#enjoy while i suffer the craft of writing for all of you

[m4chus]

i got bored (update: i am working on that mary and tanya fic i promise)

[sordidmusings]

Well Earned Praise - Mihawk x Reader

Art by mugibara

Summary: Mihawk is a man of few words and many gestures. Lucky for him, you understand them all quite well. Lucky for you, he knows when to use those spare few words.

A/N: This is a little celebratory piece for @feral-artistry ! She's made a huge landmark in higher education recently that she's worked her ass off for and deserves all the treats and hype!! I was lucky in getting this one out for it too bless up lol I usually can only get possessed by ideas to flesh them out but being able to get them into actual words in a timely manner??? Near unheard of lol That said, it's only a ficlet but I hope you and anyone reading enjoys!!

It’s heaps of domesticity and Mihawk being what could even be called playful lol there has to be at least a tiny bit of that in there for him to have suffered Shanks for so many years so well 💀 in canon its hidden in stuff like him calling Zoro a rabbit - like you can’t tell me he doesn’t also say that shit to amuse himself on top of belittling opponents

Word Count: ~2.1 k

Warnings: gn!reader, straight up fluff, banter, Mihawk being the Most Obvious in his own way, favoritism, Perona and Zoro are there too, you have a place in all their hearts, found family undertone, family dinner with the edgelords, Mihawk being supportive of your accomplishments in a hopefully in character manner lol

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

“And what has you so happy?” Mihawk drawls. 

You’ve barely set foot in the kitchen by the time the question leaves him. Your bright mood from your recent accomplishment is undoubtedly buzzing from you and likely tripped off his haki. Or at least you’d write it off as that if you hadn’t been speaking about it coming up the past few weeks.

Despite his prodding tone, you know that’s just his normal voice and not his grumpy one from all your time living at Kuraigana. There’s also a lack of the miniscule brow or eye twitch that usually precedes The Grumpy Voice. Instead his face is its usual stony facade, looking much too brooding in contrast to the apron Perona had complained him into. It lacks any of the color or frills she wished, but you are sure with enough prodding she will one day get one or the other on your dour host. The one thing that truly binds you all together at Kuraigana is an innate persistence (easily gaining the name “stubbornness” when not in your favor). It is a formidable weapon you wield both for and against each other. Usually against, but that ratio is growing more favorable by the day. Luckily its bad run is mostly in bickering and banter, not actual harm.

“I know you’re getting old, but I didn’t know your memory was already going,” you goad, walking to join him at the prep table at the far end of the kitchen.

“I don’t make the effort to remember the chirping of birds,” he responds blandly, disproving his statement by alluding to the fact that he listened to your frequent gushing about it to Perona. All the while, he continues chopping vegetables with insane speed and accuracy. It will always amuse you to see the world’s greatest swordsman use those skills to harvest and chop veggies. His choice on which you’re starting to recognize as the mix to make your favorite meal.

“Uhuh,” you reply, obviously incredulous. “I suppose you don’t have much room in that head of yours for anything besides swords play.���

“It’s dangerous to insult the one handling your food you know,” he warns with the barest hint of humor warming his low voice.

“This cook wouldn’t stoop to poisons,” you assure him, “though I will need to watch my back during sparring.”

“If you’ve actually taken to my lessons, you’d know to do that anyway,” Mihawk chastises with narrowed eyes. You chuckle at his predictability - always so prickly if he felt you weren’t taking your crafts seriously.

“We both know I’d be dead if I didn’t,” you point out. The silence, save for the steady thumping of knife on cutting board, is his begrudging agreement. 

That silence quickly turns comfortable, its ease built on a few hundred hours of peaceful companionable silence that you’ve shared. Mostly they were filled with quiet sips of wine, rustling pages, crackling logs, and calm music. Your favorite is when the sweet serenade of the night’s bugs leaks in the cracked windows, heralded by a cool breeze playing with the curtains. A few hundred more hours spent in travel and training built quite the familiarity and warmed your heart from simple attraction to true affection for this untouchable man.

That affection only makes you treasure these moments more. Seeing him in an apron performing a homemaker’s duties isn’t only amusing; there’s a twinge of vulnerability to it. This man, who is an embodiment of death collecting its due for most, is comfortable with you seeing such human pieces of himself. He’s connected with you and your housemates enough to let you each have your mark on him in subtle ways. There is proof enough of it in this kitchen - now always well stocked with sake and sweets, the allowance of a few cutesy mugs ready for use, fresh eggs from the chickens he’d gotten for convenience and definitely not because of your love of animals. (You hadn’t broken him on goats yet but you were far from giving up on that one).

Your thoughts are interrupted by him breaking the hypnotizing motion of his knife to back away from the counter.

“I need to stop in the garden,” Mihawk explains. He casts a pointed gaze at you on his exit. “Don’t go in the fridge.”

The moment he’s taken his exit, you disobey the order. More like a poorly veiled hint. The bright lights of the fridge spotlight quite the treat for you. There’s a menagerie of desserts taking up the top shelf, everything from macaroons to tiramisu to cheesecake to fruit tarts. The colorful display almost kept you from noticing the restock of your drawers of charcuterie below. He really spared no expense; rare cured meats and exotic cheeses were huddled around a large supply of all your favorites, a variety of mustards, jams, and preserves in cute little jars tucked neatly to one side. You can’t help how gooey the gesture makes your heart and how that feeling’s definitely still going to be all over your face when he gets back.

Accepting that fate, you don’t even try to hide it when he comes back through the door with fresh herbs in hand. Mihawk goes through the motions of wiping off his boots and making his way back, all nonchalant confidence, until he looks at you and is struck frozen. He stands and holds your loving gaze for a long stretch of breaths. He’s the first to break your eye contact, looking the closest to unsure that you’ve ever seen him. His face would never tell, but his shoulders curl just a bit up and forward before you see him shove them back into their usual sure posture.

You think he’s going to leave the whole thing unacknowledged, as he’s wont to do with your increasingly common Moments. He shatters that thought when he lays a hand on your arm as he passes, giving it a gentle squeeze. The warmth from his large palm leaves a lasting impression on you. The ravenously yearning part of you - the one you try to keep settled - begins telling you how deliciously warm he must run, how he must be the perfect spot for a nap, how those warm hands would feel easing your muscles, how they would feel-

“Managing to get lost while standing still? Should I worry about that with you too?” Mihawk teases. It’s quite impressive how droll he can be when he lets himself.

“If I say yes, does that mean I’m free of being his human compass?” you joke.

“Only until it’s time to be rid of you both,” he answers easily.

“What?” you ask in mock offense. “No send off party? No tearful goodbyes? And here I thought you were the sentimental type.”

“Obviously,” he agrees, gifting you the first tiny, crooked smile of the night.

Wanting to end on a high note, you let the conversation go and instead focus on trying to find ways to help. It goes poorly. Every task you make for is suddenly already being done by Mihawk, or he’s suddenly blocking you from the means to start. Many an ingredient is intercepted, dish grabbed first, or scraps thrown to trash and compost. The absurd game of keep away it makes is funny to you at first but soon becomes frustrating.

“You’re treating me like an invalid,” you huff.

“I didn’t know you were so fond of labor,” Mihawk drawls. Sly eyes slide your way. “Should I put you back on prepping the new beds?”

“No,” you answer quickly. The new garden spot was chosen for convenient location not ease of creation; the ground was mostly clay and full of rocks with the top carpeted thick with sod and weeds. It would have to be cleared off, rocks dug out, manure and sand and peat moss shoveled in, then all mixed thoroughly to break up the clay. It was grueling work. It was Zoro work.

Mihawk goes back to his cooking with an air of satisfaction. You settle for watching and stealing bites to eat from the food he’s making. He pretends to be annoyed. It lets you both play a new game of keep away where you try to sneak and snatch and he tries to swat you away, usually without even taking his eyes off his task. This continues until the meal is nearly done, when he sends you off to your room to “look proper for a nice meal”. You pretend to be offended but he doesn’t buy it.

You don’t want to spend long getting ready, much more set on spending time with the others, but you also didn’t want to let an excuse to dress up go to waste. By the time you’re headed to the usual dining room, you’re layered in expensive fabric with a fresh face and freshly styled hair.

Mihawk is awaiting you at the grand doors, unfortunately lacking that apron. Instead you get him in a flowing shirt, textured in subtle filigree the same deep red as the whole. It is, of course, open to show off his Kogatana and the sun-kissed skin it rests on. As you get closer, you notice his pants are tailored slacks and his boots have been replaced with dress shoes you wouldn’t have even guessed he owned. Not for a lack of class or style, but for a lack of people and occasions he’d deem worthy of the effort. 

You feel almost silly thinking he’s going through all this effort for you but there’s no other explanation. When you stop next to him, you could swear that even his beard is freshly oiled and combed. You’re too lost in your appraisal of him to notice how his own heated eyes are roving over you. You catch them for a brief moment before they fix to your face. To interrupt the loving taunt about to move your tongue, Mihawk holds the door open for you and gestures you inside.

Zoro and Perona are sat at the table behind pristine place settings. They haven’t even noticed the sound of your entrance over their own bickering. Perona always looks dolled up, but there’s something a little extra in the detail of her makeup and not a single hair on her head is out of place. What’s much more surprising than her is that Zoro looks all cleaned up. He’s still in his usual style but not a speck of dirt is on the clothes and his hair looks slightly damp from a recent shower. It’s hard not to laugh at the idea of Mihawk commanding him to bathe like one would a defiant child and Perona having to throw him in the bath like he’s a hissing cat.

Before you move to join them, Mihawk’s hands catch your shoulders. Their capability for gentleness will always amaze you, and this caress to halt you is no exception. His thumbs swipe across your skin a few times, seeming to relish the motion, before he leans forward. There’s a moment where his cheek brushes the crown of your head before his breath floats over your ear and neck, raising goosebumps over your skin. His lips, surprisingly soft, tickle the tip of your ear as he whispers to you. The words strike you and leave you frozen even as he brushes past you towards the table, leaving the scent of spiced cologne in his wake.

Your housemates finally notice you and both send toothy smiles and celebratory cheers your way. You feel almost bad that you have to shake yourself off to match their energy. Once you get close to the table, Zoro is trying to convince you to share his best sake with him while Perona tells you that’s dumb and you should instead focus on looking through the gifts she’s gotten you. You only laugh as dark fabric and frilly stuffies are shoved your way to intercept the persistent attempts to place an o-choko by your plate. 

Mihawk sighs at the commotion, muttering something about wanting a peaceful dinner for you as he pulls out your chair. His grumbling is undercut by the softness easing the lines from his face. When you meet his eyes as he pushes your chair in, you notice the usually violent amber of them has darkened to flowing honey. His words ring in your head loudly again, causing a loving smile to warm your face. He answers with a brief smile of his own, the smallest curl of his lips and crinkle of his eyes, but it's enough to set your heart racing. It pumps electricity through you, tingling your fingertips and sending his words to spin even faster in your head. Even when your heart calms and is instead made full from loving company, you hold the sound of his voice in your mind.

It’s the first time you’ve heard the words from him, and now that you know their sweetness, you’ll chase that high in all your endeavors.

“I’m proud of you.”

[leighsartworks216]

To Be Warm And Comfy

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I was only going to write down this little idea before I took a nap... And then I ended up writing the whole thing

The crochet theme actually came out of nowhere for me. I cannot crochet anything more than a chain to save my life, but I do loom knit from time to time

Warnings: self-deprecation, low self worth

Word Count: 776

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Slotted between his legs, you rested your back against Astarion's chest. His arms coiled around your waist and held you close, while he pressed his nose into your neck and peered over your shoulder. With practiced hands, the yarn slid through your fingers at the perfect tension, hooked and worked together into rows of perfect stitches.

He'd never seen anything quite like it. During his living years, he focused on intellectualism and law, not crafts. And during his servitude, sewing and embroidering came about from necessity, though he did still enjoy them. This was incredible. He couldn't stop watching as you worked in smooth movements to crochet your little project. You wouldn't tell him what it was, but he was content simply to watch.

For several weeks, this became the nightly pattern. You'd lay back in his arms while he held you, watching you work away in silence or with idle chatter. When you finished for the night, you'd set your project aside where it wouldn't get damaged, he'd gingerly bite into your neck and take his share, and he'd lay down with you as you drifted off to sleep. Usually he stayed, if he'd had enough to eat during the day and didn't need to sip on some boar or squirrels. Sometimes he would read while you crocheted, sharing his favorite bits with you. It was nice. Peaceful.

You told him, one night, that you were almost finished. He'd watched with rapt attention then, studying the way you fastened off and weaved the excess yarn back through the stitches. He'd realized almost a week ago that it was a sweater, but it was almost a marvel when you held it up by the shoulders in front of you both to show it off.

He kissed your jaw with a gentle squeeze around your midsection. "It looks wonderful, darling."

You hummed, smiling brightly. "I'm really glad you think so." You sat up and turned in his arms. He didn't fight to keep you where you were, though he certainly missed the solidness and warmth you provided. You held it out to him. "Put it on."

He frowned, confused. "Don't tell me you spent weeks making that just to give it away?"

"Of course I did, now put it on."

"I'm hardly worth the effort," he scoffed. He did not accept the gift. His expressions mixed oddly - light-hearted joy, befuddlement, self-deprecation - all flooding his system and overwhelming him. He simply could not grasp the fact you'd go through all the effort for him. "Surely it would look much nicer on you!"

You sighed, understanding and long-suffering. "Tell you what, if it doesn't fit or you don't like it, I'll keep it. Deal?"

He sighed, too. He'd hardly be able to refuse it once he put it on. But you nudged the sweater in his direction again, and how could he say no?

You watched with a wide grin as he slipped it over his head and slid the sleeves along his arms. It was... really nice, actually. Warm and soft without feeling constricting. It fit him perfectly.

"You're always so cold," you explain, wrapping your arms around his waist and relaxing forward until your chin was against his chest. "So I made you this. You can wear it when touch is too overwhelming, or if you feel too out of it to cuddle. I just want you to be warm and comfy."

He chuckles breathlessly, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. "I'm sure I'll be very comfy in this."

His undead heart ached. You went through so much trouble. He'd seen you struggle to find enough of the same yarn, watched you cuss and groan every time a stitch fell or when you had to undo a section because you miscounted. He'd held and massaged your hands when crocheting began to wear them out. 

And still you persevered. For him. You even ensured it would fit a little loose, so he wouldn't be claustrophobic. It was... a lot. To have someone go through all this trouble.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you up until he could give you a proper hug. He nuzzled his cold nose into your neck, and he sighed. Softly, sweetly - completely relaxed.

"Thank you." He bit his tongue before he could ask if you were sure, if he really was worth the effort. Surely, by making the sweater, you'd proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was. "I shall cherish it always."

"I love you," you coo sweetly by his ear.

He must look like a fool with how wide he's smiling. "I love you, too, dear."

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars

[donquixotehomura]

Valentine's Day with One Piece Boys

Master List

W.C:3295    so uhhhhh my hand slipped oops... I took some assumptions here and I changed some things that are common about these characters in Fanfic writing, my brain couldn’t come up with a lot for Law I’m sorry about that, Crocodile and Doffy can be read as pre or post becoming Warlords, some might be OOC but IDK I wrote this in about a day lol (my eyes fingers and back hurt I need to correct my posture lol) sorry if I didn't write for your favorites, have fun and lemme know what you think I love feed back It took two and a half fucking hours to put the gifs in, cause the line thingy where you add stuff only showed at the very bottom so I had to keep editing and dragging shit around, I'm sure I'm doing something wrong, also I had to look up all the gifs here even tho I have tons cause for some reason "something goofed" .... end my suffering also I wrote this on word and then brought it here so if formatting gets weird that's why, even tho I spent hours on making sure everything is good shout out to my inspo who also encouraged me to write it @cinnbar-bun

 

Dracule Mihawk, Roronoa Zoro, Portgas D. Ace, Donquixote Doflamingo, Eustass "Captain" Kid, Charlotte Katakuri, Massacre Soldier Killer, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar Law.

Dracule Mihawk:

Mihawk and Y/N prefer intimate celebrations for Valentine's Day. They often opt for a quiet evening together at their secluded castle, away from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. 

Despite their stoic exteriors, Mihawk and Y/N are surprisingly sentimental when it comes to expressing their feelings. They exchange handwritten letters on Valentine's Day, pouring their hearts out on paper in a way that words spoken aloud cannot convey. 

Instead of extravagant gestures, Mihawk and Y/N prefer to exchange gifts that hold sentimental value. Mihawk might gift Y/N a rare book on something she likes, while Y/N might give Mihawk a custom-made piece of simple jewelry like a small bracelet she personally crafted for him. 

On Valentine's Day, Mihawk surprises Y/N by offering to cook dinner together. Despite her lack of culinary skills, Y/N appreciates the bonding activity and enjoys spending quality time with him in the kitchen, even if it results in a few culinary mishaps. 

After dinner, Mihawk and Y/N venture out into the castle's courtyard to stargaze. They lie side by side on a blanket, Y/N pointing out constellations and sharing stories about their significance, reveling in the peaceful solitude of the night, Mihawk just listens to her with a small fond smile. 

Throughout the day, Mihawk and Y/N take time to reflect on their journey together, reminiscing about cherished memories and shared experiences that have strengthened their bond over the years. 

As a romantic gesture, Mihawk and Y/N share a midnight dance in the castle's grand ballroom. Lit only by candlelight, they move together in a graceful waltz, lost in the magic of the moment and the timeless beauty of their love.    Going To Sleep Cuddling: Mihawk and Y/N will go to sleep in the end of the day holding each other, Y/N would curl up into his arms, burying her face into his chest while he wraps his arms around her his hand going into her hair to play with the soft strands.  

As Valentine's Day draws to a close, Mihawk and Y/N exchange a few hushed words as they cuddle, reaffirming their commitment to each other and the promise of a future filled with love, laughter, and endless adventures together. 

Roronoa Zoro:

Despite his tough exterior, Zoro secretly spends weeks planning the perfect Valentine's Day surprise for Y/N. He meticulously selects a secluded spot on the island they're docked on, where they can enjoy each other's company away from the hustle and bustle of the crew. 

Y/N, appreciative of Zoro's efforts, prepares a special gift for him on Valentine's Day. Knowing his love for swords, she surprises him with a beautifully crafted sheath for one of his blades, personalized with intricate designs that reflect their shared journey together. 

Zoro and Y/N spend Valentine's Day evening taking a leisurely stroll along the shores of the island. With the sound of waves lapping against the shore and the moonlight casting a soft glow, they share quiet moments of intimacy, lost in each other's company. 

During their stroll, Zoro and Y/N encounter a group of wild creatures roaming the island. With their swords drawn, they effortlessly dispatch the beasts, their synchronized movements a testament to their unwavering bond as swordsmen and lovers. 

As the night progresses, Zoro and Y/N build a campfire on the beach, the crackling flames casting flickering shadows around them. They share stories of their past adventures and dreams for the future, their laughter mingling with the sound of the ocean. 

Under the starlit sky, Zoro finally opens up to Y/N, expressing his gratitude for her presence in his life. He admits that he's not good at expressing his feelings, but Y/N's unwavering support and love have changed him for the better. 

Moved by Zoro's vulnerability, Y/N wraps her arms around him, offering him comfort and reassurance. She assures him that their love is enough, and she wouldn't have their Valentine's Day any other way. 

As the night comes to an end, Zoro and Y/N make a promise to each other to continue facing life's challenges together, hand in hand. They vow to cherish every moment and celebrate their love not just on Valentine's Day, but every day. 

As they watch the sun rise on the horizon, Zoro leans in to press a gentle kiss to Y/N's lips, sealing their promise with a silent vow of devotion. In that moment, amidst the beauty of the dawn, they find solace in the certainty of their love for each other. 

As they return to the ship, hand in hand, Zoro and Y/N share a knowing smile, their hearts full of love and gratitude for each other. Though their Valentine's Day was unconventional and filled with unexpected adventures, it was a testament to the strength of their bond and the depth of their love. 

Portgas D. Ace:

Y/N wakes up early on Valentine's Day to prepare a special breakfast for Ace. She arranges heart-shaped pancakes and fruit on a tray, leaving a note with a playful message for him to wake up to.  Ace spends weeks leading up to Valentine's Day working on a handmade gift for Y/N. He creates a personalized necklace with a small pendant in the shape of a flame, symbolizing their fiery love and passion. 

Y/N organizes a scavenger hunt around the Moby Dick for Ace. Each clue leads him to a different part of the ship, where he discovers small gifts and love notes hidden by Y/N. 

Ace surprises Y/N with a romantic beach picnic at a secluded cove. They enjoy a delicious meal together as they watch the sunset, the sound of the waves providing a serene backdrop to their intimate celebration. 

As the night falls, Ace and Y/N gather with their friends for a bonfire on the beach. They roast marshmallows, share stories, and cuddle close under a blanket, basking in the warmth of their love and the crackling fire. 

Y/N sets up a telescope on the deck of the Moby Dick, and she and Ace spend the evening stargazing together. They point out constellations, make wishes on shooting stars, and share dreams for their future, Y/N certainly tries to find constellations that match Ace’s freckles.  Ace surprises Y/N with a makeshift dance floor on the deck of the ship. He puts on her favorite song, and they dance together under the moonlight, lost in each other's arms. 

Y/N leaves little love notes for Ace to find throughout the day. Each note expresses her affection and gratitude for having him in her life, reminding him of the depth of her love. 

Ace and Y/N spend the afternoon cooking a special Valentine's Day dinner together in the kitchen. They laugh, tease each other, and steal kisses amidst the preparation, enjoying the simple pleasure of being together. (Marco is on standby with a fire extinguisher) 

As the day comes to a close, Ace and Y/N exchange heartfelt declarations of love. They express their gratitude for each other, promising to cherish and support one another for all the days to come, both of them yelling it at the top of their lungs of the railing of the ship and the crew is so done with them lol 

Donquixote Doflamingo:

Doflamingo, despite his intimidating persona, secretly enjoys the sentimentality of Valentine's Day. He's known for surprising Y/N with extravagant gifts, ranging from rare treasures he's acquired during their travels to personalized items he's commissioned just for her. Y/N, in turn, cherishes each gift as a symbol of Doflamingo's affection, even if she's not one for material possessions.  On Valentine's Day, Doflamingo arranges a private, candlelit dinner on the deck of their ship or a secluded spot on the island they're currently exploring. He spares no expense in ensuring the evening is perfect, with gourmet cuisine prepared by their crew's skilled chefs. Y/N appreciates the effort he puts into creating these intimate moments and enjoys the opportunity to spend quality time together away from the chaos of pirate life. 

Instead of focusing solely on lavish gifts and grand gestures, Doflamingo and Y/N often reminisce about their shared adventures and memorable moments throughout the years. They spend Valentine's Day reflecting on the challenges they've overcome together, the laughter they've shared, the tears they’ve shed and the unbreakable bond that has formed between them. 

Despite their often intense and tumultuous journey as pirates, Doflamingo and Y/N also value quiet moments of affection. They may spend Valentine's Day simply enjoying each other's company, whether it's lounging on the deck, stargazing, or taking a leisurely stroll on the beach hand in hand. It's in these peaceful moments that they feel most connected. 

Doflamingo and Y/N have a deep understanding of each other, and Valentine's Day serves as a reminder of the unspoken bond they share. They may not always verbalize their feelings, but their actions speak volumes. Whether it's a knowing glance, a comforting touch, or a gentle smile exchanged between them, they both know that their love is unwavering.

Eustass "Captain" Kid:

Despite her tough exterior, Y/N secretly enjoys the romantic gestures she receives on Valentine's Day. Kid, though he may not admit it openly, takes great pleasure in surprising Y/N with small gifts and tokens of affection, leaving them anonymously for her to find.  Kid's idea of a Valentine's Day gift may not be traditional, but it's always heartfelt. He might present Y/N with a custom-made weapon, intricately designed and tailored to her unique fighting style, or a rare treasure he stumbled upon during their travels, symbolizing the adventures they've shared together. 

Y/N, with her artistic flair, expresses her love for Kid through her creations. She might spend weeks crafting a personalized piece of jewelry for him, incorporating elements of his Jolly Roger or symbols that hold significance to their relationship, showcasing her devotion in a tangible form. 

Amidst the chaos of their pirate life, Y/N and Kid cherish the quiet moments they steal away together on Valentine's Day. They might escape to a secluded spot-on deck, watching the stars and sharing stories, finding solace in each other's company amidst the vastness of the sea. 

For Y/N and Kid, Valentine's Day is not just about romantic gestures, but also about embarking on new adventures together. They might set sail to explore uncharted islands, face formidable foes, or discover hidden treasures, strengthening their bond through shared experiences and thrilling escapades. 

Despite their differences, Y/N and Kid's relationship is built on mutual respect and understanding. They may not always see eye to eye, but they know how to support and uplift each other, especially on Valentine's Day, when they take the time to appreciate the unique qualities that make their bond so special. 

Y/N and Kid's Valentine's Day celebrations may not be conventional, but they're uniquely theirs. They might indulge in a feast of their favorite foods, engage in friendly competitions and challenges, or simply enjoy each other's presence, knowing that their love transcends traditional expectations. 

As they spend Valentine's Day together, Y/N and Kid exchange promises for the future. They may vow to stand by each other through thick and thin, to continue exploring the world and facing its challenges together, and to cherish the love they share, knowing that their bond is unbreakable.

Charlotte Katakuri:

Despite their tough exteriors, Y/N and Katakuri secretly enjoy showering each other with romantic gestures on Valentine's Day. Y/N surprises Katakuri with handcrafted doughnuts with many flavours, each one meticulously made with love and care. In return, Katakuri presents Y/N with a beautifully crafted box of her favorite sweets, a testament to his thoughtfulness and affection. On Valentine's evening, Y/N and Katakuri escape the chaos of Totto Land for a private dinner date on a secluded beach. They indulge in a feast of their favorite dishes, sharing laughter and intimate conversation under the twinkling stars. As the night deepens, they dance together in the moonlight, their hearts beating in perfect harmony. 

In the days leading up to Valentine's Day, Y/N and Katakuri exchange heartfelt love letters, expressing their deepest emotions and gratitude for each other. Y/N's letters are filled with poetic prose and declarations of undying love, while Katakuri's letters are eloquent and sincere, revealing the depths of his affection for Y/N. 

As a special Valentine's Day surprise, Katakuri whisks Y/N away on a romantic getaway to a secluded island paradise. They spend their days exploring pristine beaches, indulging in couples' massages, and savoring gourmet meals prepared by a private chef. It's a blissful escape from their duties and responsibilities, allowing them to focus solely on each other. 

On Valentine's Day, Y/N and Katakuri reminisce about their favorite moments together, flipping through photo albums filled with snapshots of their adventures. They laugh at candid shots of themselves and smile fondly at pictures of special milestones they've shared. It's a heartwarming reminder of the bond they've built and the memories they've created together, a few of them are pictures taken by Y/N of Katakuri throughout the day, in some of them his scarf is hiding a smile or a blush a reason as to why she took the picture (yes she walks around with a Visual Den Den Mushi.. At least that’s what I think the picture taking ones are called)    Y/N has been joining Katakuri during his Meriendas for years now and same as rumors spread about him meditating and talking to gods of battle during them rumors spread about her as well (I read a fic about this before where Y/N was considered his oracle and it’s an amazing one I’m trying to find it again) what they don’t know is that these two are being very sappy idiots, cuddling sharing kisses and laughs and stealing each other's sweets, especially on this day, the others just think that they’re doing some sort of ritual about devotion to Gods of Battle only lol. 

As the night falls on Valentine's Day, Y/N and Katakuri retreat to a secluded hilltop, where they lay beneath a blanket of stars, hand in hand. They share stories of their hopes and dreams, tracing constellations with their fingers and basking in the quiet beauty of the   night sky. It's a moment of perfect serenity, a reminder of the infinite possibilities that lie ahead for their love.

Massacre Soldier Killer:

Despite their tough exteriors, Killer and Y/N secretly enjoy surprising each other with small romantic gestures on Valentine's Day. Y/N might leave a heartfelt note tucked into Killer's pocket, while Killer might craft a makeshift bouquet of flowers from materials he finds on their travels. Valentine's Day is a rare opportunity for Killer and Y/N to spend some quality time together away from the chaos of pirate life. They might steal away to a secluded spot on the ship or find a quiet beach where they can enjoy each other's company without interruptions. 

Killer and Y/N reminisce about their favorite moments together, cherishing the memories they've created during their time as partners in crime. They might exchange stories about their most memorable adventures or laugh about the mishaps they've encountered along the way. 

Despite their limited resources as pirates, Killer and Y/N find creative ways to exchange gifts on Valentine's Day. Y/N might fashion a piece of jewelry from shells she finds on the beach, while Killer might carve a wooden trinket with his expert craftsmanship. 

Killer surprises Y/N with a romantic candlelit dinner, showcasing his culinary skills with a delicious meal cooked from scratch. Y/N, in turn, appreciates the effort and thoughtfulness behind the gesture, and they enjoy a quiet evening together under the stars. While they may not always express their emotions openly, Killer and Y/N show their love and affection for each other in subtle ways. A gentle touch, a lingering glance, or a reassuring smile speaks volumes in the language of their relationship. 

Valentine's Day serves as a reminder of the unbreakable bond between Killer and Y/N. They reaffirm their commitment to each other, promising to stand by each other's side through thick and thin, no matter what challenges may come their way. 

As they bask in the warmth of each other's love on Valentine's Day, Killer and Y/N discuss their hopes and dreams for the future. They envision a life together filled with adventure, laughter, and unwavering support, knowing that as long as they have each other, anything is possible. 

Overall, Valentine's Day is a special occasion for Killer and Y/N to celebrate their love and appreciation for each other, strengthening the bond that binds them together as partners in both love and piracy.

Sir Crocodile:

Crocodile and Y/N aren't ones for grand gestures, so their Valentine's Day celebration tends to be understated. They prefer spending quality time together rather than getting caught up in the commercial aspects of the holiday.  Crocodile surprises Y/N by preparing a simple but delicious meal for them to share. Despite his gruff exterior, Crocodile has a surprisingly deft hand in the kitchen, and Y/N is touched by the effort he puts into making the evening special. 

Instead of extravagant gifts, Crocodile and Y/N exchange meaningful tokens of their affection. Y/N gives Crocodile a handmade leather-bound journal, knowing how much he values knowledge and planning. In return, Crocodile presents Y/N with a rare seashell he found during one of their adventures, a symbol of their shared experiences. 

After dinner, Crocodile and Y/N enjoy a quiet evening together, lounging on the deck of their ship and gazing up at the stars. They talk about their hopes and dreams for the future, reveling in the simplicity of each other's company. 

Despite their tough exteriors, Crocodile and Y/N share a passion for Planning and Conquest. They spend the evening poring over maps and planning their next expedition, excited about the possibilities that lie ahead.  While they may not be overly demonstrative, Crocodile and Y/N show their love for each other in small, subtle ways. A gentle touch, a knowing glance, or a shared smile speaks volumes about the depth of their bond.   As the night draws to a close, Crocodile and Y/N express their gratitude for each other, acknowledging the strength and support they provide in each other's lives. They may not say "I love you" in so many words, but their actions speak louder than any declaration of affection ever could.

Trafalgar Law:

Y/N is bubbling with excitement as Valentine's Day approaches, eager to celebrate the occasion with Law despite his usual reservations about the holiday. She takes the lead in planning the day, organizing a romantic dinner aboard the Polar Tang complete with candles, rose petals, and Law's favorite dishes. Law, although initially hesitant about the festivities, appreciates Y/N's enthusiasm and decides to go along with her plans, wanting to make her happy. He surprises Y/N with small but meaningful gifts throughout the day, such as a locket containing a picture of the two of them together or a handwritten note expressing his love and gratitude. Y/N showers Law with affection, peppering him with kisses and hugs as they spend quality time together, enjoying each other's company in the privacy of their quarters. They share stories and reminisce about their favorite memories together, laughing and smiling as they bask in the warmth of their love. Law surprises Y/N with a heartfelt gesture, such as letting her cuddle with him instead of working or giving her a massage to help her relax and unwind. They exchange promises of love and commitment, reaffirming their bond and promising to stand by each other through thick and thin. As the day comes to a close, Law and Y/N cuddle up together under a blanket, content in each other's arms and grateful for the love they share. 

[drdemonprince]

i read in the comments to my last ask about "ordinary unhappiness" the idea of depression as a lack of agency and i feel like that is true? when i feel miserable and in pain, it's not because something is sad but because something is either unachievable or impossible (or at least there is the perception of it). and like i think that's what you were getting at too? this thing that drives you to keep going, this lack of satisfaction. i simply don't have anything i can give into such that i would ever even feel a lack of satisfaction. i've never had anything to give myself into and feel frustrated and perhaps sometimes successful in but instead i just envy the people who do have those things. nothing i've ever done has felt maintained a sense of emotional connectiveness in that way (positive or negative). i guess to wrap this back around to another potential talking point, i'm curious how you find that in your life? is it weird for me that nothing has ever felt worth putting myself whole ass into? idk, i find it envious you've got both writing and gay hypno fetish stuff you're able to just throw yourself into so wholly and utterly

Passion isn't inherent, it can be a choice too. I only look like I care a ton about writing and gay hypno stuff because I have deliberately chosen to pursue those passions, for many years, and cultivated a deep interest in them, anon.

When I was in my early twenties, I felt completely empty. I was a void. If you've read the first chapter of Unmasking Autism, this is the period I'm talking about in that book. I went away to graduate school (because I was good at academics, and I had some illusions about what a career in that field would do for me), but I had absolutely zero zest for the subject of psychology at that point. I had no research ideas. I read psychology books and publications purely out of obligation. I did what was required of me, but nothing additional beyond that, and I spent the rest of my time sitting at home, sometimes literally staring at the wall and crying. I had no friends or hobbies, aside from taking long, long depression walks listening to podcasts in order to fill the silence.

This was when I was at my most depressed, and my most suicidal. Just existing was a pain. I'd sob in bed at night and cry out begging for God to kill me, and I didn't even believe in God. The only thing that distracted me from my pain was a guy I was seeing, who was beautiful and very cruel and inconsistent, and I clung to him through all kinds of lies and abuse because it felt as though my happiness was located inside of him.

I had a friend that I wrote to about how miserable I was, and all the twists and turns that my horrible romance was taking. Her name was Heather. (Unlearning Shame is dedicated to her). She told me hey, you're a really good writer, did you know that? I really enjoy reading your emails, even when you're speaking about the most pitiful anguished shit, you really put it poetically and have a ton of insight. You should write more.

For a while, I ignored her. I didn't care about writing. I just wanted to get my pain out on the page because I had nobody to talk to, and oodles of time to waste. I had nothing otherwise that I felt I HAD to say. I had no PASSION. I did not feel like I was put on this earth to do anything. Other people seemed to have these drives, and I had nothing.

But then one day in a fit of depression I stopped by a bookstore right near my apartment, The Armadillo's Pillow, just to get outside of the house. I happened upon a book I had loved in high school, Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections. I took it home. I read it. It transported me for a few hours away from my pain. I went back to the book store and picked up some sci-fi. A John Varley collection, I think. I was also swept away from my suffering, even when the stories had flaws that I noticed. I was interested in the actual craft of storytelling: what worked and what didn't. And there was finally some beauty in my head instead of the usual dreariness and self-hatred and emptiness.

And so. I made the choice to write. I could have taken it or left it at that point. I didn't care about anything. Caring is a muscle that you have to flex. And when you're depressed, it can be very hard. I needed a lot of nudges from the external world and other people, to realize that I had some things I did gravitate toward, even if I didn't realize it.

All that time of course I WAS driven to write. I was churning out 5k word letters to Heather every day practically. I was reading stupid shit online. And when it was put in front of me, and I had no reason to feel guilt about not working hard enough on other things, I reached for books. But I didn't feel passion strongly under the heavy blankets of my depression. Or usually at all, really. I am a quite internally muted person whose emotions are suppressed. But they're there. Speaking to me softly. And to overcome my depression, I had to decide to listen to them instead of ignoring them all of the time, and give them kindling, and then fan them into a flame.

I started blogging regularly while I was in graduate school (right here, hello, you can check my archive dating back to 2011), and finding a reason to live. When I was writing, I felt like the world was interesting, and beautiful. It gave me new things to do. I attended literary readings and book launches all over town. I submitted work to magazines. I bought old copies of magazines and read them. I inhaled books. I listened to fiction podcasts. I joined writing groups. At first, it felt like a slog, like anything else. Doing these things, I was not "happy". But I was interested. I liked learning about the world of publishing, critiquing people's stories in my head, and commisserating with other Tumblr writers about the stuff that got featured on the Prose tag that sucked.

After YEARS of doing this, of choosing to fan my passions, it became a genuine motivation in my life. But even then? I lose track of it sometimes. I get busy, or there's no place comfy to sit and read in my apartment, and I forget that I like writing and reading for months at a time. And then I have to choose it again. It takes effort to care about something, every time.

It's the same way with hypno. I did have a fetish for this stuff all my life long. But it's a passion that people always thought was weird and gross, and that I thought was bad. I didn't tell anyone about it until my late 20's. I felt ashamed masturbating to it or looking up hypno content online. For years I snuffed out that flame of passion until I could barely feel it anymore. It wasn't until I was super depressed AGAIN in my later 20's that I took a bunch of weird off-label anti-depressant drugs under the table and had a weird dreamy headspace overtake me and make me insanely horny that I remembered how much I loved hypno, and because I was in search of an escape from my tormented brain, I sought hypnotists out.

And I had the time of my life. But I also had boring, awkward encounters, bad hook-ups, and had to do a ton of work.

My passions have drawn me out of depression because I needed them to. I had to find them, listen to them, and then give them lots of food. And it's one of the few things that a person does often have agency over, no matter how dispiriting their circumstances. You can make choices about where to put what attention you do have, in what free moments you do have. When you're on the bus or in line at the grocery store and you're thinking about how much you hate yourself, you can try to think about a story you read or a sexual fantasy you had, instead. It's a lot of work. But it's better work than the work of hating yourself, which takes a whole lot of energy and attention itself.

I hope you can find something like this for you. It doesn't really matter what it is. It can be some hobby you've always wanted to try, or something "childish" you've suppressed. Having a passion isn't like being chosen by the universe to care about something. It's not like love at first sight. Nothing fucking works like that in life. It's always work. It's always a choice you have to make, because no one else will give it to you. But there can be hints that you can follow, sometimes.

[dollgxtz]

Why’d you write Sylus so crazy? You’re turning him into one of those booktok men and he’s anything BUT that. I just don’t get it :/

Hi anon! I know my yandere!Sylus story is disturbing. And while yes, I do take great pleasure in writing such topics such as kidnapping n such, I genuinely just wanted to write a dark Sylus fic exploring a different version of him where his desires and upbringing lead him to hurt even the people he loves. I love tragic characters and stories!

Think about if you watch a horror movie. You know murdering and killing is bad and yet you still watch it for entertainment, to see what happens!

By the way, this isn’t to argue or call you out anon, just hoping to shed some light on my perspective as the author. I love when people ask about my work, and I’m happy to answer regardless of the context! My ask box is always open if any of you have questions!

Below is a breakdown of some of the complexities I wanted to portray!

Yandere!Sylus Breakdown

I envisioned him as a deeply complex character—not necessarily in his emotions, because yandere!Sylus always knows exactly what he wants—but in the way he rationalizes his actions and interprets his “wrongdoings.”

On the surface, his actions are undeniably wrong. Kidnapping a girl, forcing her into a life of isolation, and desiring to have children with her while keeping her away from everyone she’s ever loved is, by all moral standards, reprehensible. However, Yandere!Sylus doesn’t see it that way. To him, these actions are justifiable as long as they fulfill a purpose in his grand design.

He operates with a calculated mindset, never doing anything unless he believes it will ultimately benefit him, even if it means causing immense suffering. The fact that the reader might hate him only reinforces his resolve; he views it as a challenge, something to be overcome or “fixed” rather than a deterrent.

This doesn’t mean he doesn’t love reader, he does. But he is inherently selfish at his core since that was what was needed to survive. I intend to break this down further!

In yandere!Sylus’s twisted logic, he genuinely believes that if he can get the reader pregnant, she will inevitably develop a bond with the child. He sees this as a means to an end—a way to “tame” her, to anchor her to him emotionally.

He is convinced that motherhood will soften her resistance, leading her to accept the life he has meticulously crafted for them. To him, this is not just a strategy but a deeply held belief that love, however twisted, can be cultivated through shared ties, like the birth of a child.

This version of Sylus is driven by a yearning for the idealized version of happiness that society often romanticizes—the “big happy family” with “children running around” and a “loving wife.” It’s a vision that he clings to desperately, not because he understands it in the way most people do, but because he was denied such love and stability as a child.

Sylus grew up in a world where love was scarce and survival was paramount, as depicted in the original story. This lack of nurturing has warped his understanding of love and family, leading him to believe that these things can be engineered or forced into existence.

In blending elements of the original story into this version of Sylus and the reader, I wanted to show the core aspects of his character while exploring new dimensions of his psyche. However, I didn’t want it to be an exact replication, as the reader in this version isn’t the canonical main character from the original universe. Instead, she represents an alternative narrative where Sylus’s obsessions and desires manifest differently, yet still retain the disturbing intensity that defines his character! ^o^

All in all, if this story isn’t for you. Don’t read it please. I write for a certain demographic of people who enjoy twisted media. It’s fiction after all! No one is truly getting hurt. I hope this helps with your confusion anon!

[motherofdogs1010]

Masterlist

I write with chubby-coded/plus sized, racial inclusive readers in mind; very rarely do I mention anything about a reader's physical appearance, all are welcome and are written in mind for everyone to enjoy!!

Must be 18+ to join taglists

I also take frequent mental health breaks since I do suffer from poor mental health, BUT writing is my safe space so I will always come back to you guys ❤️

Key:

💋 18 + Smut

😊 Fluff

💔 Angst

🖤 Dark Storyline

😉 Omegaverse

Laurel Sickness (Sonny Carisi x Reader) 🖤

Summary: Laurel Sickness is an case of extreme case of obsessive love that is sweeping the globe with no explanation. People are becoming just as mad as Apollo once was when he first set his godly eyes on the virgin nymph, Daphne.

Warnings: 18+ only, dark!fic, toxic behavior, gaslighting, dystopian society, dark!Sonny Carisi, stalking, stalker!Sonny Carisi, the world's messed up in this story, age gap relationship, forced relationship, eventual non-con/dub-con, Stockholm Syndrome

Part I Part II TBA

Need to Know (Peter Parker x Reader) 💋

Inspired by Doja Cat's "Need to Know"

Summary: When she was ready to get back out on the dating scene after dumping a certain Winter Soldier, Y/N was a woman ready to get back out there. She just never expected to find herself in a relationship with a certain nerdy spider.

Warnings: older woman/younger man, age gap relationship, heavy smut, drinking, swearing, daddy kink, mentions of cheating, toxic ex behavior, eventual pregnancy

Part I Part II Part III COMING SOON

Please, Please (Peter Parker x Reader) 💋

Re-write of 'Need to Know'

Part I

Little Darling (Thomas Shelby x Reader) 💋

Summary: Birmingham has received a new club, one that is showcasing a exotic type of dance that is drawing in crowds, but it is one particular dancer that catches Thomas Shelby's eye... one that goes by the stage name: Little Darling

Warnings: 18+ only, eventual smut, stripper!reader, mentions of prostitution/sex work, canon Peaky Blinders violence, swearing, drinking

Part I Part II Part III Part IV COMING SOON

Letters to Juliet & Romeo (Thomas Shelby x Reader) 😊💔

Inspired by 'Letters to Juliet' film...

Summary: Heartbroken and in the midst of the Great War as a nurse, Y/N L/N writes to a person she never expected to write to before... her brother's friend, Thomas Shelby... But the war's over now and it is time to face the letters...

Warnings: angst, wartime talk, fluff, reunion, pre-Peaky Blinders Tommy, solider!Tommy, nurse!Reader, chubby!reader, age gap (everyone is of age)

Part I Part II

Of Messiahs and Seeds (Dark!Paul Atreides x Reader) 🖤💋

Summary: Emperor Paul of House Atreides has set forth with expansion of his empire on the planets that have resisted and has now come across the last stronghold that resists him: Terra Millennium...

Warnings: 18+ only, eventual NONCON/DUBCON, eventual forced marriage and pregnancy, violence, language, drinking, chubby!reader, dark!Paul Atreides, spoilers for Dune Part 2

Part I Part II Part III Part IV COMING SOON

A Jedi in Arrakis (Paul Atreides x Reader) 💋💔😊

Summary: While on the run from Empire troops, Jedi padawan Y/N comes to find out that hyper-driving in a compromised craft can have some major setbacks when she discovers not only is on a new planet but a whole new galaxy as well...

Warnings: jedi!reader, eventual 18+, NSFW, angst, fluff, eventual smut/pinv!sex, oral sex, talks of questioning the Force and teachings, spoilers for Dune Part I and II, eventual marriage

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI TBA

Solar Flare (Feyd-Rautha x Reader) 💋

Summary: Chosen as the bride of na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, Y/N finds herself at the hands of the sadistic na-Baron who seems keen on having his bride on their wedding night...

Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, arranged marriage, DUBCON/ pinv sex, fingering, loss of virginity, brief knife kink, small breeding kink, crude language, forced arranged marriage

Dividers by @firefly-graphics & me

Banner by @vase-of-lilies

[rosesbxrry]

I’ve got my eyes on you

Pairing: Boyfriend! Heeseung X Fem! Reader X Roommate! Jake

Genre: Smut🔞 (Minors DNI), Heeseung and reader have a established relationship, Roommate AU!

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up before you tap it), Hard Dom! Heeseung, Sub! Reader, Jake is like neutral, threesome, double penetration, anal sex, voyeurism, nipple play, squirting, cum eating, clit play and slapping, dirty talking, slut shaming, degradation, blowjob, degradation, multiple orgasm, cream pie, dacryphilia, overstimulation, fingering, Heeseung being mean. Hopefully I didn’t miss out anything else.

Summary: Jake has always loved capturing the beauty in any subject, the camera being his appendage for as long as he could remember. But pursuing what he loves in college didn’t end as well as he thought before he met the two of you, the couple who would change his black-and-white perspective for years to come.  

Main masterlist

Word count: 6,242 words

a/n: I have no words to describe how horny I was while writing this. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy reading this while I slave away to do my long awaited thesis 🥲 🥲 Also, I want to say thank you so much for 1,600+ followers 🫶🫶 🤧

Jake was always told that he had an eye for art.

Aligning the clear lens near to his right eye while the other shut closed, feeling the robust outline of the camera weighing his arms as he brings it up and the subtle tap on the flat button before—

Snap

He took a picture worth a thousand words.

From photography to filmography, Jake’s aptitude talent to be able to capture the nuances of angles and depth earned him a scholarship from a rather prestigious college to further his education.

Succumbing to the naivety of pursuing his skill in a more formal method, his passion for the art had been confined in a small defined box. The initial gratification and contentment of crafting a piece of pure refinery were moulded into the rules of academic guidelines.

He might abide by his philosophy, but he’s not stupid to flop his studies.

The semesters were filled with bleak and gruelling days— suffering through classes, assignments and professors that seemed to come and go. Nevertheless, he thought that he would spend his roaring twenties enjoying life and creating projects, with the possibility of doing a gallery show to display pieces of his creation to the world.

What seemed to be a rock bottom situation has graced him with the silver lining he needed.

Lee Heeseung was another fellow student in the school, a year older than him, who needed a new roommate in his apartment.

Coincidentally, Jake decided to move out of his parent’s house for independence, finding solace in the fact that the male was reasonably trustable and able to save money simultaneously.

It was initially awkward, mostly coming from him, who was slightly tense about living with an older person other than his family. Jake upholds respect as a constitution to his morals, but he slowly loosens up his relationship with Heeseung from a stranger to his best friend.

But it seemed Heeseung came with a combo, and that was you, his roommate’s girlfriend.

Intertwining his life with Heeseung meant that you were also in the package, often visiting the apartment to bring food or have a movie night together. As a result, Jake often feels like he is imposing on the couple because no one wants a third wheel tailing your scarce intimate time with each other.

However, it seemed like you and Heeeseung didn’t mind his company, often inviting Jake to activities like a trip to the aquarium or a study picnic on the grass field on the campus ground.

The couple knew about Jake’s talent with the camera, often asking him to take pictures of the memories for sentimental purposes.

For all his life in filming and snapping pictures, whether it be organisms to inanimate objects, the subject of his inspiration has never come close to how perfectly the two of you looked through the camera’s lens from his eyes.

At first, his impression of the couple’s relationship was admiration, understanding and respect for each other in overcoming complex obstacles, seeing one another as equal rather than subject to the emotion and stress that manifested during those squabbles.

Still, it didn’t sit right with him to call it admiration, and the turning point soon tests the hypothesis when in the dead of the night one day, he heard you and Heeseung having sex for the first time.

The walls that separate his room and Heeseung’s were arguably not that thin, but it wasn’t thick enough either to muffle the whimpers and moans coming from the room next door.

Jake felt like he had a stomach ache listening to the couple’s soft lewd sounds, not because he hated it, but quite the opposite; the noises turned him on.

It began as something that flew over his head, not dissecting the whole thing in great detail until he heard it for the second time, and then the third time, and before he knew it, he had his pyjama pants down to his knees, desperately humping his pillow to the rhythm of his friends having sex with a palm clamp over his mouth.

He fantasizes about the two bodies mingled with one another on the white sheets of Heeseung’s bed; the eloquent actions of touching, grabbing and thrusting that aggregated into white milky beautiful essence oozing out of your hole—

Jake came on the fabric of his pillowcase with the thought of capturing the cinematography of such an imaginary masterpiece deeply rooted in the reality he could never witness.

So much adrenaline was pumping through his body that he could hear his heart beating.

He woke up groggy and tired the next morning on those days, feeling like he got hit by a truck at how uneasy he felt. He dreaded coming outside, knowing he’d see you and Heeseung making breakfast together, embarrassed to even make eye contact with them.

The male felt nauseous, in fact, filthy to the core of even masturbating silently to the notion of them fucking. Realization slowly dawned on him that the search for the term to describe how he feels about the two of you has concluded in his head— infatuation.

No words could ever express the emotion better on how he felt in the enchanting relationship they shared.

The mundane life he had owned morphed into restless torture of constant tossing and turning. He felt guilt eating him up, more so because he hid such a deceitful act of touching himself while putting up a disguise behind his friend’s back.

At the culmination of the chaotic situation, Jake saw Heeseung's gallery by accident.

The younger male wanted to call his missing phone in his room, asking permission from Heeseung, who was doing the laundry at the time, if he could use the older male’s phone. However, while pressing on the phone app to search for his number, his clumsy fingers, by chance, opened up the gallery instead, causing his eyes to bulge out at what he saw.

It was a thumbnail of a recent video logged into the first file, big enough for him to decipher the image that made him almost drop the phone.  

The camera's angle was situated visibly at the side view of Heeseung in between your legs, missionary position with a blanket covering the area where your bodies meet. You were gripping his arm that was caging the sides of your head against the familiar bed, and Jake didn’t need to stare for too long to understand what was going on.

A dull sound rang in his ears, and his throat grew dry as his heart erratically beat against his ribcage. Then, with a shaking thumb hovering above the video icon, Jake’s breathing was as loud as his swallowing before pressing on it reluctantly, pupils trembling in nervousness.

The video played.

Heeseung was thrusting into you, hearing the sound of soft skin slapping mixed with whiny, muffled moans and grunts that echoed against the phone’s speaker. The upper part of their faces was cut out from the shot, but in the dimly lit room, the smirk on Heeseung’s face was evident.

“Shhh, didn’t I tell you to quiet down princess, or are you purposely doing it for Jake to hear you?” Heeseung whispered slowly against your ear, eliciting a small cry from your lips.

Eyes as wide as saucers, Jake couldn’t believe what he was witnessing, his name leaving his roommate’s mouth while fucking you.

Heeseung chuckled darkly, smacking his hips harder against yours. “Fuck, that’s it, isn’t it? You tighten up everytime I say his name. Such a dirty girl.”

Jake’s breathing shallowed beyond disbelief at what he was hearing.

Heeseung fastens his pace, causing you to sink your nails into his arm desperately. “That’s why you like it when I fuck your ass, right? Reserving your pretty pussy just for Jakey to ruin it.”

A gasp left his lips in total shock.

Something unfathomable brewed deep inside Jake’s stomach when he realized that Heeseung was penetrating your ass the whole time under the cover.

Jake envisioned your drenched, sweet pussy clenching around nothing at the thought of his cock in you and the little nickname that Heeseung teasingly used to build up the tension— a taut knot settling at the bottom of his gut at how turned on he was by the act.

But the last sentence that Heeseung said made him freeze like a deer in headlights.

“Imagining he was the one filming us right now.”

Every fibre of his body reacted to those words, playing them repeatedly in his head like a broken record. Jake felt like his head was doused with a bucket of cold water without warning; mind and body underwent a spiralled loophole of a fever dream.

He was in a state of disorientation when Heeseung walked into his room obliviously.

“Hey, Jake. Did you find your— wow, you okay dude?” Heeseung’s voice fell into deep worry at how ghostly his friend’s expression was.

Jake’s lack of response causes Heeseung’s eyes to trail to the phone he was holding tightly and the obvious sound emitting from the device.

The older male’s face distorts into multiple stages of horror and dread in recognition. The fear that pierced his wide eyes while looking back and forth between Jake’s face and the phone indicated that he was caught red-handed.

The taller male swallowed hard. “We can explain.”

It didn’t take long for Heeseung to call you to come to the shared apartment, albeit in between explaining to you on the phone, Jake heard muffled shouting of fury on your end while his roommate walked mindlessly in circles, trying to calm you down.

Sitting on the sofa patiently in the living room, Jake didn’t know how to handle the whole ordeal or if he was ready to accept whatever lay ahead with the two of you.

The sound of the apartment door swinging open echoed the space, revealing a dishevelled you trudging past the hallway into the living area. Jake felt guilty at your current dismay, possibly running directly here after finishing your class on campus as you were still carrying your backpack.

When you make eye contact with Jake, you look down in embarrassment.

“Okay.” Heeseung tried to fill in the awkward silence calmly, the pregnant pause giving away how thick the tension was in the room. “Where do we even start?”

You scoff distastefully, putting your backpack down harshly on the ground. “Start? How about you explain to me how the video was even found out in the first place!”

Jake drowned out the disputed exchange between the couple, trying to mallow down his rapid breathing. If he let this kind of situation escalate, it might end up being a dumpster fire in a few minutes. His mind wandered to articulate the proper sentence to begin, finally settling on the information he had been aching to know.

“How long…..has this been going on?” Jake didn’t realize how nervous he was until he spoke with a slight rasp, breaking his silence since he discovered the video.

His question shifted the attention of the two to him, realizing that the true dupe of the sitch had been wearily calmed the whole time. But, of course, they didn’t know that Jake himself kept a not-so-innocent secrecy as well.

“The first time we did it…..in my room.” Heeseung glanced your way as a confirmation while you gave a subtle nod back at his reply.

“Why did you guys film it?”

You and Heeseung exchange eye contact with each other apprehensively.

“We did it for the first time out of impulse, and when Heeseung mentioned your name in the middle of it—” You grimaced, trying to explain, but the words died in your throat out of pure awkwardness.

Heeseung flashes you a consoling look.

“Long story short, we didn’t realize how much you have an effect on us that we kept going even after the first. Well, the video, it's…..a living proof of that.” Heeseung continues, biting on his lower lip at the end.

Another excruciating pause follows suit.

It was hard to focus as you tried to read Jake’s facial expression but to no avail. It made you realize the loud ticking sound of the clock in the living room or the soft noises coming from the neighbours above behind the pin-drop silence in the backdrop.

The agitation was getting on your nerves, and all you could think about was the guilt that overshadowed everything else.

“We’re really sorry, Jake.” You apologize sincerely. “We didn’t mean to use you in that kind of way.”

“Yeah,” Heeseung muttered in agreement, flashing a remorseful downward glance towards the younger male with a sigh. “So, we totally get it if you want nothing to do with us and move out of the apartment.”

Anyone who was in Jake’s position would be bewildered by circumstance— finding out that your roommate and his girlfriend had been deliberately having sex for you to hear next door and, on top of that, gaining arousal from your existence unknowingly undermines the friendship that was built on trust seemed borderline intrusive.

But that was the perception that the two of you presumed.

In his mind, he couldn’t fathom such a surreal moment he thought was just an erotic fantasy in his mind was happening, as if the planets had aligned for the sky above to bless a disparate soul like him with the epitome of heaven.

Jake could feel the thrill of revealing his divulgence without a second thought; a small smirk curled his lips.

“Oh no, I don’t think I can do that.”

He chuckled slowly, watching the two faces turn perplexed by his words.

Jake gave a nonchalant shrug. “I mean, have you guys seen how horrible the set-up for the video was? It looks like a cheap DVD porno that many juvenile teens would drool over. Who else other than me can prevent that kind of thing from happening again.”

At this point, the two looked like a pair of gaping fishes standing in front of him, as if he grew a third head or said something wildly demented, completely disregarding the fact that he had insulted the camera work of the video.

There was a notable doubt in their expression, yet slightly reposed by the tether of hope that Jake was saying what they thought he was saying based on his words' innuendo.

“You guys weren’t really being sly about the whole thing, you know. I can hear you banging from a mile away.” Jake revealed, smiling cheekily when the couple immediately flushed in embarrassment.

“Oh my God, Jake.” You let out a tired sigh, but a hint of relief flooded the way you dragged your breath at the end. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

The younger male was slightly taken aback by the question but answered earnestly with his feelings because what he was about to say next will completely overturn the course of each other’s relationship.

The corners of his mouth slid upwards knowingly.

“You guys aren’t the only ones secretly enjoying it.”

If someone asked Jake what his proudest creation was, he wished that he could show them the sight he was capturing right now with his camera.

His figure stood a few feet away from Heeseung’s bed, perfectly encapsulating the shot of the couple making out with your back facing the camera, watching through the crips lens as he zoomed in the way Heeseung shoved his tongue into your mouth as he pulled you closer on his lap.

Jake’s fantasy of the two could never compare to the one he witnessed.

He felt excitement overwhelming his body, holding the camera steadily to focus on Heeseung’s hands, grabbing onto your ass, pulling on the strings of your lace panties until the crotch was wedged between your crack.

Your sweet moans filled the room, no longer timid like before when Heeseung convinced you and Jake that it was the perfect time to film.

The younger male was also nervous— it wasn’t that long ago when the three of you talked about what happened, finally coming to a conclusion about the addition of Jake into the bedroom.

He didn’t realize how nerve-wracking it was, feeling his cock growing hard against his jeans at the way your hips were desperately grinding on Heeseung’s clothed erection, facilitated with the help of the said male’s hand grabbing onto the flesh of your exposed ass.

“Such a needy girl.” Heeseung chuckled darkly after releasing your lips messily with saliva, kissing your neck as he buckled back to meet your movement. “You love it, don’t you? Knowing that Jake is watching you hump my cock so desperately while you show your bare ass to him.”

Heeeseung looked directly into the camera between your shoulders while nibbling on your skin, enjoying how Jake’s fingers tightened their hold on the equipment when you whimpered loudly in confirmation.

He moves close to whisper into your ears, hands snaking along your back to unclasp your bra.

“Let’s show him how much of a little slut you can be, okay?”

Jake’s breath hitched when Heeseung turned you around to face the camera, revealing your ample chest for him to marvel at as it bounced softly, nipples beautifully erect under the dimly warm lights of the room.

You caught sight of how Jake moved forward eagerly until his knees were flushed at the edge of the bed, your skin turning hot at the fact that he was filming your exposed breast so minuscule.

Heeseung pulled you roughly until your back was leaning on his naked chest, narrowing your chance of curling away from the vulnerable position. His large hands cup your breast from behind, kneading the swell in a tender and circular motion.

“Hands behind your back, baby.” Heeseung thumb at your stiff peaks, his nails digging at the sensitive area that you gasp out at the sensation. “Or I’ll have to show Jake that you can come with just your tits being played with like before.”

Jake couldn’t believe his ears, and his mind was already running wild at the thought, wishing that you'll keep pushing Heeseung’s button until he did carry out the punishment for Jake to see.

But you shook your head between the junction of his neck with your eyes squeezed shut, obviously not wanting to be subjected to such a humiliating act, especially for Jake to witness.

“No?” Heeseung teased, pinching your nipples before pulling them away harshly, twirling the hard peaks back and forth with his thumb and forefingers.

You whimpered in agony, clawing at his thighs resting between your hips while shoving your nose deeper into the crevice of his neck in mercy. Heeseung laughed at your state, panting hotly against his skin as he abused your tits.

“Then be a good girl and spread your legs apart for us, yeah?”

Us.

That specific pronoun sends waves of unfathomable pleasure between your and Jake’s legs, reducing both of you into a brazen state.

Following Heeseung’s order, Jake almost let out a moan behind the camera when you slowly opened your legs, his hands trembling at the sight of the very prominent dark and wet patch in the middle of your panties that sticks to the outline of your pussy like a glove.

Heeseung let a breathy chuckle at Jake’s striking reaction. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

A hand escaped to curved downward along your stomach, dipping in between your hips to rub at your clothed folds. You buck your hips at the friction as Heeseung’s deft fingers drag along your puffy lips, eliciting a mantra of moans from your throat.

“This pussy gets nice and soaked just thinking about us. Right, baby girl?” Heeseung cooed, causing you to nod obediently, chest heaving at the way his fingers probed at your sweet entrance teasingly, letting a gush of juices escape to drench your panties even more.

Jake was enamoured at the sight, absolutely winded with a whole zoo churning in his stomach that he didn’t realize he was kneeling on the soft mattress of the bed, capturing the way Heeseung was stroking your clothed pussy while the other was still playing with one of your nipples lazily.

It didn’t help that you were watching him through half-lidded eyes, head lolling to the side with mouth agape when you eyed the visible bulge of his cock through his pants.

Heeseung glances at you when you squeeze his thighs a little harder, following your gaze to see what has captured your attention, causing him to grin.

“Looks like we got a big boy in our hands, huh, princess.”

Jake’s ears immediately perked up behind the camera, unbestowed to him that two sets of eyes were prowling on the outline of his aching cock like a predator hunting for its prey.

Heeseung nudged his nose against the underside of your ear. “Why don’t you be a sweetheart and help him out a little?”

There was no hesitation in the way you hooked on the belt hoop of his jeans, pulling the younger male closer until his crotch was arm’s length from your face. Jake was taken aback by your action, almost letting the camera fall while shuffling his knees on the bed to follow your lead.

You spread your palm over his bulge, dragging sensually with a little pressure to feel him over his jeans. A breathy hiss left his lips when you squeezed lightly on the head, and the friction felt deliciously good that he buckled slightly when you continued to smooth his erection.

The sound of his belt clicking and feeling the tight confinement of his jeans slowly loosening up, he throbs hotly when you tug at his pants, bringing them down to his thighs with his briefs.

“Fuck, Hee…..his so beautiful.” Jake immediately blushed when you whined incredulously at the male behind.

Jake’s cock stood proudly against his abdomen, fully pink and erected from the stimulation of watching Heeseung play with your tits and pussy. Milky pearls of cum had dribbled out of his slit and down to his length, head twitching when he felt your hungry gaze on him.

But you were drooling at how his veins pop up prominently, and his cute balls are nice and tight; it entices you to reach out and fist him firmly.

“Shit—“ Jake could hold it any longer, moaning at the sensation of your hand pumping him slowly and smearing his precum along his thick length.

Still, Jake was determined to fix the shot to you stroking his cock so deliciously, his abdomen tensing up when you flick your wrist harder when you reach his sensitive head, and then moaning loudly when you drag down to the base with a pressure, collecting his wetness between your fingers.

Heeseung watched you play with Jake’s cock as he rested his chin on your shoulder, heavy eyes soaking in the pleasurable sight of his girlfriend giving a handjob to his roommate.

“Baby, use your other hand to play with his balls.” Heeseung mumbled his command close to your ear. “I think he’ll enjoy it.”

Jake rolled his eyes to the back of his head when you fondled his heavy balls, gritting his teeth when you massaged the soft flesh indolently enough to make his hips stutter, igniting the knot in his stomach and making him lightheaded to the touch.

The younger male was gasping for air behind the camera, never thinking such minuscule action could drive him insane.

You lick your dry lips at how adorable his body reacted as you continue to use both hands, feeling an ache in your mouth and wondering how he would feel against your tongue.

Fuck, you bet he tasted sweet.

“Hee, Can I…..?” You ask gullibly to the side, and Heeseung doesn’t need any clarification before shaking his head at your antics with disapproval.

“If you want something in your mouth, baby, you have to ask him nicely. Where are your manners?” You whimpered when Heeseung slapped your clothed clit hard for Jake to witness before pushing your panties to the side, rubbing you raw against his padded fingers.

Jake observed with amazement how Heeseung treated you roughly, loving how you cried pathetically before looking up at him with hope-pooled eyes between your lashes.

“Jakey, can I please suck your cock?”

The way you asked him so crudely with such innocence had him swallowing hard, letting a sound of approval leave his throat.  

Jake thanked the heaven and stars when you engulfed his head around your plump lips, reaching out to rest a hand on your head to steady himself. With your hands around the base, you tongue at his slit to taste his sticky precum before suckling to take more and more of his length into your mouth.

At the same time, Heeseung slipped two fingers into your tight hole without warning; the sudden stretch of your velvet walls to accommodate his long fingers almost caused you to choke on Jake’s cock with saliva.

“Easy, princess. You don’t want to hurt our precious Jakey.” Heeseung used his other hand to securely hold your jaw, ensuring that your mouth was still attached to his length.

“I’m sure the underside is very, very sensitive…..”

Heeseung had never been wrong with Jake’s ticks, and you flattened your tongue to rub on the veiny side of his erection until he felt the drag of your textured taste buds that accentuated the pleasure.

The exact pace was established momentarily— Heeseung was pumping his fingers in and out of your pussy hole with the rhythm of your head bobbing and tongue swirling around Jake’s cock.

The hand holding the camera felt heavy when he grabbed your hair tighter as you plunged your mouth deeper, and he groaned when the tip of your nose was flush against his pubic area, feeling his tip pressing against the back of your throat.

You did this a couple of times, gliding in and out of his length until the wet sound that emitted echoed in the room.

Heeseung scissored your hole relentlessly, feeling you soaking his fingers until it dripped down his knuckles. “Look at you, letting your boyfriend watch you stuff your mouth full with another man’s cock, you dumb fucking slut.”

Tears blurred your eyesight as Heeseung spat at you with degrading words, swallowing around Jake’s hard cock as your boyfriend inserted another finger to abuse your hole, loving how the rough stretch enlightened your arousal.

Jake watches you through the foggy lens simultaneously as you look up to show him the lewdest expression through the camera, the corner of your mouth wide open with his cock and drool dripping down your chin so obscenely.

His cock pulsates at the picture-perfect moment, feeling his threshold teetering around the edge before he loads your mouth with his creamy seed, bucking his hips as a loud moan ripples out from deep within his chest.

“…..that’s it, you eat up Jake so well.” Heeseung’s three fingers curl to press on the tender spot of your cervix, and your walls spasm around them as your sweet release encapsulates you with euphoric pleasure.

The vibrations of your moans around his spent cock kept Jake’s orgasm elevated beyond the clouds.

Everything happens in tandem with each other— you were swallowing Jake’s hot cum while Heeseung rides you off your orgasm as you rock his fingers for more friction.

It gave Jake the perfect moment to readjust the camera's focus on the couple as the tension simmered.

But it didn’t end just yet.

“Come here, pretty girl.” Heeseung coaxes you after licking his fingers clean with your arousal, making you release Jake’s cock with a loud pop as he manoeuvres your head to the side. “I want to have a taste too.”

Jake’s heart lurches from his chest when Heeseung captures your lips and devours your mouth full of his cum. The kiss was sloppy and wet, even downright dirty, as two tongues wrestled to taste each other’s cavern, frenching with open mouths so vulgarly that the slimy spit mixed with yours and Jake’s essence dripped down straight out of a porno.

The proud smirk on Heeseung’s face while he sucked on your lower lip and glanced over at him briefly told Jake everything he needed to know.

“Do you need me to prepare you, princess?” Heeseung asks, wiping away the white strings that form when he pulls away.

He watches you tentatively through hooded eyes, chest rising and falling with puffy lips before looking at Jake nervously. The older male had the gall to chuckle at your state, finding gratification in your shy reaction as he tucked away a few strands of hair behind your ear.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think Jake minds filming me finger fucking your pretty asshole with your head down.” Heeseung curiously looks at Jake’s way at the end.

The said male was heaving in his breath, having the front row seat as he imagined your pink, puckered hole being shoved in and out with Heeseung’s lanky fingers to loosen up your walls, your face flush against the pillow muffled with your cries.

He might get lucky if Heeseung felt the need to take the extra step of letting you come again, your pussy in full display for him to see you clench against absolutely nothing as you drown your folds with your own slick.

This must be a dream; it has to be.

“N-no, I want it to be tight…..” Your desperate plea cuts through the tension, tucking your bottom lip with your teeth as you tug on Heeseung’s pants impatiently.

Heeseung smiled gently, knowingly.

“Okay, baby. But next time, we'll show Jakey how I prepared you, alright?” Heeseung was surprisingly considerate, kissing you on the forehead softly as you nodded at his reply.

Heeseung didn’t want to overload the two with too many things.

Of course, the dominant side of him sought out the ecstasy of showing off to Jake how much he could turn you into a messy whore for their cocks, but this was the first time, and he much preferred if you were in a state where you were confident enough to share it with Jake.

As for the said younger male, Heeseung couldn’t tell with the camera in front of his face but by the adorable body language visible for him to see— Jake’s cock that went limp was hard again against his stomach, head leaking with creamy white beads.

It reassured Heeseung that Jake had no plans to run away anytime soon.

Your soaked panties and Heeseung’s pants and briefs were discarded to the floor of the room. Scooching to hover over Heeseung’s lap with your back to him, the said male was fisting his cock with his precum while his other hand grips on your hip.

“Down you go, princess.”

With the swollen tip of his cock probing at your hole, you whimpered as you slowly sank to ease his length into your walls. It took you a few more breaths at the tightness, but the comforting thumb massaging your sides urged you to bottom down to his base, completely sitting on his lap.

“How does that feel, baby?” Heeseung was nibbling at your earlobe, wrapping his arms around your waist as he slowly rocked your tense figure.

You were breathing heavily, and the initial stretch was a bit painful at how big Heeseung was, but soon, the discomfort slowly disintegrated into waves of pleasure as your walls adjusted to his size.  

“So, so good— I can feel you deep inside me.” You huffed, clenching around him as a sign for him to move.

Heeseung pulled your back to his chest before he descended to lay on the mattress with you on top of him. The position nudges him deeper as he locks his legs around your knees, thrusting up leisurely as an appetizer for what’s to come.

Jake listens to your soft pitchy moans every time Heeseung moves his hips, getting off to the visual of your hole clenching around your boyfriend’s cock with your legs wide apart for the camera to capture.

A callous hand unconsciously trails to fist his hard cock as Jake jerks to the sound of your ass clapping on Heeseung’s thighs.

The once sensual pace turns heavily ruthless as he relentlessly thrusts up, yet the aching in your wet pussy makes you realize its emptiness as you clench back at Heeseung’s cock.

“Ah-aah— Jake— please…..I need you in me.” You call the younger male out as you pull your outer lips for him to see how desperate and pink your hole is, causing him to freeze at how completely fuck out you were.

His action seemed to garner frustration down the older male’s throat.

“Jake,” Heeseung growled sharply, gripping your waist as he rammed you harder with a dark glare over your shoulder. “Put the camera down and fuck her pussy.”

Jake frantically crawls towards you, the camera thrown on the soft mattress somewhere without a second thought.

A drool dripped down the corner of your mouth, teary eyes watching him align his head to your entrance as he filled you up so deliciously good that it hurt to have your holes simultaneously penetrated.

“Oh my god— yes, Jake— fuck, Hee—“

You choke out incoherently when Jake moves to slam his cock in and out at the same time as Heeseung did without mercy, arching your back as your tits bounce with every impact from both the back and the front.

You feel so full to the core, being fuck out of your mind, that you claw at the bedsheets from the pleasure.

“Dirty slut, one cock is not enough for you, is it?” Heeseung hisses out right below your ears, reaching out to slap your tender clit forcefully.

You cried out in pain, clenching around the girth of their cocks as they ruined your insides roughly. Jake bit the inside of his cheeks, watching from above as Heeseung landed another harsh slap against your clit that you almost lurch forward if he hadn’t forced your hips down.

“Hee—hahhhh— stop—“

“Stop?” Heeseung's laugh was almost sinister, rubbing circles around your tender clit precisely with his thumb as tears streamed down your cheeks, burning with humiliation.

“Fuck, you deserve to be treated like a dumb slut. Letting another man fuck your womb instead of your loving boyfriend.” He snapped.

Your surroundings were starting to blur, disappearing from your spatial consciousness until the pleasure numbed your body to your extremities at the way their cocks were abusing your sensitive walls. You were on the brink of bursting into a million pieces, and Heeseung could tell that you needed one more push to bring you to heaven.

“Jake.” Heeseung held your wrist until his nails dug into the thin skin to stop you from trashing any further.

Jake was stunted out of his mind at his name being called out, especially when he was close to reaching his high. Heeseung gave him a powerful stare down with a gleam of insanity behind those big eyes.

“Slap her clit.”

Jake knew the older male wasn’t asking; it was a direct command for him to carry without question.

Immediately Jake’s eyes went to yours below, only to see it begging with helplessness for him to follow Heeseung’s order. He could recognize the blown-out desire to release yourself from the prison of being edged for so long, and all you ever wanted was to come.

Like he was being bewitched by the couple, Jake felt a click at the back of his mind that he had never felt before in his life— even during his time with endless capturing of the camera, nothing could ever compare to how perfect this moment was.

The sound of his slap on your wet clit erupted you into a fit of moans, your abdomen tensing up before you squirt with your back arched on Heeseung’s sweating chest.

All your liquid drenches him with your sweet scent, spraying his lower half and the bed wet as your body convulses uncontrollably. Your skin was breaking into goosebumps that seemed never ending as Jake and Heeseung filled you with their hot seed blissfully.

It felt like time had stopped momentarily, letting the three enjoy the well-deserved orgasm that tumbled over their senses.

With a hand over your eyes, you were sobbing loudly in the backdrop of their groans, bucking your hips in the air until the last drop of your liquid leaked out.

The limpness of your body urged Jake to pull out, watching his creamy load bubble down to the crack of your asshole so ethereally until it met the white rim that formed as Heeseung lovingly rode you out of your orgasm, his heavy balls drowned with arousal as well.

Soft whispers of praises escape Heeseung’s lips against your ears, stroking your stomach with butterfly touches as he licks your salty tears away at how well you wet the bed for them, hearing your hiccups bounce through the walls.

Jake peeks to rummage around in search of his camera, taking it in his hands as he switches to taking a picture and saving the video content he filmed. He aligns the lens to his eye despite trembling at how heady your scent was sticking to his body.

Snap

He could never get enough of the sight of his artistic muses, all picture-perfect for him to capture.

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[am-i-interrupting]

Hello I hope you’re doing well! I’m having a moment tonight and I really like your writing so I was wondering if I could ask you to do Angel Dust, Rosie and Husk with a suicidal reader please. Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable in any way, in any case I apologize and it’s totally fine if you don’t want to write this, bye<3!

Husk

Husk isn’t going to sweet talk you. He’s blunt. He’s a bit abrasive. He’s honest.

That also means he’s going to be able to read right through you and all your emotions to get down to the true center of your problems..

“You don’t want this? Yeah, I get it. This all fucking sucks. It’s not a damn picnic but do you really want to end it all or do you actually just want to start over? Because one of those things you can go back and rewrite and fix and the other one you can’t.”

He’ll sit in a room and monitor you if he has to.

He’s not going to say anything unless you start a conversation.

If you have self harming tendencies, he’s not going to stop you.

He will be there to disinfect and clean and if you try to jerk away expect a very tight grip keeping you in place.

He doesn’t want you to suffer and he hates seeing you in pain but he won’t really show it.

He puts up a mask of gruffness and keeps it on with harsh love.

He’s not going to make or stop you from doing anything but he will be there to pick up pieces and put them back together until they’re shimmering gold.

Rosie

Rosie will remind you why life’s worth living.

She’ll drag you outside and take you on a walk.

She’ll point out every small thing and stop in the middle of the street so the two of you can watch carnivorous crows pick at roadkill.

When you get home, she’ll get you into the shower and wash you off herself while she compliments every part of you.

“These hands, so wonderful. They craft and mold and fix. Your stomach? Amazing. The way it holds and distributes everything you need to survive. This mole, the perfect place to kiss. Oh, how I could just eat you up! But I won’t. I won’t. I enjoy your company far too much.”

Actually, don’t expect to lift a finger.

She’s drying, brushing, and styling your hair.

She’ll apply skin care and even brush your teeth for you.

“I do love those teeth of yours. They just make my day with that charming smile. Truly, it’s my favorite thing when you smile at me, my love.”

[jesncin]

please do tell about why woman of tomorrow sucks i love reading your takes they’re always so well written

Sure! And thank you for throwing me this bone because WOOF

(btw it's totally fine for people to like Woman of Tomorrow, and I can even see why! This is just my experience with it that I wish was talked about more)

Quick context: Woman of Tomorrow is about a space farmgirl named Ruthye who seeks revenge on Krem, a guy who killed her dad. Supergirl guides her on this journey so they can learn lessons about grief and revenge.

The biggest flaw of the comic is the narrative prose. Ruthye's dialogue is a rambly, over-indulgent, stylized mix of an attempt at medieval Shakespearian speak, but then in the last few issues the writer remembers she's a farmgirl so he decides she should suddenly say "ain't" more often and speak in double negatives to sound a bit more Southern. I can enjoy wordy comics! But Ruthye's dialogue and narration is blatantly excessive purple prose. So many scenes would hit harder with a less-is-more approach while still being stylized and characteristic. Sometimes the narrations pairs nicely with the art to create layered irony, but most of the time it feels like it's disregarding the comics medium altogether.

The other thing about Ruthye's narration is that it holds the story back. I get that the narration is Ruthye writing from the future, but the way it's done gives us a very passive relationship with the events of the story. We don't get to be with the characters in the action heavy moments because we're reading caption boxes of Future Ruthye rambling about poetry recounting The Battle of Capes. I'm not experiencing grief or dread with the characters, I'm being told about it. All of Ruthye's narrative rants boil down to "Supergirl is really badass, sad and kind. I promise this is deep." and "here's how my farm girl experience is relevant to this". Ruthye also speaks in glowing admiration, idealization and worship of Supergirl; it makes it really hard to get to know Kara in a humanizing way. I'm sure the purple prose hits differently for others, but I personally think the story would have more room to breathe without it.

You know how people like saying "Superman is boring because everything is too easy for him, he's too powerful" yeah that's Woman of Tomorrow. The conflict Kara faces are not challenges to her character, they're inconveniences. The resolutions to each story don't feel clever or earned. Kara just knows where to find the murdered purple aliens, Kara just happens to have a silver age-reference magical horse that can outrun the suffering-ball Krem throws at her, Kara just toughs out 10 hours in the green sun. Why be a smart storyteller when you can just give your heroine the upper hand every single time? There could've been a great bonding moment where Ruthye uses her famer-smarts to build shade for Kara, she could've crafted a salve to protect Kara's skin. But I guess having her guard Kara from dinosaurs is ok. Kara helps of course, even though she's dying because she's so cool, badass, sad, kind, etc.

Kara's internal conflict is that she was hoping that taking Ruthye on this journey would teach the farmgirl a lesson about revenge, but has Kara herself learned to move on? She's still thinking about Krypton after all. The problem with how this is presented is that it's not a flaw that we get to see evolve with the story. We see Kara act mopey, get an origin story flashback and then Kara tells us this- in hopes it'll recontextualize everything you've read before. By the time we make it to the end, the characters act like they've learned so much and I'm just standing here wishing I got to see all this growth they're talking about.

At the heart of it, I feel like Woman of Tomorrow represents the side of Super-fandom that wants to see the Kryptonians deified by the narrative. They hate seeing Kara do silly girly rom-com teenager things, she needs to be SERIOUS and EDGY and SAD and ALONE but like a god would be and not how a young woman would be that way. How else will boys take her seriously? Don't forget to remind the reader that she's STRONGER than her boy scout wholesome cousin! There's potential in a short revenge story about young girls finding hope in seeing a role-model woman survive loss, but not like this.

"You don't think I could've solved all those problems? C'mon I'm Supergirl." I sure love seeing female characters be badass girl-god legends who don't get to be humanized by being unflatteringly flawed people. Anyway the better Supergirl grief+revenge story is "Supergirl: Being Super". I don't think it's perfect because it misses the crucial difference between Kal and Kara among other things- but as a story about a teenage heroine learning how grief shapes her and those around her, it's way better.

Woman of Tomorrow's art is stellar though lmao would get a copy just as an artbook to reference.

[charmixpower]

what are your hc's when it comes to the specialists hobbies? (+Nabu)

i'm kinda sad we don't really know a lot about them.

YEAH!!! Or if we know their hobbies, WE NEVER GET TO SEE THEM ENJOY THEM??? Unless ur Helia. Pretty people privilege

Sky

Listen, I need you to look at Erendor and Samara and tell me if Sky has a life or any real time for hobbies. The answer is no he does not

Listen dragon equestrian is a thing that exists in the magic dimension and he loves it do not argue with me this man loves it. Riding a dragon and doing tricks, what more could you want out of a sport???

He also spends so much time teaching Lady tricks you'd think he was entering her into a competition. He's not, he is simply having fun

Sky really likes running, and walking. With or without Lady, he is content to run around with this thoughts. It's his favorite form of exercise

I think Sky would enjoy at least some of the royalty approved activities pushed on him, like riding horses and dragons obviously, but also dancing. (Though he would hate learning how to play an instrument or something that required sitting without movement)

I think he'd like the fake duel's and mock battles like fencing over real combat but that's just my version of Sky that lives in my head talking

I don't think Sky is really snobby about anything that isn't tea. Does he argue with other people about which tea tastes the best? Maybe. It's like part because he and Diaspro have opposite tastes in tea and they will argue about anything, part because tea was the only meal he wasn't being hovered over because it's supposed to be a bit more informal than a real meal, half because magix doesn't have all that good tea options

Brandon

He suffers from has no life syndrome too but worse actually bc he's had a government job at 17!!!

Does crafting and maintaining an Instagram presence count as a hobby? I mean I do this as a hobby so I'm gonna say it counts. Making thinking your hot into a hobby, I wish I were him

I have no clue if Brandon genuinely enjoys weightlifting or gymnastics or if he does it because it's literally required of him but I DO think he'd enjoy exercise in general. Like?? He's getting hotter, better able to handle situations, AND it makes him feel great. 10/10 he loves it

I think Brandon would enjoy calligraphy. I have like multiple friends who are on their handwriting bullshit and Brandon would absolutely be one of these people. He'd write exclusively in fancy capital letters while pretending to be Sky, but he also like genuinely knows calligraphy and enjoys it. No one knows cept Sky until Stella wants to write something formally and he writes it for her

Brandon is way too chill of a person, and while I think he's like naturally good at controlling his emotions I also think he does SOMETHING for mindfulness. Reads self help books, does meditation, something that helps him stay so fucking chill all the time

On that topic I also think Brandon likes psychology, like the "why do people act the way they do?" side. Just a little bit, he gets along with way too many insane people to not have at least a little idea

Timmy

He's the least interesting specialist to me in canon so he's where I'm on my bullshit. Listen man we don't need TWO computer wizs, we can have one computer genius and an engineering nerd. For the sake of everyone around Tecna not being the exact same as her AND for my enrichment

Timmy is obsessed with their air crafts. He can talk for HOURS about types of planes, the Owl assigned to their squad is literally his fucking baby and Riven is NOT allowed to pilot it EVER. He lost his mind just a little bit when he's got to pilot a Hawk with Helia, he was so excited. This is definitely his main hobby and why he's in the RF air force track instead of the engineering track, he WILL fly and nothing will stop him

If Legos exist in the magical dimension he's obsessed with them and makes the most insane builds and you know I'm right

Riven absolutely gets Timmy into lock picking. Lock picking is just a logic puzzle that also has a real life application and they spend so much time trying to pick difficult locks when they need a no think thing to do

And speed running, all the specialists have a tendency to just watch him play a video game stupid fast and it's group bonding

Shooting is a sport and one that Timmy enjoys immensely

Riven

Reading. No I'm so serious he's the character shown holding a book the most often. This man reads. Tbh he's probably reading about types of magical animals that specialists are called in to deal with, and their behaviors. That and like lists of forgeable plants

Riven also sews and makes his own clothes! Like it's a restoration thing but also Riven just likes fashion and has very specific ideas for clothes so he just makes them himself.

Riven is the most passionate about sword play and combat. Like it's genuinely fun for him, I think if everyone was set loose they'd drift away from being in the military except Riven. This is his passion. Survivalist stuff is also a huge passion of his. It's his concentration at RF I will never shut up about that hc. His dream job is dealing with magical animal threats in the wilderness, everyone thinks he's just a little insane

That and podcasts. Oh my god the podcasts Riven would have listened to in middle school, cringe worthy, they're EXACTLY what your thinking and it's terrible. Thankfully he listens to calming podcasts and like educational podcasts now, and the occasional true crime one

I'm not sure if lock picking is a hobby for him or if it's just something he HAD to learn, but he takes a lot of pride in it so I'm assuming it's a hobby. Riven likes logic puzzles and that's what lock picking is

Does Riven have an interest in photography or did he print off pictures from Musa's Instagram, the world may never know

Helia

We know the most about his hobbies. Painting, origami, and poetry. Helia is well and truly vibing, and by that I mean I bet you he spends hours agonizing about every detail <3

He probably also has a bullet journal, it's the vibes, do you understand where I'm coming from?

I think Helia would be super into general DIY in every area and at one point he gets Timmy into helping refurbish a chair he found, sometimes he just wants to work on something and that something is a chair he picked up off the curb

Helia definitely picked up how to use his string gloves for fun and to have a body active hobby and he loves it? I think Helia would really enjoy doing things that challenge him and he has the most esoteric weapon so it fits

I also think Helia's glove string weapon is as much of a weapon as it can be used for string art? I think he'd like string art

Helia can parkour and that's on wanting to get the PERFECT angle for his reference piece and know he's 40 ft in the air, Saladin slowly lost his mind when he adopted Helia after his parents died because the kid would not stop climbing on RF

Helia is also a chronic people watcher. At least 70% time when he's people watching he's also drawing them but sometimes he's too tired for that XD

Nabu

Learning about his hyper fixation magic. Listen this man will DEMOLISH a library in a week to learn about the intricacies of runic magic, he is vibrating in his shoes

Okay I know Timmy is the one who you'd assume would like this the most, but I think if you put a ttrpg in front of Nabu he'd fucking love it??? He would either spend 2 million hours world building as the DM or get way into role playing

I think Nabu spends a lot more time fucking around and having fun with his magic than most magic users. Like learning how to make small intricate beautiful things with his magic. I definitely think there would be an art form based around magic that Nabu would be super into that

Nabu absolutely is a history buff too. Like knows about ancient techniques for making things off the top of his head can list most major developments in each century when prompted history buff and I love him

He probably also has a rock collection, this man is autistic and we have rock collections. Sometimes the rocks are magically and that's always exciting

Nabu and Flora spending hours researching a random ass specific phenomenon and having the time of their lives

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part I — A Beetle in a Matchbox 

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: sexual assault, grief (past loss of parents/caretaker). 

A/N: This story is about surviving sexual assault. Over the past two years I’ve been writing this an effort to cope and process my own experience, but I also set out to write this for others who have suffered this as well. I wanted to craft a story that explored healing, finding a partner who understands consent, and feeling safe with them. Not every reader may be in the headspace to read this as I deal heavily with the wave of emotions that comes after an attack. The attack itself I did not desire to go into violent detail of, but it is there and it may be triggering. 

Regardless, I want any reader who decides they aren’t in the right place to read this because of the triggers to know that healing is possible, that you are not broken, ugly, or worthless, and no matter how much trauma has taken from you, you can still live a good life. Arthur Morgan is a comfort character I imagine would be that partner who understands boundaries and vulnerability and sees a woman he holds feelings for as more than her pain.

Part Two | AO3 Link

In memory, the woolly tufts of a moon-white dandelion swayed in a long departed breeze. You held it close, contemplating your heart’s desire amidst the babble of brook and the music of birdsong.

I want my first time to be with someone I’ve given my heart to.

The wind sifted through your skirts and the trees, meanwhile the deepest hope of your heart unfurled with a wishful blow until all that remained of the dandelion was a bald stem. You cast it off into a pebbled stream for the water to claim. The seeds coasted in the air and a motherly breeze carried them in its gentle wake, cradling your wish to the future day it could come true. No spider webs ensnared them, and the canopy parted to admit their passage into the turquoise sky. On that bank you stood on the cusp of womanhood, your world lush with possibility and untouched by tragedy, allowing your young heart to nurture such a naïve fantasy in the spring sunshine. 

                                                            ~ * ~

                                      ~ I — A Beetle in a Matchbox ~

Sawtooth Mountain Range, Idaho. 1891

 In the before, life was a fairytale. It was rising with the sun to a land still cold from a night beneath the mountains’ shadow, where wildflowers purpled the meadows and dawn trailed amber fingers through the abundant evergreens. Every day you opened your kitchen door little changed. Each morning, before you unlatched the garden gate, you enjoyed the music of singing birds alone, breathed in deep the thick and clean scent of pine, and cherished every place the sunlight touched in this little, precious corner of the world. From spring thaw to fall frost, the morning grass beneath your lively step held pinhead glitters of dew, dampening your hem as you would amble to the chicken coop, basket in arm and contented at the sight of a tawny rabbit nipping at the vegetable patch. It was the rewarding routine and rustic simplicity of tending a goat and digging your fingers in the fresh soil of your garden, the enjoyment of friendly society while working at the hotel in town and the privilege of sharing a cottage with your grandmother—the only family you had left.

A few years after you were born you lost your parents to cholera. You had no memory, fond or otherwise, tethered to them and the objects they left behind to unfailingly inflict the salt and sting of grief. Tucked inside your blouse you kept your mother’s ring on a chain, and on your bedside table a portrait of them sat framed and propped. The coolness of the metal and the sepia tone of the photograph made you smile with gratitude for what pieces of them remained. Pieces that were soft and unserrated, that you could hold on to, thumb the edges, and feel only the smooth ease of kinship. But the most comforting reminder of them all was your grandmother.

To you, she was a soft-spoken and welcoming woman, one who had lived a full life beneath the sun by the token of her laugh lines and the fan of wrinkles beside each of her eyes. With others she was sensible and solemn, and not a person to scam or underestimate.

Few saw the side of her you did: the kindhearted woman whose hair you helped pin up in a nautilus of braids each morning, whose dainty collar was kept mathematically straight. She often took you through the forests and taught you all about herbs and curative plants, instructing you to gather the roots of ginseng and the ruby heads of yarrow for teas and tonics and you took an instant proclivity towards it. She gifted you with a stack of field guilds on mushrooms, wildflowers, trees, birds, and everything else within the forest to prepare you. With a cattleman stowed on your hip she trusted you to venture out alone, and your horse, Willa, carried back your fragrant pickings in large, leather sacks that hung from her saddle on the path home. In the evenings, through the space in the boughs overhead, a scarf of smoke greeted you from the cobbled chimney of your home, where inside a stew pot waited, simmering with the fragrant steams of vegetable broth.

Those were treasured times, and you would never fully appreciate the true goodness of those days until your grandmother passed away, because for as much as she taught you to watch out for yourself, you still had so much to learn about the dangers of the world.

The people from town came by to offer their condolences and casseroles, and Mr. Greely gave you a week’s pay and time to grieve. You would get back on your feet, you knew, but you were grateful for everyone’s generosity and sympathies.

Winter came, a season of most cold reflection, and the solitude of trackless snows resembled the emptiness in you. Food turned to ash in your mouth, the pale and placid blue of the sunrise on mountain snow stirred no awe in your eyes, and you drifted through life as if it were a waking dream. Loneliness was a pit, and long had you trailed the span of its walls with unfeeling hands to a degree of familiarity and cold comfort, circling, circling, listless and hollow. 

As snow did, melancholy mellowed with spring. A day came when you awoke and opened the windows of the cottage to a renewed earth, wherein the singing liberation of fresh streams and rosy birds suffused the air and lifted your spirits. A breeze stirred the curtains. A cloud melted in the sky. The serenest of sunshine warmed your cheeks and a wind cleared your lungs, and each breath you inhaled was like a sip of chamomile tea as it swept its balmy way through your body. Venturing out, steps bedded by clovers, the water you drew from the mossy well held your reflection, and within its silver glimmers you glimpsed a girl who had grown into womanhood and aged a year in the space of a season. You were not the only one to notice this change.

With the spring the surrounding woods grew replete with game, drawing in hunters from all around, of which included one familiar face: the town Sheriff. He rode a buckskin horse with syrup brown eyes and a tail so long it brushed the earth; a wild stallion he tamed himself. The horse’s dappled flank often carried deer pelts on his way back from the deep forest. A trail wound not far from your cottage and he loped up one day, checking on you. You spied the old cedar stock of his long gun, stowed in his saddle holster as he pulled up the reins, the fringe of his suede jacket rippling as he jounced to a stop.

A howdy was exchanged as you balanced a basket of currants on your hip. Hand cupped against your brow, the sun beamed warm through the straw of your hat and you offered a polite smile to the man with a neatly trimmed black mustache, his face otherwise clean-shaven. A few minutes of amiable conversation ensued—him discussing the heavy snowfall of the winter and you assuring him you managed the harsh season. He took a more meaningful tone when he inquired about living on your own, if you had a means to protect yourself, and if you happened upon any unfriendly-looking persons. You knew well how dangerous it was for a woman to live by herself, in the wilderness or otherwise, regardless of the presence of your father’s old hunting rifle mounted above the fireplace. His concern was not unwarranted, after all you supposed it was his job to keep the town and the people in it safe. Knowing that someone in the world was watching out for you was a small relief you welcomed, but you wished you peered past the cloak of concern to unveil the underlying intention behind his appraisal of your competence before it was too late.

He visited weekly. Oftentimes he brought a bundle of wildflowers he had collected on his journey over; bluebells, because they were his late wife’s favorite. And no shortage of compliments accompanied him, either. Both you accepted awkwardly, not used to receiving this sort of attention as you handled the uprooted, bent stalks with the utmost care. He was on his way with a tip of his Stetson before long, and you pushed all thoughts of men far from the forefront of your mind as his horse’s hooves thumped off into the waning afternoon.

You wished you paid more attention when the Sheriff spoke of his wife’s passing and tried to relate his grief to yours. He loved her, and the naïve part of your mind believed the love in his heart would remain and never dwindle, because the love you held for your family endured despite the tragedies. He made you laugh on occasion, made you look forward to his visits, and worst of all, he got you to trust him. But he began to ask things of you, about you. Questions too personal. Would you be looking to get married since you were of age? Were you sweet on anyone? Questions that made you stammer in a way he mistook for something other than being flustered.

For as long as you dreamed, you dreamt of what falling in love would be like. It was the momentous landmark you looked forward to reaching the most in life. Something worth treading the painful slopes and crumbling scree of loss. To disclose that dream to him would be to give the wrong person the right piece of yourself, so you guarded your answers to his intrusive questions with ambiguity. He would huff, thwarted, but somehow, in some inadvertent way, he took it as encouragement to think his forwardness was welcome, because maybe he never would have come to you that night.

An invincible storm had rolled in. Rain poured wild and cold against the windows in veins of silver mined from the ore of thunderclouds, battering the panes and drumming the roof. Dark through the wilderness shone the sheer slanting waves of the downpour, lashing against the trees until their branches bowed in submission, moonlight devoid throughout. Flows of water sluiced through the baskets of geraniums hanging in the eaves and ran off the shingles, splashing down upon the ground in rippling puddles that danced with each new drop. Droplets and branches tapped against the other side of the cool glass against your hand, meanwhile, at your back, your dinner popped and hissed in its pot. You turned and drifted away from the window pane at length, and let the lacy curtain fall back in place.  

After supping, you draped a knitted throw around your shoulders and settled near the fire at last, to doze and drift in the peace of falling rain while tucked inside, safe and warm. As logs of cedar and birch snapped, sadness tapped against the window of your mind, as it often did, and your gaze was lost to the flames in rumination, the book in your lap forgotten as you reckoned with your circumstances. You were as content as you were able to be without the ones you had lost, but in the hollow of your heart your grief was a wound that never healed and yawned at times. Your grandmother’s perfume of heavy, dark red roses still clung to the soft weft of the blanket you held close—a smell that made you tender towards the past. So many traces of their life upon the Earth remained. 

A horse’s whinny broke your reverie. Your book fell as you jolted from the chair, seeking out your gun on the table before investigating the disturbance. Willa was situated in the small stable, and if someone was outside—

Rigorous knocking rumbled through your door frame, followed by a familiar voice, pleading.

You set the gun down and yanked open the storm-pelted door. At the same time, a boulder of thunder rolled through the night. Across the land lightning flashed through the sky to illuminate the weathered face standing at your threshold.

“Sheriff? What on Earth—“

He barged past you without invitation, shotgun ready in hand. For all of an instant you stood frozen in bewilderment, until the gusts of wind billowing in prompted you to shut the door and your gaping mouth. He was on a mission, it appeared, because he ignored your protestations.

The Sheriff blustered his way through your tranquil home in a whirring of spurs and a splatter of muck. Dirt ankle-deep caked his riding boots, his feet muddier than a pig’s hooves as he searched about the main room in a frenzy, yanking open doors and shoving aside furniture. Each of his intrusive footsteps quaked the floors, shaking the fine dishware in its special cabinet, the copper pots hanging above the dry sink, and the shelves of jarred fruits and jams. He carried rainwater and the look of a storm in his wake, shattering the peace you found earlier this evening completely. From his ebony gun belt a hunting knife and a freshly-oiled Schofield hung prepared beside his Sheriff’s star.

You stood waiting, arms folded, for an explanation.

When the last place for him to search were the floorboards you stood upon, he sagged and sighed with relief, deflated. He removed his hat, his face no longer obscured to reveal the grim line of his mouth and a hard determination simmering in the umber of his eyes. At last, he explained himself.

He said he came as soon as he heard to make sure you were safe. Safe from what? you asked. Bad men were about, he stated. Outlaws, murderous train robbers and thieves wanted across two state lines. Men devoid of a human conscience. The words sunk in with a weighty silence of understanding, silence in which the rain filled and your imagination could wander to gruesome places. Strangers seldom passed through here, let alone outlaws, you commented.

“Now you understand my lack of decorum. I hope you can forgive my negligent manners.”

Solemnly, you nodded. The hairs along your arm had risen, skin prickled, and you sought the ring hanging from your neck out of habit. To hold it against your heart and trace its comforting shape kept you grounded in moments of uncertainty.

In his hands he fiddled with the brim of his hat. A puddle formed on the floor where he stood.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” you ventured. “I’ll pour you some whiskey.”

“That’d be mighty fine of you, miss.”

Your hospitality indicated a hesitant welcome, but the Sheriff was clueless to your apprehension. The rain subsided to a light tapping on the roof and window panes; he could have his drink and be on his way momentarily. You turned to busy yourself with finding a glass. Meanwhile, the click of his spurs trailed over to the wall hook. Fabric rustled as he hung up his Stetson and shed his dripping coat.

With no electricity, you relied on oil lamps to keep your cottage illuminated. The steady, amber glow cast from the etched glass sconces always imbued the acorn brown stain of the woodwork with warmth and charm. However, the Sheriff’s presence in your home inverted all the comfort you found within it. The dried herbs hanging in the rafters offered no rich and earthy smell, the bowl of fruit on the counter promised no sweet taste in the gleam of their ripe skins. But you ignored all of these perceptions and the insect crawl of wariness creeping along your spine and retrieved the bottle of rye whiskey you kept for medicinal purposes.

You kept your back to the Sheriff as you perused your selection of glassware for a suitable tumbler. Touch skipping lightly along the wood, dust coated your fingertips as you drew from the top shelf. In the pit of your stomach dread curdled. Outside, the storm had lessened, but another one of unease was brewing inwardly. Through the reflection of the cabinet doors you caught the Sheriff’s stare as you shut them, latched to your form. The shameless indulgence in his gaze provoked a flare of ire through you and you cleared your throat with an air of reproach.

“Where was this gang of Dutch van der Linde’s spotted?” You turned to him, shoulders and chin raised in an effort to appear untroubled. The question hung for a moment as the Sheriff considered where to place his undue shotgun. The stock settled against the table leg and he straightened at your approach, smoothing a hand over the broom of his mustache.

“Near Taylor Ranch,” he answered.

You blinked. Without a hat, shadows no longer concealed his pockmarked cheeks and the bushy, ungroomed lintels of his eyebrows. His shirt was wrinkled and damp from riding in the storm, clinging to his skin. The top two buttons were uncharacteristically undone, peeking wiry chest hair.

You had paused, but not because of his unkempt appearance. The whiskey shivered in tones of gold and brass as you set it on the table absently, along with the glass. Light from a lone, flickering candle caught the ginger liquid like a brazier.

“That’s only two miles from here.”

A log fell in the fireplace, spent, embers spitting.

“Indeed.”

He thumbed the curling petal of one of his bluebells, a faint smile dangling on the corner of his mouth. You had arranged the latest cluster of his in a porcelain pitcher set on your table. Below, your eyes dropped to where a few of the flowers had withered and fallen upon the table runner. 

Pondering, wood creaked as you retreated to the fireplace, leaving him to his drink and odd fascinations. Meanwhile your fingers worried with your cuffs, twisted in your skirt as you swirled in the eddy of your thoughts. The Taylors. Closing your eyes you remembered the smell of their home: fresh baked bread and strawberries. All of your visits had the flavor of berries and apples. A cross-stitched picture of a goose wearing a bonnet hung in their window and welcomed any who knocked on their door, which Mrs. Taylor would swing open with a smile and a gingham apron around her waist. 

Though she had a square jaw and chapped lips, crow’s feet and a stern demeanor, her hugs were the warmest and most welcoming. No one was a stranger at her doorstep for long, for she was quick to invite them in and fuss over a pot of tea and offer her finest plate stacked with shortbreads. Her motherly hospitality and friendliness of heart healed a wound your parents' loss opened. Taylor Ranch was a place you sought in the hours you yearned for solitude and contemplation, amity and freedom. Within their prized orchards resided plentiful avenues for you to explore in the summer and stroll through in the rustling Octobers, twisting from the trees the honey-sweet pendants of autumn to bake into pies. 

Marveling at the filigree of branches through which the sun cast its lemony light, it was in this enchanting place you first met the Taylors’ youngest son, Gideon. And what a meeting it was, all those years ago: he fell for you, literally—off an orchard ladder to a ground strewn with windfall apples, his collarbone snapping in the process. 

In a rush you swept to his side, apples thudding to the leafy ground. The boy roiled in pain, his face contorting, and you rose to action. His family came running when you called for help, and you did your best to haul him back to the house until his older brother retrieved him from where he leaned against your shoulder. Together you gingerly delivered him to the sofa in the sitting room and his father galloped to fetch the town doctor. 

You stayed at his side, this strange boy, noticed the dimples set in his pale cheeks and his russet hair—the rings of which his mother swept aside soothingly. Such soft features garnered an unfamiliar attention from within you. You had stared. 

The doctor arrived and set the bone, the grimacing sound and sight of which you closed your eyes against. Standing aside uselessly, you fidgeted with your mother’s ring for lack of occupation. Mrs. Taylor registered your worry and assured you that you were blameless for his injury. 

For days you thought of him. Though no words had passed between you, the glance you first shared with each other stilled time and lingered in a meadow of memory. Curiosity was all it was—towards a feeling, an interest in another. Gideon was the first boy to capture your attention in such a way. 

At the end of that week you returned to the ranch bearing a basket of sourdough biscuits. Slathered in honey, warm from the oven, your recipe yielded the fluffiest batch perfect for sharing. When she answered the door Mrs. Taylor had the most knowing smile on her face before calling over her shoulder. Gideon appeared a few moments later, a sling around his arm and a thumb hooked in his suspender. He had a hard time meeting your eyes and shifted on his feet when you offered to lunch with him. You sat on the porch together, enjoying the sight of chickens scratching at the fenced-off squares of dirt, of barn cats lazing in the sun, observing the last of autumn’s spell fading in the air. 

You visited him while he recovered, kindling something pure and sweet with him. He admired you a great deal. But afterwards, when he was well again and you had no excuse to see him other than the obvious, a kiss was sealed. How peculiar and unexpected it was, the moment he leaned towards you. Sitting beneath a giant oak tree while acorns dug into your hands, you found you dreaded it: the nearness of him. In your mind a kiss was a lucent dream of falling blossoms and a soft blue haze of light, like the very action were a twist of a key, unlocking your soul to another. At least, that was what you had wanted it to be, had always imagined it.  

When Gideon the boy kissed you it was a wet slide of his mouth—hungry, rushing, pressing hard and then sucking while his hands groped, seeking parts of your body you had yet to grow into. You sat frozen, eyes wide, not knowing how to move as his tongue roamed. So you took it. Afterwards, you wiped the ring of spittle around your mouth with your sleeve. He had smirked as he leaned away, and you no longer admired the dimples in his cheeks. You made an excuse to leave and when you returned home your grandmother asked if something was wrong, but you never overcame the shame of it to tell her. 

A revulsion built and simmered within you for the next few weeks. In town—for you had ceased to visit the ranch—he would press you against the clapboard behind the general store and beg for your lips and your hand to hold as he humped your hips, and he would tell you what he wanted you to wear when he next saw you. He was a foolish, over-eager boy, and he had no notion of romance or how to properly treat the one he was fond of. He knew so little about you and what your heart wanted, and you were disinclined to share any more of yourself with him. Unable to bear it any longer, you broke his heart, and he blamed you for every unhappiness henceforth. 

Throughout the passage of ten years his face and the unwelcome manner of his caresses remained unbearable to picture. No longer a boy, Gideon had grown from a clingy and imprudent child into a snobby and spiteful specimen of a man; an arrogant prig who filled his role of deputy at the Sheriff’s office exceptionally. You had long cast him from the forefront of your mind, but the Sheriff’s mentioning of the Taylor’s home and the threat posed to it brought the unpleasant recollections rushing back, and it took a moment before you recovered your composure. 

The heat of the fireplace fanned across your cheeks. In the night thunder cracked, calling you back into the atmosphere of the room, where you knelt at a stone hearth, ash on your sleeves. Wood gathered, logs clunked in the grate and scattered sparks as you tossed them in. Your thoughts of the past reached a conclusion at the glug of liquor filling a glass; with your back to your guest you broke the long lasting silence. 

“You should be checking on them, not me. Are you rounding up a posse?” 

A pouring of liquid answered. His eager lips approached the brim of the glass and swallowed it as if it were a fount of water in a desert. You turned to him as he filled it again. 

“I can’t do anything in this storm, and neither can those reprobates,” he pulled out a chair at the table, settling into it as happily as a worm in an apple. “‘Sides, Ned has hired guns and four strong boys to protect his property, whereas you‘re all alone out here—” A cough interrupted him. He blew an appreciative whistle once his throat was clear, sniffing the bottle. “This is some strong stuff you got here.”

Irritation flared within you at his blatant display of indecorum, evident by the propping up of his booted feet on your table. With his bandana pulled down low, the V of his throat gleamed with sweat as he tipped the full glass back. His Adam's apple bobbed, big as a turkey egg.

“Sheriff, while I am grateful for the trouble you’ve…” A drop of mud splattered on the table from his boot. You blinked at it. “—taken on my behalf, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” Not bothering to hide your annoyance you poked and prodded the logs in the grate with a fire poker, leveling his gaze afterwards. His expression held not a drop of seriousness or concern.  

“I can see that,” he chuckled. The key of his voice rang clear with condescension. With a great sigh you hung the poker back on its stand and dusted off your hands, looking about the room with a curled lip. His earlier theatrics had displaced much of your furniture. 

Your throw blanket laid in a soft puddle on the floor. You bent and folded it in a neat square, draping it over the back of your armchair, and setting that straight, too.  

“You don’t need to worry. I’ll make sure those men don’t come near here. By high-noon tomorrow, they’ll be human fruit for the buzzards.” Trouble must have lined your expression, for the aura of pride radiating from his demeanor softened, and you found his gaze fixed moonily upon you. His words painted a grisly image of the scaffold in your mind, which dispelled with a shake of your head. 

“What are they looking for, do you think? There’s nothing for men like that out here.”  

You wandered over to the window. Behind you, the Sheriff capped the whiskey. 

“The law is after them. They pulled a heist near Salt Lake and now they’re on the run with some big score, looking for a place to hide and wait for the heat to die down. But they’re fools,” he huffed, gritting his teeth. “And get this, they apparently give their money back to poor folk, like some sort of Robin Hood gang. They think they’re hero outlaws doing good deeds.”

You had no idea what to think of that. The clock on the wall ticked. Some minutes had passed since the last rumble of thunder, and your hand had naturally sought the ring hanging around your neck in the course of staring off into the night; the rain only pattered, no longer drumming hard on the roof. 

“The rain is stopping,” you said. 

Chair legs scuffed across the floor. “I suppose I’ve worn out my welcome?” 

Turning, you rallied a tepid smile. He had risen to his full height, his clothes still damp and wrinkled. Looking at you, he passed a knuckle across his lips, the hairs of his mustache scritching and the gold of his wedding band flashing. Across the room dark eyes descended from your face, fixing on the hand near your breast. You dropped it and squared your shoulders. To bring his attention back to your face, you called out his name in question.

After all of these years, you wished you could have forgotten it. It would have been a small mercy to your memory.

“I’m sorry, I forget myself sometimes. It’s just…you’re so pretty, standing there in the firelight like that.” 

His voice was but a murmur. It was so strange—hearing those words from him. They were supposed to be soft, and from any other man they could be, but his brash voice and hungry stare ruined anything gentle about them. Like putting lace gloves on a fishmonger, they were all wrong and unsuitable for him. They prickled the cold kind of goosebumps down your arms, making you shiver like a rabbit caught in a trap.

At your speechlessness, he took a step in your direction.

“Sheriff,” you started, putting your hand up. Pressing on, you measured the tone of your voice to be as low and as serious as you could muster. “I think you’ve had a drop too many.”

He smirked at you, hooking his thumbs in his belt, beside his badge and his gun. One of his eyes crinkled and the crooked slant of his mouth revealed the stains of tobacco on his teeth. 

“No,” he continued on. His steps, as they advanced, grew more condemning than the ones before it, maintaining his slow and leisurely gait. “I’ve noticed it before. I’ve noticed for a long time.” 

The truth. So plain before you; it dawned dreadfully like a blood-red sun at sea, shone clear like coins in the murk of a well. The authenticity behind his hebdomadal visits and floral offerings rippled into clarity with those few words: for a long time. How could your eyes have looked everywhere but at the black heart of him? That moment, too, was no exception. You sought salvation from the sight of him by glancing around the room, meanwhile chiding yourself for not being more distrustful and vigilant and for overlooking his true intentions. 

Graciously, his foot knocked against something. You caught your breath. For a moment, you had the chance to scope out your options, and put some distance between you and him. 

The Sheriff picked up the object impeding his path. Your book—the one you had been trying to read before his fists pummeled your door. The embossed title flashed beneath his passing thumb. 

Wuthering Heights. 

Long ago the thundering storm and crackle of flame ebbed away, especially within those pages. Branches captured in the sway of a breeze adorned the cover modestly for such a tale of the nature of love and bitterness. 

“You’re lonelier than I thought,” he said, quiet and drifting like an afterthought. You tensed. “There’s another reason why I came here tonight.”

He set the book aside and stood. The sideboard rattled as your back bumped against it. 

“I think you should leave.”

“Leave? Is that what you really want?” 

In one devastating blink, he was before you, so close the thin and pale violet skin beneath his eyes was visible. The fumes of alcohol on his breath stung your nostrils and you wrinkled away as he tipped the sharp beak of his nose to sniff the crown of your head. 

You could not help the sharp breath you took at his sordid deeds, the sound of which only pulled his gaze to your quivering bodice and your knuckles, tightened on the edge of the sideboard. He had you blocked in, like a beetle trapped in a matchbox, skittering from corner to hopeless corner. He licked his lips. 

“How long are you going to play at this?” A touch meant to be soft and reassuring singed your wrist. “Always looking so pretty and proper, the picture of a perfect wife,” the touch of his hand turned into a vice grip, so total and absolute your fingers could not move. A numb feeling overtook your limbs, your senses held hostage by fear. “Then actin’ all innocent as if you don’t want me too.” 

Another touch, this time seizing your cheek coldly as the statue that you wish you were not. At the imminence of his hot, wet mouth seeking to devour yours you found it within yourself to move. A wave of urgency swelled up and carried you away, towards the door, but he had you in his grasp before any hopeful seed of escape could be planted. 

The kitchen table with its cheerful lace runner and softly burning candle jostled as your front was bent over it, knocking the pitcher of bluebells to the floor. Porcelain cracked and you watched the water pool, petals floating, darkening the wood, and you wished the night that passed would fall apart into similar pieces, to leave the memories scattered and unstrung like the beads of a broken necklace across a floor. 

“What’s it going to take with you,” he had hissed in your ear, his spittled words dripping black, wicked and vile. Metal jingled. Fabric lifted. Cold air met your legs. Buttons freed their hold.

Stop. 

“I always knew you were a—”

Stop remembering. 

“—pretty thing.”

Absorbed in his vice, he little cared for his actions, entranced by his insidious deed. Foul words and heavy breaths hissed through his teeth and echoed for years after. 

Your mind left your body. But you remembered all of it. 

And you were so tired of remembering. You hated how easy it was for him to take everything from you. You hated the lust that drove him, your body for being an object of his desire, and yourself for being unable to stop any of it from happening.

The ringing report of rifle fire split the night, and it was the only thing that made him stop. But the damage was done. He tucked his shirttail in, buckled his belt. Left; a promise to return the next evening finalized by a vulgar squeeze to your backside, stinging your flesh. 

Wood scraped along your nails as you slid to the floor, clutching the table leg, trembling. At once, with an empty stare and shaking limbs, tears blurred your sight as all of your remaining strength relinquished. You curled into your body, disconsolate. Hugged your knees. Sobs, sobs, sobs wrenched your jaw apart in mourning what was lost and what was done to you.

It would follow your every other thought, that scene of despair in the lonely dark of night. You were cold for so long afterwards; for months, in a way no blanket or bowl of soup could remedy. The misery nested so deep within you. Further than the marrow of your bones. 

Every day for the rest of your life you would remember his hands. On you, squeezing, guided and distorted by depraved intent. Darker and drearer fell the night, and the full tide of your thoughts consumed you in a bitter, burning woe. 

Until dawn there was nothing but the pale, dead gold of the moon. You saw nothing. You felt nothing. Your mind only replayed it all, over and over. 

The violent tint of dawn crept in between the curtains. On the end of your lashes the last of your tears hung, and as the light came upon you, so softly bright, the deep-welling sorrow that sunk your heart yawned into something else. An emotion that braced your hands against the wood floor, collected you to your knees, and drove you shuffling forward. Shame. 

In your bedroom you gathered soap and new clothes into a basket before stepping foot outside. A glorious morning announced itself in every sound, from the sweetest music filling the trees, to the wind that gently stirred their nascent leaves. But it all fell on deaf ears. Your senses were lost to grim contemplation. 

Along a forest path rippling waters wandered. To their source they led, and alongside its flow you followed. 

Ties loosened, you dropped your skirts to your feet at the riverbank. All over, your skin spidered with memories of how he had touched you. The fastenings of your clothes came undone mechanically. You pretzeled arms behind your back to yank at your shirt buttons until all of your body was bare to the misty morning. Silver water whispered its coldness between your toes as you stepped forward onto the pebbled, silty shore, walking without seeing, feeling nothing but the cold encasing your ankles, your knees, rising up until the river embraced your shoulders in a purging chill. With a breath you dipped under. In a blink you escaped. 

Beneath the surface, the feelings and the memories dimmed. Slippery rocks brushed your feet and you grasped a slimy branch to sink farther. Little white bubbles floated up as you let the wintry temperature of the water numb your mind into blessed silence. The sensation calmed you, and that was all you wanted; the only thing you could seek within your tremorous reach. Quiet, and a state of unfeeling. Until that moment all of your thoughts were a repetition of the same statement of instability and unease: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Teeth chattering; every pore over your body squirmed with the taint of his violation every step of the way to the river. Only beneath the current had it stopped. At last you ceased to think. 

Your heart seized and your lungs begged for air. And again, something brought you up. From the kitchen floor, from the bed of the river. With a gasp you broke the surface and your eyes fixed upon the sky. The great blue bowl of it was ringed with treetops, eagles circling—the world around you, going on as it should while droplets trickled down your spine. Clouds of river foam gathered around the stagnant driftwood you stepped over while treading to the bank. Taking a seat upon a rock, you scoured your limbs with soap until the skin squeaked and your fingers pruned, the bubbles drifting downstream. From your hand, ice cold, help deep in the river, the water fell over your knees and your shins, down your shoulders and in the hollow of your back, cleansing and numbing. With the print of the Sheriff’s fingers no longer pressed into your skin, you dried and dressed, ready to face the scene inside the cottage once again. 

Too often in this world girls become women before they are ready, before they are strong enough, before they know enough to endure all of the trials womanhood entails. Losing your family to sickness so young, being on your own completely, you thought your world was as bleak as it could be. Until the night that passed—when the universe peeled back another layer of darkness to descend over your life.

Upon approaching the front gate of the only home you had ever known, something changed. The familiar consolation of its shelter was absent. No smile tugged your lips at the dance of dragonflies in the air, at the tulip bulbs in your garden plot sprouting toothy stalks from the dirt. 

Within each season resided a singular wealth unique to the forest, the remembrances of which carved fond grooves in your mind to touch over in times you sought comfort, the niches imbued with a sense of belonging and safety. You reached inwards for them. 

For the trinkets of winter, silver, blue, and white—the sugaring of snow, the glittering of frost, the river’s music silenced by ice. Leading to the light of the sun warming once again, stout icicles dripping onto emerald moss, coaxing the golden crocus from the thaw. How, slowly, the days grow longer, April rain moistening the lichen on the roof tiles, darkening the soil, spawning the green scent of an Earth renewed. 

It was as if every page of memory were ripped from the book of your life, leaving an empty tome. There was no story left for you here. 

The door threw a trapezoid of light when you opened it. Standing in the threshold, a five-leaf cluster wandered down from the sky and landed on the floorboard, dotted damply with the night’s rain. Inside, everything was the same, yet changed, like some place in a dream. The house was as dark as a tomb, haunted with the echoes and dust of people taken from you, and someone who took from you. Nothing but a vacant chair welcomed you.  

On the mantle rested trinkets from your parents. A pocket mirror of your mother’s, silver and elegant, and a rosewood pipe of your father’s, smooth and genteel. To hold them in your palm, curl your fingers over their edges and clasp them to your skin as if wringing out the last ghosts of their touch, as you so often did, would only bring you to your knees. You needed to move forward and leave it all behind. You needed—

A chip crunched beneath your foot. You stepped away, revealing the obliterated piece of vase. What a helpless, fragile vessel. Admired throughout its lifetime, only to be thrust into ruin. Your hands shook beside you, the bones of your fingers tingling with riotous nerves all the while anguish swelled in your chest to a volcanic boiling point. 

A wrenching, piercing roar split your throat apart. 

In a rush the desecrated table toppled over. Screaming, you kicked it harder and harder until your toenails bled and the whole thing scudded ten feet across the floor. Your arms swung wildly about with each effort, fighting the images of yourself bent over it, helpless and frozen, and unable to beat them back. More and more you screamed with outrage, but it was not enough. You were not strong enough. Your limbs alone could not prevail. 

No man would ever know of the darkness their touch leaves behind. Meanwhile you would carry it forever.

It was not fair. 

Your rage conducted you outside, sustained you in the search of some outlet, some tool to deliver greater destruction than your feeble body could convey. Leaving the table behind, pools of last night’s rain splashed beneath your blazing step on the path to the shed where you kept your father’s axe. Jabbering cardinals flurried away to the trees at your storming approach and the sun graced your forehead through the lacings of the leaves they found shelter in. 

Ordinarily, the sight of so much emergent green abounding after one rainfall would stoke wonder in you. In one place, in one wind, the new leaves sang wavily while a cloud passed over the glare of the sun, bringing a cooler depth to the shades of the earth until all brightened and warmed again once the cloud melted away. After the longest winter, it was what your soul needed to fill the holes in your heart. Grief was becoming a part of your landscape, however. You stopped short on the path.

A wind-cloven branch warped the roof of the shed. It must have fallen in the night. The severed limb was great and heavy, and in the place where it was once joined to its life force the splintered wood was a tender, meaty white, darker in its center. Bugs skittered along the scales of lichen patching their once steady home; in days the leaves would wither and wilt.

With gravity and a few tugs the branch came down. As it lay upon the stone path, uprooted, your simmering rage found its outlet. This was something you could destroy. You reached inside the shed, and with it in your hand, the axe dragged across the ground. The curved edge shone sharp in the sun as it scraped along stone.  

Raising it above your shoulder, your limbs quaked before you released it all at last. Swing after swing, hack after hack, again and again you heaved the hatchet into the log, pieces splintering as memories of him came free as well. Him, his voice. How his acts of kindness were all a lie—a ploy to get you where he wanted you. Bent over a table. 

Crack. 

Alone. No one to help you. First Gideon with his groping hands, then the Sheriff with the smoldering fire in his eyes. 

A split. 

You braced your foot against the branch and twisted the hatchet free. Deeper and deeper down into the wood you burrowed, gathering venom with each reflection. As the branch fell apart and wood chunks flew your resolve stitched itself together. 

He.

 Swing. Your skin is so soft here.

Had.

  Breathe in. Forget his words.

No.

 Bury them. 

Right.

With a momentous strike the tree limb cracked asunder. A final scream tore your throat raw. The birds split free from the sunlit canopy, and the forest was still as your shriek petered to a shriveling wail, then nothing. 

The line of thought looping through your head quieted too. The uncertainty and fear of not knowing what to do, how to move forward from this, was gone. While the thread of anger and veins of sadness and shame still pulsed within, it all flowed together, steady and purposeful. The axe hung from your hand, dangled a scant inch from the ground, and your breathing relaxed as the sweat dried cool on your brow. 

Lightning had struck this tree twice before. Each fracture diminished its once formidable heights, an august maple which sheltered your childhood in the sweltering summers and cast familiar shadows in your room at bleary midnights. But every spring it flourished in a robe of green, the ruptures healing, new branches broadening their offshoots, and marched onwards to the grand vault of the heavens. However lightning-struck, it lived on, not dying of ruined hopes alone. 

The time to dwell had passed. You were done crying. You were done blaming yourself. And you were done with asking yourself why. What you were ready to do was protect yourself from ever getting hurt again. You could not let the pain stop you. So you finished chopping up the tree to break down into firewood later. 

A whicker sounded from the stable. Willa, your sweet, gentle mare. Until that moment you had forgotten her. Putting the axe aside, in a dash the door clanged open at your hand and you found her thoughtful eyes in the slanting ribbon of daylight. You sighed in relief. Safe and sound, your only friend left in the world shuffled in her stall, the space smelling of wood and hay. You approached her with an open palm, smoothing it over her black and white coat.

“Hey, sweetie.”

Animals could be so intelligent and perceptive at times. Willa nudged your shoulder, sensing the sorrow molding your heart, and you pressed your cheek to her warm neck. Smelling sweetly of grass and hay, her black mane slipped through the comb of your fingers like a shadow melting back into shade. You drew it away to uncover the white star on the center of her forehead. Her long lashes dipped somberly. You took a comb from its niche behind a joist and brushed along her coat for a long while. Without words, you found a way to speak to her of the events that unfolded the night before, thinking of them deeply and shutting your eyes as she remained close. 

In the evening he would return. And the next, and the one after. On and on it would go, and you could live a whole lifetime in fear and hatred and pain, unless you stopped it. He said you were the picture of a perfect wife. No man would have you now. A word from him and the whole town would condemn you if you refused his wants. Deviously, he had made sure it was impossible for you to say no to him and once again you were backed into a corner, that beetle trapped in a matchbox with no way out. 

You needed a place to think. After scooping Willa some oats you donned a hat and your father’s old hunting jacket, a garment fashioned from a durable brown suede with deep front pockets and elk horn buttons. It was familiar and warm, and a comfort. 

You hefted your horse’s saddle off the hook and over her back, commenced cinching the straps and adjusting the stirrups, and led her outside. Fetching your gun belt and a waterskin from the cottage, you mounted up and loped down the forest path. 

Deep in the woods, where the mountain air of spring violets and dew-spangled moss came sweet upon the senses, Nymph Lake rested like a jewel in a chest lined with evergreen velvet, a treasure to the eyes and ears. A glassy calm transfixed the sleeping waters, an aquatic scent lingering. Lily-pads shouldered its reeded edges, rocks shone brown beneath the changeful sheen of the serene ripples, and minnows balanced themselves among the underwater grasses which wavered and streamed in the natural flow of the pond. All around, the timberline hemmed the lone mountain lake in, with the sun scarcely streaking the treetops at the early morning hour. A woodpecker clung to the knot of a treebole and drilled for insects, and along the water a frog added its voice to the song of the wilderness. 

Thompson’s Peak rose up in the azure of the sky like the spires of an Arthurian castle. Seams of snow dwelled in the vast fissures of the mountainside and thrived in the shadows of the rock, a granite tapestry striated with the grays of smoke and storm clouds with canals of rust between. Willa’s hooves sunk into the soggy ground as she shifted on her feet. You swayed in the saddle, giving her some rein and leaning back as she began to climb uphill past a pile of rocks, out of the tree line and towards the sunny side of the bouldered mountain trail. 

For all of its sentimental worth to you, and as safe as any place you could find, Nymph Lake was not the refuge you sought. The times ahead and the path you were about to embark on was uncharted and uncertain territory. The trusting, pure chapter of your life would have to be left in shadow. 

Through the notch between Willa’s ebony ears, you aimed yourself towards the rugged slopes and mounds of the Sawtooths, the earth coarse, shifting with detritus and scree, with few and far pine trees taking root between. Long, bare logs and trunks of trees, parched and decaying, strewed the land, slowly sliding away and downwards, the old bending back into the earth as the new prospers, rising up in the form of saplings. 

Your grandmother’s words came to mind. Always do what your heart tells you. In the bare wind you listened; for one, for the other. The world to you once, the presiding presence of Thompson’s Peak filled your vision, steady as a lighthouse. 

If it were any other man, you could go to the law and report his crime. If you did nothing, you would crumble into a shell of yourself, something brittle and hollow for the wind to sweep away like the exoskeletons of summertime cicadas. If not you, it would be another. Picturing him luring and coercing another unwise girl, grinning at the prospect of her ruination, was enough to temper your insides to steel, your heart to adamant. 

You pulled Willa to a stop and dismounted on the gravel trail, unlimbering your gun. Six bullets occupied the cylinders in the loading chamber and you traced the notch in each one, twisting the mechanism around and around, acknowledging its life-altering clicks, small and clear. Your finger brushed the cool, curved steel trigger. For your protection, grandmother once said. In case you’re in the forest, lost in your foraging, and maybe you’re not watching your step, and you unwittingly stumble upon the hunting grounds of a predator. A beam of sunlight glinted along the barrel like a blinding star. I would have more peace of mind knowing you have some way to protect yourself and how to use it. I’m getting old, you know. 

Amidst the painful contemplation of your fate, fighting your last fight for the principles of your youth on that crumbling mountainside, Willa nosed a cluster of plants growing alongside the trail and set her teeth over their leaves, intending to munch, and everything stopped, suddenly sharpened. In a blink you tsked her away, and as you snapped the revolver chamber back into the loading gate, it all clicked into place, the sound like that of a key sliding in the lock of Death’s door. 

From memory, the page from one of your field guides on plants emerged in your mind’s eye. Death Camas was a member of the Liliaceae plant family, discernible for its grass-like leaves from which sprouted a raceme of white flowers with yellow anthers, as well as its distinctive onion scent. Fifteen different species thrived throughout North America, inhabiting mountain valleys, grassy plains, forests, and dry land alike, all of which grew from a white bulb with a fibrous root system. An unknowing passerby could easily mistake them for wild onions. A mere bite of one would invariably cause weakness and convulsions, vomiting and difficulty breathing, impair their muscles and nerves. A meal of them would stop their heart altogether. 

You crouched to the ground, stones grating underfoot, and your shadow fell over the colony of unassuming plants as you idled over them. Hands gloved, you grasped the base of the stems and pulled firmly. There was a snap as the pearly bulb relinquished its hold in the dirt and emerged in the light of day. One after another, dozens more ripped free without protest, clods of dirt clinging to the Camas’ stringy, tenuous roots. 

Indomitable and unwavering, as you reaped your bounty your resolve cemented to the same rock-hardness of the impassive mountain you stood upon. A mountain formed ages ago from the molten caverns of the Earth, transmuted through pressure and fire; a voyage that began with a roar, a rupture, a rock rending itself from an Archean mountainside which hurdled, crashing, into a valley to be carried down, down into the depths of the sea to slip beneath the subterraneous folds on the ocean floor, only for the process to begin again. 

This journey of tumult and upheaval was a natural cycle, one whose path was familiar to your tread through grief, and, newly, violation. The decision was final as you straightened to your full height.

You were not going to live with fear. You were going to live with guilt. 

He had you helpless, flat on your stomach with a rope of terror binding you in place. You would have him the same, and he would learn an inkling of the measure of pain you would forever carry throughout your life while he realized the end of his. 

I hate leaving it off here and the next part is so so close to being finished, but I was about to lose my mind if I didn’t post something I’ve written. I also thought it would be better to break it off here instead of part one being 22k words. 

I've worked so hard on this, drawing from my own well of pain, and I know this game came out in 2018 and fandom traffic has died down considerably, so if any part of this story sticks out to you I would love to hear your thoughts <3

Also a big fat thank you to every person who has encouraged me to keep writing. Y’all have no idea how many times you have saved my life. My betas, Jessica and Sara, as well my other mutuals on here 💗 Thank you. More than I can say. 

[rosesloveletters]

muse.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Reader

Word Count: 2,137

Warnings: No major content warnings apply.

Summary: Reader is suffering from writer's block and Wonka surprises them with their very own writing room to help inspire their creativity.

Author's Note: As a writer, this fic is extremely important to me. Also, the photo of Wonka I used for this one is one of my favorites look at him <333

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

The sun began to set, casting a radiant glow across the landscape and saturating the horizon in the warm hues of lingering twilight as it transitioned into the blue hour. The dewy grass in the courtyard below appeared to sparkle with every movement of the wind, as if it were covered in thousands of tiny, glistening diamonds that reflected the palate of colors in the sky. 

You stepped out onto your balcony to take in the subtle beauty of serene night. 

As a poet, you were often inspired by the natural beauty that surrounded you. 

You had a passion for words and a love for language and expression. Your pen was your key to the world and it unlocked possibilities unknown to others and, sometimes, even to yourself. Your writings were an expression of your soul, of your deepest feelings and private, inner thoughts. 

You shared your heart in ink and crafted words that would encapsulate your very essence.

When it came as naturally as the setting sun, you could see the beauty and nuance of life through the lens of poetry, capturing your thoughts in ways as brilliant and as dazzling as light itself. 

Your dreams were just as bright and left streaks of color across the page every time your dared to pick up a pen, even though you could be highly critical of yourself and of your writing; your prose was background noise to your everyday thoughts, but to others, it was the crescendo of consequence, the resonant tones that were so often felt, but rarely put into the right words.

This time, however, you were struggling as anyone else would be, to find the correct words for how you felt. 

You were uninspired and, though you had time to collect your thoughts and clear your mind to make room for new ideas, it seemed hopeless as you were at a loss for where to begin. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind you startled you and you turned, coming face to face with Wonka who was respectfully removing his hat as he stepped out onto the balcony to greet you. 

“I see you’re still experiencing a bit of difficulty coming up with an idea of what to write about,” he said, voice as soft as rain as it blanketed and clung to you like a warm summer drizzle. 

You nodded; you were a bit troubled by the fact that you had been suffering from writer’s block for weeks now. 

Typically, when you wanted to write, you were able to, but right now no such case had been made. You were struggling to find the motivation to create, a debilitating scenario Wonka had found himself fallen victim to numerous times in his life, and one he did not wish to see you suffer through alone. 

His large, warm hand rested on the small of your back as he stood beside you on the balcony he had installed off the back of the factory, unseen by passersby on the main road out front. It afforded the two of you the opportunity to be outside and to enjoy the fresh air without being swarmed by the public. It was risky enough to go down to the courtyard; with Wonka’s worldwide renown, he did best to stay out of the public eye as much as possible, lest anyone decide to sneak onto the property for one reason or another, putting both of you at risk of harm. 

If staying inside of his beloved factory while the rest of the world waited on his doorstep kept him and yourself safe, he would have locked the door and thrown away the key (again.) 

Still, it was nice to have a way of escape from the sometimes-oppressive feeling of being inside all the time and so you often came out here when you felt that you needed more space. 

Privacy was deeply important to the both of you, but it was difficult to come by these days. 

Wonka gazed out across the sprawling complex of his factory.

He had built an empire that stretched several blocks. 

It was an impressive sight, but nothing quite like the way his pupils expanded in the waning light, robin’s egg blue irises spiraling with shimmering, springtime whimsy. 

A small smile spread across your face; if you could not be swayed by the natural beauty of the world around you, then perhaps you should cast your eyes upon the man who had become your whole world and let yourself become delighted by his elegant beauty.

Wonka turned to you and the look in his eye indicated that he had not expected to see you smiling at him, yet without missing a beat, he returned your grin with his own, “you know, I’ve got just the thing that might help you.”

This was unexpected. 

It was not unusual for Wonka to do his best to help you through any tough or difficult situations, especially where and when creativity was involved. 

However, when he offered you anything, you always kept up your guard at first. 

As much as you loved him, Wonka was and always had been somewhat unpredictable. 

“Willy,” you began with uncertainty, “I don’t know if it’s any one thing that might help me, rather than inspiration as a whole.”

Your intent was to discourage him from anything extravagant. 

He was already turning away from the balcony railing and making his way inside. He paused in the doorway and looked at you with a mischievous glint in his sharp blue eyes, “perhaps what I have to give you will spark that very inspiration that you seek.”

He had a point, though you were still unsure, but what choice did you have?

You trusted him perhaps more than you trusted yourself and that was saying something.

Without another thought against the matter, you turned and followed him. 

Wonka led you back through your private living quarters and down the hall, past the library and to a little room at the end of the hall that he had kept you out of under the guise of it being nothing but extra storage space. You had never questioned him on this. After all, this was his space and though you had recently become a permanent resident, you had yet found a reason to explore this particular room and therefore what secrets it held were unknown to you. 

 He paused with his hand on the knob; he was beaming from ear to ear like he was about to tell you the punchline of a joke. 

“Are you ready, my dear?” he could barely contain his excitement. 

His energy was infectious and you found yourself on the edge of your seat in terms of anticipation as you nodded and waited for him to open the door. 

He turned the knob and pushed the door inward. As it swung open, you let out a little gasp at the sight you beheld: it was a perfect, quaint and quiet little space with hardwood floors and several rugs of various colors and styles that were perfect accent pieces someone like Wonka would have acquired at one point or another in his life. There was a bookcase against the right wall, fully stocked with reading materials, writing guides, poetry collections, anthologies and dictionaries. 

Several small shelves had been installed which housed candles of various shapes, sizes, colors and scents as well as a few succulents and houseplants, one of which you noticed was a string of pearls with strands stretching near to the floor. A plush-looking armchair took up residency in the left corner near the door, along with a modest little end table and a lamp that looked like it had been brought straight from the nineteenth century. 

What caught your eye much more than any of the décor, however, was the writing desk which sat against the far wall in front of a large picture window overlooking half the Wonka factory complex and half of the city it occupied. 

The desk itself was unobtrusive and plain, wooden, with a small hutch above for storing papers and documents. It seemed almost like a schoolteacher’s desk and perhaps it had been at one time, yet the most noticeable aspect of its structure was that the desk appeared to have been sawed in half. 

All the air left your lungs…could it be?

As if he could hear your thoughts, Wonka spoke up, “I knew I had kept the other half of my desk, but I couldn’t remember where I had put it. The Oompa Loompas were clearing out one of our storage rooms when they discovered it. So, in the greatest of secrecy, I had them help me bring it in and design the perfect writing room for you. Now, you have your own quiet space to work and perhaps a little inspiration could be born from this new environment.”

You were utterly speechless, yet your mind was a trove of questions and curiosities as your eyes scanned the room; you tried to take in everything at once, but there was far too much in your immediate line of sight everywhere you looked that it was impossible to focus. 

How had he managed to do all this right under your nose, without you having ever been the wiser? 

That was, perhaps, what made him who he was. 

Wonka was a mystery, a whimsical force of nature who did as he pleased and laughed in the face of any nay-sayer. He could achieve any impossibility, regardless of impracticality.

He was also a diligent worker and was devoted to his ideas and whims. When he decided to do something, somehow, it always got done. 

Knowing that the Oompa Loompas had helped with this project warmed your heart. 

The sweet little elfin creatures who ran Wonka’s factory were more like family than mere workers and you could tell that they had lovingly created a space that would feel safe and cozy for you to work. Your mind was already buzzing with ideas of how to properly thank them for their contributions. 

“So, do you like it, my dear?”

Wonka’s gentle voice garnered your attention and your loving gaze landed on him for the first time since you had entered the room. A smile as bright and as warm as the sun split across your face, “oh, I love it! It’s perfect! I can’t thank you enough, Willy. How can I ever repay you?” 

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Wonka amicably placed a hand on your shoulder, “your joy is payment enough. I sincerely hope that this will help spark some creativity, since you’ve had a bit of trouble lately.”

“I know it will,” your tone spoke of reassurance, for him and for yourself. 

You were certain you would feel inspired here, not just within this room, but inside the entire Wonka factory. 

You had perhaps put too much pressure on yourself to get inspired out of your own desire to create when there was a whole little world here in which you could draw inspiration from, if not from the factory itself, from the man who had made it all a reality. 

Wonka was truly magnificent in many ways, yet you were the most enamored by just one: he loved you so much that he would do something so simple, yet so profound, for the sake of helping and to bring you happiness, never asking for anything in return or making you feel guilty for accepting the help and gesture of kindness.

As a small child, your dreams of romance included the most basic of needs being met, but also of someone, a nameless, faceless partner to be filled in at a later date, showing deeper interest in you beyond that which was surface level, born not out of selfish motivations, but rather of a deeper desire for connection and an interest in who you were. 

Someone with no familial connection or obligation, who wanted to love you because they chose to, despite everything that you felt made you unappealing and undesirable. 

Wonka made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t known were possible until he enlightened you and now.

He was much more than what you yearned for in the past; he replaced your idea of romance with a real one.  

You were finally chosen. 

Never had you been so grateful to have such a unique existence. 

“And I know exactly what I’m going to write about first.”

Wonka looked at you with a hint of surprise on his face, “is that right?”

You nodded. 

“And what might your subject be?”

You looked at him lovingly, heart practically beating out of your chest as you uttered, “Us.”

How different things might have been had you known that this entire time, you were waiting for him. 

[galamalion]

˚ ୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ cupid’s revolver

⤷ ⋆ * ˖ ౨ৎ ⋆ summary﹕you confess your feelings to a certain lipstick-wearing gunslinger.

⋆ * ˖ ⋆ notes﹕hello! this is a request by @lady-winter13​ for an izou x reader! hope you enjoy!

⤷ ⋆ * ˖ ౨ৎ ⋆ pairing﹕izou x gn!reader

when you first joined the whitebeard pirates, you knew from stories what to expect. you prepared yourself to be pushed around as the runt of the litter or suffer through a humiliating ‘initiation.’ what you weren’t expecting was the kindness and love they showed you. your fellow pirates greeted you as an equal despite your lack of experience, gladly showing you the ropes.

thatch taught you how to cook, sharing family recipes and the favorite meals of each member. marco showed you the proper way to clean a wound, having you memorize the steps before going on to the next topic. jozu coached you on correct punch formation, contorting your body in uncomfortable ways to reach optimal punch velocity, though you got more bruises than knowledge from those lessons.

however, your favorite lesson by far was weapons training. firearms, to be exact. not because you were particularly interested in guns, no, you hated them. they were your favorite because they allowed you to spend one-on-one time with izou.

you’d wake up bright and early to finish your chores, swabbing the deck, doing laundry, sorting through marco’s supplies, and taking inventory for thatch. and finally, when you completed everything, you’d run up to izou, waiting for his acknowledgment. he’d always turn to you and give a curt nod, causing the butterflies that had been waiting all day to emerge, fluttering about in your stomach.

to say you had a crush on izou was the understatement of the century. whenever you saw him, your heart soared to unimaginable heights, piercing the clouds until it hit the sun, burning alongside the star with passion. there was no way to pick a favorite part of the man, but you had a list. the strands that escaped his hair tie and framed his face, the lipstick he carefully applied every morning, or the mix of his perfume and body wash that fused to create a flowery-citrus scent that lingered around him.

you could write enough things about izou to fill a short novel, but you’d never dare write them down on paper lest another crewmate finds it. while the crew was tight-knit, you knew they could be ruthless snitches, specifically marco and thatch. those two were eager to get in on any gossip they could, like reporters snooping around for the next juicy scoop. you had no intention of ever letting them know your true feelings.

the moby dick had just docked on an island, allowing the crew to make light purchases and restock any necessary supplies. you, however, were forced to serve thatch in his kitchen, grabbing whatever spice or vegetable he barked at you. only tuning into every third word he screamed, you instead thought about the gun practice you’d be having with izou tonight.

“hey hey hey!” thatch shouted, “i said three cloves of garlic, not three bulbs! are you trying to poison everyone on board!” 

you jumped, dropping the garlic onto the counter, narrowly missing the pot where thatch’s masterpiece was cooking. “sorry! i got lost in my thoughts, but I’ll be more careful, i swear!”

thatch looked at you incredulously, determining whether or not you would be a further nuisance to his culinary craft. “and what was so important that caused you to forget what a clove was?”

“well, i was…” you froze in your tracks, desperately thinking of a clever lie. you couldn’t tell thatch just anything. he’d see through you in an instant.

“...i was so hungry that i couldn’t think straight! tonight is pizza night, after all. i just couldn’t get it out of my head.”

“well, we’re not making pizza right now, so throw that pie out of your noggin and start dreaming about soup!” thatch yelled back.

internally you let out a sigh of relief. everyone on the ship eagerly anticipated pizza night, so it wasn’t too outlandish to suggest you might be excited.

“my my, is teach in here? all this talk about pies…” 

you jerked your head towards the door, looking at the new voice. but you knew who it was, even without turning your head. how could you not? that sweet dulcet voice plagued your dreams every night, not that you opposed its intrusion.

“you think i’d let that fool in my kitchen? he’d eat everything in here!” thatch shot back.

izou gave a hearty laugh before turning to you. “are we still on for practice tonight? you might miss out on pizza if we go.”

there was a lump in your throat, connecting down to your heart, resounding in your ears. all you could do was pitifully nod at the question, doing your best to give a reassuring smile.

he gave you one in kind, then turned and walked out the door, leaving you and thatch alone.

thatch slowly turned his head, eyeing you suspiciously. “...i thought you couldn’t get pizza night out of your head. you’re telling me you’d sacrifice one of my north blue-famous pies to shoot guns?”

you didn’t give thatch an answer. instead, you sprinted out of the kitchen, hearing him shouting after you. you knew he couldn’t give chase, not with his soup still cooking on the stove.

upon reaching the ship deck, you crashed by the railings, taking deep breaths. while desperately gasping for air, you felt a hand rest on your shoulder, seeing izou standing above you with a genial smile.

“done with the chef so soon? i know thatch can be pretty demanding, but this is only the second time i’ve seen someone get chased out.”

you quickly brushed your clothes, standing up. “i wasn’t chased out! i was just so excited for practice that he let me leave early!”

izou smirked at your hasty response. “well, if you’re that stoked, perhaps we should leave now?”

nodding eagerly, you followed closely behind as he left the ship, searching for a spot on the island to begin practice. he led you to a small clearing, placing a few bottles on various rocks and high points.

“now, remember what i’ve taught you. aim just a smidge above the target, not directly at it.”

you carefully pointed the pistol at one of the bottles, taking a deep breath and preparing yourself to fire.

“your stance is off,” he spoke suddenly, “feet apart, and your hand is too shaky.” izou stepped behind you, pressing his foot between yours, forcing them apart. he laid his hand on top of yours, steadying and straightening your posture.

“deep breaths now; calm yourself.” how could he ask something so unreasonable after doing something like that!? every nerve in your body worked overtime to calm down from his actions, demanding you flee immediately to stop your body from imploding. 

however, you refused to let your body ruin this opportunity of one-sided intimacy. taking a deep breath, you held the pistol up, aiming at the bottle, pulling the trigger, and letting the bullet fly.

much to your dismay, it didn’t hit the target, only scraping the rock it was sitting on. you angrily threw the gun to the ground, stomping toward the bottle and kicking it, letting out a long frustrated groan. izou reached a hand out to console you, but you stopped him.

“i hate guns!” you shouted. “i don’t like shooting them, and they’re insufferable to use!” you continued your impassioned rant, much to the shock of izou, shouting for the next couple of minutes about your distaste for firearms.

once you finished and were entirely out of breath, izou chimed in.

“then why shoot with me so often? it’s not mandatory, you know,” he said wryly.

“because of you!” you yelled back.

“i don’t force—”

“i come because I want to shoot with you! to spend time with you, because i like being with you! i like hanging out with you, listening to your bad jokes, and when you offer to do my makeup, all of it! i like you a lot, so i’ll hang around you, even if it means i have to shoot dumb guns.”

izou just stared at you, eyes wide at your heartfelt assertion. after realizing the weight of your words, you felt your entire body heat up with embarrassment and shame.

“n-not that i think guns are dumb! i just don’t like them personally! they’re very pretty, especially the ones that—”

“you…like me?”

his words barely registered in your ears as your hammering heart overpowered any outside noise. 

“well, i mean, yes— but if you don’t feel the same, we can pretend this never happened!”

silence permeated the air as you stared at each other, letting your proclamation sink in. embarrassment didn’t begin to describe your feelings, and you felt sick to your stomach.

disheartened by his lack of words and wide-eyed stare, you turned around and began walking toward the ship. it’s alright if izou couldn’t pretend, you already planned on doing your best to erase this interaction from your memory.

before you could return, you felt a tug on your hand. izou stood behind you, grasping your hand tightly and pulling you close. his expression was completely different, now sporting a determined look, eyebrows knit tightly together as he spoke.

“your declaration of love was inspiring, though i’d keep your comments on firearms to yourself, ” he shifted onto one knee, kneeling before you. “i apologize for my lackluster reaction, and i ask for your forgiveness, as you…caught me off guard. i would be honored to share my heart with you, now and forever.”

this time it was your turn to stare stupidly. you had prepared to never speak to izou again, to stomp to the boat and cry your eyes out, lamenting your big mouth. but for izou to declare that he returned your sentiments? if it weren’t for his tight grip on your hand, you’d pinch yourself to check if you were dreaming.

“...you really mean it?” you whispered, praying he was being truthful.

he stared into your eyes, unblinking. “if i am a liar, may i be struck down.”

tears of joy gently pricked your eyes as you squeezed his hands in response, beaming down at the gunslinger. izou stood, offering you his arm, which you gladly took. the two of you walked side-by-side, preparing for the cheers and jeers of your fellow pirates as you boarded the moby dick. 

a caramel pompadour peeked out from a nearby shrub, watching as you and izou walked away from the clearing.

“well, there goes 1,000 beri…you win, marco!” thatch groaned, tossing the money into the trees above.

from within the trees, a blonde man caught the sack of cash. “izou would’ve never confessed first; you know how proper he is!” marco cackled, counting his newly earned capital.

thatch sighed. “you know, you might be right,” he said, crossing his arms. “but i think we have those shooting lessons to thank. the straw that broke the samurai’s back!” thatch let out a boisterous laugh, only to be knocked over by marco.

“shaddup! they’re still close by, and i’m not going to be the one explaining why we were creeping.” marco hissed.

the doctor swiftly grabbed thatch with his talons, flying away from the island and towards the ship, all while the chef hung on for dear life. he knew he had to be fast, as he planned to be the first to congratulate you two on your budding romance.

“did you hear that?” you whispered, turning around to the fluttering bushes. izou  spun you back around, giving you a reassuring smile.

“i’m sure it was nothing, just some lousy birds, that’s all.” he chuckled, giving a quick glance towards the greenery.

izou pulled you closer, stretching his arm around your shoulder, giving you an extra layer of safety. it was something you’d dreamed of for far too long, but now you knew he’d always be by your side, no matter the trials you faced. you smiled at the thought, leaning against your newfound lover as you anticipated the new chapter of your life.

[hell-drabbles]

Embittered Companion idea

While Ra-On is Solomon's descendant

Companion is God

Hear me out

God left Heaven after Solomon's death and either split himself up or reincarnated

So while in current timeline Ra-On represents Solomon

Companion represents God or at least a fragment or incarnation of him

Which is why Companion's angelification goes horribly wrong and why angels are so taken to Companion

I had this idea a while ago and thought it would be funny to play with

Especially since PB might go under so I wanna write my own lore

I know PB isn't ever gonna do this

But I enjoy the idea that later in game rather then Ra-On being both the demons and angels object of affection and the solution to everything

Ra-On meets someone or someone he knows (Minhyeok) who is the incarnation/fragment of God and thus this is what stops the whole war

PB won't ever do that though since Ra-On has to be the horny main focus in everything

Dante Anon

Strap yourself in, tis a long one!

In the end, the main focus is just to be horny, and I'm honestly okay with it that if it weren't for the narrative trying to be super uber serious. It wants to be comedic, but it always wants to try and do gut wrenching emotion, but you can't do that when the MC has barely known these devils for more than a month at most.

Would've done the horny aspect justice if the writers just leaned in hard on the comedy and basically have it be a dark humor comedy from start to finish. Angels slaughtering devils and suddenly there's a holiday and the devils and angels are celebrating and fucking one another.

Hmm? Oh yeah, I know this angel killed my brother but we patched him up fine! Besides, I wanted to see what he tastes like, don't ruin it for me.

In that dark comedy version, I probably would've had it where the war was only started for the sake of a promise. Solomon made the devils and angels promise to spoil their descendants rotten, so the angels and devils come together to craft this bitch huge scenario that's basically, "angel/devil war, descendants come and stop the war, huuuuge celebration!" the whole war was crafted to make the descendants feel special and they're pretty upfront about it too. "Yeah we know you humans like to feel really special, so you get to stop a whole war!" That kind of thing.

You know, that kind of humor.

Anyways, let's seeeee, how would I go about an AU where the Companion is somehow connected to God.

I'll go with the fragmentation portion and say that the Companion has that in them. An insignificant fragment that subconsciously always seeks out Solomon no matter where they are.

Both Ra-on and the Companion are in the realm of "special," but the difference between them is that, narrative wise, Ra-on is eventually going to lose what makes him special, as in Solomon is finally going to rest. Ra-on's special status is highly situational, only awakening as soon as he was in Hell or near an angel. And as for the Companion, well...

I would imagine that having a fragment of God in you is going to mess with you from birth until death. The Companion has always heard low whispers, prayers that sometimes spike in volume depending if a tragedy or a violent storm happened. Suffering from both visual and auditory hallucinations. They avoid churches like the plague because the whispering always gets louder near those places, and they constantly have an umbrella over their head because the clouds simply bother them.

I'd like to imagine that the fragment the Companion got ended up containing all of God's grief inside of it. Grief, regrets, all those things. Sleeping becomes an incredibly hard thing for them, because if they don't take their sleep medication, they always wake up feeling like someone else. For just a few minutes, the Companion doesn't remember their name. All they remember is someone named Solomon. And then they forget just a few moments later.

Minhyeok is such a sweetheart and you know he helps the Companion through those rough episodes when the prayers become too much, or when they're too enraged and need to let off some steam. Rage and bitterness, the Companion has a lot of it, but that's just the usual. And Ra-on... well, he used to help, but he's retreated into that shell of his.

Nothing really changes when Gabriel comes barging in and killing Minhyeok. If anything, the Companion was even more enraged so not only do they clock him in the eyes with glass and plates, they stomp on his nose and broke the damn thing.

So anyways, no the angels don't sense anything in the Companion, they're just a regular human.

Now, as for the angelification process... I would imagine that when they're reborn, Heaven began to shake. Clouds parted, houses crumbled and the sun shined with a ferocity like never before. For a moment, the angels believed that finally, finally their God is returning home to them.

And then everything goes back to normal. There is no God, and now they've got a damaged Heaven to repair. And oh, would you look at that, Gabriel brought home this... abomination. Isn't that the Companion that was with Solomon son? By this point, only Gabriel has a suspicion, everyone else is none the wiser.

The Companion has always had the fear that one day, these prayers would overtake their head and they would be unable to think. Now they're being pelted by hymns, prayers and vicious sermons of devotion as angels slaughter more and more devils. One can only imagine the absolute nightmare existence the Companion is living.

Now, a human looking like this messy Companion is entirely expected. The difference between the Companion and a regular human, though, is that a regular human would usually die within a matter of days. The Companion survives for weeks, months on end. And, in fact, their body is changing. Taking on a new form, adapting even, becoming more and more beautiful in Gabriel's eyes until finally he's one step away from confirming that yes, this is God.

The ability to make an angel.

Now, the Companion only has a fragment of God in them, as such the ability to make something out of nothing is wholly out of their realm of possibility. So, they can't make an angel out of thing air.

They can, however, make an angel out of the many wings they have on their back. The Companion's body is constantly changing, almost violently so. So much so that entire sections of wings fall off and regrow like nothing. And when the first set finally fell, a new angel was born from them.

The Companion can make new angels unconsciously, just by having a set of their own wings fall off.

Alright, I ran out of steam, that's about all that's in my head at the moment. Hope that was fun to read.

Obviously I would want these angels born from the Companions fallen wings to be... different from the average angel. Though I have no clue how to go about it. I really do like the thought though. Sounds like fun.

What kind of angels would you make for the Companion? How do they act, and how do they feel about their existence, about being crafted by a Companion who is... Not completely themselves? I'm really curious.

[belethlegwen]

MASTERLIST POST

[HEADER CREDIT TO: @chamomile-g-tea <3]

My name is Belle, I'm a Giantess-leaning G/t fan who writes G/t fiction and enjoys art, writings and getting to chat with people about G/t and other nerdy things. Most of my writing gets posted to AO3, but there will be scattered shorts and writings posted here among the usual mess of my personal blogging and reblogging.

LINK TO MY KO-FI: HERE

If you like what I do and want to toss some support my way, it's extremely appreciated!

WRITING:

The Stranding:

My largest work to date, it is active and currently still being updated.

Almost two years after a man named Henry suffers a shipwreck and is rescued by a woman named Melanie, the two left on a journey to try and return him home, only to suffer a shipwreck of their own. The good news? They made it; Henry is home and is among his own people again. The bad news? To him, and everyone else in his homeland, Melanie is over fifty feet tall.

An out-of-time, out-of-place situation, Melanie has to navigate being integrated into a small military force for a nation that seems to be in a tense, fracturing peace with it's nearest neighbour, and also just navigate a world that has never had to deal with anyone or anything like her before.

[I personally recommend reading until at least Chapter 12 - Nightmares before starting on The Rescue]

The Rescue:

The prequel-piece to The Stranding, and also currently still active and being updated.

Melanie travels to the beach after a storm, as she often does to find driftwood and debris that can be used for crafts to keep herself busy in her lonely life, and sees a ship in distress just off of the shore. Unable to believe what's happening, she is able to rescue a sailor from the nearly-doomed vessel and take him under her care.

She helps him adjust to life in her land, which is vastly different-- almost like a different time entirely-- from his own. The biggest obstacle in doing so, however, is that the man isn't even eight inches tall.

[I personally recommend reading The Stranding up until Chapter 12 - Nightmares before beginning this work, but I am also not your real Dad and can not control you.]

The Faerie Spell:

[Can also be found here on Tumblr with the help of this Chapter Directory]

A first-person-perspective written work following Daphne as she attempts to navigate a strange and upsetting curse where a Faerie has stolen parts of her essence so that the Fae can, whenever the mood seemingly strikes them, steal Daphne's height and attain a more human-like appearance to hide that they are a Faerie. While the spell is active, however, Daphne because 5.5 inches tall (give or take a few millimeters).

Can she, or her friends, really navigate this new part of her life and all the difficulties it brings? Or is this spell about to change everything to do with her life?

The Scars We Leave Behind: [written by @adjacentperception and myself]

What's left of a hero when everything is taken from him? What's left of a villain with no identity?

What's left of a man who has no choice but to save the symbol of a system he's fighting against?

Within a city constantly besieged by a super-power fueled war between Good vs Evil, a hero is captured by a powerful villain and their secret organization and forced to play part in a twisting and enigmatic plan; to tear down the systems in place that keep the League of Heroes in an ultimate seat of power to rival the government itself. But… is the system as good as it projects itself to be? Are the villains and their henchmen really as evil as the media says? Is it truly as simple as tearing it down, or does that simply open up space for a new, worse system to enter?

Is the harm we do when we believe we're helping mitigated merely by our wishes to be better? To create something more? To fix what we believe is broken?

Do we hold blame for creating the evil we think we're fighting against, regardless of our intentions?

This work features descriptions of violence, abuse, neglect, and uses adult language, as well as mentions of nudity and sexual topics.

ADDITIONAL LINKS:

ABOUT RECURSIVE FICS: Here

SHORTS AND BONUS SCENE Masterlist

FANART AND COMMISSIONS MasterPost

THE STRANDING CHARACTER DESCRIPTION/REFERENCE POST

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics