#but i appreciate all the points you made like yes yes yes!!

[et-cant-phone-home-no-signal]

Reacting to: “Finding Celebrían” written by Tumblr user balrogballs

This is a reaction to this wonderful essay, please give the essay a read, and just a note that this is just me writing my rambling thoughts, feelings and reaction to this stunning piece of writing.

Celebrían did not mean much to me the first time I was exposed to the Lord of the Rings, in fact, I didn’t know she existed until I picked up the books for the first time roughly 6 years after I’d first watched the films at age 10. My relationship to Tolkien’s works is once of a long-suffering lover who knows and sees all of the faults, cracks and missing chunks, and forgives it anyway because the rest of it is beautiful and fulfilling, despite its faults. But as I’ve gotten older, and wiser, and more experienced in many different ways, I’ve come to appreciate Tolkien’s cracks and missing pieces, perhaps more so than the pictures that are yet whole to enjoy. Celebrían is one of these missing pieces.

The opening of this essay immediately had me going “yes, agreed”, because I too was expecting so much more when I first found Cel in those Appendices and notes. The emphasis put here on Cel’s torment is such an important thing to hone in on, because in a world where there is such beauty, which Tolkien describes readily, for the wife of such a great elf lord as Elrond to decide that the pain she had endured was so much, and so heavy, and so irreparable, that the better choice was for her to leave the shores of Middle-Earth, and her family, behind. Lovers of lotr and Tolkien’s other works are not unfamiliar with the concepts of torture, war, consequences of actions and of death, but it’s still a striking word to use, especially in the context of the Appendices. Seeing this being pointed out certainly made me feel some sense of relief, that indeed I’m no the only one who sees.

Now, The Fields means something specific to Miss Balls, and this entire segment of the essay had me putting my phone down and willing my gathering tears to chill out and leave so I could keep reading. The tone of this section, as well as the vulnerability, made me pause and reflect on why I was feeling so upset at reading it. What about this was resonating with me? I don’t see myself has having my Field, rather, I have many Fields spread across many places. I did not have a steady Field growing up, and the one that I wish I could return to, the original comfort, is something far-off and distant to me; a hazy remnant of my childhood, so old and wrinkly I can no longer be sure of its cosy details. All of my other Fields however… I start to understand why this section is making me want to scream into a pillow. Most of my other Fields are withered, and they too became things I could no longer stand to look at, though I myself have never even considered the concept of cPTSD being a part of my (already damaged) psyche, but this writing has definitely opened a can of worms that was simply waiting to be found. I’m not sure whether to thank you, or curse you out.

Anway.

Following Cel became a natural pathway to trying to understand what was going on with her, but also what was going on with me. By the time she became a true interest in my life, I was already knee-deep into my own lotr writing project, one that’s been years in the making. Suddenly, I had to think about where Celebrían would fit in this narrative, on what kind of things she might say, or do, or like. How do you write someone who exists only in footnotes? As nothing more than a name in passing, another female tragedy, another missing wife. Like Miss Balls, I tried to find her, and felt cold disappointment when I found little to nothing for my efforts. How awful, to be a part of a world so wonderful and bright and big as Middle-Earth, and still be left behind in the shadows, like so many others. “I couldn’t find her in the story.” - and I could not either.

Now, I quote an entire paragraph, because I must. “But I think that was always what drew me to her, that absence. I didn’t find myself in Celebrían, but in the footnote that gestured to her presence. It wasn’t that I understood her so much as I knew how to decrypt the desperate scratches left behind by someone who drowned on dry land. That was how she and I were truly alike: people who wanted to change the world, or a little part of it, and did, did something good - and had all of it forgotten, crammed into a footnote read with a tender, pitying fret.” - I had a whole paragraph of words lined up when I first read this, hell, I was practically cheering in my seat, going “yes! exactly!” as I felt a connection with the words on my screen, but I think the visual of that reaction alone tells more than I ever could in a measly paragraph. The way Miss Balls writes Celebrían, the joy and craziness, the sweet tooth, everything that makes her her, is born within whatever has been unwritten. Cel is not just what we make of her in writing, but rather what she can be to use outside of it, what she is to the world she lives in. I’ve been finding her in my own writing, her small eccentricities that make her more than a footnote. My Cel hates bees, and she loves the colour purple, and she delights in eating with her hands. When I read “I don’t know, if I’m being honest, whether Celebrían changed me, or if I changed her. Whether change is an instant or a process, whether this version of almost-Celebrían mattered to anyone but myself.” I understand, and I wonder just how many version of Cel are out there - how many of us have read this footnote and decided that she was going to be so much more than what is assumed of her.

For Miss Balls, leaving The Fields is written as this freeing (yet scary) necessity (and feel free to tell me I’m talking bullshit, because at the end of the day, I am just an outsider looking in and reading an essay that makes me feel like my heart is going to implode on itself). And it brings me great joy to read this section in which freedom from the place that you perhaps don’t actually know you want to leave, until all of a sudden, you just know, because yeah, it really do be like that sometimes. I can agree with and understand Celebrían being a guide of sorts, at least mentally, because yes, she would not judge, she would understand and applaud. She would sit both of us down, as we leave our Fields behind, and offer us a (too sweet) glass of lemonade and say ‘it isn’t over yet’ with the kindest smile and a twinkle in her eye. The concept of being a “cracked vessel” applies not just to Cel, but to me as well, and I hated being confronted with that, but it’s a reminder that that is not all you are. And now my words begin to make less sense, so let’s slow it down, shall we?

Miss Balls speaks true; all of us that are sucked in by Celebrían are mirrors of a kind. There is no such thing as one Celebrían, and I don’t think there ever could be. The beauty of loving a character who is nobody, is that she can be everybody. I too had to write Celebrían to find her, or at least my version of her, and all of her idiosyncrasies, some of which are still hidden to me. It doesn’t all have to be said, if fact, I think that most of it goes unsaid, in the ways in which she thinks, and walks, and talks, in the colours that she wears, in the shoes (or lack thereof), in the way she styles her hair… “I look at her now, as she is in my head, and there Celebrían is neither alive nor dead.” - And as Miss Balls looks into her dusty wing mirror, so I do too look in mine. My mirror is not dusty, and it does not belong to me, but it is cracked and holding on by a thread. The girl in that mirror is stuck in some of those Fields, and she looks different in every single one, but just maybe, she can be consoled. I know for a fact that my Celebrían would know what to do.

After note: Miss Balls you make me cry, but I’ve been meaning to read this essay since I first saw you published it. Now that I finally have, I just could not stop thinking, and these thoughts flowed out onto my keyboard with such relative ease (relative mind you compared to whatever my writing capability is at any given moment) that I almost felt like should have bit the bullet days ago. Anyway, I encourage everyone to read the essay, especially if you have any love or feeling toward Celebrían because damn. Damn.

Finding Celebrían

For Tolkien Meta Week — an essay on autofiction, archives, healing, and why I moved across the country after finding out Elrond Peredhel had a wife. Being an essayist irl, believe me when I say I was thrilled to see @silmarillionwritersguild have the personal essay form as a format for Tolkien Meta Week! Here's something from the heart - warning for discussion of cPTSD and (non explicit) references to violence.

When I first found Celebrían in a footnote, I wrapped up warm and followed, certain she'd lead me to where she truly lived in the text.

By that point, it had been a good decade or so since I first read Tolkien – I had been aware that Elrond had a wife, and assumed she was dead or hung up in some other cold meat locker alongside a procession of wives spanning literary history.

It was only years later that I properly came across her, and blinked, realising she was a cursory line which led to a footnote in Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, one which referred to her torment in passing, meant to explain why the sons of Elrond and to an extent Elrond himself, were the way they were. 

Fridging was one thing, but torment was another entirely, I thought — and so casually! Tea and torment in the Third Age, tra-la-lally traumatised into "losing all joy" in Middle-Earth and leaving the year after, taking ship to Valinor and leaving behind a grieving family. It was simple curiosity, really, until it turned into a cold, familiar grasp: the clear-cut knowledge of exactly what sort of torment it would have been, that drove away the wife of a noble lord living in what was very clearly described as being one of the last great sanctuaries in a ravaged realm. 

But to understand why The Footnote stopped me in my tracks, I need to tell you about The Fields. 

When I speak of The Fields (which are of course not really fields and neither are they called The Fields anywhere but here), I refer to one of the most beautiful spots in the country. The Fields combined the peaceful pastoral with quaint urban charm, rustic without being remote, safe without being detached. I lived in The Fields for several years, and made a little life for myself that grew into something bigger. 

I had been an activist in The Fields — moved from scrappy student to card-carrying revolutionary — and I did it because I loved where I lived very, very much, enough to think I could kiss it better. And I was good, I was! I belonged on the stage in that sense, I was invited to panel after panel, talk after talk, and I stood on little podiums that grew alongside me. I knew how to carry myself, present myself, leveraged my palatability and conventionality in return for rights and bare-minimum environmental reparations. 

Such wonders, of course, came with a cost I hadn’t foreseen — an incident, a couple really, that tossed a diagnosis of cPTSD into my lap and turned my lovely home into The Fields. And because I had been so good at presenting myself and clambering on podiums with shiny hair, the incidents became the talk of the town, and I in turn very quickly became a subject, the walking, talking cost of resistance. 

A feature of cPTSD, one that sets it apart from PTSD, is the overarching dullness with which the emotional flashbacks grasp you. Not like being plucked off the surface of the earth by a monstrous thing, but rather drowning quietly in sludge you never realised was beneath your feet in the first place. There was never a thing that terrified me about The Fields, it was only ever a quiet, creeping mass taking over everything, and in being so — easy to ignore and disguise. 

I love The Fields, I told myself, even after. I loved The Fields, even though life had turned into air and static, and I had turned into an unfeeling thing. I lived in the middle of that little city but felt as though I was in a small hut on no-man's land, or a joint security area, suspended between towers. I couldn't stand the wonderful hills and valleys, so I tried my hardest to cling onto the reasons I loved them, tried to medicate them back into my heart with the forcefulness of a pacemaker. I shoved things down throats and up noses, walked back onto all those stages, turned myself into an electric hearse chasing a long-dead dragon. I would walk around The Fields on some nights, very cold and very young, the bleached bones left behind by something very promising. 

Can you see why I stopped still at Appendix A, at Celebrían? I tried to follow her, and see where her story began, and what wonders it would end in, because if Celebrían's story ended in wonder then maybe, there might be a chance, perhaps….. 

It would be easy, I thought, I was a writer, a journalist, a researcher - I trained in asking questions and knowing things, even sticky, stunted, back-of-the-throat things that you'd rather not catch sight of in a mirror. The History of Middle Earth book sets were ordered, fresh copies of all the old texts, magnifying glasses held over Unfinished Tales. 

I’d been so certain I would find her. That Celebrían would ramble across page after page, legs dangling over the edge and an indolent expression fizzing on her face. She would be stubborn and glorious and righteous in her fervor to change the world. I would find her in the flesh, and then no longer would I stand in The Fields each night, hollow-eyed, self-haunting spectre holding myself thrall to a single series of events in what has been, objectively, a lovely, loving life.

But a full month went by, and all I found was footnote after endnote after cursory mention, almost all of them clothing her in torment, growing stiff and sharp against the tooth of the page: vicious, like a blade angled backwards. For Celebrían and I, the richest text in the world turned into a landscape of loss. 

What a wonderful, rich, textured world you have!

All the better to swallow you whole, my dear. 

I couldn't find her in the story. I spent weeks and weeks on her, and I couldn't find her in the story and by then I had already fancied myself and Celebrían to be counterparts, like if she laughed, I would laugh too, like if she ran, then I would run too, and if she was lost, then… well. I suppose it shows the power of an enduring text. I had a PhD, at that point I had just gotten my publishing deal through, I'd spoken on all those podiums and done all those real-world, adult things, and still I was not immune to the indulgent tether of a good old self-insert. And then it turned out we were not counterparts but rather more akin to co-morbidities, that The Footnote and its friends were all I would ever know of Celebrían. 

It was summer, I remember, but my hands were cold — autopsy-fingers, my partner called them. Archive-fingers, autopsy-fingers, scrabbling around to find nothing, no indication as to how Celebrían's story truly ended and why I was the person I was. The texts shifted uneasily under my hands, like the Professor himself was turning out his pockets and shrugging, reminding me that it was neither Celebrían's nor my story, not really. Pointed me back to The Footnote like it was a pacifier, and still I turned in circles like a dog chasing its tail, looking for other instances of her name. I found nothing. I began to fear that I had wasted my life.

The Footnote started to blur across weeks, and soon it turned itself into My Footnote. The one I had found, a year or so before the hunt, in a fantastic, recently published book that spoke about activism in The Fields, where I came face to face with myself. But there, I hadn't been standing on a podium or being interviewed or writing pressure pieces or anything I had really, truly done, but I was instead a single footnote — condensed into the things that had happened to me, as opposed to the things I had made happen. As the months went on, I looked for references to myself in new books, newspapers, magazines — and I would find myself, but in the same scrap of footnote, wearing the same costume of torment, tragic poster children of a violent world. 

I sat there looking at the thousands and thousands of pages in the legendarium, the stack of books on things I had worked upon, statutes I had pulled down and little laws I had changed. And then at the scraps of Celebrían and I, reduced to scribbles and crossing outs in the margins. It was like we never lived at all. It seems a rather childish reaction, perhaps, to not finding the story you want in a book you bought. Still, that afternoon, when I put down the last page of HoME I had access to, I crawled into bed and stayed there for a very long time, trying very hard to not touch even the bedclothes around me.

But I think that was always what drew me to her, that absence. I didn't find myself in Celebrían, but in the footnote that gestured to her presence. It wasn't that I understood her so much as I knew how to decrypt the desperate scratches left behind by someone who drowned on dry land. That was how she and I were truly alike: people who wanted to change the world, or a little part of it, and did, did something good — and had all of it forgotten, crammed into a footnote read with a tender, pitying fret. 

But that's not canonical, is it? Yes, her absence shaped the story of the Ring War in certain regards. But who said Celebrían, Celebrían the Person, not Celebrían the Footnote — had ever changed anything, let alone the world in which she lived?

Simple – I did.

My Celebrían was a complete nutcase. I wrote her as a daughter born to a borderline-squirrel of a wood elf, who herself hated small creatures with a passion. I had her take off her shoe and beat earwigs to death, had her talk the ear off a perpetually grieving mother, irritate a kinslayer into planting a pine forest, and threaten the High King with a shovel. She would shove cotton in her ears to block out her husband's snoring, and put four teaspoons of sugar in her tea. She bribed her sons to dispose of a snake, and demanded magical healing for a little scrape on her forehead. 

I cut her into familiar shapes: the shape of someone who spent months unable to bear the slightest touch, whose loved one slept on the floor beside the bed, clinging to a listless hand dangled off the side. The shape of a small house in a forest, and the shape of a wonderful ending, in which she truly did change the world in all the ways she could. I don't know, if I'm being honest, whether Celebrían changed me, or if I changed her. Whether change was an instant or a process, whether this version of almost-Celebrían mattered to anyone but myself. I knew one thing though — my Celebrían is a thousand footnotes long, and counting. 

Footnotes, like most things in the archive, are of course caging things: keeping unpalatable violence in the past, or at least elsewhere, keeping the here and now good and quiet. It's easier to outsource healing and rediscovery to other places, to archives and museums and books and Valinor. Was being a footnote a punishment? What’s worse, being pickled wrongly or never being pickled at all? Was this yet another installment of the cautionary tale stretching all the way through time and reality from Celebrían to me; footnotes about women who held themselves thrall to the memory of violence, who lived as well as they could, till they couldn’t? Would it have been better if she never existed at all?

I don't know. All I know for certain is this: at some point between finding Celebrían and writing her, I moved out of The Fields and across the country.

It had been a long time coming. But for years, I had thought I would weather living in The Fields because even after the Torment, the Footnote, the Diagnosis, I never felt a disconnect from the place, because I was still extroverted and irritating and fizzing with the desire to stay in the Fields and love it, as I had always done. And then suddenly, I wanted to run.

It wasn't as if Celebrían burned The Fields down, leaving me there to watch flames eating its flat, starless sky. But what she did was this: carefully take off my rose-tinted glasses, and say run —- this earth has swallowed you whole. 

I had assumed it was my fault, my attachment to The Fields, that I was looking at things wrong, that I was maintaining unhealthy attachments to sites of trauma, prioritising the wrong perspectives, the body keeps an atlas and all that. But Celebrían did not call me crazy. Celebrían was not the kind of person who would ever call you crazy. She was the kind of person who would lay in a wide-open field beside you and ask you what you were looking at. 

And when you say "oh, just up at the big sky", she wouldn't probe. She would know exactly what you mean when you didn't say "-- because there is nothing ahead of me", and she wouldn't say a word about how the ground around you was soft with decay, reeking like a corpse, that you were caught in the straggling grass of its hair. 

She would instead shrug, wink, and point you towards Gollum, because of course she would. She would tell you that Tolkien, ever the Catholic, had drawn out a perfect depiction of what might have happened if Lazarus was left in that cave. And then she would say, run, for god's sake, girl, run, and you would. I did!

How stubbornly we all cling to the idea of staying fixed until being fixed, to the idea of a ready-made Valinor to sail to if we do well enough at life, stay still enough in the margins! How faithfully we believe that if you spend enough time being a very, very good cracked vessel, maybe one day you might feel the quiet triumph of bearing water again. Celebrían, not the Celebrían of The Footnote but my Cel, the manic pixie freakshow of Imladris, said shut the fuck up and run. That it was no use hungering for the impossible and thumbing listlessly though footnotes, and to instead run, and run, and start digging a garden at the ground you come to a stop at because it is only in new soil that something gentle could unfold unbidden. That as time passes, you will belong less and less to the ground you left behind and more and more to the ground you walk upon, to the new trees and new hills around you, to those who love you still.

Run! she said. How alive you looked, hunting for me. How badly you craved my story. See? There are still stories you crave. You are still human enough to crave. Run! 

I think many of us who love this brief, inexorable footnote of a Celebrían, whether we read her or write her, are bound by a similar truth: that in her we caught sight of something within ourselves. All around the world, these tiny, unflinching mirrors in Appendix A and the rest, tie together and create a hundred different Celebríans, all part of the same thread, each version carrying its own burden, though rarely do we ever acknowledge it in each other. It's a quiet nod, an unspoken connection, a reminder that we are all more alike and less alone than a cursory footnote might imply.

To find Celebrían, I had to write her. And in turn, she wrote me in her image. I look at her now, as she is in my head, and there Celebrían is neither alive nor dead. No, what is most clear in my mind is a girl in a dusty wing mirror, a life packed into boxes, sunglasses sliding down her nose. One hand sandwiched in an ordnance map, prying the pages open, hurtling at a perfectly legal speed down an M-road, The Fields growing smaller, and smaller, and smaller in the rearview mirror. Not gone, not truly, but invisible to the naked eye, unless you know exactly where to look. A grain of sand in a bucket of water, a single, sad-looking fish half-buried on a tropical beach. A finger to the past, a wave from a window, a footnote in an appendix. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Special Surprise

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: Your husband surprises you with an unexpected invitiation but it might not be what it seems.

Character: Peter Parker

Day Eighteen of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt -a crackling fire sets the mood.

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“Excuse me, miss, I have a reminder for you,” Friday’s voice startles you in the silence of the empty house. 

“Yes, Friday? I’ve already picked up the dry cleaning,” you say in resignation. 

“And I have crossed that off the list. Miss, this is a different reminder. You are to arrive at the cottage in three hours. Accounting for current traffic conditions, this means you will need to leave in the next hour.” 

Her voice seems to echo as you sit in confusion. You stare at your half-finished tea. Despite the heat of the porcelain against your hands, it offers little comfort. 

“Friday, I don’t recall setting this reminder,” you say at last. 

“Yes, miss. It was Mr. Stark.” 

You nod and your heart flips. For the first time in days, you feel... something. Your lips twitch and you sit up straight. Your shoulders hurt from the weight of the disappointment. Tony wouldn’t abandon you for Christmas. He just wouldn’t. You should’ve known he was pulling one over on you. 

You turn and hop down from the stool. You grab the tea and dump it down the sink. You wash and dry the mug, then put it away. It’s like your husband always says, how can you doubt him? 

“Miss, I have a list prepared to pack. Would you like my assistance?” 

“Please,” you accept. You’re so happy you can barely sort through your emotion to hear your own thoughts.  

Days you spent in dread of being alone. It’s the one thing you made Tony promise you when you said yes to his proposal. Don’t abandon you. You couldn’t take it. And when he told you about his mission abroad, you nearly broke down right there.  

He didn’t even apologise, just said that you knew who he was, that he had responsibilities. Yes, you knew, but he swore you were his priority. Well, he got you good. 

You follow Friday’s directive and pack your bag. You roll it down the hallway after you and let it bounce down the stairs after you. She informs you that the Lexus has a full tank and is waiting for you. Oh, Tony, you can never get anything without having to work for it a little. 

You can’t wait to see him. This month has been so lonely. You’ve barely spent a moment together as he only passes through on the way to his next briefing or appointment. 

You go into the garage and throw the bag in the trunk. Friday reminds you to bring a coat but you can’t help yourself. You tell her you’ll be just fine. The car has heat. 

You start the engine and Friday greets you from the speakers in the dash. She guides you through the gates and onto the mainway. You could bounce out of your seat but there’s no point getting so excited until you reach your destination. 

Oh Tony. Your heart is pumping as you grip the wheel tight. You have two hours at least ahead of you. Save your energy. 

By the time you come in site of the lake and around the dirt road, drifts of snow blowing through the trees, you’re yawning. You pull up as the windows haze with an amber glow. You can smell the smoke that plumes from the chimney. 

He outdid himself again. Ugh, you feel like such an asshole! You even thought of taking his gift back. Good thing it’s still in your closet. 

“Oh shoot!” You say aloud. 

“Miss, is there something the matter?” Friday asks. 

“Um, no, it’s fine,” you say as you shift into park, “Friday, thank you. Please go to standby.” 

“Initiating.” 

You shut off the engine and take a breath. Your chest is thrumming. Relief, excitement, happiness. You were starting to get worried. The thought of being alone through the holidays was devastating and then your mind raced to other things. Everyone knows about Tony’s reputation with women and those rumours hadn’t stopped since the wedding. 

You get out and grab your bag. It crunches over the thin sheet of snow as it mulches into the dirt. You drag it up the stairs and stop on the porch, looking down at the faint outline of footprints. He must have been here all day preparing. 

You let yourself in, hoping you might be able to surprise Tony in turn. You hear the fire crackling as the din flickers through the doorway and into the entryway. You ease the door shut and put your bag near the wall. You hang your jacket and take off your boots. 

You near the living room door and peek inside. He’s not there but you’re welcomed in nonetheless. On a fluffy rug in front of the fireplace, there’s two glasses and a bottle of water, along with a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. 

You come closer and feel the heat in your cheeks as you grin. It’s perfect. Usually, Tony’s grand gestures are... grand, but this is just quaint enough to be cute. It’s so much better than a trip to Paris or an expensive diamond necklace. 

“Happy Holiday,” the voice that startles you scares you for more than its timing. It’s not the one you expect. 

You reel to look at Peter as he watches you from near the doorway. You blanch in horror. Oh my gosh. Did you misunderstand? Is this a group thing? If it is, why the wine and chocolate? You’re lost. 

“Peter, what...” you look at the rug then shake your head as you frown at him. “Where’s Tony?” 

“In Munich, I think,” he shrugs casually. 

“Munich? But—Friday said he was expecting me. That he’s here?” 

“Did Friday say that?” He tilts his head. “Cause that’s not what I programmed her to say.” 

“Not--- you?” You sputter. “It was you? Why?” 

“Why not?” He slowly crosses the room towards you. 

You notice the differences in him. His hair is parted neatly, you think there might even be gel in it, and he wears a dark blue button up that exposes just the top of his muscled chest. You gulp as he stops right in front of you. 

“Tony left. He flew halfway across the world. During the happiest time of year,” he reaches for you and you wince as he caresses your cheek. Your eyes round as your confusion turns to horror. It makes no sense. “He married you then abandoned you.” 

“No, he’s just... busy.” You catch his hand and sniff. “Peter--” 

“What?” He twists from beneath your grasp and grips you instead. He’s stronger than you expect. “You’re going to tell me he loves you? That you love him? I know you’ve been crying into your pillow. I know before you came here, you were sitting alone in that empty house.” 

“Enough,” you plead weakly. You can’t disagree because he’s right, but you don’t want to hear it. 

“Do you want to know where he really is?” He breathes as he brings his other hand up to cradle your face. “Not that it matters. He’s not here. I am.” 

“Peter,” your lip quivers. Peter is Tony’s protege, he’s a friend, he’s not like that. He can’t be that to you. You’re married and he’s-- “Peter,” you repeat, “please.” 

“I hurt too,” his voice quavers as he holds you tight. You latch onto his wrists but he doesn’t budge. “I’ve been hurting. Alone. Like you.” He leans in until his lips are right in front of yours. You whimper as you stare back at him helplessly. “I can make it better. I can make you feel better.” 

Before you can say anything, his mouth is on yours. He smothers you as he squeezes your head between his hands. You suffocate in his thrall and slap your hands against his chest. You feel the sheer strength bound there and slide your touch down as you try to shove him off. You’re only reassured of his power as you do. 

“Mrs. Stark,” he parts as he keeps your skull clamped between his hands as he leans his forehead against yours,“I need you.” 

[companionjones]

Expect The Unexpected

Pairing: Bernard the Elf x Fem!Reader

Fandom: The Santa Clause Movies

Summary: Bernard surprises you by showing up on the night of Christmas. He has a story for you to explain his appearance. He also might have another surprise...

Warnings: Cursing

*******

You very nearly spilled your hot chocolate when your boyfriend appeared under a cascade of sparkles in front of your TV in your living room. "B?!" You quickly set aside your mug, removed your blanket, and got to your feet. "What're you doing here? It's Christmas Day! Well, more like night now," you corrected yourself with a gesture to the window. You took the few steps necessary to hug him.

Bernard had made it very clear that his job came first when you had met him. The two of you had been seeing each other for over two years at that point, and Bernard was always absent from American Thanksgiving to the New Year. You never had a problem with it.

Your boyfriend seemed sweaty in his response. "Oh, you know. I could feel you missing me extra this year, so I figured I'd pop down and say hello. For your sake."

Quickly, you parted from your hug to give him an unconvinced look.

Bernard didn't even need to look at you to know that you saw right through him. "Okay, I'm sorry! The lead up to this Christmas was just so stressful--more stressful than normal--and I needed to see you."

He was speaking so fast that you didn't object as he pulled you to sit on your couch with both hands.

Bernard proceeded to tell you the story of the lead up to that Christmas while barely taking the time to breathe. Apparently, the current Santa Claus, Scott Calvin, needed a Mrs. Claus in order to continue being St. Nicholas. While he was gone and looking for his better half, Bernard's 2nd in command, Curtis, made a life-like toy Santa to run things at the North Pole. The toy Santa went crazy and almost ruined Christmas. However, Scott Calvin returned in time to right everything, and to marry a woman he had fallen in love with. Her name was Carol.

"Holy shit! What the fuck?" You exclaimed once the story was over.

"As always, I missed the eloquent way you express my thoughts exactly," Bernard sighed deeply as he leaned against your shoulder.

Gently, you removed his hat so you could place a soft kiss on top of his head. "I missed you too," you returned. "Now, since I have you here, would you like to curl up with some hot cocoa and watch some Christmas movies? Or, if you're all Christmased out, we could just stare at the black screen?"

Bernard snorted and moved back to a sitting position. "Honey, I'd love to, but there's still one more thing I have to make right." He pulled a small, red velvet box from his pocket.

Knowing on-sight what it was, you gasped.

"The wedding I attended earlier today made me realize one thing: I wanted you there. In fact, I want you by my side for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?" He opened the case to reveal an astonishingly beautiful ring.

Tears were going to spill from your eyes if you spoke, but you broke through your nod to confirm anyway, "Yeah!" You couldn't even from the whole word 'Yes', but you what you said was enough for Bernard.

You placed your right hand on his cheek to pull him in for a kiss, which was only broken so the two of you could watch Bernard slide the ring onto your left ring finger. The two of you kissed again. "I love you," Bernard broke the kiss to say.

"I love you, too," you promised in the light of your twinkling Christmas tree.

*******

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, check out my masterlists. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3

[bichianti]

Ok very horny ask incoming...

Ohhh uniforms are very hot, yes please.... thank you for including the feetsy part, I have a very vivid imagine now in my head *SIGH* 😩.

For me, it always depends on the character which fantasies I dive more into. With uniforms it requires discipline, it's calculated and there's a certain coldness to it (which can be very sexy).

As for the other ask (maybe confusing to other people but I will get into some things here. Read, or not LOL). Under the cut.

OH, you are playing with me. My other forever fav is Ramsay Bolton (from ASoIaF, I'm only into the book versions of the characters, because they are written differently). He's probably a lot worse than Jimmy, as he openly enjoys the torture he inflicts upon others and it also sexually arouses him (full blown sadist). I have drawn him for many years, but at one point I got into other things. But I still think about him fondly.

My embarrassing fantasy was always that I would like to "reward" him for his horrible deeds (slight mommy kink). I feel indifferent towards violence (unless it's of sexual nature... which I find thrilling, NOT TO ME, but him doing it to others). BUT, it arouses me to imagine such a cruel man doing what you described, and enjoying it. It's beautiful to me. Like a predator animal (I have already made this comment about one Jimmy art I have drawn) but yea... I guess it could be dangerous, but it's my fantasy and I can't help it... And I like to imagine, maybe even a man like this can crave some gentle touches, or NOT, hehe. I would want to give him some good (prostate) orgasms...., or massage him.... oh I want to lick every part of his body and smell him. Tie him up (but gently) I want to see his eyes rolled back in bliss.

There are often these two sides of the things I draw. I either portray the cruelty of the character itself (and him relishing in this moment), or my own horny desires done to him... (which he always enjoys, and after a while they take the upper hand and I end up drawing only "out of character" stuff like this haha). And for that reason I also like the "shipping" aspect, as I can project this fantasy and the character is doing it instead.

And I know, of course, who says he won't try to hurt me as well. But it's my fantasy after all... I know why I'm drawn to these characters..

I know there are some hard limits I simply can't get into, or talk about lol, but I try to enjoy these topics as much as possible... and just have a good time, tbh. And your ask was, blissful. It feels like intimacy to me.

I love to think and daydream about such scenarios and appreciate such kind of asks, even if sometimes I can't directly answer them hehe~~~.

[mumms-the-word]

All of this is amazing and thought-provoking and explained very well. I have a couple of points to add, but only in terms of contextualizing a few choices.

First, as much as I have to sigh and shake my head that the devs and writers didn’t feel they could boldly change the status quo of the game by tearing down the Veil, I can sort of see why. If you give players the choice, how do you make another game for a fandom that had 50% of the people keeping the Veil and 50% who elected to tear it down? You can’t, it’s impossible.

So why not make tearing down the Veil the actual endgame? Have all roads lead there, rather than all roads leading to the Veil staying. I agree that it’s probably that the devs/writers just weren’t bold enough to take that road but also I wonder if they also couldn’t imagine a world without the Veil. They give us so little detail about a Veil-less world in DATV it’s like…no one (aside from Solas, who keeps being set up as unreliable even when he’s being reliable) has any clue what will actually happen. Including the writers!

That’s not even getting into the devs BS answer of “well Solas wouldn’t know either.” I imagine he wouldn’t, when it comes to details. But I doubt he spent the last 8-10 years planning and plotting and arranging things just to be like “wow I sure don’t know what will happen once I cut through this Veil I made, hope everything works out.”

What bugs me is that DATV sets up Solas’s motivation as restoring the elven people only. The host of spirits he has on standby can’t save everyone—but I’m sure he’s got them directed at saving elves. And yes, that’s his MO as Fen’Harel, the freer of elven slaves, but if his time with the Inquisition has taught him to appreciate and find value in all life (including human, dwarf, and qunari) then…

Well that brings us to the big question. The sundering of the Veil will cause massive damage. People will die, especially if Solas’s allies are focused on saving elven lives over other lives. It will be massive carnage in some way because, if we stick with the ocean/tank analogy, it’s a bit like wrecking a dam to flood a valley because you want to give them access to water. Water is harmless in small quantities, and often gentle when controlled. Water racing toward you in a deluge is deadly. Worse, it’s unstoppable.

Solas alludes to this metaphor when you ask him what a world full of spirits would be like. “Think of magic like a fast-flowing river” and all that.

Demons or no demons, the backlash of magic will probably do some major changes on its own. What does that look like? Will everything go wonky like in Arlathan forest? Will buildings begin to float, whole sections of the world that didn’t seem to exist suddenly get pulled back into being now that the Fade and physical world are made one and the same again? That’s one of the things no one could tell us.

So, okay, maybe we shouldn’t let Solas just rip apart the Veil all on his own. But I wish the game could have let us listen to Solas and his plans and given us the road to be like “okay…so how do we mitigate the damage further?”

Like can you imagine? The Veilguard not as guardians of the Veil to keep it in place but as a team of allies, and their other allies, lined up and ready all across Thedas to immediately stop the damage from getting worse. Everyone on high alert to put down any demons that slip through the cracks but also help the spirits that come through to save lives. People prepared just in case buildings start to float again or people start turning into trees or something. Convince Solas that yeah, he’s being a bit of shit by focusing only on elven lives, and get him to see the worth in preserving all lives. Then, when he’s ready to tear down the Veil again, almost all of Thedas is on hand to be reshaped.

But, and I think this is part of why DATV didn’t take that direction—that choice is very much you playing a god. Why do you (or Solas) get to be the one to remake an entire world? Solas broke it. But it’s been trucking along for the last few thousand years without his guiding hand. It’s not his world, it is its own weird nebulous thing now. And now he wants to reset it back to “the way it was,” but it’s going to cost a lot of lives and be a very traumatic change. What makes you specifically equipped to make that choice for the entire world? If you put it to a vote, how many people in Thedas would choose to risk their loved ones and tear down the Veil? Even in places where relationships with magic and spirits are much healthier?

These are the conversations I wish we could have had in DATV. What an interesting conundrum or choice that would have been. A would-be god and a mortal making that choice together. Maybe even working together to shape the world after the fall of the Veil.

Ah well…this is me rambling. There is plenty more to be said about this, criticisms and “what ifs” and “wouldn’t it be nice ifs” and so on, but I don’t want to belabor the points further. It’s just very interesting to think about!

Looking for a good post on why we should just let Solas tear down the Veil. I'm just interested in the perspective.

I know I saw a few arguments for this maybe a couple weeks back. But I have no idea where they went or who wrote them.

[fujunfuren]

It was a slowburn for sure.

His friend!! Meanwhile it's fun to see his smiley face because of discovering the tension btw these two, I'm a lil bit sad about what he said after selling his car. Hope it won't get any deeper. I like their friendship, I need them to stay as one.

Yeah... there is a spark in his life. I'm slowly wondering what Dong Jin would look like when he is happy. I'm so used to see them serious or sad.

"don't like me" thing wasn't annoying! She regrets about her previous actions and is stressed about her new positive feelings building up for him. I like that these are the factors of her mixed actions! She puts a distance as well as does things in his favor. I can't find a proper way to explain it now but like... the confusion in the episodes were understandable for me. And yes it was also fun to watch Dong Jin reactions. Idk maybe I'm convinced well that this time it didn't annoy me seeing a main couple avoiding each other. Kdrama writers have a shitty timing preference for this type of situations.

the number of side characters/plots and episodes concern me. I don't want this drama to end up like Cheer Up. I genuinely hated to see all potentials getting wasted. I'm praying hard for a possibility that the writer(s) thought thoroughly about the direction of the scenario.

Coming to my experience with this week's episodes...

His ex's past and (seems like our permanent villain) old boss took a bit of space in this week's episodes meanwhile the main characters were busy with putting a distance.

Ex's past wasn't a waste of time, surprisingly. I liked and understood the reason perfectly since the drama did a great job showing how annoying and tiring Dong Jin's mom is for everyone. Dong Jin wanting to give more time for his gf for her sake and Minyoung misunderstanding this as reluctance on taking a step further... understandable.

Ending of ep7: her realization of her feelings. PERFECT. For her part, I loved the confusion and the long talk. Additionally, I loved Sung Joon's eyes in that scene. He delivered well and it was shot well. Those eyes were pretty! (Alexa, play 예뻤어)

Ending of ep8: his acceptance of his feelings. PERFECT. one "어" and lots of feelings on that face. I also liked his talk before this moment.

And it is cute that both characters lived that moment while they were alone with their close friends.

Ms. Baek!! She keeps getting my attention. I liked her small scene with Dong Jin. (Also remember how she got soft towards Woo Joo at one point?)

There are small plots winking at us. Woo Joo's sister takes some pills?.. Dongjin promised to go to camping (and we all saw that picture but unfortunately didn't see the SCENE yet)... Woo Joo's mom getting mentioned pretty often... Jun's confusing acting performances?.. (does he really act? which statements are he actually serious about?) There are some uninteresting ones, too. Like the old boss's revenge. I thought and hoped he would stop at one point but he's racing for the main villain role... Aaand I don't think we would have a fun time with Woo Joo's dead father's will? The less I see that woman, the better.

Hope there would be many good/fun things to mention next week!

frienddddddd the way you go off with all the detailssss i could neverrrr!!!!!

like you said, I too feel the main couple "avoiding" each other is very apt in this storyline. It's the way they wanna put distance but keep doing things against it like how woojoo sewed his button and told him she want to do it so dont stop her or lock the door aasdjkjfd. It doesn't feel frustrating or draggy yet (I just dont want it leaning that way soon >.<).

Yesss I really want to see more of the other characters mainly her sister and jun. There's a lot to explore so I hope they dont make the side characters get drowned unnecessarily. and i also picked that up about haesung supposedly taking pills???? 👀👀

everytime they show flashbacks I get more intrigued. I would think dongjin already talked to minyoung about his mom and how he's brought up. From the flashbacks, dongjin seemed to be quite emotionally stable despite his own baggage when he was with minyoung. It's understandable that minyoung would feel that him delaying to meet the parents as reluctance for the next step but the fact that she cheated for a year still doesnt sit right with me. Although, there might be possibilities that she fake cheated cos she didnt get married anyways and stayed in US alone.

OMG yes ms baek seems to be such a sweet person and she was also very accepting of woojoo when she joined because she can do her job. I like that she's always supportive and professional in a very subtle way.

i hope the mum rot in jail or somewhere and never bother anyone again like goshhhhhh. and his ex boss...in the next ep teaser he seems to be wanting to assault minyoung w a rock? like bruhhhhhhhh

im looking forward to the revival of best fairs after all they went through!

Have a great week ahead! cant wait for wednesdayyyy

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I’ve been thinking about lately is that small moment in “Air Turtle” where immediately after the Daves lose yet another game, Leo says how sorry he is and how he’s doing his best as the mascot. This moment is so short but it’s honestly jam-packed with a whole heap of characterization.

His need to apologize for things clearly not his fault - especially when it feels like he messes up the job he was given despite doing the best he can (the phrase “it’s not about you” takes a new meaning when this is one of the lessons to be learned from that - that he is not always solely responsible for things going wrong), his need to save face and make a connection with an older adult man in his life (something he consistently does throughout the series - he’s got a few daddy issues, always collecting potential father figures, it’s no wonder he jumps at the bit to keep rapport), and the way he sounds and looks and the words he chooses really pushes how he is just a kid (“Mr. the Dunk, I’m so sorry”).

Like I know it’s a one off moment that doesn’t truly mean much, but when put against the rest of the series it works really well with the rest of Leo’s established character and helps in solidifying later concepts as well.

[the-acid-pear]

The thing about the painter analog that people don't get and makes them hate it is that at heart this isn't a serious horror story. This is pure gore not only for the sake of gore but for the sake of camp. Once I was talking of to my dad laughing at the guy who had his face sanded off and he was like yeah not new they did that in Jason already 🙄 which was later reinforced by UrbanSpook admitting this is inspired by those old 80s slasher which should tell you everything.

I'm saying this bc i saw a video pairing it with Playground and the incest game and while I don't know the second I watched a video on playground once and the difference is that that book is trying to tell a story and say something on top of the gore but the later makes it hard to care. Which is kind of the issue another "gone too far" piece of media my beloved A Serbian Film runs into where you cannot take yourself too seriously if you also want to show over the top violence or you'll lose the audience.

OF COURSE there are exceptions like Hostel, Saw and 😏 the human centipede ☺️ (cocksucker for that movie and it's more serious points, though it barely counts bc the gore is very tame save for in 2) and I couldn't exactly tell you what's the difference between what makes them work and what doesn't but still.

But I'm getting off topic I'm not here to say which media is good or not I'm here to point out the painter is not a serious story that asks you to care for the characters it's a over the top schlocky gore that asks you to go GROOOOSS or laugh at the over the top brutality it presents. Which is very standard in horror.

[pigspeetsandhooflikefeets]

I’m honestly bummed the fact that Wayne (and possibly by extension Raj?) wearing a cup the entire show never came up after episode 1. Like during episode 7, he and Raj get beat up by a cassowary, fall down a mountain (and survive) and Wayne just weakly goes “good thing I’m still wearing my cup!” and passes out. Perfect bookends for his time on the island. Also because I know guys who unironically wear a cup in normal settings.

[puppys-rhythm-heaven]

i am being so fucking autistic about a video game i've only played an hour and a half of and have absorbed like 99% of my information about through osmosis from my bestie(s. it's complicated) and fanfiction. catastrophic levels of autism. i can't stress this in words i don't think y'all understand. or care honestly sdflkjfdskdfsjsfdkj-

[indelicateink]

i am just so earnestly curious. i read the books a long time ago, i am struggling to put myself in the shoes of someone who doesn't know what's coming. the latest promo that has the sinister projection of L: does this come across as menacing to people who are book-innocent? do those audience members have anxiety about him showing up in paris?

i know he was fucking excoriated by a lot of viewers for season 1 and ep 5 especially (no matter one's experience with the canon), and a lot of people now despise the character.

but does like. anyone actually have concern abt the guy showing up and making trouble? it seems to be the reaction they want people to have, I'm curious if it's working?

[thebadtimewolf]

why r u so mad about ppl preferring ten x madame de pompadour to ten x martha like ten/martha will never be a thing. ten don’t want anything to do with martha. he literally said to her face she wouldn’t replace rose… and she never did… isnt canon enough for you

hm.

im glad im only a scorpio on this alone. if martha deserved better than ten then so do all of em but anyway:

this ask is giving 2006/07 i dont want to see tenth doctor in a romantic relationship with a person of color because i can't project myself or relate to them if they arent the very thing being catered to me ever since the silent pictures vibes. u know the same vibe when rtd was told to not regenerate 14 in 13's clothes. just. Ick.

but im not mad. its just interesting for a ship so big as tenrose, it is usually correlated with hating madame de pompadour and/or joan and/or river [though in joan's case they hate her not because shes racist but because shes not rose]

though comics tend to release to combat that in multi doctor stories where they jump through various alternate universes of themselves where the doctor sees themselves settled down with dr. grace holloway (for 8th dr multi doctor stories) and professor melody williams/river song (for 11th dr multi doctor stories) where in those cases, they are frightful of the concept settling down at all. [take note that both times, he settles down in the same house that he owns bc of that unit paycheck on the dl] so i am curious that with this new drs, the equivalent of this would be 13 14 15 being terrified of settling down with rose because they had grown past her as this point.

i prefer the doctor in a polyromantic ace relationship than their umpteenth 🌟tragic heteronormative romance with yt human woman number 23445788764443356743🌟 i want 14 to sweep martha off her feet in pure joy and kiss her passionately while badmouthing tf out of 10 like 9 11 12 13 do with no filter before cradling her like a baby because hes about to crumble under his brand new identity complex and then take her kid to an amusement park and then 14 trips over a brick and dies. hell i rather have nina sosanya play a whole different lady in nod to doctor who recycles their actors trope as a way to introduce a love interest to 14

that amusment park one weirdly sounds like a 8th doctor audio. pls 🙏🏾 dont make it into one i couldnt handle schezro let alone the rest of his content. Empire of the Wolf made me so fucking worried for rose marion tyler like im just she back home 🫣. as for rose tyler from the sea devil universe still out about. whoop his ass. if billie come back as HER? MISS COVER MODEL MISS DICTATOR MISS EMPRESS ROSE?

NOT

i would love for ten to be strictly friends with the new miss empress rose. get that martha karma real quick ehehehehe after all rtd did say they need freema for somethin and im sure seeing 10 get treated the same way he treated martha by no other than empress rose herself -AND THEN EMPRESS ROSE FLIRTS WITH MARTHA??? FINGERS CROSSED??? im just saying that i personally will ride on that for 8 black history months and christmases straight like woo

also real glad it is collectively decided by every one that tentoo is just john smith not corin so yay thanks big finish and titan comics

[himblebo]

My mom has historically not given me birthday gifts (growing up this was because she would let me do whatever I wanted for a birthday party, and since then it’s because she helped me pay for college or would take me to see a show etc) but my birthday is tomorrow and she just asked me “so… would you like a dress form for your birthday??”

Yes yes I would!!!

[thedreadvampy]

I mean sure, I can understand this perspective, but I'm not sure whether most people feel less shaken to be thrust into conversations about "self-unaliving" than conversations about "suicide"

and I for one as a survivor would much rather unexpectedly encounter somebody talking about "rape" than somebody talking about how funny it is to have sex with somebody when they don't want to, a normal thing that doesn't need to be named because it's So Normal.

which is to say. this is a post about words. the words are not the distressing thing about the discussion. the distressing thing is the distressing thing about the discussion. sugarcoating, dodging or renaming the distressing thing doesn't make it less distressing but it DOES often make it harder to have a frank discussion about it or address it in serious terms.

[pinch of salt: solid probability from their blog that this person is a Literal 14 Year Old and the perspective from 30 and 14 are very different. I do stand by all the points I'm making but I think this conversation lands a lot different for people at different life stages - there is something to be said for the general issue that the internet has flattened social groups to the degree that I as a 30 year old can make a post to my audience of largely adult millennials that immediately enters the same conversational space as people half my age and still in school. that seems. ungreat. as the primary way we engage in conversation. but I don't have solutions to offer.]

you gotta be able to say "die"

you gotta be able to say "suicide"

you gotta be able to talk about "sex"

they're uncomfortable topics, YEAH for SURE

because LIFE is uncomfortable. Death and suicide and sex and pain are straight up going to happen. not having words for the way it discomforts you doesn't make it more comfortable, it just makes you less able to reach out about it.

even more vital, you gotta be able to say words like "rape", "abuse", "queer" or "racist". cause we fought fucking hard to name those experiences. to identify "rape" as distinct from "sex" and "racism" as distinct from "acceptable behaviour" and "queer" as distinct from "invert"

like the function of communication is not to minimise immediate discomfort. we gotta be able to talk about stuff that's hard or sucks or causes difficult conversations.

[hoziersong]

do you mind if i ramble in the tags about my weird relationship with making art in fandom for a second

[joelsgoldrush]

“give me all of that ultraviolence” | 2k

logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: You give Logan head for the first time.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ implied age gap. dirty talk. kind of inexperienced reader. oral sex (m receiving). face fucking. dom!logan. a tiny bit of degradation. he guides you through the whole experience (shocking!!! i know)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HI PALS!!! yes i'm alive and kicking. yes university is killing me. so recently i’ve been OBSESSED with this man and i needed to write something for him. english is not my first language and i may have made some mistakes (if you encounter any you can tell me, i won't mind it). comments/likes/reblogs would be highly appreciated. i've got sooooo many ideas to write and i'm finally getting my hands on them. i missed you all so fucking much. hope you enjoy this!!!

It’s common knowledge that all humans have needs. Try as you may, there’s a primitive side that you can’t spare yourself from. You, as everybody else, have urges.

“Logan,” you basically mewl his name, five letters that roll off your tongue with little effort. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge you, his kisses growing harsher on the delicate skin of your neck. Threading your fingers through his hair, you decide to try again, speaking a bit louder this time. “Logan, please.”

“What is it, honey?” he says, bitten lips still pressed to your pulse point. As you remain silent, he looks up at you, those big, brown eyes that you love so dearly almost completely dark now. “Do you want to call it a day?”

His question catches you off-guard. You cup his face, thumbs caressing his cheekbones, suddenly afraid that he might pull away from you. “No! Not at all. That’s- that’s not what I want at all, actually.”

“What do you want, then? You can tell me,” he kisses you on the lips, softly at first. What starts as nothing more than a sweet kiss turns into a needier one, his hard on poking you through your shorts. “Come on. Tell me, baby. What does my sweet girl want?”

“I want to suck you off, Logan,” you whisper as you latch your mouth onto his, and you can feel how he visibly tenses beneath you. His breath hitches in his throat when you grind your hips. “I really need it.”

From the very beginning of your relationship, you had made things crystal clear: you didn’t have much experience on this territory. For a man his age, he was totally understanding. He knew you had your own times, that for him to take you to bed would take longer. Truth be told, Logan was willing to go to the ends of the world for you. There was no use in forcing anything.

At present, the bulge amid his legs becomes even more noticeable as you get off his lap, playing with his belt. “Can I?” you ask him, amazed at how straightforward you’re being.

Logan stares at you, so far panting, lust glowing in his eyes. “Shit, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters as he helps you undress him. His worn out jeans end up pooling around his ankles, and you locate yourself in between his legs. 

You’re on your knees, hands folded in front of you. Suddenly, it hits you, the shame of it all. How badly you want him, how desperate you are to feel the weight of his cock on your tongue. How many nights you’ve dreamt of this moment, unable to stop that unbearable need of touching yourself every time you thought about pleasuring him.

That’s what you truly want. For him to use you.

“What’s wrong, princess? We’ve talked about this a lot of times. You know what to do,” you can’t help but stare at his crotch as you listen to him, and then he raises your chin with his finger, your lips parting unconsciously. You blink slowly at him, eyelashes fluttering together. At last, he seems to understand what you’re trying to tell him, and he raises his eyebrows, that cocky grin of his taking place where it belongs. “You want me to guide you, don’t you? Want me to tell you what to do? Know you like it when I go a bit off the rails.”

You moan at his words, squeezing your eyes shut and nuzzling your cheek up against his palm. Slick gathers in your panties as you push your thighs together. “Please. Tell me what to do.”

“Take it out,” he instructs you, and you do as you’re told. Grabbing him by the base, you pull his cock out of his briefs. He twitches in your hand, and he’s so, so incredibly big. 

You stroke him once, testing the feeling. This you know how to do. You’ve given him hand jobs millions of times, although this one feels particularly different from the others.

He takes hold of your fist, applying a bit of pressure. “I’m sorry, baby. I think you got it all wrong. I’m the one who makes the calls here, okay?” he grunts, his brows knitted, and you only nod, salivating at the sight of his cock already leaking precum at the tip. Logan licks his lips, curling his hand around yours. “You do as I say. Now, stroke me. Nice. And. Slow,” he punctuates each of his words by moving both your hand and his in unison around his length. “That’s it, darling. You just need someone to boss you around from time to time, ain’t I right?”

One thing to know about Logan: he’s so full of himself on a daily basis, but he just gets worse in bed.

“My mouth,” you hover your lips over the head of his cock, all shiny and soft. He has let you go, both of his arms now flexed behind his head, as if he were appreciating how pathetic you must look on your knees, begging for him to allow you to taste him. “Let me.”

“Not yet,” his hips follow your tormenting pace, seeking the warmth that your skin radiates. He grits his teeth, biting his lower lip. You’ve no idea how a man so strong can become putty in your hands like this. “Greedy girl. I’m beginning to think you’ve set me up. Only a slut would get so worked up about having a cock in her mouth. What happened to my innocent girl? Gone with the wind, huh?”

“Please, Lo. I need it so bad,” you are whining, peppering his thighs with kisses. You inhale his musky scent, getting dizzy. “Give it to me. I’ll be good.”

Out of nowhere, Logan grabs a handful of your hair, forcing you to arch your back. He scrutinizes your face, studying your blissed out demeanor. “I don’t doubt that. I’m sure you’ll be good. Otherwise, we’ll keep on trying. We have all night, and you have a good memory, just need to put it to use,” as he taps your lower lip with his tip, you catch him smirking. He repeats that same motion until he has you shivering from the excitement of being stuffed. ”Show me how much you need it. Go easy on it at first, okay? Don’t want you choking beforehand.”

You’re more than happy to comply.

Your tongue darts out to lick at his head, enveloping it between your lips. The salty taste of his precum invades your tastebuds, and you moan as you trace the veins of his cock with the pad of your thumb. “Tastes so good, Lo,” your voice sounds distant, almost unrecognizable to your own ears.

“I know, bub. Such a nice fucking mouth, can’t believe you’ve never done this before. I guess you’re a natural,” shaky fingers place a strand of hair behind your ears, patting your head as if you were a dog in heat. “Do you feel like bobbing your head a little?” he asks you, and you prepare yourself, attaching your mouth to his head once again. “Good. That’s good.”

With that being said, Logan fists your hair once again and shoves your face down, his hard cock tickling your throat. Your whines and his rapid breaths are the only sounds to be heard in your bedroom. He grins as he takes in the sight of you. “Oh, sweetheart. You look so beautiful with your mouth stretched around me,” his index finger taps your cheek and he feels the outline of his own cock. “You know I can smell you, right? You’re fucking soaked, baby. Think you’ll leave a stain on the carpet? You’d clean it off with your tongue, wouldn’t you?”

You have no idea how he’s coming up with these things, but you’re far from annoyed. In fact, you’ve never been this wet. Your underwear must be ruined at this point, and you wish Logan would tell you to touch yourself.

After some minutes of bobbing your head up and down, he pulls you off his cock and you breathe through your mouth for the first time in a while. As you gasp for air, Logan kisses you, tasting himself. He massages the back of your neck, his cock throbbing between the two of you. “You tired?”

Your glossy eyes widen. Shaking your head, you go for his balls this time, sucking one of them while toying with the other. Logan buries his hands in your hair for what must be the hundredth time in the night, unable to stop himself. “F-fuck, that’s it. A pretty girl like you just gets what she needs,” he praises you, and you return to his length, taking as many inches as you can without hurting yourself. Tears shimmer in your eyes, yet you can’t bring yourself to care about that detail. You’re far too focused on Logan’s grunts and growls. “Keep that up and I’ll come. You heard me? You’re gonna make me fucking come, bub.”

His words ignite a fire inside you. You use your hands, your mouth, everything that you have to pleasure him. He’s getting closer and closer, thighs shaking when you pay special attention to his tip. Logan responds to each of your movements, and as you feel every coherent thought fly out the window, you try to take him all the way down your throat, breathing through your nose and swallowing around him. He cants his hips up, brutally fucking your mouth. Like a dog without a leash, Logan seems to get lost in the warmth that envelopes his cock, chasing his own release. “You’re such a good girl. My good girl. Nobody will fuck this mouth ever again. I’ll ruin you for any pathetic guy that tries to get in your pants. You’re fucking mine, darling. Oh, f-fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck-”

You’re met with his happy trail once he spills his hot load inside your mouth. He keeps you trapped there, his cock twitching and spamming through the aftershocks of his orgasm. You don’t think twice and swallow what he’s giving you. Some of his cum slips from your lips, falling directly onto the carpet. Even Logan seems surprised when he doesn’t stop coming.

He helps you stand up after a moment, kissing you as soon as he gets the chance. He licks into your mouth, squeezing the flesh of your hips. Logan lifts his eyebrows, relishing how cock-drunk you must look. “I think you nearly killed me. And that’s a lot to say coming from someone who cannot fucking die.”

You plaster a smile on your face, hugging his wide frame. “So, was I okay?”

His jaw goes slack, and he lowers his head to capture your lips in another kiss. “You were fantastic. I could easily get hard again just from thinking about it,” his fingers trace the buttons of your shirt, tugging at the fabric of it. “What if you let me focus on yourself for a while? You’ve already done enough, baby. Let me take care of you,” he rubs his hands on your thighs, reaching for your drenched panties. “Perhaps we could try something else today. That pussy’s begging to be fucked.” 

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)