#dg writes

[pluralgang-practitioners]

Hello! Do you& know of any pagan-umbrella deities that're plural or could have domain over plurality in any way? We're looking for someone to devote to, someone we can ask and thank for good fortune/etc related to multiplicity functions and such. We collectively identify as a Chaos witch so technically we could search for one across the multiverse but we'd really prefer one from this world. Thank you!

So I'll preface this first by saying this kind of isn't my wheelhouse. Most of our system works with entities that are able to communicate within the system (as participant in daily life) or are derived from our exomemories (like Narty from the innerworld). We tend to avoid working with externally sourced entities as a stopgap to keep them from messing around with our system (either on purpose or not). It gets real weird real fast when you start introjecting Gods.

Now, that being said, we are interested in the theory behind worship. Say, "in what aspects is [x] God worshiped in? Why?" Again: we're coming at this question with the big ass pin of "we don't technically work with external entities for this kind of stuff." Your mileage will vary here.

So, since we can't give y'all any specific deities to do research on, instead we'll say this: when you're looking for a deity that is plural or could reasonably have domain over plurality:

Do you consider epithets and the fragmentary nature of Divinity to be plural? In other words; if Divinity can be worshiped in many diverse aspects, some of which may be broadly different in scope or temperament, is that plural to you? Are there elements of the world which you gravitate towards and see yourselves in (ex: relating to the Moon because of its ever-changing yet ever-same faces)? If any of this is "yeah" then:

What are some core ideas you hold true about your plurality? The goals of your worship might offer you a starting point to kick off of here. Real reductive examples here but: say you view this goal as primarily one of Health, so you might investigate the Divine associated with Health/Healing/etc.; but if you view the goal as primarily one dealing with, say, spirit work (this is the most relevant example I could think of since we have a lot of dead people in our system), you might try to work with the Divine associated with Death/Grief/etc.

If approaching Divinity associated with plurality in the world, then consider how that might affect your path. Are you going to approach the Divine from one aspect alone, or do you intend to work with the broader strokes of that Deity? Understand that your goals may guide you a bit better here, but from what little I know about Chaos witchcraft (very little), y'all probably know quite a bit about throwing things at the wall and finding what sticks as opposed to what stinks.

If none of the above appeal to you, meanwhile, the search for plurality in the Divine might be a little messy and complicated. It's hard to pin down examples of Gods that you could definitively label "plural," because sometimes that comes down to UPG, as well as what you might be looking for as plural. The only example coming to mind right now is Janus, the Roman God of Boundaries (forgive me if that's a bit reductive). But that said, the answer also might not be obvious if you're looking for a very strict definition of plurality in the Divine.

Uh, anyways, I'm sure other people in the witchblr and pluralgang spaces could chime in better than we can, considering our lack of expertise here.

-Heitaros (he/him)

[braindos]

tgaa + moomin

[killakalx]

17+ content, blank blogs dnf

my attempt of forcing myself out of this block. poorly proofread, dick’s drabble is short compared to jason’s

dick grayson isn’t the jealous type, but he loves when you try to coax it out of him. the fact that you’re trying to get a reaction from him is almost touching, really. after spending the whole week wearing the skimpiest of clothes for all your outings, feeding into every ounce of attention you get and still seeking more, you assume him fucking you is his get back.

“aw,” he’d coo, hand gripping your face as he speaks to you. “‘s that what you were showing out for? just wanted me to fuck you rough?” deep thrusts punctuate his question and you nod— as best as you can with his fingertips digging into your cheeks, at least.

“I know you wanna,” you manage in an attempt to encourage him, rolling your hips and clenching around his shaft to elicit that sweet sound you only get from him a few times with each fuck. “c’mon, dickie- fuck me like you’re mad at me.”

“good try,” dick teases through teeth and tongue as he groans into your mouth, letting go of your jaw to pin your wrists into the bed. there’s a momentum that he picks up, but nothing even close to what you’d tried to provoke. “tell me when you let someone else touch this pretty pussy the way I do,” dick suggests in a hushed moan against your ear, “maybe then i’ll fuck you how you want me to.”

jason todd, however, falls for it every time. any little attention grab, any whorish call you make to draw men in— he sees it and it makes his eye twitch as soon as he picks up on it.

he’s not stupid. he knows every party trick you’ve got, and yet he still ends up balls deep inside you against any surface, stretching you out on his fat cock the way you intend him to. jason fucks you like he’s livid, because he is, and it leaves you choking on your words.

“y’think you’re so cute,” he chastises, shoving your face into the mattress until your whines are muffled in the sheets. your legs jolt with each hard pound he gives you, slow and calculated to hit that sweet spot only his cock could ever reach. “did you even see the way they were lookin’ at you?” his voice scratches at the side of your neck, low and accusatory as he slams his cock inside of you before you can mutter some sorry explanation.

jason folds your leg higher up and you keen, nails clawing at sheets as you gather hold of yourself. “you sound-“ a particularly hard thrust makes you gasp, “sound jealous, jay.” and like that, you’ve cut the red wire.

“really,” he grunts with a ticked off tone, “you think so?” his words neither confirm nor deny, but the way jason flips you with little to no time wasted speaks volumes. the way he easily repositions you, face down and damn near suffocating you in the sheets with your ass in the air; that’s what tells you your plan worked. and in little to time, jason has you absolutely broken. sheets soaked, pillows damp with tears and drool as you cry to him.

you whimper into the soft cotton, gripping onto the sheets hard enough to pull them off of their corners. he’s got you sounding pathetic, legs trembling and jolting every time he bruises your cervix, leaking around the base of his cock, and at this point your body’s fallen limp. pretty little pleas for jason and only jason, and he’d be more willing to admit how hot you look if he wasn’t pissed off. “begging for me,” jason huffs with an agitated quirk of his lip, “and all i’m giving you is what you fuckin’ wanted.” ❧

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism x Reader: "What are we?"

G/N. Relationship questions. Goo, Johan, Gun, Jake, DG, Samuel, Ryuhei. Masterlists

"What are we?" You blurt out. It gurgles up your throat and past your lips.

The question is unprompted. In truth it was something constantly running through your mind though you had never discussed it.

He stares, for a moment, like a deer caught in headlights before regaining his composure.

A sly smile slithers over Goo's face.

Even his glasses seem to somehow glint playfully in the light.

"What was that, sweetheart?" He asks, tilting his ear closer to you.

He knows that you know that he heard you perfectly yet he still likes to be difficult.

"Nothing," you mutter, rolling your eyes as dots of pink appear on your cheek.

His smile grows at your reaction. "Really, nothing?" You ignore him. "Didn't sound like nothing."

"..."

"Sound like you asked what we," he gestures at you and him, "are."

"Why are you being an asshole if you heard me then," you snap and he shrugs, unperturbed by your insult.

"Don't be like this," Goo purrs, slinging an arm around your shoulder and pulling you close, other hand adjusting his glasses. "You're mine, and that would make me yours."

Ugh. You had considered shoving him off until he said that. He always knows what to say to keep you sweet and you're an absolute sucker for his unhinged charms.

"Happy, cupcake?"

Yeah, you're very happy. But you still refuse to look at him, even as a smile settles on your face.

.

.

"What?" Johan asks.

"What do you mean what?"

"I mean what-" he abruptly stops and clears his throat, face flushed. He looks anywhere but at you. A fascinating spot on the wall, a stain on the floor, somewhere over the horizon that he's contemplating sprinting off to.

"What were you going to say?"

Mustering up all his courage, he manages not to run off. Instead, he mumbles something under his breath that you can't catch.

"What?" You ask and god, if you say what one more time, you're going to fling yourself into incoming traffic.

Johan looks physically pained, as if he would rather go ten rounds with Gun Park than repeat what he said. But he can do this. He isn't a coward.

... That doesn't mean he needs to look at you while he says it though.

"You're Eden and Miro's favourite person. We talk about getting more puppies together. We do everything together." His ears glow bright red. "You met my mom. She talks about you all the time. She keeps giving me advice-"

"Ok, ok," you grin, taking his hand. Bless his sweet tortured soul, because he hasn't really officially said you're together but you can take a hint. "I guess it sounds like you're my boyfriend."

With a sigh of relief, Johan turns to you wearing a soft smile. "Yeah. I guess I am."

.

.

"You're not clear?" Gun asks with an eyebrow arched.

He looks pointedly at you wandering half naked in his home, his shirt you're wearing barely covering your ass.

"I just-" you bluster, yanking the offering garment lower and likely stretching it but fuck it. "We never said."

Gun gives you a look. One when he thinks you're being particularly insolent or ignorant.

"Don't I spend all my spare time with you?"

"Yes but-"

"Don't I give you complete access to every part of me?"

"Yes-"

"Didn't I introduce you to Charles?"

"And Goo." You add with a grin as Gun's jaw tightens. The latter was unplanned and unwanted. Goo had practically stalked him to his date and then played a very chatty third wheel.

He ignores your comment, just like he tends to ignore most things to do with Goo. "I thought it was obvious I can't see a future without you."

"Oh." You feel the grin tugging at your lips.

"Now are you clear?" Gun asks, eyes warm and lips lifted too as you nod.

.

.

"We?" Jake gives you a full toothy grin.

"Us."

"Our relationship?"

"Yes," you press, giving him a fond shove.

"Well," he starts ticking off his fingers, "Somehow I think Jerry is more loyal to you than me. Brad thinks you're more fun. Jason prefers you as the boss. Lua just prefers you fullstop. And I'm sure Lineman is even more in love you with you than I am-"

Jake slams his mouth shut. His eyes widen as he realises what he just confessed.

He was supposed to joke around how you've usurped him as the actual boss of Big Deal and he's now your lowly peon doing your bidding.

Not that he’s in-

It should be obvious to anyone with eyes that you're together. That Jake is your boyfriend. It's nice, he guesses, to officially confirm that and put that little worried wrinkle between your brows to rest.

But it is far far too early for him to throw the 'L' word around. He's worried about scaring you off and burdening you with more than you can bear-

"Hmm," you cut in on his spiralling thoughts, tapping your finger on your chin thoughtfully "I dunno. I think Lineman is even more in love with my boyfriend than I am."

Your words sink in. Jake turns to you, grin on his face once more and presses a kiss to your cheek. "Sounds like we both have competition."

.

.

"About that," DG starts, and your heart sinks.

That surely isn't a good sign, right?

"What do you think?" He slides over a piece of paper to you and you find a press release printed.

Your eyes clock the picture of you two, looking very cosy and coupley - his arm around you and your head on his shoulder. It's a very flattering picture of him, although when is this guy not photogenic? It's not a bad one of you either.

Beneath it sits a few lines. You scan over the words. 'Relationship', 'Dating', 'Respectful', 'Privacy' stand out.

You glance up to find him staring intently back at you. Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled together.

It's a tell. You know him well enough by now to see that his nerves are flaring beneath the cool mask.

This is a big step for him, but an even bigger ask for you. To subject yourself to the limelight and his fans and accept who he is, the life he lives.

There was never any doubt.

"It's great." You grin, and he gazes at you, half lidded and with a small smile. 

.

.

"Whatever you want us to be," Samuel says with a smirk, and you internally frown at him, batting the ball so easily back into your court.

You suppose you only have yourself to blame.

You should know by now he would be avoidant when there's a lot to lose.  That overplaying his hand means showing you too much of his vulnerability.

Although you had really hoped by now it was obvious how you felt about him

"But-" he continues, curling himself around your back and wrapping his arms around you, "I think I've settled into the position of boyfriend well."

His lips, time and time again, is drawn to the sensitive spot on your neck.

"Don't you agree?" He asks before nipping at your skin.

You breath hitches and you stammer your agreement.

.

.

"I've been wanting to ask you this at a better time," Ryuhei scratches awkwardly at the back of his head.

“Ask me what?��

He mumbles to himself in his native tongue, as if praying for courage and trying to steel himself.

"Are you ok?" You ask, watching him fumble inside his long coat.

"Never better!" He says though he's now grown paler than you have ever seen and there's a sheen of sweat across his brow.

He lunges forward, landing on one knee with a painful thud as you take a step back.

Wincing, he snaps open a ring box with the biggest diamond you have ever seen.

"Oh my god, our first date was only two months ago!" You say at the same time as he asks-

"Will you marry me?"

[seefasterdraws]

from the homumiko mines

[kazzattack]

make-up sex with Dick has been rotting in my mind lately :P

make up sex w/ ex bf!dick grayson… bc if i’ve noticed anything about him? he’s besties with all of his exes. like. every single one of them. he’d try to be particularly close with you because he’s not over you at all. still thinking about you 24/7, still wants to see you, definitely still wants to fuck you, all that good stuff. what’s pissing him off is that you’re sick of him. and because i’m you’re petty, you decide against blocking him just to let him know you’re choosing to see him and ignore him. you read all his stupid ass messages, he can still see your posts, and he knows you’re doing shit to piss him off. because nothing irks his soul more than being ignored, much less ignored by you. luckily enough, nothing’s stopping him from knocking on your door after texting you that he’s “coming back for his hoodie.” because duh, you kept all of those too.

you open the door against your better judgement and it’s obvious he has a few intentions once you get a good look at the flimsy tank top and sweats. “hi,” he smiles to hide the impatience in his voice.

“hi,” you respond with condescension and move to close the door in his face.

“you’re being a dick,” the smile easily fades as he catches the door with a quick hand, “just let me in.”

and against your better judgement, you do.

now he’s snooping around, and quite effectively, finding a way to dig through drawers and piles of clothes even though he’s spotted a hoodie or two out the corner of his eye. come to think of it, he’s interrogating you. asking you about that party from friday, that one guy he saw on your story, anything he can get. hell, he’ll go as far as to flash you a new pair of panties while he’s looking, asking who’re you getting all pretty for? now you’re irritated too, not giving him any of the invasive answers he’s looking for. you two go back and forth for god knows how long, all the way until he’s got you against a wall and muttering fuck you under your breath, followed by a clever remark of I thought you’d never ask.

finally, his hands are back on you. he can finally grab a hold of your face and get his tongue back down your throat after a long ass month of nothing. nothing like you, at least. “you’re such a little shit,” he groans and you laugh at him, letting him wrestle your legs around his torso and carry you to the bed. as if you could have fought against it anyway. he’s depraved of you, already groping your tits and ass after grinding his thigh into your clothed cunt. it’s almost as if he hasn’t fucked since the last time he had you. still feeling a little cruel, you tease, “those other girls just didn’t do it for you, huh?”

“there weren’t any other girls.”

“yeah right,” you force out a giggle to ignore the guilt.

“I’m serious. been waiting on you to cut the bullshit so I could fuck this cunt again.” his hand’s already eased under the waistband of your shorts to circle your clit and you moan right into his ear. “don’t need any other girl when i’ve got a whore right here, just for me, right?”

he sucks a hickey into the underside of your breast before flipping you over, seemingly back to his regular self. you’re easily repositioned face down and ass up, helping him pull your shorts all the way down. fuck, you missed him. the way he palms your ass and forces you against his cock, debating on whether he should really fuck you or just hump you til you’re begging for his cock and he’s coming in his boxers.

“already fucking me back,” he moans from behind you and it’s brought to your attention that you’re the one grinding on his dick through fabric. you can’t bring yourself to be ashamed of it though, keening when the next time you feel him there’s no barrier between you and the tip of his cock is slipping into your pussy. normally he’d be all sensual, rub at your cunt til it’s all messy and leaking before fucking you, but this time around it’s like he has no time for it. he’d rather force the arch in your back further into the mattress and fuck you full, have you whine into the pillows and beg for more of his cum like he knows you want to.

“still want me to get out?” he’s muttering into your ear after pulling your hair, knowing by now you’re too fucked out to give him some smart-ass remark. all you can give him are those whorish moans he hasn’t heard for so long as you cum on his cock for the third time. he’s skipped the theatrics he loves to fuck you deep and give you a good reminder that this is what you broke up with.

[mschismosa]

Silly comic for day 1 of barok week: Past ⚔️✨

I love putting him in stupid situations, sorry.

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[bigskydreaming]

Imagine looking at a character whose entire premise is that in every stage of his life, he's made every version of himself into someone that inspires people to such a degree that EVERY SINGLE VERSION OF HIM has people wanting to literally follow in his footsteps in some way or another.....

And coming to the conclusion that like.....the most important things about him are the sum of all his trappings. His entirely homemade developed from scratch could not exist if not for what he already was and brought with him BEFORE crafting this newest version of himself trappings, with his greatest trait throughout all of it being his adaptability; his ability and willingness to roll with the punches and not try to simply weather any opposition or changes to his life but instead reshape himself as needed to better fit INTO whatever new shape his life and the world around him takes. All while managing to carry the most innate, fundamental and necessary aspects of himself from one version to the next. Thus every single version of himself is different but simultaneously every single version of himself is also undeniably the same person.

The strength of this character, to me, will always be that he can be so many versions of himself, he can become so many things, all without ever actually losing or discarding any of the aspects of himself he considers most essential, the things he's not willing to lose or give up just to keep going. Finding that road not taken by most, usually because most never even think to look for it as an option. But one that he's always able to find because the one trick he's mastered in his tumultuous life is threading that needle of not just digging in his heels in an unproductive way but rather being selective about when and where he makes a stand and decides "this is not a thing I'm willing to compromise about" but here are places and ways I can and will change and evolve and adapt in order to make it possible for me to hold onto these parts and keep them as they are.

And that's why its always so mind-boggling to me that so many writers can't seem to think of anything else to do with Dick Grayson other than invent some new reason for him to just....not be that person, or to like just take the character whose most basic fundamental trait he's NOT about to compromise on is willingly giving up his spot in the driver's seat of his own life.....and make him just a passenger in his own life and stories.

Dick Grayson at age nine....at age nineteen...at age twenty nine....the one core thread running through all versions of him is the only way he's standing back and letting you call the shots for him or putting him on the sidelines in some way is over his dead body.

HOW he goes about that, what that looks like, who he becomes and what aspects of himself he plays up at some times and what traits he lets fall by the wayside at other times when they offer less in service to his primary goal here....that changes constantly. He changes constantly.

But those changes are almost always (or at least they used to be/should be IN MY OPINION) made with the intention of keeping certain things about him or his life as consistent as possible.

That's the duality of Dick Grayson that I'm here for. The inherent contradiction of him that COULD allow for endless conflict and breaking new narrative ground in all sorts of ways if mined properly:

His eternal willingness to compromise....but only ever in pursuit of doubling down on the ways he's not willing to compromise.

Forever walking that tightrope in ways that only a kid born and raised in a circus could ever hope to.

[thelocalmuffin]

I am delighted to present the project I've been working on for three-ish months with @baovihnim! This was for the incredible @aawlwminibang!

Bao has created this charming masterpiece of artwork and I wrote the story. It's a 4.5k self internal conflict story with some meet cute elements.

You can read it on Ao3 here.

Thank you Bao for being such a great partner. I really enjoyed working with you!

I have another partner who's piece needs a bit more time, so you will be seeing more Ginahao soon!

[sneakywingeddude]

Was it casual when you begged me to let you legally represent you?

Was it casual when I dropped everything and stowed away to London with you?

Was it casual when I mourned your death and took up your dream and kept the physical representation of your soul at my side for year?

Was it casual when you handed me the physical representation of your broken soul because you trusted me with it more then you did yourself?

Was it casual when we crossed swords under a sunset and promised to stay in each others lives forever?

[pluralgang-practitioners]

On Exomemories/"System Lore" and How it Complicates Spirituality

by (mostly) Artura and (somewhat) Nova

This will be a bit of a long post, so to save you all the hassle of scrolling for an eternity, it'll be under a cut for convenience. Seriously. Don't expand this unless you want to hurt your hands (or just hit the J key on desktop for your own convenience).

Content warnings for this piece include discussions of: headmate on headmate violence, abuse, trauma (including religious trauma), repetition

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

This may touch a little bit on some other subjects that we want to discuss at a later date (which can be seen on our Topics page). For now, let's define some terms as a baseline and talk about the matter of today's post. We'll assume that the reader is unfamiliar with these terms entirely, but if you find this section to be redundant, you may skip ahead.

Glossary

exomemories - memories held by headmates that are not biographical in nature; for example, an introject may remember their time being the source of their identity. These may be referred to as past lives, and we will be using these concepts interchangeably. Similar experiences can be found in otherkin spaces regarding kintypes and varied information known about said kintypes.

introject - a headmate whose form is determined by external sources. For example, a fictive is a type of introject in which a headmate forms based off of a fictional character. Some introjects may also come from original work.

divinekin - an umbrella term referring to anyone whose otherkin identity is related to divinity in some way; subkintypes include angelkin, demonkin, god/deitykin, etc.

iterative - headmates that share common identifying traits and may be "variations on a theme," so to speak; these may also include reiteratives, which are specifically chronological versions of an identification.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

Intro: Prefacing Notes on System Structure

It is worth noting that not all systems may share our experiences on this matter. In fact, we would largely expect the opposite to be true, because we are an adaptive, polyfragmented system. That means that we are uniquely formed to respond to the circumstances of our being and upbringing.

Worth also noting here is how our system formed in response to religion. We grew up undiagnosed as autistic, with two different members of our family pulling us towards their religions (these being a form of Christianity and a form of Buddhism). The most notable similarity between both pulls is the idea of changing the world through prayer (or worship, in Christianity's case). When you have autism and you believe that prayer can literally change anything, but are still put into abusive situations again and again... well... It gives you some baggage, to put it one way.

Our system is comprised of many layers and subsystems, which makes identity sometimes difficult to determine. Many of our subsystems are, in fact, comprised of members who share the same face (to a degree). Most notable of these subsystems is ours (Artura and Nova's), which contains over a dozen individuals all identifying with Nova's face.

That in and of itself is not unusual in polyfragmented systems. They also happen to be largely involved with how we write; we are iteratives of Iz. Where it gets strange is how this interacts with our subsystem's spirituality.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

Artura and Nova

I, Artura, am the innerworld God of Light, Knowledge, and Linear time. Nova was, as close as I can explain in words that this world has, something akin to a priest of mine. I gave him power, but unlike how the relationship often goes, I expected nothing of him in return. This was the first timeline, and this timeline was left to atrophy by Fate.

In this time, Nova became adept at using the magic I gave him, until eventually turning his back on my siblings and I. I was the first he consumed, and then were the other five. By this, Nova became the God of Magic. But I did not dissolve, and the two of us instead became intertwined.

He became part of me, and I became part of him. And then we were the God of all those things I once held, and magic as well. He was content in that timeline to do as he pleased, and I did nothing as he enjoyed what brief time he had left.

I knew what was coming, after all.

It was only when Fate finally turned its eye back on the first timeline that it saw what had transpired. It deemed the timeline to be a failure, and unmade it. As I said, however, Nova was a part of me, now, and could see from the other timelines what damage had been wrought by his actions. His timeline went unmade, and him the only remnant of it.

A part of him resented this action by Fate that ended his timeline. Another part felt only inconvenience. And another did not care, so long as he was a part of the gestalt.

Appointed by Fate, Nova is a part of me, and part too of that which is the closest thing the innerworld has to an afterlife, tending to all the dead versions of himself from the many timelines. In our system, he and I run the subsystem known for sailing us smoothly through college.

He is my "bitchy headmate," as he would put it, and we get along like bickering roommates, generally. The destroyed time is the worst we ever had together. But it does color how we approach spirituality, if only because of what came after.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

Artura and the Others

In every other timeline, the man that would have been Nova in the first has a million relationships to I as that which grants him undefined, nonjudgmental power. These are the iteratives that make up our aforementioned subsystem.

It is also to these others that Fate pays its attentions, having never done so with Nova in the era of his timeline until it came to do away with it entirely.

In some timelines, he follows the echoes of Nova's steps, seeking to destroy or replace gods that have stood distant in hardship's times when they were close at youth. Echoes of Nova's idea come from Fate's hand in the story. What Fate wants is a good story, after all, and what better way than to play at conflict? There is emotion there for it to sink its teeth into.

In other timelines, he who would be Nova steps away, taking the magic and wandering eternity in a world as a specter of magic. Fate is less so interested of him, but I know he is in enough timelines to grant me rest and comfort.

And in others still, he comes back after finding peace, and I ask him to join me as Nova has. There is always work to do, and unlike Fate I incorporate perspectives into that work in much different ways.

At the center of our innerworld is that it was a creation of emotion, first and foremost. I understand it as little as Fate, but I welcome those that do in their willing assistance.

There are certainly others more, which to the system are mysteries we are not allowed to perceive until it is their time to be seen.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

A Brief Interlude on Divinekin Experiences

Now, if reading all of that didn't already clue you into it, it's worth mentioning that because of mine, Nova's, and the other timeline's instances of him, a lot of our system experiences divinekin (or adjacent) feelings.

I am the innerworld God of Light, etc., etc., and so on. Of course I would be drawn to this label, I miss something that I cannot have in this world beyond helping Fate to spin it as a story instead.

But with the other timeline's instances of who Nova is, there are often complex emotions within divinekin-like packages. Some aspire or envy that which wei represent. Some simply scorn it.

A complex relationship to divinity is given for all within our system, and it would not surprise me if the structure of our system has allowed us to process a lot of biographical trauma surrounding the body's religious upbringings.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

Cycles in Our World

There are plenty cycles in our world. You want me to joke about the water cycle?

The reason I pivot back to it here, however, is to highlight the repetitive nature of trauma as it pertains to our biographical history. We won't be getting into the details of our trauma, but it is worth a brief tangent on account of certain details.

As mentioned prior, we have experience being torn between two different religious paths. One of which is notable due to how it was taught and reinforced in our upbringing. Reincarnation gets a footnote here obviously, but the common misconception about how karma works is particularly of interest; that is, the idea of "what goes around comes around" as opposed to what karma means in-context.

Yes, this is despite that family member being Buddhist for over a decade at the time of our body's birth. We're chalking it up to it being a weird branch of Buddhism.

Being raised under the pressure of this misconception of karma colored our experience of repeated, seasonal trauma. Ergo, it cannot be ignored that many of our exomemories parallel our philosophy of the world as experienced through repeated trauma.

Every year, without fail, we would return to trauma. Was this punishment for transgressions in a past life? Or had we committed some act in this life so heinous in our infancy to justify it?

There is also, of course, the concept of the cycle of abuse, which until fairly recently in our life always hung like a blade over us. The idea that we are doomed to repeat that which our forefathers pressed upon us in bruises and scars is... unwelcome, we shall say.

Repetition is part of everything we have experienced, a maddening and festering thing that, inevitably, would lead to an innerworld structured the way ours is.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

Cycles in Our Exomemories Regarding Biographical Trauma

As we have attempted to make clear in this exploration, the nature of our exomemories is that, at the end of the day (especially in this life), they are stories meant to evoke and tear emotions from our mind. We are set pieces, characters, the fictional in thought. As much as I dislike it, it does explain the repetition ad nausea of certain stories and themes.

Put one way, there is always the gestalt that embodies chaos, order, or atrophy; or any other schema you would like to call upon. Our exomemories are our own, but they are also echoes of the pain that wrote their tales.

I am fictional, but I am sitting in the body of that which wrote me, typing about my own experiences as being fictional and understanding that the same fiction which birthed me is not the truth that caused that pain.

We repeat so as to escape the past.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

Cycles as Comfort

Understanding the nature of repetition as it relates to our trauma, as well as what we can get from the exomemories we are made of that repackage said trauma, I feel it is important to add that none of this is without some positive consequence. I would not allow us to share this were that not the case.

The abuse, yes— I do not pretend any of that was positive. There are parts that were as an oasis to a desert. We would not have survived otherwise. But none in the system will make excuses for the hardships our body faced. Abusers can do nice things. They are still abusers.

But the encryption of this pain into exomemories as we have put distance between us and our abuse has given the system important things to cling to in times of distress.

First: the understanding that not all things must be guaranteed in this world; that to escape hardship is (generally) possible, even if that hardship may in time find you with a new face. It is possible to be happy. This is a human emotion we all deserve to feel. It may require fighting for it, in many cases, but there is joy in this world. Fleeting joy is worth that fight too.

Second: if there is anything to remind us that there are things to cling onto in this world, it is the small things that become so hard to experience when the world makes us feel small. There is comfort in knowing that the sun rises each morning, that clouds mean rain, and that every year the trees grow a little taller, a little thicker. Just because so much repeats does not mean it stays stagnant or festers, either. Does a tree think the harsh winds of Spring will give way to lightless Summers? To struggle is the capacity of all things. So too is to relax and find safety.

When the clouds break, even if thunder still roars, the sun will still shine soon enough.

[ID: A text divider comprised of 10 gold-colored suns, using the sun pattern1 material from Clip Studio Assets user patternMaker.]

Conclusion

I'm honestly not sure what to put here, considering how much I've just written about our system structure and exomemories in an attempt to try to communicate to the readers some iota of our spiritual experience.

Not everyone in the system is attached to the innerworld, so not everyone in the system relates to this. Some are introjects of characters that were hurt by all this nonsense, and some are perpetrators of innerworld harm themselves.

If anything, it has been an interesting experience coming to terms with just how much the innerworld means to us from a spiritual place. I don't even know how I feel about it, entirely. I don't know if I ever will.

I at least recognize that there is something deeply important to us about this experience, in a way that can only be called spiritual.

[ID: A rectangular crop of artwork depicting a man with closed eyes, facing away from a stained glass mural behind him of the glowing sun. He cries golden tears, with a thoughtless expression on his face, as if dreaming.]

[zoenold]

another scene from my upcoming asoryuu fic lol

[killakalx]

17+ content, blank blogs dnf

overstim (again. oops), begging (again! oops), light impact play, dumbification if you squint, mating press, dickie boy’s a lil mean

dick grayson is always pushing you to your limits. he says it’s his job, as your amazing and supportive boyfriend, yk? telling you how good you’re doing, how proud he is, how honored he is to call such a strong and determined woman his girlfriend. in his eyes, it’s only right that he keeps pushing you. even when you’re tired and overstimulated, feeling like you couldn’t possibly give him anything more, and he still pulls it out of you like it should be nothing.

“mm… dick,” you pout, legs trembling and barely able to remain wrapped around his torso. you keep him close, hands curled deep into his hair and whining into his ear with each agonizingly deep thrust. he pants into the shimmering skin of your neck with a hm, as if he doesn’t know he’s got you near tears. “dick- i can’t…”

“don’t be like that, baby,” he huffs, positioning a leg over his shoulder to get his cock deeper in your weeping cunt. the cry you let out has him writhing, moaning with you as another orgasm is forced out of you. his pace refuses to falter, though- and his mouth is on yours before you can beg for any mercy. “look at that, sweetheart- you can.” you’re both sticky with sweat and the sheets are disgustingly soaked, yet he’s convinced his stamina as an acrobatic vigilante should speak for your stamina as well. you’ve yet to distinguish this between a punishment or a reward, and he probably hasn’t either.

the begging, the way you cling to him- he feels needed. relied on. he can’t get enough of it. hence why he’d rather watch your sore and aching pussy continue to suck him in, all puffy and creamed out with his cum. dick grayson, fucking you into his mattress and folding you like a lawn chair. strong grip on a handful of your hair just to force your chin to your chest, making you watch as your cunt squelches around the girth of his cock; cooing at you, telling you how pretty you look, drawing out all those cute noises- and he wouldn't have you looking any other way, just for him.

and just to embarrass you, he's waiting on you to string together words other than your pathetic pleas of his name. "what is it, doll? just talk to me," he teases, "c’mon- look at me while i fuck you, baby." he knows damn well you're fucked beyond words and comprehension and he uses it like the evil motherfuker he is, leaning until his chest meets yours and pulling out another one of those pretty whines. fixing your gaze to look up at him is the last thing on your mind, and your cries for him hardly suffice. “you hear me, sweetheart?”

“dick- oh my god, dick, please…” you’re babbling now, bleary-eyes losing focus as you give up on clinging to him and you aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. his poor girl, so fucked out on his cock and he doesn’t even consider being nicer.

“don’t even know what you want,” dick grunts, little slaps against your cheek seemingly meant to bring you back. they’re gentle but firm, making your eyes shoot back open when his hand grabs your face before you drift back off. “d’you even know what i said? tell me.” and all you can give him is a slurred cry of his name.

if you weren’t stuck between operational and fucked into unconsciousness, you’d tell him you’re done, that you can’t take anymore. mascara running, legs sore and trembling, arms limp behind your head rather than holding onto him. it’s at this point that you figure he just wants a pretty little sex toy to use over and over- and the realization is evident when dick flips you over without pulling out, holding your ass up and letting your upper body rest against the mattress as a courtesy.

“I can go for one more,” he assures, as if his exhaustion was the issue. if only you could give him a piece of your mind and let him know he’s getting an earful when you wake up- since there’s no doubt in either of your minds that you’re near passing out. “my poor girl, fucked all dumb on my dick. let me know when you need a break, mkay?” ❧

[twifairy]

Not Forgetting the Difference Between Us

T Rating | 1.9k Words | Gina Lestrade & Barok van Zieks

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Gina is trained by the Reaper of the Bailey for an undercover mission

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TGAA 2-4 Spoilers | Ao3 Link

My piece for @tgaaizine

Cover by elusivelisa_

Tags below the cut

[ellypse]

if i fall 🕯️

with music