisions that were seemingly ruthless, but were done in order to advance the cause of humanity (a.k.a to ultimately save more lives). People that claim Armin and his abilities played no significant role in Levi's choice seem to forget that Armin himself had displayed those very same qualities that Levi so respected in Erwin.

Armin chose to kill that MP from Kenny's squad to save Jean's life and the lives of the rest of their group, which was a hard choice and which cost Armin a deep, personal toll, but which he was able to do anyway. Armin was also the one who figured out that Annie was the Female Titan and was willing and able to entrap her for the cause of humanity, despite having been friends with her during their days in the academy. Armin had also expressed early on an understanding that in order for anything to be gained, something needed to be lost. He was the only one who expressed an understanding about why Levi and Hange had to torture Sannes and why Levi had to kill those MP's during the Uprising arc, refraining from judgment, unlike pretty much everyone else. We later see this ability of Armin's to make hard choices in him being the one to devise the plan for the raid on Liberio, taking it upon himself even to blow up Marley's naval port, killing innocent civilians in the process (though unintentionally), and also in his refusal to sit out the fight at the docks with the Yeagerists. Armin is very much someone who's willing and able to do what it takes, even at great, personal cost, to achieve the greater good.

When you realize that Armin possesses the same quality in himself that compelled Levi to trust in Erwin so much as a leader, you realize again that Levi's choice was decided by both Erwin and Armin, and that it was never a situation of him choosing Erwin over humanity. Levi knew Armin had what it would take to make a great leader, not just in the qualities he shared with Erwin, but also in his own, unique qualities, like his hope and his belief in and willingness to try for something better. He knew Armin was someone who could carry on in Erwin's place. Not as a replacement to Erwin, but as someone who was just as qualified to save humanity. Levi trusted in Armin to be able to do that, to carry that burden and grow into that role, which again is why he says he "entrusted the future" to him. He made the choice he did because he knew they would be okay in Armin's hands.

[xm4g1c-m1r4x]

Cosmos Duo - What Happened to trust?

Debrief: When Dick forces (Y/N) into house arrest to protect her from meta traffickers, tensions rise as she feels trapped and powerless. A heated argument leads to Dick saying something he instantly regrets, threatening their relationship and leaving them both questioning how far love should go to keep someone safe.

It had been days since (Y/N) was confined to her apartment, her own home turned into a gilded cage. Dick thought it was safer this way—no surprises, no danger, no threats she couldn’t see coming. Even her classes were online now, her every movement controlled by his paranoia. She understood why he was doing this. She had been caught off-guard, stabbed on a mission. But heroes got hurt; it was part of the job. She didn’t need saving.

Flipping through the worn pages of her favorite book, she tried to distract herself. Outside, she heard the faint sound of boots landing on the fire escape. Dick’s familiar knock followed. She didn’t move.

A few moments later, the window clicked open. She didn’t need to look up to know he was there, his presence filling the room as he stepped inside.

“Is that book really so good you didn’t hear me knocking?” he teased, his grin easy but tired.

(Y/N) didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the page.

“(Y/N)? My love?” His voice softened. “Are you ignoring me?”

Still no response.

Dick sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress. She shifted away, the distance between them as sharp as a blade.

“How was your mission?” she finally asked, her voice clipped, her eyes finally meeting his.

Dick hesitated. “It went well. We caught another group.”

She scoffed. “Great. Another win for you while I’m stuck here.”

“(Y/N)...” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “You know this is for your safety. I can’t risk losing you.”

“It’s not your choice to make!” She snapped the book shut and stood, her anger spilling over. “You’re out there risking your life every day. Why is it different for me?”

“Because if something happened to you—” He stopped, his voice cracking. “If I lost you, I couldn’t live with myself. Don’t you understand that? I can’t lose you.”

“But I feel trapped! You don’t care how this makes me feel—you only care about what makes you feel better!”

“That’s not true,” Dick argued, standing now. His voice rose despite himself. “I’m trying to protect you. It’s not safe for...”

He stopped abruptly, his words hanging in the air like a noose.

“For what, Dick?” She stared at him, her voice trembling. “Go on. Say it.”

“For your kind,” he finished, the words barely above a whisper. The regret was instant.

(Y/N)’s breath caught, her chest tightening. “I think you should leave.”

“(Y/N), please—”

“Now.” She turned away, swallowing hard as tears threatened to fall. She didn’t want him to see her break.

For a moment, he hesitated, but then he stepped back toward the window. “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” he said softly.

She didn’t respond. As he climbed out, she felt the weight of his absence settle over her, the silence deafening.

[endlessburningdarkness]

That "perfect victim" post you reposted has me all fucked up because it makes me think about Shen Jiu, and how his treated.

His a victim of severe trauma, and it manifests in ways that are "imperfect." It always pissess me off when people say, "if only Shen Jiu had tried. " Tried what? Get over his trauma? It's hard to do when A) there is no therapy and you have no real support system. B) The people around you don't give a shit and are hostile. And C) the before mention people make the trauma worse by making you feel unsafe or invalidating you. Try to get along with his martial siblings? He tried, but every time he did, it backfired and made everything worse for himself. He tried to save Liu Qingge's life twice, only to end up getting accused of murder each time. Try to be kinder? He tried with Ning Yingying, only to be accused of grooming her because of one of his coping mechanisms.

It was never about Shen Jiu not wanting to get better but that he couldn't.

What makes it all the more fucked up is how everyone treats Shen Yuan compared to Shen Jiu. SY acts "normal" because he has no trauma, so his liked. The peak lords would rather deal with someone "normal" than a victim and their trauma. Even Yue Qingyuan seems it easier to deal with a Shen Qingqiu who doesn't know him than one that does and actually dealing with the trauma.

And ain't that fucked up.

it is incredibly fucked up.

I love Shen Jiu (and Harry) because they are rare examples of imperfect victims. Because most victims, shockingly, are not perfect. Trauma rarely makes you a better person. In fact, more likely, it will make you angry, difficult, bitter and even cruel.

I find this type of character much more relatable and realistic than "perfect victims" who are sweet and kind and forgiving and let things go and are never ugly, hurtful or vicious in their trauma response. I think it really comes down to the idea that trauma isn't some fun thing you can brush off, you can't be normal after significant trauma. It will leave a mark, it will change you, sometimes permanently, sometimes in ways that are embarrassing and frightening and unattractive. Sometimes, you'll do awful, hurtful things to cope.

And I think that's fine. It's fine for Shen Jiu to be traumatized. In a way that isn't palatable to the reader or to society. It makes sense for him to be the way that he is. After the life he's lived, he is still shockingly kind to a number of people and as you've noted this backfires on him spectacularly. He had no parents. No one to teach him healthy ways of doing anything. He was enslaved, treated like an object, a dog, and then he was betrayed by the one person he thought was on his side. Anyone would be fucked up after that. Anyone would give up trying to be better. And that's fine too.

I think it's hard for people to face that trauma, real trauma that is, isn't this pretty, enticing thing which makes someone cooler, but genuinely painful, damaging, and difficult to overcome. That is what makes Shen Jiu's and Harry's attempts to overcome their trauma so damn impressive and compelling. That Shen Jiu fails is not due to some inherent flaw or weakness on his part but because it's so fucking difficult, even with support, to recover from the awful things that happened to him.

Often traumatized characters are expected to react perfectly, and a lot of fanfic of them is all about hashing out the ways they would overcome their trauma in an ideal way and become "normal", happy, well-adjusted people we can enjoy without feeling bad. For example, character's with sexual trauma magically overcome it by getting fucked by the right person.

And this is exactly why Shen Yuan is easier for the other characters and the fandom to love. He doesn't have Shen Jiu's baggage, he isn't damaged, he doesn't have trust issues or paranoia or jealously or hatred. He doesn't have the trauma. It's easy to be good when you're not hurt and no one has betrayed you. It's easy to be nice when you've never had to beg for every meal. Shen Yuan has everything on easy mode, and that's the appeal of him in many ways. The quicker, easier, smoother route to happiness.

I for one however, prefer the harder road. I am here for when characters don't respond to awful things happening to them in polite, unchallenging, comfortable ways so the audience can enjoy it without flinching.

Because the message I am interested in is that it's okay. It's okay to have trauma, terrible and unwholesome trauma even. it's okay to be broken in ugly, painful ways. It's okay to never become "normal" like other people. It's okay to never do the things that trigger you. It's okay to be traumatized and to act like it! And that's why I love these types of characters.

If you're interested in an exploration of Shen Jiu's sexual trauma, I'd like to recommend my fic, not to me, not if it's you. I would love to hear your thoughts on it.

[hackedmotionsensors]

this is personal so please don't reblog this bc I think its weird when I say personal stuff and people reblog it I feel like i shouldn't have to turn that setting on?? Lol

but...both of my parents are seniors. And neither one of them are doing very well health wise. My mom has nerve issues with her hand, diabetes and bad blood pressure, and has had multiple heart attacks, My dad had a fall and never really recovered and had some weird medical problems that we thought were strokes but they never confirmed it. He also got covid at the hospital for those problems so THANKS arizona hospitals

Anyway I get all that. And I wish i could help or be around more. But unfortunately my job (unless we get some cool changes in the agreement) require me to live in LA. I also LIKE living in LA (surprisingly with how much I hate traffic LOL)

But I always get SO STRESSED OUT during the holidays bc I visit them and I need to cross reference with my brother (but again he might not even CARE or be aware that this is happening bc...he just...kinda doesn't care when it happens and I DO see it). I need to ask him or his wife if this happens when I'm NOT here because I have a feeling it gets WORSE when I visit.

But each time I visit my mom finds a way to be a complete and utter bitch at my dad. And my dad IS frustrating. I totally get it. He's always been really frustrating but now its like...frustrating bc he does things that could endanger himself or chooses ways to not make things easier for himself out of pride or just being a senior and not wanting to admit stuff? Idk. I know its a fairly common thing. He also got phone scammed a few months back out of 7k$ and we all were like WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. He doesn't even like paying for COFFEE or good food for himself but LIED TO THE BANK to take out the money when they were like "This sounds like a scam sir" .....SO I GET IT. TRUST ME I GET IT.

But Thanksgiving was mostly good! Last Christmas (lol) I was stressed myself bc I was out of a job for a whole year and had to prep for a con and my car was on its last legs and like I said I just...get stressed LOL Its why i always drive. If I need to bail I absolutely will. Our family has NEVER been good during holidays. Its a lot of abused and abusive people with varying levels of addictions or mental illnesses (is it ANXIETY acting up this year? Or adhd induced RAGE from being overwhelmed! Has someone had TOO MUCH WINE and decided instead of being silly that they want to FIGHT!??! WHO CAN SAY!?!? ITS ANYONE'S GUESS!!!)

And Mom was just RELENTLESS last year. ANYTHING my dad did was a problem. ANYTHING he did...EXISTING...in a place he wasn't supposed to was like...a huge slight against her and because I had the audacity to be like "Mom relax. He's not doing anything" it meant I wasn't on her side or was insulting her or SOMETHING. And it completely blew out between me and her to the point she called my sister crying to try and be like LYDIA'S BEING HORRIBLE AND HATES ME ND SHE CALLED ME A BITCH(which I didn't but i VERYYYY nearly did because she was being a bitch) and like ...my sister is YOUNGER THAN ME LMAO. So my sister texted me like "what happened??" and I told her and she was like...AH. Okay I get it. Because my mom USED to live with her too but she pitched a fit at her and decided to basically run away from living with my sister and move in with her cousin. Then she left there (which honestly seemed the most stable?) and moved in with her sister. And she hated that too.(Running theme in this family is that my aunt is an ACTUAL bitch and I've known that since she came into the bathroom one time when I was sitting on the toilet bc I ran past her on the way into the house bc i REALLY had to pee and she came INTO the bathroom to scream at me for being rude.......but anyway) And then she ended up moving back in with my dad (They aren't married its just...basically roommates LMAO)

She hated living with my brother. My mom is like me. She's basically like a beta fish. She'll just bite the shit out of anything in her tank. I used to live with her and hated it.

LOL OKAY ANYWAY LONG STORY BUT basically....it was a fairly good holiday this time in comparison. I also left after a single day lol Bc I hate thanksgiving to begin with. Not 100% related to my family. I just think the holiday is stupid and pre-gaming christmas and a huge waste of money for someone who travels bc I'm gonna see all these maniacs in three weeks anyway.

I also had a deadline so I had a really good excuse to dip. Thank god.

But bc my parents helped me last year a lot I was like Let me do something REALLY minimal and take y'all out to breakfast. And on the way there my mom is sitting in the back seat behind my dad. My dad uses a cane but she doesn't like sitting in the front anyway. But she was sitting behind him and suddenly 'THE CAR SMELLS'.

Me genuinely thinking something was wrong like maybe I left the travel jerky i bought to eat on the way open. Or maybe I randomly smelled. Its a new car but I'm so used to my old car than anything potentially a problem is a stressor. But no. It was a not subtle way of bitching about my dad. And I was like....okay whatever let it go. Dad didn't say anything so lets just ignore it. Its only another hour or so. And then we get to the restaurant we were going to. My dad and I both get eggs and I ask if she can pass the ketchup. She hands ME the ketchup no problem. Then my dad uses it and sets it on the table. Pretty normal.

This is a thing ~I~ like to do. I like to put the condiments back in the holder thingies. Its not a deal breaker but its like...just a thing. Why have another thing in the way when we can put the ketchup back. So I can't reach it so I'm like "Mom can you tuck this back into the thing" "No. I don't want germs".

I knew exactly what she was doing and was like "Just put it back. I like to put them back." "NO. Its dirty. People touch it"

By this point the vein in my forehead is already throbbing. I go FINE. ITS FINE. I know exactly who you mean. And honestly I'm sure my dad does too and is just.....getting through it. I KNOW she's trying to rile ME up. She picks like a little fly at my dad all the time and its not to get a rile out of him bc she knows he won't really do anything about it. Unless she's hoping he'll blow up eventually and die. IDK (It might not be that drastic BUT Y'NEVER KNOW!!!)

So I let it go. And then she does that thing that bullys or abusers or idk what to even call this but she's done it to me HER WHOLE LIFE. She starts trying to act cute. "Can I have a bite of your eggs Lilly <3"

me "No. I don't want germs"

And now mom is mad. Not a total blow out but I know she's pissed at that. And I don't want this to totally melt down so i offer her the eggs if she really wants but she's already in a snit. THANKFULLY!!!!!!!!!! it blows over. Probably due it it being a massive carb bomb after yesterday's carb bomb. So before we head out I'm like Can you put the ketchup back now? I wanna put the syrup back too. SHE HUFFS. GOES "FINE" and picks it up as if it was covered in dog shit by the tip of her fingers.

AND I AM SCREAMING IN MY HEAD

THAT THIS IS WORSE THAN CHILDREN. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW. And she goes back into 1) doing NOT SO SUBTLE jabs at my dad. Using old insults she's always used but not SAYING its because my dad touched it but that PEOPLE touched it. BITCH YOU TOUCHED IT FIRST AND THEN ATE YOUR FOOD. She only washed her hands before eating bc she went to the bathroom AND she never wears a mask. You give two fucks about germs.

And then she has the audacity to say to me "THATS WHAT WAITRESSES ARE FOR"

which is A HUGE FUCKING TRIGGER FOR ME BC I USED TO WORK IN SERVICE. AND SO DOES SHE. IT DOESN'T ~MATTER~ WHAT THEIR JOB DESCRIPTION IS. IT HURTS ~NO~ ~ONE~ to pick up after yourself A LITTLE. Its just putting the ketchup BACK in the FUCKING CONTAINER. ALSO. WE VISIBLY SAW HOW SWAMPED THEY WERE. Its Black Friday they were hauling ass that day and we didn't end up waiting SO long but it was definitely a wait bc of how busy it was. So you're gonna make this lady who was ONLY NICE TO US. Didn't charge me an extra coffee bc I'm a mad lass who had a latte and a black coffee lmao AND She was Latina. Was there not some....Latina togetherness!??! HELLO!??? Very Mexican't mom. (we're not Mexican lmao)

And then on the drive home god I don't even remember exactly what it was bc the blood was in my ears and I was just trying to get them home so i could leave. She said something else that was VERY POINTEDLY about my dad and called it "PEOPLE" again. Like he's not stupid cmon man.

Like just for NO REASON. NOTHING my dad did had anything to really set her off on this. She was just being MEAN to be MEAN. And she KNOWS i hate it.

When i grew up I was always a lot closer to my dad and I can empathize with that. But...idk man we just had more in common? Even if she wasn't working super hard to make ends meet and he was middle class like I GET IT.

But there's resentment and just being a fucking bitch for no reason.

And again this is not to say like Oh my dad the poor uwu old man always getting beat up wah wah wah. Bc again he does a LOT to frustrate me on like...a blood pressure exploding way. But for him its just like...why would you DO THAT. Like we were in the middle of a walk with the family (my brothers family and me and the parents) and he goes OH YEAH LYDIA I MEANT TO SAY....You owe me money for the phone. Which was so fucking embarassing like why would you SAY THAT!?!?! Like i was so frustrated and like ugh. LOL And a thing my mom gets at my dad about is she's like "I SEE SENIORS ALL THE TIME OLDER THAN YOUR DAD THAT RUN MARATHONS" or whatever nonsense. And I'm like mom YOU can't even run a marathon or do half the thing these people say but also SOME PEOPLE ARE DIFFERENT!?!?!? My dad had a pretty bad fall a while back and never really recovered from it. So its really frustrating when he CARRIES AROUND HIS CANE or chooses to not bring it with him...and he just...doesn't use it. Like literally I was like Dad you have to USE your cane to stand up and walk not just carry it around like a purse. "Its a psychological thing more than anything" *cue me bursting all the blood vessels in my brain* and my mom being like SEE!? I have to deal with this ALL THE TIME. *shakes desk* BUT YOU MAKE THINGS WORSE BY BEING A BITCH AT THE SAME TIME AGHHHHHHH

I just....genuinely wish I had normal parents and a normal holiday get together instead of dreading the end of the year that its something I HAVE to do because I genuinely love these people but the drive back my chest hurt, my head hurt, my throat hurt from ranting in my car my JAW hurt from clenching it from stress.

Like at this rate I'm gonna die before they do holy shit. And I think also because they're seniors and in bad health that I worry about them at the same time because....its not fair to either of them that they had to end up moving in together (It ends I think in march thankfully) and because they're seniors that I know...well this could be the last holiday i spend with them. So I make the effort, risk the covid and just go visit them when i can. But holy fucking shit.

lmao my mom LITERALLY just called me now like MY GODDDDDD LMAO HOW DID SHE KNOWWWWWW

[melchinafan]

That conversation between Devinder and Jacob about Dev being inspired by Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumb trail for his Translocate device (plus his planned heart-freezing gadget) has really pinged something in my brain in the best way. It's so simple to take it as a sorta silly thing, with a dismissive "oh ha ha it's just a kid's story" and the like.

But for me, it feels like a way to show that he really Gets It.

Stories have power. It's typically more metaphorical, in that they help us internally process and understand ourselves and the world around us. They can be a way to pass on so many types of information via oral traditions. They can change how someone looks at the world. They can save lives. Long or short, silly or serious, they're transformative. They're a social connective tissue.

But Dev harnessed that power in a more literal manner. One way to approach how he did it is also fairly straightforward—that he simply used these stories as the inspiration for incredible invention(s). Which is fantastic, and good on him for using such a creative springboard for his gadgets! (In contrast, some of the alpha-vampires used local Redfall legends as their names, trying to leverage that power for themselves. They were able to use it against the locals for fear-based manipulation, but the powers they have were stolen from the Gateway, not from borrowing those names. The fae these fools are not.)

But then—and this is swinging around to Secret-World-Legends-flavored shenanigans—you can also approach how Dev used the power of stories in a deeper, more bizarre and magical way. Certain stories, certain tropes, might sum up certain "rules of the universe" that we haven't been able to scientifically quantify yet. (Sort of like how stuff such as "toast always lands butter-side down," or "you're always going to forget to pack something you need on a trip" can feel like they're unwritten "rules" of How Things Work.) It's taking the phrase to mean that stories sometimes literally explain the world around us—we just need to figure out how. And Dev's been able to pluck out some of those "rules" that have been stitched within longstanding stories, and figured out how to harness their implied power via gadgets.

It strikes that sweet chord in me of "art as magic"—or art as magitech/gadgets, in this case.

Stories have power, sweetlings.

Tell yours.

[petz5]

grabs him by the scruff of his neck like a kitten

[dutybcrne]

The only person who has actually seen Kaeya's right eye after the immediate treatment post-Confrontation is Adelinde. He adamantly refuses to let anyone else see under it, especially those like Jean or Diluc who knew him best. The thought absolutely makes his gut churn. He would do anything to make sure no one catches sight of his eye if he can help it. Anything.

[inkskinned]

what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?

i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?

a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?

in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.

girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.

there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.

for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.

something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.

is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.

most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."

a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.

[bi-writes]

a hand for a hand | knight!ghost x f!reader

in the year of our lord 1657, your king wields a weapon that cannot be reproduced. as your queen's lady-in-waiting, you steer clear of it, lest it cut you when it passes by. but duty and desire are rarely met in a man's world.

type: one-shot (6.5k)

cw: dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, mentions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, ghost is obsessed with your tits (18+)

It is not a secret that you are afraid of the king's men. There is a reason that they have a reputation of cruelty. Ravagers, conquerors, unruly and untamed–they train like dogs, and they live like them, too. By accident, you have wandered to where their barracks are, and if it wasn't for the happenstance of your king hearing your screams, they would've taken your virtue that night.

That one belongs to my wife, he had said, gripping you by the scruff of your neck. Spoil it, and I'll have your fuckin' heads. His queen had been much kinder when he returned you back inside, cradling your head in her lap and promising to have something fashioned for you to wear so none of his men would ever touch you again.

And they haven't. They do not bow to you, but they open the doors for you, move out of your way, try to keep their eyes off of the softness of your cleavage and the curve of your skirt. But there is one that does not, there is one that refuses, and this one you avoid the most.

You don't know him by any other name other than Ghost. The right hand of the king, his most trusted advisor and his most brutal of men. There are times when he barges into the throne room, his sword dragging along the stone floor and trailing blood in its path, and he tosses the head of the king's enemy onto the floor. You clutch onto the skirt of your queen's dress, tears welling up in your eyes, and when you look up, he is staring at you, heaving in the metal of his armor, and you look away as his men yell out proudly as they crowd the room.

His eyes are always on you when you are in his presence. They track you as you move behind your queen, follow you as you eat and drink and tend to her majesty's needs. He wanders the halls, and he observes you as if you are his next meal. And maybe you are–if he suddenly decided you would be his next conquest, you don't think a refusal is in order. Maybe that's the mercy he gives you; just the aggressiveness of his stare and his stare only, and not the strength of his hand or the cruelness of his demeanor.

There is always a party. Always a celebration for this brute. He is praised by politicians and priests alike, because he must be the hand of god, delivering whatever the king asks for when it is asked of him. He does not lose, all he comes back with is chests full of gold and new slashes to add to the growing collection on his skin. Sometimes you wonder if he puts them on himself. You wonder if he drags his dagger in a crooked line down the length of his arm, as if he is tallying his win, counting up to a number that already puts the men that came before him to shame.

He seems like the kind of man to do so–like the kind of man to do it even with the blood of his adversary still warm on the sharp edge of the blade, the kind to lick it clean when he's finished just to solidify the unease and the terror of the next man to have the unfortunate fate of ending up at the wrong end of his adrenaline.

He has no face. He has no name. And if he is coming for you, it's already too late; your fate has been sealed, and you should say your last rites. The only mercy he ever gives is that death is always quick. His sword is too sharp, and his hand is too heavy.

It is late in the evening when you hear it. There's screaming in the courtyard, yells and howls and cheers. You put down your hairbrush, getting up and padding to the window to look outside. The king's men are there, hundreds of them milling about and walking around. They share mead and wine, crusty bread in their muddy hands. They are bloody and bruised, but they are happy. They sing and chant, hold each other and crowd around fires. They left weeks ago, and they are back now, and you suspect it must be victory on account of their demeanor.

You are not surprised by this. They aren't kind, but it makes them good soldiers. They aren't afraid to die; it's a common idea in your culture that for a man to die in battle is the only way to true salvation, to actual ascension. You have always hated this idea. Boys become cruel, and men become unforgiving, and it is why you are so grateful to be her majesty's lady-in-waiting because it means she is your only duty and nothing more.

You are surprised by the knock on your door. You think about ignoring it, but then there is another knock, and then a familiar, low voice mutters, "Are you awake, my lady?"

You tie your robe and scurry. When you open up the door, you curtsy low and graceful, your eyes drawn to the floor as you tremble a little in the king's presence. You've never really spoken to him before, not without his queen at your side.

"Y-Yes, your majesty? I'm sorry for my appearance, I–"

"It's quite late," he says gently. "You don't have to apologize. Is it alright if I come in?"

You stand from your curtsy, blinking up at him. You think for a few moments before you nod, widening the door. He settles himself at the seat by the window, looking down into the courtyard. He has a hint of a smirk on his face as he looks down at his men, still singing.

"I have a request of you," he says finally. You take a seat at the edge of your bed, wringing your hands nervously in your lap. Whatever his request is, you don't know why he's putting it this way. You're not exactly allowed to refuse. "It is time for my most decorated men to receive their titles. They deserve it, after what they have done for me these past few years."

You swallow, "Yes, of course. You have such a fine army, your majesty. You must be...V-very proud."

He turns to face you, and he nods.

"These titles come with land. Money. Responsibility. And it comes with other things they might request," he explains. "One of these things can be a bride."

"They are most fortunate," you say softly, trying to smile. He stands, turning back to look down into the courtyard.

"You are to be wed tomorrow," he tells you. "I know you gave up much to accept your role at my wife's side, and for that, I have arranged for a sizable dowry on your behalf. Congratulations, my lady." he turns to smile at you. "By sunset, you are to be a duchess."

You're shaking when he goes. You clutch the sheets, sinking to your knees, and you cry. You cry because you know who asked for your hand. You know who wants you, you know who it is, because every time he comes back from war, he cannot take his eyes off of you. He eats you with his gaze, he violates you and has never even touched you, he takes from you, and you've never spoken to him, but you know it's him, you know it, you know it–

Your queen is ecstatic. She lends you diamonds to wear, and she fusses over the embroidered silk and cotton dress they've sewn for you overnight. She tells you she's so proud, that you will make such a beautiful bride and a beautiful duchess, and it takes all of your strength not to cry, to choke back your sobs. Your innocence will be gone by the next morning, you know this, and yet here she beams about colored fabric and your new, unwanted title and all of the duties you have never, ever wanted for yourself.

Marriage will be your prison, and you will never be free. You'll be hidden behind closed doors and forced to carry loud, chubby babies.

You are not the only bride that afternoon, but you feel like the most important. Your veil is the longest, your dress is the most intricate, and you are wearing the queen's diamonds. Not to mention, you are to become a duchess, and the rest will be lords and ladies, nothing more. You have always hated the hierarchy that society fits themselves into, but you've never despised it more than this moment.

He is waiting for you when you make it to the throne room. He wears his armor, polished and without blood, his face covered and his hood up to shadow his dark eyes. He wears his telltale insignia with pride, the skull motif of his belt gleaming and the paint of his mask fresh. He stands tall and menacing, a reaper in human skin, and you are so close to tears as you make your way to him. Your eyes find his, and he holds out his hand for you to take. You slip a delicate hand into his gloved one, letting the rough fabric warm you as he brings you to stand in front of him. He purrs, you think, a low rumble as his eyes look you up and down.

You are a prize. A trophy. Nothing more. A gift given for cutting the heads off of your king's foes, and that is all.

The ring on your finger is gold, and the ring you slip over his is silver. And then he gives you his first gift as your husband–a tiara, made of emerald and gold, and he slips your veil off to tuck it between the strands of your hair. The intricate pattern on the tiara matches the patterns along the iron of his armor, and you want to think of this as a gesture of good will, but you know it is given with possessive intent, a brand of ownership.

Because that is what this is. Not a ceremony of love, but an exchange, a transaction. You've been bought with blood, and there is nothing you can do about it.

But one day he will grow bored of me, and maybe then, I'll feel myself again.

He narrows his eyes, glares, and your lips part, trembling, you are terrified. His response is to growl with delight, his eyes falling to stare at the laces that hold in your cleavage. You observe this fact–the fact that you have things that other ladies do not. You are not tiny like them, not thin nor delicate. You are warm, soft, and the squeeze of your breasts in your dress draw him in.

You are a prisoner, now. But perhaps, if you play this game correctly, you can be in your ward's good graces. This is the hand you've been dealt; perhaps there is still a way to win if you steel your bluff.

The party is lively. There is music, gold coins tossed haphazardly on tables, so much dancing and enough food to stuff yourself for days. There is endless wine, and there are brides seated in laps, hungry new couples kissing and whispering soft nothings into each other's ears. The king blessed you all, told you to enjoy your new lives, your new titles, to make your country proud and raise pretty, fat babies.

You sit aways from him. You don't speak, just stare at your dinner plate, sipping wine absentmindedly as you think about the rest of your life and how miserable you will be. You think about the control you have never had, the choices you have never been given, and you wish so badly that you were a man.

Men simply ask for, and then they receive. Women simply hope that their eyes don't meet a flame too hot to handle.

His eyes bore into your head. When you catch his gaze every once in a while, all he does is tilt his head to the side and observe you. The beauty that you are, the woman that no one can have, the supple tits that belong to him, and the perfect cunt he knows that you have under the multitude of skirts you hide it under. Your skin glows, your hair is healthy, you will give him everything that he needs, that he craves.

You'll look so beautiful carrying his heir. You'll look so perfect when you begin to wear the dresses he will buy you, when you sleep in the bed in the house that he gives you, when you stand in the kitchen that he builds for you. Although, a woman like you deserves to do nothing but relax, be pampered, to lay down on a bed of furs as he eats your sweetness and fucks you stupid.

When the morning is early, you sneak out. You scurry to your bedroom, closing the door behind you for a moment of peace. You take a seat on your bed, the bed you aren't sure you will have for much longer, and you sit there and stare at your feet until the door opens.

You know who it is right away. Coming in unannounced, because now he is allowed to, because everything in this room now belongs to him, from the thread holding your dress together to the very breaths you take.

You sit up straight, turning your head. Ghost slips through, taking up the space by the door as it shuts behind him. You watch him as he stands poised just like the soldier he is, looking at you illuminated by nothing but candlelight. His gloved hands rest at his sides, but he squeezes them in and out of fists, clicking his tongue. You hear the leather of them move.

You have never spoken to him before. You've never heard him speak. You wonder if he really knows how to; you wonder if he has a voice or if he's been whittled down to nothing but the sounds that a loyal mutt makes. You know why he's here, you know why he's come. You can't tell him no, you don't think, but he doesn't move from his place, so you aren't completely sure of what he wants.

But you have an idea.

"Y'abhor me," he says finally. He speaks. You swallow. At least he isn't stupid. It's rare that you see a brute with brains. Although, with all the battles he has won, you know he doesn't lack intelligence. He is seasoned, worldly, knows how to convince the politicians and to rile up the uneducated men that kill for him. He must have a quick tongue and a strong vocabulary. A leader bred for killing, a man taught to know his audience and how to deliver a persuasive message.

But has he been taught to tame a cat? How to please a woman? How to love her, how to have her?

Love. What a silly dream.

"Not as much as I fear you," you admit. He hums, his eyes crinkling a little, as if he's smiling. You watch him carefully as he finally moves, rounding the bed before he stands in front of you.

"Wot is it y'r afraid of?" he asks. His voice comes low, from the bottom of his chest. You tilt your head up to look at him.

"That you'll hurt me," you whisper. He shrugs, shaking his head.

"A beaten wife is no good t'me," he tells you, very matter-of-fact. "Need strong heirs. Which means I need y'fed and happy."

"I'll never be happy."

He grips your chin, shutting you up. A part of you wishes he would be meaner. That he would be the angry, possessive Ghost that he truly is and show the kingdom that there is no part of him redeemable or salvageable. You want to sport his bruises and tell the queen he is an animal, but his touch is firm and nothing more. If anything, he's gentler than you expected him to be.

"We'll see about tha'."

Your eyes water, and you stiffen at his touch.

"I know who you are," your voice cracks. "I know what you do. You're a pillager. You take women, and you kill men."

He tilts his head to the side, smoothing his thumb along your bottom lip. You aren't wrong. Since he was small, most of what he has known has been the smell of blood in the air and the sound of screams when he shows up at their doors. He's never been particularly gentle when he ravages. He takes, takes, takes–it tastes good and strengthens his bones. It puts medals on his chest and pretty, thick women in his bed.

But you are no village in an unfortunate land. You are the gift that his king has given him. The forbidden treasure that he had his eye on since he saw you standing there beside his queen. Poised, elegant, graceful, timid, untouched, perfectly soft. Ghost has never known this kind of thing, and if you had been any other lady, he would have married you long ago, but he had to wait. He had to be patient, win and kill enough that his king could not refuse his request–no, his demand–to have you.

He did not do the king's bidding for the glory or for the honor. He did it so he could bite into you, so that even if you screamed, you belonged, and no one would care.

"Just a matter of war, dear wife. They matter little," Ghost mutters. "Let me look at ya..." he tilts your head side to side, observing you. He guides his hand down your throat, arching you back so he could trace his fingers along the swell of your breasts. He hums with approval, reaching lower and squeezing the fat of one breast with one big hand. His eyes flash, and he fondles the other.

You are surprised by the sensation. No one has ever touched you this way before. It feels...good. His hands are warm, even under all of that leather, and you find yourself feeling rather sensitive. You lean back a little on the palms of your hands, looking down. You watch as he traces a finger around your nipple, and you bite your lip when it pebbles under his touch. He uses both hands now, cupping both of them, growling. Ohhh–it feels so nice.

"Gonna be so nice when they're full," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "All for our babe."

You don't know what comes over you. You don't know why you do it, but you do. You lift your hand, gripping the edge of the laces that tie the front of your dress closed, and you pull. The weight of your breasts unravel the ribbons, and Ghost groans audibly when they spill out of your corset. There is a tickle that you feel, some sort of sick satisfaction, knowing that you've pleased him in some way.

"Tha'sit...My beautiful bride..." he smacks his lips together under his mask, as if he's hungry, "Tits of a fuckin' angel."

You squeeze your legs together. You know what it is to feel aroused, but this is different. You feel wet, so wet, as if it's wetting the skirt of your dress. You've never felt it this strong. You whimper a little, and he chuckles, so mean.

"Y'like tha', my bride?" he asks. He reaches up and cups your cheek, bringing your soft eyes to his. The praise, it itches you nicely. "Y'r m'prize, swee'eart. I killed over a thousand men, and y'are what m'reward is, did y'know tha'?" he hisses. "Cut the heart out of a man's chest, like a fuckin' pig, just to 'ave this cunt."

Why does it feel so good? Why are you getting wetter and wetter, why are you whining, why are you giving into it? Why do you want it so bad, why do you ache?

It hurts, it hurts–

"'s olright," he coos, so condescending. "Shhhh..." he puts a palm on your chest and pushes, making you lay back. You swallow, letting him put a finger between the laces of your corset and tug. It barely budges, fastened so carefully, and you gasp sharply when he uses two big hands and grunts, ripping your corset apart. You hear the crack of the whale bone give away under the strength of him, and it's a reminder of just how dangerous he is, how strong, and you know when he looks between your thighs, he'll find you wet and needy and captivated.

The corset comes loose, and he tugs, taking your skirts with it until you're naked underneath him. You want to feel shame, but you can't. You're so desperate, for whatever he will give you, and instead of covering yourself, you let your knees fall open. The groan he lets out makes you leak even more, and he watches with awe as your puffy hole pulses. He moves to shove his trousers down, but you stop him, putting a hand on the chest of his leather armor.

"Wait–" you meet his eyes. Your eyes flutter. "B-but...But I want..."

He eyes you curiously, narrowing them.

"Want wot?"

You swallow.

"I-I..." you reach down and slip your fingers gently through your folds. The squelch makes his eyes widen, and he's mesmerized by what he sees. "I want...Your mouth..."

He snickers, "Y'think a man will eat it so easy?" he raises a brow. "Doesn't work tha' way. Besides..." he shrugs. "I don't reveal m'face."

You sit up, blinking, smoothing your hands down his chest and tracing them along the hem of his trousers. His dark eyes follow you, and you realize he doesn't really say no. You need to remind him that you are not one of his men. You need to be kept happy, and he needs to give in, even if it hurts his fucking ego.

"Please?" you whisper, taking his hand and putting it back on your face, kissing the palm of his glove. Killed a thousand men to have me, so show me–show me, show me, show me. You nuzzle into it, giving him those eyes, and he stares for a long few moments. "Please..."

He sinks to his knees almost immediately. His armor stretches a little, the leather and metal moving rigidly with him. Your eyes widen a little at the position–the thing that he is knelt down in front of his wife, an act of submission.

"Turn around," he snaps. "On y'r knees."

You do as he says. You turn on the bed, your face squished against the cushions, and he yanks you back by your hips. You fist the sheets, sucking in a shaky breath, and your eyes squeeze shut when he puts two hands on your ass and spreads you wide. He plants a kiss on your folds from over the mask, and then you hear the shuffle of fabric before his warm tongue prods at your entrance.

He eats slow at first. Just drags his tongue through the slick there. He's exploring you, learning you. But then he is all-consuming. He hisses, gripping you by the thighs and suckling at your clit before tracing his name into the folds of your cunt. You can't help how wet you are–drooling, wetting his mask, crying so soft as he bobs his head and eats you, starving. He did not expect you to be so sweet, so soft. Every part of you is soft, and he associates the taste of you with the sound of your pleasure, and it's like a trigger. His brain ticks just the right way when he hears you moan for the first time. Not even battle quiets the tinnitus, but the ringing is nearly gone now.

He wonders if you're sent from heaven, even though he doesn't believe in it. But something had to have sent you, something had to have given you to him, because it's too much, it's too good, it's too real.

What he wants is in his hands, cumming on his tongue, crying because of his touch. Too real, too real, too real.

He pulls away. He smacks his lips gently, smirking, and then he pulls his mask back down. He stands up straight, watching you, still on your knees, squirming. He tuts, turning you onto your back easily. You're languid and a little breathless, and you giggle a little when you realize how easy it is for him to manhandle you, for him to move you. You've never felt very small, but he doesn't even strain, not even a little.

He's so scary, it makes you sick, but you can make this your own–you could make him love you, couldn't you? Someone this twisted, someone this insane, you could make him obsessed, you could drive him crazy, you could have the loyal dog you have always been yourself.

Killed a thousand men to have me, so I'll put you on your fucking knees.

It's what you're owed. For all the years of serving, for all the years of submission and pain and kneeling and curtsying, you're allowed to have something, you can have something, even if it's this monster of a man. He may have paid for you, but you won't let a thousand men die for nothing.

You will make him love you. You will make him love you. You will make him love you.

You sit up, a bit dazed. You're swimming in your own head, a little insane from the orgasm. You know what a man like him wants. You have doted on men like him all your life. You know what it is that arrogant people crave, what it is they desire, the things that keep them up at night, you know because you've soothed those fears all your life.

You just need to know how to make him purr. You need to know what clears the thoughts in his head.

"My husband," you whisper, meeting his eyes, and there's a little twitch in his eyes. He likes that title. "I–"

"Did y'like that, my bride?" he murmurs. "Your husband's mouth on y'r cunt, 'n now y'r singin' for me, eh?"

You bat your lashes, sliding your hands up his forearms. You drag your fingers over the sleeves of his armor, whimpering. The smell of leather is overwhelming, but you suppose you must get used to it. You have a feeling you'll be polishing it for the rest of your life.

"I've always been...Terrified of you," you whisper. "The way you come into court...The way you fight...Seeing you in all those places, you have always scared me..." he hums, his eyes intrigued. He smooths his hands up your thighs, gripping onto your waist as he tugs you closer to him. "But, I..." you reach for his shoulders, pulling on him until he bends, leans over you, crowds your space and shadows you like the eclipse he truly is. "I-I want more..."

He chuckles, "I know y'do," he echos. "Could see it in y'r eyes, darling girl," he sighs. "A pretty face like this one...Wasted on her majesty."

"I don't think we're allowed to say that."

"I deliver entire countries at john's feet, I'll say wot I bloody please," he snaps. You just blink up at him, before smiling a little.

This disgusting, murderous, possessive, immoral, treacherous piece of shit that is your husband is really the most beautiful man you've ever set your eyes on. Strong, resilient, unable to be killed, adored by his king and his men alike. He is everything a man is supposed to be, but nothing like how a gentleman should behave. He is built for war, built to take, so how can you get this nasty thing to love you?

Ghost does not seem the kind of man to bend to the desires of ordinary men. He may want to fuck you, but he has self-control. He may enjoy the praise of his men, but he doesn't require it. He may ache for the soft press of a woman, but he is self-sufficient and easily deterred.

So you do what servant women do best. You appease, because at the end of the day, Ghost is still a man, and men are all the same.

"A baby..." you whisper, holding onto the backs of his hands firmly. You dig your nails into the skin there, arching your back to get closer to him. He growls under the mask, metal biting into your soft skin as he grips you even tighter. "Want a baby..."

He cackles, so mean, and he leans down to kiss along your ear, down your throat, biting at the supple skin through the mask. He's still got all of his armor on, he hasn't shed one lick of his gear, but you cling to it like a parasite. He is one with it, and you realize this now, his second skin made of durable steel and patent animal skin, singed at the edges. He's such a fine soldier, too strong for his own good, too rough around all his edges to be anything but a masochist, but he's yours. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him, and it isn't until he slides the warmth of his length through your folds that you realize this, too.

You reach up with trembling hands, high enough to cup his masked face. He flinches, nearly throwing you off, but you shush him gently, cooing softly as you nuzzle your nose against his.

"I'm sorry," you whisper there. It's so intimate, this position, and you know that he has never let anyone touch him this way by the feeling of his body under your hands, stiff and unable to move. You roll your hips gently, up against his, and you let out a soft keen at the squelch of your slick against his cock. "It's...It's everything I didn't know I wanted..."

He grunts, metal creaking as his nostrils flare.

"I don't understand," he murmurs. Affection, it's so unfamiliar that it startles him. That someone can be kind to him, something other than a hard hand and an impossible order, it's not something he knows, and he's not sure how he feels about it. His instinct tells him to distance himself, but his cock guides him closer.

"You," you whine. "So big–" you reach down between your bodies, pumping his cock gently. Your fingers barely meet around his girth, a true testament to his size, he lacks this largeness nowhere. "–there's nothing to be afraid of, is there?"

Ghost snarls a little, gripping your thighs tight and securing them around his waist. You lock your ankles around his hips, pulling, and he hums as the head of his cock sinks into you easily.

"Naughty lil' girl," he laughs, standing straight as his thighs meet your ass. You whine, your back bowing like a taut string, and he slides his tongue over his teeth with a menacing click. "Not a virgin, are ya?"

"I-I am," you gasp, clawing at his forearms, and he hisses when you clench.

"Mm. Not a stranger t'this feelin' then, aye?"

You shake your head, and he nods, hoisting your legs up and over his shoulders as he gives you a firm thrust.

"Good," he mutters. "Don't much feel like pettin' ya."

And he doesn't. He's a menace. He snarls like a beast under his armor, his gloves squeezing your plush thighs as he pounds into you with no words to soften the blow. He isn't gentle by any means–he gives, and he expects you to take, and your legs shake as you try and crawl away from him. He doesn't let you–his fingers spread around your waist and he tugs, spearing you back onto his cock before he leans over you and starts putting his back into it.

Despite the roughness, he looks down at you, eyes focused on yours, and he doesn't look away. Your arms flail a little until you reach up and wrap them around his neck for stability, but it only draws his face close to yours. Your hand falls to grip his jaw, and he leans into it just enough that you know you have him.

"You'll make such a good little babe," he grunts, groaning when you tighten just that much. He's securing his place, making room inside of you so you can take even more. "Cunt was made to bear m'children, m'lady..."

"That so?" you squeak, and he smiles under the mask–you're falling apart on his cock, a good girl, just for him, just like you always are. "Have to finish what you started for that to happen, don't you?"

"Fuckin' brat–" Ghost snaps, but he presses his face to yours, needing to be closer, needing to have you, needing to make you his from the inside-out. A ring is not enough, no, he has to bind you to him forever by making you bear his kin. He will give you many, he's going to keep you fat and beautiful and pregnant, and his children will know that their father hungered for their mother so much that he destroyed a generation of men to covet one of his own.

Ghost has known since the first moment he laid his eyes on you that you would be it. You had to be his wife, no one else would suffice, because no one else could bear the weight of his name the way you would be able to. No one else would be able to carry his babies without dying, no one else could make the sun fall and the moon rise and the fire wane just long enough for him to feel human again, no one.

You start to think the same. You've never felt this way, so out of your body and so aware of it all at once. You're floating–you're somewhere else, you think. There's a pleasure so searing, that you can barely breathe. His cock is deep, touching places inside of you your fingers could never dream to reach, and there's a place that he touches sometimes that makes your eyes blur and your mouth make the most pathetic whining sound. You're crying, begging, asking him for more, please–! Nnghh–please!

He's never had a woman so wet. He has always had them for his own pleasure. He has never paid attention to what they feel or tried to make it nice for anyone but himself, but he knows he will never want it the same ever again. There's something so satisfying about the heavy plat, plat, plat that his cock makes every time his hips meet yours. He can feel his trousers sticking to his thick thighs, knows that there must be some thick, creamy slick coating his length and sticking to your skin that he suddenly wants to scoop up with his tongue and savor the tang of his bride, his wife, his pretty, pretty girl–tha's it, just right, like tha'–

"I...I-I–!" it's more intense than you've ever felt it. A crescendo of pleasure that is starting to grow in your belly, an unwavering warmth that he keeps flooding you with, so good that you can't stop crying for it. You're sputtering, drooling, clawing at the hood around his back because it's so fucking close, it's right there, it's mine, you're mine, mine, mine–

"Fuckin' hell–" Ghost groans, cradling your head against his chest as he stills his hips against yours and fills you nice and warm. You go cross-eyed, you think, shaking as you latch your mouth onto his masked jaw and suck. You need to put your mouth around something, need to fill it with the taste of him. He doesn't move, body heavy and suffocating over you, but you don't tell him to move and make no effort to push him off.

You think you want this. You think you want him to keep you here, just like this, underneath him, full of him, drooling from more than just your mouth from a fucking too good and the promise of something more.

He moves to take a seat on the bed, and you chase after him. You keep your arms around his neck, shuffle into his lap, and he chuckles under his breath as he wraps one big arm around you and tugs you close to him.

Maybe it isn't so bad to be bound to someone like this. Maybe it isn't so bad to belong, maybe it isn't so bad to be wanted this way, maybe it isn't the most unfortunate thing to not have the autonomy of yourself anymore in favor of being this thing's wife.

You slide your hand down his chest before smoothing it over one masked cheek. His eyes close for a moment, and he leans into it for just long enough that you recognize the gesture as one of need. Ghost aches, too–maybe not for the same thing you ache for, but he aches, and maybe it's for this.

Something gentle. Something soft. Something to bury himself into because the flames have burnt too hot for too long, and the voices in his head give him no reprieve. His hands are too dirty, too unclean, and you think maybe that's why he doesn't take his gloves off anymore–there is no cleaning agent enough for the blood caked under his fingernails.

He's more human this way. Less beast, more man, but you see that flicker of humanity disappear entirely when he sees the trickle of his cum slipping onto the fine sheets of your bed.

What a waste. What a loss. He has to fuck you again.

He will never be bored of me, I don't think. Ghost will want me forever–even when we are dead, because he cannot die, because he's already rotting inside.

You don't seem to mind your new position. No kneeling, no curtsying–your duty is on your back and on your side and on your stomach, presented for your husband, just for his pleasure, just for your own.

In all your life, you have never wanted this. You endured the burden of serving because you were at least needed this way. Marriage to you looked akin to death; when the veils fell over girl's faces, you never saw them again. They would be confined to their houses, made to spread their legs, forced to carry children they didn't want and die the slow death of giving their husbands everything they wanted while their dreams were buried alongside them.

Your dream is freedom. It always has been. Your dream is to do as you please, to go where you want to go, to say the things you want to say. There is an understanding here that you have, an opportunity that you could not see before. Before you had Ghost, you saw him as the thing in your way. He was the quicksand that would pull you under, the tide that sunk the earth, the dog that guarded his bone. But you know now, you understand, that Ghost doesn't have to be the wall in your way.

He is more animal than man, and in that fact alone, you feel power in your toes and something hungry knocking at the bone of your ribs, just waiting to come out.

Ghost will hold the sword. And you will hold the leash.

NEXT

[whetstonefires]

You know what I realize that people underestimate with Pride & Prejudice is the strategic importance of Jane.

Because like, I recently saw Charlotte and Elizabeth contrasted as the former being pragmatic and the latter holding out for a love match, because she's younger and prettier and thinks she can afford it, and that is very much not what's happening.

The Charlotte take is correct, but the Elizabeth is all wrong. Lizzie doesn't insist on a love match. That's serendipitous and rather unexpected. She wants, exactly as Mr. Bennet says, someone she can respect. Contempt won't do. Mr. Bennet puts it in weirdly sexist terms like he's trying to avoid acknowledging what he did to himself by marrying a self-absorbed idiot, but it's still true. That's what Elizabeth is shooting for: a marriage that won't make her unhappy.

She's grown up watching how miserable her parents make one another; she's not willing to sign up for a lifetime of being bitter and lonely in her own home.

I think she is very aware, in refusing Mr. Collins, that it's reasonably unlikely that anyone she actually respects is going to want her, with her few accomplishments and her lack of property. That she is turning down security and the chance keep the house she grew up in, and all she gets in return may be spinsterhood.

But, crucially, she has absolute faith in Jane.

The bit about teaching Jane's daughters to embroider badly? That's a joke, but it's also a serious potential life plan. Jane is the best creature in the world, and a beauty; there's no chance at all she won't get married to someone worthwhile.

(Bingley mucks this up by breaking Jane's heart, but her prospects remain reasonable if their mother would lay off!)

And if Elizabeth can't replicate that feat, then there's also no doubt in her mind that Jane will let her live in her house as a dependent as long as she likes, and never let it be made shameful or awful to be that impoverished spinster aunt. It will be okay never to be married at all, because she has her sister, whom she trusts absolutely to succeed and to protect her.

And if something eventually happens to Jane's family and they can't keep her anymore, she can throw herself upon the mercy of the Gardeners, who have money and like her very much, and are likewise good people. She has a support network--not a perfect or impregnable one, but it exists. It gives her realistic options.

Spinsterhood was a very dangerous choice; there are reasons you would go to considerable lengths not to risk it.

But Elizabeth has Jane, and her pride, and an understanding of what marrying someone who will make you miserable costs.

That's part of the thesis of the book, I would say! Recurring Austen thought. How important it is not to marry someone who will make you, specifically, unhappy.

She would rather be a dependent of people she likes and trusts than of someone she doesn't, even if the latter is formally considered more secure; she would rather live in a happy, reasonable household as an extra than be the mistress of her own home, but that home is full of Mr. Collins and her mother.

This is a calculation she's making consciously! She's not counting on a better marriage coming along. She just feels the most likely bad outcome from refusing Mr. Collins is still much better than the certain outcome of accepting him. Which is being stuck with Mr. Collins forever.

Elizabeth is also being pragmatic. Austen also endorses her choice, for the person she is and the concerns she has. She's just picking different trade-offs than Charlotte.

Elizabeth's flaw is not in her own priorities; she doesn't make a reckless choice and get lucky. But in being unable to accept that Charlotte's are different, and it doesn't mean there's anything wrong with Charlotte.

Because realistically, when your marriage is your whole family and career forever, and you only get to pick the ones that offer themselves to you, when you are legally bound to the status of dependent, you're always going to be making some trade-offs.

😂 Even the unrealistically ideal dream scenario of wealthy handsome clever ethical Mr. Darcy still asks you to undergo personal growth, accommodate someone else's communication style, and eat a little crow.