#except I do NOT have patience for detail

[our-sinister-night]

More beach slashers 🏖️☀️

[reineydraws]

so there's this post that talks about how people call jason's curved knife a kris but it's not a kris 'cuz why would he have a southeast asian knife? and op's tags say if you're gonna give him an 'exotic' weapon at least make him malay or something. a later reblog adds a filipino kris as an example, and then i was like, 'omg, jason in a barong tho.' SO i tried designing a bat-barong inspired by his hood logo, for a filipino jason haha. and now here we are! 😊✨️🇵🇭

[theokusgallery]

I went to sleep at 3am for this. Made in Ren'Py

Look at my little guy.

Context:

Then me explaining the concept in more detail:

[letapollojusticesayfuck]

[PREV]

April 20, 2026: 9:50 AM

Following some mysterious, lawful-good influence, you reach into your briefcase to check over your trial notes for a final time before everything begins. You open up the neatly-labeled file folder and—

Wait.

“Phoenix Wright??” you exclaim, barely suppressing the impulse to clutch onto Mr Gavin’s arm to steady yourself. “THAT’S Phoenix Wright? Famed lawyer, permanent underdog, the Turnabout Terror?”

Mr Gavin’s gaze turns frosty. “Disgraced lawyer, might I remind you. Following the…incident with that magician, he was disbarred.”

You’re still in shock—recalling the many hours you’d spent while at university poring over the transcripts of Wright’s cases. And now he’s on the stand, accused of murder?

Well, it isn’t the first time, you remind yourself. But this time he’s counting on you!

The sound of the judge’s gavel snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you look up to see Wright on the stand. He seems almost nonchalant, leaning back with a hand grasping the railing.

The piercing voice of the prosecutor at the opposite bench fills the room as he begins his opening speech. “Mr Wright! You stand before the court today accused of murdering a man in cold blood over a game of poker at the Borscht Bowl Club. With this bottle—” here, the prosecutor holds up a deep green bottle, whose label proclaims that it once held grape juice—“you hit the victim, one Shadi Smith, over the head, killing him instantly!”

You check your notes. Seems that the prosecutor is called Payne, and what he says is the prosecution’s main argument. You find the eyes of the courtroom turning to you.

[teleportationmagic]

Reverse Batgirls AU.

Stephanie Brown starts out young and angry, wanting to put her father in prison. That doesn't change - but what does, is the name she picks up to do it. After all, Batman is... untouchable, he's justice he's power - what more can she want as a vigilante?

A whole lot, as it turns out. But still, she wears the name with pride, patrolling with Robin (Damian!) and Cassandra, making friends with the latter. Signal's farther afield, away in Bludhaven - still, he drops by now and again to play games of rooftop tag.

Cassandra has been doing work as a vigilante in all but name for a few years now. She ping pongs around - saving enough lives to have earned herself a reputation. A reputation strong enough to have made its way into circles that knew her father. These are the people who pick her name for her, seeing her father's legacy - Orphan is not a name she chooses. But after she settles in Gotham, after Bruce comes to her one day, telling her the meaning - she cannot bring herself to call it false.

Damian still ends up leaving for bigger things. A position is open, and Bruce doesn't think it needs filling - but Stephanie has lost one teacher, and for all that Cassandra is good at violence she is not very good at teaching it. He takes her under his wing, and eventually passes down a mantle.

Steph has her own mantle to pass down. "I don't know that I can tell you who you are - who your family is. But still - I don't think me or Bruce or Damian or anyone considers you an Orphan, not anymore. Batgirl isn't - she's not as good as Orphan is. But I wanted to give her to you anyways."

Cassandra takes the purple suit with a gentle sort of consideration. It's not the suit she wears, three weeks later - but the Bat is there, golden against the dark black. Bruce smiles when she steps out of the Batcave, shrouded in darkness except for the sign of her ideals, their ideals. Robin and Batgirl and Batman fly again, capes trailing through the darkness.

Steph gets to be Robin for a while - gets to carve out her own reputation. Her and Damian fight, and the reconcile, and fight again. It takes her a little bit longer to figure out why he's so angry, takes him a little longer to realize why she wants it so bad.

It helps, that Stephanie is two years older than Cassandra, but still its difficult for them to fight together. She still perceives her own presence as superfluous, and Cassandra still thinks it is her job to take bullets so no one else has to. They have a chat, under a dark alcove when Stephanie is bandaging her wounds, about pain, and the taking thereof. About balance. About how Robin was a superhero too.

Cassandra leaves Gotham, on occasion - she partners with Signal, Katana, and Black Lightning. She meets her mother there, for the first time. She won't know it, not until later, but they clash, fists against metal. This is the first time she dies, and she comes back to life with the worried eyes of her teammates.

She still gets shot. There's no gang war, but there is Roman Sionis with greedy hands and eyes, and five days followed by two clicks, two bangs. The hospital tells her she's lucky to still be standing. The word luck curls on her tongue, like something bitter.

Cassandra still tears through the city looking for her. But when she finds her, when she recovers, something settles into Stephane's skin - something bitter and angry. Cassandra can see it, even when she pretends at lightness, the jealousy and rage. Stephanie knows she sees it. This does not make things better.

Bruce takes the injury... badly. His hold tightens on all four of them. Damian and Steph take it with no small amount of anger - Bruce is not allowed in the Brown family home and Damian leaves for the Titans, again. Cassandra follows Duke to Bludhaven, pulling on his operations to set up her own. The end result is Duke's home being slowly invaded by a girl who becomes his sister.

This does not help Bruce - with no one to keep him steady, he spirals, paranoia whispering into one ear and rage into another. Tim still comes out of the woodwork, with memories of the way a dark haired kid twisted out of the hold of a particularly pushy partyguest (followed by a silent swordfight through a different hallway) inspiring a half-decades worth of trying to scratch an itch, before coming across the perfect answer.

Cassandra still leaves for answers. Bit by bit, it becomes unignorable - Shiva is her mother, undoubtedly. She limps back to Duke's home to share it between shaking sobs, and stories about all the dead men she left in the snow. He tells her in return about his father - biological and not. And he's angry on her behalf, she can see that - but still, there is warmth for her here. There is always warmth for her here. Even when she leaves burn marks on the ceiling and takes up the bathroom for hours at a time, even on those rare days where he seems so tired and she cannot do anything right - still, she has a place here. Their twin gold and black suits become fixtures of the Bludhaven skylines.

It's across the dinner table that Steph realizes she might be able to get back into the game. Her father is loud, boisterous, after leaving prison. He doesn't think she can do anything about it.

She can.

After the first time, its tempting to try a second, third. Rolling into bars with a licence that gives her a few more years, chatting up men who have lips too loose. Other times, she calls up wives, asks about schedules for a date nights or when their kids will need daycare, mapping out plans and places. In the beginning she sent these files to the GCPD, for all the good they'd do. Later, she gives them to Damian, a stack of neatly arranged notes and observations that he pours through with all the seriousness of a monk. There's something important in the first time she calls up Cass and asks her to follow up on a lead. She comes by her home later, with a hello and a fruit tart.

When she asks her what she calls herself in the field, Stephanie shrugs. She keeps a lot of different names - her own amongst them.

"The GCPD asked." Cassandra had said, one cold night. "You - you do the same thing now. That we did before. Differently, not like Robin, but still like one of us." There's a heavy pause that lingers for a moment, dull and heaving. "You should have a name."

And it might be silly, might be stupid, but Steph's been doing this long enough and seen enough plans fall apart because of the way that small details, when brought into the light, can bring a whole structure tumbling down. Spoiler is born, with a purple mask over dark fabric. It's a ceremonial thing, she'll admit, but it's the principal of the matter yanno?

Part 2 (ft. Babs) coming later. This is very much long enough.

Ages:

Duke: He starts vigilanting at 16, but as he hits his 19-20s he wants to put a little bit more distance between himself and Bruce - wants to prove himself as an individual who can bring to bear his own stregnths. His mother recovers, but his dad never really does - there's a heavy sense of grief, associating with him. They love his father, together, but while his mother does her own mourning he can't help but think it's premature. He's 20 when Batgirl comes around, and 23 when he agrees, tentatively, to work with Bruce on the outsiders.

Damian: Starts at 12, and is 16 once Batgirl starts. He's much more secure in his place, ironically, but Batman and Robin is a much lonlier job than it is in a sideways reality. Duke brings some light to the job, but once he starts trying to make his own way, things grow... quiet. And while the Titans are together for the purpose of combining their shared competencies for the sake of missions, Garth, he cannot deny that his time with them eases something in him that he didn't know was aching. After he turns 18 - after it seems all his time with Robin was actually Bruce's, after years of chafing under a heavy-handing authority he's not certain he still respects, he finally decides to create something new. Nightwing is born, from a Kryptonian legend, and he leaves Robin behind to become this new thing.

Steph starts Batgirl at twelve, and is Robin halfway through fourteen. She keeps it for two years, before it falls apart at 16. Spoiler is born a year later, when she's seventeen and looks nonthreatening, but can be the exact opposite.

Cass: Starts doing vigilante work... very young. By the time she's caught up with the Bats, she's ten and experienced, and its only a few more months before Steph joins them. She takes up Batgirl at twelve, and keeps it all the way through to twenty-one, when it finally comes time to pass it down again, to evolve into something new.

[heavenbarnes]

I wanna make it (so badly)

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with she/her pronouns, swearing, inappropriate employer/employee relationship, dry-humping, a lot of heavy petting, implied age gap, effective-infidelity (reader tested, tashi approved), oral sex (f!receiving), art is a bit of a pervert and mega-pathetic (endearing), references to religion (worship).

Word Count: 5.8k

i white knuckled the steering wheel on the way home from this film thinking about art donaldson- this is, essentially, an ode to that

Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details

Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.

Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.

Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.

You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.

You were above average with a good arm and better patience.

Another odd job to add to your growing list.

You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.

Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.

The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.

You always did very well.

So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.

Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.

But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.

Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?

He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.

As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.

The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.

Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.

Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.

If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.

The woman that once held the world by the balls.

She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.

The Donaldson's.

Ah fuck.

Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.

"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"

You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.

There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.

You were no exception to the rule.

"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."

How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.

A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.

The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.

"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."

"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."

Oh, okay then.

You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.

Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.

Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.

You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.

You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.

As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.

"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."

She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.

You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.

Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.

As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.

And you knew he was watching you.

-

The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.

A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.

"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"

You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.

Felt good to be the winner.

Even just once.

In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."

You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.

It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.

It was even easier to believe she was just that good.

As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.

Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?

Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.

Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.

Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

-

The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.

Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.

You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.

Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.

"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."

Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-

The kid's running you ragged.

Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.

But you're sure there are eyes on your back.

Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).

Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.

You know you're about to earn your keep.

By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.

Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.

Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.

That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.

You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.

The Original Sin.

Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."

He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.

It should've felt condescending. It didn't.

"How did she go out there?"

"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."

He laughed.

Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.

Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"

You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.

"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"

Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.

He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.

"Must've been distracted."

Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.

"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."

And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.

-

And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?

An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.

An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.

A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.

At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.

That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.

"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."

You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.

Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.

"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."

"Your elbow is too low."

It was a miracle you didn't scream.

Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.

Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.

"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"

"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"

"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."

Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.

Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.

It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.

It wasn't.

"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."

If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.

As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.

And Lily upon her trusty steed.

The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.

"Lily, go find grandma."

Then it really was just you two.

Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.

"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."

He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.

With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.

Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.

As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?

"Good girl."

There it was.

Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.

So, you should've moved.

Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.

You should've moved.

But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.

Obedient thing you seem to be.

"Show me that again?"

So,

You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.

Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.

A simple transactional arrangement.

Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.

Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.

A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.

You figure Art will take what he can get.

And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.

It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.

The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.

Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.

So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.

You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.

-

Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?

Chasing Lily around a court.

Adhering to Tashi's every request.

Being Art's fantasy.

Being Art's.

Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.

Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-

Winning?

He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.

Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.

Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.

Until, well- until they weren't.

"Would you like a coffee?"

Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.

He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.

Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.

"Yes please."

Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.

You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.

Had he always looked this captivating?

He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.

It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.

This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.

Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.

"Mr. Donaldson-"

"Art."

"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."

He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."

Naturally.

That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.

Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.

Maybe it was fate.

All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.

Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,

Yet.

One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.

It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.

A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.

"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"

"Actually, it's still Duncan."

You screamed.

Right in his face.

Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.

However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.

Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.

What a fucking sight.

Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.

You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.

It took all your strength to find your words.

"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”

“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”

There's the Tashi you were expecting.

Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.

Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.

Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.

"Why am I here?"

She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.

"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."

-

And he had, just like she'd said.

Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.

And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.

You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.

Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.

You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.

But the showerhead knew all about them.

Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.

How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.

And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.

Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?

That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.

You loved it.

When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.

Tashi's car was gone.

"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."

At least you didn't scream this time.

You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.

"Oh, ok."

"I'll see you on the court."

Oh, ok.

Lest he see the disappointment that took over.

Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.

Tennis was fun too, you guess.

Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.

You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.

It never came.

Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.

The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.

This was going to hurt.

From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.

Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.

You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.

He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-

Like he was enjoying himself.

For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.

For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.

Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.

You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.

No hurry, but impending.

Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.

Now this was God's favourite.

"You can't be giving up this easily?"

Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"

Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.

Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.

This was more your speed.

The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.

Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.

Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.

"I didn't give up."

He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.

"Mmm, you didn't."

The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.

"Where's my prize?"

There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.

But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.

You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.

Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.

Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.

Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.

You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.

His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.

With everything he had.

Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.

Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.

You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.

Utterly devotional.

The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.

His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.

Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.

The style was calculated.

Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.

Playing a game.

Art struggled to do anything but win.

"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."

"Art."

Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.

You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.

It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.

You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.

"Tell me this feels good, please."

Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?

You might black out.

"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."

He whined.

A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.

Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.

The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.

He was going for gold.

A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.

You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.

Oh, ok.

Art Donaldson knew what he liked.

You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.

Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).

Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.

A deuce.

His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.

"Uh- I already have."

Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.

Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.

Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.

All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.

He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.

Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.

"I can't lose- you."

[iiryebreadii]

listen if you're telling me that femininity is feminine because it's performed by women, then logically any action i take should be considered feminine by virtue of me being afab and identifying as a woman(?? maybe) BUT you're also saying that no that's not how it works its what's stereotypically female behavior that defines femininity and not an individual's actions, but that doesn't make sense either because a 'stereotypical woman' will act differently depending on the time period and location she is raised in. in what world are we capable of generalizing approximately 50% of the planet's population. and anyway does that even matter if what is considered feminine is pushed upon girls at a young age and they are told "this is what you must be"? because at that point how would anyone tell what is nature vs nurture? society tells us what is feminine and masculine and then viciously reprimands any deviation from those traits, but where do the standards come from? if it is possible for them to change so drastically over time and location, then "femininity" and "masculinity" are not some rigid set of rules set in some platonic ideal; rather they would be descriptions of generalized behavior in a certain time for a specific set of people. in trying to use these descriptions as rules, the behavior morphs into itself over time, cannibalizing the structures and descriptions and inbreeding them until we end up with grotesque caricatures of "masculinity" and "femininity" that force people into such tiny boxes that they become unlivable. in this essay i will—

[fans4wga]

September 25: Read the WGA's email to its membership

[ID: tweet from Adam Conover @/adamconover that says, "We did it. We have a tentative deal. Over the coming days, we'll discuss and vote on it, together, as a democratic union. But today, I want to thank every single WGA member, and every fellow worker who stood with us in solidarity. You made this possible. Thank you. #WGAStrong".

Attached is a screenshot of the first part of the WGA's recent email to its membership. Conover's next tweet says, "Here's the rest of our email to members, which details what happens next:" with the rest of the email attached in screenshots.

Transcript of the WGA's email to its membership:

DEAR MEMBERS,

We have reached a tentative agreement on a new 2023 MBA, which is to say an agreement in principle on all deal points, subject to drafting final contract language.

What we have won in this contract — most particularly, everything we have gained since May 2nd — is due to the willingness of this membership to exercise its power, to demonstrate its solidarity, to walk side-by-side, to endure the pain and uncertainty of the past 146 days. It is the leverage generated by your strike, in concert with the extraordinary support of our union siblings, that finally brought the companies back to the table to make a deal.

We can say, with great pride, that this deal is exceptional — with meaningful gains and protections for writers in every sector of the membership.

What remains now is for our staff to make sure everything we have agreed to is codified in final contract language. And though we are eager to share the details of what has been achieved with you, we cannot do that until the last "i" is dotted. To do so would complicate our ability to finish the job. So, as you have been patient with us before, we ask you to be patient again — one last time.

Once the Memorandum of Agreement with the AMPTP is complete, the Negotiating Committee will vote on whether to recommend the agreement and send it on to the WGAW Board and WGAE Council for approval. The Board and Council will then vote on whether to authorize a contract ratification vote by the membership.

If that authorization is approved, the Board and Council would also vote on whether to lift the restraining order and end the strike at a certain date and time (to be determined) pending ratification. This would allow writers to return to work during the ratification vote, but would not affect the membership's rights to make a final determination on contract approval.

Immediately after those leadership votes, which are tentatively scheduled for Tuesday if the language is settled, we will provide a comprehensive summary of the deal points and the Memorandum of Agreement. We will also convene meetings where members will have the opportunity to learn more about and assess the deal before voting on ratification.

To be clear, no one is to return to work until specifically authorized to by the Guild. We are still on strike until then. But we are, as of today, suspending WGA picketing. Instead, if you are able, we encourage you to join the SAG-AFTRA picket lines this week.

Finally, we appreciated your patience as you waited for news from us — and had to fend off rumors — during the last few days of the negotiation. Please wait for further information from the Guild. We will have more to share with you in the coming days, as we finalize the contract language and go through our unions' processes.

As always, thank you for your support. You will hear from us again very soon.

In solidarity,

WGA NEGOTIATING COMMITTEE

[solxamber]

Could I request Ace, Deuce, and Silver with a reader who enjoys doing arts and crafts and giving them to people as gifts?

But, whenever they want to gift them something, reader always makes something extra special and elaborate. For example, a mini glass statue or an origami flower bouquet.

Ace, Deuce, Silver with an artistic reader

that's so cute! thanks for the request <3

Ace Trappola

You had always loved doing arts and crafts, and nothing made you happier than giving your creations to the people you cared about. But when it came to Ace, you couldn’t just make something simple. Oh no, you had to go above and beyond. So when you handed him a mini basketball hoop made out of glass—complete with tiny, crystal-clear basketballs—you couldn’t help but grin at his stunned expression.

���Woah, what’s this?” Ace asked, holding the delicate piece in his hands. The little basketballs gleamed in the light, and the hoop looked just like the one on Night Raven’s court, except way fancier.

“I know you love basketball, so I made you a little reminder for when you can’t play,” you said with a smirk.

Ace blinked at you, clearly trying to process how you’d made something so elaborate. “This is… this is crazy. It’s awesome, but how do you even make this stuff?”

You shrugged like it was no big deal. “Eh, just a little patience and a lot of glue gun burns.”

Ace laughed, but there was a soft look in his eyes as he carefully set the glass hoop down, suddenly treating it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “You really went all out, huh?”

“Of course! You’re worth the effort,” you teased with a wink.

Ace felt his face heat up at your words, his usual cocky demeanor faltering for a moment. “Well, if you keep giving me cool stuff like this, I might just have to start showing off.”

You rolled your eyes. “As if you don’t already.”

But Ace couldn’t hide the way his heart skipped a beat, knowing that you had made something so thoughtful and personal just for him.

Deuce Spade

You’d made countless gifts for your friends, but with Deuce, you always put in a little extra heart. So when you presented him with an origami bouquet, each flower folded with such precision it could’ve been made by a machine, Deuce’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

“Wait, you made this?” Deuce gaped, staring at the intricate roses and lilies, all in shades of blue that matched his dorm colors.

You nodded, pleased with how it turned out. “Yep! All by hand. I thought it’d be nice to give you something a little more… you know, permanent than real flowers.”

Deuce blinked, still dumbfounded. “But how do you even—this is… so cool!” He held up one of the origami flowers like it was the most delicate thing in the world.

“Glad you like it. It’s for good luck, you know, for when you’re working hard to keep that ‘honor student’ title,” you teased lightly, knowing how serious he was about proving himself.

Deuce flushed at your thoughtfulness, his heart thumping in his chest. “I—I really appreciate this. You’re always making me such amazing stuff.”

“Well, you’re worth the effort,” you said with a smile, echoing something you knew would make him feel proud.

Deuce scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling a little bashful. “You really think so? I mean, I still mess up sometimes…”

You reached out and lightly tapped one of the origami flowers. “But you always keep going. That’s what makes you special, Deuce.”

He looked at you, wide-eyed, your words sinking deep. For someone who always doubted his worth, hearing it from you made his heart swell. “I’ll keep these with me, then. You know, to remind me.”

“Just don’t try to ‘fix’ them by turning them into actual flowers,” you joked, and Deuce laughed, feeling his cheeks warm at how sweet you were.

Silver

Silver was hard to surprise, mostly because he was always so calm and composed. But when you handed him a tiny, hand-painted sculpture of a knight on horseback—crafted with incredible detail and care—he stared at it like it was a rare treasure.

“This… you made this?” he asked softly, turning the miniature knight over in his hands. The armor gleamed with silver paint, and the tiny horse had an expression of quiet dignity, just like his own steed.

“Yeah! It reminded me of you,” you explained with a playful smile. “You’re like a knight, always looking out for everyone.”

Silver’s eyes softened as he examined the little figurine, noticing the care you’d put into each detail. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know what to say.”

You chuckled lightly. “You don’t have to say anything. Just keep it on your desk or something so you can remember to take a break every once in a while.”

He blinked at you. “You made this to remind me to… take a break?”

“Well, yeah. You’re always overworking yourself, Silver. Someone’s gotta look out for you, too,” you teased gently.

For once, Silver was at a loss for words. He had never been one to think much about himself, but here you were, creating something with him in mind, caring for him in a way that went beyond words. He felt his heart squeeze in a way that was unfamiliar yet comforting.

“You’re always so thoughtful,” he murmured, his voice quiet but filled with emotion. “Thank you.”

“I’ll treasure this,” he said earnestly, and you could tell he meant it.

You smiled, feeling warmth spread through you as Silver continued to admire your gift. There was something so sweet about seeing him so touched, and it made all the effort worth it.

Masterlist

[suhyla]

فصبر جميل

I used to really struggle with the concept of beautiful patience. How is patience beautiful? What was the secret? I have had the same thoughts about this verse for years and every time I would read Surah Yusuf in a hardship I would ask myself the same question.

It did not click until this Ramadan.

Beautiful patience is to embrace the waiting because you know what follows is surely a great relief. That is the only way to bear patience upon something that doesn’t make sense or a hardship that shakes you to your core. It is to remember Who put this in your path. When you know who Allah is, when you internalize His attributes, when you are upon absolute certainty that He is with you. That He is the Most Merciful and not a single thing happens to you without being full of His mercy. That everything that happens to you is full of khayr because He will never hurt a believer. That He is the Most Powerful and the One who opens the most tightly shut doors. That all of this could change at any moment. That He has complete control over your affairs and complete knowledge, so He is protecting you from something and when the time is right, this hardship will certainly pass. That He is the Most Generous, so *never* will you sincerely ask Him for something and beg him, clinging to His mercy and refusing to give up your duaa, except that He will respond with *more* than what you asked Him for. Wallahi not a single time will Allah not give you even more than you asked Him for if you internalize all of this. Only then— does patience become beautiful. Because you know what is coming will make you forget all the pain that has passed. That He is preparing you for something great. That He is shaping you into someone great. That His love can be found in every little detail and it will all make sense one day, no matter how long it takes.

Endure with beautiful patience, my friends. How can we know who Allah is and expect anything but the absolute best from Him? No— Allah is unlike anyone and anything. Even what you imagine to be the best case scenario will fall short of what He actually gives you. Do not doubt that for a moment. He is Allah. He is beautiful in all that He does 🩵

instagram

[allukaed]

𝘽𝙄𝙍𝙏𝙃𝘿𝘼𝙔 𝙒𝙄𝙎𝙃 — 𝘼𝙄𝙕𝘼𝙒𝘼 𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏𝘼

synopsis - it was his 30th birthday celebration, and you both intended to celebrate it only with you, him, and your precious cat.

cw - fluff, angst, loneliness

a/n - i tried to explore aizawa's character in depth, but i really have this plot in my mind. i couldnt just resist how it played in my head. but im gonna go into detail for the next part. 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

November 8.

You were to celebrate and say I love you.

In the four tight corners. Front of the glass window that reaches the ceiling down to the floor that overlooks the rest of a busy city. Bodies are set on the soft and big bean couch. With a cute black-coated bento cake in your hands, your cat Noir purring in the middle of your crossed legs. Candle lit, and the minimal words of “Hot and Thriving 30” decorated atop the frosting and all.

Gleaming a smile, you sang – a cross between passion and mechanical – a silly rendition of your little happy birthday song towards him. He was smiling warmly, and he never looked happier than in his whole life. Other than the fact that he thinks the message written on the cake is ridiculous he lets it gnaw its way through his smile.

“Sweet,” his endearing nickname always makes your cheeks flushed, “thank you.” He said after your little song.

“Blow a wish.” You airily muttered, cupping the lit candle against the sheer motion of some wind. “It’s your birthday after all.”

He glanced at you for a long time before his velvety voice echoed throughout the room, "Do I need to?" he raked a hand through Noir's fur, "I have everything I could wish for."

You felt your heartstrings tugged, earning a giggle from you. “C’mon, just make a wish!” You urged playfully, affection seeping into your nudge of his knee. “My hands are getting sore holding this cake.”

He smiled small, as he usually does. He never frowned at you, at least during the whole length of your relationship, it was all a blank slate of a face that could lead to a tiny smile or sarcasm, but he never made you feel wrong or sad with his signature grimace that was reserved for his friends or students.

“Alright.” He scoffed like a princess.

“1..2..3,” then he blew his candle.

“What did you wish for?” You probed cheekily, smearing a dark chocolate frosting on his cheek which he groaned for, swatting your hand away in the process. You put down the cake beneath you and started to cut four equal slices as it was just cutely sized. He wiped away the chocolate from his face while watching you do your ceremony.

Before buying the said birthday token, you already kept in mind that he wouldn't like it if you went out of your way to buy him any grandiose gifts, plus only the two of you were celebrating, so you settled for a bento cake instead. Although, he isn’t that much of a fan of sweets than you are.

“Won’t say or it won’t come true.” He grumbled, grabbing Noir who was trudging near the box of cake once it was alerted of the food’s presence, cradling the cat in his arms instead. He lightly tapped the cat’s head, "Bad for you." He told the cat, rubbing the pads of its paws, something the cat finds soothing.

You pouted. “Why? I should be an exception!” You insisted, rolling your eyes defiantly. “C’mooooooon, handsome! Don’t be unfair.” You dragged, bumping your head on his shoulder repeatedly.

His nose crunched, the idea of you pestering him to spill was somehow annoying but still endearing. It was just another trait of you that he has the patience to stand for, but couldn’t for others. If another person did this to him, he might strangle them with his scarf.

Still absentmindedly playing the cat, “Fine, just stop doing that.” He groaned, and your eyes twinkled elated. “Don’t say a word though.”

“Why?” You pondered.

“You find everything funny.” He deadpanned.

You were trying to stop a grin form on your face, and although you wanted to, you pursed your lips instead. “I won’t.” Your curiosity alive was barely able to hold back from your chest. You motioned a cross over your heart to symbolize a silent promise.

He took a brief look at you before he sighed, running his hands through Noir’s black fur, soft paps on its stomach. His brows furrowed slightly and his eyes darted away from you. It wasn’t like he was shy or hesitating, no, but for some reason, he was thoroughly contemplating whether he should say it out loud or rather keep it to himself. Decisiveness wavered him, he thought you deserved to know, and that his fickle musings were out of the ordinary.

His arm reached to you, locking you in a semi-embrace, the feline was surprised by the gesture and it meowed from your sudden weight, subsequently taking its leave from the man’s lap, leaving you two to your own devices.

“My only wish is,” he began, dipping his face into the top of your head and gripping your body closer to his, “for us to stay together.”

Your breath hitched, his musky notes percolating through your senses, and you found yourself dizzy from his words, his smell, his warmth, his embrace, and everything. You buried yourself further in his frame.

“No matter what happens, I will be with you, and you will be with me.” His voice was low and steady, and you hung onto the timbre of it. “I just want to be with you, for as long as possible, and I hope you do too.”

It rained.

Was it an outburst of happy tears, or was it actually drizzling outside your apartment complex? You couldn't care less, because what he was telling you was way way better than any tears of joy or rainfall. He doesn't have the luxury of being an open book, unlike you whose vulnerability always showcases, so hearing those words coming from his mouth was like a messiah preaching to his crestfallen student. It was comforting, exhilarating, a rush — but out of it all, it was love.

Gentle drizzle, like a lover’s kiss, fell upon the parched earth. Four tight corners conformed the two of you fondly. Two bodies coalesced, with you listening to every jump and thump of his heartbeat rhythmically. You clutched onto him firmly, more than ever, as if you don’t want to let go. You love him more than a story could write itself.

“Sweet,” he held your face, tilting you upward, “I’m not a man of a lot of words, but I always love you, even if you don’t hear it often.” He chuckled, emphasizing on the ‘always’. You stared at him with glossy eyes, tears forming on the edge of your lids, and you had no words to say. It was all surprising, yes, you sure were expecting something, but not an overwhelming whirlpool of emotions.

“I…” you mumbled, but your words trailed off. You couldn’t figure out the right words to say. No coherent string of words can muster up the feelings you were processing right now. “I love you too.”

He wiped the forming tears away, “Cat got your tongue?” he teased, a sly smirk tugged his lips.

Noir meowed on the floor.

“No… I..” You blushed, meekly shoving him away from you, avoiding his intense gaze. “I didn’t expect that at all… especially from you.” you protested. If a thousand shades of red were a person, it was you as of the moment.

“Really?” He arched an eyebrow, “You underestimate me, Sweet.” He grabbed your hand and lingered a few light kisses against your knuckles. His stubble unkempt, albeit it adds to his manly charm, was tickling your skin.

Your smile reached your eyes. “Maybe I do,” you giggled, “show me this side of you more often.” Your heart was still racing yet it dwindled every second that passed. With a vacant hand, you gently brushed a few black strands out of his face. He faintly leaned onto the back of your moving hand.

“I’ll try.” He held the hand he was peppering with kisses, intertwining with his. You smiled warmly, and all you could hear was his soft hums and the fireplace crackling. Casting a warm soft glow of his backlight, inviting a cozy sensation to the living room.

“Cake?” You suggested. Seeing how your cat was taking its chances to steal a bite, which you declared inedible to it a lot of times through a series of ‘no-no’ and head shakes.

“I’ll only take a bite of yours, I know that’s all yours to eat.” He shrugged, hinting at your sweet tooth.

“Rude!” You exclaimed while Noir meowed like it agreed with what he joked about. You gasped, glaring at the cat. “No treats for you.”

With a few I love yous exchanged, a lovingly tender interior, and a small tribute of a happy birthday. You celebrated your man’s thirtieth birthday.

November 8.

It was raining.

You were supposed to celebrate and say I love you.

In the wide corners. Grey filled the vast space of the apartment. Darkness enveloped the atmosphere, and you’ve realized that it was no four tight corners. The walls were continuous in many corners you haven’t counted. The whole house was massive, recognizing that it was never actually small in the first place. The duplex was quite big for a single person, and you have never felt lonelier than you ever did before.

A glass window engraved bottom to the ceiling shows that the heavens wept, their tears washing away any plans or events of the people scattered along the city. Were they happy or were they sad because of the rain? Nevertheless, you couldn't say the same sentiment applied to you. Matter of fact, it wasn’t the clouds’ fault but you have been crying along with the skies since then.

Everything felt dull. No rush, no comfort, no exhilaration, and most of all — there was no love to be found. Only you who was sat on a big bean couch that was meant for two people, emptily staring ahead the window, observing the monsoon rain unleashing its despair in the city.

Ever since he left, the welcoming warmth of your — used to be, both of your — house turned to an unbidden coldness. The air was thick and damp, clinging to your skin like a wet blanket. You hugged your knees close to your chest, restraining the shivers escaping you. It was incredibly silent in a way you can hear your staggered lament and muffled chokes, truly an epitome of discomfort. A tremendous display of consequences after all of what happened.

Your cat announced its presence, jumped up to you with its chubby legs, and let out a meow beside you, purring incessantly. You sniffled, hiccups taking turns, not even bothering to look at the feline (which it isn’t amused of, by the way).

“No happy birthdays for now, Noir.”

There was a lighter within your hand and you fiddled with its flame. This was the lighter you used to light a certain man’s birthday cake. How could you forget? There was no way you could ever forget. Your thumb pressed and pulled away from the button over and over, warm hue flickering on and on. On and off and on and off and on and off and on and off. You mindlessly played it.

Until you click on the final pressure against the button.

“Guess it didn’t come true, Shota.”

You blew the flame but you didn’t let go.

[obsessedwhyyes]

Velvet and Vice - An Astarion Quote Prompt List for Smut Writers

As requested, one smut quote prompt list for Astarion coming right up! I've divided this into two sections: Before and During (under the cut for obvious reasons). Before the smut and during the smut. All lines are fully gender neutral. As before, drop me a tag if you use any of these! I'd love to see them in action.

Gif by @gortash on Tumblr!

Before

"Oh, darling. I didn't realise it was this easy to have you wrapped around my finger."

"I don't even have to say a word, do I? You're already thinking about it."

"You look delectable in this light. Good enough to eat, one might say."

"Patience was never my virtue. But for you, I might make an exception."

"Darling, your gaze is positively ravenous. Careful, or I might think you want to devour me."

"Your eagerness is flattering, truly. Though I can hardly be blamed for being so alluring, can I?"

"You're quite the temptation, darling. And I've always had trouble resisting those."

"I promise, the only marks I'll leave are the ones you beg me for."

"Oh, my sweet. I plan on making sure you remember every. Single. Detail."

"I promise to be gentle. Unless, of course, you'd prefer otherwise."

During

"I've barely laid a finger on you, and you're already breathless. Oh, this will be fun."

"Darling, if you keep making sounds like that, I might just lose my focus. And we wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

"My, my. Aren't you just full of hidden talents? I'm positively intrigued."

"You look so vulnerable; so deliciously at my mercy. Shall I show you just how much I enjoy that?"

"You're a masterpiece like this, you know. And I've always had a taste for the finer things."

"You're playing with fire, darling. Keep it up, and I'll ensure neither of us gets any rest tonight."

"You're so delightfully sensitive. It's almost criminal how easily I can drive you mad."

"You're being so good for me, darling. I think you deserve a little more, don't you?"

"Care to discover just how talented these fingers can be?"

"I've barely begun, and you're already putty in my hands. How terribly convenient for me."

"You have no idea how delectable you look right now. It's almost unfair, really."

"Oh, darling. You didn't think I'd be satisfied with just that, did you? We're just getting started."

"My, such enthusiasm. One might think you've been fantasising about this for days."

"If you want my attention, you'll have to earn it. Show me how badly you need it."

"Always so eager to please. I do love that about you."

I also write Astarion fanfiction! Masterlist can be found here.

Non-smut Astarion quotes for general use here!

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

this may be hard to answer because we don’t actually know the characters too well yet, but what do you think vox and val actually *love* about eachother? it seems like it’s more than just sex between them, and i’m curious to know what you think their relationship is like outside the toxic or sexual parts

Anon, to me it is not hard to answer at all, I think about it constantly 🩵❤️ of course all I write is based mostly on my headcanons and interpretations.

So... What Vox loves about Valentino? First and foremost, he makes him feel free. Vox is very self-conscious; he has a lot of internalized shame that he tries to cover with his grandiosity and fake smile. Valentino is unapologetically himself, and no matter how annoying it can be, Vox admires it. He's like the least judgmental person, and except for his temper tantrums, he's quite chill. Vox can't handle something? Val doesn't care; he still thinks his boyfriend is smart and will figure shit out eventually. Vox discovers he's into some weird, socially unacceptable kink? Great, they can try it. Vox rambles for hours about sharks? Good, he has a passion; Valentino likes people with passion, he will listen, he likes his voice anyway. Vox, who has spent his whole life crafting this perfect narrative about himself, cherishes the opportunity to feel comfortable enough with other people (a lot of these things apply also to his friendship with Velvette) to act like an absolute idiot around them.

Also, I think Valentino can be a really amazing boyfriend - he can be funny, charming, and mindful of the other person. That's his whole thing; he deals with desires, and that's why people get addicted to him so quickly. In most cases, it inevitably ends with him taking absolute control over the other person and becoming abusive. But Vox is his partner, so he gets just those nice bits because Valentino knows he wouldn't be able to put him down like he did with Angel. Not that he'd want to; he likes having a partner who's equal to him, whom he can break only if he allows him to do so (yes, my reading of them is very BDSM-ish, don't @ me). Valentino wants to be loved, he loves the idea of love, surrounds himself with hearts but at the same refuses to adjust to societal norms in the way that makes him unlovable; every person he ever loved (in his mind, his obsessive desire equals love) rejected him eventually after he revealed his true nature to them. But not Vox. Vox accepts him as broken as he is, and despite all his toxicity, Vox is reliable, he's the most stable part of Valentino's life. He has the patience to deal with his mood swings, he can always find the solution when Val messes something up, he's willing to accept all the attention Valentino wants to give him, and he supports his passions (ruining lives, making weird porn and abusing people).

Essentially, their love is largely about finally finding the other person who is as bad as you are, who accepts you no matter what and helps you grow (become an even worse person).

And some additional things:

Valentino really likes how smart Vox is. He himself is impulsive and acts instantly on his urges because violence is always an answer so he's kinda impressed when Vox presents him with some elaborate plots.

Vox loves Valentino's creativity, aesthetic, and attention to detail. He really likes nice things, but he lacks the ability to understand the nuance that is necessary for creating art.

They both enjoy each other's sense of humor.

Vox really likes that Valentino is kinda dumb? He can take care of him, and he likes taking care of people because it allows him to prove himself as The Best Boyfriend. He doesn't necessarily gets the idea of unconditional love, so the fact that he has an opportunity to earn it makes him feel more secure in their relationship. That's also why he loves spoling Valentino with gifts which is perfect because Valentino loves being spoiled.

Valentino likes being a little silly when he's with Vox. At work he can't manage people with his competence, so he does it with fear. But yelling and throwing people around is exhausting; he sometimes wants to bedazzle his gun while watching some trashy reality TV and bitching about his hard day at work. It's okay because Vox is also a little silly.

Valentino generally helps Vox live life more. He helped him come out of the closet (in my headcanon Vox for his whole life struggled with internalized biphobia); shows him that emotions other than anger are acceptable and don't mean weakness; even small things like always insisting on getting nice meals (while Vox could live his whole life on black coffee and rice) or decorating their apartment with fancy yet useless stuff.

They're both power-crazy maniacs, so the idea of being with someone who is widely desired by others and could destroy them if they wished is just so incredibly hot.

Vox | Valentino | What they hate about each other

If you liked these you should definitely check out my fic

[neetily]

First time request! Magic pocket pussy with Sam if possible <3 loved loved loved Alex's and Sebastian's versions that I'm requesting Sam! Collecting them all like pokemon.

I don't have any particular details in mind, maybe something desperate, needy, feral on Sam's part but he's too shy and sweet to act upon it? Maybe?

Whatever you'll write, I'm positive I'll love it haha

ough... perfect request to begin with, thank u so much for ur patience in waiting for me to get to it!! magic pocket pussy is one of my favourite tropes to write about, even if it's a bit obscure hehe... u can have so much fun with it !!

hope you enjoy this piece <3 !!

— ✧ warnings: magic pocket pussy, sex toy, dubcon, brief cunnilingus, masturbation (m solo), pussyjob, premature ejaculation — ✧ word count: 2,461 — ✧ genre: smut (18+)

— ✧ A/N: i used the word "fap" exactly once in this writing so if u hate it im sorry but i think it's so sexy. that's all :D...

When desperate times call for desperate measures, you often find yourself in the kind of situation that you never thought possible, right? Sam, too, finds himself in the midst of a certain predicament. A particularly vexing position that he's not sure how to resolve in the most effective manner, torn between his heart and his brain. And to be honest, he wouldn't have even been placed in such a messy state of affairs if it wasn't for his previous bout of indecision too, just like now, chewing at his bottom lip as he gently squeezes the soft object between his sweaty palm. Anxiety churns thickly in his chest as he remain idle, choking on thin air as he stares blanky off into space.

Except his mind isn't anywhere near as blank as his face lets on, thoughts racing, one after another— should he? He really shouldn't... He's not dumb, he knows what the right answer is, it's just that he might be stupid enough not to take it is all.

On one hand, the toy between his fingers is the closest he can get to you at the moment, lest he somehow grows enough courage to confess his true feelings in the hopes of getting a single sweet taste of the real deal; but that hasn't happened this far. And he doubts it'll pass him by soon. And on the other hand, fuck, he knows that what his heart—and his rock hard cock—wants more than anything right now is wrong. God, it'd be so fucking wrong, wouldn't it? Just terrible of him to follow through with his wishes, all because he's too chicken to ask you out on a date.

... And yet.

He's not proud of himself, giving in to his more baser emotions as the magic pocket pussy stares back at him, even just catching sight of the soft pink toy causes his cock to twitch against his pants, a prompt hiss escaping him at the rough contact between his leaking tip and underwear. You need to know that he's sorry, that he's no better than those he means to beat when it comes to obtaining your affections— he's just better at hiding his misdeeds. Right, yeah. That's all. It should be okay if he just... Doesn't let you know, right? He's just curious is all, and you're so kind hearted that you'd probably understand his inability to withhold himself when it comes to you, even just the mere imitation of you, right? After all, he's just a man at the end of the day.

A needy, desperate, cheek chewing, anxious leg bouncing man, allowing his thumb to smooth over the outer lips of the faux toy with seedy intent. And his reaction is almost immediate, spare the way his mind lags behind out of nervousness.

Oh, you're so soft. Bringing the toy up to meet his gaze, throat drying up the instant he takes a proper good look at all the folds and creases, gulping down the sight of the perfect little hole that's just begging for his touch. A shudder runs through him as he continues to stroke just the outer lips of the toy, doing a better job of edging himself as opposed to teasing you. Not that he can know just how much he might be teasing you right now, given that you're likely alone in bed at the old farmhouse as he plays with himself in his childhood bedroom. But nonetheless, the way his cock twitches and leaks for attention—your attention—is enough for him to know that he's the loser in this instance. Pathetic right down to the way his fingers tremble against the toy, how his tongue starts to poke out from between his wobbly lips, dying to prove himself to you from the shadow. God, he's had a crush on you for fucking ever, it's embarrassing how he's this whipped for a fucking fleshlight of you.

No matter, honestly. It's not like you're around to bear witness to just how much he needs you, how tight and taut his balls are at the mere thought of pleasuring you. To see how deplorable he truly is deep down inside, enough to yearn for your tight hole regardless of your presence. It's sickening, makes his tummy flip with butterflies when he takes a greedy inhale of the toy slit, huffing eagerly to see if it even owns your smell and— "Fuck—" so good, smell so fucking good just like he'd imagined, snapping the last straw of restraint his rational mind was desperately clinging on to in favour of letting his tongue loll out to lick a fat stripe up and down your cute little cunt; and he's instantly done for.

Knew he would be, truthfully. So down bad for you it borders on obsession, the twinge of guilt pittering against his heart is easily overtaken by the hard throb of his cock, though. Convincing him to continue, to give in to his instincts more so as to make you feel just how much he loves you, even if you've got no idea that it's him behind that strange late night feeling between your legs.

Because the toy is linked to you, of course. Based off your form, an apparently perfect replica of your most private parts— or so the wizard in that creepy old tower had promised him. And he's inclined to believe that old man just due to how fucking cute the faux cunt is, can imagine it suiting you so perfectly, poking his tongue between the faux folds experimentally, just to see if he can gain any sort of reaction out of you.

In the meantime of wetting your pretty pussy up for him, he wrestles with his jeans and tugs them off with his boxers soon following suit. Leaving his bottom half completely bare, tight fist automatically squeezing at the base of his throbbing cock in an effort to relieve some of the built up pressure just looking at your cunt has built within him, but it barely does the job. Prompting a low whine to escape his dry throat, murmured right against your hole as he sticks his tongue into it, exploring your squishy insides with an unintentionally eye roll— "Fuuuuh—" he babbles, unable to properly enunciate his curses due to fucking his tongue in and out of you out of sheer need. An undeniable requirement to tongue fuck out as much of your cunt juices as possible; that'll mean that the wizard wasn't lying, surely.

And oh, he can just imagine the look on your face so well right now. Cute furrowed brows, maybe your lips are parted just that small amount in both confusion and enjoyment, right? He wonders if you'd be searching between your legs just as frantically as he sucks and licks all over your cunt, slurping at your hole once or twice more before coming to the conclusion that shit, the old man was telling the truth.

A string of saliva and slick mixed together connects him to your cunt, another gush of it dripping from your hole from assumed contractions as he drops the pocket pussy to his waist, hovering it just behind his cock while his arm works automatically. Dumb eyed stare, moving off of instincts alone, giving in to his innermost desires when it comes to you with a quick snap of his wrist up and down his erection, his mouth hanging open to freely pant and moan into the night air because it feels so fucking good to finally have a taste of you. An albeit small one, but he's not about to complain when he can still taste you on his lips, licking himself clean as he instead focuses on the slick up and down of his hand on pulsing cock, simply admiring the view of your cunt from afar. It somehow feels better than ever before, now that he knows that he really shouldn't be doing this to you right now, but he's not some kind of monster, you should at least know that.

He won't stick his dick in you, not yet. Far too shy to, really. Even if there's no one around to witness his perversion. He still likes you, wants more than anything to make you feel good, and he's sure that the feeling of some phantom dick ruining your inside might scare you for good. But— his cock still throbs and his balls still ache for release, all the pumping away at his length is doing very little to offer him resolution.

There are things yet that he can do with the toy that will satisfy both you and himself. Things that won't scare you too badly, and that won't push his limits too far. He might need you more than words can say at the moment, but he figures he can work up to it eventually. Need to encourage himself first.

For now, he settles with angling his cock towards the toy cunt hole, mouth watering from the heat he can feel radiating from it. Such a slippery slope he's found himself in, gliding his cock head against your slit, letting his precum dribble out all over your folds, coating his knuckles sticky too from the copious amounts of it as it trickles down. Ah, if only you were here to see the things you do to him, maybe then you'd understand why he's unable to restrain himself right now. Shuffling to lay down on his bed in a more comfortable position, pocket pussy held stationary for him to simulate the act of sex more accurately, lifting and dropping his hips against the outside of the toy with plenty of hushed curses falling from his bitten lips. It's late at night, and he's huddled amongst his bedsheets, cock completely out, rubbing one out against what he knows is your cunt, hoping that you can feel every drip and drop of precum the warm heat of your folds fuck out of him as he slips and slides against you, letting his head fall back against the pillow behind him in utter bliss, no residual regret left in his body because your cunt—the simulated version of it—feels almost too good to be true.

"I can't—" He breathlessly laughs to himself, cutting off into a gasped moan, rushing air in through his teeth for him to tut at when a slick gush coats his cock all tacky and shiny in return, as if you can hear how utterly done for he is, tone whiny and high pitched all for you. Good girl, you must be enjoying his touch too, right? Every coating of your slick up and down his humping cock is like a promise, a way for you to communicate: it's okay, keep going. He can't be doing anything too bad if your body is enjoying his rocking so much, right? Pressing his tip against your clit, fucking his full fat length against your pretty slit. Pretty little angel cunt, taking his cock so well— "Can't fuckin' stop, 'm sorry—" But he's not. Not really, he'd never apologise for getting you so wet, bucking his hips faster against the toy cunt with every stroke, choked moans just barely escaping him as his eyes squeeze shut in pure pleasure, because you feel so good. Too good it's almost unfair, assaulting you from afar, a mix of lewd thoughts swirling in his otherwise absent mind.

Your pretty face, all contorted. Enjoyment? Horror? What must you be feeling right now? Are you getting off too? Flicking that cute little clit he keeps rubbing precum against, stretching your cunt wide open with sticky fingers as if asking for more? Fuck, he wants so badly to give it to you, to ram his dick so deep in that little hole, stretch your squishy walls into his cock shape, but even now he knows that to be a terrible idea. In spite of how fucking feral he feels right now, frantically humping the air, pressing his cock harsher against your slit in an effort to claim presence. Look, he begs with each stroke. It's me that's making you feel so good.

And he can imagine how messy your bed must be too, sheets thrown off your sweating body in favour of inspecting your cunt, hair all bunched up with the throw back of your head, tossing and turning and squealing every time his balls rock against the toy, fully humped up your slit, only to eagerly drop back down again, over and over again to leave a cute little mess on your sheets. A mess of his own making, dribbling down to you ass to stain you sticky; yeah, that's it. He can see the scene so perfectly, so intricately, right down to the way your hole must be clenching around nothing, seeking his tip to catch and fuck you so full of nice thick cock but he can't. He simply can't stop rutting against your slit for long enough to slide inside, fapping himself silly, mind muddled and eyes glazed over as he really leans into the wet squelch of his every fuck up and down and—

Oh, he didn't realise that he was so close to the edge. Moving the pocket pussy up and down just a little, enough to offer him a minor amount of extra stimulation to the red hot tip of his cock, to spread his precum all over your cunt, but it proves to be too much for his fragile mind. Completely pussy whipped from the imitation, cumming before he even realises what's happening, his body folding in on itself as he squishes the toy against his cum coated tip, making sure to mark every rope of load somewhere against your slit. He can't really see though. Eyes squeezed shut, the grip he has of the toy tightening rhythmically, like a stress ball, while he cakes your slit in sticky seed. He feels winded, honestly.

But still he whispers you name when he feels like he can breathe again, a couple more spurts of cum milked from his cock as he runs the slick mixture up and down his length, wincing at the way it all seems to collect at his balls, all wet and icky as the weight of his actions soon come knocking again. A twist in his tummy, tension in his chest as he ogles the painted white toy.

Well, he can remedy it by making you cum too, right? Already lifting the prettily ruined cunt to his lips, tongue already poking out in preparation to eat you out all night.

It's okay, he'll bring you coffee tomorrow morning to make up for selfishly stealing your bed time.

[mypoisonedvine]

Please please please do emperor Geta 🙏 maybe a dubcon situation where he uses his power over you, and "you heard me, take it off" but I would literally take anything of him ❤

i've been waiting for my turn to write this little freak i need him!!

warnings: SMUT! 18+ only!!, dubcon/noncon, a slap, a bit of public stuff/exhibitionism kinda, virgin!reader (she's a priestess so also mild religious themes), fingering, overall he's The Worst

"You heard me," he spat. "Take it off!"

And you had heard him, of course, but you didn't quite believe it. He knew you were no concubine or courtesan-- a high priestess hardly receives orders from mortals-- yet he ordered you around like any peasant. Spoiled fucking child he was...

"Now."

You nervously glanced at the guard detail surrounding you both; even if they weren't here, you were probably bound to his orders regardless, but it still felt absurd. In your own temple, which he'd cleared out in the middle of the day while people were praying and making sacrifices, he tells you to take off your robe. Does this man really have no decorum, no respect for sanctity?

"Don't test my patience, you will find it lacking," Geta warned. He was your emperor, you knew to disobey him was death, but most emperors were also worshippers-- they would do what you said, knowing it was a command from the gods.

Conflicted but unwilling to make him wait longer in case he made good on his threat, you unclasped the clip holding your robe at your shoulder, and the belt around your waist: then, it was all just fabric at your feet, and you were bare before him.

He had that hungry smile on his face, the one that curled his upper lip and bared his teeth while he flared his nostrils; you tried not to let any fear or discomfort show on your face, knowing he would only prey on it more.

Technically, there was nothing wrong with him seeing you (even if it felt wrong, especially with a bunch of royal guards here as well), but priestesses were not to be touched. Ever. So when he stepped forward and reached for you, you instinctively smacked his hand away.

He pressed his lips together and, about ten times harder than you'd smacked him, hit you on the face. Your head spun and you instantly held your cheek-- only for him to grab your wrist and yank it hard, pulling you towards him as you yelped, exposing your stinging skin.

"You think I won't hurt you?" he growled. "Just because you're chosen by the gods? So was I-- except that you were chosen to read dusty old scrolls. I was chosen to rule!"

He dropped your wrist but you kept your face turned, tears beginning to run over it slowly; he brought his hand to your jaw, tilting it back and petting it as he got a good look at you.

"Mm, I think that'll leave a mark," he noticed, sounding quite proud of it.

But then that hand trailed down, fingers tracing along the front of your body-- eyes still trained on your face, which you willed not to show your fear.

And he cupped you between the legs somewhat roughly, exploring you until he found your entrance. When he shoved a finger inside, then you couldn't suppress a reaction, a wince to the unexpected intrusion. Apparently not satisfied with only a small amount of pain from you, he put another one inside and snarled as he pushed them both deep into you.

Yelping softly through your teeth, you shut your eyes tight and found yourself grabbing onto his robe, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

"You really are untouched," he marveled with a grin. "Or, you were."

He twisted the fingers and you shuddered, the sting only worsened by his mocking laugh as he watched you struggle. "Please, my emperor," you hissed softly, wondering if an appeal to his ego would soften him at all, "I-I won't disobey you, but please don't--"

He curled his fingers harder inside you, making your legs shake: you had to hold onto him just to stay upright. "Don't, what? Fuck you?" he assumed. "But don't you think it would be funny? A defiled oracle, once revered and protected, made into just another toy for the emperor? Used and tossed aside with the other cheap whores?"

He snorted; he really found it amusing, the idea of ruining you just because he could. Yeah, sounds hilarious-- you're a real fucking comedian.

"I won't do it," he decided as he took his fingers out of you, making you breathe a sigh of relief-- just for a moment. "Not here, at least. I'll be kind and take you to the palace first."

You looked up at him with wide eyes. "No-- please!" you begged. "I won't go-- you can't take me--!"

But his guards descended on you in an instant, restraining your arms with hardly any notice of your attempt to fight back, and on his command they dragged you from the temple and into his chariot. None of them seemed to mind that they were taking the oracle of the city hostage, naked, right there in the open streets. Citizens and worshippers watched in horror, but they were just as helpless as you to the emperor's whims.

"Now now, don't cry," he cooed darkly as he wiped a tear off of your injured face. "I won't be too cruel to you, once you've learned to obey."

[catholicdaredevil]

disarming || tormund giantsbane x gn! reader

hello all! i haven't posted anything i've written in a while (over a year) but when prompted by my daughter grack i searched back through my google docs and found this fic that i don't think i ever posted so here we go! (also this hasn't been edited lol)

summary: gn! reader kills a thenn and tormund is bricked over it

words: 2k

warnings: violence!!!!!! use of knives, punching, kicking, stabbing, and killing!!!! to be fair it's all canon typical violence for game of thrones but still there's your warning! also short references to nsfw but no detailed action

ao3 link

Warm callused hands framed your face and he leaned in to kiss you. 

Except Tormund didn’t kiss you, kiss was too gentle a word for it, he consumed you. Every time he pressed his mouth to yours it was like he was trying to drink you down, overwhelming sensations of nothing but him causing your brain to go haywire. He didn’t give pecks, no small chaste kisses, that was your thing. When you’d walk past him and pause just to creep up on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his cheek then carry on with whatever you were previously doing. Sometimes he let you, he knew you liked those gentle kisses, wanted to give you whatever you wanted when he could. 

However most times he’d slip his hands into your hair, or around your waist and pull you into him with strength you couldn’t get out of if you tried, tip your head back and deepen the kiss. And if when you finally pulled away you looked dizzy, hair a mess and breathing ragged, then that was just a bonus. 

“I swear on–on– on all of the southern gods, every single one of them, that if you ever come near me again I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” your finger jabbed into the Thenn’s chest, loud voice carrying throughout the camp. You can hear the mutters of people gathering around, the syncopated overlapped voices of the other free folk watching, waiting. 

“If you didn’t have Tormund to back you up I bet you’d be so much quieter. Maybe you need someone to teach you to be quiet, little one.” He leaned in, voice low and predatory with a grin stretching out the scars that covered his face. Those white lines marking a Thenn that always made a chill run down your spine. 

“I need no one to back me up, I don't want Tormund’s help and he couldn’t stop me if he wanted to. You think I would be Tormund’s if I couldn’t handle my own?” 

As if he could sense his name spoken from across the way, you hear Tormund walk up, his loud voice familiar enough to pick out of the crowd circled around you and the Thenn. 

“What’s going on?” Tormund’s words end in a growl as he finally breaks through the masses to see you. 

Your mouth twisted down into an angry frown and the hand not currently inches from the other man’s chest is clenched into a fist and trembling just slightly at your side. He takes the final few steps to get to your side, a glare pinning the man in front of you in place. He had joked before but only a fool didn’t hesitate going up against Tormund Giantsbane. There was a reason he was Tall-Talker, Horn-Blower and Breaker of Ice. Tormund was less a man and more a force, a storm that roved over lands destroying anything stupid enough to get in his way. 

Tormund’s hand rests on your shoulder, his body tense in anticipation, always seconds away from swinging a blade at anyone who so much as dares to glare at you and this is no different. You speak one last time before turning to walk off, “I won’t warn you again.” 

��And how do you plan to kill me little one? By whinging? Yelling? You couldn’t kill me if Tormund trained you for years.” 

His cocky words are enough to break your last shred of patience left and you spin before Tormund can react, stomping across the frozen dirt, fist clenched and ready to throw a punch. Luckily Tormund recovers fast enough to grab your elbow mid-swing and you round on him, ready to yell that you’d had enough of that shit eating grin and he could try to eat his next kill with less teeth. 

“You’ll break your sweet little hand on that ugly fucker, here.” Tormund lifts your hand to kiss across your knuckles and pushes a knife into it and nods approvingly, twisting you around to face the Thenn again. You get to watch the smirk melt off the man’s face. This is no longer a game, not even an argument. He has two options now; let you kill him or fight you and have Tormund kill him. There’s no scenario where he lays a hand on you and lives to talk about it. 

“I’ll make you a deal. You disarm me fair and square and you win, Tormund’ll let you live. If not, I carve that smirk from your face.” Your head tilts expectantly and the Thenn’s eyes shift from you to Tormund, watching the small nod Tormund gives in agreement before looking back to you. 

He grins. “Deal.”

He moves faster than you expected, quick for such a large man, but it doesn’t matter. He swings his hand out to hit you and you duck, adrenaline surging through you as your instincts take over. He’s a fool and a cocky one at that and you’re going to show him. You drop your breathing to slow and controlled, crouching slightly to study him, eyes scanning over his tall form to pick out the best places to strike. 

His leg shoots out and slams into your side. Pain blossoms across your stomach and you bite your cheek to muffle your cry, wrapping your arm around his ankle to keep him on one foot. He’s stronger than you and you know you won’t be able to hold him there for long, but you don’t need long. Your blade sinks into his leg right above his knee, twisting before you yank it back out and he tugs his leg from you with a scream. He expects you to attempt to hold onto it, so when you drop it the force of his pull twists him off balance and he has to stumble to catch himself, grunting through the shooting pain the steps cause. 

“You’re a fool. You’re a fool and I warned you.” You spit blood at his feet. He looks up to meet your eyes again and there’s a split second where you’re concerned about the rage so clearly shown on his every feature. Taking a deep breath, you force your body to relax, shaking out the tension in your joints and twisting your head until your neck cracks loudly. 

The sounds of the crowd have risen, voices overlapping and in the back of your mind you register a familiar voice shushing them all. The man in front of you is too focused on kicks, anything to keep you as far from him as possible thinking his strength lies in his reach spanning farther than your own. He swings a hand and his fist connects with your temple, your entire head rings, vision going blurry and black around the edges and you gasp. 

It takes you a moment to catch your bearings, a few stumbled steps and ragged intakes of breath, and that’s all it takes. The bottom of his foot lands solidly on your chest and he pushes with a force that likely cracked several ribs, knocking you to the ground. His own chest heaves with exertion, walking forward to stand over you and you can see the way he struggles with restraint, unused to leaving an enemy alive after a fight. 

He opens his mouth to speak and hesitates at the last second. Blood trails down your chin, shadowing a grin that gives him pause in his victory, but not long enough to stop the words from falling out of his mouth. “Fair and square.” 

“I said disarm me,” 

He puts the pieces together too late. 

The knife still clutched tightly in your hand that wrapped around where he stood slices through the back of his ankles on both feet and he drops with a scream. Crumpling to the ground, the Thenn grabs at his bleeding feet, attempting to staunch the blood that flows around his fingers and pours onto the ground below him. You’ve risen to your feet in his panic, swaying slightly as your head gets caught up in the dizzy waves of a concussion. Luckily your adrenaline still pumping through your veins is enough to keep you standing long enough for him to look up at you and lock eyes one last time. 

Your knife finds its home in the small space between the side of his collarbone and neck, right where it’s still soft and relatively easy to drive it as far in as it will go. You push until the heel of the knife clinks into bone and he finally collapses below you, ripping the hilt from your hand in his fall. He lets out one final choked off gurgle, eyes rolling back and lids closing and he’s dead. His and your blood stains your hands and clothes, a messy watercolor of death.

Now that the fight is over your body threatens to collapse, hands on your locked-up knees to keep from hitting the ground. Eyes slammed shut in an attempt to limit the way the world spins on his axis like a top and warm large arms wrap around your middle to vault you into the air. 

The earth shakes below you, but maybe that’s just Tormund in his raucous laughter and shouted words. “I told you all! Mine doesn’t need anyone for anything! Only needs me around to fuck them ‘til they cry!” 

Heat blooms in your face at his exclamation to the surrounding crowd, your hand smacking into his shoulder feebly. You doubt that even with all your strength you could do much to the man beyond a bee sting, but he grunts in fake pain at your strike just to indulge you. “I don’t think I need you for even that, I did a pretty good job at doing it myself before you came along.”

“But I do it better.” 

His almost crystal blue eyes meet yours and he’s wearing that shit-eating, Tormund Giantsbane, wolfish grin. The one that probably earned him the name Tall Talker if you had to guess. The look is more familiar than even your family and you can’t help but mirror it back at him in your own way, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

“Aye, you uncivilized great behemoth of a man. You do it better.” 

Tormund connects his lips with yours, quickly licking into your mouth to deepen the kiss, drinking you down. He gets the satisfaction of the taste of you and the bitter clash of your blood that only spurs him on until his hands are fisted in your shirt and you’re whining into his mouth, almost grinding onto him from your place in his arms. 

His hold on you only tightens until he pushes on your cracked ribs and you jerk away from his touch with a broken gasp. You drop your head to his shoulder, breathing slowly through the sharp pain until it passes, slipping back into the gentle throb it sits at as a baseline. Tormund presses a kiss to your forehead, one hand softly running up the line of your spine in comfort, already walking towards your shared home. 

“Let’s get those clothes off and I can see just how hurt you are.” He says, pushing aside the door and kicking it shut behind the two of you. He sets you down on the bed delicately, not wanting to cause you anymore pain and you smile up at him standing above you. 

“I’m fine really. Well– I might have a concussion.” 

“I’ll get you taken care of my pretty little crow. Then I’ll make you cum on my tongue so many times you cry. Seeing you kill a Thenn has me harder than I think I’ve ever been in my life.” Tormund speaks the words like they’re normal, a casual conversation and mention of murder being sexy. Of course you’re sure a big part of the whole sexy-murder thing has to do with his hatred for Thenn’s and the specificity of your victim. Not that you’ll complain, or turn down the offer.