#but the others sometimes eat their words too

[m0nnypie]

DREAMER

Warning: smut, sex dream, oral sex (m), profanity, MDNI, +18, characters in yours 20's, degradation

Synopsis: He always captured you, no matter how many times you escaped from prison. But for the first time, you decided to try something different, what if you invaded the dream of the one who torments you the most?

Words: 1.4k

You felt like vomiting with the force he put his boot on your stomach. He always did this, blow you away for a few minutes, then pin you to the floor or the wall, and humiliate you in the worst ways, until it was time to arrest you.

“What’s wrong? Are you going to cry? Jeez… you’re so useless that you’re not even fit to be a villain..” he looked at you with disdain.

“Egh.. You disgust me”

“F-fuck you” you tried to get his foot off you, but he was strong. You might be smart, and even have an interesting quirk, but when it came to physical strength, especially compared to the #2 hero, you lost.

It didn’t take long for the police to arrive, and take you where you belonged, according to the arrogant blond.

But this time things would be different, running away would be too easy. Sometimes you wonder if you're stupid or just dumb, because in all this time you've never thought of invading his dream. Because, like your grandma used to say, dreams are storytellers.

Well, you were about to tell the world a great story about what an incredible hero Dynamight was.

It had been a while since you last entered someone's dream. Not that you hated it, but most people thought using your Quirk was useless, so you rarely used it.

But who would have thought that you would use your beloved Quirk with the one who tormented you the most, the one you wished was dead?

The bad part was that the way you entered dreams depended a lot on the person. You'd seen some that were bridges to cross, others were doors, some were more interesting, like a fast balloon ride. You wondered what the blond one would be like.

After searching a lot, you found it. It was a door, a simple wooden door. You thought it was funny, you imagined that the way he was, it would be something grand, just like his ego.

As soon as you opened the door, you entered something that was probably his house. It was very beautiful and cozy. There were pictures of family and friends scattered around the house, one that caught your attention was of him next to a boy with green hair. It was cute.

You found the silence strange, you imagined that even in his dreams it would be noisy, but you couldn't even find it him. You wandered around the house for a few minutes, too busy to notice the noises coming from the room.

You only noticed the strange sounds when you were already in front of the door. You carefully opened the door, and when you looked into the room, you froze.

There he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, moaning nonsense. And crouched in front of him, there was you, sucking him with devotion. My God. He was having an erotic dream about you.

You closed the door quickly. You didn't want him to notice your presence. You started running towards the exit, thinking that you should never have entered his dream. But something made you stop.

What if... maybe, you took advantage of this moment? I mean, what would be the problem? There's nothing wrong, you'd just be making his dream a little more realistic...

So you slowly walked back to the room, thinking seriously about what you were about to do.

You entered the room confidently. But your confidence died as soon as you looked at your dream version, who was looking at you while sucking the blond, as if you was making fun of you.

You were lucky that he was so focused on the pleasure that he didn't even notice you approaching. You quickly made your dream version disappear, putting yourself in her place. Your nervousness was eating you alive, and if he noticed? No, he wouldn't be able to.

As soon as he didn't feel anything around his own cock, he opened his eyes. Those damn red eyes, so deep, that they pulled you into an endless abyss, from which you would never want to leave.

"What's wrong? Why did you stop? Is my cock too much for you to handle?"

You could feel the shame rising in your cheeks. Letting out a moan when you felt him pulling your head back, with his hand tangled in your hair.

He looked at you from above, almost with disdain. And that, for some reason, made you very wet, making you squeeze your thighs together to get some kind of relief from the sensation that consumed you.

"Poor thing, you're so useless that you're not even good enough for a blowjob... do you need help, bitch?" You could feel him pulling on your hair, which made involuntary moans come out of your mouth.

“Y-yes…please” you felt like you were capable of going crazy with this, the way he looked at you, and how he pulled your hair hard, but without hurting. Fuck, it made you lose any shred of sanity

“This is so embarrassing for you, I almost feel sorry for you…but then I remember what a little slut you really are.” He ran his finger over your lips, then stuck his finger in your mouth, telling you to suck it, even without saying any words.

You practically flooded his hand with your drool, you could feel your pussy vibrating every time you sucked his finger hard, you were pathetic, so ridiculous. You let out a moan when you felt him take his finger out of your mouth. He looked at you as if he felt sorry for you, showing you how pathetic you were.

“You really are such a little bitch, am I going to have to do all the work?” He pulled your head back, holding it for a few seconds before telling you to put his cock in your mouth.

It was huge, it was hard not to choke on every inch that filled your mouth. As soon as he felt it enter halfway, he lowered your head hard, making his cock enter the back of your throat. Making you choke and tears come out of your eyes.

He left you like that for a while, until he felt you grip his thigh because you were having trouble breathing. But he barely gave you time to relax, he quickly started to move your head up and down, while holding you by your ponytail.

You drooled all over his length, taking advantage of the fact that there was no way out, to rub your rough tongue on his cock, and lightly scrape your teeth. This made him moan a little, he wasn't very vocal, how sad you thought. You would love to hear him moan, while he had his cock in your mouth.

In a few minutes he left the movements completely to you, too overcome by pleasure to dare to make any effort. You stuck it all the way down your throat, licking the entire length, releasing your drool along the way, to make it easier every time you put it in your mouth.

You felt his veins pop out, showing that he was close to cumming. Then you started sucking his pink head, while you masturbated the rest of his length with your hand.

Within seconds, he came. You looked at him, flooded with lust, as you swallowed his sperm and cleaned up what had leaked.

“This is just the beginning, you hear me, my little slut?” He held your face, squeezing your cheeks with one hand.

“Yes…” you were overcome with lust, making nothing else cross your mind, other than the enormous desire for him to stick his huge cock inside you and fuck you until you forgot your own name.

Before you could decide anything, he pulled you up, throwing you on the bed. And something you didn’t expect at all happened. He kissed you.

His tongue dominated yours. It was a hot, quick, lustful kiss, taking all the air from your lungs. With the separation, you moaned in frustration.

But soon smiled when you felt him rip your shirt. His hands squeezed your breasts tightly, if it weren't for the immense pleasure, you would probably complain about the pain.

He didn't give you much time before ripping off your shorts and panties. Leaving you now, naked and completely at his mercy. You could see the treacherous smile that formed on his face.

You felt him turn you brutally onto your back, bringing your arms back and holding them. You felt him get closer, his mouth at your ear as he nibbled on your earlobe. His hair tickled. That thought made you laugh.

"Do you think this funny? When I fuck you so hard that you'll forget your own name, I wanna see if you'll laugh."

Oh, yes. This would be a hard night, very hard and fun.

If y'all like, I do pt 2! 😭 Pls reblog or gimme some like or coment, wanna know what u think. 🤌🏻 'N SORRY FOR MY ENGLISH, ITS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE 😭

[cdbabymp3]

𐙚editor!reader hc's ― hamzahthefantastic

notes/warnings: sfw and nsfw portions !! reader is hamzah's roomie :3

**for this dynamic i also made reader and hamzah both virgins, which comes up in these hc's and will come up more in the future if that's smth y'all want me to elaborate on!**

chat i think im back .......

(sfw)

-getting constantly shouted out in vlogs

"shout out, y/n, our editor. she's on the front lines going through all this footage for you, slushies, yall better be grateful."

-eventually face revealing by being on an episode of the pod. it's titled smth like 'and they were roomates' or 'editor reveal (real)' idk

-the whole pod episode hamzah keeps looking at you every time you speak and 'accidentally' touches your thigh

-there's so many fan accs on tiktok that clip it and air tf out of him 😭😭😭😭

-hazmah tries to explain the dynamic of living with his editor on the pod, but even he doesn't know exactly what it is (and neither do you)

-as unprofessional as it may seem, somehow it works

-hamzah never lets you do all the work. he always offers to help you out when you're starting to get tired or in a slump

"hamzah, it's my job. lemme just finish this-"

"nah, you're clocking out for the night. you've been dismissed." he shoos you away from your shared work desk that you've been sitting at for hours

-as unprofessional as it is, you can't deny how massive of a fucking crush you have on him....especially when he pulls that domestic shit on you

-when you're exhausted from editing, he'll make you food or take you on a late night drive for ice cream in your pj's

-grocery shopping omg he loves that shit so bad !! on sundays you guys go to the store and hit up the farmer's markets downtown. hamzah gets excited every time, he'll wake up hella early each time he's so cute :,)

-if you're not from toronto or canada, he'll show you around his favorite places. in general, he's just happy to have someone to share stuff with (i'll cry)

-CASUAL DOMINANCE !!!! him being your boss and giving you deadlines for vids makes you blush so hard. he's never ever bossy/rude, but he's firm and technical about how he envisions certain vids and you want to deliver for him

-no matter how many times you run through the final edit with him, you still get nervous

-you're hanging onto his every word and facial expression, praying that he likes the way the vid turned out (he always likes it)

-you loves when he laughs at your editing choices, it's lowkey your goal to make him smile/laugh...equal parts job validation and crush validation 🙇‍♀️

-being roommates has led to many, manyyyyy late night mukbangs

-i can just imagine y'all at 2am eating a whole spread of food on the floor in the living room and talking about deep stuff

-speaking of deep stuff, it took you guys a couple months to open up to each other, but one night you were both editing super late and somehow the topic of sex came up....

-you guys bonded over being late bloomers, agreeing to keep each other's secret, which in turn made you closer

-being the slushy editor (and videographer sometimes) means getting to go on trips with them for vids !!!

-getting to go to curaçao and having the room next to hamzah's in the hotel.... (i'll make a separate thing abt this dw)

-i feel like the fans would love you and honestly prefer you and mandy over the boys lmfao

-mandy is so big sister <333 she's so happy to have another girl to be around at long last

-when hamzah and martin are arguing over smth in a vid, they'll drag you in for a third party opinion bc mandy has given up

-if you fall asleep on the couch watching a movie, hamzah will carry you to your bed or at least put a blanket over you. it kinda depends if he's feeling brave or not.

(intimate stuff, some nsfw)

-the sexual tension in the apartment is through the mf roof

-the funny part is neither of you do anything to initiate it, it's just so natural AND YOU BOTH FEEL IT BUT ARE TOO SCARED TO SAY ANYTHING !!!!

-sometimes hamzah will come home from the gym while you're editing...he'll have a thin, fitted shirt on, all sweaty and tired looking

-you pretend not to notice him, fiddling away on your computer with your headphones on (no volume playing ofc), but you have to clench your thighs together sometimes bc the sight is nearly too much to handle

-shower time gives you a heart attack each night

-a couple months into living together, hamzah gave up on getting dressed in the bathroom after his showers, so he'll walk out with just a towel around his waist and grab a drink from the fridge

-when you guys have movie night and there's a graphic sex scene he gets so awkward omfg...he'll go get smth from the kitchen or make a stupid joke so he doesn't get #bricked pretending it's you and him doing those things

-you're almost certain you've heard him jerk off a couple times, but obviously you're too scared too investigate further

-little do you know, he's jerking off to you 🎀

-you wonder if he's ever heard you masturbate, especially bc you're walls are so thin.🗿.......you try to do it when's out, but sometimes him being a wall away from you turns you on too much

-yes, he's knocked on your door in the middle of you doing it 😭

"y/n!! the landlord is here, she has a couple questions and i don't know the answers, please come help me...she scares me."

"i-uh..shit, ok, hamzah, just give me a sec !!!" you're scrambling, trying to put yourself together so it's not obvious you were literally just thinking about him fucking you

-even though you know it's fucked up, him being your boss makes you horny 🤕

-especially when he's peering over your shoulder, pointing out things he thinks you should add to the video. the smell of his cologne, the gentle cadence of his voice, how his hand takes the mouse from your hand and he mumbles a little apology under his breath....lawd....

໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა taglist ; @42angelgirl + let me know if u wanna be added !!!!!

[angel1010xx]

ｃｉｇａｒｅｔｔｅｓ

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Pairing: Sanji x Reader

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You hated cigarettes.

Cigarettes were stuffy and overwhelming, the scent lingered for hours, and the smoke made your lungs feel closed up. They were complete bombardments to your senses, and genuinely? You felt as if the world would be better off without them. Smoking is a bad habit, after all. Why would anyone willingly choose to give themselves lung cancer and an early grave?

The Thousand Sunny was having a lively night. Brooks was merrily serenading the crew, while each of them were on their own missions. Zoro was drinking (to death, probably, how was his liver still functioning?), Usopp was reliving the latest battle with Luffy, Franky, and Chopper (with embellishments, of course, not that his audience would be able to detect them), and Nami and Robin were sucked into their books (they were so perfect, the crew hardly deserved the gift of their presence). That just left Sanji.

Running around, fawning over “Nami-Swan,” and lighting yet another cigarette.

Yes, he was a phenomenal chef. Yes, he was doting and chivalrous. Yes, he was charismatic and consistent, and it was so hard to find a man that to actually abide by a moral code. But God, he was perverted. He was unbearable. And he reeked like menthol.

Sighing, you crossed your wrists over each other and leaned on the railing of the ship. The Grand Line was dangerous, but it was beautiful when the moonlight reflected across the water. The sights, the wind in your face, and the freedom made all the trouble worth the adventure. You were apart from the main crowd, opting for some personal space at the front of the ship. The Straw Hat crew was your family; and true to life, everyone needs their elbow room sometimes, even from the ones they love most. 

Approaching footsteps interrupted your peace. Looking over your shoulder, you spotted Sanji walking towards you. Great, you thought. He gazed at you with a slight tension in his brow. “The fish is ready. Are you going to eat?”

“In a little bit, yes,” you responded. “I just wanted some fresh air and quiet right now.” Sanji settled in, standing beside you, mimicking your pose by also leaning against the railing. “I hope you come down soon,” he spoke in a low voice. “Our princess-warrior needs her strength just like the rest of us.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “I’m scared, Sanji,” you whispered, choosing to open up to him. “The world is changing. I worry about my people at home. I know there’s ample resources and military force to keep them safe, but…” you trailed off, eyes shifting from focusing and losing focusing on the sea waves. Sanji let out a hum, and pulled out a cigarette and a light. You cocked your head towards him, this time with a slight lip curl. “You just had one. Do you really have to smoke another one, right here?”

He let out a puff of smoke and a chuckle. “Mon amour, we all have ways of dealing with our stress.” 

Sanji shifted to face his body towards you, but kept one arm on the railing. “You can’t sit there and worry about your people all day and night. I see it on your face every time I look at you. It practically breaks my heart,” he paused to place his free hand on his chest. He broke out into a warm smile. “Right here and now, princess, you are safe, and they are safe too.” 

You let out a deep breath, doing your best to soak in his words. “Thank you, Sanji.” He let out another hum, put out his cigarette, and brought you in for a hug. “Of course, mon amour.”

Yes, he smelled like menthol. Yes, you had a hard time breathing. But he also smelled like cologne. He was warm, and the feeling of his breath down the side of your neck made you shiver. A thought came into your mind for a split second—what would it be like to taste the cigarette, if you were to press your lips to his own?

It’s a fine line between love and hate, after all. 

[writeriguess]

Part 2 for katsuki x reader where katsuki defends reader from bullies fic???? Pleeeeeeaaasseeeeeeeeeeee

The next few days after Katsuki’s unexpected intervention were strange for you. You’d always kept to yourself, maintaining a low profile to avoid unnecessary attention, and you liked it that way. But ever since the hallway incident, the atmosphere had shifted. Whispers followed you in the halls, not from the bullies, but from others curious about your connection to Bakugo. You couldn’t help but feel exposed, like a spotlight had been shined on you against your will.

What confused you more, though, was Katsuki’s behavior. He hadn’t said anything to you since that day. No follow-up, no acknowledgment, not even a passing glance in class. It was like it never happened. But you felt his eyes on you sometimes, sharp and fleeting, as if he was checking up on you in his own way.

Today was no different.

You sat quietly in your seat as Aizawa began his lecture, your focus drifting between the lesson and your own thoughts. Katsuki sat a few rows ahead, as usual, arms crossed and scowling like always. But you caught him turning his head slightly, just enough to glance in your direction. When he saw you looking, he immediately faced forward, his jaw tightening.

What was going on with him?

After class ended, you packed up your things quickly, eager to escape the building before you became the subject of more stares. As you made your way to the exit, you suddenly felt a strong hand on your wrist, halting you in your tracks.

You spun around to see Katsuki standing there, eyes burning with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Katsuki—” you began, but he cut you off.

“Walk with me,” he ordered, not waiting for an answer before pulling you along.

You followed him, too startled to protest. The two of you walked in silence through the emptying corridors of UA, the tension palpable. He led you to the rooftop, away from prying eyes and ears, before finally letting go of your wrist.

He turned to face you, and for the first time, you saw the internal battle playing out behind his fierce eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, visibly frustrated.

“What’s going on?” you asked, trying to steady your voice. “Why did you bring me up here?”

Katsuki inhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to ignore this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “But it’s pissing me off.”

You blinked in confusion. “What is?”

He locked eyes with you then, and the intensity of his gaze made your heart skip a beat. “You,” he said bluntly. “You’re what’s been driving me crazy.”

You took a step back, startled by the sudden admission. “What do you mean?”

He clenched his fists at his sides, as if fighting against every instinct to shut down and storm away. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a step closer to you, his voice lowering.

“I don’t get why I care so much,” he confessed, the words sounding almost foreign coming from him. “About what happens to you. About what people say to you. But I do, and it’s been eating at me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as his words sank in. You never thought Katsuki Bakugo, of all people, would ever say something like that to you. He was always so closed off, so fiercely independent. But here he was, standing in front of you, raw and vulnerable in a way you had never seen before.

“Katsuki…” you whispered, unsure of what to say.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, his voice rough around the edges. “But I need you to understand something.” He stepped even closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Not by anyone. And if that means I’ve gotta step in, then I will. Every damn time.”

You stared up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. His words were harsh, but you could feel the sincerity behind them. He wasn’t just protecting you out of some sense of duty. There was something more there, something deeper.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached out and gently placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you,” you said softly. “For everything.”

He stiffened at the touch but didn’t pull away. His gaze softened, just for a moment, and you thought you saw a flicker of something almost… tender.

“Tch,” he scoffed, turning his head to the side, though you noticed the faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Don’t get all sappy on me.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction. “I won’t,” you promised.

But as you stood there, the two of you alone on the rooftop, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you. Something unspoken but undeniably real.

And maybe, just maybe, Katsuki Bakugo was beginning to let you in.

Requests are open. Send as many as you like.

[epickiya722]

I don't think I expressed enough how much I do actually like that Yuji is this... I don't know how to really put it into words but... how Yuji is this unique embodiment of horror and strangeness.

Like, just the details of his character makes him stand out to me. Everyone in JJK has some bit of oddness to them, and he has own unique kind.

He looks like sunshine personified and he is. He is the sweetest kid there is. And he looks like the typical "Oh, he must be the normal one who has to adapt to the horrors the other have to go through" character. Ha ha... no, he is the horror. He is the "creepy child" trope without even showing that he is.

Yuji is the kind of horror you actually have to put thought into to even realize "Oh, wait, that is actually fucked up". Fridge horror, the horror that you think nothing too much of until you really open your mind to it.

Like, he's this own level of odd with how he behaves and thinks.

First, it's his interests. Yuji didn't mind really being in the occult club. Of course, his reasons was that the club time allowed him enough time to see his grandfather. But also, even though he didn't have to really participate, he actively does. Iguchi and Sasaki exploring haunted places? Yuji tags along and isn't frightened at all. Mind you, they like going go haunted places because they like being scared. Why folks watch horror movies and go to attractions, right?

Yuji will play with an oujia board.

Fan of a movie series titled the Human Earthworm and actually can find the beauty and love in said movies. He's so real for that.

So far it's just simple stuff like that, right?

First time seeing a curse? Admits to being scared, but barely even flinches. When Megumi talks about the Cursed Finger and mentions how curses want to eat it? His response?

"Why, is it good?"

IT'S A FINGER?!

When informed about Inumaki's technique? What was the example he uses? "So if he says 'die' then it will happen?" Out of all the examples?! He was more impressed by the technique than actually fearful of it.

That Cursed Doll he had to train with? Called it "cute" and Gojo questioned that. In fact, when meeting Yaga, Yuji commented on how the dolls were cute.

How he fights is even a little odd and unsettling. He immediately goes into action, doesn't even need to hear the bell. He always has this look on his face that "Yeah, your kneecaps are mine". Not once has I ever recalled he actually smiles during a fight. Unlike some of the others who have showcased some enjoyment or some type of being unhinged in a "to hell with it" mood, Yuji always has this almost animalistic glare, that kind of unhinged. He isn't holding back, even against normal people like the high school bullies in chapter 163. Sometimes I question if he even knows how to hold back.

He doesn't like to get violent or kill. If he has to, he will. But it's just not anything he can brush off or be like "Yeah, I like doing it".

Then the idea of dying? Yeah, Yuji makes it clear he knows people will die. Execution placed on his head? He accepts dying with Sukuna instead of asking if there's any way to work around it, find a solution. Keep in mind, Sukuna is downright evil and does nothing but make life hard for Yuji every chance gets.

However, by the end, Yuji changes from choosing to die with Sukuna, so that no one else has to suffer, to offering Sukuna to live along side him even if no one accepts that.

Oh, let's not forget his family.

Yeah, Sukuna I just mentioned? That's his uncle by soul reincarnation. Jin, Yuji's dad who we don't really know what happened to him, is the reincarnation of Sukuna's twin that Sukuna ate in the womb. Doesn't stop there.

Yuji's mother, Kenjaku? Actually a 1000+ year old sorcerer who body hops by implanting their brain into whatever body they find convenient for their plans. One of those bodies happen to be Kaori Itadori, Jin's wife. Jin's dead wife. Kenjaku played wife in a woman's dead body, the same body Yuji was born from.

Yuji was born out of a corpse. With one of the Cursed Finger somehow already sealed inside him.

His other family members include Death Paintings: Choso, Eso, Kechizu, Noranso, Sho-oso, Tanso, Sanso, Kotsuso, and Shoso. His older siblings (technically) through Kenjaku, who was possessing Noritoshi Kamo's (the ancestor) body at the time. And guess what? Their blood consists of a human's blood, a cursed spirit's and Kenjaku's.

Yeah, like them, Yuji isn't really human. Again, born with one of Sukuna's Cursed Fingers already sealed in him. Without Cursed Energy, he was already outrunning cars and possessing strength not normal for the average human.

Oh, wait, and let's not forget his 'appetite'. He will eat anything if it means saving people. And he has. Other than Cursed Fingers, the other Cursed Objects Yuji consumed are his own siblings 4 - 9. Mind you, they were akin to fetuses contained in glass jars. (He isn't happy about eating them or anything for that matter though. I wouldn't be either.)

In all, he's just fridge horror with a some goodness mixed in there. I'm just rambling here.

[solreino]

Swan Song

Chapter 1: Taking Flight

Summary: In preparation for your debut as Odette in Swan Lake, you encounter a few bumps in the road. Little do you know this is just the start.

Pairings: TF 141 x Reader

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Eating Disorders, Toxic Beauty Standards, Creepy/Unwanted Behaviour, Period-Typical Attitudes (1910's), Innacurate Translations.

A/N: I'm not well informed about ballet, I have never danced it before, so I apologize for any inaccuracy regarding terminology. Also, the story is set mainly in Russia, so the reader is presumed to be of Russian origin.

MASTERLIST Next➔

[November 11th 1911, The Bolshoi Ballet Academy, Russia]

"1 and 2 and 3 and 4!”

Your eyebrows furrow in concentration as Mr. Lenkov begins to play Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a: I. Scene "Swan Theme" for what feels like the sixth time this hour. His nimble fingers dance across the ivory keys once again as the composition presumes its macabre melody.  

To say the last few weeks have been stressful would be a dire understatement. Since taking up the role of Odette in Autumn, you’ve yet to recall the last time you’d had the pleasure of succumbing to the sanctity of slumber, nor rest altogether for that matter. From dawn to dusk, you’ve found the studio becoming a second home to you; like an ever-so gracious host with a tendency for passive-aggressive hospitality, who coaxes you from the front door in promise of warm tea and a place to rest your head, insisting you stay "just one more hour". You know better, well at least you think you do, because beyond the studio door you know there’ll be no rest awaiting you, only relentless recital. Still, you don’t look back as you accept its welcoming embrace. Because- 

Anything but perfection would not suffice. You see, back-breaking discipline; impeccable precision; artistic competence; meticulous dedication, it’s nothing new to ballet and in turn, it’s nothing new to you, either. To be a ballerina means to surrender yourself to the artistry, and let your body become its mindless muse.

The Ballet industry is an anomaly compared to other artistic sectors. Unlike others, it subverges from the ideals of ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder’. Conformity is key. There are strict standards to be met and an unquestionable quota to be completed. Anything but, will not do. It disregards the need to sugarcoat its shallow requirements; skinnier, sharper, prettier, thinner; if it fulfills the requirements, it will suffice. 

Image is everything. It’s a shallow, superficial sentiment that directors set upon budding ballerinas like hounds to hares. From day one, they plant it into the impressionable minds of aspiring dancers. Uncontrollably, self-doubt sprouts like a stubborn weed. Each off-hand comment or direct dig, whether it be about a girl’s weight of en pointe form, encourages the festering parasite to root itself deeper into her mind. Then she grows older - it’s too late - and the parasitic thought has poisoned her once innocent outlook on life and has rotted it right to its roots. For the rest of her tragic life, the girl will only know the number on the scales, the image in the mirror, and the misery in her mind. 

You’ve seen it happen to others. You’ve seen it happen to you, because-  

Ballet has ensnared you - mind, body, and soul. Over the years, you’ve felt its callous claws dig deeper and deeper into your flesh, leaving scars so severe - both physically and mentally - sometimes the pretty pink ribbons you adorn your feet with prove futile in the bid to cover them. Prodding and poking and probing; fingers jabbing mercilessly into your sides, accompanying a doubly ruthless "you'll need to lose this extra weight if you want a spot on my stage". For a sport so vain, you ought to think it would go easy on its victims. A session of self-reflection proves otherwise.

You learn to bear and grin through it all. You don’t have much of a choice anyways. After all, many before you have suffered the same, and those who come after you will too. Because after many years of being a ballerina-

You learn to see beauty in the pain. 

The blood you bleed makes the red roses you receive at curtain call worthwhile; the sadistically sweat-inducing masterclasses make the shining smiles and standing ovations from awestruck audiences worthwhile; the tears make the champagne chutes you get to drink at the expense of your company worthwhile. You chase these highs like you do with stardom.  

All you've ever dreamed of since a little girl was to be a ballerina. Perhaps, it was the beautiful dresses a child of your class could only dream of back then, or how pretty the woman on the front page of your father’s newspaper looked posing on the tip of her toes. You don’t know for certain what exactly it was that enthralled you with it all. Sometimes, you wish you had never boarded that train to Moscow, never bothered with all that came with being a ballerina. It’s a selfish and self-deprecating thought, for you know if you were to stay on that homestead, there was an imminent chance you would have succumbed to the troubles of poverty you had faced back home. Admittedly, there are times you miss your life before coming to the city. None can be done about that, however.

Now, you have to push your body to its limits and beyond. Daily, you trespass boundaries you had once believed your body did not possess the ability to, reciting the same sequences endlessly, over and over again, until you physically can’t pursue your practice further that day. Even then, you find yourself persevering through the pain and fatigue; limbs heavy like lead; a mind strong like steel. If you knew your efforts were futile in the bid to rid yourself of any flaws in your dance, you would be wrong because-    

Ultimately, you knew no matter how much effort you exerted, the Dance Principal; Ballet Mistress; the reputable Madame Orlova would not miss a single thing.

For decades, word has circled Moscow of the cold-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued old woman who ran the prestigious academy with an iron fist. It was just your luck that she had taken you under her wing as one of her pupils. You dare say she had taken a liking to you, though, she did have a tough way of showing her fondness onto others. 

Never a day was there without some sort of mistake to be mended by her recognition. At times you think God had cursed her to be forever unfulfilled in her outlook of life. The others in the Troupe seem to think so too. 

You dread to think of how much Mr Lenkov’s fingers must be hurting from playing the same melody over and over again for this past hour. It wouldn’t surprise you if the composition begins to haunt your dreams like a creaky, broken music box. You’ve never had the pleasure of owning one, though you had seen one in the window of a repair shop one time and-

And, as the Ballet Mistress shouts at Mr Lenkov to cease his playing, you know she has once more found a flaw in your dancing. 

The symphony stops abruptly with a garble of incoherent notes before it can reach its crescendo. Inwardly, you sigh. 

"No, no, no!" She scolds.

Her boney fingers rub feverishly against her temple in frustration. Rising slowly from her chair before you, her walking cane thumps anticipating against the studio’s oakwood floor as she ambles towards you. Wrinkled eyes bore into you; you struggle to withstand the urge not to writhe under the intensity of her stare.

"Your arms,” She begins slowly, her gaze raking over you in scrutiny, “They are stiff.” 

“From the shoulder to the fingertips,” She gestures with her hand down the length of your arm as she speaks. “It must flow, like the wing of a swan.”

She uses the moment of silence as you take on the command to survey your form, prodding and poking your stance to adjust it to her liking. 

“Do not forget this.” She finishes. 

"Yes, Madame Orlova," You nod in acknowledgment, wincing slightly each time her finger jabs into your shoulder blades and readjust your position to better suit her expectations. 

She huffs a breath in what you can only presume is somewhat satisfaction, signaling for Mr Lenovo to resume playing.

“Again!”

The song resumes its somber sound, and you take heed to the Ballet Mistress’ words. Flowing from your shoulder blades to your fingertips, you encapture the essence of the White Swan; melancholy in her mourning of a lover whose heart he had promised to another. She is vulnerable in her virtue, and she shows that in her final flight. Odette longs for the skies, for an escape from the betrayal of who she had held dear, but her wings fail her. In desperation, she flexes and flaps her wings, but alas, she cannot take flight. And so-

You spiral in a presession of slow spins, arms portraying the anguished attempt the Swan Queen takes to take flight for the final time before decelerating into a despairing descent as Odette. The tune tumbles to its end from beneath Mr. Lenkov’s fingers as you complete your practiced plummet to the studio floor, encasing your body with your arms the wings of the white swan, as the grief-stricken creature takes its final breath. 

You raise your head to look at Madame Orlova.

And, for the first time in your decade-long enrollment at the Bolshoi Ballet School, you think you see the infamously stone-faced stone-hearted ballet mistress smile. 

It's a cold evening in Moscow tonight. The winter winds thrash ferociously at the loose and unraveling threads of your scarf. Whilst it does little to protect you from the frigid frost lingering in the air, you wear it anyways as any warmth you can garner to combat the icy environment is, in your eyes, worthwhile.

Snowflakes dust your hair with specks of glistening white, gathering upon the crown of your head where you have neglected to put on a hat. They tickle your nose and gently brush against your rosy cheeks as you tilt your head back. Your face turned towards the sky; watching as the snow twirls and tumbles from the clouds above, gradually blanketing the ground ahead in a pristine carpet of soft white. It crunches as you walk towards the theatre, leaving footsteps on the once-untouched landscape. You take extra caution not to slip on any hidden ice - an injury is the last thing you needed on a day as imperative as this. 

Somewhere in the far distance, the Kremlin bells ring. 

Thirteen mighty chimes thunder throughout the city. You feel the ground rumble in response beneath your feet - a reminder to hurry.

Rushing up the snowy steps of the Bolshoi Ballet Theatre, you quickly let yourself inside in an attempt to escape the chilling temperatures of the Moscovian evening - and to avoid running behind schedule. 

The warm air inside greets you welcomingly. You eagerly pull off your gloves in its presence to soak up the heat it has to offer. Slowly, you begin to regain feeling into your fingers. Sighing a relieved breath, you make your way backstage as the marble floor of the foyer echoes noisily beneath your shoes.

There, you receive a not-so-calm yet begrudgingly familiar greeting. 

Pre-performance is usually like this; congested backstage corridors; a cacophony of frantic demands and directions; boxes of overflowing props and costumes rushed up and down the hall; the deafening pounding of ballerinas breaking in their pointe shoes;  dim lighting making it near impossible to navigate. However today, with your debut as the company’s newly appointed principal dancer just hours away, it feels even more nerve-wrackingly overwhelming. 

You brace yourself as you get swept away in the havoc of opening night, tangled in the rambunctious crowd as it traverses through the labyrinth of backstage passageways.

Despite the absurd amount of people crammed in corridors unable to withstand even a fraction of their current capacity, you miraculously manage to maneuver your way to the dressing room; elbow-to-rib style, ducking under boxes and weaving past those racing in the opposite direction. 

Relief hits you as you swing open the dressing room door, closing it quickly behind you as your eyes blink rapidly to adjust to the bright lighting inside. The much more quieter, yet seemingly livelier chatter of friendly conversation and girlish giggles encompasses you as you move further into the dressing room. You shrug off your coat, laying it to rest on the coathanger and take your seat in front of your dresser.

Tranquility seeps into your bones as you slouch against the chair’s backrest momentarily, soaking up the opportunity of rest no matter how short-lived the moment may be. Mentally, you take the moment to prepare yourself for the evening, and all the chaos and calamity it is sure to bring. 

Sighing, you straighten yourself up in your seat, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as you do so. 

"I didn't know you had a secret admirer.” 

You don’t turn around as the voice chimes up from behind you. You of all people know better than to entertain her playful antics. 

The voice reveals itself from its lurking in the background, resting her chin just above your collarbone and draping her arms over your shoulder. 

Your eyes meet hers in the reflection. She grins back at you.

“Valeria.” You sigh, patting the hand resting around your shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

Valeria, crowned tonight’s Black Swan, is one of the company’s longer-serving principal dancers and has self-appointed herself as your tutor and friend as of late. Graciously, she has taken you under her wing these past couple of months as you have gradually adjusted to your newly bestowed title, joining her amongst the Bolshoi’s most prestigious ranks. 

“You too,” She smirks, a little too suspiciously for your liking, pecking your cheek in greeting before returning to her seat at her vanity next to you. “You too.”

You begin to rummage through your stage makeup, tilting the mirror toward you so you can better see, before laying out your needed products on the desk space. You pay no mind to her mischievous staring as you do so. But, as you have learned over your time acquainted with Valeria, nothing can deter her from getting what she wants. And right now, that is to find out who this supposed ‘secret admirer’ is.

"So tell us then," She drawls teasingly, "Who's the lucky boy?"

The edge of your desk presses uncomfortably into your side as you turn to give her your attention. For the time being, anyways. You yourself are somewhat curious as to what she is talking about. But the sooner you can resolve this suppositious accusation, the sooner you can resume to the real issue at hand - getting ready for Swan Lake. 

Confusion stirs at her question, and you tilt your head to the side, urging her to explain further.

A ribbon-wrapped gift box is pushed toward you. You watch on, confused. 

Valeria’s legs swing idly back and fro as she gazes at you expectantly. The corners of her lips tug further into a grin at the silence that ensues and at the completely dumbfounded expression on your face. When you give her no answer, her Cheshire-cat-like grin falters. 

The girls around you giggle, peering over from their makeup stations to indulge in the drama unfolding. Valeria shoots them a look from over your shoulder, one you cannot decipher, but it quietens them down. 

“For me?” you ask doubtfully, slightly stumbling over your words as you take the generous gift into your hands. “Oh Valeria, you shouldn’t have-”

“Not from me.” She huffs.

“I don’t understand,” you mumble, eyes scanning over the gift as you look for a label, a note, a letter, anything that may reveal the gifter’s identity. “Who could this be from?”

She shrugs indifferently, turning to focus on her reflection in the mirror, transfixed on getting the edges of her lipstick just right. 

“The girls who were here before me said it came delivered to the dressing rooms earlier this hour-” She smiles at her appearance, appreciating her flawless makeup in the mirror. Placing the lipstick tube down with a quiet thump, she turns to focus her attention on you once more. 

She pokes a finger at you in playful accusation. “-Asking for you specifically!” 

It’s your turn to shrug your shoulders, unable to give her the answer she craves, for what reason, is beyond you.  

She eyes you incredulously, before returning her attention to her mirror seemingly unable to neglect her reflection for just a moment longer.

“Well,” She gestures toward the ribbon-wrapped gift with her free hand, playing an unbothered facade. You know full well she is practically itching to uncover this mystery. “Are you going to open it?”

Your eyes dart between her and the suspicious box, almost expecting this to be some sort of ruse, perhaps she had given you a jack-in-the-box and was waiting for you to get the fright of your life; her idea of fun.

Hesitantly, you begin the unravel the sheer ribbon keeping the box from opening. The fabric rubs soothingly against your fingertips, a luxury fabric you have not had the experience of touching before. It was clear that whoever had purchased this was of a wealthy background.  Perhaps, you think, you could make this into a bow to wear. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when you lifted its lid, but you definitely were not expecting a pair of .

“Aye chingao!” Valeria startles as she leans over your shoulder to get a better look.

Nestled between a blanket of draped deluxe fabric, a pearlescent pink, almost winter-white, pair of the most exquisitely crafted pointe shoes lie. You fail to restrain the exasperated sigh of awe at the sight, carefully grazing your fingertips over its silky satin finish as if the slightest touch could possibly damage them. You can confidently say, they are the most beautiful gift you have ever had the pleasure of receiving. 

“No secret admirer,” she says.” Valeria quirks an eyebrow up at you.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's probably just costuming.” You dismiss her far-fetched conspiracies, though, you find it hard to draw your eyes away from the pair of shoes, and the fact that this had definitely not come from the costume department. So who had sent you these?

"Ha, as if Mr. Baryshev would ever allow the budget given to costuming to be used for anything but lining his own pockets!” She laughs bitterly. 

“I’ve been-” Valeria exhales out a frustrated breath, “-trabajando como un burro to afford the means to get wear this!” She growls, her hands gesturing to the coal-coloured feathered fabric of her intricate bodice and tutu. 

You open your mouth to give her your consolation before a knock comes to the door. You, Valeria, and the rest of the room quieten into hushed murmuring - just for a moment. Then-

“On in 30, Ladies!” A gruff voice hollers from the other side of the door.

The room erupts into chaos.

A tsunami of frantic ballerinas surge forward towards the row of dressers, crashing against each other like the tides of a raging sea you had heard many-medal adorning men recount about in tales of some distant land. The only redeeming thing about conducting post-performance business is the stories and tales you overhear; the rest, you are not so keen on.

You take the distraction in stride, shoving the pair of shoes more like semi-worn in pointe hand-me-downs from costuming somewhere under your vanity, and replacing them with your newly acquired gift.

“You’re going to wear them?!” Valeria hisses incredulously. 

You glance at her sideways, smirking back at the priceless expression of amused disbelief on her face.

“Well, they’re shoes, aren’t they?” You jest, grinning at her mischievously. “It would be a shame not to.”

She shakes her head in mock-dissappointment, haphazardously stuffing her stage makeup in its designated drawer before firmly slamming it shut. 

“I fear my mischief is rubbing off on you too much.” She mumbles as she looks up at you, feigning a tone of dismay, only to be betrayed by the growing smirk on her face. 

“Well,” She smoothes her hands over her slicked-back bun of cropped raven hair, "I'll see you out there." 

You give her your goodbyes as she pats you on the shoulder, rising from her chair and making her way toward the dressing room’s door. 

“Don’t let the Director find out,” Valeria whisper-shouts from over her shoulder. “You know what he’s like.”

She ushers the remaining lingering corps-de-ballet girls out of the changing rooms, winking at you as she closes the door gently behind her. 

You listen as the chatter slowly retreats from beneath the doorframe, Valeria’s distinct, accented laughter mingled with that of fast-paced Russian retreating down the echoey corridor ‘till you could hear it no more. A serene silence hugs the now-semi abandoned dressing room; those, including you, who aren’t to appear until later acts remain, a more pacific atmosphere stirs, with subdued gossiping, softer laughter, and a more slowing-encroaching sense of time.

You slump in your chair. 

You have a long evening ahead of you.

The rear of house is relatively quieter now.

You can no longer hear the lively chatter associated with the pre-performance buzz, only the occasional hushed conversation resurfacing through the suffocating silence as people pass by. Walking backstage is always an awkward feat, your pointe shoes make an unpleasantly loud noise against the cold concrete floor with each precarious step you take. 

You had felt bad for having to break them in; they were an extraordinaryly well-crafted pair of pointé shoes, they fit perfectly too, and you were certain the price tag was even more extravagant. You still hadn’t resolved the identity of the mystery gifter, but you’d make sure to thank them profusely for their kindness. For now, however, you have a debut to make. 

Your feet thump rapidly as you semi-rush toward the entrance to the left wing. The further you near, the more people it seems are gathered in anticipation for their appearances onstage. The conversation is greater here than that of in the deeper bowels of the theatre where the dressing room had been. Mingling herds of ballerinas and dancers lean idle against the walls, stretching in preparation for their scenes, and chatting amongst themselves, but done so in more gentle, lower tones so as not to alert the audience of their presence a mere wall away. 

They regard you with reassuring smiles and words of good luck as you briskly waddle by; you reciprocate them with a short-but-sweet smile. 

The music grows in amplitude as you enter the left wing officially; the once gentle thrumming is replaced with an all-encompassing eruption of expertly strung-together instruments. The welcoming embrace of the song is quickly diminished though, much to your dismay because-

The rafters here have always given you the creeps. With no help from Valeria either, who  divulges in gossip of the ‘ballerina’ who had been ‘crushed to death’ by a poorly-secured light fixture on the theatre’s proscenium arch each time she catches you gazing nervously upwards at the looming space. You know it’s mainly just the technicians who lurk up in the rafters, commandeering light cues and stage transformation sequences as the ballet progresses. 

‘You have nothing to fear’, you admonish yourself. 

Still, that doesn’t stop the hair on the back of your neck from standing up as you approach the left stage-side.

Your presence goes unnoticed for not even a second. 

Someone speaks your name in a hushed whisper.

You peer over your shoulder at the source of the sound; the silhouette of a stout-statured man emerges from the left-wing doorway. He seizes you suddenly by the shoulders before you even have time to recognise the overly-touchy-friendly Mr. Ustrashkin.

You stagger at the sudden force with which he embraces you, regaining your balance with an awkward squeak. It is only then do you see the disconcerted look that his face has taken on.

“Mr Ustrashkin?” You begin hesitantly. “Is something the matter?”

“Walk with me, dear.” He requests, but he has already pulled you into motion with the firm grip of his hand on your shoulder.

The two of you trail off to the side to make way for the group of pas de corps, and for the privacy of what you can only assume to be bad news. The ballerinas smile respectfully at you, lowering their heads slightly as they account for your company before skittering off, their ghostly white tutus fluttering by behind them like swirling snowflakes. 

When the last of the dancers had passed by, Mr. Ustrashkin speaks again. You take the small queue of silence to compose yourself exteriorly for what is to come. 

“Something..." He stalls, theatrically contemplating the correct word to use before resuming. "...unexpected came up within these previous hours. A true shame it is, but Fyodor, your dance partner, has sustained an ankle injury. As you can understand, he will be out of commission for the foreseeable future, and unfortunately is unable to perform with you tonight." 

Your heart sinks. It collapses from your chest cavity like a marionette doll on snapped strings; as its puppet master surveilled with cruel glee from above. You wonder what you had done to anger God, for him to administer such a thing onto you. On today of all days too. 

“Oh, um, I-” You stumble over your words in a tangled array of shock, panic, disbelief and uncertainty.  

“None of that now, little swan.” Mr. Ustrashkin tuts, almost as one would scold a misbehaving child. 

You recoil at the unwanted nickname, but are too overcome with internal panic at the newly arisen situation to pay it much mind. Saying anything anyways will get you in trouble, and you have climbed too far into the good graces of the executives of the company to fall out of favour for something so insignificant. 

You struggle to maintain your composure, hanging on the thread of internal and external unbridled alarm. You bite the inside of your cheek to withhold any curses from escaping your mouth.

‘On all days this could have possibly happened on.’ You mumble to yourself mentally. 

“So, if Fyodor isn’t dancing tonight..” Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, eyes trailing from Mr. Ustrashkin and the conversation at hand to the semi-concealed view of the stage. “Who is dancing Prince Siegfried onstage as we speak?”

Swan Lake has been going for around an hour by now, but with your appearance not until the second act, you needn’t be in as much of a rush as those in the first. You had spent that time responsibly; the majority of which was in the dressing room ensuring the costuming was to standard and ogling over the anonymous gift. Much to your displeasure, that also meant you didn’t have the pleasure of seeing everyone off at curtain opening, and you hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of this ‘Mactavish’ Mr Ustrashkin had been singing his praises about to you. 

"Do not fret that pretty little head," The plump man quips. Mr. Ustrashkin pats your back, presumably in an act of reassurance, but the force which he uses almost sends you stumbling forward. "His understudy, Mactavish, has taken up his role."

“Mactavish?” Your head tilts to the side as the syllables of the foreign-sounding name roll off your tongue with a questioning implication. 

“Oh yes!” He startles with a cheery smile. “A wonderful dancer through and through. We scouted his talent in London and had him transferred from The Royal Ballet to dance for us instead.” He rambles on in recollection. “Though the two of you aren’t properly acquainted yet, I’m sure he’ll be substantial as a dance partner in Fyodor’s absence.”

All you can do is nod your head absentmindedly, hoping to be relieved of his unwanted presence. And, like all men are, his attention is quickly drawn to another. 

A loud laugh barks out from across in the right wing. 

“Valeria!” The now-agitated man growls lowly, his teeth grinding together as he storms toward her as quickly as his little legs can carry him. 

‘So that’s where she went,’ you think, half-bemused, half-concerned. You also thank her in your head for unknowingly getting you out of a conversation you no longer had any interest in being involved in.

Rolling your shoulders to relieve some tension that had been building up, your eyes search diligently for someplace to stretch before your presence on stage is needed. Finding one, you make sure to apply an ample amount of rosin to the bottom of your shoes before skittering your way over. 

The minutes pass by neither quickly nor slowly, more like a muddled mixture of the two. Your body moves without control, years and years of dedicated practice leading up to this much anticipated moment allowing your body to memorize the moves. Your thoughts, however, are the fore-focus of your attention. They rumble through your mind like a blinding blizzard, burying any logical thought with a suffocating, unmoveable barrier of bleak snow and amounting stage fright. 

The Pit Orchestra unleashes Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Op. 20, Act 1: No. 9, Finale Andante’s crescendo upon the awestricken audience as such Zeus would do to the land below Mount. Olympus with his thunderbolts. If you dare a glance, you may manage to see Mr. Lenkov strumming his harp melodically, or his musical protégé he can’t help himself but boast about day in-day out. 

The floor beneath your feet vibrates as the composition reverberates deafeningly throughout the auditorium; you would struggle to believe the crystal chandelier that looms overhead is not swinging violently nor the champagne glasses the aristocrats’ cradle has not shattered at the absurd volume. Though, it could just be the nervous shaking of your legs.

You catch fleeting visions of the dancers on stage; their shadows flickering in and out of view like the dimming flame of candlelight. Your thoughts are once again drawn back to Fyodor’s supposed understudy. Not once had you had a recital with him, and so you could only hope he was adequately practiced for his role. 

The melody of Act 1’s final act concludes with the triumphant trill of the violin ensemble. The audience erupts into an oscillating ovation; cheering, clapping, whistling; at a volume so loud it could rival its predecessor. Your doubts about Mactavish’s adequacy are quickly disproven. 

It only brings a sliver of comfort, however. 

You linger in the shadows for a moment, trembling fingers brushing hesitantly against the fabric before you. Then, cautiously, you peer out from behind the safety of the illustrious velvet curtains. Your jittery hands fiddle with their golden tassels as you gaze at the exceedingly large audience. The auditorium of the theatre had never been so full.

You try not to let the sheer amount of people overwhelm you; a thousand thousand faces staring stagebound.

You fail.

And as the announcer commences the beginning of tonight's performance, you also fail to notice the man watching you from across the other side of the stage.

 “Bolshoi Ballet proudly presents Swan Lake!”

[valentine-cafe]

hàoyû 9948v | fem!reader

*slides in looking like a drug dealer* i'd have this man's babies. i need collateral if this little shit is planning to keep me cooped up inside his mansion especially if he's not around (which is rarely ig-). wdym don't you make contact with a goddamn psychotic hot-ass feral spirit? nuh uh, that sign can't stop me, i'm married to him anyway, i don't make the rules. i need this man to put me in my place, preferably mating press. still, anything works as long he's inside me, like damn, all day all night, no protection, every position, it's okay if i pass out. this man's body ain't coming out without bruises and blood from me biting and scratching him.

wait, i just remember, "let this man fuck you on his altar please" this man is way more feral than me damn, like okay, what's stopping you 'lil guy? your wife ain't going anywhere with your eyes trailing over her. what a freak *twirls hair*

it's okay if he can't get me pregnant, i'll get him pregnant, fuck everything, one of us coming out pregnant. " just because men can't get pregnant, doesn't mean you shouldn't try your absolute fucking hardest” jìngyí 209's words not mine, he's so real for that *disintegrate*

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ verse 9948v hàoyŭ ⊹ ۪ ࣪

˚◞꒰ 🍰 grim reaper x reader, rhytaari x reader, cw: rough fucking, breeding kink, knotting ꒱

the sound of soft groans would scatter across hallways of the abandoned estate. your asscheeks spanked rough and tender. while a pair of hips furiously fuck into you.

dioxazine eyes not once wanting to leave the beautiful sight before him on the altar. a whine leaving the man above you.

a whine, you’ve never heard him whine so pathetically before. perhaps it is the amount of times you have milked him dry now? did it really even matter at this point. the both of you were panting and digging into each other for more. with nails piercing skin and tearing at away at the other.

blood still trickles down your arms and waist. sometimes a smooth and soft tongue rakes across the droplets of red too.

to hàoyu, it is all a signature of your love for him.

to bleed for a rhytaari, is to bleed out of the deepest kind of love.

“fuck, i— ‘m close once more.” bled into the walls as he whispered erratically in your ear. breath fanning against your face. while you groan, taking in each and every inch that he had.

“hàoyu— fuck, hurry up.” you growl impatiently, yanking at his hair and earning a loud and gutteral moan from the man. hips stuttering against yours as he shoots another load of cum inside of you. his body trembling.

to think one could make a rhytaari so sensitive. moan so pathetically.

you loved each and every moment of the power you had over him. the power he had over you, as well. when he would show it.

with another yank of his hair, his hips stuttering again. you push him back into one of the row seats and sit him there. riding him and pushing a few more streaks of cum out of him.

“b— baobei— baobei.” he groans, and with shaky hands grab your hips and begin controlling them for you. which leads to your own ultimate undoing, your words spluttering everywhere. the curves of your body jiggling along with the pace.

and all he does is laugh messily at your own pathetic look.

“you wanted to get pregnant? i’ll fucking make you pregnant. give you a fucking baby or two. maybe more,”

you don’t remember much after that sentence, passing in and out of the pleasure. until the both of you come to a stop eventually and catch your breaths. one leaning against the other and shivering.

“hàoyu” the whine reaches his ears and his eyes roll back a bit from the giddy feelings it brings him to hear you call for him with such desperation and need still.

“shhh” he hushes you softly, keeping his cum plugged in, gently rubbing at the small bulge full of cum in your tummy.

“let us get you some rest my dear. let me make you some tea and something to eat. hmm? did so so well. . .”

with a sigh, he picks you up and carries you with him back to the bedroom. stroking your hair gently as you lay there in your haze. smiling at him like a lovesick fool.

[brainrotcharacters]

yapping about the movie isn't enough. i need to write two novelizations one for each of their povs.

[puppetmaster13u]

You know what I need? I need a scene, either alone or in a group, of like, a hero or someone talkin to someone. For example Superman and Batman talkin, everything normal right?

And then I need it to switch to the pov of an outsider and they just have the thickest accents in the world. Somehow speaking the same language and understanding each other while the civilian is just ????

[icewindandboringhorror]

finally finished all of one character's entire quests/optional dialogue/questions/etc.... 100,000 words... .... aughhh

[that-jack-kline-bestie]

so fucking upset. i looked up what's considered concerning weight loss and got a statistic. i looked up the same question but specified teens and i got a bunch of articles about how to lose weight. what the fuck

[beast-of-the-void]

.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I think something a lot of other people can relate to is the way that you get so conditioned to discomfort that you stop registering it.

I remember sitting at the table with my family, eating dinner as a child. I’d try to eat, because of course I was hungry. But sometimes the flavor or texture was so repugnant that it moved into a category of Not Food.

“Two more bites before you can leave the table.”

“I can’t,” I’d say, trying to explain the impossibility.

But because I was a child they heard, “I won’t,” and made me sit at the table. I’d sit in dull agonized silence, bored and hungry for hours until bedtime when they’d give up. I’d hate myself for not eating and my parents for forcing me to sit there. The few forcefeeding moments ended in vomit.

They’d say, “If you don’t eat this you can’t eat a snack later,” and I moved past trying to communicate my discomfort into accepting that I’d just be hungry.

That state of affairs didn’t last, because my parents realized nothing could force me to eat so they catered to my palate, worrying they’d starve me. But the message stuck. If you can’t do anything about a situation, just accept the suffering.

A few years later my mother called me off the playground to ask, “Are you limping?”

I shrugged. My feet had hurt for a long time, but that was just the way things were now. My mom pulled my socks and shoes off and gasped. The soles of my feet were covered in huge painful planters warts.

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” She demanded but I could only shrug at her. I’d learned a long time ago that saying things about my discomfort didn’t matter, so now I had no words. Sometimes things hurt and sometimes they don’t. I simply accepted and did my best.

Now as an adult trying to learn to improve my own conditions can be hard. If I make food that I can’t eat I’ll force myself to sit at the counter still, full of guilt and self loathing, trying to will myself to eat it.

At first I needed my betrothed to gently take it away to present me with something I could eat. Now on my own I can usually admit that it’s not happening before too long and get something else, but I still feel guilty.

Laying in bed at night waiting for my betrothed to finish getting ready I let out a huge sigh of relief when they turned the lights off.

“Why didn’t you turn them off if they bothered you?” they asked the first time it happened.

“I didn’t even know it was bothering me until it was gone.”

Assessing my physical state now to see if I can improve it is something I’m still relearning but I’m relieved to finally have the space and support to do it.

[baresteeth]

this twilight ass flashback lighting and the damp 90s heartthrob hair >>>

[anasfamilys]

Hello,

🛑🚨🚨🚨

My name is Anas Al Burri. I am 17 years old, and I live in Gaza. My sister has jaundice because she gave birth to her child in an unhygienic area during the war. She has no medication, and her condition is worsening, almost life-threatening. She is too ill to produce milk for her son, and we can't get milk from anywhere else. I have no medication for my diabetes! I am missing insulin, and my blood sugar is critically high, often above 180 and sometimes even 400. I suffer from hyperglycemia attacks and can't get to a hospital because we are in the northern part of Gaza.

https://www.tiktok.com/@pali.liberation?_t=8pPrgadb4sr&_r=1. My campaign documentation number here is 25.

Three months ago, my 14-year-old brother Ahmad was searching for something to eat when he was sh*ot in the ch*est by sni*pers from a kilometer away. The bul*let went straight through his body. He was just a CHILD! We still can't believe it and keep thinking he will come back any moment. We didn't even have time to mourn him before the next family members were kill*ed.

The hardships my family and I face are beyond what words can describe. This is our last resort.

We are reaching out to you with a desperate plea. We need your help to survive. Your donation can provide us with the life-saving medications and food that we desperately need. Every act of kindness brings us closer to safety and restores a glimmer of hope in our hearts.

With your support, you can give us and many other families in Gaza a chance to survive and rebuild our shattered lives. Help us survive and leave Gaza so that the last of our family does not perish.

Thank you for your empathy and kindness.

With heartfelt gratitude,

Anas Al-Burri and Family

❤❤

[suguann]

Possessive!Gojo who makes you wear his jersey when you go to parties at his fraternity after games, openly admiring the way you dwarf inside his clothes. He leans forward on the edge of the bed to get a better look, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes raking over every inch of you from head to toe. 

"Toru, it's too big," you pout, checking out your reflection in the floor-length mirror on his closet door. “I look silly.”

The tent growing in his sweats says otherwise—all the blood in his body rushing from one head to the other just from seeing two things that are his coexisting—and he gives you another once-over, thinking of several ways to describe you, silly not being one of them.

"You’re so pretty, baby.” He swears he’s a little drunk from the sight of you, but he means it.

Possessive!Gojo who pushes you up against the door inside the locker room before a game—slightly jealous from the guys looking at you as they filed out into the hall, and equally turned on because he knows they can’t have you—telling you he can't play with a hard-on before he's pressing into you from behind.

He can feel your tummy quivering under his hand where he holds you close, feels how his cock is carving its way inside of you, and you both moan when he presses down lightly. It makes him dizzy how tight and small you are; pulsing, wet, and swollen-soft velvet that gives every time he buries himself into you.

"You gonna hold all of my cum in this cute cunt until after the game, y-yeah?" he sucks the question into your neck. “Don’t worry, I’ll lick it out of you afterward. Just keep it warm for me, ’kay?”

You answer him with a high-pitched whine as you clench down hard around him, cumming with a muffled scream against his palm and nearly pushing him out of your warm, fluttering heat.

Possessive!Gojo makes sure to stuff his cum back into your drooling cunt with two thick fingers, curling them into your front wall to pull another soft orgasm out of you—just a little more, ah, there you go, always so good for me—before he helps you fix your panties to trap it there.

His arms wrap around you before he presses a tender kiss to your temple. “Don’t forget to cheer for me.”

Possessive!Gojo whose smirk from watching you squirm in the stands, melts into a glare when a guy takes the empty seat beside you, sitting almost too close for his liking.

“Stop staring at your girlfriend and hit the fucking puck already,” Sukuna grumbles, leaning against his stick.

Possessive!Gojo who makes sure to fuck you in the backseat of his car afterward with the windows cracked in hopes that the guy from the stands would walk by to you moaning Gojo’s name, and he eats you out just like he promised—bending you over the center console, smiling to himself at how shy and squirmy you get—only to fill you up again.

Possessive!Gojo who pouts whenever Nanami manages to steal your attention with something sciency and nerdy (something entirely up your alley) whenever you come over on weeknights. 

“That’s so neat, Nanami,” you smile, hearts practically in your eyes as you listen to him talk about his latest research. “Maybe I can stop by the lab and check it out sometime.”

Possessive!Gojo who doesn’t miss the way Nanami’s ears turn a shade of red from your praise—color high in his cheeks—how he gives a sheepish smile whenever you talk to him.

“Toru,” you say, finally bringing your soft, pretty gaze on him again. “Are you even studying?”

Yeah, he is, but something else entirely, he thinks as he watches how your shorts hug your ass while you walk around the house’s common room—and he’s not the only one staring.

Possessive!Gojo who slaps your thigh, making you jolt in his lap. "Did I tell you to stop, huh, baby?"

You shake your head, biting your lip and avoiding the pair of eyes watching both of you (intently) from across the room—especially you—a quiet observer as you slowly sink onto your boyfriend’s cock while Nanami thrusts his own into his fist. 

"Ah, fuck—b-but–"

Your words break off into a choked moan when Gojo thrusts his hips up underneath you, pressed as deep inside as he can get, and when he looks down, he swears he can see the imprint of himself pressing against your stomach. 

"Tell me what I said,” he says through gritted teeth as he starts bouncing you, the couch continuing its steady squeaking under your knees.

Possessive!Gojo who can tell that it's hard for you to concentrate with the way his cock moves inside you, and you’re unable to answer with anything other than babbling nonsense. He decides to take mercy on you and stops to grind you in his lap instead.

He kisses your cheek, your neck, anywhere he can get his mouth on. "I said, don't stop until you cum, and you’re going to let Nanami see how fucking pretty you look when you do."

The next sound out of your mouth is a squeal when he holds your inner thighs to keep you open as he thrusts up into you again and again—letting Nanami see what can never be his.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “So good for me. Go on, show him how my good girl takes cock.”

Possessive!Gojo who locks eyes with Nanami just as he’s about to cum, burying his groans of pleasure into your neck as white-hot sparks shudder up his spine and heat pools in his gut.

Mine, he tries to say, but Gojo thinks his frat brother gets it when Gojo’s the one cumming inside you and Nanami’s spilling all over his fist.

Masterlist