#even the damned desire respite.

[boar-cry]

blinding ire

All these foolish religious weepers and overzealous preachers; don't they know the Gods remain indifferent to the plights of man?

Omnipotent beings sitting high atop their shrines, deaf to the screams and sorrows so far below, collecting gold and rot as if offerings owed. And yet still there are those who carve their names in polished silver and iridescent stone; sculpt temples with diamond pillars and weave jewelry out of pearls; not out of desperation, but delusion – that if they worship so called divines, they can somehow remold their spoiled lives.

What good are useless Gods that regard us no more than grains of sand?

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

A true gift (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you share a private moment with your husband, then add a special little detail to his new look

Warnings: evil!reader, nudity, mentions of smut, but really this is just a silly fluff piece written ‘cause I’m obsessed with his little hair bow🤭

Note: set in 2x06, part of the evil!reader collection - all you need to know for this one is that reader has been married to Sauron since before Adar killed him and infiltrated herself in Eregion as a smith while she waited for his return.

Your husband is a Maia, and as such never sleeps. He does, however, feel inclined to lie down with his eyes closed and be lost to the world, in moments such as now��when he is held in your peaceful embrace, your fingers lovingly stroking his loose hair.

It’s a rare moment of intimacy these days, and you cherish it all the more for it. Celebrimbor rarely allows you a moment of respite in his rush to finish the Nine, and you and your husband do your best to not disappear at the same time, so as to avoid suspicions that you share any deeper of a relationship with him than the other smiths of Eregion. Needless to say, you are overjoyed to find yourself alone with him. And in a bed, no less.

He had slipped inside your chamber under the cover of night, and sleep had been the furthest thing from your mind as you and your husband had sated your longing over and again. Naked and spent, you had pulled each other close, and so you still are now, as soft morning light pours through your window. He has coiled himself around your completely, one leg draped across your waist and his head resting upon your chest, and you do not mind his weight above you in the slightest as you hold him close. His hair is wonderfully soft under your roaming fingertips, his skin delights yours everywhere you touch.

He may not need sleep, but you would gladly drift into it. In a blissful position such as this, you would drift gladly even into death.

But you do neither, for he stirs, wishing to lift his head. You know what he means to say—that your absence will soon be noticed now that the day has begun, that you ought to return to the forge and to your plans and to your charade. You tighten your hold on him and keep his head against your chest, giving a stubborn groan.

His low chuckle reverberates into your skin.

“I know. I know,” he coos, shifting to press his lips to your heart. “I have no wish to leave.”

“But you will,” you sigh in defeat, even as he trails lazy kisses up along your clavicle. “We must.”

He hums, nuzzling your neck. Too much of you is pressed against too much of him for desire not to ignite within you at the slightest movement. It’s a bittersweet relief when he presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips and takes it upon himself to pry his body away from yours and leave the bed. You turn to your side, pulling the covers up to your chest to ward off the cold he leaves behind.

You are, however, presented with the slight consolation of watching your husband move naked about the room.

Of course, it isn’t exactly the particular image of your husband’s body, or even the features of his face that had won your affections in the first place. Your love runs too deep to be dampened by any sort of aesthetic transformation, though you do admit some forms are more practical than others when it comes to the physical aspect of your relationship, strictly shape-wise (one such as the amorphous black mass to which he had been reduced until recently, for instance, might prove a challenge in that department—yet not an entirely insurmountable one).

His current form, however... Lord of Gifts, indeed. It is the finest of male specimens of whom you are given a most generous view, and he damn well knows it. He takes his sweet time sauntering across the room, each movement slow and deliberate as he treats you to the sight of his tall, perfectly sculpted body. His long hair falling over his shoulder blades, the elegant line of his spine, the plump globes of his buttocks—oh, the bastard. Showing himself off as if you are not in a state of constant desire for him, like you’re not literally his soulbound wife already.

Or maybe it’s you slowing time with your eyes as you look at him, precisely because of how utterly and hopelessly smitten you are.

Whatever the case, a knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he glances your way. You look on, shamelessly, as he recovers the clothes he had carelessly discarded the night before, and methodically (as well as tragically) begins to dress himself back to decency. He’d had a new garment made, one more suited to his tastes now that his previous modest, light-grey robes had served their purpose of conveying his most pure intentions to Celebrimbor. This outfit is an intricately patterned black with a golden band at the waist, the imitation of leaves raining down his collar area and left shoulder, and a discrete glimmer that looks as though stars have been trapped deep within the fabric of his sleeves.

You’d loved the sight of him dressed in it so much that, paradoxically, you had taken tremendous pleasure in stripping it off him. He was a gift in too pretty a wrapping for you not to greedily reach inside for the wonders you knew lay there, meant only for you.

But if you had it your way and peeled it off each time the mood arose, you would never get anything done. Perhaps, once you are King and Queen and have plenty of servants to carry out your orders, you shall be free to confine yourselves to some ornate bedchamber and reemerge only after days on end of having your fill of one another.

For now, you must allow his newly tidy appearance to remain intact. He is nearly ready to join the others in the forge, the only unruliness left about him being his loose and disheveled hair. You particularly enjoy how softly it falls upon your shoulders whilst you are beneath him, and he certainly takes pleasure in your tendency to fist your hands in it and tug at the roots, causing all kinds of entanglements. It’s nearly sad, how easily he can undo the sensual mess. One power-wielding hand smoothing down the tresses, and his hair looks as though it has been brushed to perfection with a thousand thoroughly administered strokes.

That done, he sits down at your vanity and picks up the last accessory he must arrange upon himself—the headpiece he’s been wearing since he became Annatar, the partial imitation of a crown which curves around the back of his head, serving to hold his hair practically away from his face whilst accentuating the divine nature of the presumed Lord of Gifts.

Lord of Gifts.

Your love-addled brain is stricken with an idea too wonderful to go unheeded.

“Oh, let me,” you say, suddenly rising from beneath the sheets. It takes but a moment to put on a nearby nightgown, not nearly enough for your husband’s questioning eyes to drink you in the way he attempts to, but you are too enthusiastic to care. It is best anyway not to let his gaze set your skin ablaze when you must wait for the following night to have him tend to the flames.

His brow knits in slight amusement, but he indulges you and halts in his movements, waiting for you to come to him. He must think you mean to arrange the headpiece in his hair yourself—thus stealing another few touches before you leave the bedchamber and must refrain from doing so for the remainder of the day. And he is not too far from the truth. But as soon as you are standing behind him, you take the accessory from his hand and toss it casually upon the bed, reaching for your comb on the vanity table instead. Now, your husband frowns, unsure.

“My love, as much as I would like an excuse to prolong our stay—”

“Oh, shush,” you chide. “This will take but a moment.”

With nimble fingers and the help of the comb, you part his hair at the temples and brush it into satisfyingly neat sections. It’s an improvisation, really, but you set about the task you have in mind with nothing but determination and a nice little hum on your breath. Your husband sits with the sort of quiet compliance he reserves for your benefit only, and you know that he is relishing the sensation of your fingers gently handling his hair as much as you are. At times your fingers more or less coincidentally brush over the pointed tips of his ears, and the lightest flutter of his lashes betrays how sensitive they are to the touch, the very same as those of any Elf.

You catch his gaze in the mirror, and give him a playful smile as you work on his hair. The vision you had in mind is beginning to take nice shape, and you bite your lip in concentration as you try to guide each golden strand precisely where you need it to be.

“Pass me that hair tie, will you?” It’s a bit further away on the vanity table than the previous ones you had used, and you are busy keeping together quite the intricate design. Your husband obliges you—but his hand catches yours as you take the tie from him.

“My love,” he says, mirth dancing in his eyes in the mirror, “I do hope you have not managed a knot so vicious that even my power cannot see it undone.”

“It isn’t a knot,” you retort, lightly swatting his hand away from yours so you can finish what you started. You shake your head in faux disappointment. “How little you trust me.”

“I trust you with life, my flesh and my soul,” he declares solemnly. “My hair, however, is a different matter.”

That would earn him another scandalized swat, if your hands weren’t occupied with the finishing touches to your little masterpiece.

“There,” you grin triumphantly, at last satisfied with what you have accomplished. It’s almost ridiculous, the youthful delight that takes over you. An echo from a distant life that was so long ago, it barely feels like it was ever yours. It brings a small pang to your chest—but you ignore it as you cradle your husband’s head from behind and place an adoring little kiss to his hair, right above your handy work.

With a small, not unkind sigh, he picks up a hand mirror from the table and turns around on his stool so he may align the reflection with the one in the vanity mirror, see for himself what you have accomplished:

An utterly precious, superbly elegant hair bow.

“A true gift,” you say proudly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, “for all of Middle-Earth.” Your fingers drift to his chin, and nudge it upward so he meets your gaze. “But for me, especially.”

Without looking away, he sets down the hand mirror and takes your wrist, planting a kiss to the palm of your hand.

“It is fitting,” he admits, a teasing lilt to his tons as he idly plays with your fingers. “It shall be a pity, when I next bed you, to see such beautiful work unraveled by the very hands which crafted it.”

“Oh, I am not ruining that,” you assure him, striving to sound like you mean it. “Whatever you may do, I shall keep my hands firmly to myself. Or rather, to other parts of you,” you add, shrugging as if in afterthought.

The underlying challenge in your voice is swiftly accepted. Your husband stands and faces you with a mischievous gaze, cupping your cheeks.

“We shall see,” he murmurs against your lips, right before he claims them in a parting kiss filled with lurid promises. Then he pulls away, smiling innocently. “See you soon, my love.”

You are reminded, as he leaves, how futile it is to pretend like you may ever part without your body and soul aching for his return before he even steps out of your sight. But all eyes which look upon him today shall see the work of your loving fingers that he proudly wears upon himself—another small consolation to which you cling whilst you wait for the victory that shall make all your sufferings worth it.

Previous fic with same reader -> As we are now

Next fic with same reader -> Jealousy

[thepinkdreamganjaqueen]

Run Rabbit

Homelander x Fem Reader 

Masterlist 🩷

Summary: Homelander spots you assisting first responders helping those less fortunate in a building fire. People he wouldn’t normally bother helping or even caring about. It’s just his job and a mundane and boring one at that. But you caught his eye. You selflessly cared for them, helping them. It disgusts him. HE needs your help! It makes him want to make you dirty, to spoil your spirit, to make you like him, and what the Homelander wants, he takes.

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, oral (m and f receiving), piv, unprotected sex, breeding, gaslighting, coercion, DUBCON, praise, begging, mentions of violence, stalking, swearing, obsession, D/S implications, mentions of death (implied), blood play, choking, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, dacryphilia, mommy issues (brief mention)… It’s homelander… 

A/N: My head Is so full of fuck! I had to get a Homelander fic out in the midst of all these fics I’m grinding on! This man, being of pure perfection, got me in a damn chokehold!! Why do we always tend to go for the guys that are walking red flags? Like, I can fix him! On a more serious note, these characters are all endearing in their own way. Trauma can manifest into some pretty terrible things, and I think we can all relate to that in some way or another. I tried to keep it short... that did not happen you know how it goes. Please, I hope y’all enjoy this one! And as always, I welcome, ideas, comments and criticisms, but please be nice. Cheeers! 

Word Count: 6.3k

Tags: fem!reader, smut, dark content 

RUN RABBIT 

He watched as you helped those around you. He had been for a while now, just out of view of the bustling crowds beginning to form and watch the commotion. He watched as you gave aid to those less fortunate. The vulnerable people you had pledged to help so long ago. It was your job and came naturally to you. He watched as the building continued to burn growing fiercer with each moment that passed. Fire reflected in his eyes with a look of discernment, perhaps even disgust, but all he could seem to focus on was you. He watched as you gave people solace and respite, watched as your hair clung to the sweat on your face from the heat of the flames, how your ample chest rose and fell as you breathed shakily, helping the local paramedics and EMT’s. You gathered supplies and handed out bottled water to those affected. A fire had broken out at the shelter. It was an old building, probably not up to date on fire regulations and things of that nature. It housed approximately 80 people that evening. You rushed about frantically helping in any way you could. A bleeding heart, he thought.  

He felt a mixture of abhorrence and lust. Something about the way you cared for those he considered beneath him. He couldn’t understand, his distaste for humanity growing every day. Yet, something about the way you cared for them, in a loving, and motherly way, so perfect. It stirred his loins and a deep longing simmered within him, a feeling he was quick to extinguish. He often had these troubled thoughts paired with erections. It was nothing new. Trauma manifesting into sexual desires as a coping mechanism. He hastily grabbed at his crotch, shifting his bulge within his suit.  

He was above it all anyway. Humans merely play things for him, entertainment. Like a fox chasing a rabbit, you became his prey. He would make you his new toy and break you. He wanted to make you dirty, to make you like him. He wanted to ruin you. He had to be methodical about this, but still, it would be easy, he thought. Conquests were never a challenge for him. He was handsome, had charm, and could put on a “friendly” demeanor if he needed to. Plus, he was a supe. If he couldn’t get a woman with his A lister status alone, he could simply force her to be with him. He would do what was necessary. He preferred little to no effort, but he couldn’t lie to himself. Sometimes, he liked the chase. Both literally and figuratively. He was like a predator. Cold, calculated. Run little rabbit, he’d think to himself. Seeing lesser beings and their pathetic attempts to escape him was his favorite kind of entertainment and maybe even gave him the feeling of joy. If only for a short time. He often found himself bored, tired of the mundane. Meetings at Vought HQ, Ashley up his ass, saving…. People. His disgust caused a visceral reaction. Tonight, he would find entertainment to chase that elusive high.  

He flew over, hovering then lowering himself as he outstretched his arms, palms down as if to quell the crowd’s murmurs and bestow peace. A façade, he couldn’t care less. He had ulterior motives. “Don’t worry, everyone, everything’s under control” he spoke. Sure, he initially showed up to do what The Homelander does… be a hero. But you caught his eye, something more interesting and surer to be more giving than the appreciation of his adoring fans and the thrill of an applauding crowd. He wanted the pleasure of seeing you beg for him. Soon. He thinks to himself with a mischievous look crossing his lips. He is staring at you as he lands. You thought he looked your way but couldn't be sure. He began that repetitive, mundane, and ever so grueling process of saving these pathetic souls. He darts in and out of the building, grabbing them one by one at a crawling pace ‘for him’. Everyone in the crowds cheered on as you watched this man help people.  

It was no unordinary feat truly. Supes were common, and Homelander was the most well-known. The leader of the seven, Americas hero. Nevertheless, you watched on as he effortlessly helped people get out safely. You caught yourself admiring his physique, he was essentially perfect. No wonder, you thought. It’s as if he was made to be perfect. His charismatic smile, striking blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and athletic build. You found yourself breathing heavier, face flushed, racy thoughts manifesting. You were still in that moment, watching how his suit would singe from the flames that brushed and flicked against him. Embers flew from the fabric and fizzled out, skin remaining untouched but revealed underneath. The glint of the gold eagle shoulder accents on his suit shined in the light of the raging fames that burst through every opening of the building, returning once more.  

The building erupted in what must have been a gas line explosion you thought. Homelander walked out through the flames with the last individual hurled over his shoulders. He sauntered over to your direction where you stood with a few EMTs who were supporting victims in a pop-up tent. Next to you, a bare stretcher. Homelander stopped next to you and dropped the smoking body onto the stretcher, eyes locking with yours as he did. He could hear your heartbeat quicken and your breathing go shallow. You were unsure if it was fear or excitement in this moment, he scared you in a way. You couldn't tell if he was disingenuous. Too many things were happening all at once, it was a state of high emotion and your head was spinning. You felt like you were helpless and had no control. He did though. He behaved as if this was nothing to him, as if he could do this one hundred times over. Of course he could, yet you could sense the arrogance behind his charismatic demeanor. 

You manage to speak in his presence. Something you had tried to do for several unending moments now under his gaze. “Thank you” you manage to mumble in a timid manner. You found it hard to maintain eye contact with him. He was so sure, so confident, and so… beautiful. You had never had the opportunity to be in the presence of a supe, let alone meet one. You had only seen them on TV, in the news, or in movies. Simmering in what you thought to be embarrassment or intimidation, you hastily make you way out of the tent, brushing by him as you passed. He watched over his shoulder as you disappeared behind him, feeling the warmth from you as you passed. He inhaled deeply as you walked away. You were so flustered but didn’t know why… You knew why, truly you did. It just didn’t make sense. You didn’t want it to make sense. You felt attraction to him, and you felt guilty for it for whatever reason. For many reasons. But mainly, you felt bad that in this moment, you felt lust and your attention drawn away from the people that needed your help the most. 

You made it behind the tent and had begun fidgeting with a worry stone you kept in your pocket. Rubbing it furiously when you hear the wet splat of steps behind you. You look down, the grounds wet; the fire fighters must be here, you think. A firm hand grabs your shoulder and spins you around. He looks at you matter of factly with a smirk. “You know, I wanted to tell you back there, thank you, for the work you do and for helping these fine people” he said, hand still on your shoulder. His eyes beaming into yours a deep sapphire. “I also wanted to let you know that there were some folks over there that could really use your help! That is, if you still want to help people.” He watched as shame crossed your face, then guilt and confusion. Easy, he thought. They’re so fucking easy! His smile, perfect white teeth gleaming at you. You recoil at his words, struck by how kind he sounded with the contrast of his delivery. You felt immediately inclined to help, like you didn’t have a choice but to prove it to yourself, and to him, for whatever reason. 

You nod your head in agreement, convinced by him you needed to. You feel a weight take over your entire body, pulling you down. Before you realize you were being flown away from the scene. The Homelander had picked you up and shot towards the sky. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you against his body. Terror filled you, but you were too high up to scream, the force of wind hindering your speech and breathing as it forcefully blew past your face. What did you agree to? You think. Where is he taking me? As quickly as the thoughts came to fruition, you were on your feet once more. He was looking down at you, still clinging tightly to your lower back. His face is indifferent and uncaring, almost empty. The suit he wore felt ridged where flames made contact. Soft in some places where the fabric was still intact and cool, where his skin peeked through. Your arms still grasped his biceps until you became aware you were doing so and let go. You wondered how he felt under the suit. He’s invincible, is his skin like that of a rock, or is he soft and pliable. He caught you gazing at the areas where his suit had melted away. He watched as you admired him. He knew the thoughts running through your head. He could see them cross your face. He was amused. That mixture of lust, exhilaration, and fear. He craved that from you, and you were abundantly insatiable. 

“Just through there.” He gestured kindly toward a door as he let go of your waist. You took a second to observe your surroundings, still fearful of what exactly you were doing and where the hell you were. For an educated girl, you felt like this was a really stupid decision. You were standing on a white tiled balcony about fifty, maybe sixty stories up. The city sprawled out before you. You could see city lights and in the distance a plume of smoke sure to be the fire you just came from. You remarked at how far away you were. Looking towards the door you saw white curtains billowing through the opening leading into a dark room. “This way” he gestures once more. His hand at the small of your back pushing you towards the entrance. 

You step inside, looking for someone, anyone. A large room with a couple connecting hall ways it looked like. Seems to be an apartment. A very nice one. You begin searching the room familiarizing yourself with it, it’s pretty dark except for the light of a modular fire place that hung from the ceiling. There’s a four-post bed with sheer white curtains, lace pillows, and a velvet duvet. Some accents, art, and statues, it looked very high class, very luxurious. Who did it belong to? You thought. It didn't matter though. 

Homelander had stepped behind you watching you roam the apartment you were now essentially trapped in. He stood behind you, shedding off pieces of his torched suit, exposing himself completely. He playfully tugged at his cock, already hard. Pulling it to his abdomen and letting it slap down onto his leg in a spring like motion. SLAP! He was hard watching you at the building fire, the intensity only grew. Especially when he held you close. He watched you search the room, calling out to no one. He snickered to himself. How much is she really willing to help hmm? He thought about you begging for him, praying he would let you come, but only after he tore you to shreds and broke you down mentally. He needed you to crave him, needed you to need him. Appreciate him, respect him, and most of all, obey him! Look at her, stupid enough to go along with this, she’s so sweet. It sickened him and only made his fervent lust grow. 

The realization finally began to hit, and a pit dropped in your stomach. There was no one here to help. In a way, you already knew but held onto some kind of hope, albeit for nothing. You began to spiral in your mind when a loud slap could be heard behind you. You spin around quickly on your heels, already on edge when your eyes are drawn to Homelander. The doors had closed behind him, and there he stood, completely nude in front of you. You stood with your mouth agape when he said “sorry, my suit was burned, practically tarnished, I had to take it off.” He shrugged his shoulders and chuckled with a sly smile. Hs eyes narrowed as he grabbed his cock and pulled it up once more to his abdomen and let it slap down onto his leg. SLAP! He was throbbing, watching your reaction to him so boldly lying to your face and exposing himself to you, jacking off in front of you with zero consequences. He knew he could do anything he wanted- get anything he wanted, and anyone would give it to him, even you. Whether you liked it or not. 

You recoiled in disgust and shock, eyes wide with fear. Although earlier you had thought about him like this maybe even slightly, not like this! “Where are they?!” you tried to say in a tone that was stern yet confident enough to not show fear. He could hear the fear in your voice, the pulse that raced through your veins that told everything in your mind and body to run away. “Who?” he replied teasingly. SLAP! “The people! The people you said needed help!” you shot back, starting to lose your cool. Heat rose to your cheeks and you felt hot, dizzy and angry. The light of the fireplace danced gently over his features illuminating him in an amber glow. Every muscle, every shape and curve on his body, shrouded in firelight.  

He stepped forward, walking briskly towards you. You stammered back, glancing behind you, looking for a place to run but hitting a wall. You tried to look for an exit, but the room was dimly lit, and it was too late. He was already right in front of you. You leaned against the wall and clasped your hands behind your back as he pressed his hand against the wall next to your head, the other hand holding his throbbing length�� SLAP!  

“It’s me!” he said in a curt tone, almost annoyed you didn’t know. His eyes traveled, looking you up then down. “I need your help!” he stated. You turned your head sideways as he leaned in, whispering in your ear “My suit was burned, I could have been hurt saving those people, don’t you care?” A brief flicker of red lit up behind each eye, and you felt yourself shrink in his presence. You were scared, unsure of yourself. He’s invincible, you thought. Your head spun; you didn’t understand the weight of the situation. Except that he lied to you to get you here. He grabbed your chin with his free hand and turned your face to his, looking at you behind a furrowed brow. “Don’t you care about me?!” SLAP! His face scrunched, examining your reaction, waiting for a reply. “Y-Yes.. I care about you.” You chimed apprehensively and unconvincingly. He doesn't even know your name, you thought. He doesn't care. 

He let go of your chin. “Show me” he demanded behind a mischievous smile that curled at the ends of his lips. He placed his hands on your shoulders gripping the fabric of your shirt underneath and ripping it off, pulling it apart, you heard the buttons pop off and hit the floor with a ting as it ripped down the center. Your heart leapt into your throat as he devours you with his eyes, reeling in the sight of your ample breasts and the soft fleshy skin beneath your bra. He was all but salivating for you. He wanted to rip your bra off and nuzzle himself between your breasts, to inhale the skin, to feel their warmth. But he wanted you to prove yourself. Did you really care about him? Were you really a good girl? 

At this point, you realize what he brought you here for. But why you? He was a supe. He could literally kill you without a thought, and he would be protected. Your mind was hazy, but you couldn’t stop your own eyes from wandering. He was, in all his glory, vulnerable and bearing himself to you. Part of you thought it irresistable, intimate even. His body against yours felt like fire, and your senses began to tingle and go haywire. SLAP! You found yourself at the will of your hormones as your thoughts and body took over. He pushed his body closer, his hard length now pushing into your abdomen with force. A gasp fell from your lips as he looked into your eyes, a deep blue sea of burning blue ice. Entranced by his physique. Another whisper, more stern this time “I said, show me!”  

He stepped back, and you dropped to your knees in front of him. His hand on top of your head caressed the side of your face and slid to the underside of your chin, forcing you to look up at him, he gave a cursory look, eyebrows raised as if to say ‘I’m waiting’. Not wanting to disappoint him or make him angry, you quickly raise your hands up and rest them on his thighs. Feeling the softness of his skin. Leaning in, you open your mouth and take him in. His hands were immediately in your hair, pulling you in closer. Sticking out your tongue and forcing his length down the back of your throat. Tears begin to stream down your face. He put a finger to your face, catching a tear as it fell and pressing it to his tongue. His throbbing cock twitched in your throat. It was substantially thick and unreasonably big, the force stretching your throat was enough to make you cry.  

He threw his head back, letting out a low groan. Your mouth is so warm, so wet, and so tight. He imagined stretching your pussy, pounding you into oblivion until you either cried and begged for him to stop or climaxed and cried for more. You continued sucking, taking him in as deep as you could each time, hoping to please him and show him you were truly a good person. That you did care about him, you cared about everyone truly...but especially him. He created a feeling in you- you had not had previously, a desire for him. You used your hands to explore his body as you gulped him down, mesmerized by him. Caressing his abdomen, his buttocks and his balls. He had his hands twisted in your hair, rocking with the motion of your mouth. Every once in a while, taking your time to gently circle his tip with your tongue while sucking, ending in a kiss to his tip. Each time your lips pulled from him, a trail of precum would string from your lips.  

You looked up at him, licking your lips clean. “Mmm, that’s a good girl. Show me more.” He growled through his passion as he pulled you to your feet and directed you to get on the bed. He smacked your ass with force as you walked, it rang out with a snap, even against the fabric, it stung. You lurched forward falling into the bed face first. He quickly stood behind you spreading you knees apart on the bed with his legs as he approached. He began tearing your remaining clothes from you in shreds laughing. You felt defeated and ashamed, but you wanted more. Embarrassment filled your face with heat, a bright red hue colored your nose and cheeks.  

Your bra, snapped and torn. Your jeans, off, split in two, your underwear, lacy and white, torn from between your legs. You whimpered as they dug in while being ripped off of your body. Quick and painful. Grabbing your hips, he pulled you closer to the end of the bed where he stood. A cold breeze drifted across your back, buttocks, and exposed legs. He had you right where he wanted you. He liked it when you squirmed, when you whimpered. You thought perhaps you liked it as well. You found yourself helpless, at his mercy, and obeying his every command.  

He smacked you again and again. The sound of your flesh being abused rang out into the empty room, bellowing out and echoing back to you. Your skin again burning from the impact of his open hands leaving red hand prints sprinkled over your flesh. He joyfully continued. His face in a half smirk with eyes narrowed as he reveled in every cry that escaped your mouth. Your skin, now mottled with bruises and scratches. Smack! Again, he slaps your ass and drags his fingers down. Pinching you, squeezing hard, and watching you recoil, helpless to get away. You could feel the wetness spread between your legs. “Who’s my good girl, huh?” he said confidently in a gruff. “I aam” you cried out in a huff, face buried in the blankets. He placed both palms on your cheeks and placed his thumbs close to your crevice, pulling with his thumbs and exposing your most intimate parts to him. The brisk air on the wetness of your cunt sent a shiver up your back and goosebumps peppered your skin. Homelander took notice and began smoothing his hands over the surface of your legs and back as you lay before him, relishing in the work he’s created. An artwork of purple and red now enhanced by the prickling of your skin. 

What a sweet little cunt, he thought to himself. He then pushed against the surface of your opening with a single finger, taunting you, teasing you in a cruel way. You rocked your hips back toward him but couldn’t move, not unless he decided to let you. “what’s wrong bleeding heart? Not so sweet now, are you?” You whined as he toyed with you. Slowly drawing circles around your labia, clit, and opening, spreading your wetness around his fingers and your vulva. “Please, Homelander, please!” you begged him, a muffled plea distorted from the blankets below. You turn your head to look back at him, the only thing you could manage to move. You watched as he brought his face down, placing his tongue along your slit, flat, wide, and slowly licking up towards your entrance. You couldn’t take it anymore; he was teasing you and you were putty in his unforgiving hands. You melted into his touch. Pure bliss and euphoria filled your body as your mind released a load of dopamine to your receptors. Telling you, you wanted him, no- you needed him. Now! 

Slowly, he pushed two fingers in. The sheets below you, clutched within your hands as you lay on top of them. His hand held tightly, gripping your left cheek, holding you open as he explored, pushing in harder and deeper as he went. He could manage his strength sure, but he wanted so badly to fuck you into the bed, and you wanted to feel just a fraction of his strength, you thought you could handle it. In his mind he knew you couldn't. You, a delicate little thing. A rabbit he had caught. But just the same he held back, he needed time to play, to be entertained. 

The room filled with the aches and moans coming from your mouth as he pulled his fingers in and out of you, licking up and down your slit, and fucking you with his tongue. You wanted to move, but he had a hold of you. But you wanted to see his face, to watch him as he pleasured you so lovingly, a stark contrast to how you got here. They way his tongue traveled so freely between your folds and into your core, both tender and firm. There was no escape. You didn't want him to stop, your walls quivered around his fingers. 

He stopped, his fingers sopping, his face covered in your fluid. You feel his arm reach under you and pull you, turning you around. You lay before him on your elbows, knees bent. He pulls your forward, his face stern, as he gazed at your chest. He kneels in front of you and without words opens his mouth and laps at your breast flesh with his tongue. Sucking, licking, biting, lightly flicking your nipple with his tongue. A low hum building in the back of his throat. Your juices now smeared all over your chest as he paws and devours your breasts. You moan in ecstasy, a high-pitched squeal that reverberated in the room. You could feel his lips curl into a smile around your areola as he consumed all of you. Inhaling you in deeply.  

Your hand roamed his body, such a powerful being, and you had the pleasure of taming him. Your hands, rubbing along the muscles on his back, your fingers tracing the veins sticking out on his arms as he cradled your chest. In this moment, you weren't scared of him. You knew his power that he could kill you with his dick if he wanted to. But in this moment, he was vulnerable, weak even. He was the most human right now with you than he had felt in a while. Something about a woman with ample breasts opening up for him, opening everything up for him, filled him with a sense of true belonging. The elusive high he was truly trying to chase but always evaded him so eagerly. It was true compassion, isn't that why he chose you? You, specifically. Not just a beautiful woman, a beautiful woman with a pure heart.  

"You’re being such a good girl," he moaned into your chest. You move your hands from his shoulders to his face, pulling him up. He looks up at you. You observe an innocent, unassuming look in his eyes. He follows where you guide him. Your lips push against his in a heavy kiss. He pushes your shoulders down and pins you to the bed, enveloping you in his own passionate kiss. He swirls his tongue in your mouth and bites your bottom lip hard. You could taste the tinge of blood, like pennies in your mouth. Blood pooled at the corner or your mouth. With a flick of his thumb, he wiped it away and kissed you again. He found the taste of your blood mixed with your essence to be intoxicating, making him drunk with lust. 

 "Are you ready for your reward?" He said nefariously. That smile, no matter how menacing you thought it was, still made you crumble. "Mhmm" was all you could manage. He stood, quickly lifting you from the bed so you were face to face with him once more. He cradled your legs in his arms, holding you to him effortlessly. Slowly, you felt his arms drop you down, his hardness, now piercing your slick wet opening just barely. You groaned, once again trying to motion yourself closer to him, to feel him inside you, but he wouldn't let you move. It was his decision and his alone. With your arms wrapped around him, you began kissing his face and neck. Lightly with delicate pecks.  

Her lips were so soft and moist, he thought to himself as you indulged in him. Leaving traces of saliva trailed down his neck as you pulled your lips from his skin. Soft breaths from your mouth, creating a cool sensation on the surface. He growled deeply and with sudden force, dropped you down, sliding his whole length into you without hesitation or effort. He chuckles as you cry out. His swollen cock, so stiff, so large. It hurt sliding in. You were dripping with him just sticking the tip of his head at your surface, so he entered you easily. But you could feel the pressure inside stretching you from within, a painful yet satisfying fullness. His face was focused on yours as you cried in ecstasy and pain. The pain only amplifying the pleasure of him forcefully ramming you, lifting you up and down, sliding you on and off his cock. He could feel the pressure of your walls closing up and gripping him every time he slid hid length out of you. Then having to forcefully push back in again, opening you up. “So. Fucking. Tight.” He said with each grunt as he proceeded. 

Homelander’s thoughts had ceased at this point. He was enveloped in euphoria, acting on pure instinct but somehow still able to hold back. He concentrated on your face, watched as beads of sweat pooled on your forehead, then dropped down your face and onto your chest, glistening on your breasts. How your eyebrows curled up in the middle as your voice rang out into the room. Your screams only made him more crazed. He pounded you in a frenzy. Meeting each thrust with a grunt as he hit your cervix harder and faster with each push, causing you to cry out in moans of pure passion intermixed with pain. 

He dropped you back on the bed and stood at the end, parting your thighs once more with his legs. You thoughtlessly wrap them around him pulling him closer almost instant as if it was a natural reaction. You were too out of breath to speak; you could only mumble 3 words “I'll be good”. Homelander leans into the bed, a hand placed at either side of your face as he enters you.  

With your legs wrapped around him and his hands not holding you down, you were now free to meet his thrusts with your own, something he did not expect. He stopped for a moment and watched as you had become what he made you. Craving him, only wanting him, and willing to do anything for it. His body was rigid and still as you bucked and rocked underneath him, trying to meet his pelvis with your own thrusts when his right hand reaches over and closes over your throat He enters you. “Fuck!” you whisper in a harsh tone, unable to fully speak. He shoves his throbbing member into your cunt, squeezing your neck tighter with every slam into you, you fuck him back looking into his eyes as you moan his name.  

He sucks in through his teeth and lets out a long sigh, loosening his grip on your neck. “Now be a good girl and finish me off” he says in a deep whisper. You nod your head in agreement, wanting it just as bad as he did. He lightly pecks your lips before releasing his grip and lying next to you. You lift your legs to straddle him on the bed, knees pressed to his hips. His hands wander to your chest, squeezing and pulling the flesh. With your hands placed firmly on his abdomen, you allow yourself to sit down on him, giving yourself he time to adjust to him, which he had not done. He thought this to be tedious. Were you teasing him? He would not allow it. His hands reach out and grip your hips, pushing you onto him. There was nothing you could do; his strength was unimaginable. The power of his cock expanding you within was a testament to this. 

You didn't need him to push you down, you thought. You would happily ride him regardless of the pain. This was worth it, something you didn't know you needed and never thought you wanted. The earlier nights troubles were miles away in your mind, you could only think about him now, pleasing him. You felt a yearning for him brew deeply within your loins, and a longing in your heart. 

You propped yourself up, crouching above him on your feet, still stranding him. Your body had accepted him now, and you were wetter than ever, sopping around his manhood. Each bounce met with a loud exhausted moan from you, and a wet slap could be heard echoing off the walls of the room. Music to Homelanders ears, internalizing you moans. Mesmerizing to hear, indifferent to the pain it may have caused you.  

With your arms outstretched behind you gripping his thighs, you bounced on him, each time taking him in fully, rocking forward, as you did. The brush of his pubic hair against your clit as you grinded into him sent you into hysterics. You began slamming yourself on top of him, breathing heavily. He used his hands to cup your breasts and playfully tug at your nipples as you found your climax. He had never heard someone scream so loud while taking his cock. Your pace slowed as your orgasm took over, your body convulsing with every contraction of your cunt around him. “You’re not done yet!” he growled “How greedy” he chuckled maliciously. His words barely registered in your fucked out brain, still swimming from the intensity of your climax.  

“I said you're not done yet! Keep going!” He said in an insistent and unsympathetic manner, slapping your breasts, leaving a large red hand print that stung. He then grabbed your face, pinching your cheeks in his hand and pulling you down. “Fuck me.” You immediately slink back and do as you are told. His good girl. Taken aback by exhaustion and overstimulated, but not wanting to disappoint this work of perfection, not wanting to disappoint The Homelander, you find the strength to continue on. You use all of your strength incomparable to his, to please him, hoping it was good, that it was enough. You were eager to please him and wanted your reward for it.  

You planted yourself on him, over and over again, easing his tip in and out each time. His hands had reached to your backside, clutching the flesh in each fist, pulling you forward with each fall. Looking into his eyes, those piercing sapphire blue eyes sparkling with adoration. You watched as his lashes futtered and his face scrunched, his lips parting as he looked down watching himself slide in and out of you, hands latched onto you. He lets out a low breathy grunt, and his hands go limp on your cheeks, his eyes roll back. You reveled in the moment, soaking up the feeling of him spasming inside you while bursts of his seed shot deep within you. His cum dripping out and collecting around the base as you continued to slowly fuck him. Each burst causing his body to buck and convulse. You maintained your gaze on him, seeing him in his weakest moments. It was sweet. This man you had feared, turned from a monster into something beautiful to you. He was this anamorphic being you could now see clearly. He wanted to be loved, adored, cared for, appreciated, and feared. You wanted to be that person for him. You didn't want to let go or cease this moment. 

He helped you off of him, and you lay sprawled out on the bed. A mess of exhaustion. Pearls of his essence are still leaking out. He sat calmly next to you, enjoying the last bit of euphoria from this high as his orgasm subsided. A coy smile crossed his lips as he caressed the side of your face with his fingers. With no explanation and no words spoken, he left. Just like that. Out the balcony door and into the cloudy night. Still in a daze, you lay there admiring the bites, bruises, scratches, and hand prints that freckled your body, playfully tracing along all the marks he gifted you. Waiting eagerly for is return. 

[professional-yapper]

Curiosity

Aonung x Human! Reader

Summary: Aonung is curious about the sky demon that came to his village with the Sullies.

Warnings: Aonung not respecting boundaries like at all, treats reader like an object kind of, manhandling, nothing serious tbh, Spider gets ragged on repeatedly

It's late afternoon, the sun at its peak, bathing the Metkayina village in warm gold.

You were enjoying yourself thoroughly, floating on your back and letting the sun warm the parts of you that weren't submerged in cool water. Your exomask was gathering a little condensation in the heat, but not enough to disturb your relaxed state.

It had been a good day. Neytiri had been growing warmer towards you as of late, though you suspected it was mostly born of a desire to please Kiri, who felt Spider's absence sorely and had turned to you to fill the gap of her token human best friend.

A position which you didn't entirely appreciate being thrust into, as a matter of fact. Sure, you missed Spider too, and you were as close to her as you were to her other siblings, but you weren't him. You didn't want the sudden responsibility that came with being their fill-in human. You couldn't crack gross boy jokes with Lo'ak, couldn't comfort Kiri over the shared lack of parents. And you definitely didn't paint yourself blue and act totally feral.

Like you said, you liked Spider, but that was something about him you never understood.

So you were happy to have this respite, even if it were a brief one.

That is, until a shadow fell across you. A large one. You groaned at the disturbance and sudden lack of sunlight, opening your mouth to tell whoever it was to fuck off, when you found that it wasn't Loak, as you had expected, standing on the platform above you, but the son of the Metkayina chief. Onung or something.

"Can I help you?" you asked, trying your best not to sound too irritable. After all, his family was hosting you and the Sullies. He was a dick, but it wouldn't do anyone any good if you mouthed off at him. Not that the desire wasn't there.

"Do you have to wear that mask all the time? I've never seen you take it off," he commented, ignoring your question as he lowered his bulk into a crouch, tail swishing across the ground behind him as he looked at you with genuine curiosity on his face.

You squinted at him, shifting onto your front and treading water as you did so. "I can't breathe your air," you replied bluntly, then, unable to resist, added an "idiot" after for good measure.

He scowled briefly, ears flicking backwards.

You huffed out a laugh, rather pleased with yourself for managing to get under his skin. "Now, is that all? Because I'm trying to enjoy the sun, and- hey! Hey!"

You cut yourself off as his large hands hooked under your armpits, lifting you clear of the water. "What are you doing, dickhead?!" you snapped indignantly, trying to pry his hands off you, kicking at his arms. "Put me down!"

It was his turn to ignore you now, instead carefully adjusting himself to sit on the edge of the platform, legs dangling above the water.

He lowered you onto his lap, and you briefly considered stomping on his dick once you found your feet on his broad thighs, but settled for folding your arms and glaring at him. He shifted his hands to your middle, presumably to keep you from falling or jumping off, and continued to stare at you.

Your cheeks grew hot almost immediately. You felt beyond exposed as he observed you, standing there on his thighs with his hands on your body, only in your damn bikini. He was just looking at first, but then began to touch you, taking your arm between his forefinger and thumb and holding it out- as much as you tried to fight it, you were simply no match for this big blue idiot's child-like curiosity in your alien form.

And it wasn't like he was unattractive. It was just that he was Metkayina royalty or something, and dumb as a rock, and you weren't Spider and you didn't have a massive boner for every Na'vi under the sun.

So maybe you were a little bitter towards the idea of human/Na'vi romance. After all, you were the unlucky bastard who'd had to sit through Spider's long talks about his various crushes. It had started with Neteyam, mature and kind and confident and altogether a pretty good crush for a young human boy like Spider. Then it had been fiery, playful Lo'ak, then dreamy Kiri, and at one horrible point you remember it being Jake. Yeah, Spider went through the Sullies like he had a to-do list.

You were nothing like that. You'd never had a crush on a Na'vi in your life.

And you weren't about to start now, even if his eyes roving over every inch of you with genuine interest made you squirm and flush.

"Do you mind?!" you said waspishly, finally getting fed up with his intense scrutiny as his hand travelled down your leg, dwarfed in his massive palm as he tried to examine the limb in question.

"Not at all," Onung or whatever his name was replied, grinning at you, teeth flashing. Jesus, they were sharp.

"Look, Onung, you can't just-" you began indignantly before he interrupted.

"Aonung. My name is Aonung," he corrected.

"Aonung," you repeated back to him, rolling your eyes. "You can't just-"

"You're not saying it right," he pouted like a little kid. Did he honestly think you cared how his name was pronounced?!

"Shut up and let me speak!" you snapped, hand lashing out and grabbing him by the ear, making him yelp as you dragged his big head towards you. "Listen, you big blue jackass, you can't just pick people up and start examining them like that! I didn't consent to it!"

"Let me go," he hissed at you, fangs inches from your face.

You stared right down his throat, unafraid. "You let me go. I'm not a toy you can fuck around with."

"Fine," he huffed, his tail thumping behind him irritably as you released his ear and he set you down beside him.

You stood for a moment, the seaspray-wet platform cooler on your feet than his thighs had been, and resisting the urge to shrink into yourself as the wind hit the place where his hand had sat around your middle.

He kept sitting there, looking rather like a kid that had been sent to time out, frowning, ears flat against his head and tail still twitching.

"Why did you wanna look at me, anyway?" you asked abruptly, looking at him. "You seemed pretty set on drop kicking me into the ocean when I first came here."

His ears drooped even further and he didn't look at you. "Cause," he grumbled.

"Cause why?" you persisted, reaching out and pushing at his broad shoulder, feeling a little braver now you were no longer at his mercy.

He glanced at your hand, then at you, a weird expression on his face that you didn't feel like unpacking.

You withdrew your hand. "Sorry."

"It's fine," he grunted, then heaved a sigh. Your eyes followed his chest as it rose and fell absentmindedly, before you caught yourself and gave yourself a firm mental telling off for checking out the big blue guy who'd just handled you like you were an object.

Not that you'd hated it. It was just... unexpected.

"You can look at me if you're that curious," you relented. "You just had to ask first. I get that you'd be curious but-"

"I didn't think you'd mind," he muttered.

"Didn't think I'd mind? When a guy twice my height literally snatched me out of the water and started handling me like an object? Aonung," you say severely.

"You're still saying it wrong."

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts for a second. "That's the best I can do."

"No, it's not."

"Oh, yeah, since you've got your degree and know every fucking thing."

"I don't know what a degree is," he pointed out, looking at you steadily.

You huff and glance around, then back at him. "Teach me, then. If it's such a big deal. Teach me how to say your name."

He just scoffed at you and looked away.

Okay. Rude, considering he'd been bitching about it nonstop.

You took the initiative and climbed back into his lap to make him look at you, gripping his shoulder tightly for balance as you stepped back onto his thighs. Thankfully of your own volition this time.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding mildly irritated, his hand cupping your hip instinctively to steady you.

"I said teach me," you repeated firmly, poking him in the chin. "I'm sick of you nagging me about it."

"I've only said it twice," he huffed.

"I've only said your name twice," you countered.

You stared at each other for a long moment. His hand was warm, gentle on your hip, and you still had your hand on his shoulder, his skin sun-warm and slightly gritty with sea salt and sand. Okay, so maybe you were kind of attracted to this one Na'vi specifically.

He sighed, looking away from you, then back at you, adjusting himself to be more comfortable, leaning back on his other hand. "Aonung," he said clearly. "Ow-noong."

You made a rather feeble attempt at imitating the sounds. You were used to the more blunt names of the Omaticaya, but the embarrassment of not getting it right was killing you a little inside.

He chuckled, thighs shifting under your feet a little, making you wobble and glare at him.

It takes you a few more attempts and much laughter from him, but you get it, or as close as you think you'll get.

"I think that's about as close as we're gonna get," Aonung said finally, voice warm with amusement as he looked at you.

You blushed despite yourself. Eywa, what was happening to you? This wasn't like you at all.

He was still gazing at you, and you realised his thumb was rubbing lazy circles into your hip.

You sighed deeply.

"Something on your mind?" he prompted.

"You're more tolerable than I expected."

A grin spread across his face as he tilted his head, ears tilting forward. "Should I be flattered?"

You just shrugged, smiling back a little.

"Well," he continued, shifting once more beneath you, heaving a sigh of his own. "I guess you'll be pleased to know I find you tolerable too."

"Well, isn't that convenient?" you snickered. "The human and the Metkayina's precious little prince-"

"Ah, shut up," he murmured, sitting a little more upright, bringing his face close to yours, before he stopped himself.

You didn't dare to move. "And what are you up to?" you whispered.

"Nothing." He smiled, slow and lazy, still rubbing soothing circles into your hip, tail beginning to thump again behind him.

Then he moved his hand to your mask, still watching your face. "Take a deep breath for me," he hummed.

You did so as your heart began to thump insistently against your ribs, hoping- no, praying that he was about to do what you thought he was going to do.

He lifted your mask off gently, and leaned forward, covering your mouth with his.

Like everything else about him, his lips were warm, firm, tasting of sea salt and some Metkayina herb, the name of which escaped you.

You sighed contentedly into his mouth, looping your arms around his neck as best you could, leaning your body against his chest.

You wanted this to drag on forever. There was no great realisation, either, beyond the simple oh. I have a crush on Aonung. No desperation in this.

It was just nice, to be here, standing on his thighs, kissing him slowly and peacefully while the brisk sea breeze enveloped you both.

He eventually pulled away and replaced your mask, looking down at you with a serene, content expression, tracing his fingers down the glass.

You couldn't help smiling, cheeks flushed as you shifted your hands to his shoulders.

"That was nice," he commented, trying to hold back a grin. "We should do it again sometime."

You laughed a little breathlessly. "Definitely."

His laughter mingled with yours, his chest vibrating a little as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the glass of your mask above your forehead. "I'll hold you to that."

I love dumb hunk himbo Aonung can y'all tell

[muiitoloko]

The gypsy witch

Summary: The damned gypsy witch bewitched him, Slope was certain of it.

Pairing: Obadiah Slope × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, degradationself-punishment and violence.

Author's Notes: You've asked so much for a part two that I was surprised by it, but here it is!

First, Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth part here.

Also read on Ao3

In the days that followed that fateful encounter with you, Mr. Obadiah Slope found himself in a constant battle against his own desires. Each morning began with a rigorous routine of self-punishment and penance. He fasted, depriving himself of food and drink, hoping to cleanse his mind of impure thoughts. He prayed fervently, spending hours on his knees in the cold stone chapel, seeking forgiveness for the sinful acts he had committed. He lashed his own back with a whip, the sting of the lash serving as a painful reminder of the temptations that haunted him.

Throughout the day, Mr. Slope tried to avoid any reminders of you. He busied himself with his duties as chaplain, visiting the sick, comforting the needy, and delivering sermons that preached against the dangers of lust and desire. Yet, despite his efforts, he could not banish you from his thoughts. Your image lingered in his mind, your voice echoing in his ears, and the taste of your lips on his mouth.

At night, exhausted from his day of self-inflicted punishment, Mr. Slope would collapse into bed, hoping for respite in sleep. But even there, you haunted him. In his dreams, he would see you standing before him, your body a tantalizing temptation that he longed to touch but knew he must resist. He would wake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding with guilt and desire, unable to escape the hold you had over him.

Today was no different. Mr. Slope sat in the chapel, the early morning light filtering through stained glass windows, casting colorful shadows on the stone floor. His hands were clasped tightly in prayer, his eyes closed in concentration. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he whispered, the words a desperate plea for absolution.

His mind wandered, despite his best efforts to keep it focused. Images of you, your eyes dark with desire, your lips parted in a teasing smile, flashed before him. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but they persisted, tormenting him with their forbidden allure.

After what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Slope rose from his knees, his body stiff and sore from the hours spent in prayer. He made his way back to his small room in the clergy house, the weight of his guilt heavy on his shoulders. He knew he must resist you, must avoid your presence at all costs, but the pull of desire was too strong.

As he entered his room, Mr. Slope closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it. He removed his vestments with trembling hands, the fabric feeling heavy and suffocating against his skin. He sat down on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands.

"Why do you torment me so?" he murmured to himself, the words barely audible. "I am a man of God, a chaplain in His service. I cannot allow myself to be consumed by these impure thoughts."

But even as he spoke the words, he knew they were futile. His body ached with desire, his mind filled with fantasies that he knew could never be realized. And yet, you had awakened a passion in him that he could not ignore.

Mr. Slope stood up suddenly, his hands trembling with a mixture of guilt and longing. He walked to the window, staring out at the town of Barchester spread out before him. The morning mist was beginning to lift, revealing the familiar streets and buildings that he had come to know so well.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memories of you, but they came flooding back with renewed intensity. Your touch, your scent, the way your eyes had sparkled with mischief – all of it consumed him, driving him to the brink of madness.

"I must be strong," he whispered to himself, clenching his fists in determination. "I must resist temptation, no matter how strong it may be."

But even as he made the vow, Mr. Slope knew that he was fighting a losing battle. His heart yearned for you, his body burned with desire, and there was nothing he could do to quench the fire that you had ignited within him.

The days turned into weeks, and Mr. Slope continued to wrestle with his inner demons. He threw himself into his work, hoping the distraction would help him forget you, but it was no use. Everywhere he turned, he saw reminders of you—in the faces of the townspeople, in the streets he walked, even in the quiet solitude of the chapel.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

In the quiet stillness of your shop, you were going about your business, arranging bottles of herbal remedies and tinctures on the shelves, when the door creaked open. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up to see Mr. Slope, the local chaplain, stepping into your establishment.

Mr. Slope's eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. There was a hunger in his gaze, a yearning that mirrored your own. And as he approached, his movements purposeful and determined, you couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation.

"Mr. Slope," you greeted him, trying to keep your voice steady despite the butterflies that danced in your stomach. "What brings you to my humble shop today?"

He ignored your question, his eyes sweeping over your form with undisguised desire. "You look as enchanting as ever, my dear," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You fought to keep a defiant expression on your face, refusing to let him see how his words affected you. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Slope," you replied, your tone sharper than intended.

But Mr. Slope seemed unfazed by your rebuke, his lips curling into a knowing smile. "Oh, I think it might," he said cryptically, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Before you could respond, he crossed the distance between you in a few swift strides, his hands reaching out to grab you by the arm. "Come with me," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You bristled at his audacity, pulling away from his grasp. "And why would I do that?" you demanded, your voice tinged with annoyance.

But Mr. Slope ignored your question, his grip tightening on your arm as he led you towards the back of the store. Panic flared in your chest as you realized his intentions, but you forced yourself to stay calm, to think of a way out of this predicament.

"What do you think you're doing, Mr. Slope?" you demanded, your voice laced with defiance as he pushed you against the wall.

He ignored your question, his eyes blazing with a mixture of desire and frustration. "Damn gypsy," he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around your throat.

You gasped, the pressure on your windpipe making it difficult to breathe. "What kind of dirty magic did you play on me to torment me like this?" he growled, his voice thick with anger.

You struggled against his grip, clawing at his hand in a desperate attempt to free yourself. "Let go of me, you madman!" you choked out, your voice barely a whisper.

But Mr. Slope's grip only tightened, his eyes burning with a fire that sent shivers down your spine. "You will tell me what you've done to me," he insisted, his voice low and dangerous.

With a surge of adrenaline, you managed to twist out of his grasp, your hand flying out to strike him across with all the force you could muster. Slope staggered back, his grip loosening as he stumbled to his knees, clutching his stomach in pain.

You took a step back, panting for breath as you watched him writhing on the floor, the agony etched into his features. "That's what you get for laying hands on a woman without her consent," you spat, your voice filled with venom.

But even as you spoke, you couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction at the sight of him brought low, his pride shattered by your defiance. Slope's eyes flickered open, his gaze locking with yours as he struggled to rise to his feet. "You'll pay for that, you wretched witch," he snarled, his voice thick with rage.

You laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room. "I'd like to see you try," you challenged, your voice ringing with defiance.

With a growl of frustration, Slope surged to his feet, his hands reaching out to grab you by the shoulders. But before he could make another move, you seized the opportunity to strike, grabbing hold of his robes and pulling him close.

He froze, his eyes widening in shock as you pressed your lips to his, tasting the bitterness of his defeat on his tongue. For a moment, he resisted, his body stiff with surprise. But then, to your astonishment, he responded eagerly, his arms encircling you as he deepened the kiss.

The world around you seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment, the forbidden passion that had simmered between you finally boiling over. And as Slope's lips moved hungrily against yours, you couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph at having finally broken through his defenses.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were left breathless, your bodies pressed close together in the dim light of the back room. Slope's eyes were dark with desire, his hands trembling as they traced the contours of your face.

"I... I don't know what came over me," he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion.

You smiled softly, reaching up to cup his cheek in your hand. "It doesn't matter," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "All that matters is that you're here, with me, now."

Slope nodded, his eyes shining with a newfound sense of clarity. "I can't stay away from you," he admitted, his voice filled with longing.

You leaned in to kiss him again, your lips meeting in a passionate embrace. "Then don't," you murmured against his mouth, your words a promise of things to come.

And as Slope pulled you close, his lips hungry and demanding, you knew that this was only the beginning of a forbidden love that would consume you both. But for now, in this moment, all that mattered was the fire that burned between you, igniting the darkness with its incandescent glow.

Mr. Slope's hands roamed your body with a fervor that matched your own, his touch igniting sparks of desire wherever it landed. He was a man driven to the brink of madness by his conflicting emotions, and you were the catalyst that had pushed him over the edge. You reveled in the power you held over him, knowing that despite his position and his vows, he was just a man—vulnerable and fallible.

Your fingers worked quickly, loosening the buttons of his clerical robes and slipping them off his shoulders. He shivered as the cool air touched his skin, but his eyes never left yours. There was a raw intensity in his gaze, a hunger that had been suppressed for too long.

"Do you still think me a witch?" you whispered, your voice a sultry purr as you pressed your body against his, your hands exploring the hard muscles of his chest.

Slope's breath hitched, his hands trembling as they slid down your sides to rest on your hips. "Perhaps," he admitted, his voice rough with desire. "But if you are, then I am damned, for I cannot resist you."

You smiled, a triumphant glint in your eyes as you pushed him back against the wall, your fingers trailing down to the waistband of his trousers. "Then let us be damned together, Mr. Slope," you murmured, your voice filled with seductive promise.

With a swift motion, you unfastened his trousers and let them fall to the floor, his arousal evident as you wrapped your hand around him, eliciting a groan of pleasure from his lips. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer as you began to stroke him, your movements slow and deliberate.

"God help me," he whispered, his eyes closing as he surrendered to the sensations you were creating.

You chuckled softly, your breath hot against his ear. "There is no God here, Mr. Slope," you teased, your voice a low, throaty whisper. "Only us."

He shuddered at your words, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. "Then take me, temptress," he pleaded, his voice a desperate rasp. "Show me the pleasures of the flesh that I have denied myself for so long."

You needed no further encouragement. With a swift, practiced motion, you freed yourself from your skirts, the fabric pooling at your feet as you stepped out of them. You could feel the heat of his gaze on your body, the admiration and desire burning in his eyes as he took in the sight of you.

Without breaking eye contact, you guided him to the floor, your movements fluid and graceful as you straddled his hips. His hands found your waist, his grip firm yet gentle as you lowered yourself onto him, the feeling of him filling you completely drawing a moan from your lips.

For a moment, you both stayed still, savoring the sensation of being joined together, of finally giving in to the desires that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. Then, slowly, you began to move, your hips rocking against his as you set a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart.

As Slope lay on the floor, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, he watched you with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Here he was, a virgin and a clergyman, succumbing to the temptations of the flesh in a way he had never imagined possible.

You rode him with a grace and skill that left him breathless, your body moving in perfect harmony with his as you sank down onto his cock. He could feel the heat of you surrounding him, the tightness of your walls gripping him in an embrace that threatened to consume him whole.

But even as pleasure coursed through his veins, Slope couldn't shake the nagging voice of guilt in the back of his mind. Sex before marriage was a sin, a transgression against the laws of God and man. And yet, here he was, unable to resist the siren call of your body.

"What... what are you doing to me?" he gasped, his voice strained with desire and confusion.

You smiled down at him, your eyes dark with lust as you began to undo the buttons of your blouse, revealing the swell of your breasts beneath. "I'm showing you the pleasures of the flesh, Mr. Slope," you purred, your voice dripping with seduction, "as you asked."

Slope's breath caught in his throat as he watched you, his mind reeling with the forbiddenness of it all. With a practiced motion, you pulled yourself off him, leaving Slope panting and desperate for release. But before he could protest, you knelt between his legs, your hands wrapping around his throbbing member as you began to stroke him with practiced expertise.

Slope's breath caught in his throat as waves of pleasure washed over him, his hips bucking involuntarily as you worked your magic on him. He was teetering on the edge, his resolve crumbling with each passing moment.

"Oh, God," he gasped, his voice thick with desire. "I can't hold back any longer."

You smiled up at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you quickened your pace, driving him closer and closer to the brink. "Let go, Mr. Slope," you urged him, your voice a husky whisper. "Give in to the pleasure."

With a primal roar, Slope surrendered to the ecstasy, his body convulsing as he spilled his seed onto your waiting hand. He cried out your name, his voice a symphony of pleasure as he rode the waves of ecstasy to their peak.

As he collapsed against the floor, spent and satisfied, Slope felt a sense of peace wash over him. Despite the sinfulness of his actions, despite the guilt that gnawed at his conscience, he couldn't deny the overwhelming sense of fulfillment that coursed through him.

And as he lay there, basking in the afterglow of his release, he knew that he would never be able to resist the temptation of you again. You had awakened a passion in him that he could never hope to suppress, a desire that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.

As Slope looked up at you, his eyes filled with adoration and gratitude, he knew that he was lost. Lost to the irresistible allure of your body, lost to the intoxicating pleasures of the flesh, lost to the forbidden love that had consumed him whole.

At that moment, as you held him in your arms, Mr. Obadiah Slope couldn't bring himself to care about the consequences. For now, the weight of his guilt and the fear of damnation were overshadowed by the profound sense of connection and fulfillment he felt with you. He sat up with your help, pulling his pants and underwear up clumsily as you started to dress yourself.

But just as you began to fasten your blouse, Slope stopped you, his hand gently resting on yours. His eyes were filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire. "Wait," he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "I... I want to please you too. But I don't know what to do."

You smiled to yourself, a warm and knowing smile. This was a man who had spent his life in denial, in repression, and now, here he was, yearning to learn the ways of pleasure. "It's alright, Slope," you whispered, your voice soothing and encouraging. "I'll show you."

You took his hands and placed them on your body, showing him how to touch you, how to explore your curves and contours. "Feel me," you murmured, your breath hot against his ear. "Learn what makes me shiver, what makes me moan."

His hands moved tentatively at first, tracing the lines of your body with a mix of reverence and curiosity. You guided him, encouraging him with soft sighs and whispered instructions. "Yes, just like that," you breathed as his fingers found the sensitive skin of your neck. "And here," you continued, moving his hand lower to the curve of your breast. "Touch me gently, but with purpose."

Slope's breath quickened, his eyes darkening with desire as he followed your lead. "I want to make you feel as you made me feel," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"You will," you promised, your voice a sultry purr. "But you need to listen to my body. Let it guide you."

With that, you laid back, pulling him down with you, his body pressing against yours. His lips found your neck, his kisses tentative at first but growing bolder with each passing moment. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the gentle scrape of his teeth, and it sent shivers down your spine.

"Slope," you moaned, your hands threading through his hair, guiding him lower. "Taste me."

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of himself, but the desire in your voice spurred him on. His mouth traveled down your body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When he reached the soft swell of your breasts, he paused, looking up at you for reassurance.

"Go on," you encouraged, your voice breathless. "Take me in your mouth."

He obeyed, his lips closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking out to taste you. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, and you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

"Yes, just like that," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Keep going."

Slope's confidence grew with your encouragement. He suckled at your breast, his hand moving to the other, kneading gently. You guided him with soft moans and whispered praises, your body responding eagerly to his touch.

But you wanted more. You wanted him to lose himself in you, to give in completely to the desire that simmered between you. "Lower," you urged, your voice a breathless command. "I want to feel your mouth on me."

Slope's eyes widened, but he didn't hesitate. He moved down your body, his hands and lips exploring every inch of your skin. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you with a mixture of awe and trepidation.

"Here?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your eyes dark with lust. "Yes," you breathed. "Taste me here."

With a deep breath, Slope lowered his head, his tongue tentatively flicking out to taste you. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. "Oh, yes," you moaned, your hips lifting to meet his mouth. "Just like that."

He licked and sucked, his movements growing bolder with each passing moment. You guided him with your hands, showing him how to please you, how to drive you wild with desire. "Don't stop," you gasped, your body trembling with need. "I'm so close."

Slope's hands gripped your thighs, his mouth working tirelessly to bring you to the brink of ecstasy. You could feel the tension building, the pleasure mounting until it was almost unbearable.

And then, with a cry of pure bliss, you came undone, your body arching off the floor as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Slope held you tightly, his mouth never leaving your body, his hands soothing you through the aftershocks.

When you finally came down from your high, you looked down at Slope, his face flushed with exertion and desire. "You did it," you whispered, your voice filled with wonder. "You pleased me."

But Slope kept his gaze fixed on your pussy. His mind raced with a torrent of conflicting emotions. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight before him, the taste of you still lingering on his lips, sweet and intoxicating. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, a forbidden pleasure that sent shivers down his spine.

Were all women like that? Did they all taste divine? The thought sent a surge of desire coursing through him, his body responding eagerly to the memories of your touch.

But even as he reveled in the sensations that you had awakened in him, Slope couldn't shake the nagging voice of guilt in the back of his mind. What had you done to him, you damn gypsy? What sort of dark magic had you wielded to ensnare him so completely?

He tried to push the thoughts aside, to lose himself in the intoxicating haze of desire that clouded his mind. But the questions lingered, tormenting him with their unspoken accusations.

"You bewitched me," he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with frustration and longing. "You made me forget everything I swore to uphold, everything I believed in."

But even as he spoke the words, Slope knew that it was futile to resist. You had awakened a passion in him that he could never hope to suppress, a desire that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.

With a groan of frustration, he leaned down, pressing his lips to your pussy once more, his tongue tracing the delicate folds with a mix of reverence and hunger. He was lost to the pleasures of the flesh, a slave to the forbidden desires that had consumed him whole.

And as he lost himself in the heat of the moment, Slope knew that there would be no turning back. For better or for worse, he was yours now, body and soul, bound to you by the irresistible allure of your touch.

[dmitriene]

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ.

❝ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 ❞ 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦4 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘹 𝘨𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳. ❝ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 ❞ 𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞, 𝘚𝘔𝘜𝘛, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 ��𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘷, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱.

 ✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

Leon has always been a man of exceptional determination, having pushed himself to the limit as a police officer in Raccoon City, striving to become a paragon of law enforcement, and never letting up in his pursuit of justice.

But that dedication came at a cost, a cost that you, his closest confidant, understood all too well

One evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, casting long shadows across your shared apartment, you found yourself stretched out on your bed, a novel on your chest, but your thoughts were wandering, when suddenly the door at the end of the hallway swung open, interrupting your train of thought, and the jingle of keys announced Leon's return.

You put the book down and propped yourself up on your elbows, listening to him hastily kick off his shoes — a clear sign of his fatigue.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, getting louder and slower by the second, and finally Leon walked into your room and you could see the tiredness that crossed his face, causing you to greet him with a soft, concerned question — «Leon, is everything alright?»

He grunted in response, the words barely audible, his uniform falling to the floor with the heavy thud of his belt buckle as his eyes met yours, and there was an unspoken plea in their depths — as if he was asking for your understanding and comfort without uttering a word.

Without hesitating another second, he climbed onto the bed, wrapping his strong arms around you as his lips descended onto your face and neck with passionate, desperate need, peppering you with kisses.

In the dimly lit room, Leon's kisses felt like sparks of warmth in the cool, dim atmosphere, you ran your fingers through his tousled hair, your voice a soothing murmur — «You've had a long day, haven't you?»

He nodded, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss that spoke of longing and desire, as if he was seeking comfort in your arms, a respite from the relentless demands of his job, and you pulled him closer, entwining your legs with his, and the world beyond your four walls slipping away.

— «Leon» you whispered, your fingers tracing the contours of his face — «I'm always here for you»

His gratitude was evident in the way he held you, his strong arms creating a soothing cocoon around you as he leaned down to capture your lips again, the intensity of his kisses reflecting the emotional weight he carried.

And thus you found yourself in your current position, where Leon’s hands instinctively reach your waist, holding you tightly as he pushes deeper inside you with each thrust, the slick, velvety warmth of your cunny walls enveloping his cock.

His movements are both gentle and desperate, a captivating combination of tenderness and hunger, the feeling of your sticky walls sliding along his cock only fuels his desire, making him thrust harder and faster.

His voice, suddenly and so unfamiliar rough with desire fills the room as he praises and humiliates you at the same time, as if the process of your sex is venting his anger, and his slight hoarseness adds extra appeal to his words — «Oh my love, you're so damn, hngh — tight! Feel how wet you are for me, such a nice little slut, takes my cock so well»

His hands grip your hips tightly and his control is obvious as he sets the pace and his thrusts become more fervent, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mixing with your mewls and his deep guttural moans.

The intensity builds, pleasure spreading through both of your bodies as he fucks you mercilessly, but trying to combine it with the genuine care that always takes place in your relationship, so from time to time his hands stroke the marks on your hips with calloused fingers.

As the sensations overwhelm him, his movements become more chaotic, his thrusts becoming stronger and faster, more desperate as he feels the tension building inside him, the familiar warmth coiling in his lower abdomen.

The curled up arousal pulsates hungrily, causing his cock to bump up and bruise your cervix with every thrusts, while your walls flutter and clamp down on him with teetering release, and with one last powerful thrust he is finally released inside you, his hot cum completely filling you, oozing from your hole and around his shaft, in time with your pussy spasming all around, pulling him in greedily, gushing with all your juices.

Breathing heavily, Leon slips out and falls onto the messy sheets, his body still shaking with pleasure, every vein on his body bulging as his hands release your hips, sliding up your body and gently cupping your face as he presses a soft kiss to your lips, and his voice is full of adoration and unexpected apologies — «I'm so sorry for my sudden outburst, sweetie, so sorry»

Your eyes look tiredly into his blue and puppy eyes, there is still a mixture of seething excitement and regret for the sudden rudeness in his wide pupils, to which you giggle tiredly, pressing your nose into the line of his neck under his chin, leaving a warm kiss on the sweaty flesh and saying comfortingly — «It's alright, Leon, i would've say something if that was too much»

He smiles, full of gratitude for your understanding before leaning down and kissing the top of your head, burying his face in and scooping you closer to him, as if nestling you like a baby bird under his arm and letting the weariness take over the two of you, falling asleep in each other's arms, and nothing else matters.

taglist: @roseglazedlens, @scar-crossedlvrs, @daydreamrot, @cehrie, @kennedyswhore dm me if you want to be tagged in my works or open my taglist

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila V: Respite in the Valley

After the return to Owanjila, settling into a routine proves to be difficult for several members of the gang.

cw: smut, post-traumatic stress, heartache (a lot of that last one)

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

You awaken softly in the morning light, not all at once, like the blooming sun far in the eastern horizon. Birdsong wafts through the window, even through the pane of somewhat cloudy glass, the chirps of tanagers and cardinals fill the air.

You stretch your back in the bed, blinking as you feel the rumble of your bedmate behind you, the long, warm line of a body curled up next to yours, an arm thrown around your waist.

Chapped lips touch the back of your neck and you smile against your pillow. A calloused hand moves under the sheet from your waist up, up, to cradle your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple as it hardens. 

A breathy moan escapes you as you press yourself backward against him, the both of you bare under the sheet, skin running hot, and against your rear, you can feel him stirring. 

“Ruth…” A sleep-hoarse groan of your name is whispered into your ear as the hand slinks downward to the meeting of your thighs, and your legs open of their own accord to welcome him in.

“Mmm…” You moan as strong fingers press against your folds, parting them and tracing the seam of your body. You jolt as he finds that little nub of your pleasure, circling it as you begin to pant. 

He’s thick and ready with arousal behind you, and your slick begins to come, readying yourself for him as you press your small hand over his own, guiding him to press harder against you, then guiding him the blessed few inches from your clit back to your entrance. He slides a long, thick finger inside you and you do not even attempt to suppress the high, flighty moan, accompanied by his low one as he begins to work his finger in and out of you. His hips press against your rear in time with his thrusts.

“God damn, Ruth.”  He groans into your ear, pressing his middle finger into your cunt and you mewl, grasping the sheet for dear life between your fingers.

“P-please.” You whimper, feeling as if you’re going to burst, that you need this burning desire quenched in your very core.

“I gotcha, I’ve gotcha-” He pants, extracting his hand and moving it to tilt your hip, pressing his cock to your weeping entrance and gently pushing inside.

You moan outright at the feeling of being filled, stuttering breath on your neck from behind you as he begins to thrust.

“God,”  You cry out, causing him to groan aloud as he moves his pelvis against yours, hand tight over the curve of your hip.

“Ruth… Ruth. Here we’ll build our town,” He rasps, his voice hoarse as he pants with exertion, “Here we’ll build our family.”

Wait…

His arms clutch around you as you stiffen, unable to turn around, feeling like you’re swimming in molasses. Your heart thumps like a war drum in your chest, less from arousal and more from the sense of dread building up in your belly.

He whispers in your ear, throwing his hips against yours in finality, driving himself into you and shuddering.

“Right here in Limpany.”

You rocket up from your bedroll, hand splayed over your sternum, gasping for air. You look around, the camp on the hillside is still dark, and the other women are all still fast asleep in a line next to you under the protective awning. A campfire several feet away glows softly, down to embers before the breaking of the dawn. Far to the east, the sky begins to burn red.

You get up, grabbing your checked shawl and wrapping it over your shoulders to stave off the morning chill, harsh once you shed the blankets of your bedroll and quietly pace away from where the women sleep. Your bare feet collect morning dew as you descend down the hillside, unable to stop the flow of tears down your cheeks, trying at least to stifle the sob trying to claw itself from your throat. You try to ignore the damp feeling of the seam of your bloomers against your skin.

You’re breathing heavily, eyes overflowing by the time you reach the lakeside, bare feet freezing as cold lake water flows over them.

The sob you were trying to hold back works its way out, and your shoulders heave as you wrap your arms around yourself.  All of this, the death and the misery and being alone, for Christ’s sake, why can’t you just wake up from this nightmare?

You weep, standing there ankle-deep in the cool waters of Owanjila. You weep for your child, your husband, your friends. You weep for your former life, never to be lived again.

Above the sound of your shuddering breath, unheard by you, a match is struck in the night to light a cigarette. Arthur Morgan stands back on the hillside, observing your shaking shoulders and the soft sound of your cries.

He thinks of how he wrapped himself around your small frame, how you sank back into him, and how he seemed to assuage your tears. How you looked at him like he was some heaven-sent savior pulling you from the fire. He wants to walk down there and draw you in, to pat down your sleep-addled hair, and whisper words that could tamp your shaking shoulders.

But nothing good can come of this desire - Micah’s words slither into his mind like a snake, ready to strike at the remnants of his beating heart. 

You ain’t different than any of us - rotten to the core. And all you want is her sweet little cunt.

No, Arthur Morgan simply takes a drag of his cigarette, nothing good would come of it indeed.

-

The widow Adler is in a fugue state of grief. Staring blankly ahead, eyes red and bloodshot, there along the hill overlooking Owanjila.

Fortunately, the girls were able to scrape enough clothing together for her. Mary Beth tries to offer her coffee, but it is two days before she even accepts. She gazes out at the lake, silent in her suffering, not speaking to any of the other women who try to keep her company. Even Grimshaw gives her a wide berth as her bruises and cuts heal.

You will certainly admit to yourself it is far too long before you approach the woman alone, her silent stoicism near standoffish as she does not acknowledge your presence as you sit down on the hill next to her, some yards away from the shoreline. 

“Missus Adler-”

“Sadie.”  She croaks, not turning toward you at all.

“...Sadie,” You are corrected, and pull your knees up toward your chest to loop your arms around them, “I know there’s nothing any of us can say to make it better or get your husband back-”

“My Jakey - he was a good man- and they butchered ‘im.” Sadie’s voice goes low, hoarse, and angry as you can tell she is gritting her teeth, “God damn O’Driscolls…”

You swallow, staring ahead at the still waters of the lake. Sadie sniffles next to you, wiping angrily at her eyes.

“Dutch thinks it was O’Driscolls that killed my husband… I never saw who did it…” You say softly, your chin on your drawn-up knees, not trying to discount her loss, but trying to establish a connection through your own.

Sadie sniffles again, her jaw setting hard as she swats at her eyes, remaining quiet at your admission. Her ill-fitting clothing and bruised face are a reflection of her frightful state in the morning light. 

Several moments of silence sit between the two of you before you stretch out your legs again to get up.

You stand up, dusting leaves and dirt off your skirt. “I know it isn’t going to change anything, but I’m here, Missus Adler, if you ever need anything.”

Sadie doesn’t reply, staring off at the lake once again. You hold in the sigh you feel like letting loose until you are far enough away that she won’t hear you. Walking back up the hill, you move straight towards the tent to the side of the camp, just past the bubbling coffeepot over the main campfire.

You let another sigh out as you sit down in an empty chair, rubbing at your eyes tiredly before turning to look at the person occupying the next seat over. Hosea inhales deeply over his steaming cup of coffee as he sits in the rickety old chair next to you. “My dear…”

You frown, looking back toward Sadie as she stares off into the distance, northward into the Grizzlies, to the life she used to have. You know that stare, should you travel back toward the ice-blue waters of the Dakota, you would have that same grief in your eyes.

“I was like that… the first few days.” 

“Better than I was when my Bessie passed,” Hosea continues to sip his coffee, “Stayed drunk for the better part of a year.”

You frown, looking down at your hands. It was humbling, though you knew that certainly, you weren’t the only widow in the world, that you are now surrounded by people who have keenly felt that kind of loss. Part of you feels silly for your breakdown the other morning, thankful that no one saw that moment of weakness.

“Missus Adler will have to work things through her own way,” Hosea continues, “All we can do is try to offer her some kind of solace.”

“Indeed.” You reply, watching forlornly as you see her shoulders crumble into sobs.

-

“Sure you don’t have anything to tell us about Colm?” Dutch eyes the prisoner with disdain. The poor man, unkempt and unshaven is a frightful mess, terrified and stumbling against the rope tying him uncomfortably to a tree along the edge of the camp.

“Jus- jus that he’s hittin’ the train in Ambarino - I s-swear, that’s all I know.” He sputters, wide-eyed and fearful, surrounded by men who look like they’d love to torture him in any bodily way possible. 

“I dunno, Dutch,” Arthur blows smoke in the young man’s face from his cigarette, “He ain’t entirely convincin’ me.”

Dutch runs a hand over his mustache, exaggerating the idea that he is mulling over the prisoner’s fate, “Bill, what do you think?”

The slide of metal on metal pierces the air as the prisoner’s wide eyes move from Dutch to the larger, burly man beside him.

“I think he don’t need some parts on ‘im, Dutch.” Bill replies, the large tongs in his hands loudly opening and shutting.

“Please- please, I don’t know anything more!” He screeches as Bill gets closer.

Dutch gleams with a predatory glare.

“That’s a shame there, O’Driscoll. I am running out of reasons to stop ol’ Mister Williamson from gelding you.”

-

“You’re goddamn lucky you have people that give a shit whether or not you die.”

John wishes he could escape. But he’s bedridden still, nearly a week after the journey down the mountains and his unfortunate run-in with enemies of the canine variety. The long ride did his body no favors, keeping him in the cot in the sick tent for days longer. His stitches itch across his face, and his bruised and bloody body still wracks in pain when he tries to move.

Abigail breathes out heavily in frustration as she wrings out the warm water from the rag over the steaming bowl of water set at the side of his cot. She leans over him, pulling back the blanket to expose his bruised chest.

“Hell if I need you to bathe me, you damned-”

“You smell worse than horse shit, you worthless-”

John curses aloud, lurching upward as Abigail swipes the rag across his collarbone, not exactly gently, over red and inflamed skin. 

“Jesus Christ, Abigail, that shit hurts.” He snarls up at her, and for a moment, her eyes flash with something that looks like regret before they harden again.

“Stop your bellyachin’.” Abigail sneers, and turns back to the bowl to dip the rag in the water again, muttering under her breath as she wrings it out. John’s scowl deepens as he can’t make out what she’s said.

“What now, woman?”

“You’ve got a son, John Marston. Y’cant… you can’t be goin’ off doing shit like you have a deathwish.” Abigail sighs, dabbing the rag more gently over his collarbones and shoulders.

“I ain’t doin’ anything like I’ve got some deathwish, Abigail.” He retorts, laying back on the cot and wincing as he tries to get comfortable again.

Abigail pulls the blanket down further, exposing his lean waist. John has always been skinny - half-starved and hunger panged through his difficult life.

“I told you, you don’t need to-”

“John, ain’t like I haven’t seen it before. Numerous times.” Abigail cuts him off, pulling the blanket further down his torso against his protests. He immediately looks at the pitch of the tent as the blanket moves over his hips, trying to think of anything other than Abigail stripping him down to bathe him with that rag.

“Yeah but-”

“Just be quiet. Ain’t gonna submit any of the other women to have to deal with you stinkin’ like shit.”

John wishes he could escape. He wishes he could not feel Abigail’s hands on him. He wishes he were anywhere else… and god almighty, he wishes he could see something else behind his eyes when he closes them than Abigail climbing over him like she used to.

-

Arthur grumbles to himself as the old Walker trots back up the hillside along Owanjila before the afternoon sun dips behind the cliffs. He knew better than to trust one of Micah’s leads. But no, he went along with this one - robbing a stage outside of Riggs Station - too damn close to Blackwater. And the stage had guards that Micah hadn’t planned on. 

So of course, it turned into a mess that Arthur was forced to remedy by emptying his revolver. At least the lockbox on the stage had a decent amount of cash and a large bag of jewelry. Also, Micah had the good sense to slink away to Strawberry instead of riding the whole way back to camp with him - Arthur was vexed enough as is to have spent any more time next to that snake.

The golden light of the setting sun glints off the lake as Arthur glances toward it before he pats the Walker’s mane, pulling a sugar cube from his satchel and feeding it to the horse. The horse had a good temperament - maybe Arthur wouldn’t sell him and keep him around camp and just spring for a new mount. He needed to get over toward Valentine at some point.

He swings himself down from the saddle before tying the reins of the Walker to the makeshift hitching post on the edge of the camp. Tapping the horse’s flank, Arthur grimaces as he rolls his shoulder, the tightness in it betraying his aging body. He clears his throat before readjusting the hat on his head, walking through the camp toward Dutch’s large tent and the gang’s cash box to unload his ill-gotten gains.

“Oh, Mister Morgan - do you mind if…”

The outlaw looks up to find you standing a few feet away from Dutch’s tent, fiddling with the wrist of your blouse nervously, staring at your feet.

“Missus Shaw?”

“I was wonderin’-”, You stumble, “wonderin’ if you might be able to spare a chain from that pile of jewelry you’ve got there.” You nod upwards at the large bag in his hand, hovering over the camp’s cash box.

“It’s just the chain I need, no pendant or anything.” You finally make eye contact with him and he curses himself that he finds the blush dusting your cheeks endearing.

“Course, Missus Shaw.” He places the bag down on Dutch’s table and pulls out a necklace with a delicate gold chain. Dangling it out toward you, you step closer and grasp it. You undo its clasp and slide off the pendant, a solitary pearl drop you place back in Arthur’s gloved hand. As you stick your hand into your skirt pocket, you try to ignore where this necklace came from.

Arthur tosses the pendant into the box, turning back toward you as you find what you’re looking for in your pocket.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll find a way to pay you back.” 

“Don’t worry abou’ it.” He says softly, his eyes on your hands as you thread the chain through something small between your fingers.

When he finally sees what you’re working with as you move to hang the chain around your neck, he feels as if he’s been shot in his chest, trying to maintain composure as you lay the gold around your neck and clasp the necklace.

A gold wedding ring adorns your throat, and your delicate fingers press over it quickly before you let your hands fall back down to your sides. The pit of his stomach opening up becomes too much to bear.

Arthur nods, stepping toward his own tent, trying desperately to escape the situation unscathed. “Missus Shaw.”

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” You call out softly as he retreats.

By the time he reaches his tent and yanks the canvas shut, he breathes out an angry, frustrated breath out his nose as he yanks his hat from his head, throwing it on the side table next to his cot. 

Running his hand through his hair, he closes his eyes, letting out another breath that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. He looks back to the table where he set his hat. A piece of paper lies on the table. He grasps at it, unfolding what he sees as a letter, with proper, looping handwriting.

His arrow-shot chest cracks again.

Dear Arthur…

[soulofapatrick]

Heart’s Desire 2/2 - Simon Lewis x female reader

Summary: after talking with Alec you go find Simon

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: non really; a little angst

Y/N’s POV

As I step into the familiar confines of the institute, Simon tailing behind me like a lost puppy, his presence a comforting anchor in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. The air is heavy with tension, a silent reminder of the events that unfolded in the Seelie Court, and I can’t help but feel a knot of guilt tightening in my chest. 

Jace is the first to notice our arrival, his keen eyes narrowing as he takes in our somber expressions. He raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry, a silent question hanging in the air like a sword waiting to fall. "What happened?" he asks, his voice laced with concern. "Why is Clary so mad and upset?”

The weight of his question hangs heavily between us, and I swallow hard, the guilt threatening to suffocate me. How do I even begin to explain the tangled mess of emotions that led us to this point? How do I put into words the conflicting desires and fears that churn inside me like a tempest?

I glance at Simon, his expression almost pleading, and I can feel the weight of his uncertainty pressing down on me like a leaden blanket. It's as if he's bracing himself for rejection, for the inevitable fallout of our tangled emotions now that we're back in the real world where consequences cannot be easily swept aside. I have to swallow hard before I turn back to Jace, the bitterness of my words tasting like ash on my tongue.

“Stupid Queen playing her sick jokes," I mutter, the frustration and anger seeping into my voice. The words hang heavy in the air, and I see Simon flinch, a small sound escaping him that feels like a punch to the gut. I shake my head, unable to meet his gaze as I grumble out, "I need to find Alec."

Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and head out of the main room, the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on me like a physical burden. I stride down the corridor towards the bedrooms, each step a deliberate effort to put distance between myself and the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume me.

As I push open Alec's door with a sense of urgency, the familiar sight of his room greets me, offering a sanctuary amidst the chaos of my emotions. But my respite is short-lived as Magnus lets out a sound of surprise, his eyes widening in astonishment as I enter unannounced.

“Get out Mags.” I say to him, my voice tinged with urgency, gaze unwavering as Magnus glances between me and his husband in bed beside him. 

“You can’t kick me out of my own bed.” Magnus retorts, a challenge in the raise of his eyebrow as he waits for Alec's response. But Alec merely tilts his head slightly, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. It's unnerving how he always seems to be able to read me like a damn book, seeing through the facade I try so hard to maintain.

As Magnus huffs in frustration, he snaps his fingers, and suddenly he’s fully dressed and climbing out of bed, his movements swift and decisive. “Fine,” He mutters, tone laced with a hint of annoyance, “I’ll go get some coffee.” 

With a swirl of his jacket, Magnus strides towards the door, leaving Alec and me alone in the quiet intimacy of his room. As the door clicks shut behind him, Alec still doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on me with an unreadable expression. It causes me to swallow hard, feeling a surge of vulnerability wash over me as I meet Alec's gaze. But there's no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet understanding that fills me with a sense of comfort and warmth.

Slowly, tentatively, I climb into the spot Magnus just vacated, curling up beside Alec with a sense of relief that floods through me like a tidal wave. His warmth envelopes me like a protective shield, wrapping his arms around me and I rest my head on his chest, focusing on the steady beat of his heart until I’m able to think straight enough to tell Alec what happened. 

“Simon kissed me.” I mumble, feeling Alec's eyebrows raise in surprise as he processes my confession. He knows all too well how much I've longed for Simon to look at me, not Clary, and the weight of that realisation hangs heavy in the air between us.

“Why don’t you sound happy about it?” Alec asks gently, his voice soft yet probing. He shifts slightly, turning to face me fully, his eyes searching mine for any hint of what’s troubling me about this all. 

I swallow hard, the guilt weighing heavily on my conscience as I struggle to find the right words. "It's complicated," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, I wanted him to... but not like this.”

Alec’s brow furrows in confusion, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. "What do you mean?" he prompts, his voice gentle yet insistent.

I take a shaky breath, steeling myself for what comes next. "The Seelie Queen," I begin, the memories of our encounter at the court flooding back with painful clarity. "She made Simon choose... between Clary and me.” 

Alec’s eyes widen in understanding, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place as he realises the gravity of what I'm saying. "And he chose you," he says softly, a note of awe in his voice. 

I nod, unable to meet his gaze as the guilt gnaws at me like a relentless beast. "But at what cost?" I whisper, the words barely audible in the quiet of the room. "Clary... she might not be my friend but I never wanted to hurt her.” 

Alec reaches out, his hand finding mine in a gesture of comfort and solidarity. "You didn't do anything wrong," he says firmly, his voice filled with conviction. "The Seelie Queen's games are twisted and cruel. You can't blame yourself for her machinations.”Alec's words of reassurance wash over me like a soothing balm, offering a glimmer of comfort in the midst of my turmoil. His hand in mine is a grounding force, anchoring me to the present moment as I struggle to make sense of the tangled web of emotions that threaten to overwhelm me.

“You’re right,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't let the Seelie Queen's games dictate my happiness." With a determined nod, I steel myself for what comes next, resolving to take control of my own destiny.

Alec squeezes my hand gently, a silent show of support and encouragement. "Go find Simon," he says firmly, his voice filled with conviction. "Tell him how you feel. Don't let fear or guilt hold you back.”

I nod, a sense of purpose settling over me like a mantle as I rise to my feet, determination burning bright in my heart. "Thank you, Alec," I say gratefully, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I don't know what I'd do without you.” 

As I make my way towards the door, Alec's voice follows me, a beacon of strength and reassurance in the darkness. "And remember," he calls out, his words a silent vow of solidarity. "You deserve to be happy."

With Alec's words echoing in my mind, I step into the hallway, my resolve firm and unwavering. It's time to face my fears, to confront the feelings that have long simmered beneath the surface. And as I set off in search of Simon, I know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, I'll always have my friends by my side to help me navigate the stormy waters of love and loyalty. 

As I turn the corner, the hallway seems to narrow, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my chest. And there, right in front of me, stands Simon, his presence both comforting and unnerving in equal measure. The air crackles with awkward tension, thick with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. It feels as though time has slowed, stretching the moment into an eternity as we stand there, locked in a silent dance of uncertainty.

Summoning every ounce of courage I possess, I take a shaky breath and blurt out the words that have been weighing on my heart for far too long, my voice a jumbled mess as nerves threaten to consume me. "Iwantyoutowantmeto." I falter, needing to gather myself before I continue, taking a deep breath and gripping Simon's hands firmly in mine. "I want you to want me too," I repeat, the words clearer this time, though my voice still trembles with a mixture of anxiety and longing.

As the words hang in the air between us, I watch Simon's expression shift, a kaleidoscope of emotions dancing across his features—surprise, disbelief, and something else, something that sets my heart racing with anticipation. And then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, his face lights up with a radiant smile, his eyes alight with a warmth that sends a rush of euphoria coursing through me like a tidal wave.

“You  have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," Simon says, his voice filled with a mixture of joy and relief. His words wash over me like a soothing balm, banishing the doubts and fears that have plagued me for so long.

Before I can fully process his response, Simon tugs me towards him, surprising me with the strength of his embrace. His arms wrap tightly around me, pulling me close as if he never wants to let me go. In that moment, I feel safe, cherished, and loved—a sensation unlike any other. 

As Simon pulls back slightly, his gaze holds mine with a captivating intensity, sending shivers of anticipation racing down my spine. And then, with a tenderness that leaves me reeling, he leans in once more, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that ignites a firestorm of emotions within me. 

His lips are soft yet urgent against mine, a silent plea for reassurance and confirmation of the feelings we've both harboured for so long. The kiss is a symphony of longing and desire, each brush of his lips against mine sending sparks flying through every fibre of my being.

As the kiss deepens, Simon's hands find their way to my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. The corridor fades away, forgotten in the heat of the moment, as Simon presses me against the wall with a passion that steals my breath away. 

His touch is electric, setting my skin ablaze with longing as he explores every contour of my lips with a hunger that leaves me dizzy with desire. It's as if we're two stars colliding in the vast expanse of the universe, merging together in a blaze of passion and intensity.

“I told you to find Simon not make out with him in the hallways!” Alec’s voice comes from down the corridor as he leaves his room, breaking me and Simon apart, both of us blushing like teenagers, “I’m happy for you but no making out in the corridors.” 

“Yes sir.” Simon mumbles out, face going even redder after calling Alec ‘sir’.

“Alright Ali” I laugh.

The Shadowhunters Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[seradyn]

Royal Respite and Midnight Melody!

The two I’m most excited about 🤤🤤

I’m going to start with Midnight Melody cause I wAnT tOO

This is a short one shot I thought of when I reexamined some of Astarion’s lines post Cazador. When the player asks how he feels directly following the event, he explains he feels ‘numb’. From my own experience and what I’ve learned about surviving abuse, often people can struggle coping with a world where their abuser is out of the picture, because so much of their life was consumed by them, either physically or mentally. We see this not only in Astarion, but in Karlach too, who has similar feelings after Gortash’s death, because all the rage she built up around him has nowhere to go. It’s still there, but now it’s trapped inside without an outlet, instead of being healed when her abuser went away like they think it should have.

Astarion is the same way; without Cazador, where is he supposed to direct all his energy, his hatred, his rage over what happened to him? It’s still there, even though he’s dead, and it’s not fair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he struggled with his purpose after Cazador’s death. This happens with real survivors too; their whole world revolved around their abuser for so long, once they’re gone they just feel so empty and lost.

This fic is a take on that, where reader helps reassure Astarion that he doesn’t have to know what he wants right now, and they’re more than happy to help him figure it out. He tells them he doesn’t have a heart to guide him, but that’s not true. Is it not reader’s blood that flows through his veins? Does reader’s heart not beat for him? They remind him, hold his head gently to their chest so he can listen, can hear the heartbeat that is not only theirs, but one they give freely to him, too.

Basically more tooth rotting fluff and non sexual intimacy. Baby boy just needs to be held and I’ll be damned if I don’t smother him in affection. He deserves it.

Here is snippet:

~

“It’s nothing serious, of course…” he said quietly. Another lie, but you didn’t say anything, simply cradling his hand to your chest, a precious and fragile part of him. It gave him time to work up the courage to continue.

“It’s just that…When I was under Cazador,” he hissed the name, fangs poking out over his bottom lip, “every thought I had, everything I did was for him. He dominated us, mind, body and soul, and used that dominance to make our whole world about him.”

His eyes were wild with anger, that grimace back on his face, because it was so much worse to say it out loud, to acknowledge how much of his life belonged to his old master. You squeezed his hand to encourage him to keep going. This needed to come out, lest he push you away to protect you from the rot that did naught but burrow and consume down into his being.

“Even after the nautiloid, he inhabited so much of my thoughts,” he went on, his voice slightly rasped and shaking. “Though instead of fear or obedience, it was anger and determination to kill him. Even when he lost control of me, all I could think about was him. Even with his body rotting in the dirt, I cannot get him out of my head.”

“And now that he’s gone…I can’t help but wonder…what am I supposed to do?” His eyes filled with sorrow then, displeasure with himself. “With Cazador dead…I find myself losing all sense of direction.”

Your heart broke for him, jagged pieces of it left on the floor for you to step on. You cupped Astarion’s cheek, lifting his face to look at you. His eyes were wide, glistening in the dim candlelight as they filled with pain and worse: self loathing. You didn’t need the tadpole to hear that treacherous little voice in his head, one you knew like an old friend that whispered pathetic, worthless, weak. You knew he wanted to protect you, wanted to give you the life you deserved, yet he hadn’t the faintest idea how to do that, where to even start, and it pained him.

Gently, allowing him to pull back if he so desired, you led him into your arms, wrapping them around him so you could rub at the tension in his back. He nearly collapsed into your embrace in relief, immediately wrapping his own arms around you and crushing you to him. You massaged his shoulder blades while he pressed needy, frantic kisses into your hair, afraid you might pull away and leave should he stop.

“It’s okay not to know,” you said into his chest, kissing his sternum. “We can figure it out together. I’ll always be here with you, no matter what future you decide you want.”

He let out a tense breath, burying his face in your neck. “I know,” he mumbled. “I know whatever future awaits, I want you to be a part of it.” He leaned back, just enough that he could meet your eyes, so you could see into the dark abyss where his mind lingered. “The problem is, I don’t know what I want our future to look like. What I want it to look like.”

It was then you fully realized that what Astarion had been feeling since the confrontation with Cazador was lost. So, so lost, in a world without his master to contend with. The hopelessness you heard on his tongue was a knife piercing your tender heart, a sharp pain burning through your chest as it tried to beat around it, blood gushing from the wound and radiating out across your skin. What was freedom to one who didn’t know how to live with it, didn’t know how it felt? Though his chains had been broken, the memory of them still pulled him down and suffocated him. You wished so deeply to spare Astarion this pain, for he lived so long in the shadows of the world, you wanted to shower him in the light until he was blinded.

Abruptly, he shook his head, a growl ripping past his lips as he pulled himself away from you. It should be so easy, to move on and enjoy life now that he was allowed to. His desires could be fulfilled, instead of remaining the desperate wishes of a slave who longed for escape. The world was his for the taking, his life his own once more.

So why did he still feel so broken?

“Now that I’m free, I’m supposed to be able to do whatever I want. Follow my heart, as our companions said.” He spit the words; they tasted foul in his mouth.

“How am I supposed to know what I want without a heart to guide me?”

~

I’ll send you the full version once the first draft is done. Hope you like it 💕

Royal Respite has a similar vibe, and is also pure tooth rotting fluff/non sexual intimacy. It’s a one shot in which reader gives Ardyn a massage after he delivers the peace treaty proposal to the Lucian council. Just letting reader dote on him while he talks about his day, and letting him relax before everything goes to shit, basically. Ardyn has been working to make this plan come true for literally decades. I think he deserves some rest before it fully comes to fruition.

No snippet for this one yet, since I’ve been hyper focused on some of my Astarion fics *cough* see above *cough* but hopefully it doesn’t take too long to get on paper. You’ll be the first to know when there’s a rough draft 💕

[star-named-riddle]

Day 17 - Scarf

Yep, that scarf. if you know, you know. Entirely NSFW, a lemon from the very start, no plot, all smut

Also another long one

Lord Voldemort climbed atop his barely coherent paramour, half-mad with desire, the other half mad with the notion he was not the only man to see her like this.

Bella panting, blushing, naked beneath him.

He gathered her wrists above her head, pinning them together with a single hand, her hands and his digging into the pillow, over her tumbling curls. The softness of her hair elicited a memory in him.

The scarf. The damned green, near transparent scarf, had been soft in his hands as well.

His left hand reached through the air, his palm turned up and awaiting. The scarf flew into it, and Lord Voldemort wasted no time in tying Bella’s dainty wrists to the headboard.

“Your husband said you should wear it,” he teased.

The pupils in her grey eyes went wider, and he thought, even if just for a second, that he would like to dive in and get lost in their enticing darkness. And never come up again.

Instead, Bella wrapped her long legs around his waist and pulled him closer with her thighs. He devoured her lips, robbing her of the fleeting moment of control. He rubbed his palms up and down her sides, from shoulder blades to hips, reveling in the way her body spasmed under his.

He rocked against her, teasing her, weaving back and forth across the line of pleasure-pain that ruled her desire. She was swollen and sore, but delightfully pink and wet, he saw as he pulled himself back to sit on his haunches.

He let his fingers caress her inner thighs, delighting in the shiver of her skin. She’d have bruises there in the morning. He had been rather careless in his ravishing tonight. He smiled, thinking of the things he had already done to her tonight. Of her naked body pressed against his, then against the mirror. Of the way he had carried her mellow, sated body to his bed while her mind was still high on pleasure, just to take her again, hard and rough and fast, until she had mewled her pleasure from beneath him, fighting for every breath under his weight.

His own desire stirred again, heat pooling low in his belly, hardening in his groin. He leaned forward, placing his hand steadily over Bellatrix’s mons, palm all pressure while his fingers teased her lips.

Bella’s hiss turned into a hum under his touch. He cast a vibrating charm on his own hand, and watched her struggle to release her hands. Her legs came entirely off the mattress, thighs twisting together over his hand, knees and ankles pressed together, toes curling as she pleaded, with moans and gasps, for him to stop.

He would do no such thing. She had spent the entire evening teasing him with that damned scarf and filthy, delicious visions of herself slipping those damned thin straps off her shoulders. He would have her beg for him.

Bella’s pleading eyes found his. He renewed his spell and her eyes rolled back, a moan breaking loose from her throat only to die against his lips. She went limp, her body slowly unfurling, limbs stretching on the mattress. She weakly returned his kisses.

He could stop now, he ought to, really, as she was utterly spent. And yet, he felt like the scarf hadn’t been put to proper use. With a playful nip of her lips, he whispered a spell into the shell of her ear.

“Tergeo,” he said, a mischievous smile on the corner of his mouth. Bellatrix opened her eyes, and looked at him, content. Her body clean, and fresh, and rid of all evidence of their night.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Lord Voldemort did not acknowledge her words in any way. He removed his equally clean hand from between her legs, and pushed Bellatrix’s hair off her neck. He gave her a moment of respite, if only to better savour her surprise the next second.

Bellatrix stretched, her hands reaching for the headboard, pulling herself slightly up on the pillows, trying to alleviate the tension of the scarf around her wrists. She looked up, to the green garment that had got her into such trouble. She didn’t dare ask to be released. Knowing her master, and considering her previous teasing, he would leave her to sleep like this.

His low laughter caught all of her attention. Mirth, true mirth, was a rare thing in the Dark Lord.

She turned her head towards him, smiling. She was sated, and willing to bet his laughter meant he was too.

The glint in his eyes was enough to prove her wrong.

“We’re not done, Bella. Oh, no, I’m not done with you,” he growled into the skin of her neck, trailing kisses down the column of muscle there. “We’re merely starting over.” He balanced his body on his elbows, looming over her.

She swallowed a whimper. She felt depleted, and yet her body seemed to awaken again under his gaze.

“My Lord?” she asked, unsure of what else to do.

It was the wrong question. Or the right one, perhaps. Lord Voldemort’s eyes flashed red, and she knew she had stirred something within him. It was entirely the right question.

She expected hungry kisses, possessive hands, even daring fingers, but not what followed.

The Dark Lord parted her legs with his right arm, pulling her left thigh up onto his right shoulder, and then lowered his body into the mattress, settling between her legs. She could not peel her eyes off him as he moved, and he held her gaze as he adjusted her right leg upon his left shoulder.

He kissed the skin of her inner thighs, where it was softest, first one side, then the other, allowing his chin and nose to drag across her swollen core. The gasping scream that earned him nearly destroyed his resolve to tease her within an inch of her sanity. He looked up, watching her breasts move with every heave of her chest. He kissed her lips, and the painful but pleasurable cry that escaped her told him she was entirely too sensitive to tolerate his touch for long. She moved her feet to his back, her heels softly pushing down and away.

This would be torture for her. He caught a glimpse of the green scarf, which she had tangled further in between her hands in a hopeless effort of either setting herself free or pulling herself away from him. The sight of it was enough to have him focus on his goal again.

Teasing.

He wrapped his arms around each of her thighs, pulling her feet off his back while steading her hips. She wouldn’t be able to move. Then, he dove into her. Tongue and lips and all, going so far as to carefully drag his teeth across her sensitized clit.

The sounds that drew from her were delirious. Her body squirmed, trying and failing to get away. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her down every time she managed to gain an inch away from him.

“Master!”

“What?” he asked, taking a deep breath before resuming her torture.

He pressed his tongue against her and sucked. Bellatrix bucked, successfully pushing his mouth off her. He gave her the respite she had earned, head leaning on her leg.

“Stop! Enough,” she said, gasping for air between words, her whole body working for every single breath.

He plunged his mouth into her one last time, reveling in her desperate moans. He gathered enough focus to pry into her mind, and found her on the verge of despair between pleasure and pain.

“Beg!” he ordered, kissing her thighs again. He licked a path up her body then, giving her a second of peace before twisting two fingers into her.

She curled her legs up again, trying to hold his arm between them and twist away from his touch. She was so close, yet it was unbearable.

“My Lord, it’s too much.”

“Beg!”

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. His Bella would not crack so easily. Stubborn and proud, begging did not come naturally to her. And he knew it.

He pushed his body back in between her legs, leaving her core at the mercy of his fingers. He curled his fingers inside, and pushed his thumb against her nub, rubbing it in circles. He felt her inner walls quiver and squeeze his fingers, which prompted him to alleviate all pressure at once.

Her complaint was very audible, and her eyes searched for his, pleading.

“Would you like me to stop now?”

“Mm-mpht… no! Not now!”

“What do you have to say to me?”

Her mind had become an incoherent mess. He moved his fingers inside her, gathering her thoughts and cuing an answer out of her.

“Please…” her voice died in her throat.

“Please what?”

“Please, my Lord, please-”

“Stop?”

“No!”

“What then, Bella?”

He kissed her, his thumb resuming its motion.

“What then, Bella?” he growled low into her ears.

“Master! I nn-need-” her voice trailed off again, giving place to a mewl ripped from deep within her.

“What do you have to say to me?” he asked, kissing her. His fingers teased her, but never touched her in quite the right way.

She pulled her lips from him, inhaling sharply.

“I’m sorry, my Lord. I’m sorry about the scarf, Master,” she said, her wide grey eyes pleading with him. “Make it stop, please, please make it stop, my Lord.”

Lord Voldemort laughed, removing his fingers from her entirely.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl now, Bella.”

He released her wrists with one wave of his hand. The green scarf fell from the headboard, landing on her curls. Her hands came to rest on her chest, angry red lines marking them. She was still panting beneath him, still not done. They weren’t over yet.

He entered her with one long, slow thrust. His hands gathered her body close to his as he pushed deeper. She arched her back under him, pushing herself against him, her body already succumbing to her pleasure. He made sure to rub against her as he thrust, and her pleasure enveloped him completely.

He kissed the last moan off her lips, and abandoned himself into the familiar cradle of her hips.

Also on AO3, together with all the fics uploaded today

[realmsmp]

Quackity stood alone at a party.

He held a glass of wine in one hand, leaning against a very expensive-looking table in an effort to look casual. The wine smelled sharp and distinctly fruity, deep red like blood. He raises it to his lips hesitantly, before deciding against it and setting it down on the table.

He didn’t remember how he got here, why he was here, or who he was with.

This party was not his speed. The collar of his suit was uncomfortably tight, rubbing a very sore spot on his neck that was bound to make a very unattractive mark later on. His body felt like it was coated in starch, stiff and frozen, legs sore and shoes too small. He just wanted to go home.

It wasn’t even worth it to get wasted. The wine was terrible, the bourbon far too dry even watered down, and the array of cocktails too absurd to consider.

All-in-all, a terrible party.

He sighs.

“Is the wine that bad?”

Quackity turns around, coming face to face with- Himself. His long black hair is tucked behind his ears, his smile charmingly catlike and crooked despite the long scar that drags down his left eye.

He stares, dumbfounded. The other Quackity laughs. It sounds exactly like his own but with a crackled quality, raspy and harsh.

“It’s like looking in a mirror, isn’t it?” He says between chuckles. “Damn, I look young.”

“What-“ Quackity is still reeling. “Who are you?”

“You.” He responds flippantly.

“You’re not me. I’m me.”

“I am you. I’m Quackity. Just not you. A different you.”

Both Quackities eye eachother, one hesitantly and one with a calm yet mischievous look on his face.

“How can you be me?”

“The universe is an endless and beautiful place.” The other Quackity responds, glaring at Quackity’s wine glass on the table. “Don’t leave glasses on my table.”

Quackity picks up the wine glass.

“I’m not real. Not anymore. My story is over, my book is closed. But yours…”

They are walking towards the bar. Two Quackities, two completely different stories.

“I’m impressed with your resilience. Your consciousness is persisting even while you’re here with me. How long have you been dead for, do you think?”

“I’m not dead.” Quackity says. His voice is small, weak. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s the only way to get here. Something went terribly wrong.”

Quackity remembers sinking through black water. He remembers suffocating alone, unable to see the sky.

They are both silent for a long time.

The bar is elegant, made of dark wood and delicately sanded, smoothed over years and years of loving dedication. Still saying nothing, he sits down on a barstool, rubbing his hands on the smooth wood.

The other Quackity joins him, watching him with a stony expression.

There is no bartender at this bar. The entire floor seems terribly empty.

A party of two that was really a party of one, a dream forever unwaking and the terrible desire to go home. No respite came forth from the pit inside his heart.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

[intothemertensverse]

hi, I haven't been able to stop squealing about your list of fics, I'm losing my mind 😂 but I'm going to be greedy and ask for snippets of two, if I may. Housekeeper!Christine and businessman!Erik, and the medieval AU! love you and your work 💕

housekeeper au:

He held her for a long while, stroking her hair, pensive. Things were serious now, and he had a dilemma ahead of him. He was going to have to ask her to leave her entire life and every friend behind, to run off with him forever. And forever was a very long time. He adored the thought of her by his side, but he felt the press of hot guilt that he would be plucking her away from everything and everyone she’d ever known. Even Hades had allowed Persephone six months respite from his kingdom, six months a year she could return to her normal life and her friends who loved her. Erik, it seemed, was going to have to be so much crueler a jailor. 

“Do you love me?” Her softly spoken words broke him out of his reverie. 

His hands stilled. Perhaps if he didn’t answer—

“You’ve never said you love me,” she added. 

He winced at her words spoken with childlike curiosity. There was no accusing malice behind them, only a desire to <I>know</I>, and somehow that made them all the more damning. 

“A man in my field of work doesn’t get to love,” he said carefully. “It’s a dangerous thing. It can be used against him. I’m not used to voicing the feeling.”

She pulled back from him to study his face. 

“You still haven’t said it.” There was pain in her quiet words, and when he met her eye her brow was furrowed as though she’d discovered a betrayal. 

medieval au:

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, intending to get away with, at most, a quick peck on the lips before he inevitably pushed her back to an arms length and reprimanded her.

Her hand at the back of his head gently coaxed him to look down and she took her opportunity, pressing her lips against his. What she wasn’t expecting was his reaction.

Instead of pushing her away, his arms encircled her and pulled her closer, practically crushing her body to his. (…)

He pressed his masked forehead against hers.

“I want you,” he admitted with words what his body had already betrayed. “I love you, Christine, more than I have ever loved or wanted anyone else.” (…) “But Christine—this can never happen again.”

Her face fell at his words, and all at once he disentangled himself, pulling away from her before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd with a swish of his cape, leaving her befuddled and teary eyed, standing all alone in the sea of painted plaster smiles around her.

[mytreepoetry]

A Little Kiss Goodnight

Nikolai Gogol x Reader

You and Nikolai found solace in one another's presence, even during the quietest moments. The peace that enveloped you both served as a testament to the depth of your connection, a bond that surpassed words and filled the space with a profound sense of understanding.

Aware of Nikolai's haunting profession and the unfathomable depths of the crimes he had committed, you made a conscious choice to remain steadfast by his side. Through the good and the bad, you stood as a pillar of unwavering support, holding space for him to confront his demons and find redemption. The love that bound you was powerful, and it compelled you to weather the storms together, knowing that within his tormented soul lay the potential for growth and transformation.

Nikolai cherished you beyond measure, longing for the moment when he could escape the clutches of his damned workplace and return to your loving embrace. It wasn't that he despised his job or his coworkers; rather, they simply paled in comparison to the radiant light that awaited him at home—the warmth of your love and the sanctuary of your arms.

As he finally reached the door, anticipation filled his being. His heart pounded with fervor, yearning to hold you, to kiss you, and to shower you with his love and affection. And there you were, your footsteps echoing with an undeniable eagerness, rushing to meet him at the doorstep. In that instant, as he stepped inside, your arms enveloped him, capturing him in a tight and tender embrace.

"I missed you," you whispered, your voice filled with a combination of longing and warmth. Nikolai's heart soared, and he gently cradled your head, his touch conveying a depth of affection that words alone could never express. As your lips met in a soft and loving kiss, a spark ignited, kindling a passion that grew with each passing second. The world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you, locked in a fervent embrace.

Parting from the kiss, yet still holding each other close, Nikolai found solace in your words, "I've missed you too." The depth of his love for you was immeasurable. You sensed his exhaustion and selflessly offered to prepare a bath, seeking to ease the weight of his burdens and provide him with a moment of respite. And he only marvelled at your considerate and thoughtful nature.

As you led him into the bathroom, Nikolai's gaze lingered on you, his heart brimming with gratitude for your presence in his life. The thought of bathing alone crossed his mind, but he couldn't bear to be separated from you even for a moment. He reached out, taking hold of your hand, and with an earnest plea, he invited you to join him. You reddened, realizing you had already taken a bath earlier, but the notion of bathing him instead filled you with a sense of tenderness and intimacy.

With a fondness in his eyes, Nikolai accepted your suggestion, feeling a rush of warmth envelop him. And so, the water cascaded over his body as you gently washed him, your touch a testament to your love and adoration. Every caress, every kiss bestowed upon his neck sent shivers down his spine, and he savored every moment, losing himself in the exquisite sensation of your tender care.

Time passed, and you found yourselves tucked into bed, the world outside fading into insignificance. Nikolai rested his head upon your chest, your arms wrapped securely around him, providing a safe haven in which he could surrender to vulnerability. His hands held you close, a silent declaration of his longing and devotion, while your hand lovingly stroked his head, assuring him of your unwavering presence.

But sleep eluded him, for he craved more time with you, yearning to savor each precious moment. He couldn't help but reflect on the day, realizing he had only tasted your lips in the morning as he left for work and again in the evening upon his return. It simply wasn't enough. His desire swelled within him, urging him to seek the sweet ecstasy that could only be found in your tender kisses.

With a slow and deliberate movement, Nikolai lifted his head, gazing up at you. Sensing the shift in his demeanor, you opened your eyes, met with the intensity of his honey-like gaze. And without a word, his lips met yours, tender at first, but quickly building into an insatiable hunger.

The kiss deepened, passion intermingling with fervor, each brush of his lips against yours igniting a flame within. In his embrace, you felt the world fade away, leaving only the two of you entwined in a symphony of shared desire. The rhythm of your hearts melded into a perfect harmony, beating as one, as if your souls were destined to intertwine. It feels like an eternity in eternity, like the stars will never stop shining on you, his precious love, his way to freedom.

And as a soft and gentle moan escaped your lips, a symphony of tenderness and desire, he was enraptured by the beauty that resided within you.

Honestly, how adorable.

Your lips parted, and a delicate strand of saliva still lingering between you, the sight that unfolded before your eyes was nothing short of a breathtaking masterpiece—a living tableau of love coloured in it's loveliest hues.

The sight of Nikolai, his face adorned with a deep crimson flush, his lips swollen and inviting, was a breathtaking testament to the intensity of your connection. His unsteady breath and the ethereal shimmer in his eyes spoke volumes, revealing the depths of his emotions.

It was in this moment that you realized how impossible it was to leave him in such a state—for his smoldering gaze conveyed an unspoken longing, a thirst that begged to be quenched.

Oh, my dearest Nikolai, you'll surely be tired in the morning if we continue...

[bring-forth-your-justice]

Can I request a fem!reader comforting Atsushi when he's feeling lime a monster? Please???

This took a little longer to put up, mostly cuz I got sidetracked but better late than never-

Note: might need a little editing

TW// Just sad thoughts

word count: 900

Kindness was something only afforded to the well-off, those who had a future, and those who had a choice. 

Atsushi was neither.

A boy born alone was destined to die alone and lay beside souls akin to his. That was the only thing that he was granted at birth. At first he had no demands, no autonomy and no desire for it either. In a way he was content; in the sense that he felt such depths of despair that he knew there would never be anything better awaiting him. 

No matter how many tears he would shed while in that deplorable excuse for an orphanage, he only chose to blame himself for ever being born. He could never ask to receive a sliver of kindness, not as long as he was who he was;

a monster. 

Such thoughts left a mixture bittersweet tastes on his tongue, one in which he writhed in. When it settled in his mouth, refusing to leave, he took it as another punishment he deserved for being born.  

How someone could love something as pathetic as him was a joke that even the lowest of scums would have dying in a fit of laughter. 

No matter how long it had been since he left that damned orpahnage, regardless of how many people he had found who showed him love and kindness, regardless of intent, he could never push aside his resentment for himself. 

He was born a monster, not a boy. At least if he were, he would be afforded that tiny grace. Instead, Atsushi would be damned for his entire life for being born as something that brought ruin and danger.

Constantly did he run a race against himself. Not only was he his own victim, but the monster that desired only his blood. A never-ending cycle; stretching on until the day he stops regenerating his limbs and elongating his own suffering.

He never asked for an ability that would bring destruction to everything and everyone nearby, including himself. It was the reason he wasn’t afforded even human decency. It was why no one dared to glance in his direction, yet eyes would continue to haunt him, watching him intently with judgment and the desire to watch him perish.

Sometimes all he wanted was to scream into a void of nothing,

 “I never asked for this-!”

Again and again and again until his voice would give in and he would have nothing left of himself.

How long had it been since he grew to think of such horrid thoughts?

Did he ever love himself?

It was almost as if his memories were a barricade of what the world told him to remember. The torment, the suffering, the loathing. Lest he ever love himself or that beast that took respite inside him. Where were those memories of peace and comfort? He wasn’t sure they ever existed; but if they did, he so desperately wanted them back.

To change was all he could do now. It wasn’t too late was it?

Even if the world wanted him dead, he wanted to fight for a reason to exist. Even if he felt his thoughts slowly comply to the orders of the world, he would fight with himself for the sake of them, for her. 

They say that only fools are satisfied, and he was no fool to give in so easily, not yet at least. Not as long as he basked in her brilliant grace which bubbled his heart away from the disgruntled waves that came to wash him away.

“Your ability is a grace my love, a grace made to protect you in the world. A gift only granted to you because only you can make peace with it.”

Her words rang out, a symphony awaking him from a self-induced trance. Her embrace assuring him that he had not yet departed from this world yet, and neither would he have to. 

“You belong in this world, should you choose to believe it or not. Even if you deny its validity, know that you’ll always have a spot next to me.”

Was he awake?

How long had he been trapped inside his mind? 

It didn’t really matter, not when those thoughts were as fickle and fictitious as the painted shadows he cast on those he was scared to touch. Once again, he chose to flip the page, one darkened by his mind, and carry on. Swinging her hand from side to side, he walked beside her, the shadows that trailed after him all burnt up and dried somewhere far behind him, to a destination unknown. 

No matter how many times he fell to his thoughts, and his memories, and trapped himself in the depths of his mind, exactly where the beast could degrade his status as a person, she always found a way through that maze right to him.

In the end, he knew that one day both of them would rot away like fallen leaves, but regardless, all he desired was to live on frantically.

Shouldering their lives together, 

Living on,

Even if he was hated by life itself.

[bisexual-yuri]

pentecostal bitch shit

hi friends

[2:00 PM]"to post is to be and to be is to be posting" - someone smart

[2:00 PM]Gender affirming drywall punch

MioBird — Today at 3:20 PMthe world is cruel and there are new tragedies every day and new heartbreaks to experience but there is also an infinite amount of love and joy and hope for you to grasp, to keep yourself going in spite of it all. casting a wizard spell of love upon ye. ⭐️ woe! wizard spell of love be upon ye! #casting it on you too !! ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

When that voice wants to help you When that voice wants to hurt you But the body wants to live Even when the spirit isn’t willing And that’s a damn hard thing to ignore at 1am When it’s you and that goddamn sandwich Standing between you and some fucking respite Because life ain’t all mango cubes and nectarines It’s tempting but not everything can be sweet Lest you welcome the desire to rot your own core It’s about loving yourself enough To know the pain of overcoming is worth it I’m not all the way there yet All I managed was half of half of it

Stress eating Choking down the sandwich The humbling reality of this prison of flesh It will make you want things, need things, that repulse you And you must learn to tell When that voice wants to help you When that voice wants to hurt you

[waitmyturtles]

Alllllright, a quick and dirty late review of the BELOVED show, Bed Friend, episode 8, which I referenced yesterday as getting just BETTER and BETTER with each ticking minute. A warning in advance that I am dizzyingly jet-lagged, so this may be non-sensical at times, but just roll with me, because:

IT WAS A GREAT EPISODE. Like I said in the comments of the post linked above, god, this episode had so much! I love the beach-vacay-and-temple-shots trope. I love that King jetted to see Uea. I love that they reconciled. I LOVE THAT WE GOT TO SEE FAMILY THAT LOVES UEA. I love King’s thirst for revenge -- we didn’t even SEE Krit in this episode, buh-bye! I love King’s desire to continue to make things right for Uea vis à vis the private investigator.

King didn’t just say that he’d take care of Uea. He is showing the hell up and doing the job, and damn. Yes, yes, he’s gotta channel that repressed energgyyyyy somehow, heh, but no, seriously. 

King’s in love with Uea. And I love how this show showed that development, and shows how committed King IS to Uea. While the plot is complicated, and full of STUFF -- King’s commitment to Uea is UNCOMPLICATED. It’s piercing through our hearts. He’s a man in love, and he’s gonna do shit for the man he loves, period. 

Geez. I so didn’t expect this from this show (as @wen-kexing-apologist noted in their review of episode 8 -- the seriously complicated plot at the start of the series made me wonder if this script was going to weakly solve everything with Uea just falling in love and being like, ooooh, everything’s great now). I didn’t expect that the very uncomplicated DRIVE by King to dig into Uea’s issues and help him problem-solve through his past would be the ultimate anchor for this series. 

I fucking LOVE that this show spun me for a loop. In a little bit of a Bad Buddy-ish way -- it took a player trope, the image of a player, and totally spun it on its head. King is weak for Uea. The kind of power that we think a player would have -- welp, King is using that kind of power instead to help Uea resolve real and tangible issues. 

I love that Lampang serves as a place of respite for Uea. I love that he has that, in physicality, and that King met him there. I love that it becomes, through Uea’s aunt and Uea, a place of love for Uea. We know he fucking deserves that.

I love seeing Uea fall for King. The corner smiles, the teasing, the silent giggling. The intimate confessions at the table near the kitchen (love all the implications of sitting at a place that means so much to making a HOME together, à la Kinou Nani Tabeta). 

I FREAKING LOVE LOVE LOVE THE COMPANY TEAM, Y’ALL. JADE AND GUN AND THE LADIES, come awn! Jade = MVP, one of the best.

This isn’t so much of an analytical review (I can’t muster the energy right now) as it is more of a love letter to how this show has fucking just held. its. own. against a tremendously complicated plot line. In particular, as many have mentioned, especially @bengiyo‘s stray thoughts, it was SO IMPORTANT, SO SO SO IMPORTANT, to see Uea take meds and talk about how receiving mental health care is helping him get through his days (@bengiyo, I’m also curious about the question you pose about survivors being offered mental health care at their companies -- as someone in the social services, that strikes me as a good idea, but I wonder if survivors have other interpretations, particularly related to privacy and labor retention, and the company avoiding harassment lawsuits).

In other words, this episode simply had everything. It doesn’t reach the Bad-Buddy-episode-10 echelon by way of both acting AND writing, but damn, did it ever close a hell of a lot of loops in a very convincing way.

And we get more next week. With all props to @wen-kexing-apologist: #pransdaddarktimeline edition looks like it closes out (and I HOPE that fucking mom GETS HERS TOO, pardon my franche). And a new guy in Uea’s life... this show keeps throwing curves, but now I trust that it’ll be handled well.