#but its been sitting in my drafts for a while

[3amwritings]

The Priest's Favorite Sinner

Pairing: Priest!Jeong Yunho x Reader

Genre: Smut, 18+ Minors DNI!

Word Count: 2.7k words

Summary: The Priest has his favorite sinner, his favorite forbidden fruit.

Warnings: Smut, Blowjobs, Religious guilt, Religious Imagery, Unprotected sex, riding, Gender Neutral reader (I try), Exhibitionism, Reader degrades Yunho and he's super into it, Kinda proofread? , Yunho is a freak freak

A/N: I finally posted something to this acc (admin ��� here), I had this bitch sitting in my drafts for months so I decided to clean it up to post >.< I hope you enjoy it! It's my first ever fic like this and any feedback is appreciated ^0^

...To be honest, Yunho does not remember where this perverted fixation on you had started. You’re nothing more than a filthy sinner, someone that Yunho should have stayed away from, from the very moment he laid eyes on you. But you were too enticing for him. Maybe this had started when you accidentally caught him jerking off to a photo of you in his office. Or maybe it started when you had lured him into the confession booth, with those seductive eyes.

Well, whatever it was that started all this… now Yunho can’t get enough of you.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Yunho gasps out, his voice slightly strained, his hands gripping the handles of the confession booth desperately. His grip was so tight, that his knuckles were turning white.

Here you were, between his legs as he sat in the confession booth, his cock deep down your throat. He gasps out and whimpers at how fucking good you feel, your warm mouth taking in all of him. It feels like pure bliss, his heavy cock twitching against your warm tongue.

…This is not what a priest does. A lingering sense of guilt rests in his stomach, a pit chewing at him. nYunho was aware that what he was doing was wrong. If by some miracle he wasn’t damned, this was certainly the nail in the coffin.

Each quickie or blowjob you give, in the confession booth or his office, only lures him in deeper, hook and sinker. You're like a drug to him, and he's addicted…

But Yunho can’t lie and say he doesn’t feel a bit of shame. The never-ending guilt and shame of doing these sinful things in a place considered Holy. What type of priest is he? What type of priest has he become?

… A dirty fucking one, that’s for sure. He’s so addicted to you and your body, trying to find the next wild or bizarre thing to do that puts them at a high risk of being caught…

His cock twitches even more at the idea, another moan slipping his pretty, plush lips. God, you’re so fucking good at being a slut for him.

But suddenly, Yunho was snapped out of thoughts, at the sound of the door to the other side of the confession booth opening, and the shuffling of clothing. Yunho's eyes widened, his face flushing red. What the fuck? Didn’t he put up a sign he would not be hosting confessions today? Had he forgotten?

The logical thing to do was pull you off his cock and take the confession. That’s what a good priest who had not fallen into temptation would do. However… The idea that he has to listen to someone repent their sins to their priest, all while getting his cock sucked and staying quiet is so hot to him... Yunho really was a pervert, wasn't he?

He quietly mutters another apology under his breath, as his hand tightens its grip on your hair, guiding you to keep a steady place as you blow him. Who was the apology for? Not even Yunho knows.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." A man speaks softly, the strain in his voice obvious. He had been crying prior, and in a heartbroken manner, came to Yunho to help find some peace. Your eyes are glued on Yunho, who clears his throat, preparing to reply.

He lets out another low groan, his hips instinctively bucking towards your eager mouth. His fingers tighten around your hair, guiding your movements.

…How is he supposed to care about someone else's sins when all he can think about is how much he wants to bend you over right now? 

You quite truly are the forbidden fruit.

"Go on, my child" Yunho finally begins, his voice shaky and filled with lustful need. God help him, but it feels so wrong yet oh-so-right at the same time.

The other person on the other side didn't hear how Yunho sounded different, probably too grief-stricken to notice or care. He begins to talk, occasionally stopping to hiccup or sob. Yunho was trying to focus on this story, his mind split between processing this man’s story and relishing the warm sensation of your mouth enveloping his cock.

For just a moment, Yunho feels guilty about what he is doing while this poor man repents his sins.

But you don’t.

Carefully, while locking eyes with him, you slowly took more of Yunho’s cock deeper into your mouth, deepthroating him. His eyes widened as he watched you, biting his lip so hard he could taste crimson metallic blood. It oozes out of the wound and threatens to spill down his chin.

You took him all in, the tip of your nose pressed against his skin, the sight so erotic Yunho wished he could be like this forever. Your sweet, plush lips around his cock…

Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him.

"What...what sins have you committed?" Yunho manages to choke out, his words barely coherent as he struggles to maintain control. His body tenses up, muscles clenching as he fights against the overwhelming urge to cum. Did this man already tell Yunho about his sins? He’s not even paying attention at this point.

Thankfully, the man hadn’t told Yunho his sins, and he did just that. Yunho can hear the man’s voice trembling, as he voices the sins he committed, that led him to this very confession booth. Yunho couldn’t help but roll his eyes. The sins he mentioned were not worthy of showing up here, not even in the slightest.

His grip on your hair tightens further, pulling you closer until there's no space left between your lips and his body. He starts thrusting shallowly, using your mouth like his own personal sex toy. "Tell me everything," he commands breathlessly, his voice low and husky with desire. "Don't leave anything out..."

Is he stalling? Is Yunho hoping that the man’s tragic story takes up enough time for Yunho to finally climax? Not even he knows.

What he should have done was just bless him and forgive his sins already… Well, that could only happen if he wasn’t such a pervert. The idea that this random man finds out is hotter than any fantasty Yunho could come up with.

*"...and that's why I'm here," the voice from outside continues, sounding broken-hearted and remorseful.

But Yunho can hardly concentrate on the man’s words. Every fiber of his being screams for release, begging him to let go and surrender himself fully to pleasure. A soft whimper escapes him as you constrict your throat even more- such a simple action sends shockwaves through his body. 

"Well..." His mind was too fuzzy to come up with a specific answer. His brain scurried to find a simple basic answer, one to satisfy this man so he could get the hell out faster. He finally responds after what felt like ages with, "It seems that your penance will involve many prayers and hours spent kneeling before God." How ironic.

With those words hanging heavy in the air, Yunho gives one final push into your welcoming mouth. A soft shuddered sigh leaves his lips, his head tilted forward, as his locks of black hair stick to his forehead, littered with beads of sweat.

You slightly cough as he grips your hair tighter and holds your head down, as he releases hot cum down your throat. It overflows, some of it escaping the corners of your mouth, mixed with some of your saliva, dripping down the base of his cock, and down his balls. It most definitely ruined his robes, but to be honest, Yunho couldn't care less.

"Oh, thank you, Father." The grief-stricken man thanks Yunho multiple times, his voice full of joy and relief. He wasn’t even aware of what had been happening next door. The newly repented man leaves the confession booth, leaving Yunho and you alone here.

As you were finally pulled off his softening cock, you couldn’t help but softly cough out, having managed to swallow all that Yunho had given you. “...You’re a fucking pervert, you know.” You couldn’t help but gasp out, trying to catch your breath.

Yunho couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at you. You’re correct, but why must you be so vulgar about it? “A pervert? Is that what you think of me?” He softly mused, his hand letting go of your hair, his hands almost instinctively petting it, to smooth it out. For a moment, Yunho had to admire how divine you looked in the dim lighting of the confession booth.

“You seemed super fucking turned on about the idea someone could have discovered us…” You commented in a very curt, straightforward manner. “...That's something only a pervert would get off to.” A sly smile forms on your face as Yunho's face slightly flushes red. Again, you might be right, but why so blunt about it?

He swallows as he watches you strip your clothes off in a nonchalant manner, his cock somehow hardening yet again. You and your cursed spell.

"...You're right," Yunho finally admitted softly, his hands reaching for your bare hips, feeling the soft flesh underneath his fingertips. He gives a possessive squeeze, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his mind runs crazy with lust and desire. He pulls you in more, having you straddle Yunho.  "I am a pervert. And you're the reason why."

His hands roam and touch every part of you he can, committing it to memory. He can never get enough of your body. He’s utterly hooked.

"I can't help myself around you. You drive me crazy..." Yunho’s voice is deep and sensual, as he pulls you in even closer to him. His lips then began to press kisses all over your bare chest. You couldn’t help but let out a shuddered sigh, your head tilted back in pure bliss.

…All his life, Jeong Yunho had devoted himself to the name of Christ and God. It feels with each feverish kiss he presses on your delicate skin, more and more of his sanity slips away. The delicate braid of his faith in his religion, unraveled string by string. You were the one he wanted to spend and dedicate the rest of his life worshipping. 

To prove his point, Yunho captures your nipple between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to elicit a gasp from your parted lips. "Mmm, but I bet you love it, just as much as I do." He murmured in a husky manner, his eyes looking up at you. A crazed look of insanity, lust, and devotion was swirling in those brown eyes of him, signifying that this priest was long gone.

You couldn’t help but nod, little moans slipping past your lips with each kiss, each hickey, and each bite Yunho leaves on you, marking you in a way only a sinner could.

“Oh, yes I do, Father.” You moan out, peering down and snickering to yourself as Yunho’s ears slightly flush red. You can’t get enough of teasing him.

His cock eagerly twitches against your needy hole, and you lifted your hips up just enough, positioning yourself to be a bit more comfortable.

Knees planted on either side of Yunho’s beefy thighs, one hand on the handle of the confession booth and the other on Yunho’s shoulder, you lazily roll your hips over the sensitive tip, watching the priest under you shudder.

“Don’t tease me like that.” Yunho desperately hisses between his teeth, his hands firmly gripping your hips. Once his tip was kissing against your hole, Yunho couldn’t help but let out a trembling moan once you finally sank down on him.

A sweet moan leaves your lips as his big cock stretches you out, your velvety walls pulsing and eagerly milking him, his tip pressed right against that sweet spot deep in you. “Oh yes, Father-” You moaned out, as you began to roll your hips, bouncing on Yunho’s cock.

Deep moans leave Yunho’s lips, he’s absolutely mesmerized by you. You look so angelic riding him, so ethereal. Liquid pleasure courses through Yunho's veins, but he doesn’t even have time to relish in it.

In the midst of his pleasure-filled haze, Yunho’s ears pick up once again on the confession booth door next to him opening. What the fuck?!

Suddenly, without thinking, Yunho puts his hand to your mouth and shoves his fingers in. His fingers press against your tongue, causing you to slightly cough, any noises afterward muffled. On the other side, it’s an older woman’s voice. “Father forgive me, for I have sinned.”

His heart beats out of his chest, that same thrill he got from earlier coursing through his veins. The thrill of potentially being caught is too addicting for Yunho to just give up. As his free hand gently guides you to keep bouncing on his cock, he clears his throat, and he speaks. “What seems to be troubling you, my child? Speak freely.” 

His mind is melting. Yunho’s eyes are fixated on your form, the way you bounce on his aching cock, the way you look taking his fingers in your mouth, the way your spit drools down your chin. He’s trying to focus on the lady next to him. He really is. You’re just too distracting. You just simply feel too good, wrapped around his cock.

With sniffles, the woman next to him began to confess her sins in a soft, repentant voice, which only made Yunho roll his eyes again. This was once again petty bullshit that did not require to be forgiven.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head as you then began to grind your hips for more pleasure, and by accident, a soft moan left his lips. Your eyes narrow in delight as Yunho’s eyes widen in horror, his hand squeezing your hip so hard there would surely be bruises by tomorrow.

“F-Father are you okay?” The woman on the other asks in a concerned manner. She has no idea. She has no clue what is happening next to her.

“Apologies, my child…” Yunho stammers out slightly, trying to compose himself to respond. “...I slept wrong on my neck last night. Just had some pain.”

Really? Neck pain? Is that the best he can do? Yunho could feel your tongue move as you giggled underneath his fingers, and he shot you a glare to behave yourself.

The woman clears her throat, before continuing her tale. “Please Father, what should I do?”

That’s a great question. What should she do?

Yunho grits his teeth as he begins to thrust his hips upwards, his cock hitting that spot that makes you see stars. A knot forms quickly in your abdomen, signaling that you aren’t gonna last long. As your tongue decides to swirl around his long fingers, Yunho’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his own orgasm approaching quickly. His eyes clenched shut as he fights to maintain control, even an ounce of sanity.

“Forgiveness can be found through prayer and penance, my child," Yunho finally manages to say, his voice strained and husky. “Now repeat after me: 'I am truly sorry for my sins...'”

As the woman in the booth next to him begins to recite the phrase, Yunho's thrusts become more erratic, desperately chasing that sweet forbidden release. He's teetering on the edge, the sweet taste of Nirvana is just right on the tip of his tongue.

Your eyes roll back to the back of your head as you came, your juices coating and making a mess on Yunho’s thighs. If Yunho’s fingers were not in your mouth, your moans would have been so loud right now.

Yunho shudders at the sight of your orgasm that he can’t hold back anymore, pulling your hips down on his cock as he came, shooting streams of  cum into your sweet hole.

He lets out a low shaky exhale, as the lady in the booth next to him thanks Father Yunho, leaving in a hurry.

The only sound that could be heard is the soft ragged breathing that came from you and Yunho, trying to catch your breaths from such an experience.

“...Told ya that you were a pervert.” You grinned slightly, as you slowly lifted yourself off his softening cock, some of his cum slightly leaking out.

Yunho, who’s still trying to catch his breath, narrows his eyes but chooses not to comment on it. After all, you were correct.

[afantasyoffiction]

idk if this helps bc honestly i think OP has sm more writing experience than me...but start small and start silly is how i get shit done

i've been 'working on' my witches wip for five years now, but i only started making progress last year when i told myself to write the shittiest first draft ever, one chapter and one scene at a time. ill sit down and write 'just the next few lines of dialogue', or 'just the end of this scene'. i never finish at the end of a chapter, if i can help it - always a few paragraphs before, or into the next one. it stops me from getting stuck. i can generally force myself into a few lines, and then the rest gets easier so long as i accept that the first few lines are allowed to kind of suck for a while. i skip ahead to scenes im looking forward to, and if there's a scene i realllllyyy don't want to write, i don't. generally its bc the scene wasn't worth writing anyways.

laziness isn't real - the issue is fear of failure, perfectionism, something along those lines. you have to remove those obstacles to get actual work done. either that, or sometimes you're just too busy, which i spent YEARS struggling with! its completely valid and sometimes there are just times when you can't write, which sucks but doesn't make you any less of a writer

I want to write so badly, but I just can't seem to find the motivation. I don't know if it's about my mental health, or if I'm just being lazy. How do people find the motivation to write? Any tips? I have such great plans for stories and I've already published several, I want to write my projects.

[mmso-notlikethat]

It's been 3 months, Buck baked every single thing in the universe that could be baked, and those urges to reach out to Tommy have never been stronger

So he decided that he had enough, it doesn't matter anymore if no one thinks its a good idea, if everybody keep telling him its a bad choice, he is going to talk to Tommy today and no one is stopping him

He opened the message thread between them and started typing, "Hey... how are you?" Nope, delete."Yo, what are you doing?" What the hell Buck, he isn't your buddy, delete. "You are an asshole Tommy" No, that's not what i really want to say, delete. Delete, delete, delete...

and his eyes started burning because three months ago, this was the easiest, most natural thing he would do, pick up the phone, and just text tommy whatever his fingers would write and now he cant even ask him a simple question

So he called Tommy, that's easier, he will figure out what to say when Tommy picks up. Yeah, that seemed logical.. after the 3rd unanswered call, the anger in his chest was about to burst, Tommy who answered every time buck called, didn't matter if it was in the middle of the night, during shift, while he was out with some other friends, he answered every single time, what do you mean he isn't answering...

Oh wait, the anger turned into fear, he isn't answering, tommy would always answer his phone, "What if he's in trouble and he needs my help?" His mind goes again

Oh fuck it, he grabs his jacket, his keys, and march to his truck. Only after he is halfway to Tommy's he thinks that Tommy could be on a shift, but well, he is halfway there whatever he'll see himself

Good Tommy's truck is there, which means he is home, the lights in his living room were off, and the house felt way too quiet. Buck launched to the front door, rang the bell, and after one second, he started knocking aggressively, "Open this door, Tommy, you don't get to ignore me. You hear that? I've been calling you, and you are not answering? Really? That's it? you wouldn't even answer after i called three fucking times?" For three minutes he kept knocking until he felt his hand burning

"You know what? I'm coming in. I don't care, Tommy!" He fished the spare key he knew Tommy kept under one of the fake stones, his hands were shaking, mirroring the state of his heart, he was terrified of every horrible scenario his mind was giving him at that moment, as he was furious of the fact that Tommy could ever ignore him

His shaky hands didn't make the whole mission easier. The second between unlocking the door and entering the house felt like an eternity. As soon as he stepped inside, he felt the coldness, the house where he always felt warmth and welcome, where he felt like he was at home. He stopped for a second thinking what–

As Buck stood in the silent house, his unease grew with every passing second. The place felt wrong—off. The dust on the furniture was undisturbed, thick enough to suggest weeks of neglect.

Dust. Tommy hated dust-he was borderline obsessive about keeping his home spotless, often wiping down counters or dusting furniture as a reflex.

The air had a faint, stale quality to it, lacking the usual warmth and subtle scents that always reminded him of Tommy. His eyes flicked to the calendar by the fridge, and his stomach twisted. It still showed the date from two months ago, like a snapshot frozen in time.

His grip on his phone tightened, his frustration bubbling over as he paced back and forth.

"What the hell, Tommy? You don’t just vanish! I called you three times—three times! And nothing? Not even a text?"

His voice cracked as his anger shifted to fear, and he stopped pacing, his eyes darting around the room. "This isn’t like you," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

His hands trembled as he fumbled trying to hold on something, the sharp edge of panic clawing at his chest. "You better have a good reason for this, Tommy," he whispered, but his voice lacked conviction.

Deep down, he already knew this wasn’t nothing—something was very, very wrong.

[slavhew]

jakey + dirkjake sandwiched between my organic chem notes. a poem in there somewhere

[carnevol]

Austin with Benny’s tattoos

[spatort]

No more mortifying ordeal of being known. What about the great privilege of being known. What about the indescribable beauty of another human being wanting to understand who you are at your core. What about that

[illogicalvulcans]

[Fic Book Covers 11+12/?] Integrative Approaches by Nnm / @mouseonamoose

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens

“I’d love to meet with you,” Davey said, apologetically, when he had been called up by a fellow looking to initiate therapy, “but I’m all booked up for months.” “Are you sure?” The fellow said, through a poor connection that crackled. Davey had been sure. And yet. Right there in his calendar was a blank spot, just a few days away, which he had somehow completely overlooked before. “How about that…I’ve got Wednesday at eleven, if you can make that work.” “What a miracle,” the fellow said, “that would be just the perfect time.”

[dinsbeskar]

To Have and To Hold; To Corrupt and Defile (Sauron/F!Reader)

After you discover his identity, Sauron's master throws a wrench into your happily ever after; or:

You're living in Gondolin before it falls; Sauron currently has you fooled, but his plans are falling apart, and the end of the First Age draws closer.

Sequel to The Number of the Beast // AO3 Link

Soundtrack: Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine, Don't Let Me Go by RAIGN, Say You’ll Haunt Me by Stone Sour

Warnings: Angst! Plot heavy, no smut this time!! I know, who am I??

A/N: so we've messed around with the timelines a little, I've alluded to some of the major events of the War of the Jewels, especially Lúthien's victory over Morgoth, and Eärendil's subsequent taking of the recovered Silmaril to the Valar. There is so much to cover, frankly too much, so I'm keeping the references to my favourite stories; a lot of it frankly isn't relevant to our Reader. If Amazon can mess with the timeline, so can I 😂

Word Count: 3.4k!

When you'd returned to your tiny village, eons ago, hand in hand with your new husband, the resulting impromptu celebrations had gone on all day and night. No-one thought to question the sudden appearance of this beautiful stranger, as your kin were so overjoyed for your new love, and still as yet so innocent to the evils of the world.

The subsequent years of being without him so often were only eased by their rallying around you, keeping you occupied to stave off your loneliness. It didn't ease the yearning late at night when all were abed and you were left alone to crave him, but you were used to it by now; which only made his visits all the sweeter.

You woke up today to find your husband stretched out next to you, a pleasant surprise that he must have instantly regretted as you threw yourself on him with a squeak.

"I didn't know you were coming! I'd have prepared for you," you say, your tone faltering as you survey the mess in your cosy rooms with a crease in your brow.

He shakes his head fondly; sometimes the lack of order would set his teeth on edge, but today he was just content to be by your side once more.

He murmurs sweet nothings into your hair as he nestles you closer, wrapping you up and refusing to allow to leave your bed this morning.

The city was growing prosperous, becoming the heart of Elvendom in Middle Earth, and your small abode was so different to the humble beginnings of your kin. Your people were finding strength in numbers, building great cities to fortify against the Enemy.

He cannot visit as often as either of you would like, busy with the war in the north, and now you understand why. His confessions about Morgoth threw you, made you doubt everything you knew, but your soul sang for him regardless, so you pressed it to the back of your mind, your heart and your mind fighting a losing battle. He promised you it was simply too late for him to change sides, that his master's wrath was better fought within his service than without. How could you refuse him?

You had asked him long ago if you could visit him instead, perhaps even pack up your life and move to be with him. His face grew dark, and he refused to even consider it. Now that you knew in whose service he toiled, you understood, and didn't press the issue again.

So you had become increasingly interested in the martial affairs of Gondolin, always hoping to hear nothing of Sauron, for no news was good news.

Your kin ask after him often; you tell them the truth where you can. That he is fighting the war in the north, that his brief respites are spent with you in private. Sometimes, you wish you could show him off to the world; it gets lonely surrounded by your family and friends, happily coupled and deeply in love, whilst you await your beloved for what feels like a lifetime.

When he visits, he crosses the borders of your kingdom with relative ease. Even entering the Hidden City, after centuries of being married to you, they greet him as one of their own, something which now plagues you with guilt; though not enough to keep you apart.

You are unfortunately not the only one, as many of your friends wait for their husbands too, who are also away fighting. The siege of Angband has taken much out of you all, and the number of half-souls wandering Gondolin grows day by day as more Elves are called away to bolster the beleaguered armies.

It is the knowing he is out there, yearning for you as much as you for him, that makes it a little easier. When the war is over, he says, you will be together, nothing will keep you apart. So you pray for his master's downfall any chance you get.

Unfortunately for you, it's not as if Sauron has to worry about any other's affections stealing you away; perhaps if he did, you might see him more often. Binding yourself to another soul changes the way you are perceived, a glimmer of the unseen world breaking into the everyday, in a way that to any other creature is imperceptible. But Sauron takes great pleasure in the knowledge that you are his, and no-one else's, that no-one would even think of touching you, not that you would let them. That possessive streak is something that you'd have thought would repulse you; instead it is deeply and mutually returned, the pair of you wrapped up in each other, blind to any others who might have tried their luck.

~

He's deep in thought, sketching long black lines on his paper, but every so often his eyes flicker to you watching his every move.

You love to see him hard at work, it lets you see what makes him tick, what gives him his boundless energy. You worry that you annoy him with your incessant questions, but any time you falter, he encourages you to ask, so you figure he must like the attention.

Today he is sat working on something very important, something that cannot be rushed. And you're sat at his side, head in your hand, thinking idly of everything and nothing, as his hand races across the paper.

"You haven't said a word," he looks over at you with a small smile, "something the matter, my love?"

"No, darling," you sigh, stretching your arms above your head and pulling yourself closer into his side. "Don't want to disturb you."

"You could never, I've told you so many times." He reaches out with his left hand and squeezes your knee, strokes the side of your face, then presses on with his task, one-handed as he commits to holding your hand.

You hum in assent, leaning your head on his shoulder. You feel him relax into your touch and you fear that perhaps you've ruined his industrious streak.

He puts down his pencil and pulls you close, chin resting on the crown of your head. You feel his heart flutter in his chest, and yours can't help but mirror it.

You enjoy his embrace a moment before disrupting the peace. "So what are you working on?"

He snorts, a noise you don't hear very often from him, usually so composed, and it makes you giggle, pulling away and looking up at his affectionate gaze.

"Not a moment's peace," he chuckles, rubbing the small of your back whilst reaching for his discarded sketches.

He rolls them out and watches for your reaction; yours is the only opinion he would deign to heed.

The long black strokes, the angular shape of it, it looks nothing like you expect. Twisted and wicked, it doesn't match the man sitting at your side.

"Is that... is it some kind headpiece?" You stutter a little under his intense stare; he wants the truth even if he dislikes what you have to say.

He raises his eyebrows a little and nods at you to continue your line of thought.

"Not a helmet. No, too many holes, frankly it would be useless as a helm, there's a great hole in the centre of it-" he can't help but laugh at your rambling, joking at his expense. If only you knew what happens to anyone else who would dare to.

"-Oh! A crown? Who needs a crown?" You finally get there, and you take the scroll from him, holding it up and scrutinising every detail.

"Who, indeed?" His tone is suddenly solemn; you've reminded him of what awaits him when he leaves you.

Morgoth in his crazed stupor, lusting constantly for the star-bright jewels that he already possesses, jealously guarded with a ferocity he hasn't seen in an age.

Your face drops and you pull him to you.

"I'm sorry, love, I didn't think." You know very well his trials and tribulations at his master's hands, but were somehow foolish enough to allude to him. You thought He already had a crown, and you remark as much in your naivety.

He traces your neck and kisses your palm. "It's quite alright, love, I know how... faraway my troubles must seem."

A cold sweat breaks down your spine.

"No, my darling, your troubles are mine, I would carry your burdens if only you were to share them with me." You plead softly; how could you be so naive, spoiling a sweet moment that is not so easily stolen now that he is so busy with the war.

He doesn't speak for a long time, and tears prick your eyes, almost painful in your efforts to hold them back. It is his pain you should focus on, not your own selfish regret.

You lean your head on his shoulder, hoping perhaps that he will open up to you for once, tell you of his torment in the north at the hands of the enemy, the part he plays as an unwilling accomplice to Morgoth's destruction.

As if he can hear your thoughts, he interrupts them softly.

"It is a crown. A conduit, for a power over flesh." He licks his lips nervously, avoiding your gaze.

"What could He need of such power?" You ask, before realising that of course, such power would ensure His victory.

He doesn't answer that question, preferring not to lie to you; you don't need to know exactly who it is for.

"I'd prefer something smaller, more elegant-" he begins to explain before you interrupt.

"Like a ring." You muse, meeting his eye. He raises his brow and looks past you, seemingly intrigued, and you can't help the pride that wells within you, happy to have pleased him so.

He looks back to you, smile fading quickly as he is reminded of what he came to tell you today.

"Speaking of my master, I-" he swallows thickly, the words refusing to cooperate with his tongue. "I have news. Concerning you and I."

His eyes are suddenly dark, and his expression sombre, and all at once you feel an all-encompassing dread that makes you press your hands to his mouth.

"No. Don't tell me. Not now. Please, love, I cannot bear any tale of Him while I worry for you." That much is true, you are too concerned about your lover to hear anything of the Enemy right now; but a tiny part of you simply never wants to hear about Morgoth, never wants to think about the evil your husband has been forced to wreak upon Middle Earth, so hard you have worked to forgive and forget, and you have had your fill now for one day.

"It is important, sweetness," he cups your chin and turns your face to look at him, the dread in your soul seemingly shared if his expression is anything to go by.

"Tell me." You nod reluctantly, anxiously awaiting whatever horror you will have to face together.

~

The fortress is always so hot, fiercely dry like a blazing desert heat, scorching his skin. It is nothing like his golden days with you, dappled sunshine on your skin, a cool breeze on his face.

He has been summoned by his master, which can only be an ill omen. Ever since the fiasco involving the lost Silmaril, and his defeat at the hands of Lúthien and her hound, Sauron had suffered nothing but wrath every time he returned to Morgoth; blaming him for the loss of a jewel from His crown, since he had not been there to defend his master from Lúthien's sweet song. The jewel was now set in the sky by the Valar, a constant reminder of his failure.

For you, as much as it pained you to see him suffer, it was a blessing; more precious time spent with your beloved as he avoids the fortress entirely.

Had it been a shock, when your husband appeared to you as a wolf, gravely injured and desperate for you? Of course. Was his betrayal forgiven and forgotten? Absolutely not. But he was so sincere, so sweet, that every time he told you his servitude to Morgoth was in service of a greater purpose, you believed him. Of course, he wanted only to heal Middle Earth; of course, he was working to lead all free peoples to a greater future; of course.

He was not forgiven, but you were so desperately, blindly in love with him, the dark half of your soul, that you might take him any which way he comes. And he had promised you that the greater good was all he worked for, that he was the salvation of Middle Earth, and how could you not believe him?

So when he told you he'd be gone a while, gone to see his master in the North, you were hardly beside yourself with joy.

"How long?" You entwine your fingers with his, studying every contour of his face, in case it is a lifetime, not a day.

"He did not say." There is trepidation in his tone, and you squeeze his hand in reassurance.

"You are his most valuable servant. All will be well." You cannot say that for certain, but you try to sound convincing.

He exhales slowly, pressing his face into your neck, his flaming hair tumbling across your skin as you lie folded into one another, unwilling to be parted a moment earlier than necessary.

~~~

His blood runs cold as his master's words ring in his ears.

Bring her to me, and let's see how worthy of my favourite servant she is.

He paces his forge, cursing and railing, his plans to keep you secret now gone so horribly awry.

He had been so careful, slipping from the fortress seemingly unnoticed by all but the wolves, whom he easily placated with just his word, perhaps a bone thrown in their midst for good measure.

In fact it was not his absence at all that gave you away.

It was your light, seeping into his fëa and glimmering like the northern star in a pitch black night. Morgoth had noticed this straight away, of course; but rather than punish him inmediately, he chose to toy with him, leading him to believe his great deception was successful.

If she does not come to me, I will be forced to name her, Mairon.

He could not have that, could not let his master's power touch you in any way. You were his, and his alone, and the idea of Morgoth even setting eyes on you made him seethe.

And so he began to plot; too little, too late.

~

"What do you mean, my love? You're scaring me, what do you mean, named?" Your voice shakes as he grips your fingers so tightly, you fear he might pull them off.

"He gave you a title I cannot take back, it is beyond my power to do so." Now it is his turn to tremor before you; you have never seen your husband in such terror, the sight brings you to your knees and you lean your forehead against his.

"Whatever has happened, darling, we can fix it. You and I, we are one, are we not?" You try to smile reassuringly, but he shakes his head and puts a finger to your lips.

"You know the importance of names, love." Of course you do; your kind receive many names over the course of your long lives, names from your father and mother, names for your great deeds, or traits your loved ones find admirable. You already had two, you hardly need another, let alone from his master. Never mind the power of words woven into spells and songs, the unbreakable kind your husband seems now to fear.

"When a being such as Melkor uses his power to bestow a name-" his voice breaks and he swallows thickly, buying himself time before the dam breaks.

"He bestows a name, and so a fate with it."

You raise your eyebrows quizzically, but as his words sink in, you gasp and pull away. What fate could the Great Enemy possibly have in store for you? You were nothing and no-one; why would he elect to use even a tiny morsel of power on you?

"I don't want to know." Your words surprise you both.

He draws back, regarding you, brow furrowed.

"You must, my love, you know I cannot break his will-"

"I don't care." You draw yourself up, taking a deep breath. "I forgave you your sins when you came to me with the truth. I have kept your secret from everyone I know and love. You promised me Morgoth would never discover us. This is your doing, and I will have no part in it."

His heart sinks, wrenches in pain, as the gravity of your words hits him, as you refuse to allow him to brush away the tears streaming down your face. Do you not understand? He cannot unsing the will of his master, it might as well have been written in stone, if the fabric of the universe were not hardier.

You jump to your feet, anger bubbling in your stomach, and you pace and curse Morgoth and all he stands for, Sauron wincing every time your lips twist to make the ugly sound of the Enemy's name.

"Amarië-" At hearing your name, you round on him, your eyes blazing with a fire he has only ever seen in himself, and though your anger is directed at him, it thrills him, the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end, and he has to fight every instinct to take you and hold you and ravish the wrath from your being.

"Will it help? If I know my fate? I cannot change it even when you tell me, so perhaps I should live in blissful ignorance, as I did before you revealed yourself?" Your tone is so sharp, it cuts him like no sword could; he recoils from the heat of your words, the furnace blast that emanates from your anger, trepidation and admiration combining in a heady mix that makes his heart sing for you.

You feel a pang of guilt; you hate these new emotions, these feelings you'd never experienced before meeting him. Anger, sadness, betrayal; these had all been alien notions before Mairon, no, Sauron, had walked into your forest.

He has worked his expression into something more impassive, but you know he is hurt; sighing softly, you kneel and take his hand, still gripped with rage but mollified a little by your husband’s remorse. He has worked so hard to make it up to you, to show you how he is not the Enemy that your kin believe him to be.

"Will it make you feel better if I know?" You ask, searching his eyes for an answer. Please say no, please say you'll bear this burden alone... Your heart cannot take more sorrow, more betrayal; and to know would be to worry about something you cannot change.

"Eglandis." If your Elf ears were not so sensitive, you might not have heard him, how quietly he admits your doom.

Your blood runs cold, sweat breaks in uncomfortable waves down your back, as you realise the horrible truth, why your husband is so often absent, and why he was so terrified of your reaction.

"Forsaken one." You pause, thinking a moment, your heart beating out of your chest. "No, forsaken bride."

Doomed to live without your husband, this was the fate Morgoth had chosen for you. To punish Sauron for choosing a bride at all, for weakening himself in the pleasures of the flesh, he had also punished you. Had you not suffered enough? Forced to keep your love a secret from your kin, now you feared losing him forever.

"That is a cruel fate." You mutter, nose to nose with him as he seeks to comfort you.

"I am not going anywhere." He takes your hands in his once more, thumbs rubbing small circles in your palms.

"I swear to you, you will never be rid of me, no matter how hard fate pulls us apart, I will always be with you." He presses a kiss to your lips, trying to reassure you that he is here, that nothing will take you from him, but you can't move, can't breathe, as a crushing wave of grief overtakes you.

As you curl into his chest, he sweeps his sketches out of the way; it would be a shame to crumple that which is of the utmost importance to him, your crown to match his.

[piglinmyfeet]

Etho is Joel's work wife, Joel's Etho's manic pixie dream girl, and Joel is Iskalls mysterious stranger, I fucking guess, idk

[airborneice]

since luke said that timtum only ever says his own name, i choose to believe tontu just somehow understands him perfectly to the confusion of everyone else

[vonne-inc]

product: yandere boss - stolen shirt.

gender neutral reader. masturbation with clothing. typical pervert stuff. (a little bit of) yandere behavior.

the day was quiet— the only sound was the clock ticking on the wall. tick, tick, tick, tick. a small reminder, one all too evident, that you weren't around. not now, at least.

even if your absence was temporary, he couldn't stand it. the growing need to see you was growing, and it was becoming unbearable. the only thing that kept him under control was knowing when you'd be back.

his body grew tense, looking at the ticking clock. five hours, nine minutes, and fifty-three seconds. it was still too long... still too much.

"sir?" his eyes snapped to the voice, his dilated pupils contracting. heels clicked against the floor, and soon, a plastic bag was set on his desk, "your lunch." staring at the bag, a familiar logo stamped on it, he quietly hummed.

as quickly as the substitute assistant came, she left. he paid no mind, focusing on the food. pulling the take-out container, his fingers skillfully opened it as he wafted in the smell. it was nothing expensive, rather cheap from a nearby restaurant. although it was special; a dish you commonly ordered.

ah, right. you.

his eyes flickered back to the clock. five hours, three minutes, and thirty-one seconds. only six minutes passed, "fuck..." he mumbled, the itching feeling growing again. his skin tingled, brows narrowed, and shoulders tensed.

pushing aside his lunch, letting it touch the end of his desk. he pulled his desk drawer out; a black, clean chest is shown into view. with a diligent motion, he grabs the key from his pocket and opens it with eager hands.

a sigh leaves his lips, pupils dilating once more as he spots the items inside. clothing, candid photos, perfumes, etcetera. all of it being yours. things to keep him managing whenever you're not around.

picking up one of the shirts he'd collected, unzipping it from its ziploc bag, he carefully takes the cloth and inhales your smell. it smelt just like you; your natural musk mixed with perfume.

the more he breathed in, his pants tightened as it showed his evident arousal. his legs spread wider, cock twitching, as his mind began to wander.

what would you do if you found him like this? force him to his knees and degrade him as he shows you how sorry he is? worshipping your sex with his mouth as he pleas for forgiveness.

would you let him bend you over his desk, fucking you with primal need? him whispering each perverted fantasy he's had of you; his assistant. praising you as he rips an orgasm from you repeatedly.

without thinking about it, his hands drag down his buttons shirt and toward his black pants. working at his belt, it falls loose as he slides his pants down— enough to free his cock.

the tip red, leaking with precum already, he begins to trace the veins of his length. his head throws back, eyes snapping shut as he continues. the stolen shirt had fallen from his grasp and hung on his lap, the smell still reaching his senses.

he reaches for it again, grasping it in his hand, while bucking his hip into the fabric. the loud groan resounded throughout his office. the act of your clothing being wrapped around his cock was enough to get him a needy mess.

his hand begins to stroke the cloth along his shaft, meeting the tip as it soaked in the precum forming. hips bucking up, digits balling into a fist around himself, he couldn't resist fucking into the shirt.

all he could imagine was what you'd look like with his cock thrusting inside of you. the way your face would contort, how your moans and gasps would sound, how stunning you would look riding him with his cum soaking your stomach and chest.

at that thought, he could feel the coil tightening. his grunts grew louder, eyes rolling into his skull. his thrusts became more erratic whilst his office chair squeaked underneath him.

ropes of white shot from his slit, soaking into the shirt and coating the end of his desk. cum hit his clothes, and he choked back a sob at the relief.

once he calmed down, he stared at the shirt in his grip that was still wrapped around his cock. before he thought about another perverted fantasy and become hard, he grabbed the ziploc and secured it back into the chest as he closed the drawer.

and while those hours without you were still unbearable, all that surrounded his thoughts was how much he couldn't wait to leave his newfound gift at your doorstep. he just knows that you'll be surprised to see your favorite shirt covered in his cum.

[aroaceleovaldez]

you're like the first blog i thought about ranting on this to but it drives me up the wall that some people treat any criticism aimed at tsats2 as being anti-ship or avoidable via just "not reading it". i dont think they realize that we're talking about a bigger issue of soulless commercialization and heavy quality downgrade of a franchise, not like. about an indie author publishing a fan book lmao

'i'll read it anyways haters gonna hate' crowd likely largely funding richard's mediocrity is sad.

I think part of it may have to do with a.) a lack of distinction in recent fandom culture between "Fandom" and "Audience" (alongside other recent fandom culture attitudes as well) and b.) so much of Rick's brand is built up exactly on parasocial behavior that a lot of fans get caught up in it. [under cut cause this got long:]

Re: The first, more recent fandom culture tends to treat "Fandom" and "General audience" as wholly equivocal. Because of this, the concepts tend to bleed into each other in a way we haven't quite seen before fandom became mainstream, and as a result we get a kind of Worst Of Both Worlds situation - a bunch of very passionate fans who have no community, create little to no fanworks themselves (only consume), and only engage at a surface level with the source material. Their only "fandom" community hub is the source material and official social media and they don't have a concept of how to exist outside it, unlike folks who are more used to older fandom culture and are self-sufficient. They have the passion and identity of classic fandom, but none of the depth, and so threats to the source material feel like threats to their community as a whole. They also just don't seem to understand that different subsections of the deeper fandom community are engaging with the material on an entirely different level, or they don't understand why they're doing that. They see no need to because they're never actually engaging with the community or source material beyond a surface level. Functionally they don't have a community. And mainstream media is actively encouraging this because it's profitable for them - they're reaping all of the rewards of fandom, minus the fact that because of the lack of actually community and support structures the entire "fandom" will only have a shelf life the same length of the source material. But at the same time this means they don't have to worry about quality or etc, because this extremely passionate side of their audience will just take anything thrown at them and it'll phase out almost immediately. It doesn't need to be good, it just needs to elicit some kind of reaction on social media. Any publicity is good publicity type stuff.

This lack of true community plus the parasocial emphasis the RR company has tends to make these types of fans double-down. Rick and co. are explicitly advertised as being both part of the "community" and integral to it. And when they've built Rick (and co) up as this moral paragon critical to both part of their identity they're very passionate about and what little of a community they have, any attack on him feels like an attack on themself. Particularly when so much of the publicity and marketing surrounding Rick right now is about his alleged activism when a lot of the criticism about him and the series is actively calling that into question with his unaddressed internalized bigotries. Acknowledging that what Rick is saying and promoting himself as versus his writing and actions don't always line up and pointing out the bigotry present in his work forces people to acknowledge and think about performative activism, which can make a lot of people very uncomfortable! It's forcing them to acknowledge "Oh, even if I'm saying all the right words and calling myself an ally, I am not immune to being bigoted if I don't address my internalized biases. My actual behavior matters." and that especially can feel like a personal attack. Especially in today's western landscape of media consumption being viewed as a moral act in itself.

I suspect this is why a lot of the retaliation against criticism of Rick and the franchise right now is "Why can't you just have FUN? You're just trying to hate for views. Don't take it so seriously! It's not that deep!" - they not only have no interest in engaging deeper in the material, but don't understand why others would, and doing so jeopardizes the foundations of what they consider the fandom. They can't fathom anybody legitimately having these criticisms (particularly not anybody who would ACTUALLY consider themself a "fan" - because their perception of "fan" is themself) because they're so resistant to digging deeper into the media/source material or the concept that anyone would for any legitimate reason (because as long as they keep it as "it's not that deep!!! it's just fun! just enjoy it you wet blanket!!!!" and take things at their word, they can feel secure in that performative aspect and not have to unpack it), and acknowledging that those criticisms exist and are valid means they have to acknowledge the franchise is flawed and imperfect, so they presume the claims are entirely superficial and the individual has ulterior motives rather than, yknow, doing what fandom does: diving deeper.

[lacomandante]

Sharpe’s Rifles (1993)

Bonus:

[finnprof]

i need them to find solace in each other

[oh-no-its-bird]

bird. bird please. please. please write a ficlet/short oneshot for me about kakashi having raw meat cravings and how he deals with them. please. and at night he starts having dreams about the ghosts of his ancestors (including tobirama) at a feast or something where theyre eating. raw meat. or he dreams that theyre encouraging him to like 'you're so skinny because you don't have enough meat!' and kakashi thinks he's developing a mental disorder. please bird would you do it for me

Anything for you random anon in my inbox <3

Kakashi, the unfortunate lack of knowledge of the Hatake clan kekkei genkai, and his relationship with food; As seen by others over the years.

Oh also if you're brave enough to come off anon and give me ur ao3 I'll edit the fic to be gifted to you

[pinkeoni]

I have another take on the monologue. Walk with me.

And I’m not saying that my interpretation is the correct one, but rather, I’d like to look at it from another angle and consider another possibility.

With the script coming out and the monologue recieving all of this renewed attention, I’m starting to think that maybe El did believe Mike’s monologue.

And this isn’t just me looking at the script as proof. And while yes, the script did say that she believed it, you can’t take what’s on the page as cold hard proof versus what is on the screen, BUT I do think that what we do see on screen supports this idea.

Oh, I still think that Mike was lying out of his ass, and many have already elaborated on that idea so I don’t really want to rehash it here. We as the audience know that Mike is lying because we get a much clearer view of everything, but El does not get that view. We heard Mike say in the van that meeting her was just dumb luck, El did not.

While we also know that Mike’s reasoning for not saying “I love you” comes from his internal struggles, El’s belief as to why Mike couldn’t say comes from her own inner turmoil. She believed that Mike couldn’t say it because she saw herself as a monster. She has no idea about Mike’s personal struggles and doesn’t really consider it a possibility just because she is too in her head. I elaborate more in this post about El’s dichotomous thinking and how it drives her in this season.

It might be different if, say, El questioned Mike if there was someone else, that would definitely send a different message. But this isn’t El believing that Mike is love with someone else. This is El believing that she is unlovable.

But if she did believe him, shouldn’t she have looked happy? Wouldn’t she be closer with him and not giving him the cold shoulder? Wouldn’t they have a conversation after to reconcile their feelings?

And I agree. This is not the face of someone who is happy to finally hear “I love you” from her boyfriend.

But it’s not because she didn’t believe him. It’s because she realized it’s not what she wants to hear because she is not in love with him.

I talked about it more in this post where I discuss some Elmike and Stobin parallels. Here’s the main point I want to draw attention to:

I don’t think El is intentionally lieing about her feelings. I think she felt this hole ever since Hopper left, and believed that Mike’s love was supposed to fix everything. That Mike’s love is what she wants to hear. And then she finally hears it, and realizes it’s not what she wants. So maybe the face she is making during the monologue isn’t out of dissapointment, maybe it’s out of realization and guilt.

This would be a perfect parallel to the end of season 3, which I talk about here—

—and I pretty much agree with everything I said before.

And think about it, if El did believe what Mike was saying, that would make this line—

—so much worse than it already was.

Maybe El believed Mike in that moment, and maybe it did give her enough strength to break free of Vecna’s grasp, but the important thing is that she fails.

And what does El’s dichotomous thinking tell us about how she’s thinking afterward? If she’s not a superhero, then she must be a monster. She got her powers back, her boyfriend loves her, and yet she’s still a monster. Everything that she believed would solve her problems, didn’t. So what can she now?

I think when El side eyes Mike in the cabin it can be read through this lens of guilt as well. How can she bring herself to tell the guy that fell madly in love with her at first sight, that she doesn’t feel the same way? Especially when this guy sees her as a superhero, the thing that El wants her to be? Would breaking up mean losing the superhero title along with the girlfriend title?

I guess I like this interpretation because it shifts the focus to both Mike and El’s internal conflicts, rather than placing their relationship faults on the other person. Mike isn’t a nerd who is hopelessly in love with someone who is disinterested because she is way cooler than him, and El isn’t hopelessly in love with a gay guy who can’t love her back (even though he is a gay guy imo). They are both not in love with each other, and it has nothing to do with the other person.

And what great irony would that be if they were in the exact same position. They both believed that what they wanted from the other person was their love, and it wasn’t until they got it when that cold hard truth would hit them across the face. Now they are in this awkward position where they believe the other person is in love with them, and they both care too much to actually break the truth to the other person. It’s perfect.