#depictions of eating tw

[positivelybeastly]

Love seeing such nuanced and interesting explorations of the Big Blue! Speaking of big, how would you think Hank would respond to someone more indulgent in his hankering for Twinkies and such? With some of his body dysmorphia, do you think he'd be surprised to find someone appreciative of added bulk to his blue?

Thank you so much for the kind words! Apologies for the late reply, been on hiatus and have just started making a poke at my inbox.

So, I have some thoughts on this, because this has come up in both 616 canon and in alternate universes. Let's start with the alternate universes.

This is Hank McCoy of Earth-32098! He is friend shaped. He comes from a universe where . . . well, things are kinda cushy and moved past the need for conventional X-Men, really. Instead, there's an X-World, a Federation that Hank is a member of (which appears to be a Star Trek reference, given that he's on some kind of five year missions), and a lot of people have gotten old and settled down, hence the curious idea that Hank can go bald despite being furry. Then again, I've long been an advocate for Hank to be able to have facial hair despite being furry, so who am I to judge?

Hank looks relaxed and happy here, honestly! He's a bit rounder, but he is free, and I think that generally speaks to the fact that if Hank is eating well, then he's in a decent state of mind and he's being supported properly - he tends to do that genius thing of getting obsessed with an idea and not eating because must do science, so if he's eating well, he's being taken care of in a way that, generally, he isn't in Earth 616, or he's developed healthier behaviour patterns. There's no mention of him having a partner in this universe, but honestly, he's a jolly, happy fellow and his usual charming self, I expect he'd have no shortage of people interested in him. A partner encouraging of his shape and body would be a welcome surprise, I think.

Then we get into the less . . . positive, depictions of this.

First off, we have the Ultimate Universe, which is always a wellspring of healthy behaviour and kind words.

Like . . . this Hank isn't even fat?

He's just physically large because he's built like a brick shithouse. He has size 42 feet. You see him without a shirt on later and he's got full comic book godlike proportions going on, like, what here is even fat?

It was the early 2000s, so this just feels like braindead bullying, to be honest, but given that this Hank canonically struggles with his self-esteem and body dysmorphia even more than his other selves, to the point where it drives him to destroy his relationship with Ultimate Storm and gets him killed, I feel like he would have definitely benefited from someone being able to help out his headspace and get him to unlearn some of the garbage his parents abused into him. As much as I like his relationship with Ultimate Storm, she was not a version of the character equipped to deal with Ultimate Beast's mental trauma and issues, and he ended up in a bad place as a result.

Then we get to . . . 616 . . .

Where Hank becomes fat when he becomes evil.

I'm gonna link an article here, talking about fatphobia in comic books, but this is the salient part of the article, wrt Beast in particular.

This is me letting you all know that this is something comic book writers are still deploying in comic books in 2019, all the way up to 2024. Fat = evil. Fat = gluttonous = evil. Because, you know, why bother examining the way that we tell stories in an age where we're supposed to be more respectful and tolerant and accepting of people? Why bother examining the tropes we use, in this, allegedly the most welcoming of all X-Men eras?

And, you know, let's make some fat jokes here and there. Just in case you didn't get the message.

It's especially transparent because Percy established on Twitter that Beast was 'stress eating,' because of how much of a toll protecting Krakoa was taking on his person. Except that that's not what was actually happening. You saw Beast eat on panel, twice. Both times, they were while he was explicitly saying he was evil, or doing something transparently evil. He isn't stress eating, he's eating to demonstrate to the audience that he's a gluttonous pig who can't stop what he's doing because he's just so hungry and evil and he'll devour anything and everything and blah blah fuck off.

The stress eating garbage was Percy covering his ass for using shitty, outdated, fatphobic tropes to establish a visual language for Beast turning more and more evil. Because, you know, the fucking James Bond villain scar, the overgrown tusks (pig/boar imagery! Because he's a pig!), the actual visuals of him murdering countries and friends, aren't enough, you need to be shown that he's evil because he's fat, unlike our toned, lean, lithe heroes in X-Force.

It's such a shame because it's a good look for Beast, honestly. I love a blue furred Hercules as much as the next guy, but chunky thighs, love handles, a bit of roundness? It doesn't hurt. It's an attractive body shape.

I wish we didn't have to pretend it wasn't.

It's especially galling because we literally went from a bigger figure Beast in X-Force #48-50 when he became good again, to a lean, skinnier Beast in X-Men #1 coming next week because he's on a full on heroic team again.

Bleh. It frustrates me.

You had a question! And I've gone on a long ass tangent about problematic depictions of body shapes in comic books! My apologies!

I think that Hank would do well with a partner who doesn't mind a bit of a roundness to him. As I mentioned, Hank has a tendency to fall into bad patterns of self-neglect when he's busy, and someone who can not only be there to make sure he's taking care of himself, but assure him that he's a handsome, beautiful Beast whether he be bigger or smaller would be good for him.

I don't necessarily think it would 'fix' his image issues or dysmorphia, because I don't know if that lingering doubt ever goes away for Hank, but it would definitely help. And it probably would surprise him, even more than finding out that people actually really dig the fuzzy blue monster look.

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

“You Can’t be Autistic…”

The Autistic Teacher

[sageandred]

ED Portrayals in Television ↳ Anorexia (Heartstopper) vs. Bulimia (Waterloo Road)

[dreamdripdistance]

kh4 where are you....

[mad-hunts]

tw: cannibalism, (slightly) graphic depictions of violence and HEAVY elements of horror will be ahead, so i'm going to put this under a 'read-more' if you'd rather skip out on this one.

so they looked around for a bit, and that's when they found it. this blood trail going down the floor of the hallway, which was already kind of scary, though it was nothing compared to the sound of someone's ringtone suddenly resounding from one of the rooms in the back (think one of those love songs with sort of creepy vibes to them like ' unchained melody. ') so, once your muse gathered enough courage, they decided to proceed down it even though something inside of them was screaming that something seemed wrong. and it seemed like they were right because once they reached the back, they found a dead body just... pressed up against the wall with blood spattered behind them. and there were other spots of the wall spattered with blood as well.

i feel like, for a character that's supposed to be pretty horror-oriented, that this account has been kind of lacking in content related to that lately, SO imagine this scenario, y'all. your muse is friends with or just cares about barton in some way. and thus, whenever they find out that he's attracted the ire of someone dangerous + that he's been missing for WEEKS, they assume the worst and try to find out his location. which leads them to this already creepy, dilapidated, and abandoned mortuary. and they honestly didn't know what they were expecting once they entered it, but it certainly wasn't this deafening silence, and there seeming to be... no one around?

so, you try to circle around to find out what the hell is going on, but then you see the thing that barton is hunched over is a body and a third one on the autopsy table in the room. and your muse can't help but blanche + feel like they've just stumbled into the lions den, because barton is not only SO beat up, but he's eating the person below him. and it's absolutely horrific because whenever they gasp at the sight is when barton finally looks up at them.

it was ALL over this corpses' face, though, as it appeared like they died from some sort of brutal blunt force trauma. but there's also another blood trail that is smeared across the floor up and under one of the doors in the back, which they are REALLY questioning whether they want to open now. they choose to do so with their eyes closed after remembering that barton would do the same for them (and by that, i mean he would want to save them JSJSJ), and all they can see when they open them is the back of barton hunched over something, or someone as you discover while getting closer to him. and it's like he is either ignoring you or hasn't heard you enter the room because he's still focused on whatever he was doing.

and there is just NOTHING behind those eyes even though he's got a copious amount of blood dripping down from his lips and dripping down his chin + neck. like JSJSJ i don't know about you guys, but i would be sooo scared because not only is this NOT normal behavior for him at all, it's god damn terrifying to see someone cannibalize you someone else. and so if he were real, along with me being in this situation, i probably wouldn't talk to him for a while because i wouldn't even know where to begin AHHH

[jichanxo]

(late) sunday six

thanks for the tag @passthroughtime and @overdevelopedglasses! not gonna tag anybody because i'm late to the party as is :P i've mentioned sensei au/fic a lot in passing but i think this is the first time i'm actually talking about it properly in a text post as opposed to like, tags on my art... anyway, it goes without saying that this has lost judgment spoilers. part of the premise for this fic is that kitakata never becomes kuwana because he only barely manages to fix everything at the last possible moment. mitsuru lives, but only because he gets lucky. something like that. the main fic takes place long after this, but i recently had a go at trying to write mitsuru and kitakata on the roof together, since it's obviously integral to kitakata's character even if mitsuru doesn't fall into a coma. i'm still feeling it out, but it's been an interesting one. very different from what i'm used to. but also cathartic in some ways.

anyway here's an excerpt. putting another warning here for lost judgment spoilers and mentions of suicide.

Kusumoto looked away, sat up. He didn’t really seem to care that Kitakata was there, aside from the knowledge that he couldn’t do anything rash with him here, which he resented.

He wiped at his chin, his eyes, but the movements were clumsy, and he couldn’t clean himself off properly. His hair was still a mess, though he’d tried to make it presentable again. Kitakata suddenly wished he had a handkerchief in his pocket instead of a packet of cigarettes.

“I’m not going to kill myself, Sensei. You can leave if you want.”

He wanted to relieve Kitakata of any responsibility to be here. He thought Kitakata was only doing any of this to cover his own ass.

Kitakata hadn’t given him any reason to believe otherwise.

“Oh, well.” He fished for the first excuse that came to mind. “Haven’t had my smoke yet.”

He pulled one out, took his time lighting it. It’d buy him some time. It didn’t matter what Kusumoto thought of him, and he wouldn’t delude himself to expect that he might think that Kitakata was here because he wanted to be. It wasn’t entirely untrue, after all, that he was just trying to cover his ass. He’d made a mistake, and he was desperate to fix it.

He took a drag. Exhaled. Looked to Kusumoto.

“Do you mean it?” He asked.

“Mean what?” Kusumoto mumbled.

“When you said you weren’t going to kill yourself.”

[3-2-whump]

My Honest Reaction to @doomeddestination ‘s latest chapter

TW/CW: cannibalism, nongraphic & nonsexual nudity

What, you don’t want to compulsively put people’s OCs in your mouth and swallow them for safe keeping?

Inspired by Saturn Devouring His Son

[federthenotsogreat]

Tasting the colors 🌈🌟

[naviculariis]

Where is Your God?

Word Count: 3,074

Warnings: Gore, Torture, Cannibalism ( is it cannibalism if you aren’t technically human anymore? ), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat territory here, folks. 

Rating: M.

Author’s Note: Okay so, Malekai originally comes from an original series that I’m creating. His home verse has nothing to do with One Piece. The Umi Umi no Mi is known as the Sea-Sea Fruit, and whoever eats it essentially gets to play the role of Davy Jones: the sea answers to them, cloaks their ship’s presence, etc. I’ll eventually explain it better, I promise. 

Gulls cried overhead, creating a chorus that mingled with merchants calling out their prices for their fresh catches, for their wares that had arrived upon the cargo ships, of street urchins bartering and badgering. The market existed across from the port rather than in the heart of the city, which allowed for sunlight to warm the stone and cast away the fog that had lingered throughout the morning, turning the once dreary day lighter.  Civilians and Marines alike made their way through the port-side market, perusing stall after stall, blissfully unaware of what was happening mere feet from their docile, comfortable livelihoods. The cacophony of sounds hid the sharp screams for help that echoed periodically from a ship within the port. Bargains between customer and peddler; laughter drifting across the waters.

 The ship was grand, a Galleon that had obvious love and care put into her. Her wood seemed to be stained a vibrant, rich red; whatever lacquer had been used to stain and protect would have cost a pretty penny. Her masts rose high, with ivory sails that were tucked in for the time being. The crew of this magnificent ship mulled about on deck, seemingly taking the morning to rest while they await for their captain. The hull creaked gently as it was rocked by the waters of the Cobalt Port. 

The waves were a touch choppy; white caps further out from the port, signaling rougher seas to be seen. Storm season was quickly approaching, after all. 

 The Captain paced slowly, silently, across the floor of the lower deck of the Crimson Grace, as if the ship and water it floated upon answered his need for secrecy. The sound of footsteps were muffled, the leather of boots creaking gently as each step met darkly stained wood, the sins of the past having wept into the floorboards. A fat tabby cat lounged upon an empty barrel of ale, tail flicking left and right as its green gaze watched the man curiously, waiting for his next move. When he stepped close enough, the cat rolled over onto its back, baring his belly for scratches that were gladly given from a gloved hand, finely crafted leather with crimson stitching. A purr rumbled free from the sweet creature, its eyes slowly shutting as the hand drifted up to offer a scratch beneath its chin for a moment. The hand retreated, but the feline did not move aside from its tail, which continued to flick to and fro against the oaken barrel, eyes still shut in bliss. 

The unruly waves of the Cobalt Port broke against the hull of the ship, adding to the soft chorus of muffled whimpers; the beautiful music of pain and fear mingling. Each footfall brought forth another whimper, another gasp, another flinch backwards into the rickety chair whose legs were close to breaking and seemed to creak with every minuscule movement. The Marine, a tall man in his late twenties, feared that if he were to lean back any farther, it would simply give way, sending him sprawling back onto the wooden floor. His breath came forth in stuttering pants; he’d lost feeling in his left hand, and his right was quickly following. This meant that grasping his blade- if he even got the chance- wouldn’t work, not if his hands were numbed to the point of non functioning due to the harsh angle his shoulders were forced into resting. The coarse rope tied far too tightly around his wrists dug in painfully, chaffing the skin to the point of bleeding, rubbed raw; blood dripping down his hands to mingle with the blood that dripped from his fingers due to the missing fingernails. Blood dripped from the tips of his fingers slowly, dropping into the pool of crimson that had formed below.

The Captain turned on his heel suddenly, making the Marine jump in his chair. No hat to hide behind, no gun to draw- no, those had been stolen from him when he’d been jumped and drugged with an aromatic cloth in the early morning hours before the sun rose. “The Vice Admiral will be looking for me,” the Marine tried to speak around the gag in his mouth, having found his voice once more. It came out garbled, more akin to “Ha ich amiral ill e ooing or ee”. A laugh escaped the captain- his head tilting back, long, strawberry blonde hair swaying with the movement, mouth wide open to reveal sharpened incisors and canines- akin to what a wolf’s mouth would look like, the Marine realized belatedly. ‘Oh, Gods, please spare me from this wolf,’ he prayed silently, hoping that some deity above would answer his pleas for mercy. Like a lamb cornered in the pasture by a hungry wolf, bleating for its mother who would not come.

It seemed as if mercy did not exist within this hellscape of a pirate ship. 

“You’ve no rank that matters to me,” the Captain spoke softly- a tone that would have been calming had the threat not been present. A rank would make little difference now. “You won’t be missed. You’re just a grunt. You’ll be labeled a deserter.” Sighing, he shook his head, wavy tresses following the movement, causing the rings within the braids to jingle ever so softly. “And you’re lying to me!” His arms crossed over his chest, drawing attention to the ink that settled in the skin of his left forearm; tentacles, it seemed to be, winding around his arm and onto the back of his hand, before curling around to his palm, ending with the longest tentacle wound around his middle finger. Leaning down, eyes the same color of grave dirt studied the man with a sense of morbid curiosity, drawing his attention from the intricate tattoo to meet his gaze once more.

The Marine’s once neatly trimmed brown hair had been matted by a mixture of sea water and dried blood. His face had once been a lively shade of beige with rosy cheeks flushed from the spring sunlight, but was no longer pretty. Instead, it now resembled a macabre mask of bruises and cuts. His lip had been split open, blood and saliva mixing and spilling over his chin, dribbling down onto the torn, once-white shirt that had been soaked through with sweat, sea water, blood, and bile.

“I do not like it when people lie to me, Sir.”

The Marine shook his head quickly, voice abandoning him once more as his mouth worked around silent syllables. His gaze, a blue so vivid it appeared crystalline, was wide, pupils blown from the pain and fear mixing with adrenaline within his veins. His chest heaved as fresh pain arched through his body from the movement; broken ribs screamed at him to please stop moving, please, we’re tired. Fresh blood oozed from a trio of deep lacerations in his chest, the skin ripping apart once more, undoing the minor scabbing that had begun, staining the fabric of his uniform further. 

“You… are not lying to me?” Malekai asked, eyes widening as faux innocence colored his features. In that moment, he appeared to be naught older than twenty and five, despite being nearly double that age. But the Marine knew better; he’d become the Wolf of the Seas for a reason. “Oh, then I must apologize for this entire situation!” His fingers hooked in the rope that had been used as a gag, undoing the knot that kept it in place, giving the knight a moment of respite. A thankful gasp spilled free as he was allowed a single breath of fresh, unfiltered air- 

until Malekai roughly took hold of the ends of the rope and tugged the knight’s head back suddenly, rocking the chair back with the movement. A scream of anguish escaped the knight as the corners of his mouth ripped from the movement, fresh blood spilling down his cheeks, filling his mouth, gagging him, coloring the tan rope a deep scarlet. “Oh, I am so sorry! Does this hurt?” Malekai hissed as he roughly drug the rope back and forth quickly, creating friction for a rope burn across the knight’s face, dragging it deeper into the lacerations he’d created, ripping the flesh further and further. “You see, we must not be communicating properly,” his hands finally stilled, releasing the rope to reach up, cupping his bloody jaw, drawing the knight’s tear-filled gaze to meet his own brown. He leaned close- close enough to kiss if the situation had been different. His gaze swept across his face slowly, drinking in the tears and blood, the unmistakable scent of iron thick in the air that lingered between them. “Because I know you are lying to me. How, you may ask? Because I have eyes and ears all over this city, and I have witnesses that put Marine vessels in the North Blue, near the shoreline of More-Lesa. You think your little Vice Admiral runs this city but that is wrong, little Marine. I do. I run this city, and this city answers to me. I am your King, don’t you know?”

The Marine whimpered; he’d been caught, and now he was going to die, body tossed into the Cobalt Port and never to be seen again, weighed down by stones to forever rest at the bottom of the ocean. What about his wife? His child? What would happen to them? Oh, sweet Hera, please watch over them! When Malekai leaned in, he shuddered. Oh- oh, Gods above, that was his tongue dragging up his cheek, leaving a wet smear in its wake! A hum spilled free from the Captain at the taste of salt and iron mingling. The Marine tried to lean back, to put space between them, but Malekai leaned with him to tower over his slight form. Piss dribbled down his pant legs as his bladder lost control, mixing with the urine that had long since dried. 

“Yes, so you see,” Malekai murmured as his hands smoothed over mottled, torn flesh before he straddled his lap, full weight bearing down upon his thighs, arms resting around his shoulders. Chest to chest, no way to escape as his fingers wove through brown locks. It was jarring to be touched so gently after the hours of torture, to be caressed as if they were lovers. “You have one more chance to tell me the truth. You can try to scream, to cry, to beg- but no one will hear you. Do you know why? No, no, do not try to answer- Malekai is speaking, and I will tell you why you will not be heard by the people walking outside! It is high tide now, and a storm is coming in. Listen, can you hear the thunder?” He fell silent, watching as the Marine struggled to hear over the Lessan accent of Malekai. Distantly, he could hear it- the thunder rolling over the water. That explains why the waters were growing rougher by the minute, the shop rocking with the waves. “It is nearly eleven o’clock in the morning as well; the fish market will be busy, and the merchants are calling out their prices for their wares and catches of the day. No one is going to hear you down here, under my waters, beneath my deck, little Marine.” He cooed, lips drawing into a slow, small smile. 

“Please,” the knight sobbed softly, voice shaking from the effort of moving his torn mouth. “I don’t know. I was just told by the Vice Admiral to deliver the message, that’s all!”

“Oh, a message?” Malekai mused, eyes widening in curiosity. “What message would that be?”

“I don’t-”

Malekai clicked his tongue as his fingers wound themselves around long brunette locks, yanking hard enough that clumps snapped free from his scalp, drawing forth a new scream. “Did I not make myself clear, sweetling?” He hissed, rising from his temporary seat as he tilted the knight’s head back, “You will not be making it out of here alive, no matter what tricks you try to pull! It would be much easier if you simply told me the truth, yes?” He gave another harsh tug before dropping his hand away with a disgusted grunt, lips curled into a scowl. “Why must you be so difficult? I am being quite nice, I believe.” 

“All I was told was to tell him that Mihawk had made contact with Red Hair Shanks!” His voice was frantic as he watched Malekai move back. “And that plans were moving smoothly regarding something called a Pacifista!” Relief crossed his mottled features as he sagged in the chair. The bonds had gotten looser; his left hand was numb enough that- there! Breaking his own thumb, he was able to slip the bond off of his wrist and retrieve the short knife in his sleeve.

“Now, was that so difficult?” Malekai sighed as he rolled his shoulders, gaze drifting to a dark corner of the hull. “Now, you will tell me-” before he could finish his sentence, the sound of a fight beginning overhead caught his attention. Brows drawing inward, he sighed. “What are they doing? I told them-” his voice cut off at the feeling of pain flaring up in his side, a pained noise escaping him as he glanced down to meet the Marine’s frantic gaze. Brow raising, his gaze trailed further down to the knife embedded in his side. “Oh, you stupid, pitiful fool,” he cooed, turning to face him. 

There was a shift in the air, then, the Marine realized- as if the shadows of the hull had grown darker, denser, the fire in the oil lamp flickering with the breeze of an unfelt wind. The lamp spluttered, attempting to keep the flame alive. Quietly, he began to pray, “Through the valley of the shadow-” he couldn’t finish the prayer, for his words were stolen as the oil lamps were extinguished by invisible hands- one after the other. Whispers began to flood the hull, none of the words making any sense- too many languages jumbling together. Fear gripped him, giving him clarity. “Oh, sweet merciful Death, the rumors-”

“Were true.” Malekai finished for him. In the light that broke through the cracks of the floor above them, he looked more like a demon from the depths of the sea than a human. Teeth far too white, eyes far too bright, his body seeming to contort and shift in the shadows. The scent of the sea air grew thicker, strangling him; salt, brine, rotting fish. It felt as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the hull, as if he had suddenly plunged hundreds of feet below the surface of the sea with the pressure. He struggled to breath, gasping for air as his lungs struggled. “Tell me,” Malekai whispered; despite standing in front of him, he clearly heard the voice coming from behind him as breath tickled the back of his neck, as a hand slid along his shoulder blades before wrapping around his throat while Malekai leaned close, close, too close.

Close enough that he could see the tattoo moving across Malekai’s arm, extending down, coming to life with a sickening wet sound that had his heart freezing within his chest. He looked back up, meeting grave dirt eyes.

“Where are your so-called Gods now, Marine?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The fat tabby cat sat upon the barrel of ale, licking its paw of the blood that had gotten onto its fur. Malekai sighed, using the remnants of his shirt to wipe the gore from his mouth, his face, his hands. His left arm ached, but then again, it always did whenever he had to resort to using a more hands-on approach. His clothes were ruined, soiled by blood, urine, and a bit of vomit from the Marine. It was interesting to see how people would react in the face of death.

The heart was still warm, still dripping, as he clutched it in his palm, creating a little pool on the floor. Turning on his heel, he made his way to where an ornate little box of Wano make sat undisturbed upon a keg of black powder. Carefully, he placed the wedding ring taken from the Knight’s hand within the box- to join countless others that gleamed in the low lamplight. As footsteps began to clunk down down the stairs, he raised his bloodied hand to his mouth, licking a slow stripe through the viscous liquid with the broad, flat part of his tongue, until his lips met with the meat of the heart. Mouth opening, teeth settled within the flesh as blood spilled forth. A gag escaped his new guest at the sight as Malekai hummed, chewing slowly before swallowing. A rag was tossed his way; he caught it with a roll of his eyes. Tossing the heart into an empty bucket, he began to clean his hands of the blood. 

Darkened fingers of a right hand gave the cat a scratch behind the ears before the owner of the hand turned, meeting the gaze of their Captain. “What’d you do, decide to bathe in his blood like the old Janoshima Empress?” Kaith asked, not daring to step any further down than the eighth step of fifteen. “They’re gonna complain about having to clean up this mess.”

“Then let them complain,” Malekai replied with a flippant shrug. “I am going to bathe, and then we need to set sail for Mary Geoise. I need to meet on neutral ground to make my requirements be known.” Tugging his shirt over his head, he tossed it aside, ignoring the wet splat it made as it landed in a pool of blood. No body was left to discard of- only blood. 

Only ever blood. 

“Did you make him sing?” Kaith asked, gaze trailing across the mess that covered Malekai. Strawberry blonde waves dripping with blood, trousers soaked with Gods only know what, left hand shaking with a tremor that would leave within the hour. His face was still covered in the gore; he’d been messier than normal this time, no doubt due to the angered seas. Seas that answered to him. 

The owner of the legendary Logia fruit, the Umi Umi no Mi. 

A smile- cold, cruel, dangerous- split across the captain’s lips as he gazed up at his little Shadow, enveloped in the dying light of the day. “Oh, like the sirens of mythos.” 

[lifewouldbebetteronmars]

TW EATING DISORDER (PLEASE READ TAGS BEFORE CONTINUING)

It’s Getting Bad Again

I can tell it’s getting bad again

By the way I count my ribs and trace my collarbones

I know it’s getting bad again

When my stomach feels like lead and food feels like sand in my mouth

Heavy and tasteless, tough to swallow

I feel it getting bad again

When the urge to purge gets too strong

Why is it getting bad again?

I question when my eyes are drawn to the calories on the menu

It’s like a car wreck, I just can’t look away

It’s getting bad again

I think when I see my jeans are four sizes too big

If it’s getting bad again, why can’t I just stop?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t really have any words for this one

Tag List (ask to be added or removed)

@tessherongraystairs @wagner-fell @petalsofaflower-shutupthomas

[anti-ao3]

you're not progressive if you attack fat people when you're addressing oppression

[birdwatching-goesbothways]

The Tower

Summary:

Oswald does some No-No stuff, Jim catches him doing it.

(the title is based on the tarot card, not on an actual tower)

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence and torture, minor character death, gore. Dead Dove: do not eat. Established relationship, hurt no comfort. wordcount: 3,5k

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45932407

Brian Asher is not a lucky man.

Despite that, he still might have had a long, happy life of average success, had he taken just a few different turns, made a few different choices.

…had he not been overly ambitious in all the wrong areas.

So perhaps he is not unlucky per se - perhaps he is simply not very smart. Not very fit for survival in a city as cruel and unforgiving of mistakes as Gotham city.

Perhaps that is the reason he is now lying on a cold metal slab in the Penguin’s secret cellar, meticulously tied down, unable to do anything but trash in his confines as the short crimelord steps closer.

“Brian Brian, I admit it, I always knew you were stupid. Even so, you truly surprised me today.”

Gagged as he is, Brian does not answer.

For a brief moment, Penguin considers removing the gag to see what the man has to say for himself.

The pure terror in Asher’s swimming eyes suggest the result would likely be shrill screams or incoherent babbling, pleas for mercy. Neither of which he is in the mood for right now.

Better for the gag to stay in then.

“Trying to overthrow me was an astonishingly new level of stupid, even for you.”

Brians eyes follow him anxiously, widening in fear as he takes his pick from the impressive collection of shiny sharp metal devices on the table.

He chooses a scalpel, valuing precision over aesthetics for now. Enjoying the cold of the metal against his skin, the familiar weight.

“At least you were smart enough not to do it yourself. Instead, you sent that moron, Garret Neil wasn’t it, to do your bidding. Just as I would have done.”

“Congratulations!” He adds with a little flourish, “didn’t think you had it in you!”

Delighting in the way Brians eyes widen, he lowers the scalpel onto vulnerable skin, pressing down until he feels something give, until the first scarlet drops well up.

“Too bad none of that can help you now.”

Following a spontaneous urge, he digs his finger into the wound, presses down into the warm wetness. How deep would his cuts have to be if he wanted to bypass layers of skin and body fat? If he wanted to lay bare what lies beneath?

If he wanted to dig his hands into the man’s guts, feel them writhe on their own, like snakes.

The look on the man’s face would certainly be a sight to behold.

Or perhaps he could choose a different part of his body, perhaps an arm, and cut and slice and peel all the layers away, skin, fat, tendons and flesh, until he reached the bone.

Of course, he would have to apply a tourniquet before doing that, or else his victim might bleed out. Which would mean they sadly wouldn’t be able to feel it. But at least they would see, oh yes, they would.

But no, another, time. Today he has different plans.

He pulls his finger out of the wound, and unsurprisingly, it comes out red. That he licks it is mostly for show, although he does truly enjoy the pang of metal on his tongue.

The man lying in front of him looks truly pathetic. Neither his generic good looks, nor his broad shoulders can distract from the fact that he is currently crying, shaking his head in denial, and whimpering incoherently through his gag, almost choking on it in the process.

“Hush. I’d say ‘It’ll be over soon’, but it wouldn’t be polite to lie, would it?”

As expected, that makes Brian’s shaking worse. Oswald soaks up every whimper like a sponge, delights in the tears, in the fear in his victims eyes.

His lips twist into a smile as he carves a message into the living, breathing man’s chest.

The thrill, the feeling of power it gives him – he can’t help it. It’s sweet, so sweet.

Unlike his first one, these new cuts are shallow. Carefully placed like an artist might – or a surgeon.

He wouldn’t want his victim to lose too much blood too early.

When the message is done, he lowers the scalpel (now covered in warm, rich red, just like his hands) and admires his work.

Brian has gone still, eyes half closed. Secure in his knowledge that his misery must surely come to an end soon. Long past caring how exactly that ‘end’ might look.

This thought makes the Penguin giggle.

“Aw, Brian. Do try to stay awake. It would be terribly rude to fall asleep now.”

All of the saccharine sweetness leaves his voice at once, leaving only ice.

“You don’t want to be rude, do you?”

No reaction. Frowning slightly, the Penguin continues.

“Because if you were, I’d have to find someone else to deliver the message in your stead. By the way, how’s your lovely wife?”

That certainly manages to get Brians attention.

From one second to the next, the man seems wide awake.

Oswald mockingly pats him on the cheek.

“There you are! Such a gentleman! Although maybe you should have thought about her before you attempted to take me down. ”

Silent tears in pain-filled eyes. A plea for mercy. Just this once, please, please-

Too bad he couldn’t care less.

“I’m sure others will learn from your mistake. Consider this a civil service if you will.”

Then, the fun part commences.

Carefully planned out, methodical cruelty.

Although there is certain satisfaction in letting spontaneous bursts of murderous rage take over, taking one’s time to slowly disassemble someone in the most disturbing way possible, careful to keep them alive to witness it – that is a different thrill altogether.

For the Penguin, on this occasion, it means making a surgical incision in his would-be usurpers throat, carefully avoiding mayor arteries, and inserting a breathing tube.

The next step is quite similar to what he had done to Galavan’s corpse that fateful evening.

Except this time, he has made sure neither he nor his beloved Jim can be connected with the deed. There are plenty of pre-cautions in place.

Besides, the people who will be unlucky enough to receive this message know exactly that they would do best to make sure the corpse is never found, lest they wish to join it.

There’s another thing that differs from the Galavan incident.

This time, the subject of his wrath is alive to witness his frustration, no merciful, kind Jim to end their misery with a shot of his gun.

Only Brian, Penguin, this cellar, and the tube that forces him to keep breathing as an umbrella is shoved down his throat not too kindly, possibly dislocating his jaw, making him gag and writhe in pain.

Denying him the small mercy of choking on his own blood.

“That should make the message sufficiently clear, don’t you think?” Sadistic glee drips from his voice like acid, although the man in question is likely too far gone to notice by now.

His ongoing little monologue is interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

An intruder?

Jim isn’t going to be home until late evening, and he isn’t expecting anyone else either.

No matter who it is, they should not be able to find him here. Only he knows of this hidden room in his mansion, and he alone is aware of the complex mechanism needed to open it.

However, as the footsteps don’t recede when they should, the little twinge of nervousness he had been feeling turns to acute alarm.

No one would be able to open the secret passageway that led to this room, that is certain. But in the unlikely case that he had been careless? That he had forgotten to close it all the way?

Taking great care to move quietly, he picks up the scalpel once again, silently cursing the fact that the bloody smears on it would make it more likely to slip from his grasp during a potential fight.

…surely he had closed the pathway though. Surely. He would not have been so careless, so stupidly reckless.

Except, he really can’t remember doing so. He only remembers the strong sense of satisfaction from having Brian Asher, who had plotted against him for a while now, finally at his mercy.

Alas, the footsteps come closer still. Closer than they ought to be able to, had he really shut the pathway.

An uncertain voice, cutting through the near silence.

“Os? You in here somewhere? What even is this place?”

Pure terror crashes down around Oswald, drowning him like a tidal wave.

That is Jim’s voice.

Jim can not, under any circumstances enter this room right now. Barely managing to keep the shrill note of panic from his voice, he yells back.

“Jim, darling, don’t come any closer! Wait upstairs, can you do that for me please?”

please please please plea-

“Why, what’s in there?” Comes the reply, sounding closer still.

Oswald wants to smash his head against the wall in frustration.

There has never been a worse moment for his beloved cop to let his accursed curiosity roam free.

“Jim, listen to me. This is very important, I need you to-“ But it’s too late.

Jim has already stepped across the threshold, and Oswald get’s to watch in real time how the genuine, warm joy of seeing him turns to confusion and sheer disbelief as the cop takes in the situation.

The man lying on the metal slab, twisted and still, barely resembling a man any longer. The table, filled with a sizable collection of torture devices.

Horror and disgust follow, as he noticeably pales.

Finally, the pieces seem to fall into place, leading to Jim doubling over right where he stands to empty the various contents of his stomach onto the floor.

Watching the events unfold numbly, all Oswald can think about is how Jim seems to have skipped lunch today. Again. It’s not healthy.

He feels like an animal that’s been caught in a trap. He, too, would chew off his own leg if it helped him get out of it.

Sure, Jim had known about the existence of his dark side, had even pretended to be okay with it, for the sake of their relationship.

But to witness it, witness this firsthand? That is something very different.

Perhaps if he had only cut the man’s throat, they could talk it out. He could make an empty promise that he wouldn’t do it again, Jim could make an empty promise that he understood, that he loved Oswald anyway.

As things are though, that possibility seems entirely off the table.

Jim had never been meant to see the monster.

The side of the Penguin he hadn’t even got to see when he had technically been in his bad books. Because even back then, there had been good books and bad books, but no matter where Jim was, there was a chapter just for him.

“Please Jim, I can explain. Let me explain?”

Jim is shaking, his entire body trembling like a leaf in a storm. He won’t stop staring at he disturbing scene of carnage, all the while refusing to look at Oswald.

Brian Asher apparently thinks this the perfect moment to return to his senses, gargling.

The noise is quiet. Not quiet enough.

Oswald wants to torture him all over again.

Because Jim’s eyes go wide like a child’s, finally settling on him instead, and what he sees there is pure horror.

“Oh my god Oswald, please don’t tell me he’s still alive?”

Oswald stays silent, but Jim would not have heard his answer anyway, because he is once again retching, dry-heaving despite his by now empty stomach.

Oswald wants nothing more than to get to wrap his arms around him and shield him from the world, from this sight that was never meant for him. To take him upstairs, away from this carnage, wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow and take him to bed, so he might tell him in the morning that it had all been nothing but a bad dream.

Because of course his sweet, gentle lover wouldn’t do something so horrifying and perverted. It would not be too big of a lie, because as long as he is with Jim, he can almost convince himself that he doesn’t need this.

Foolishly letting his instinct win over, he takes a step towards Jim.

Perhaps in an attempt to console, perhaps simply because he yearns to be close.

But for the first time since Oswald knows him, Jim, the unshakable James Gordon, flinches.

Scrambles back in fear at the sight of him.

Looking down at himself, he realises that perhaps he does look more a vision from a nightmare than he thought. Bloody apron, hands slick with blood, still clutching the scalpel, as if to stab, slice, cut.

  He is crying though. Real tears at the life he feels slipping through his hands like fine sand.

He drops the knife in horror, immediately attempting to wipe his hands clean on the apron.

He only succeeds in spreading the stain, leaving red smears on the stark white, yet his fingers come away sticky still.

He abandons his attempts, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Wishing that Jim would stop looking at him like that. He knows Jim has taken lives. Is no stranger to anger and violence. But right now he looks terrifyingly small and innocent. Having obvious problems coming to terms with this disturbing situation he has stumbled into without warning.

“Listen Jim, darling,” He says, trying to make his voice sound soft, reassuring. Going for the gentle lilt Jim has admitted liking so much, yet ending up sounding just slightly off. Which is, perhaps, worse.

“this isn’-, wasn’t, a good or innocent person by far. He tried to kill me. It was necessary, can’t you see that?”

He is openly pleading now, yet can’t bring himself to care about dignity.

Jim does not seem to understand.

If only Jim were angry. Would take out his gun, threaten him, anything other than this terrible silence.

“Please, I’m begging you, tell me how I can fix this?”

How Jim is looking at him right now is probably the most horrible thing Oswald has ever witnessed.

If a fairy appeared to him right now, asking if he would like to trade places with the latest victim of his assault, he would have gladly agreed. Would have taken Brians place and cried out in thanks, if only it could help him escape Jim’s blue eyes, filled so deeply with disgust, fear and betrayal. Pain.

Filled with the broken pieces of what could have been.

“Just- just stay away from me. God, I- I can’t-“ With that Jim doubles over again, retching, before scrambling up and rushing out of the room.

Oswald lets him.

Waits until he can hear the familiar sound of his car, disappearing along the driveway.

Only then does Oswald grab the knife he dropped, driving it straight through Brian’s eye with an enraged scream, successfully cutting off a noise he is pretty sure had been a gargly, choked laughter.

His fingers are numb as he cleans up, being less thorough than he ought to, considering the circumstances.

There is ash in his mouth though, and he feels too hollow to do anything he ’ought to’.

Like leaving this house, and hiding in a safe place Jim knows nothing about, until it becomes clear what his lover (most likely ex-lover, he reminds himself) is planning to do.

He does none of these things.

He simply sits on a chair in their-, his living room, and waits.

He stares at Jim’s favourite mug, filled with half drunk, cold coffee. Sitting on the little table as if to taunt him.

He needs to leave.

He can’t leave.

Because what if Jim decides to come home?

That desperate hope, made bitter by the knowledge that it will not happen, nails him to his seat, where he stays, silent and unmoving as the room turns dark around him.

He keeps expecting to hear police sirens at some point, to see those flashing blue lights getting closer.

Nothing breaks the oppressive silence, no lights cut the darkness.

Jim hasn’t talked. Yet.

  He had always known it would come to this.

From the very first moment Jim had reached out to touch, soft expression of wonder and adoration on his face, he had known he was doomed.

That it would end in tears and destruction, quite possibly his downfall.

Yet he had welcomed it. Because some things are sweet enough to be worth any price at all.

He had only wished the beautiful dream might last a bit longer.

He laughs then, bitter and desperate, like coughing up shards of glass.

Jim is gone. And he isn’t ever coming back.

That is a fact he will learn to accept. Respect. No matter if it cuts him open the most painful way. If keeping away is all Jim asks of him, then he will honour his love’s wish.

He does wonder though, with detached curiosity, where the cops are. Surely they must come swarming soon, to search for all the skeletons in his closet and lock him away.

Is Jim keeping quiet because he still cares for him, on some level? Is it a last gift for a lover ultimately given up on?

Or is Jim afraid.

The last possibility takes shape in his head, and it’s an ugly, wretched shape.

Could Jim truly fear him, after all they had been through? Not just flinch back in a moment of shock, but really, truly believe him capable and willing of inflicting hurt on him, should he talk.

Surely that can not be the case. Surely not.

Except Oswald has done what he can, during their relationship and before, to keep Jim blissfully unaware of that side of him. Has mimed wide-eyed innocence more often than he can count.

Having witnessed what he did, those moments, as well as the real moments of vulnerability, of shared softness, must seem a cruel joke to Jim now. Another mask, another lie.

Perhaps Jim truly has no idea.

That the twisted, sick side loves him just as desperately.

No idea that Oswald would willingly cut his own arm off with a dull, rusted butter knife to please him, would drink poison and smile if only Jim gave him a kiss goodbye.

If Jim wants him in prison, he will go.

Although perhaps he would not stay there for too long. Because there is a selfish part, a wild animal inside of him, that just cannot handle being caged for too long.

Nonetheless, the truth remains this: Jim, his everything, his one true love, would never have to fear him. Ever.

The cop has always enjoyed a bit of extra leeway with the criminal, a thing Ed had loved to mock him for.

Having held Jim in his arms, having witnessed him shiver and moan under his touch, having tasted and pretended to like his horrible, lovingly prepared breakfast for months now: Oswald is not sure there is anything Jim Gordon could do to him that could make him refrain from protecting him with everything he has to offer, all he is.

Because Oswald Cobblepot may be a monster, but once he truly loves, it is fiercely.

Always and forever, no matter if the sky falls, No matter if Jim Gordon should ever decide the Penguin belongs in prison. Or shot in the head.

He loves Jim, loves him with every fibre of his being. So much that it hurts to breathe.

But there is one thing that love hadn’t been able to do. Keeping him on a straight path.

Oswald’s love is powerful, overwhelming. But so is his anger, his hate. All-consuming and poisonous, coiling inside of him like a snake, desperately seeking an outlet.

Jim had pretended to be okay with his less pleasant side. Had maybe even really believed it.

Oswald had known that he just didn’t truly understand just who, what exactly he thought he loved.

Nothing but a depraved, sadistic, power-hungry freak.

That’s why he had tried to ignore those parts of himself, chain them up and shut them away, praying they’d starve, so he could keep his sweet lover.

The last good man in Gotham.

It hadn’t been enough. Ultimately, Jim hadn’t been enough.

It, the part of him that enjoys darkness, inflicting pain, spilling blood… it had broken free.

He had tried to keep that a secret too.

Jim never did ask, when he came home wearing a different suit than he had left in. Never mentioned the smell of blood, although he had surely recognised it.

And if he had held Oswald a bit tighter those nights, whispered ‘I love you’ a bit more fiercely, as if to convince them both, then that was okay too.

But now, there is no Jim clutching him close, crushing his ribcage in a desperate hug. No ‘I love you’, no horrible cooking, no smile for him.

No Jim.

He is alone in this old dark house, with nothing but the beast inside to keep him company, scratching at the walls and wailing to be set free. Nothing but memories of what he has lost to keep him warm.

[aftgficrec]

Can you please suggest fics where neil and bee have more interactions. Or even ones about andrew and bee talking about neil or anything else

Btw I really really appreciate everything yall do! God bless you.

Here is what we found for you. -A

Neil/andreil talk to Bee:

Neil goes to therapy here

‘we softly stir the violence’ and ‘Healing’ series parts 1 & 3 here

‘“I wish I'd never…”’ here

‘Andrew Minyards Crystal’ here

‘pain our brain has made’ here (updated)

‘not to blame for falling’ series and ‘sidelines’ here

‘on the tip of my tongue (say something)’ series here (completed)

‘Andrew and Neil's guide to getting better’ series here

‘True Love Waits’ series here

‘Cyberstalking’ here

‘Promises’ here

‘A Taste of Your Own Medicine’ here

‘The Massive Continuity of Ducks’ and ‘Ghost of You’ here

‘A collection of Andreil one-shots’ ch 3 here

‘I Don't Know’ here

‘The Destination Was Always Forever’ (updated), ‘Minyard-Josten Rivalry’ (updated), ‘sunrise, abram’ series, ‘and in a flash, it's gone.’ series part 2, and ‘Stay Where I Can Reach’ here

Andrew talks to Bee about Neil:

previous ask here

‘Unspoken’ here

‘AFTG Drabbles’ parts 1 & 8 here

‘Paper Cut Hearts’ here

‘the shuffling of cards’ here

‘words can't warm the windows of my soul’ here

‘The Hand That Needs Me’ here

‘Mother Mannequin’ here

‘Anything’ here

‘the icarus to your certainty’ here

‘No straighter path than to struggle’ here

‘Can we can pretend like we're (not) in love?’ here

Neil Josten is Not Fine by Anonymous [Rated T, 3362 Words, Complete, AFTG Then & Never 2024]

After weeks of nightmares and an embarrassing discovery, Neil finally decides to pay Betsy a visit.

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: nightmares, tw: bedwetting

i'll take anything you have (if you could throw me a line) by ifitmeanslosingyou [Rated M, 923 Words, Complete, 2024]

the sunrise can be pretty, neil thinks, but instead of the pinks and oranges washing him with ease, neil can’t help the panic at the thought that he’s been up here for longer than he planned to he wonders if anyone has even realized he left the dorms in the first place, wonders if andrew even looked when neil left the bedroom, wonders if he gave up, wonders if he finally came to his senses and realized neil was more trouble than he’s worth wonders if the roof of the court is high enough that the fall would kill him day 31: asking for help | therapy | “i’m alive, i’m just not well”

tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm

help, I've lost myself again (but I remember you) by abitsillygoofy [Not Rated, 5320 Words, Complete, 2024]

“Neil we have to talk about it,” Betsy said “I don’t think so” Neil replied “Nope, not happening” He popped the p at the end trying to make the woman mad at him. “You just tried to kill yourself, so I think we have to have this talk” Betsy didn’t seem bothered by his act and kept her nice, neutral facial expression, but unlike on his session looked worried too. or Neil wakes up in the hospital after his suicide attempt and has to face what he did.

tw: suicide attempt, tw: self harm, tw: blood

keep telling me that it gets better (does it ever?) by phan_taloon [Rated M, 15415 Words, Complete, 2022, Locked]

Previously recced here

AU where Neil never met the Foxes, with a little less mafia and a little more pain for Neil when he ends up captured by Nathan for months, and has to deal with the consequences by himself. He ends up in treatment for chronic pain with opioids, and let's just say opioid use is tricky when you're alone and in pain; one thing can lead to another more easily than it seems.

tw: drug addiction, tw: drug overdose, tw: withdrawal, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: vomit

an acquired taste the asbestos is lovely by cyanica [Rated M, 6617 Words, Complete, 2024, Locked]

“What did you take?” Andrew demands. Neil wonders if Andrew will taste all that is wrong with Neil when he kisses him. He wonders if Andrew will recognize it. Andrew knows what it is to hurt himself, and this must be familiar. It’s deja vu, Neil thinks, if only a little bit worse, a little more terrible. Neil shakes his head, groaning into the toilet, “I don’t want to tell you.” Andrew pulls out his phone, and Neil can already hear it dialling when he says, “You can tell the paramedics.” Or; “Cigarettes,” Neil says. “I ate your cigarettes.”

tw: self harm, tw: overdose, tw: pica, tw: eating disorders, tw: vomit, tw: blood, tw: mental breakdown, tw: implied/referenced abuse

If it means protecting you (I’ll pay my dues) by Intangibel (duskbutterfly) [Rated T, 125462 Words, Incomplete, Updated April 2023]

Previously recced here

What if the threat of Aaron being charged with murder was more significant and Neil found out that he could prevent Andrew from having to be at the trial if he were to testify. What would he be willing to sacrifice to achieve that? What if instead of refusing to testify for Aaron, Neil decides to make a deal with the FBI to become their witness against his father if they’ll backstop his current identity. He thinks it means signing his death warrant and losing the Foxes. Betsy, Aaron and the Foxes are determined to convince him it doesn’t have to be all or nothing, his father’s people are coming for him and that’s not even starting on what Andrew will have to say about Neil choosing to martyr himself.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: child abuse, tw: torture, tw: blood, tw: scars, tw: vomit, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: homophobia, tw: conversion camp reference, tw: reenactment therapy with noncon

The Sun Still Rises by mordax [Rated E, 474451 Words, Incomplete, Updated Oct 2024]

Previously recced here

Somewhere on the road, Mary Hatford gets pregnant with her second child. When she passes, she leaves behind not only Neil, but his toddler brother. Survival is difficult without also raising a kid. Worn out and desperate, Neil still somehow ends up at Palmetto, only this time, he brings his four-year-old brother with him.

tw: violence, tw: anxiety, tw: panic attacks,  tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: drug use, tw: involuntary sedation, tw: reenactment therapy with noncon

NB: find fanart for this fic by @/elidanus on twitter here

Ain’t it fun by jemejem [Rated T (we say M) 30672 Words, Complete, 2018]

Neil can't sleep. Andrew can't feel. High school is going well for the both of them.

tw: homophobia, tw: mental breakdown, tw: anxiety, tw: depression, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: scars, tw: ptsd, tw: psychological trauma, tw: flashbacks

I been here all along (so why can't you see?) by alexcherry [Rated G, 8691 Words, Complete, 2021]

Andrew leans on the counter beside Neil's thigh. "Where do you want to go, Josten? What favor do you need from me?" Neil looked at Andrew and steeled himself. "I want you to come with me to the next therapy session with Betsy posing as my boyfriend." "Like one," Andrew thought for a moment. "Couple therapy?" Neil perked up. "Yes! Exactly, and then we see how long it takes her to find out we're not connected at all."

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced murder

If You Need Shelter by AfraidOfBananas [Rated M, 2642 Words, Complete, 2021]

“The boy is staring at Neil with a startled expression like he’s just seen a ghost. Well, maybe he has. Neil hasn’t felt alive for a very long time.” Or.....Neil meets Andrew while he’s on the run

Family by BlueJay26 [Not Rated, 9420 Words, Complete, 2021, Locked]

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Three adults who certainly proved this was true, and their (sort of) children who realised a family isn't always linked by blood. Also known as, how Abby, Bee and Wymack earned their family's love and trust.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: internalized homophobia

Art

Abby and Betsy art by @rainbowd00dles 

Betsy 💕💕 art by @neroholik

Mom and Dad and Mom art by @llstarcasterll

Betsy and Abby 💖 art by @jeannemaybedarc

Betsy Dobson cosplay by @/toobeetofunction on instagram

@drbetsydobson instagram account/moodboard

[writersmorgue]

My favourite way to spite Christians is to prove them wrong with the bible itself

I'm also Christian so it's like

"Homosexuality is a sin"

"Actually that term was a mistranslation which is actually meant to be sexual perversion, I.e., Paedophilia"

What are they gonna do, kill me? Love thy neighbour, motherFUCKER

i spent too many hours going to chapel to want to think about this but my white jesus argument still stands

[yohohonabottle]

A captive 'bear' - Chapter directory.

Heavily cannon-divergent. 📿Back to my writing masterpost

The Crowmores got their eyes on a promising young warrior and wasted no time snatching him for themselves. One more slave to their prized collection.

Soren lived a peaceful life- Until the Quicksand Claws came and threatened his clan, demanding he surrenders. Carted to the Lightbearer Empire in chains, the Uru clan's eldest orphan never knew peace since.

And then he saw the cruel fate many others suffer at those nobles' hands--That day Soren chose to fight back, stop the wretched cycle.

Ryeham's uncrowned king was borne- A shrewd merchant with enough to put big-fish into their place, an ally to the common folks and ones whom had suffered. ...And a bloody terror to the damned fops who dare cross him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

🖋️ Chapter 1 - Surprise attack | Posted on 12.10 🖋️Chapter 2 - New 'home' & a deal (In progress) | Posted on 20.10 🖋️Chapter 3 - .... (TBA..)

Author does not condone or support/endorse the harmful behaviors of/in this longfic. The harmful behaviors and actions of characters do not reflect Author's beliefs or attitude.

Trigger warnings are in the tags of the chapter masterpost. Readers' discretion is advised.

[kaysungshine]

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .☽ fae trap ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖

{ Pairing } - Elf!Felix x Witch.afab!Reader

{ Genre } - Smut, Dark, Fantasy

{ Synopsis } - It is said, that if you ever find yourself inside of a fairy ring. The fae will punish you, by making you dance until you are passing out from exhaustion. But when you find yourself doing a different kind of 'dance' on the ground, in the middle of one, with the most beautiful creature you've ever seen you might add, you wonder; is this truly a punishment?

{ WC } - 7.7k

{ Warnings & Tags } - 18+ MDNI, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, dubcon, aphrodisiac effects, oral (f&m receiving), unprotected sex (piv; do as I say, not as I write & pee after sex!), rough/hard sex, overstimulation, big dick felix, dacryphilia, talk of breeding & mating, talking of mating rituals, please don't touch fly agaric mushrooms, srsly they're toxic and deadly, possible incorrect french usage.

{ Disclaimer } - This work is in no way associated or depicting the actual life of the members of SKZ. It is a fictional piece of work, and I do not own Stray Kids. All works of fiction are loosely inspired by SKZ, and in no way am I saying it is true to their character.

{ A/N } - For the love of all things skz. DO NOT EVER TOUCH FLY AGARIC/AMANITA MUSCARIA MUSHROOMS. THEY ARE TOXIC. DEADLY. This is also probably the darkest thing I've written on this account so far. But it doesn't feel inherently evil to me personally??? But it is enough to warrant a TW! This started off as a birthday oneshot for Felix. I'm starting to think I'm no good at oneshots. This could be left alone, but it could also be a series... I have so many world building thoughts, but idk if I wanna do that. What do you think?

Dusk was approaching as you made your way home from your walk. 

You were blessed to own a cute little home, right on the edge of a beautiful and mysterious forest. Every day you were able to take nature walks, wandering through the treeline, exploring the vegetation. Collecting materials, making sure never to take too much of what the woodland had to offer. And caring for as much as you could, though you knew you were not essential to the survival of wilderness itself. 

That didn't stop you from befriending the little critters who made their home there, or from essentially finding your own second home there. 

You never brought anything with you to permanently invade nature. Instead you wrapped your daily essentials in a little bindle. It usually contained a hearty snack, a book or two, endless vials and jars, your cell, and a small emergency kit. Homemade salves, balms, and tonics included. 

You always had some new shiny objects for your crow friends, making sure to exchange the gifts they left for you at your designated spot. And you always made sure to leave some nuts and seeds for the various rodents who liked to stuff their cheeks. Again, you didn't need to, but they really liked sweet black walnuts and salty peanuts in the shells. Who were you to deny them that treat! 

Some days you brought select crystals with you, cleaning and recharging them in the streams of spring water. Other days you'd use that same water, sealing it in jars and leaving it nearby to make moon water overnight. Those were about the only two things you ever left in the forest, always making sure to come back the next day and retrieve them. 

You always carry a little basket with you too. The forest was abundant in ingredients for many different things. Your favorite is mushrooms and fungi. 

There were many times you'd find a log of an oak tree, fallen over and resting on the ground. A bunch of chicken of the woods growing on it. You'd collect them, taking them home to cook for dinner or other meals.

Other days you'd find lion's mane, and make sure to gather some for your favorite tincture to make and take. It did wonders for your anxiety. 

You were a green witch through and through, and you were raised this way. You drew your energy and essence from nature, always taking little bits of it home. 

Today was no different. Forgoing mushrooms, you instead had bundles of mugwort and a jar full of mulberries in your wicker basket. Wrapped in a little cloth were a bunch of spicebush berries.

You were nearing the last clearing within the woods, your house was about a ten minute walk away at this point. 

The soft moss against your bare feet was grounding, and you were listening to the buzz and crackle of nightlife within the forest. Your white skirt ended at your knees, flaring out. The chiffon is blowing in the cool breeze. It was still tshirt weather, and that's exactly what you wore on top. A fitted one, pale and muted ivy green. You gave up on bras long ago, you were a solitary creature anyways. The friends who did visit never cared about your attire.

You were in your own world, playing a balancing game on a stump and humming to yourself, when flashes of red caught your eye. 

In the clearing, scattered in a broken circle, was fly agaric. 

Your heart fluttered at this rare find. You walk past this clearing daily, and never noticed any of the red mushrooms with white speckles there before. 

Eagerly, you approach. In the back of your mind, warning bells are going off. Thinking back to childhood, of the stories your mom once told you of the fae folk. You'd encountered fairy rings before, but never of this type of mushroom, and never broken ones. Certainly never one so big. You never breached the little white rings in the past, not wanting to mess with entities so possibly mischievous. 

But it would be fine right? This might not even be considered a fairy ring. It was sort of... circle-ish? But not really. There were so many gaps in between them, it wasn't a perfect circle like you'd seen in the past. And these mushrooms were so rare and so powerful, in so many ways. You could feel their energy radiating around you.

You glanced around, searching for any signs of immortal creatures lurking near. You saw and heard nothing, but that would be typical. They never willingly reveal themselves, in fact... You've never seen one. You've never seen any kind of fae folk. It's not that you didn't believe in them, you were sure some form of them existed. Afterall, you practice a form of magick. Your own form, and that exists. 

You were convinced all mythical creatures either exist or had existed, the idea of them couldn't come from nothing. Not when they were in so many stories across all different cultures. 

You paused for a few more moments, really trying to feel any negative energy. There was none, there was never any in your little forest. 

So, tentatively, you took a few steps forward. Then you paused again, waiting for something to pop out. 

Nothing.

You giggled to yourself happily, and then bent down to pluck the mushrooms from the marshy earth. 

They all varied in size, some were large with bulbous caps. Some were shorter, and had flatter caps. Each mushroom, you made sure to pick with a cloth barrier between them and your fingers. These could be deadly if used the wrong way or taken in excess. You had no idea what would happen if you came into direct contact with it, on your bare skin. 

You really should start carrying gloves with you.

You made your way around the broken circle, humming in between giggles, and unconsciously dancing. You were nearly prancing each bare step to the next. 

If you had paid more attention to your mothers tales, you'd realize the consequences of stepping inside a fairy ring were already taking effect.

You were collecting more than you needed now, your basket was overflowing. But still, you didn't want to stop. You felt strangely overcome with merriment. You never felt more at home in these woods than this moment. 

You mindlessly set your basket down, your humming growing in volume. You looked to the sky, as you allowed your body to sway back and forth. Arms stretched out towards the waning moon, coming to life in the dark sky surrounding you. 

Your eyes closed, soaking in the moonlight. And you brought your arms back down, letting them float at your sides as you twirled, and twirled. Your skirt flutters up to reveal your thighs even more, hair whipping in your face. You revelled in the feeling of the squishy dirt beneath your feet. You felt grounded, but as if you were flying all at the same time.

You don't know when your solitude was breached, or if you were ever truly alone in the first place, but you finally noticed his presence when his hands intertwined with yours. 

He was twirling with you, spinning you in circles. 

He was nearly glowing, strawberry colored lips revealing the sweetest smile you'd ever seen. His long, straight white hair framed his face stunningly, tendrils of it outlining his strong jaw line. And his face... so, perfect. He had hundreds of freckles splashed across his cheeks, nose and eyes. Even some scattering up to his hairline, and down to his chin. You'd imagine you could create many constellations with them, like the stars that twinkle in the night sky. He adorned various jewelry, all silver. In his ears, and a cuff across the bridge of his nose. He even wore a gorgeous crown that laid across his forehead as a head piece. It was thin, and wiry, made up of gorgeous silver filigree that shone in the moonlight. You knew that the rings you felt in between your fingers would be silver too. 

He wore all white. You couldn't be sure exactly what his outfit was, but his shirt was a flowing lace up top. Revealing delicate collar bones and toned chest. It was mostly a blur in the midst of his movements. 

Your gasp was delayed, only coming out when he pulled you closer to him. Your hand remains in his, while his arm is wrapped around your waist. You were nearly flush with him, feeling the rest of his chiseled torso against your plush body. But he kept your face at some distance to maintain eye contact. The smile never slipped from his lips. 

He has you captivated, and the two of you don't falter in your melodic movements once. His eyes bore into you, dark and sharp. Yet he exuded a certain softness, and you found yourself lost in the moment. It didn't seem real. 

But it was. 

You were seeing him. In all his glory, ever mysterious and breathtaking. The most handsome man you've ever laid eyes on. 

You were hearing him. He was humming the same tune you were, an old lullaby your mom used to sing to you. His voice was deep, and even, harmonizing with your breathy high pitched voice beautifully. 

You were feeling him. He was touching you, his hand interlocked with yours. His grip around your waist is gentle but possessive. He held you like he didn't want to break you, but knew if he was too loose, you'd go running. 

Though you weren't so sure you would run. 

Your mind was racing. There's no way you could stumble across a perfect stranger, who was immediately dancing with you, so close to the edge of the forest. So close to your house. Maybe this was some sort of hallucination. A side effect of being surrounded by so many toxic mushrooms. 

The mushrooms. 

That was it, it all clicked. Too late did the rest of your mother's words ring in your ears. 

His aura, his energy, his perfect pixie-like features. You noticed the point of his ears now, the glittery sheen to his skin. His smile is full of white pointed teeth, dull now, but you could tell they were once sharper in the past. His slight cat-like eyes, giving them that sharp look even though everything else about him screamed delicate.

Your humming stopped, but his didn't. Your mother's voice is filling your head, and you were repeating the words she once told you so long ago. 

'and if you're caught, the fae folk will punish you. You'll be dancing within the ring until you faint from exhaustion.' you whispered quietly. 

His smile only grew, a glint lighting up his eyes. 

He finally spoke, his chest vibrating against yours, "Wise words, from a magnificent young lady."

He had an accent, you couldn't quite place it. Something between old english and australian. It made you want to melt. 

He started laughing, and you were sure that if he didn't have a grip on you, you would've slid to the ground. 

You've both stopped twirling, but he's still moving you, moving with you. Swaying back and forth. 

"Who are you?" You ask curiously. 

"Who?" He chuckles, "Usually it's 'what are you', that people ask me. Though it's been almost a century since I have revealed myself to a mortal."

A century? Your mouth dries, and you feel something akin to fear course through your veins. But you aren't scared of him for some reason. Wary, suspicious, but not scared. 

"You're different though, you seem to have at least a diminutive amount of knowledge of my realm." 

You want to get angry at that comment. You'd like to consider yourself well informed and educated on all supernatural and magickal subjects. There'd always be more to learn though, and the human brain simply could not grasp it in its entirety. So he wasn't wrong. 

You're still saying nothing, dazed from his presence. So he continues. 

"You were right when you said fae folk." He assures. 

"You're a fairy?" You whisper, wonder dazzling in your voice.

At that he laughs again, and you swear you hear small chimes behind it.

"An elf. I believe that is the universal name humans gave us. Not all fae are fairies, there are others too." 

As he speaks, he lets go of your hand, bringing his fingers up to brush strands of hair from your face. His touch is warm, for some reason that shocks you. 

"Elf." You repeat, not a question, but a statement.

He hums, in agreement and starts to twirl you around again. His hand resting on your cheek, thumb brushing featherlight touches against it. 

You're trying very hard to wrap your head around the entire scenario. You shouldn't be surprised. You've dealt with other worldly things in the past. Spiritual realms are completely different from anything having to do with the fae world though. 

Worry floods through you again once you realize what's happening. 

"Am I being punished?" You lip quivers as you speak, "I-I was just trying to collec-"

He's bringing his head down, his forehead meeting yours. You feel the cold bite of the silver headpiece touching your skin. It's enough to shut you up.

"Shhh, darling. Don't view it as a punishment." 

"I don't want to dance until I pass out." You slowly say, even though your body feels otherwise.

Underneath the initial shock and caution, you still felt that overwhelming happiness. It was borderline euphoric... and strangely arousing. 

Everything happening inside your mind and body right now was so confusing. You were feeling lost, and found yourself clinging to the man--the elf, before you. 

"You pretty creature, don't worry. Danser dans le ronds de sorcières... that's for children." 

French? This being was a riddle. 

"I don't understand." You force out. 

He leans back a bit, so he can look into your eyes and your thighs clench, "We tell the kids, fae and human, that if a mortal is caught within our rings. They dance to exhaustion. The humans carried this myth with them into adulthood, while our kind later learned the truth of these special rings." 

He's still dancing with you, moving your body elegantly to a now imaginary song. Leading you in something reminiscent of a waltz, but you can barely focus on that when his touches are electric against your skin. 

"The truth?" You ask. 

He's dipping you down now, bending with your body as he once again is peering into your eyes. At first you think it's part of the dance. Until your back meets the land that was underneath your feet. The mixture of smells was potent. The scent of damp moss, and semi-sweet foliage filling your nose. 

He hums again, "It was never an entire lie, it always started off with dancing." 

The timbre of his voice was pooling wetness in your panties. You felt beads of sweat forming on your brow, and you were bewildered at how your body was reacting right now. It didn't make sense. 

His body is hovering over you now, his face coming close to yours. His nose is brushing along yours before he speaks again. 

"What better way to set the mood than a passionate dance, and in this case, under the moonlight?"

You whimpered, feeling disoriented and needing his touch. 

"I don't even know your name.", was the only thing you managed to mumble. 

He chuckled, and you felt his breath puff against your lips, "It's unimportant darling, but since you're so... alluring. You can call me Felix... I'd love to hear it rolling off your tongue when I make you cum."

You were mewling at the thought of fucking this mystical being, when you felt his lips against yours.

He was almost lazy in the way he kissed you. Seemingly in no rush at all. And it's not that you were complaining, but you wanted more. So you wrapped your arms around his neck, forcing his body flush with yours. 

He was smiling against your lips now, and you took the opportunity to swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, begging for access. 

"So eager. Patience little dove. You'll get what you desire and more." 

You knew it was absurd to lust after a man--an elf, gods how could you keep forgetting that, that you just met. But your body was burning and it felt like he was your only rescue. 

His hands wandered your body, groping and massaging every inch. 

He had your leg wrapped around him, his hand trailing down the back of your thigh and his lips attached to your neck. He was marking you with what you imagined to be the most beautiful bruises. You were panting at this point, and it felt ridiculous to be this turned on by so little. By a stranger. But it didn't make you want to stop.

His fingers reached the edge of your panties, and you gasped. You felt his smile again, he was enjoying every bit of this. You felt powerless to his strokes against you. Your hips were bucking up, chasing for friction.

His hand gripped your hip tightly, fingers squeezing into your flesh, pinning you further into the dirt. 

You hissed before whining, begging "Please."

"I said be patient." His voice was stern as he spoke against your ear.

It still didn't stop you from squirming beneath him, your mind wasn't registering anything beyond wanting to feel him filling you up. 

He brought his face back to yours, eyes gleaming and the most naughty expression written across it. 

"Fine. As you wish, little dove. But don't forget, I was trying to ease you into this." 

He tore your panties off of you, and his fingers were rubbing against you harshly, sending jolts of pleasure through you. 

"A-aaah!" You were moaning loudly, his movements jarring.

"This is what you wanted darling, isn't it?" He's muttering against your lips now, slipping his fingers into you. 

Your body feels more alive than ever, waves of pleasure washing over you. His fingers skillfully curl inside you, while his thumb works your sensitive bud. Swipe after swipe, eliciting more and more of your arousal onto his hand. 

His kiss is searing, and feels like the only thing currently keeping you anchored to your body. You felt your orgasm building quickly, the band growing tighter and tighter in your stomach. It felt like you'd float away when it snapped. 

You can't contain the lewd noises you're making. Between the moans he's swallowing from your lips, and the loud squelching from between your thighs, it was deafening. Or maybe it was just that your ears were ringing. 

It felt like only seconds later when he brought you over the edge, his movements slowing but never stopping. You're whining, and your legs are trembling but you don't want him to stop. You're nearing over sensitivity and when you close your eyes, you see nothing but stars.

All you can think of are the freckled constellations on his cheek. 

You feel drunk on this moment, and you don't want it to end. It's as if he knows exactly where your mind is when he speaks again.

"You're not done little dove, don't you worry your pretty little head." 

When you open your eyes, and tilt your head up, his shirt and pants are discarded. Revealing a dizzying body. He was lithe yet chiseled. His body is almost dainty, but each muscle is carved in the most irresistible way. His abs were glorious, your eyes trail lower, following the v cut. You notice the faint spattering of a happy trail, and your eyes follow it. 

And fuck.

You've never been one to view someones cock as pretty but... his was. The tip was so swollen and pink, and leaking generous amounts of precum. Faint blue veins prominent along the shaft, and he stood tall and proud. His girth made you wonder if you could handle the stretch. It had been a while since you'd last been intimate. 

He brought his hand, covered in your slick, to his member. Spreading it all over in a mixture with his precum, making it glisten. Your mouth started to water, and your legs spread wider for him. You pulled your skirt completely up, presenting yourself to him. 

His jaw was slack, mouth hung open as he watched you, fist pumping himself slowly. 

"Such a good girl for me darling, aren't you?" He said with that charming smile. 

There was something about the way he looked at you, while doing such a perverse act that had your juices dripping down you. 

Then he was on top of you again, cock sliding into you. Your entire body tensed at the intrusion and you wailed, a mix of pain and pleasure. But it was so satisfying, you couldn't get enough. Your arms wrapped around his neck again, and he was thrusting into you at a brutal pace. 

Your back was digging into the ground, and you started to feel bits of grass and dirt against your skin. You pulled against him, trying to adjust yourself so you could lose yourself in the dance you two were now performing. 

He pulled out of you, and sat back on his knees, that's when you noticed his clothes underneath him. You had no idea he was wearing a cape earlier. It was sprawled out, creating a barrier between him and the ground. 

He picked you up, and positioned you to straddle his lap, facing him. Then he slid back into you, your eyes rolled back, and you let out a filthy moan. 

This position felt more intimate but still desperate, he was reaching deeper into you. The head of his cock pistoning against your g-spot. It felt so good you could cry. 

You were crying, you realized. 

"Shhh, little dove, you're taking it so well. It feels so good, doesn't it?" 

"Yes!" You sob. 

He's wiping the tears from your eyes with his fingers, and smiling at you like you're the most precious thing on this planet. 

"That's right, pretty. So pretty when you cry." He groans out, and his pace grows faster, rougher.

His hand dips down between you, and he's toying with your clit now. In any other circumstance, you'd be embarrassed by the way your body uncontrollably trembles. Your muscles are spasming at his touch. You just couldn't bring yourself to care, he was making you feel too good. 

"Darling," He purred, as he slowed his thrusts and pinched your clit between two fingers, rolling it, "I want you to look me in the eyes when you cum for me, can you do that?" 

You were mewling as you nodded your head frantically, feeling your peak rush towards you. 

At that he started fucking into you harshly, almost painfully, and you were coming undone with a loud cry on top of him. Your body tensed, nails digging into his shoulders, struggling not to throw your head back. His hand that was playing with you, gripped your jaw, smearing your own arousal on your face.

He was making sure you kept your word, maintaining your gaze on his while you clenched around him. Your eyes were fluttering as you tried to keep them open. He was biting his lip, eyebrows scrunched together as he fucked you through your orgasm. Watching your face contorted in pleasure. 

"So tight." He grunted.

You were scratching at him now, nails dragging down his shoulders. And your mouth was hung open in a silent scream, your voice having given up on you. 

It was becoming overwhelming. 

You still didn't want it to stop.

"I know you can take it darling, take it." He growled, gripping both your hips now to steady you.

So you did, until you were limp in his arms, and he was releasing into you with a groan. 

Your head was resting on his shoulder. Sweaty skin sticking to each other, and he was soothing you. Humming and stroking your hair gently. You were breathing heavily, trying to come down from this mind blowing experience. But you weren't descending, not mentally. You were still riding that high, stuck in a lust filled haze. 

He started to roll his hips tantalizingly slow, and you hissed at it, feeling slight pain. Mostly you were shocked he was still hard. 

His chest vibrated while he quietly laughed, "Did you forget the 'more' part, darling. I keep telling you, we're not done yet." 

You whined at the sensation of his gentle movements. 

"Shhh, there there." He's teasing you, "Are we a little sore?"

"Yes." You breathed.

"I can fix that." 

You gasped when he slid out of you, hating the fact that you felt so empty. 

He was positioning you to lay down on his clothes, taking care that no part of you touched the ground. You just let him handle you, molding your pliant body however he wanted it.

His hands were rubbing down your arms, and he was smiling down at you. When you met his eyes, you couldn't explain the exact emotions you were feeling. You'd let this man take your soul if he asked right now. 

He was licking his lips as his hand trailed back to your core. You gasped again, then whined when he dragged his fingers through your swollen folds. His touch was almost massaging, yet sensual. He was touching everywhere, teasingly avoiding your sensitive bud. 

The more he touched you, the more you writhed. And sensing another comment about how you can't be still or patient, you yanked him down to you so you could kiss him. 

You were tired of just laying there, you wanted to start giving. To start touching.

You didn't know where all this stamina came from, but you were determined to use it. You jerked your hips up, leaning more into his touch. 

It wasn't until you reached down to wrap your fingers around his length that he paused his movements. 

He was still slick with your cum. And you used that to give him slow strokes.

He let out a hoarse moan against your lips, before pressing his fingers directly on your clit, rubbing in small circles. He was matching your tempo directly. You whined into the kiss, your hand picking up pace. Pumping him faster now, and he followed your lead. 

Or so you thought, just as you felt your climax starting to build, his fingers were being pulled away. 

He took your hand off him, and then crawled down your body, coming face to face with your core. 

"So pretty, even here darling." 

You were blushing at his words, but you couldn't take your eyes off of his, as he stared at you from between your thighs. 

"Still sore? Let me make it feel better, little dove." 

And you felt his tongue lave through your folds. It was gentle and it felt hot, and it drove you crazy. The flicks of his tongue against your clit were maddening, and you wanted more. 

Your hips started slowly moving against his face, and this time he let you. He lets you roll your hips, and grind against his face. His tongue flattened against you, and you slid your hand into his blindingly white locks. You started grinding against him harshly, losing all sense and control of your body and just focusing on climaxing. 

He let himself be used by you, and as your grip in his hair tightened, so did that feeling in your stomach. You felt another orgasm come over you, and he let you ride it out, quite literally.  

You expected to start feeling spent by now, but you didn't. So before he could climb back up your body to kiss you, you were sitting up and pushing him onto his back.

He landed on it with a thud, puffing out air and looking at you incredulously. 

You let the primal urges take over as you lowered yourself onto your stomach, and took his member in your hand. You licked up the underside of his cock, your eyes never leaving his. He groaned as you watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

You placed a soft kiss on the tip, and licked the strings of precum off your lips. 

"Fuck..." He whispered.

"Let me return the favor." You mumbled before you took his tip between your lips.

You let your tongue swirl over it a few times, savoring his taste. He brought his hand down to your face, and pushed your hair back for you. 

You let your tongue run down the underside of his cock, and you sunk your mouth onto him. You had completely engulfed him, and were struggling not to gag. Still, you never intended to stop. 

He was grunting as your head bobbed up and down on him, saliva collecting at the corners of your mouth and dripping down to pool at his pelvis. 

"Making--ah fuck--such a mess for me, darling." He groaned. 

He lets you keep at your own pace for a while longer before he starts thrusting into you. He kept your head in place, and you gagged and tears started running down your cheeks. Each stroke became more and more erratic, until ropes of his hot cum were shooting down your throat. 

He pulled you off of him and you gulped down breaths of air. He was caressing your cheek, swiping a mix of tears, spit and cum from your lips before kissing you. 

That's how you both continued throughout the night. Pleasuring each other, nearly non-stop, under the moonlight. Your mind was fractured, nothing else but him existed inside of it. He'd touched, fondled, massaged, and embraced you, until you could only respond with breathy whispers of his name. 

"Felix..." You sighed, when he was bringing feeling back to your numb legs by massaging them.

"Felix..." You moaned, as he slowly took you as you both laid on your sides.

"Felix..." You screamed as you came undone on top of him, riding him roughly.

He took you in many different positions, and you indulge yourself in each one. When he wasn't fucking you, you were whining in complaint and going down on him. If he wasn't going down on you, he was edging you with his fingers. Your hands never left each other's bodies, always needing connection. You were sure he was just as familiar with your body as you were by this point. 

The exhaustion finally hit when he had you on your back in a mating press. The last thing you remember, is staring up into the twilight sky. Dawn was approaching, the stars were disappearing before your eyes, as the golden glow of the sun started to peek through. 

Your eyes were fluttering as you fought unconsciousness, determined to finish fucking this completely ethereal creature. Felix was barely putting in an effort to fuck you, but he still slid in and out of you at an agonizingly slow pace, as if he wanted to keep your orgasm at bay. You both wanted to extend this moment in time, but your body wouldn't have that.

When you finally let go, cumming on his cock for what felt like the hundredth time. That's when your eyes shut and you gave into the exhaustion. 

The familiar scent of nag champa incense filled your nostrils as you started to come to. 

Your bedroom, permanently infused with your favorite scent to burn, that's where you were. The familiar feel of your sheets beneath you, and your heavy comforter confirmed that.  

Your mind still felt a little cloudy as you started to recall how you got to your bed from the forest. 

That's when you feel a body next to you and your eyes shot open.

"Felix?" You croaked, your voice dry and hoarse.

He was laying next to you on his side, in your bed, in your house. 

He had the blankets pulled up to his waist, and was resting his head on his hand. Elbow propped up, so he could see you better. He was shirtless and he wore that same smile on his face, like he was so fond of you.

"Is that still the only thing you can say, little dove?" He whispered teasingly. 

"How- I mean, why-?" You stutter as you attempt to sit up in bed, but your entire body aches. 

You hiss at the burning sensation you felt between your legs. And your legs, gods, you don't think that they've ever felt so sore. 

"Easy darling, you need to rest." He said as he helped you sit up. 

He reached over to his side of the bed and handed you a glass of water, motioning for you to drink. 

You eyed him curiously as you sipped your water, finishing it rather quickly when you realized how thirsty you were. 

"I ran you a bath and kept it hot, when you're ready we should wash you up more." 

"More?" You questioned him.

"I did clean you up last night, I'm not a monster. The bath will help ease your muscles." He chuckled.

"How did you even know where I live?" 

"It's not hard to figure out, we weren't that far from it. Your house is the only one for miles." 

You still felt guarded around him, even after the night you shared. If the stories your mother told you turned out to be partially true, you could only imagine what other lore could turn out to be true. 

Now this mischievous creature knew where you lived, he was in your home.

"I know this is your sacred space little dove, I don't intend to intrude. However, I couldn't exactly leave you in the state you were in. How are you feeling? Is your head a little clearer?" He spoke softly as he brushed his fingers through your hair. 

It is. Almost all of that dazed feeling was gone, you felt more lucid. In that clarity though, a rush of embarrassment hit you. You felt your skin heat up at the more clear memories of last night. 

You were never the type for hookups or one night stands, yet the things you did with this perfect stranger... This perfect magickal stranger... they felt unspeakable. You'd never lost yourself so completely in someone else's presence, much less with your own... sessions. 

You hide your face in your hands and rub at your temples, trying to make sense of this entire situation. Of your own feelings. You didn't exactly regret it or hate it. Something still felt off. Not only was the entire act abnormal in general, and downright questionable. But it was so out of character for you. Did he use... compulsions? Did he have that type of magick?

"Thinking too hard will just exhaust you more." He said.

"Look..." You sigh, as you turn to face him, "I'm a little lost here, I don't know what to make of this all." 

Next thing you know, he's off the bed. He's picking you up in his arms, and you notice you're both still nude. Your face flushes again at that, and you struggle a bit in his arms.

"Be calm darling, I'm just taking you to the tub. We can talk about it all." 

You let him place you in the tub, and then he's sliding in behind you. Slotting you between his legs. He's pulling you back towards him, so you lay against his chest. You both sit like that for a few moments, absorbing the heat from the bath and getting used to each other in a new type of intimate way.

You should be kicking him out of your house. You should be cussing him out. Defending yourself, but why didn't you feel the need to defend yourself against him? Why were you drawn to him? 

When you think about the facts, some would say you were attacked last night. I mean there's a reason the Fae call it a punishment You didn't feel attacked though. You enjoyed yourself, as crazy as that is to say. 

You always knew you were an adventurous soul, but you never thought to this extent. 

How do you come to terms with actually feeling okay with this whole thing, when you knew you shouldn't be?

"You're a witch, right?" He suddenly asks you, breaking your train of thought. 

"I am... though I'm beginning to question the validity of that title, seeing as I have an actual magical creature behind me." You mumble. 

You knew the magick you practiced was real. You could feel it. It's not like you could create fire though, or move things, or transfigure things in front of you. You weren't even sure Felix could do any of that as an elf. You weren't sure of anything anymore. 

You felt like you were entering an existential crisis. Panic was starting to settle within you when you felt his chest vibrate with laughter, it was an oddly soothing sensation that you know you've felt before.

"No, you are. I can sense it, it's in your blood. It took me a while to piece it together, but you are a witch through and through. Sometimes humans don't know of their tie to the magickal world, but I figured... from your altar, among other objects and ingredients I've noticed here, that you knew." 

You hummed, your mother always told you that you were a part of a long line of witches. She raised you heavily within her practice. You never doubted her, but somehow this new revelation made it so much more real. You realize this was opening a whole new aspect in your own practice. A hidden world, seemingly waiting for your return.

"Is that why you came to me? Because you sensed a witch was near?" You questioned him, your hands playing with the water. 

"No, you stepped inside my fairy ring. I have to say I was shocked. I placed it in, what I thought was, an inconspicuous area. I hadn't realized your home was nearby."

"Okay, I'm going to need you to explain." You sighed. 

"Well... you already know what I told you yesterday. The stories you were told, were passed down by your ancestors and other mortals in general. You don't really just dance in fairy rings, that's a small fib we tell the children. As more human children found the rings, when we'd find them dancing. We'd send them off, warning them if they came in again that we would have them dancing until they faint. When our own children wandered into them curiously, we'd tell them the same thing until it became time for them to learn. It's just something stupid the ancestors came up with, I don't know... It does always start out with a courting dance though, but the main reason for them is, inside a fairy ring... you mate. They're essentially a part of an ancient mating ritual."

At that you nearly jumped up to smack him, but he was a step ahead of you. His arms tightened around your body, pinning your arms to your chest. 

"MATING?!" You screamed at him, trying to turn your head and make eye contact, "I don't fucking wan-" 

"Please, calm down little dove. It's not possible for me to actually breed you. That requires an entirely different ritual, one that hasn't been performed in centuries. I'm not even sure anyone would know how to perform it these days..." He trails off. 

"So then why even lay these stupid Fae traps for humans anyways?!" You screech. 

"They're not traps, and they're not meant for humans." He says defensively, and you can hear the pouting in his tone, "Think of it like this. You know how some penguins build big and pretty nests to attract a mate? It's kind of like that. It's a lot to explain in detail, and I had to create one. Now that I'm of age, it's expected of me to find a partner. Even if I don't find the need to." 

"And why do they exist in this realm if they're not meant for us?"

"Well, a long time ago, back when there was only this realm, and there were more Fae than humans, they came across one. That fairy was so angry at the human for intruding on something so intimate of his, and he threatened the human with a punishment. Before any of the other Fae could stop him, he entered the ring. When they both were inside of it, they were overcome with the magic of the ring. The courting dance had started, and no one else was able to enter. The desire for each other grew. In his anger he must've forgotten what the ring's intention was, and was only focused on punishing the human. But he never got that far. They ended up... mating. They never separated from that night, spending their lives together. It was millenia ago. It created an uproar though. Our kinds had never joined before that way."

You sat and listened, calming down a bit as he told you this story.

"There were battles, not an outright war but there might as well have been. They grew to love each other, and they led the winnings of those battles to stay together. They opened the door for Fae and humans to be together, but it has always been frowned upon from both sides."

There was an entire history of this world that you had never known. One that you could never even imagine to be true. But it is. Before your mind let you delve into it though, you thought back to something he said.

"Overcome with magic? These rings hold compulsions over beings?" You questioned hastily, needing to confirm your suspicions. 

"No. It's not like that..." He sighed, "Didn't you feel different last night?" He continues, "The mushrooms release something like a pheromone. An aphrodisiac, to enhance your sexual stamina. Among other mood boosting and energy boosting properties. It starts by uplifting your mood, making you feel the happiest you've ever been. Then you start dancing, your energy building up in preparation for what's to come. It's not until your partner enters that the aphrodisiacs start releasing. But it doesn't just take away your consent like that. Both parties have to be willing... it needs to be mutual. Though that's not to say that's not how every instance turns out. Evil exists in all realms." 

You shivered at his words, trying to process everything. You could clearly remember the primal urges taking over, the need to constantly be filled. It explained that off feeling, why you were acting so out of character. But you couldn't deny that you had wanted it. 

Craved it. 

You never tried to stop it, never wanted to stop it... In fact you initiated it to an extent. 

He started talking again, "That's why I couldn't just leave you there. Especially not in that forest, where other creatures lurk and might find you. I never felt anything dark there, but that doesn't mean it won't come along. I brought you home. I cleaned you up, I made you drink because you were getting dehydrated. I cared for you."

He was loosening his grip around you to rub your shoulders. It made you think back to the skilled massages he gave you last night, in between all of the sex. He made sure to take care of you the whole night it seemed.

"But none of this answers my question from earlier, why not place the rings in your own realm now? Why would any of the Fae place them here?" You asked.

"There are many different reasons..." He mumbled, "Some of them do it because they want to experience sex with a willing human. Some of them do use them as traps for humans, and those Fae are disgraceful, downright evil. Most of those types have been banished from the realm I come from. But some are like me. We try to hide them, from everyone. Because even though we're required to have them, we don't want to use them."

Then you thought back to his previous words, "Wait... 'find your partner' you said? Are we- do we have some sort of bond now?"

The silence was thick in the air. You waited for him to speak, but he didn't, so you turned around in the tub to face him. Your legs spread out on top of his, as you half straddled his lap. 

His eyes stared into yours, expressionless. It was much colder than his usual warm aura, so you grabbed his hand to hold it, and asked again in a softer tone, "Do we?" 

"We don't have to. It's not permanent. Most Fae who get humans within their rings leave them there once they've passed out anyways. Humans don't have the same stamina as we do, even with their boosted energy from the ring. The first woman passed out, that's where the ancestors got their silly tale from." He spoke tightly, like he was debating even revealing this bond at all. 

"I see." You replied, even though you had many more questions and didn't have a full grasp on it all. 

Not much made sense. In a span of hours you found out the true existence of a hidden realm, and these magickal creatures. You met one, you slept with him, then you actually slept with him, and now you bathe with him. You talk with him, as if all of this is a normal day.

It should all unsettle you more than it actually does. You should be freaking out, 100% meltdown level. This is the story of fairy tales, and maybe not a good one. This could be the big bad wolf and you could be little red riding hood. But somehow, you were comfortable in his presence. Comfortable enough to want to spend more time with him. To learn more, about him, his world, and this new bond. 

So you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, giving his lips a small peck. 

"Maybe we could... figure it out together? See what happens next, if you explain more to me, that is." 

His eyes lit up with hope, and his charming smile returned to his face. The thought that you could wake up every day to that smile entered your head quicker than you could blink.

You'd figure something out. You had to. He couldn't leave your life now. Not when it seemed like it was just getting started thanks to him.

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