#except it's not. it's rocks. that's what this is

[yeyinde]

shadow monsters on wooden church walls

SIMON RILEY X READER

an escaped convict finds shelter inside an abandoned chapel in rural New Mexico. and with it, a very obliging woman on the run from her fiancé.

(well. obliging, asleep. is there really much of a difference?)

18+ | HEAVY NONCON. COCK WARMING. SOMNOPHILIA. PUSSY SLAPPING. NONCON CUM EATING. UNSAFE SEX/BREEDING. MARKING. SIZE DIFFERENCE. IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. WILD WEST AU. SEXISM/MISOGYNY. BASTARDIZED RELIGIOUS MYTHOLOGY.

He finds you asleep on a pew.

A gloved hand shoved under your temple. The other curled into a loose fist, knuckles resting against the bench seat. Your elbow tucks itself nicely into the slope of your waist, forearm balanced on your belly as you slumber, fully relaxed and utterly unaware of who—or what—stumbled upon you.

Too relaxed, maybe.

There's a softness to the spill of you that makes his teeth ache—melting candy. Spun sugar. Something that makes him want to burrow his jaws into the marshmallow sweetness sitting pretty for him like a little treat. 

His belly grumbles. He can't remember the last time he ate. 

And lucky for him, there's no artifice to the steady rise and fall of your lace-covered chest. The swell is a lulling rock that disturbs the dust gathered along the wood in a thick, dense blanket of moulder and disuse.

He tucks the pistol he snatched on the way here into the pocket of his stolen jacket, cocking his head to the side as he considers this unexpected discovery.

The church was meant to be empty. A sequestered haven for him to hide inside until the lawmen chasing him passed by further in the north. This diverging path known only to the man who shared his wisdom of it in the prison. Locatable only by staggered markers left behind by the pilgrims who were plundered of their goods and left to die in the sprawling, untenable wilds of New Mexico.

(It's always been man eat man in the dust.)

He's not sure how you found it. The state of your boots and the bottom of your dresses make him believe you'd been on the run for some time. Coincidence, maybe. Or—

You don't stir at all, even as his boots clunk against the loose, dusty floorboards as he prowls closer to your prone form. His breath drawing ragged from his broad chest. Heart dropping down to his empty belly where it pulses thunderously in his guts. The reverberation thrumming in his groin—

It's been a long time since he's seen a woman.

Even longer since he had one.

It never seemed like much of a necessity when he was younger. His life split between survival and hunger. Ripped from his ramshackle home in Manchester and squeezed into an overcrowded boat headed to America.

Land o' opportunity, his old man promised, but much like all of his predictions (and schemes), America had little forethought to spare on a poor family with nothing to their name. Opportunity—but only inasmuch as the wealth carried with you provided. And being poorer than dirt, it only made sense that New York had little to offer except rubble—more dirt. More soot staining his fingers, blackening his father's teeth. 

He doesn't find it too surprising they were chased out west within a week. Trudging along the same dirt-covered road as everyone else in search of something to call home. 

The only place willing to take them was an aptly named town called Tombstone. A place where both his dad and brother rest.

Incarcerated at eighteen for enacting revenge on their murderers, and now a full-bodied man of some thirty-odd years, it's a jarring, encompassing thing to see you sleeping like this. So vulnerable. So soft.

Maybe it's the fragility of these curled parts making up the cluttered framework of your body that appeals to some aspect of himself that longs to break small, soft things between his fists. Crush bone like paper. Shatter it into pieces like fine china. Brittle porcelain.

Whatever it is, it itches in his guts. Makes his hands grow slick, dampening with sweat. Blooms a vicious fever in his head. This unquenchable thirst clawing at the back of his throat is only sated by the spill of your soft, cottonlike body tucked into the pew.

It's—

Precious, he thinks, cock stirring, thickening in his borrowed pants. Sweet lil' thing, he coos, tongue scraping over his teeth. All curled up inside a church. Alone.

Waiting for him.

He isn't one for religious zealotry. It held no appeal even as the priests visited the prison, beseeching him to repent. The idea of god, gods, never held much interest to him, but he learned the Bible they carried with them, this sacred object of divine wisdom. A fairytale, not too dissimilar to Chaucer, he found.

But he can't deny there's something a little poetic about this. Something divine.

Almost as if that mighty, tempestuous god they preached about was smiling down on him. An offering not at all dissimilar to the riches he bestowed on the men who caught his eye.

And don't all those men face trials and tribulations before being given grace, too? Lands, and honour, and sanctified, but most of all—

Wives.

And a sweet one, too. 

Folded up into yourself like a little bird who fell from the nest. Shivering on the cold, unfamiliar ground as it waits for its parents to come and bring it back. Unaware of the viper in the grass behind it. The hawk circling overhead.

Lucky for you, god thinks you'd fare quite nicely in his stomach instead.

And really—

You should know better, he thinks, hands dropping to the stolen buckle of his belt. Sleeping in a lonely building like this. Practically waiting for him to come along and take what he's owed, aren't you?

And who is he to pass up such a pretty little gift from God?

You come awake on a gasp.

Clawing against iron wrapped around you—tentacles, maybe; you were at sea seconds ago, lost to the whims of the ocean as something tried to pull you down, down—and choking on an inhale that gets stuck in the hollow of your throat, glueing to tissue. A bubble that won't pop. That you can't breathe around—

"Keep squirmin' like tha', birdie, an' I’ll be ready t’go again."

The voice, slinking slowly through the thick fog spooled densely over your mind, comes in a lazy drawl half-growled into your crown, warm breath tickling over your scalp. Unfamiliar, too. And much too close.

Pieces click in the back of your head. You remember running. Hiding in the church. Being moved. Dreaming of a turbulent sea that rocked you back and forth—

Seasick. But no—

This isn't the ocean. It isn't your fiancè. 

The thing behind you is bigger, broader. Where you would have expected to meet solid muscle, you instead sink into a thick, warm pelt. One that's all heat. A raging fever. Burning against your back, under your thighs. 

This laden heaviness in your limbs. Your belly—

A burn there, too. A pulsing, terrifying ache; this pressure you can't squirm away from, can't breathe around—

Panic pops the bubble stuck in your throat when it surges up your esophagus like a fist. The world slowly loses the haze, the thick cloud of confusion and sticky-eyed sleep clinging like molasses to your awareness, but what is left behind when the veil is ripped off is nothing short of abject horror.

There's a man behind you.

But that's only half-true. 

In the sluggish grapple of your cognizance flailing around for solid ground in the heavy drape of hypnagogia, you shove your fingers into the degree of separation between sight and dream, curling against awareness, and—

You're cradled in his lap like a child. Spine liquid against his chest, legs pulled taut over impossibly thick thighs, knees bent at an angle that makes your hips twinge in discomfort. Pulled too far apart, and done so to make room. 

Nausea claws up your throat when your bleary eyes drop down to the immodest, intrusive spread of your legs, feet dangling helplessly in the air, bouncing with some unfathomable motion. The position takes a second to unravel, to work out with the sleep-sticky tremble in your fingers. Mind still chasing the end of a dream even as the sudden spill of massive, bare thighs takes shape in the trembling ruins of your cognizance.

And God—

You wish it didn't.

With your skirts rucked up beneath your bared breasts, held in place with a big, heavily scarred forearm looped around your ribs, crushing your arms to your body, you can see the unmistakable rut of pale, mauled muscles flexing, tensing 

And then suddenly, lifting.

“Told y’to stop squirmin', birdie—”

But you're not moving—

The pressure from before sharpens into a blistering ache as this—thing—inside of you grows. Stretches. Presses against tender, sore muscles as it snatches the last wisp of air from your heaving lungs. 

There's a sting so deep, so wide, inside of you that you almost think you can see the soft curve of something moving against the skin of your belly. A trick of the mind, maybe. 

Nightmare on solid ground. 

You clamp down against the urge to scream when it shifts within you, pulling on soft, tight walls. 

It hurts. Feels like you might be impaled on a dagger, maybe. A knife. A writhing mass devouring you from the inside out. But no—

You know what this—what it—is even if your brain refuses to acknowledge it. To let it take shape. 

It keeps you cradled in the protective cup of its palms where the world is superlunary, your body incorporeal. Weightless. 

But with every hiccup, each gasp, this nebulous sanctity congeals a little more into the brutal reality of what you've woken up to.

A man. 

Unfamiliar. Unknown.

Rasping in your ear. His breath soured by the leftover communion wine you'd found tucked beneath the pulpit. Reeking of sweat and stale tobacco. Dust and dirt. Days on the road. Something wild. Primal. Animal, maybe. The musky scent of a horse, fur heated under the sun. Unwashed man. Masculine and potent. Dirty. Carrying the scent of loam, humus, with each harried breath he heaves against you. 

But it's not just the smell of him. His hands, his skin, is covered in a hazy watercolour of grime from days without washing. From the sands of the barren, empty plains soaking into his skin, and smearing across scarred, torn tissue as he sweats in the heat.

Maybe it's his own internal fire causing him to burn so hot. Pyretic. An inferno against your back, under your thighs. So scorching, you wonder, dazedly, if it isn't the devil himself rutting into you below like a bullish beast.

With his feet tucked into big, dusty leather boots, you can't tell, but the sight of hooves emerging from them instead of pale, dirty skin wouldn't surprise you in the slightest. 

Maybe it'll be easier to stomach if he was just that because what sort of man would do this to you in an abandoned house of worship. 

A beast—

His arm tightens. With a grunt, he shifts, grinding you down into that ineluctable pressure, maneuvering you on his lap like some oversized doll, a child's toy. A plaything for him to amuse himself with. To use—

In the pit of your belly, something blooms. A vicious, untenable feeling of fragility. Weakness. You can't move an inch in his ferric grip. Can't breathe without his assent. You're little more than an object cradled in his hands. Utterly powerless in a way you haven't really felt at all—not even when the man you were supposed to marry curled his hand around your wrist and told you that he'd enjoy chopping your independence down into bite-sized pieces. Gorge himself on your helplessness. 

This makes the frailty, that clawing, desperation feel like a boy's play at patriarchal ownership. Clumsy stumbling through the motions. A pantomime of sadistic cruelty. Revelry in power. 

That was a loss of control. 

This—

This is not. 

In order to lose something you need to have had it in your grasp to begin with. 

It was yours when you ran from the man, your fiance, when he clamped his hand around your wrist, eyes wild and feverish with delirium, and said he'd keep you forever. Life of imprisonment chained a man who scared you more than the gnarled scar on the side of his head.

And after, too. As you fled from the coach on a whim when it rattled over a small hill, tumbling down the embankment. Hiding in a small alcove, waiting for them to grow tired of searching for you.

Cradled when you found the church. A safe haven. A place to rest—

Only to wake up to a hand on your throat. A purr in your ear. 

Hands empty. 

Useless. 

Curling into the messy spill of your skirts, clinging to the fabric until your joints ache from the strain, and your nails bite through cloth to sink into skin, because that's all you can do. 

Clutch. Hold. Plead—

"Takin' me so well, ain't you, birdie?"

Even his voice sounds devilish. A robust, brassy rumble you've never heard from a man before. More akin to the growl of a tiger. Beastal and wrong. Drenched in a thick, unmistakable bliss as he seats himself deep inside of you like he's been bestowed the privilege. Allowed to claim what you denied even to your intended husband—

"P-please stop—"

Each steady pump of his hips fills your belly with more of that impossible, overfull feeling. The too-tight squeeze of you around something that wasn't ever meant to fit pulls at your flesh until it burns.

"Please—" your moan is a wretched, mournful thing, but it makes him grunt into your ear like a starved, taunted beast. The arm slung possessively around your ribs tightening into a painful squeeze that forces the air from your lungs in a huff.

The dizzying spill of hypoxia makes you almost thankful when it dulls the blunt, fat split of him bludgeoning into you in response. A sharp, full jerk that tears through you. Forcefully eking space where there is none left to give. Stretching, rearranging, until you can feel him in the very apex of your being.

But in that, a strange, horrifying trill brims, leaking from the pressure cracks of your bones. Spinal fluid dripping out. Thick, hot oil that steadily floods the mess between your thighs, eroding the bones, the muscles, in your pelvis until all that remains is an oozing, gooey pool he rocks into. Molten.

Sticky, wet sounds spill from the cradle between your thighs, each one burning through your chest until you choke, mortified. Blistering from shame.

It's difficult to catch your breath around the squeeze of his arm over your ribs, and the too-full stretch in your belly. Harder, too, to think. To make sense of the wall of solid, soft heat against your spine. The ache in your thighs as your legs are spread much too wide.

Everything below his arm feels like an open, pulsing wound—

But it changes when his hand, just as scarred, as ugly, as his thighs, the forearm clenched tight around your waist, slides down from its lazy perch on your neck, lowering to the gaping, throbbing wound between your thighs.

He curls it into a loose fist, scabbed, scarred knuckles sharpening into fattened peaks. His fingers bend inward, seeking.

It doesn't make sense until he touches you.

With your swollen folds spread over the thigh (impossibly thick; monstrously so—) girth of him, it opens you up to his wandering hand. He delves into the split seam of you, rubbing calloused, rough fingers over throbbing, stretched flesh. 

And for a moment, it's just a tickle. Pressure on your puffy, outer lips, but then he leans back, shifting the angle of your pelvis until he can slide his dirty fingers up, up—

"Fuck, lil' bird. Gonna strangle my cock if you get any tighter—"

You're howling. Thrashing in his hold as the ache pulses, squeezing like a vice around the unfathomable, fattened mass bullying itself desperately inside of you. Rutting bluntly against something just behind your navel that makes you nauseous with each stroke. Every muscle in your body seizes as he grunts, ugly and vicious, into your ear and starts moving you against him, lifting and jerking your body into his lap, meeting his own thrusts.

“Must want it bad, eh, birdie? Listen to you—” his fingers slide through the mess between your thighs, and the sound that spills makes you think of the shores of Asphaltites. The splash of brimstone—slick, wet. Wanting. Am-heh lapping at the waters. “Fuckin’ gagin’ for it.”

You're not. No. You want to scream but the air is snuffed from your lungs. Sickness writhes in the back of your throat, clawing desperately at the walls of the esophageal prison it's locked inside. Inescapable. You can't let it out—

He wouldn't like that, you think, and it splinters in the back of your head. Separating into fragmentary pieces. Their sharp, obsidian edges, still slick with those broken, polluted whims—be good, it drips; be good and take it—press into soft tissue, cutting open gyri. Stuffing the wound—

And he's speaking, too. Groaning in your ear as he rocks into you. Bein’ so good f’me, ain't you? Takin’ my cock like this—

Good. 

Against your will, you relax. Swallow down the sickness trapped in your throat. Good. The tension bleeds out of your muscles, and in the slippage, your softened thighs sink into his lap a little more, pushing him deeper than he was seconds ago. 

It rips a whine from the back of your throat when that too tight, stinging feeling spins into something else. Still overfull, but—spreading. Evolving. Shifting as spills into the gaps, flooding, and filling, and—

Good. It's good. 

The noises he makes change suddenly as your body eases, melting around him almost without thought, wholly against your will. Turns animalistic, feral, as you breathe into the heat swallowing you whole, chasing more of that overwhelming fullness, that hazy, ghosting pleasure that peppers delicate kisses over your nerves—gentling, distant; but growing closer with each shift—

“Tha’s it—” he snarls, shoving his face into your sweat-slicked nape. All teeth. The whitehot brush of a tongue. “Can feel your little cunt openin’ up f’me. Want more o’ my cock, birdie? Such a greedy thing, ain't you?”

The physical sting of jagged teeth scraping over your damp skin marries the burn scorching your chest in a brutally demeaning synchronicity. 

It's intentional, of course. 

You know what this mockery, this cruelty is, but they reave through the vestiges of propriety, unearthing your shame until it lays between those crooked teeth he keeps pressed into your skin. 

The etchings of a smirk tickle along the knob of your spine when his mangled mouth pulls upward at your harried whimper. 

“Bein’ such a good girl, ain't you?” He coos, digging those assailing fingers deeper into the soil of your mortification. “Takin’ my cock like this—” a groan trembles over his words, a clawing, helpless thing he can't seem to bite down on. “An’ in a ‘ouse o’ god, no less.”

His voice is airy. Thinner. Drenched in thick amusement as he cleaves into you with a growing desperation.

“Who knew I ‘ad such a sweet little cunt waitin’ for me?” 

You want to refute his words, but he just squeezes your ribs before you can shape them on your tongue. Renting your protestations until they fall in a choked gasp, a mewl, at his feet. 

“Been locked up a long time. Got a lot saved up f’you—”

This new dip in his abasement doesn't make sense until he shifts, shuffling forward on the pew. It brings your line of sight closer to the broken window on the wall to the right of the crooked pulpit. A candle burns on a worn, wooden stand beneath the shattered glass. In the flickering candlelight, and hazed against the unfathomable blackness of a moonless night in the desert, the image that forms in this swelling abyss is nothing short of horrifying. 

As the contours render slowly—spilling like liquid ignominy in midnight satin—the hulking shape behind you begins to fill out. 

The first thing you notice—

He's big. His broad chest nearly swallows you whole as he leans over you like a hellish beast readying itself to devour you alive. 

But it's not just his size that trips your pulse into a painful sprint, but the sight of him. 

He looks mauled. Decorated almost entirely in thickened scar tissue running in strange, jagged lines along his skin, coloured in swaths of soft pink and blotchy purple. Deep pocks. Slashes. The meat beneath the right side of his jaw, right beside his chin, is missing, leaving behind the indented slope of shiny pink tissue cratering deep down to bone. 

The baleen lines scraped into his wound look like the flat press of teeth and you wonder if someone took a bite out of him. 

He makes a strangled noise when you shudder, tensing at the cannibalistic nature of the wound—of the mosaic of brutality sliced into skin. 

“Go’ so fuckin' tight, birdie—” in the window, the blurred image of this beast draws closer to you, mouthing along the slope of your neck with a ruined mouth. A mockery of a lover's kiss as he shifts you in his lap, rasping: gonna make me fuckin' cum if you keep squeezin’ me like tha’

It rips out another shiver that tickles along your spine, making you tense up again with a choked sob as the thickened press of his cock grinds against something inside of you that makes your vision swim and your ears ring—

Cutting through the pulsing roar in your ears is a thunderous groan from deep inside of his chest. It's a savage, terrifying thing that claws over the haze, ripping it to pieces between it can spool over your head. 

Blinking through the tears in your eyes, you're met with a swell of cold, deadened fury. 

“Fuckin’ hell—” he spits on a biting snarl, tendons in his neck bunching together. A vein pops out from beneath his skin, throbbing in a dark, blue line—

“Ain’t givin’ it to you good enough, huh, birdie?”

You don't know what you did. Can't untangle the sudden anger in his voice as it sunders that thread of his derisive subjugation, ushering in an unfathomable anger slashing over his brow. 

With your arms trapped under his, you can't brace yourself when he pushes to the edge of the pew with a growl, and begins to shove himself inside of you with a terrifying speed. 

It's too much. You can't breathe around the punishing pace he sets. Forcing himself into you over and over again. Taking you. Making you take him.

There's no escape. His hold is like iron around you. You can barely cling on as he moves you up and down his cock, forcing the fat, blunt head into your sore, tender walls at a bruising pace. Each rock jarring your body as he makes you swallow him down to the root—look'it tha', he coos, ugly and biting and mean, his hand dropping to press tight against your belly; the pressure making you feel sick: go' my whole cock in there now, birdie—

"Tha's it," he rasps, rubbing his mauled, torn muzzle over your shoulder. Jagged teeth catching skin. "Squeeze my cock, birdie. Fuck, go' such a tight lil' cunt, don't you? 'nough t'make a man go half insane, ain't it?" He tilts his head suddenly, blowing warm, humid breath over your cheek when he exhales on a mean, callous scoff.

"S'what you do, birdie? D'you offer this sweet pussy up t'anyone who passes by?"

His words are uglier than the moulting scars on his skin, and they sink deep inside your head when he presses his foul mouth up against your ear, groaning the words out between rasping pants. Tha' what y'do, birdie? Spread these pretty thighs t'anyone? Don't even know who I am and y'pantin' for it. Gaggin' for m'cock—

You flinch away from the sting of them, twisting in his hold to escape. To run—

But he just huffs mockingly in your ear, deriding you about how you're tightening up like a pretty fuckin' bow around his cock.

"Made for it, weren't you?" He taunts, words rolling between jagged, fangled teeth. Sharpened to a brutal, devastating point.

You shake your head as much as you can with his face tucked inside the curve of your throat, mewling feebly in denial because that's all you can do. Whine. Sob. Wailing like an animal as he pistons his hips into you, each jarring thrust accompanying a sting on the back of your thighs as his hard, unyielding flesh slaps into yours.

It's humiliating. Shameful. His finger presses into something that makes your belly knot. Muscles tightening. Spasming. Your leg kicks out against the back of the pew when he smothers his thumb over that place again, drawing tight circles that make your navel throb, pulsing as if your heart dropped down to the pit of your belly. Beating like a drum behind your mound.

It's agony. Terrifying, awful agony—

But it isn't. It's not. Not really.

Not when he drapes himself over your back, lowering his stubbled, unevenly textured chin to your shoulder, and shoves you forward. The angle gives him more room to pull out, and the emptiness that follows each retreat has you sobbing. Fingers clawing at the tangled mess of your skirts to cling to something as the ugly, awful feeling inside of you tips on its axis. Shifts.

It's wrong. So, so wrong—

You don't want this.

But he doesn't give you much of a choice except taking it. Letting it happen.

"But tha's not true anymore, is it, birdie?"

His arm tightens around you. Squaring against the ground as he spreads his thighs further apart, rutting into you with a fit of anger that steals the scant air from your lungs. Drills real, tangible fear into your head that he's going to break you if he doesn't slow down, doesn't stop—

"...'cause you're mine," he snarls, lips tucked against your ear so you can hear him over the awful noise made as he hammers into you, the sickeningly lewd squelch. The stinging slap of soft skin of firm muscle. "Ain't you, birdie? An' this cunt—" his fingers trail down, grazing over the skin of your rim stretched too tight around the thick of him. Pressing until it hurts. "Belongs to me now, don't it?"

He mocks your pained whimper with a patronising coo of his own, but mercifully, the pressure shifts away. The respite, however, is brief. 

The arm locked around your ribs shifts as his fingers slide to the cradle of your mound, his thumb brushing over your tender, sensitive clit in slow circles. His other hand peels off of your forearm, reeling back slightly before shoving inside the loose gap of your unlaced dress, cupping your breast in a rough, scorching palm. 

He squeezes it tight in his hand until you whine, squirming against the discordant sensations dragging over your nerves. The pleasure of his thumb doing something magic between your thighs and the bruising ache in your breast—

It shifts again when he moves his hand, dragging it back until your pebbled nipple is trapped under the broad trap of his thumb. Just pressing. Holding. The touch is daunting. Possessive. 

You tense again. Waiting—

The pain doesn't come. 

It's just—strange. Ticklish. He rubs his finger over your nipple in slow, ghosting swipes. Barely a whisper of a touch. A mere graze. And as you slowly acclimate to these soft, small circles, the pleasure grows, pulsing between your thighs.

Every pass of his fingers feels like it's strumming against some taut line that coils behind your navel, tightening. Growing—

And then it's gone. Dissipating into frustration with a mean huff spilling out against your nape, quickly reshaping itself into a low, mocking taunt when you thrash, mewling pitifully at the loss of that heady feeling liquifying in your veins. 

“We're you about t’cum, birdie?” 

He tuts at that; making a low, mordant coo in the back of his throat when you whimper in response. 

“Didn’t know you were so greedy.” 

There's a strange undercurrent in his tone you can't make sense of. This loose, looping thread that weaves between the seams. Incomprehensible—

But you find the answer in his touch. 

It tightens almost in warning, but you know him better now than to let yourself trip into that fallacy. A notion that solidifies itself when the hand that was once pushing you to that heavy, all-encompassing brink steadies itself on your belly. Pushing. He anchors his hold against your breast, letting it fill the cup of his palm as he squeezes once more, another mocking warning, and then begins to move. 

The pace is rougher, faster, than before. With you tipped forward slightly in his lap, the angle makes it easier for him to unleash that thread of ire on you. Using the space to plant his feet solidly on the ground, knees spreading as he bucks his hips, pounding his cock deeper, harder, into you with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers and sobbing moans from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust. 

Your teeth clack painfully together when he pulls you down to meet each one, cock shoving so deep inside of you, you could swear it was lodging against your heart. Knocking everything inside of you askew to make room, to fit—

There's a sudden, stinging pain that blooms from between your thighs, and you thrash as it happens again, again—

His hand comes down over your clit, and you yowl at the burning sensation of him slapping you there—

"Please, please—!"

You can't recognise your voice anymore. It sounds wrecked. Raw. Each blow draws out a deafening wail as the heat reaches a blistering zenith. A devouring, ravenous heat—

His voice cuts through the shrill ring of it all. "Say it, birdie. Who does this cunt belong to?"

It tips off your lips in a desperate litany. A plea. You, you, you—

"S'not good enough, birdie. You gotta say it. Who does this cunt belong to?"

You say it because that's what he wants—you. it belongs to you. my cunt belongs to you. please, please, pleasepleaseplease stop—but he groans like you've gutted him. Slamming his palm down against your tender, swollen clit as he sloppily ruts into you, grunting in your ear about God and wives and fuck, buried, this sweet cunt was gonna drive him fuckin' mad—

Everything narrows down to raw sensation. Just the constant, feverish push of his cock dragging against your walls, bluntly pushing into that spot behind your navel that makes your ears ring, and your vision swim. The scorching press of rough skin against your stinging, throbbing clit; the abrasive stroke of each clumsy, pawing circle catching on swollen flesh. Blooming a vicious heat in your belly.

It draws tight. Coiling into a tense knot as a ruts into you, grunting about being close, so fuckin' close, birdie, so you better come on my cock; want this pussy coming all over me—

There's a sharp pain burrowing into your nape, his teeth sinking in deep, breaking skin with jagged teeth, and that knot snaps. Shattering into a series of intense, dizzying pulses that squeeze behind your navel, liquid bliss saturating through the cracks, and bubbling, molten, in your veins.

You're a twitching, shuddering mess. A sicky spill melting into his chest as he clamps down harder against you, grunting around the bite of flesh he lodged between his jowls as he swells inside of you, finding his release.

As he throbs inside of you, his teeth dig in deeper, biting down harder on your nape to smother the snarl ripped from his throat. His hips pump into you with staggered jerks bereft of all finesse; just a clumsy rut as he chases the aftermath of that same mind-numbing euphoria rippling through the honeyed mess of your body.

But it's this bliss that mutes the pain, hiding it under the deluge of endorphins that mushrooms inside of your head, blotting out the pain that you can feel lingering on the periphery. Looming on the edges of the syrupy spill of bliss still pounding in your veins.

Even with clots numbing the worst of it, you can feel the ache in your muscles each time you move. A prelude to the rest of the night, perhaps.

A thought that scraps against the film covering your fear. Panic an acrid burn in the back of your throat, a sting in the corners of your eyes—

Just as you open your mouth to rasp out the words let me go, he unhinges his jaw from your nape, and huffs.

There's a paralysing stab of fear cudgelling into you whenever he moves. It wells up from the wound, and you wait, teetering on a knife's edge as he slumps back against the pew, body unspooling from its tight coil as he lazes with you still sat on his lap, on his cock, purring like a satiated cat, ignorant of (or purposefully ignoring) the way you flinch at his touch when he drops his hand down between your thighs to cradle your sore, abused cunt. Even spent, softening, he still feels so big inside of you. A thickness you can't think around.

"Never came inside anyone before," he muses, catching the trickle of slick, of cum, that leaks out when he shifts back. "Ain't you lucky, birdie? Was savin’ it all up for you. An’ you go' the honour o' bein' my wife."

It cracks through the air like a whip. The echo resounds in the back of your head, smothering the whimper of panic that claws up your throat. Wife. Wife—

"I—I have a fiance," you stutter out, heaving through tattered lungs. "I can't—"

"How's I supposed to know? I don't see 'im, do I?"

"He's—he's looking for me. And he's a real, um, powerful man. I won't—I won't tell anyone if you let me go. You can just—just leave, and I'll never speak of this to anyone—"

His arm tightens around you, snuffing the words out on a pitiful gasp.

"Fucked you nice an' full o'my cum, birdie. You jus' gonna go back to 'nother man when I'm drippin’ down your thighs?”

Your lungs ache. "Please, you didn't—you can't—"

He swipes his fingers through the mess puddling under your thighs with a derisive snort, and brings his hand up to your face. Making you look at the thick, milky smear sticking to his skin. Slowly, he pries his index and middle finger apart, twisting his wrist to show you the web that glues between them.

It's a lot, you think, stomach churning. Too much.

"An' there's more o'tha' all nice an' plugged up inside you, birdie. Gonna sit here til it takes."

He draws his hand closer, thumb and ring finger closing around your cheeks, squeezing painfully until your mouth pops open on a whimper. His fingers bully between the gap of your lips. 

It's bitter. Salty. You try not to gag as he roughly shoves them in deeper, knuckles knocking into your teeth as he forces them in, petting his fingers over your tongue. Your gums. Your teeth. The soft skin of your cheeks. Smearing his spend all over your mouth. Making you taste it.

And it's as vile as it is demeaning, and you shudder at the chuff of amusement that rumbles out when you gag, choking when he shoves his fingers in too deep. Trying not to weep as he lowers his head to your nape, nipping the throbbing, torn skin around the bite mark, grunting out a callous demand of swallow it. All o' it. Every drop. If you don't, then I'll jus' make sure you get it from the source next time—

"Bet you'd look so fuckin' pretty on your knees f'me, wouldn't you? Gaggin' on my cock. Could barely take it all in your sweet cunt, an' tha' was made for me, wasn't it? Be a struggle to get it all down—"

"Please," you slur around his fingers, shaking your head pitifully as his cock stirs inside of you, twitching at the revolting image he draws. "I'll—"

He taps his fingers against the roof of your mouth and you clamp your lips shut to stem the nausea that surges. Swallowing reluctantly around the bitter taste of him on your tongue. A painful gulp that makes him groan.

"See, birdie? You're full o'me now."

His fingers tickle when they drag over the wet, sticky skin of your lips. A tease. 

He grunts when you shiver, cunt inadvertently clenching around him—

"Ain't ready for another round jus' yet," his voice drops, pitching low. You freeze instantly. Falling still on a shallow gasp. "But if you don't stop squirmin' on my cock like this, birdie, I reckon I'll 'ave you bent over the pulpit soon enough. What kinda husband would I be if I didn't give my wife what she was achin' for?"

Wife. There it is again. And nestled within the cruel word is the clink of a metal collar locking around the inflamed curve of your chewed up neck. Bound to a man you don't know. Don't want to know—

With you held in his grasp, tucked securely to his chest, he settles back into the pew with huff. A quiet admonishment when you try to stir, shushing you with a brief flex of his hand tightening around your neck. A warning. Be good. 

It's hard to think with him buried inside of you, still taking up so much space. 

And maybe that's the crux of it all. You can't breathe around the softening swell of him to let the thoughts form. Take shape. They flicker past in the moonless midnight of your mind; comets dying in the atmosphere. 

Or maybe you're too haunted by the pulse of his heartbeat somehow lodged inside of you, echoing in tandem with your own. A deafening rataplan you can feel in your belly. Your guts. 

You squirm—

“Birdie.” 

The cup of his palm flexes around your throat—a warning, maybe—and he's pulling you further back against the broad, thick swell of his chest. As easy as breathing. As easy as taking you apart in a church. Unmaking you in a pew. 

Turning a house of worship into a mausoleum. 

It's a little unfair, all things considered. You pay your dues on Sunday, head bowed over the back of a pew, hands demurely clasped in your lap as you mumble through the familiar beats of mild flagellation. Prettied up in penance. Handing out a fistful of coins and spare nickles when the offertory passes by. 

To be trussed up and tossed to the wolves twice over in a single night makes you tip your chin towards the angled, crumbling rafters in silent mutiny. But the bold, blasphemous display of fury doesn't cause the heavens to split, and some grand being to smite the demon sniffing the skin behind your ear. 

It only makes his hand settle more firmly around your throat, thumb sliding along the smooth curve from collarbone to jaw. The wide, unfathomable expanse of his hand is more than enough to bite at the vitriol brimming in the back of your throat. Don't be stupid. 

(At least—not yet, anyway.)

Without anywhere else to direct the smouldering embers of your anger—and not nearly stupid enough to break it on the jagged cut of his teeth—you slump against the steady rise and fall of his chest, letting it whisper out on an exhale. But even with self-preservation keeping the ugly words under a firm heel, you can deny that this tastes like defeat. 

A sour, bitter sting in the back of your throat—full o’me, birdie—that you struggle to swallow around. 

It feels like a tremendous weight you can't escape. Like everything is collapsing around like the raining ruins of a condemned house, leaving you half-buried in the rubble. Holding the roof overhead in your hands. This Atlassian task sinks your soles deeper into the dirt, dragging you down. 

His threat, his presence, is an anchor buried in the seabed—utterly immovable despite how hard you yank at the chain. 

Something has to give. 

You're not terribly surprised when that something is you. 

Riddled with holes, in tatters, the fight is quickly snuffed under the flood of water surging through. Filling space. 

It's fatigue. Exhaustion. You're drained, you think. Mentally, physically. Emotionally. Everything catches up all at once, and your heavy eyes start to blur around the edges, listing shut. 

For a second. Just a second. 

Through the sluggish putrefaction of mouldering grey matter, you try to promise yourself that you'll run, that you'll escape, after. You just need rest. Sleep. And once you have it—

He squeezes, choking the wayward thought out under the broad cradle of his palm almost as if he knew it was there. 

“Get some sleep, birdie,” he rumbles, low and brassy; the murmur of his voice purring through your ribs. “Go’ a long trip ahead o’ us yet. Gonna need it.”

It isn't the soft uttering of a man worried over your condition, but rather the rough, patronising drawl of a brute relishing the prize he caught. A plunderer preening over his loot. 

You don't spare much thought to where you're going, and let him pull your weak, battered body deeper into the broad spill of his warm chest, holding you against him as the residuum of your wounded survival instincts drown in the spill of exhaustion dripping out of each decisive cut trephined into your head. 

His muzzle is back on the side of your neck as your eyes slip shut, licking between the bracket of his fingers spreading possessively over your mauled skin with a rumble that trembles through your bones, shaking loose the last vestiges of your fight.

It's much too late to bemoan your lack of luck. Your lot in life. Even so—

Going from skirting around the grasping hands of a doglike man drooling on your toes, wagging his tail for just a taste—somethin’ tae take th’ edge off, doe, jus’ somethin’ tae quench this thirst; ah can't take it anymore—to waking up in the jaws of another beast, half-devoured, is such a devastating, almost Grecian sort of irony that had you any room to spare inside your belly (and if his hand not been so firmly clenched around your throat), you might have laughed until your knees gave out, and the world collapsed down on top of you. 

Instead, all you can do is try to get comfortable around the bellyaching fill of him, and pretend there's still a chance you can wiggle out of his grasp as easily as you did your fiance—

But as his molten tongue lashes over the wounds on your throat, digging the tip into the puncture mark he left behind, you can't help feeling the sharp sting of defeat hew through the lingering tendrils of hope, severing it at the root. Letting it bleed out in his hands. The same ones that shackle you to his chest, keeping you in his clutch like a stunned bird in the gaping maw of a wolf's jaws. 

Rather fitting, you suppose, as those artful fingers smear through the blood and sweat, pinching the stubborn remiges that remain until they're stuck firm between the tips. 

A tug, a pull—

They come loose, clutched his triumphant, bloody fist. 

And as the candle flickers, crawling down the wick, the flutter of them falling to the dirty floor casts shadows on the old church walls:

(crushed birds, burning dogs, and grasping hands surging from the depths—)

He stirs later, rousing you from a fitful sleep running from a burning dog by taking refuge in the gullet of a lake on fire. 

You blink, scrubbing your numb fingers over your sore, tired eyes. “What—?”

“Been thinkin’,” he says, and something about his tone prickles sharply at your paltry instincts, making them stir like lead in your guts. "What's the name of tha’ little fiance o'yours anyway?"

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Jus' think I should meet the man, is all. Considerin' I stole his little wife—"

A noise is wrenched out of you—some strange, strangled amalgamation of denial and dread. “Don't,” you whisper, a fever pitch; a plea. “Don't—”

He's unpredictable. His moods are as mercurial as the sea he crossed over to find you. Tempestuous: you think of his eyes, those burning pits. Much too wide. Wild. A frenzy. 

Like a fox—the one you saw when you were a child. Rabid, they said, tugging you away from those big, round eyes. Gone fuckin’ mad. 

With its lips peeling back, spitting up foam and sickness, it looked like it was smiling. 

Oh, doe; the same eyes, the same grin. Sickness dripping down his chin as he stared, slack-jawed and hungry. Been waitin’ so long fer ye—

“C’mon, can't be s’bad as all o’tha’.”

You think of him, then—perhaps the lesser of two evils—and shudder at the ripple of desperation spilling like oil into your chest. 

“Johnny,” you mutter, wondering if he'd still take you like this—ruined as you are; a pittance of what your father promised—if you ran back to him, broken tail tucked between your legs. Back to that foaming mouth and those big, wild eyes. “Johnny MacTavish.”

If he hadn't been stroking your jugular as he asked, trailing the tips of his fingers around the aching curve of your thigh with the other, you might have missed the frisson that crackled across his implacable veneer at the name. 

So suffused to him are you that any idea of distance is only divisible between atoms, and your skin hums with this little hiccup. The tensing of his muscles under your thighs; hands stuttering along flesh—

Something about that name makes him pause. 

“Johnny,” he says it like he's testing the word, feeling the way it fits between his teeth. Shifting the weight of it around his tongue. Warm-up. Stretching a muscle. Familiarity thrums along the seam of his mouth; pregnant with a mordant, mocking delight. “Might ‘ave to pay ‘im a visit after all.”

In its the afterbirth breathed into the world on his name where you see the cosm split, unveiling a world between them marbled in blood and viscera. 

Home in the manner of a botfly. 

Something that takes. Makes fecund land from flesh and bone; a parasitic kinship that eats itself, and everything else hapless enough to stumble inside its gaping, wounded maw. 

You think of a foaming grin. A sickness that burns from the inside out. 

A burning dog—

And when his smouldering hands reach between your thighs to cup your cunt in the broad spill of his palm, you feel the flaming waters of a blazing lake lapping at your spine. 

“‘ow ‘bout tha’?” he muses, a needling thread of ice splitting through his tone. “Guess it's a small world after all.” 

(—and a rather bleak one for you when he decides that God's will is stronger than a still-wet signature on a piece of paper.

Finder's keepers an' all o' tha'.

Besides, if Johnny really wanted you, he wouldn't have let you go, would he?)

[247-diaperboy]

In time, you found yourself calling your partner “Daddy”. At first, he asked you to do that, because he told you that you sound cute calling him that way. It was weird at first, but it eventually sat in.  One day, you woke up, still sleepy, and called “Daddy” to your daddy who was in the other room. He thought you were so cute, just like a toddler waking up, he promised you both he will buy you a pacifier. He did, and the next night he asked you to suck on it for at least 10 minutes in bed. You felt forced, but you wanted to make “Daddy” happy, so you sucked on it. It took you more than a few nights, but after a week you grow to like your pacifier, not only for bedtimes. You can’t explain it, but one day Daddy woke you up, shaking gently your shoulder. You asked “What’s wrong Daddy?” and then he grabbed your groin. You were wet, really wet. Not only your boxers but the sheets as well. He told you to get up and go get a shower. You just stayed quiet and did as you were told.

The next evening Daddy called you into the bedroom. He stood next to the bed, and a huge white diaper was on it. You tried to say no, you tried to explain it was all some kind of a mistake. You even called him by his real name, what got you a smack on your ass. He told you to say that you are sorry, and you replied “Sorry Daddy”. Daddy got your pacifier and put it in your mouth, shushing you. He told you to lay down on the bed, then he diapered you. It was the most embarrassing moment of your life.

After he was done, he told you to lay on your stomach and raise your ass a little. You were forced to suck on a pacifier, wear a huge diaper, and raise your ass. As you did this you became aroused and the feel of the diaper pressing against your manhood made you rock hard.

Daddy took a few steps back, bit his lower lip, then grabbed his crotch. It was done, from now on, you are his plaything, his boy.

Daddy spoke up and said you're going to make such a good diaper boy and make daddy so happy. From this day on you will wear whatever I lay out for you. Now get some rest before we go out to the club. I will have your clothes laid out for you when you wake up boy.

As you wake you see what daddy has laid out for you. You cringe at the thought of wearing a diaper to the club, but daddy isn't done yet. As you are setting on the bed your new daddy walks in and sets a chastity cage between your legs and say's now lay back while I get you dressed like a good boy.

As you look down you see the catheter inside the cage, and you look up at your new daddy and ask what is that?

Daddy tells you it is a catheter. Once it is inserted and the cage is locked on you, I will have full control over you. You will wear your diaper and slowly wet it with no control as the catheter will be placed inside your bladder ensuring you wet your diaper. I also noticed how excited you became when you had that diaper on so the chastity cage will ensure to keep you from becoming hard like a man.

From this day forward you will have no control. Daddy will make all decisions for you. Now make daddy proud and lay back and except your new life boy.

[nodoubtily]

Lowk..jealous jungwon smut..heh..

OOOOO POOKIE

warnings : smut so MDNI, jealous jw, dry jumping, climaxing in pants, hickies (m.recieved) LMK IF I MISSED ANYTHING!!

“Can we leave?” You ask your clueless boyfriend. He gazes at you, confusion written in his eyes.

“Leave? We just got here—“

“Please, Jungwon.” You interrupt him, and he really takes a look at you. He notices discomfort, and something else among your facial features that he can’t pin a finger on. He nods though.

“Shit guys, something came up. We’re gonna head out.” Jungwon says, as you both turn to your friends. They all complain, begging you to stay. Except one. But you don’t look at her.

“See you guys.” You wave goodbye, and you open the front door, heading to Jungwon’s car, where you close the door before he can catch up, and you buckle your seatbelt, and you don’t look or talk to Jungwon when he gets in too.

Without a word, he starts up the car, reversing out of your friend’s driveway.

“Baby, what’s—“ you don’t let him finish that sentence when your lips are on his. Yours moves against his in a hurry, as if you’re scared he’ll leave. Your hands find their way through his hair, and he responds to the kiss, his hands palming your waist. When you pull away, he laughs. “What was that about.”

“Just wanted to know if you still found me attractive.” You respond quietly, though he caught it.

“What? Why wouldn’t I still find you attractive?” He questions you, and embarrassment flashes over you. Then you remember her face. Her laugh when Jungwon said something. Her filthy fucking hands when they swiped over Jungwon’s shoulder. Her eyes when he talked about something he’s passionate about. And she did all of this right in front of you, no shame.

You groan slightly. “It’s annoying how oblivious you can be sometimes.” You don’t mean to be rude, but you can’t help it. You’re hurt. Call it insecurity or whatever, but you really love Jungwon, and you’re terrified he’ll find someone better.

“What do you mean?”

“You mean to tell me that you didn’t notice the way Jasmine gawked over you?” You ask, a tad more aggressive than you want to be.

“Babeeee, she wasn’t—“

“Yes she fucking was!” You turn to walk away, already done, when Jungwon, without skipping a beat, grabs your wrist, pulling you flush against him. You stare up at him, conflicted whether to be angry at him or admire him. You guess you can do both.

“I’m yours. I don’t want anyone else. I’m only yours.” Jungwon says. You can’t be mad at him. “I only want you.”

Without warning, his lips meet yours in a searing kiss, his hands pulling you against him. Your hands snake around his neck, and his hands lead down to your ass cheeks, where he kneads your flesh over your denim skirt. Little moans leave your mouth, turning both of you on.

You pull away, and you grab his hand as you lead him to the couch, pushing him onto it. He looks up at you, arms resting on the back of the couch as his eyes challenge you.

You take your seat where you belong, straddling him with your legs resting either side of him. Your skirt rides up to your hips, more like a belt then anything else, your white lace panties on display. Jungwon groans at the sight, before he dips his fingers in between you both, padding the wet patch showing through your panties.

A choked whine echoes through the room as he begins to slowly rub through your undies, and you absentmindedly grind over his fingers, your hands finding ground on his broad shoulders. Your eyes don’t leave his, too engrossed in this tension filled moment.

Jungwon slides his hand away from your clit, grabbing your hips to rock against his hardening dick. He thrusts his hips to meet with yours, forming a rhythm that feels too good.

He then stops you moving, and you whine, but his finger meets your lips to silence you. “Sit up a bit.” You move so your standing on your knees, and you watch as Jungwon lifts his hips slightly to pull down his jeans, before he plops you back down. You begin to move again, and it feels much better when there’s less clothing to block you.

You begin to rock more, and Jungwon kisses you as you grind on top of him with more force, chasing the orgasm you so desperately need. Jungwon sits there, mouth moving against yours in a hurry as his hands move to palm your tits, massaging them through your cropped shirt.

You lean down to Jungwon’s neck, decorating his smooth skin with prominent bruises to show who he belongs to. His voice becomes more whinier as you more faster, stimulating you both as knots deep in your stomach begin to form.

Breathless kisses and low moans flood the hot atmosphere as you both continuously become more hot and bothered.

“I’m gonna cum.” You say, rubbing your clit over his tip, and he bucks his hips up in sensitivity.

“You’re so good at this..” his voice is needy, and you both feel the knots in your abdomens tighten at the sound of each other’s noises.

“Gonna make me cum, Wonnie.” You shove your head into the crook of his neck, hips moving on their own accord as you both chase after your nearing climaxes.

Jungwon kissed you again, hands on either side of your face as he eats your mouth, tongue dancing with yours in desperation.

Until a loud, shaky moan escapes from his mouth, and his hands grasp your hips as he lifts you both up, his hips bucking uncontrollably as his cum seeps into his boxers. You feel his balls pressed against your cunt, and you yourself feel the knot snap.

Waves after waves of craved pleasure flood your insides as the most pornographic moan elicits from deep in your chest.

Jungwon’s hands guide you slowly over his softening cock as you both ride out your orgasms. Panting and huffing, he suddenly grabs your face, being his own closer.

“I love you. I only love you. I only want you. I don’t care if anyone else looks at me, because I’m only looking at you.” He reassures you, eyes boring into yours with honesty.

“Okay Wonnie. I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” He leaves one last peck on your lips, as he pulls his pants up. He feels disgusting with his seed in his boxers, but he’ll deal with it until you’re ready.

Perm taglist : @jyikeu @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby

[neuronary]

#The Chase is them chasing him all over the Earth Kingdom#Azula meanwhile keeps getting thoughts about being the best and Earth Rumbles. only one of these is abnormal.#I'm sure that'll be fine#atla#avatar the last airbender#platonic brain polycule let's goooo#Zuko#Sokka#Aang#the gaang

I haven't touched a:tla in years but if there's one thing MuffinLance can do it's inspire me.

---

Azula keeps dreaming that she is blind.

It's strange, not least because when she dreams it it does not seem strange in the slightest, but it has alerted her to a weakness, and she cannot abide weaknesses.

The servants never question her (they are too afraid of her, which is meant to feel good but mostly feels twisty in the very depths of her stomach like if she thinks of Mai and Ty Lee for too long) so she is almost always left to her own devices. She knows they watch her, think her strange, as she wanders the palace halls, a blindfold over her face, tracing the walls until she has mapped every corner.

She'll know it better than the face in the mirror when she's finished. Better than her hands, which are her father's, and her hair, which is her mother's. This will be her's.

---

"Okay, what the fuck," Toph says, upon sitting up.

"Language," The Boulder says tiredly. "C'mon, I told you guys to watch it around her."

"Are you, alright, Bandit?" Headhunter asks. "This is the third time this week."

"I'm fine," Toph grumbles, because she is fine, she just keeps randomly falling asleep when she usually stays up way later and it's annoying more than anything.

"Maybe you should--" the Gecko begins. He is cut off by Toph hurling rocks at him.

---

It's good. Mai and Ty Lee are with her again and it's good. They're hers and she's finally got them back and that's good.

Azula ignores the little voice in her head that thinks that's sort of fucked up. That is decidedly not hers and therefore none of her concern.

---

Toph is pretty sure you can't own people. Or at least, if you do, it's very bad. That's not how having friends works. Except she finally has friends, for the first time in her whole life, and she's not totally sure it counts.

There's something... off. It's like she's always standing on the outside of their little circle. Like there's always something they're not telling her. Like the feeling of someone else shifting the earth beneath her feet before she wrenches it back from them.

She doesn't like it.

Maybe they're not her friends, because they're clearly not hers.

She throws more rocks at the Avatar and doesn't think about it.

---

When Azula dreams of her brother's faceless voice, it is not unusual; she doesn't know what he looks like anymore, although she can guess. When she dreams of him laughing, easily, surrounded by friends, it is unusual.

Mai and Ty Lee are there when she sleeps, sometimes uncontrollably. They both seem to understand that the world has changed for her, with the shifting of the ground and the sounds of the air singing far more than the visual cues she used to rely upon.

She can't trust anyone, she knows that. But if she could, she would trust them. Them, and the little voice in the back of her head that is definitely not hers.

---

Toph cannot see when she is awake and she cannot see when she dreams. That is what it means to be blind.

"What troubles you, young earthbender?" Uncle asks. Everyone just calls him 'Uncle' even though he's only Zuko's and nobody bothered telling her his name. Well. She's not going to ask.

Toph cannot see when she dreams her own dreams but sometimes. Sometimes she dreams of calligraphy brushes and play scrolls and classrooms and somehow she recognises them.

(Sometimes, she dreams of a long platform and two figures and flames and sometimes she is frozen and sometimes she screams and screams until everything is blue.) (She shouldn't even know what blue is.)

"Nothing," Toph says, flicking her foot and sending a rock the size of Uncle's stomach flying.

"What the hell, Toph?" the others all demand in perfect unison.

"Nothing," she repeats, soundless underneath their shared laughter.

Uncle's heartbeat thumps worried.

Toph ignores him.

---

"You can go home," Azula says after waking, feeling sick at herself and shaky. She cannot abide weakness. "You can go home, if you want. I'm not keeping you here."

"Why would I want to do that?" Mai drawls, picking underneath her nails with one of her knives.

Ty Lee smiles sympathetically. "Are you having nightmares?" The 'again' is silent.

"No," Azula lies, because one truth is one too many and she cannot abide weakness.

"We're not going home," Ty Lee agrees after a moment. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Azula should simply nod, accepting their loyalty, act as though it was a test. She feels sand in her throat at the thought. "Good," she says, half her voice, half another.

"Go back to sleep, you two," Mai grumbles, "or do you want to take my watch?"

When Azula dreams, she dreams of their days at the Royal Academy, before things were complicated and the worst part of her life was her mother's complaints. She dreams of Mai and Ty Lee and a girl in green who smiles as wide as Ty Lee and laughs twice as loud.

---

These people are nothing to you, it occurs to Toph as Aang shouts at her, like it's her fault they all left her to guard everything, like they didn't all leave her outside the library just like they leave her on the outside of everything else. Her hands are almost shaking with the rage that builds up in her, half hers, half another's, but all there, tight in her chest.

"How could you abandon him?" Aang cries.

The snap is more mental than audible.

"How could I do anything else?" Toph screams back. "How am I supposed to know what to do when none of you tell me anything?! Would you rather I let all of the rest of you get buried in that stupid library? Would that have just been a convenient way to get rid of me? Don't think I can't tell that you all hide things from me! What, is it some kind of signal the stupid little blind girl can't see? Well, this little blind girl saved all of your lives, so maybe you should be a little grateful! Maybe I shouldn't even bother with any of you!"

She hates them, all of them, with their stupid inside jokes, and their stupid expectations, and their stupid secret language she can't see.

They're all idiots, clearly. They hang around with Zuzu.

They apologise, after a while, because she's right, and they promise they didn't mean to exclude her.

"It's just that we've all got this spooky spirit psychic link," Sokka explains, a few days later. "We can kind of hear each others' thoughts and see each others' dreams. It's weird."

They can see each others' dreams. Huh.

"Huh," Toph says.

---

Azula dreams of the Fire Lord condemning her failure. She dreams of flames. She dreams of watching Zuko burn and being Zuko burning and of screaming. It's a familiar scene, up until it isn't.

Suddenly, as she dreams of being Zuko, burning because she failed, she dreams instead of the earth bursting forth to crush the Fire Lord. She dreams of him vanishing down, deep underground. She dreams of walls of earth and mud and stone rising between them, of flames bouncing helplessly off rocks.

She dreams of great beasts that make the earth rumble and feel more like home than the palace ever did.

When she wakes up, Mai and Ty Lee are watching her with a frown.

No matter how strange her dreams become, Azula knows reality. She has no choice.

"We're going to get into Ba Sing Se," she says, "and we're going to kill the Avatar."

---

Ba Sing Se is awful, just like Toph thought it would be. Everybody is still keeping things from her, and it hurts regardless of whether or not they mean it.

She's been having nightmares, too. Or, rather, the girl whos dreams she's seeing is having nightmares, and Toph can't seem to help all that much. She wishes she could do more, could save the girl's brother, but the fear paralyses her almost as badly as it paralyses her dreammate. It's all she can do to protect this girl, this firebender who is deathly afraid of the Fire Lord.

"Toph?" says Sokka. "We're going out to put up the Appa posters. Don't forget to bring a snack."

Toph grabs at the fruit bowl and comes away with an orange. She scowls and shoves it in her pocket; she's never been able to peel oranges properly. It's still in her pocket when she is captured.

---

They won't bother to rescue me, comes the thought, bitter and resigned and very much not her's.

They'll take too long to even notice that I'm gone.

Azula pauses her planning. It's taken some time to understand, but she's fairly certain that the voice in her head, the girl in green from her dreams, and the earthbender guarding her nightmares are one and the same. This is just the last piece of the puzzle.

"Mai," she says quietly, considering. "Ty Lee. Would you leave me for a moment? I need to meditate."

They share a look, concerned, that makes her fond in a way she wouldn't have been before this, but they leave.

---

These people are nothing, the other girl in Toph's head reassures her through her panic. What people say is impossible is nothing for people like us.

She breathes. In, and out, like the badgermoles taught her (like her father taught her).

Toph stands up and feels for the earth, for the parts of it that remain, no matter what is done to it.

Toph breathes, and stands up, and bends metal.

Anything is possible.

---

Azula watches the earthbender listen to the Avatar's sky bison leave, the beating of its limbs through the air above them roaring like a great flame.

Uncle Iroh twists to look at her, already trapped by the Dai Li. "Toph," he says, warningly, and the tone reminds Azula of every time he scolded her for retaliating against Zuko, every time he sided with her mother, every time he told her that's not a lady's way. In any case, the earthbender ignores him and turns to trudge towards them, shoving a hand into her pocket as she goes.

When she stops in front of Azula, she's holding out an orange.

"I think this is for you," the earthbender says.

You're mine, she thinks. You're mine to protect, like I'm yours, aren't I?

Azula takes the orange. "Yes," she says. "Yes, I think you're right."

Some spirit manages to get the gaang and zuko a link that connects their minds. They can share thoughts and their past with each other.

Tweaking this to “and they share dreams” because that’s how I started writing it.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, wrapping his sleeping bag around himself, and grabbing a comfort Momo, too. “Who’s dream was that?”

No one ‘fesses up. But it was kind of a rude question, and also a little rhetorical, anyway.

They all have nightmares with fire.

Having the Fire Lord himself looming over them, while they were on their knees? Not exactly a stretch.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how does Prince Jerkface keep finding us?”

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how did he know that seal jerky seasoned just right with honey—not too much, just enough to add a sparkle of sweetness to the depths of savoriness, a perfect balance for the distinguished tongue to relish—was the perfect bait for his Sokka and Sokka-affliated-parties trap?”

“Maybe if you stop dreaming about it, Sokka,” Katara snaps.

...And they all stop.

---

“I’m going to think really really hard about being friends,” Aang says.

“I’m going to think really really hard about that time my boomerang hit him,” says Sokka.

---

Snatching the boomerang out of midair? Impressive.

Ignoring the Avatar to go hit Sokka with it? Repeatedly? Uncalled for.

---

“Sokka. The city is under attack. Right now.”

“Okay,” Sokka says. “But this is a strategic nap, Katara. We need to know what evil things our Evil Other is up to.”

It’s not like the evil fleet part was a surprise, at least. They’ve been dreaming of it for weeks.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, looking down. “So the ship-blowing-up-thing. Not a nightmare?”

“No,” says Zuko, glaring up with his glare-face all glare-ful but his thoughts mostly full of bruises so deep they’re making Sokka’s ribs ache, and also his legs are going numb.

“Going to get out of the turtle-seal tunnel now?” Sokka asks, still standing over the opening. With his boomerang.

“...No,” the Prince of the Fire Nation says, as he clings onto the edge of the hole, his legs still very much in freezing water.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, when they have a Fire Prince all tied up in Blankets of Imprisonment. “So. What actually was your plan here? Do not,” he interrupts, before the teenage-shaped bloodhound-leech can do more than open his mouth, “say ‘capture the Avatar.’”

The prince closes his mouth. Glares. And kind of fuzzes at the edges, in the way all of them do when they’re about to fall asleep.

BOOMERANG, Sokka thinks, and Prince Largely Ineffective As An Enemy jerks back upright. His Momo hat chitters a complaint.

“Since we both know your answer is ‘I had no plan, Sokka, ‘plan’ starts with ‘p’ and there’s no ‘p’ in ‘Avatar’’, we’re going to play a game instead. It’s called ‘sleepy prince free association interrogation time.’”

“...What?”

“Battle plans,” Sokka says. “Attack. Fire Navy fleet. Ship numbers.”

Alas, “Fire Nation intelligence” is not something with which the prince’s brain is overly burdened.

“...Are you insulting me?”

“Are you proving my point?”

Elsewhere, Yue laughs in all their heads. Zuko flinches. The prince has a very marked reaction to the laughter of princesses.

---

“Okay,” says Sokka. “So that just happened.”

Commander Mutton Chops is groaning. Kind of flopping. Much like the bag he tried to fireball. Yue picks it up, and gently wrangles a fish back into water. Sokka is still not clear on what the fish-napping was about.

“It’s the Moon,” Aang says. “Or maybe the Ocean?”

Aang’s thoughts are full of a FACE STEALING EVIL CENTIPEDE MONSTER THAT IS JUST ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE THIN VEIL OF REALITY and that is NOT helping Sokka think.

“Okay,” he says again. “So. At least we can all agree on one thing.”

This is a very diplomatic way of saying they all wanted to dropkick Zhao. But some of them wanted to do it more than others.

The prince of the Fire Nation is even paler than normal, and staring across the clearing at his uncle.

“I can explain,” the prince says, while he’s thinking, oh shit treason oh crap uncle wouldn’t hurt me thought that about father too

Sokka wordlessly plucks Momo from the edge of the pond, where he’s been swiping at the spirit-fish, and drops him on the prince’s head.

Everyone needs a comfort Momo, now and again.

---

“A raft, Zuko?” Sokka says. Outloud. Because it makes things louder when you say it and think it. “A raft?”

Aang is bouncing on his toes. “We should go get him.”

The Avatar is grinning. And thinking, really hard and deliberately, as behind them the Water Tribe ship finishes packing, We should capture the Fire Prince,

“Okay,” Sokka says, with a grin.

[ihopesocomic]

WAIT A MINUTE HOLD UP PAUSE PAUSE PAUSE????? Starmane was gonna let Sharptongue's mate live???? So it's not even in the warrior code or whatever MP has that he has to kill the other dude in order to win the pride??? He's allowed to let them live?

SO WHAT WAS THAT BS WITH FIRE HAVING TO KILL FEATHER??? IF THE RULES CAN BE BEND LIKE THAT???? WHY DIDNT FIRE JUST TELL MOONSTRIKE NO????

Yep, he was gonna let Sharptongue's mate live but Sharptongue's mate died after he fell and hit his head on a rock because womp womp funny death moment to bring up in the livestreams alongside Nothing's totally funny 'steak face', I guess?? lol

Never mind that it's a glaring contradiction within the worldbuilding, like you've pointed out. It was also an obvious way for Starmane to be depicted as a figure who is purely good because he's meant to be the dead dad we're all supposed to mourn. Except he's literally only brought up once or twice in the nine episodes following his death so it was a completely pointless gesture.

As for your question as to why Fire had to kill Feather: again, plot convenience. oof

This is why I'm so curious as to why any of this is consistent and easy to follow for MP stans. Then I realise that a good portion of the arguments they come up for it is just stuff they've made up themselves because the fans actually caring more for this world and its characters than the actual creator is certainly a theme at this point. - RJ

[cosmerelists]

Randomly Assembled Cosmere Roommates: How Will They Fare?

[Note: This post contains major WAT spoilers!]

@truthwatcherblog created a poll (which should still be going on, if I've gotten my dates right?) wherein you spin a picker wheel to randomly assign yourself three Stormlight roommates. With OP's permission, I'm going to use their picker wheel not to give myself roommates, but to create trios of Stormlight characters who now must room together. Let's see how it goes!

[I faithfully adhered to the picker wheel except for skipping repeats. Lin Davar came up THREE times!]

1. Lopen, the Nightwatcher, Cord

The Nightwatcher would stay holed up in her room all day, leaving mostly just Lopen & Cord, who did travel together during Dawnshard...a story in which we learned that Lopen has a huge crush on Cord. Hopefully they'd sort that out pretty quick so that it doesn't turn into a Wayne/Ranette situation. 

Cord: And this is my girlfriend, Rysn. Lopen: Well okay, but I'm not gonna stop trying to impress you with my jokes and manly ways! Cord: ...To try to win me over? Lopen: No, I mostly just like making people laugh and and I like being complimented. For my manly ways. Cord: I can live with that. Nightwatcher: [Through the closed door and the ten million blankets that she shrouds herself in] Can someone please bring me ice cream? 

2. Moash, Lin Davar [Shallan's dad], Syl

[sing-song voice] Someone is getting muuuurdered!

Lin: Are you stupid as well as blind, dark-eyes? I SAID to pour me wine! Moash: [already drawing his sword] Syl: In this house, we stan some extrajudicial killings. 

3. Lezian, Masha-daughter-Shaliv [Szeth's wife], Maya

This household is never at peace.

Lezian: I CAN'T do the dishes, I'm busy STALKING and KILLING people! Maya: [arms folded] A good soldier doesn't shy away from unglamorous work. Maya: You can be a "killing slut" later. Lezian: STOP CALLING ME THAT Masha (busy writing): Hey guys, what's a synonym for "bald"?

4. Skar, Rock, Kmakl [Queen Fen's husband]

It all works out great once they set some boundaries.

Skar: No more sex with your wife in the living room without warning us first. Kmarkl: Fiiiiine. Skar: We all love your stew, Rock, but sometimes other people want to use the big pot, too. Rock: Fair enough, fair enough! Rock: And you, Skar, need to stop throwing our stuff out the window just because we leave them lying around! Kmarkl: I couldn't find my lucky socks for two weeks! Skar: ... Skar: Wow, living together really is about compromise. 

5. Roshone, Huio, Taravangian

Mostly, I feel sorry for Huio.

Roshone: Can't believe my wife kicked me out. Can't belive I have to have roommates. Taravangian: Nobody go into the basement, okay? I'm using it to store my...stuff. Roshone: Why does your "stuff" require so much sound-proofing, anyway? Taravangian: It's, uh, a playroom for my...noisy grandchildren? Roshone: Sure, that feels right. Huio: [in the kitchen making soup] Huio: (muttering to himself in Herdazian): I'm NEVER telling them I can understand Alethi. 

6. Szeth, Rlain, Drehy

This is going to be SO good for Szeth's mental health! Drehy's gonna be working overtime helping both of his roommates, though.

Rlain: So, uh... Drehy: Yes, you may ask me all of your "gay" questions. Rlain: I really appreciate that! Szeth: Kaladin says that I must "ask other people" if I have a thought that "does not quite seem right." Szeth: I pose this to you both: if you burn a dinner you were really looking forward to, is death the answer? Rlain: No! Drehy: I'll order pizza.

7. Gezamal [Yanagawn's guard], Ishnah [Lightweaver], Testament [dead-eyed cryptic]

Testament is really the glue that holds this household together.

Gezamal: Ishnah, let's have dinner together tonight and talk. Ishnah: What, why? Gezamal: Testament and I share a bond since she is a dead-eye and I am Unoathed. Testament: [gives thumbs-up] Gezamal: You and Testament share a bond because you are a Ligthweaver and she is a Cryptic. Testament: [gives thumbs-up] Gezamal: For household solidarity, you and I should now figure out what we have in common. Ishnah: ...What's that big book you have? Gezamal: I pre-drafted a list of things we might have in common. Gezamal: For example, as a member of the Unseen Court, were you ever punished with lavatory duty? That happened to me once. Ishnah: Oh, this conversation is gonna be rough.

8. Elid [Szeth's sister], Kalak [herald], Wyndle

Kalak, scared as he is of humans, much prefers one of his two roommates...

Wyndle: Oh, I'm so glad you like this! "How It's Made" is one of my FAVORITE shows, but the  mistress says it's "boring." Kalak: It's great! I've never felt so calm! Elid: Yo, what are we watching? Kalak: Eep! Elid: ... Elid: The Almighty Herald is hiding behind a cushion again, huh? Wyndle: I-I'm sure he doesn't mean to offend you!

9. Wit, Aladar [highprince], Renarin

It's like Christmas came early for Wit--he likes to make fun of both of them!

Wit: [eyes glinting] Aladar: W-We should make an alliance now, Renarin! Aladar: Together we can stand up even to this man! Renarin: Oh,  uh... Renarin: I actually already made an alliance with Wit this morning, when he asked. Aladar: NOOOOO

10. Abidi the Monarch, the Thrill, Tanavast

Okay, I'm sure your mind went immediately to "sheer destruction," but what if...?

Tanavast: Abidi! It's YOUR turn to walk the Thrill! The Thrill: [bouncing excitedly at the word "walk"] Abidi: Not now, you fool! There are people being wrong on the internet, and I must bathe in their blood! [sitcom laugh track] Abidi: And I keep telling you to call me Abidi the Monarch! Tanavast (muttering): More like Abidi the Moron. The Thrill: Arf! Arft! [sitcom laugh track] [Theme song starts playing, revealing the sitcom title: 3 Old Gods]

[cheeeeseburger]

What I used to call you

Sidney Crosby x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: Sidney Crosby in Montreal. Playing where his favourite team as a kid plays. That's it. That's the whole inspiration behind this. English isn't my first language, apologies for the mistakes! Enjoy!

A faint halo lights up the whole crowded bar. A girl in a short dress is dancing, and Sidney wonders why no one else is blinded by the sun wearing high heels. There’s a faint buzz in his head from the beers he’s had, but nothing could make him turn away.

The girl looks like she could explode from happiness. She throws her head back in laughter, then illuminates the room once more with a smile. She’s definitely the sun incarnated, because Sid can’t help but gravitate towards her.

Then he sees the girl jump into the arms of another man, and he remembers. He remembers everything.

You’re not his anymore. You haven’t been his in a very, very long time. Well, officially. In Sid’s mind, you’ll always be his girl, but he knows that’s just the jealousy talking. He takes a sip of his beer, and the condensation dripping helps him cool off a little.

Deep down, he knows that jealousy or anger are not the leading emotions in this situation. It hurts less to pretend they are.

Sadness is taking over him in waves, and he wishes he would choke on it, just to bring him back to reality. Somewhere far away, someone is screaming his name, but he doesn’t know who, and he doesn't care to find out. Because you’ve just noticed him.

If this was a movie and he was the director, you would slam your drink on the table and give your purse to your friend then throw yourself into his arms. You two would hug for a few seconds, then have a staring contest. The whole room would disappear. Sidney would give you a chaste kiss, which you would then deepen. Finally, after a few minutes or hours, he would manage to say: “Want to come to my place?” The sex would be phenomenal. He’d have his hand on your thigh the whole drive, his fingers slowly pulling the seam of your dress up. He wouldn’t even be on park yet that your seatbelt would be unfasten, your lips on his neck. Sidney would pull you up and make you straddle him while praising your whole existence. In a frenzy, you would manage to get inside and make your way over to his bedroom, where you would be reunited with the familiar sheets, the blanket you bought him, the mirror you used to fuck in front of. Sidney would worship you all night long and keep you forever. Everything would go back to what it was.

Except that’s not what happens. Instead, you try to hide your shock with a quick sip of your drink, but you can’t quite manage it. Instead, you give Sid a shy wave, but make no move to get closer to him. You smile, and Sid’s heart drop in his chest, because he knows your smiles, and this the friendly one. It’s not the “I love you so much” smile or the “You turn me on so much right now” smile that you used to rock around him. The music is loud, but Sidney hears your friend trying to gain your attention back, but your eyes never leave his. Slowly, your smile fades. A whole love story happens during that stare. It’s full of memories and words you both wished you hadn’t said and some you should’ve said more. There’s a glimpse of that time when you surprised him at his game, or when he sent you a long love letter, but there’s also flashes of endless phone calls filled with tears when the distance was unbearable.

Sidney wants to fill the gap between your two bodies, but this is not what neither of you need right now. He thinks he sees a few tears in the corner of your eyes, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't close to choking up, and only a few seconds have passed.

Somehow, he manages to be strong for you and gives you a small smile. You smile through the tears and laugh a little while wiping your misty eyes. A thousand words have been exchanged in an instant. That scene in La La Land? Yeah, that’s what it feels like.

“Want another drink, sunshine?” A man puts his arms over your waist and instead of pushing him away like Sid expects, you lean into his touch. Just like that, he has lost all your attention. Your eyes are now full of adoration, but for another man.

Sunshine. That’s what he always used to called you. He used to joke that you couldn’t come too close to the ice, or else it would melt. His vocabulary was made up of puns all related to you being hot or illuminating.

From this whole encounter, that’s what hurts the most. He should be the one using your special nickname, the one to snake his arms around you, the one to give your ass a little squeeze and buying you all the drinks you want.

It seems like you’ve built a whole life for yourself after your relationship with Sidney, while for him, there’s only a before you, or a during you, but never an after.

The man kisses the top of your head and leads you towards the bar. At least, you turn back to look at Sidney, and for a millisecond, your connexion from earlier is back. Your body is getting away from him, but your eyes tell a whole other message.

Finally, you two share one last smile, and somehow, Sidney knows it’s the last he’ll be seeing from you in a while. There may be a coffee date in the future, after you encounter each other by chance in a mall or restaurant, when you only have enough time to say hello but not to catch up, but this will only happen in a couple of years.

Sidney follows your silhouette with his gaze until he can’t tell which shadow is yours and pays his tab. He drives back to his place, alone, and everything feels too dark, too lonely. He makes a mental note to buy vitamin D and book a vacation somewhere warm when he can.

He’ll have to get his sunshine somewhere else, one way or another.

[asneakyfox]

if i'm reading you right, you're pointing out four reasons the scenes aren't the same:

ed doesn't choke izzy in the exact same way

the lighthouses don't look like the same lighthouse

the blocking for the two scenes is mirrored rather than identical, with ed on the left side in the izzy scene and on the right side in the scene with his dad

the lighthouse symbolizes stede, and stede isn't important to the first scene

i have to say the first three honestly strike me as entirely irrelevant. i would not generally expect tv to indicate that two scenes are similar by making them as close to literally identical as you're suggesting, although there's exceptions like a situation where it's meant as a very overt comedy beat. you could also point out other differences, like the fact that one takes place on a sunny day and the other on a rainy night, or that one is set in a cabin on a ship and the other outdoors on land, or that if you look closely con o'neill and damien gerard are technically two different guys. if the show could only indicate parallels between two scenes by making the second scene an exact beat-for-beat shot-for-shot recreation of the first it would rapidly become extremely boring. you could just as well argue that if the 2x05 moonlight scene had been intended as a parallel to the one from 1x05 they would have made the moon full instead of gibbous, and since they didn't do that it must mean all the similarities that are present are just coincidence. (that's a scene that is making its parallels unusually on-the-nose for cutsey romcom reasons and there's still major differences!)

#4 is puzzling to me because you've answered it yourself - the show has never treated lighthouses as a symbol of just one thing, we are told explicitly that it means multiple things, both a guide and a warning. and if a warning is what it means in the patricide scene then very obviously that's at least part of what it means in the izzy scene! that scene is very overtly the start of ed going down a path we don't want him to take, he's about to crack up on the rocks!

in fact he's about to crack up on the same rocks, which is kind of the whole point of this. like the real meat of the parallel here would be there even without any visual reinforcement - the only reason we're talking about the visuals is that they're what make it clear the creators were conscious of the parallel and considered it an important thing to reinforce. the heart of it is in both scenes:

ed is dealing with an angry older white man who is a significant part of his life, who has been threatening to both ed himself and other people ed loves (and, if you include the cut lines from his dad, both men have been trying to pressure ed himself to perform masculinity in specific ways). after putting up with it for a long time, ed is pushed too far and reacts with defensive physical violence. although he succeeds in the immediate act of self-defense, the scene leaves ed traumatized, believing that his own act of violence proves he is an unlovable monster.

there are also some significant differences between the two scenarios, like the fact that izzy is doing all this on purpose, while there's no suggestion that ed's dad intended to provoke his son to violence. the presence of those differences don't change the core parallel though. the scenes are variations on the same theme, and the variation does matter, but the theme is consistent.

this is central to ed's character arc. it's the center of ed's character arc in season 1, the thing it pivots on. the reason ed becomes the kraken is because the scene with izzy triggered the exact same trauma he's carried from the act that defined his childhood, that's the throughline. if the two scenes weren't striking the same trauma then ed wouldn't react the way he does to the second one.

(that didn't have to mean q.e.d. izzy is ed's father figure for all time and that had to be the main theme of their relationship. it just means there's one scene in which izzy played a role that paralleled ed's dad - but it's a pretty important scene. the show could have played that as a thing that happened only once. but it still would have happened, it would have been something that was there at least in one pivotal scene whether or not they chose to expand on the theme in s2.)

anyway back to what lighthouses symbolize. i would suggest that while the lighthouse definitely signifies a warning signal in both scenes, it's an entirely plausible read that it symbolizes stede in both scenes in addition to that. this show is a romance, and it's the kind of romance where people turn into hallucinatory mermaids and call their lovers back from the land of the dead. it is not at all surprising to me that in a scene set long before ed and stede meet, there would be a symbolic reminder that even in this darkest moment of ed's life the love of his life was already out there waiting for him, warning him away from the path he was on, calling him back to land. that kind of soulmate stuff, portraying the two lovers' stories as having been intertwined before they ever met, that's totally in-genre here.

finally i did say i thought points 1-3 were irrelevant, so i don't think this matters, but i want to point out that #3 is also not quite right; you've got the wrong flashback there. as you noted earlier, we see two versions of ed's father's death, and no lighthouse is visible in the "real" one, because the camera is always facing either inland or down. (the fact that the lighthouse is only clearly even there in ed's imagination probably says something interesting about the symbolism - there might not be a lighthouse at all in the real scene, it's unclear in that version if the flashing could be just lightning - but that's kind of outside the scope of this.) if you positioned the camera behind them facing the sea, so that the lighthouse (if it exists) were in frame like it is in the other scene, the way they're positioned would of course put ed on the left.

but the version of the scene where you do see the lighthouse is the one where ed is supposedly only present as a watcher; ed's actions in this scene are displaced onto the literal kraken, the kraken is symbolically replacing ed himself. you'll never guess which side of the screen the kraken is on.

ed's dad is even positioned here directly in front of the lighthouse, blocking our (and young ed's) view of it, like you pointed out that izzy walks forward into the center of the frame to block our view of the painting, while ed is still positioned on the left.

like i said i don't think the blocking is an element that needs to be exactly the same for the scenes to work as parallels, so personally i wouldn't count this as a particularly important part of the whole visual parallel situation. but if you're concerned about it, that's something there.

So I’m up to episode 10 of my most recent rewatch and I noticed something interesting in the scene where Izzy confronts Ed. At the beginning of the conversation the camera tends to stay with Ed in the left side of the frame and Izzy on the right, with the space between them in center. We do get some shots of just Ed where he’s in center (not included) but any shots that focus on Izzy still keep Ed in the frame with Izzy staying right of center.

So I am not a cinematographer by any stretch, but this seems all pretty straight forward to me? Like, we’ve got these two people having an argument so we’re showing them on literal opposite sides, and our shots are biasing toward whoever is speaking at the moment, but with an overall bias toward Ed, who we’re supposed to sympathize with.

But where it gets interesting is when Izzy makes his namby-pamby comment, and Ed pushes Izzy up against the wall. Izzy is still right of center, but take a closer look at what is now in the center of the frame.

The lighthouse painting. The lighthouse which represents both Stede and Stede & Ed together. In this moment while Ed briefly appears to have control of the conversation, this painting representing many of the things Ed wants and wants to be is prominently in the shot even while we’re supposed to be focused on Izzy. And as an added bonus just as Ed is consistently on the left side of the frame in this argument, the lighthouse is on the left side of the painting.

But then Izzy takes back control over the conversation. He reaches out and strokes Ed’s face, causing Ed to jerk back and let go of Izzy.

Izzy takes advantage of this to step closer to Ed, bringing him to center frame.

And even then he continues to get closer and closer.

And as Izzy whispers his threat to Ed we’re left with this: Izzy filling the center of the frame, with Ed only barely visible at the very edge, and the lighthouse missing from the painting, completely blocked out by Izzy.

[f1cflcfic]

Just Because I Called You (Carlos Sainz) - part v

pairing: carlos sainz jr x fem!reader

summary: y/n knows there's a reason for his contact details to be saved under 'do not interact', but one call does not mean you miss him.

genre: written au, brief 18+ content, yet more angst before we reach fluff

wordcount: 3.1k

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

series, previous parts : part i | part ii | part iii | part iv ｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

You should’ve known.

Should’ve immediately been suspicious when Sam had told you that she had brought home some Thai snacks for Alex, but was too jetlagged to deliver them herself.

She’d asked you if you could be a doll and do it for her, especially since some are perishable, while she caught up on sleep. And of course, like an idiot, you’d agreed to it.

Now, as you’re walking into the very same apartment building that had started to feel like home just months ago, you very much regret your decision. It’s awkward and terrifying, striding through the very same lobby that Carlos still frequents every day.

Sure, Sam could blame her jetlag for her temporary insanity, but part of you suspects that she’s just trying to push the needle. Wants to see if you’re actually planning on avoiding all parts of town where you might run into him. And what better way to test that theory than sending you straight to his doorstep? Sort of, at least.

The bag that’s filled with a variety of Thai snacks feels heavy in your hands as you step inside the elevator, and select Alex’ floor with a false sense of confidence. It’ll be fine, you tell yourself as you try to calm the erratic beating of your heart. Part of you is scared of running into Carlos, but another part is just as scared of Alex’ reaction to seeing you again. He’s nice, but he’s also a loyal friend – and well. You had rightfully not seen him after the break-up either.

There’s still some lingering wonder over the fact that Sam had stayed in touch with Alex – but their shared Thai heritage had been something to bond over. Besides, Lily still responded to most of your Instagram stories as if nothing had changed. So that must mean he won’t bite your head off or judge you too harshly, you hope. Alex knows you’re coming after all, and if he didn’t want to see you, he’d have said something to either of them.

Your eyes linger on the hallway that’d lead you straight to Carlos’ front door, and part of you wants to step closer – just to see if the doormat’s still there. The one that you’d pointed out to him when you’d gone shopping for plants. It’d been awfully domestic, and it had been exhilarating to make Carlos laugh and wink at you whenever you entered his house afterwards.

But as much as you miss him, his doe-eyed soft expression, and his sweet smile -  you’re a coward.

So you sigh and step in the opposite direction, and try to rid your traitorous brain of any and all thoughts of his tan arms and big hands. Except when you ring the doorbell to Alex’ apartment, it’s exactly those tan arms and hands that come into view as the door opens for you.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes slowly trailing upward until they come to land on Carlos’ equally shocked face.

“Y/N. Hi.”

“Oh,” is all that comes out. He’s wearing the hoodie you’d bought him, the one he’d taken home from your apartment. It shouldn’t make your brain malfunction, but it is. He looks tired, and your hand twitches involuntarily – wanting so badly to reach out and push his hair out of the way.

“I – what are you doing here?” He asks, and you blink. Right. You lift the bag with goodies, and give him a weak smile. “These are for Alex. Sam brought him Thai snacks and stuff.”

Something flickers across Carlos’ face, but it’s gone so quickly that you can’t quite make out if it was your mind playing tricks, or if it really did look like disappointment. “Right,” he mumbles.

“Thanks, by the way,” you rock back on your heels. “For reaching out to her.”

Before he can reply, you rush on. “And I’m sorry for showing up like this – unannounced. I didn’t realise you’d be here, but you did tell me the other day. I hope your apartment’s okay, I rememb-”

“Cariño, slow down,” he interrupts your rambling, amusement laced through his voice. “Do you – want to come in? Alex isn’t here, left for the gym thirty minutes ago. Which, I now realise was probably on purpose.”

When you don’t respond right away, just stare at him in surprise as his cheeks turn red, you can see the doubt creep back into his face. “Ah. That’d be bad, no? Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I’d love to come in,” it’s your turn to interrupt him now. “I – could we talk? I think we really need to talk.”

He steps aside, and motions for you to take off your coat and shoes. Alex’ apartment is just like you remember it from the few times you’d visited. There’s some more framed photos adorning the hall, and there’s a collection of mini helmets that hadn’t been there before, but everything else looks the same. The layout is fairly similar to Carlos’ house, so it’s easy enough to follow Carlos into the living room.

You hesitate for a second on where to sit, as Carlos moves to the kitchen. The sofa? Or the lounge chair? Or maybe you should sit at the dining table – so you can properly face each other?

He makes the decision for the two of you, bringing over two mugs and setting them down in arm’s reach of the sofa. You fiddle with the bag of snacks as a distraction, but then Carlos is taking it out of your hands and putting it on the kitchen counter.

Part of you wants to text Sam that she’s evil and needs to extract you as soon as possible. There’s many ways in which this could go completely wrong, especially as the time that Carlos is set to spend in Monaco is slowly ticking away.

You just desperately do not want this to go wrong.

He sits down first, brown eyes focusing on you as he waits for you to settle in as well. As the silence descends, you steadfastly avoid eye contact and instead focus on taking a sip of your drink.

It’s tea made to perfection – or at least, in your opinion. Surprised, you can’t help but quickly look over at Carlos. He remembered.

There’s an awkward smile on his face, as if he’s trying his best not to acknowledge or make this into the big deal that it very much is. It actually makes him look a little crazy – but it also breaks the tension just so.

“Hey,” you say lamely.

“Hi,” he replies, the slightly manic grin softening as he does so.

There are so many things you want to say to him, so many things you want to do, that it all but paralyses you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” you settle on in the end, and immediately regret. Out of all the things that matter, this is so low on the list – it’s negligible. It’s wishful thinking on your end, that it means anything. And yet, apparently your brain to mouth filter had decided it was the most appropriate thing to ask.

Carlos looks down and frowns. “No? This is my sweater?”

“I’m sorry – I didn’t – that wasn’t. I mean, it is your hoodie. I just was the one who bought it for you. And then you left it at my house, and I kept it. Until. Well. You took it back. Which is fine, because it’s yours, obviously,” you motion emphatically.

“I just was surprised to see you wearing it, that’s all. We should probably stop meeting like this, you know?” You try and crack a joke, but it feels wrong the moment the words leave your lips.

He doesn’t laugh, just inclines his head as if in agreement.

“We probably should.”

Your stomach twists, and for a moment it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the air.  Abruptly, you stand again, looking anywhere but his direction. You can’t face what you might find in his eyes – hurt, anger, or worst of all, nothing.

“Right, I’m sorry – I shouldn’t be here. This was most definitely a mistake,” you mutter. “I’m not ready for this, and you don’t want me, so it’s fine.”

A disbelieving laugh sounds from behind you. “En serio? Are you going to be the one who leaves now?”

You stiffen, can’t escape the way in which your shoulders automatically want to come up to your ears as if to protect yourself.

“I told you I miss you all the time, and you think I don’t want you?” He continues, as if it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. But the thing is that it sounds absurd to you that he would want you.

So you turn around and brave a glance at him, then quote what your friends had told you in their attempts at comforting you. Because they thought Carlos to be the villain, when maybe it was you all along. “You can miss someone, and still move on. I wouldn’t blame you, for wanting to.”

He looks distraught at your words, and you hate to have put that expression on his face. It doesn’t make them any less true, though.

“I thought,” he starts. “I thought this was what you wanted. Cariño, I thought I was doing the right thing by giving you space. But I can’t – I had to protect my own heart, too. And at one point, it does not feel good if it feels like you’re the only one making an effort, no? It hurt.”

There’s a lump forming at the back of your throat, and you push through the hot tears that are burning behind your eyes. Because Carlos deserves an answer, an explanation. You would be brave. Honest, for once.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for hurting you. God, I’m sorry for so many things, but most of all – I’m sorry for how I treated you, and our relationship. I wasn’t fair to you. I’ve been a shit girlfriend for pushing you away, and a shit ex for not being able to let go. It’s not fair.”

You’re full on crying now, not even bothering trying to wipe the tears away. New ones will keep coming regardless, so it seems a little pointless. The carpet looks a little blurry, partly due to the tears, partly because you’ve been staring at it so much. Being vulnerable is one thing, but it’s another to do so and be perceived. And Carlos had gotten too close, had climbed too far up your walls. You’re way too afraid to see what you’d find if you were to look at him as you continue speaking. “You were so patient, and you tried not to scare me or overwhelm me – but I scared myself with my own feelings, anyways. And then I never even told you and now I’ve fucked it all up. So again, I get it if you needed to be done.”

A shadow falls over you, and then a gentle, familiar hand lifts your chin slightly. As much as you want to look away, want to hide from your own heart’s fragility – Carlos deserves better from you. And so you try to focus on the way his own eyelashes seem a little wet, the rims around his eyes a little red as he speaks. “Nena, all I’ve needed is you. All I’ve wanted is you. I love you. And I would come back to you once, twice, a hundred times. I just need to hear that I’m not waiting for something that’ll never come.”

When you just start crying harder at his words, Carlos pulls you into his chest and soothes you. It feels like something has just cracked open in your chest and pierced through your heart. Maybe you just needed to let a little light in, and a little hurt out, in order to actually allow yourself to believe in Carlos’ words. And for the first time ever, you let yourself revel in how safe his embrace actually makes you feel.

“It feels selfish to just want to say that I’ve missed you so much,” you confess. “I hate that I hurt you, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself for it. You shouldn’t have had to break your own heart in an effort to mend mine.”

He doesn’t reply right away, just gently strokes your hair for a little bit as your tears subside little by little. “We both hurt each other by not being honest, by avoiding the hard truths. So let’s promise not to do that anymore.”

You nod into his chest, arms still wrapped around his shoulders and neck. It’d be so easy to just fall back onto the sofa, give in to the mental exhaustion, and cuddle,. But you know Carlos is right, and if you want this to work long-term – there’s one last thing he needs to hear from you.

“I promise to stop running from you. And in the spirit of honesty, I would like to say something that’s been long overdue,” you halt briefly, then take a step back so you can properly  look at him.

“I love you. I’m in love with you. Te amo.”

Carlos’ grip on you tightens for a moment, a groan escaping his lips. “I really love hearing you say that.”

A small smile takes hold of your features, as you briefly consider whether what you’re about to propose is a good or bad idea.

“Yeah? Do you want me to show you, next?”

His hand slides down to grab a hold of your ass, pulling you in close, as he casts a look at the watch that’s secured tightly on his other wrist. Whatever he sees must be satisfactory, because he hauls you up with one arm and takes off towards his temporary bedroom.

“Alex won’t be back for about another hour, so – vamos!”

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There’s a lightness in your step as you trudge down the hallway to your own apartment. It’s been 38 days and 7 hours since you and Carlos made up. You’d spent the rest of the two weeks he still had prior to testing together, during which you’d done a lot of talking … and touching. It’s as if there’s an insatiable craving for him that now permanently resides in you.

For fourteen days, you’d certainly tried your best to get over that feeling of being touch-starved, spending almost every minute of every day together. Except then he had to leave, and you’d had to have another talk about what that meant for your relationship. Funnily enough, this time around it was you reassuring Carlos that you would be okay.

“I chose to sideline myself. I won’t do that this time around. I will call you when I miss you, and you will call when you miss me – and I won’t lie to you about how much I secretly want to just hang out with you all the time and be close to you,” you’d told him.

And so far, you think you’ve done pretty good in keeping that promise. Across those 24 days, he’d flown into Monaco for a long weekend once, and you’d had 17 videocalls.

You’re about to make that 18 though, your brain helpfully supplies as you sling your work bag onto a nearby chair, then plop onto the couch. Sam isn’t home, won’t be for a while still, and it’s weird just how unsettling it feels to be all alone in the apartment again.

So, you take out your phone and pull up your boyfriend’s contact instead.

“Now, just because I called you, doesn’t mean I miss you,” you start, as soon as he answers your video call. Carlos laughs, and it sounds like home. “Mi amor, what did we say about lying?”

You roll your eyes, but grin all the same. “Okay, fine. I’ll confess, maybe I did call because I miss you. Because I love you,” you add belatedly, still testing how the words feel in your mouth. His eyes are warm, like molten hot chocolate that you’d happily drown in. He makes it easier, makes it feel right.

“I love you too, nenita.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks. “I really like hearing you say that,” you confess.  

“Good, because I like saying it.”

There’s a lull as you consider what to say next, Carlos patiently waiting for you to sort out your thoughts. Gathering your courage, you warn him not to judge your pronunciation. “I’ve been practicing, and I read this the other day – and knew I needed you to know this is how I feel. About you, that is.”

He hums in encouragement, and you sigh – then whisper the words into the receiver. “Te amo más que a mi propia piel.”

“Ay mi corazón. Me haces feliz como una lombriz cada vez hablas español.”

You giggle, recognising the phrase. “Not the worm one!”

“Yes the worm one,” Carlos insists. “I don’t care nenita, me muero de amor. In fact, I think I need to see you and kiss you all over, right now. It’s my only remedy.”

His words bring you back down to Earth again. Because he isn’t here, and you’re not there. Your eyes slide over to the calendar on the fridge, a tiny little haphazardly drawn heart marking his return. Carlos had drawn it on there himself last time he’d been over, grinning when he’d continued drawing hearts all over your arm afterwards. You’d had equally as much fun soaking in the tub together for hours, under the guise of needing to properly scrub them off.

“Just two more days,” you exhale, trying to calm your heart that’s threatening to beat right out of your chest.

“Too long. Right now,” there’s some shuffling, making it hard to hear or see what Carlos is saying. Except, when he continues, you realise his voice is no longer coming from just the speaker on your phone. “Really means right now.”

The chilli chain dangles in the air as the front door opens, and an exhausted but extremely content Carlos steps into the hallway, straight into your arms.

His nose presses into your neck, one arm tightening around your waist as the other taps your thigh, motioning for you to jump up. “Fuck, I missed you so much,” you mumble as you dutifully wrap your legs around him while he walks the two of you backwards, closing the door behind him.

“Not so scary anymore to say, no?” He smiles knowingly.

You shrug, unwilling to let go just yet.

“Still scary – but you make me brave.”

FIN.

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And that marks the end of this written fic!! I hope you enjoyed it, please don't hesitate to let me know what you think <3 Likes, comments, reblogs, asks are all appreciated.

[rivendell-poet]

Could I get, by any chance, something with Aragorn and sharing his coat.

I. Am. So. Cold. Star. Maybe I can get warm via your words 😭

-Hannah 🥶

Of course you can. Hopefully something in this is warming, darling (and hopefully you don't freeze to death <3)

❝𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡❞ « one-shot »

Pairing : Aragorn X GN!Reader

Wordcount : 1.3k

TWs : None

Summary : In which you aren't just 'chilly' - something icy has seeped into your bones, enough to make you shiver on watch. Aragorn notices, and offers a solution.

Sometime between the lovely dusky hues of sunset and the inky blackness of midnight, a chill has seeped into your bones. Even with your own cloak and your bedroll, there’s still some warmth missing. Something that’s letting ice settle into your bones. Staring up at Caradhras, you wonder if it’s the mountain's fault. You’re still a while off - but the malevolence of it can be felt even from here. And something that malevolent is also probably petty enough to send cold weather in the way of the Fellowship.

So here you are, stuck on watch duty and (perhaps) being cursed by a mountain to shiver. As a group you’ve agreed not to light a fire; stealth is paramount and the lasting marks it gives make the Fellowship too easy of a target. That decision had seemed so logical and reasonable to you only a few hours ago. Now, the reward of possibly not getting seen by enemies right now isn’t a great comfort or resolver to your issues. Still, you are only to be on watch for another hour.

The cold is sharp enough to keep you awake at least, and you gaze out into the blackness around you. Nothing stirs, except for the movement of the Fellowship around you. The gentle breathing in and out, the occasional shuffle of a bedroll while asleep. And then a louder movement and shifting of fabric.

It’s close enough that it’s probably a member of the Fellowship, so while you whip around to see what it is your hand only strays to your blade - it doesn’t wield it. Aragorn seems fairly thankful of that fact as you turn to face him, his hands not above his head but his palms open. Showing that he’s not a threat. “My apologies if I startled you.”

“There’s no need to apologise.” You relax, your handle letting go of the knife as you shuffle to face him more. “I’m just glad I didn’t hold a knife to your throat.”

“I trust you not to damage me.” There’s a small smile on his face, “And I would rather you put a dagger to strangers in the night than simply let foes walk in. Your dagger to my throat is much preferable to the dagger of an orcs.”

At his comment you allow yourself to laugh a little, and he joins you. “It almost sounds like you’re asking me to stab you.”

“When more of the Fellowship are awake I would be happy to spar with you, preferably not to first blood.”

“You’d be fine with sparring with me?”

“You’re a worthy opponent.” Aragorn has shifted himself slightly as the two of you have been talking, out of his bedroll and now simply sitting, looking up at the stars. “I imagine Boromir would be grateful for someone to show as an example to the young hobbits. Perhaps it will teach them the value of sword-fighting with their swords.”

This time you can grin as you respond, “I think the hobbits have done remarkably well already. Flipping enemies onto their back, who are over double their size.”

Aragorn laughs this time, making an effort for it to be quiet - but it is still rich, infectious. “I think I am still slightly sore from their antics.”

“The fine bedding of thin fabric and dirt is not helping?” Both of you have been travelling for long enough that beds are at risk of becoming a forgotten luxury, but even rangers can still tire of sleeping on this floor. Especially as it becomes cold enough to be firm, more like solid wood or rock than the ground. Aragorn lets out an appreciative hum at your words, before the conversation lulls between the two of you.

It is not an unpleasant or uncomfortable silence, and is in fact far from it. Aragorn has a quiet, unobtrusive way of making his presence known as he gazes up towards the stars. It’s comforting in a way, and you find it reassuring - not just in the sense a fellow human is beside you. There is something about the man that implies safety, a level of protection. Still, you don’t drop your gaze as you continue your watch - making sure that there is nothing watching the two of you in the shadows. Seconds pour into minutes, which begin to stack on top of each other before Aragorn speaks again.

“You’re cold.”

“Hm?” For some reason, you only making a questioning noise. You are cold (you’re fairly certain he’s just seen you shiver), but something in you refuses to immediately acknowledge it.

“Your cloak is thin, and not for the weather of Caradhras. Besides…” His gaze travels briefly over you.

So he has seen you shiver. Hopefully not too badly. Resisting the urge to pull your cloak closer to you, now that you’re talking the chill has started to make itself known again, you try to reassure him. “The weather is not yet too bad, nor am I freezing. I can survive the rest of the watch.”

“But I do not want to see you shiver through it.” Moving, Aragorn’s hands go to the clasp around his throat. “The chill is yet to affect me, take this.”

“I- I couldn’t.” Your words come out slightly higher than you tried, but you don’t want to accept the cloak. You don’t want him to chill either, and… it feels strangely intimate. “It won’t do us any good if both of us freeze.”

“It won’t do any good if you freeze either.” He points out, stopping to think. His hands still move to fully unclasp the cloak, but he doesn’t take it off when it gets looser. “Come closer.”

“You mean…” You’re thankful he’s not close enough to hear your heartbeat, or to feel the heat on your face.

“The cloak is big enough for both of us, for the most part.” His tone is still remarkably casual, before it becomes more serious. “Unless I have overstepped.”

There it is. The true invitation of if you want to come closer to him or not. And truthfully, he hasn’t.

Taking a quick breath, you move closer to the man - unsure of how much distance you should leave between the both of you. You inch closer, before eventually his arm loops around you with fabric - both enveloping you with the warmth of the cloak, and pulling you slightly closer to the ranger. He smiles, before asking, “Warmer?”

“Yes.” Your tone is only slightly begrudging, and it’s more to tease than anything. “Definitely.”

“I’m glad to be of service.” His tone is warm as well, and he stares at you for a second more before looking back up to the stars. “Please, move if you need to be more comfortable.”

From the little part of your legs that are touching, you can feel that he’s warmer than you. For a second you think about moving closer to him, but you’re already sharing a cloak. “Wouldn’t want to leech all of your heat.”

“It is not leeching if I am offering.” Gently, one of his hands rests upon yours. “If that is what you want.”

His body heat is not just what he’s offering. But, as you think for a second (hand slowly intertwining with his), you realise you don’t want to say not to either offer. Moving even more fractionally than before, you close the gap between the two of you - resting onto his shoulder. His arm adjusts the cloak briefly, pulling it more around you to shield you as well as he can from the elements.

This time, he doesn’t pull his hand from your shoulder.

A/N : Well, apologies to the oneshot I had planned on working on today. But I do very much like this one, and hopefully you guys all like it too! Have a lovely day/night

(Also I will happily take feedback on the title, if it will be offered.)

« masterlist » thank you for reading *･༓˚✧ Taglist : @starwars2222 / @xiaoseminence / @withasideofmeg / @wordbunch / @bespectacledhuman / @howling-medic / @paigemackenzie0206 / @northernwing / @awayaesworld / @permanently-nothere /  @fern-reads / @stormchaser819 / @raikan624 / @themuseinthewoods / @deannie13 / @eliosberry / @satans-bitch ✧ wish to be tagged?

[hippychick006]

Except… they never at any point did any of that. They were never together as a couple, and even when Dean was one half of a couple with Lisa, she knew the moment Sam waltzed back in that Dean was gone. Interesting stealing of “letting the world burn” because dean has only ever used that in reference to Sam… twice iirc. So once again trying to steal canon brother moments to make that vanilla ship be something more than nothing… which is still nothing.

And to the heller blethering on about season 15, in 15.17 Dean was willing to “trade them all” for him and Sam, that included Castiel, so no, nothing has changed, not from season 1, season 8, 10 (when they were at their most odds) and not season 15 which ended with Dean once again saying that it was always only ever him and Sam.

Go back and watch 15.19 again, Dean wasn’t even serious when talking with Chuck, it was part of their plan, they were pretending they were at rock bottom and had nothing else to give, they were tricking Chuck that they were out of options and desperate to set him up for what happened to him in the end.

And don’t flatter Castiel, he was offered up as an afterthought after bringing back after all the people, the birds and the bees.

Dean has NEVER given up Sam for ANYBODY or THING. He handed over the keys to Baby in order to die WITH Sam. 

In fact, Dean said that exact thing TO Sam:

That includes CASS. 

[secretly-tword-obsessed]

None Of The Above

Hello gigglers!

This is the lee Thanos fic that was requested by @alguien-001

I used one of my favorite tickle fic tropes - the ticklish massage - and took a lot of inspiration from @lord-of-hyperfix (you should DEFINETELY check out their fics if you haven't yet, they are adorable :D)

Summary: Thanos has lost his drugs. Nam-Gyu has a go at lifting his spirits.

Warning: Discussions of death, intense tickles

The games were a matter of life or death. To all of those except for player 230. See, he did the smart thing - getting high on his 'infinity stones' on the morning of every game. This meant that he had become immune to the pain, terror and constant threat of death.

Take the first game for example. In 'Red Light Green Light', whilst everyone else was stepping slowly and cautiously, doing anything to ensure they could freeze as quick as possible, Thanos was just dancing and jumping in the air, having the time of his life.

But this morning he couldn't find his pills. He'd checked everywhere - under his pillow, in the pockets of his green uniform jacket, in the bathroom stall he'd went to the previous day. He'd even harassed a few people, beaten up MG Coin, and forced Min-Su, Se-Mi and Nam-Gyu to spill their pockets before him. Still nothing.

This was bad. Really bad. Not only did it mean that he would had no buffer against the horrifying emotions that would surely overtake him, but everyone would have to see him break down. He had no desire for a single player to witness him in this state. Sure, saying dumb things when your high can be embarrassing - but not nearly as embarrassing as what Thanos was doing right now. Sitting alone, behind a pile of bunks so that he could not be found, whimpering and hugging his knees to his chest.

"Thanos?"

He startled a bit at the sound, looking up to find his biggest ally, Nam-Gyu, smirking down at him like the shit he was.

"What is it? Are you scared?", he taunted, "Cause I felt pretty violated earlier when you made me empty my pockets".

No response. At this, Nam-Gyu's face dropped a bit. I mean, he totally only stayed around Thanos for the pills, he couldn't give a dog's ass about his feelings. Yet he still felt a surge of sympathy in his heart - a long forgotten and totally unwelcome emotion.

"Hey, what do you think the next game will be my brother?", Nam-Gyu asked, changing the subject but keeping his condescending tone as to not have the rapper suspect that he was attempting to distract him to cheer him up. Which he totally wasn't.

"I don't fucking know, fuck off", Thanos responded - although he didn't make eye contact, and his face was deadpan. It was sad just looking at him.

Nam-Gyu did the exact opposite of Thanos' demand, walking up closer to the man and taking a seat on the cold floor beside him.

"Come on, this isn't like you man. Wanna go beat up MG again? I can join you, than we'll both be in a better mood".

Silence. Than, for the first time that morning, Thanos looked up at him. And, to Nam-Gyu's horror, he had tears in his eyes.

"I really don't want to die", he said.

Nam-Gyu gulped. This was a side of the purple haired rapper that he'd never seen before. It reminded him of when he was in school, mucking around with the other guys in the friend group, and than suddenly one would get all serious, taking some light-hearted taunt to heart, and nobody would know how to respond.

Than Nam-Gyu observed Thanos' posture. His shoulders were scrunched up, and looked as hard as rock.

"Y-you won't die", Nam-Gyu muttered awkwardly. How was he supposed to respond to this unprecedented behavior from his partner in crime? "You're really tense bro, it's creeping me out"

"Just fuck off", Thanos responded, depleted.

Well, what could he do? Player 124 stood up, frowning, trying to suppress his discomfort. His sympathy. His care for his new friend. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he made a gesture to walk away.

But he couldn't move. There was something hypnotizing in the rapper's sad, desperate eyes. He felt a pang in his chest, Thanos' pain becoming his own. For fuck sake, what was wrong with him.

Letting out an exagerated sigh, Nam-Gyu sat back down. "You know, you won't be of any use to me in the next game if your all worked up like this. You need to relax. Shoulder massage?"

He held his hands out with the request. This was a typical thing for bros to do together, right? I mean, massaging requires muscle strength. As Nam-Gyu tried to justify the request to himself in his head, Thanos just stared at him, dumbfounded.

"You would do that for me man?"

Nam-Gyu forced out a chuckle, "Of course! I can't just let you bring the whole team down in the next game with all your whining and winging. Than we really would all die".

Nam-Gyu noticed that Thanos tensed again at the mention of death, letting out a slight whimper. Who even was this man? Was this the real Su-Bong, completely untouched by the influence of narcotics?

He suddenly felt Thanos lean a bit closer to him and turn around.

"A massage would really help, thanks bro"

Well....here goes.

Nam-Gyu awkwardly placed his fingers on Thanos' shoulders, digging gently but without a coordinated rhythm. He almost jumped at the unexpected sound of Thanos' sigh of content.

"That's good Nam-Su, a little higher maybe?"

Nam-Gyu scoffed, "Excuse me?". He accented this remark with a poke to one of his shoulder blades, close to the center of his spine. This made Thanos yelp.

Of course, Nam-Gyu burst out laughing at this reaction, not at the right angle to see the blush growing on Thanos' cheeks.

"Shut up", he mumbled.

"What was that?!", Nam-Gyu cackled, as if he hadn't heard his friend. He poked him again, and Thanos repeated the sound.

"Quit it", he snapped, reaching his arm back to swat Nam-Gyu off.

This only empowered the man further, as he dealt a stream of pokes to Thanos' shoulder blades, all accompanied by childish "pew pew!"s.

This made the rapper's yelps transform into giggles, confusing Nam-Gyu a bit.

"Hey, what's so funny?", he put emphasis on his question with a poke to the back of Thanos' neck, making him scrunch his shoulders up and whine.

Player 124 just looked at him for a few seconds in complete bewilderment.

"No, seriously, what was that?", he asked. He couldn't shake of the thought that Thanos was just reacting in this way to mock him. Like some sort of ironic joke.

"I-I don't like that", Thanos stuttered. That was when Nam-Gyu noticed the slight tremble in his voice.

Now he was seriously confused, "What, are you like, really ticklish there or something?"

No response.

And that was when it dawned on him.

"Noooo....", he said, a mischievous smile overtaking his face. He poked again, this time under his right arm, and lingered his finger there for a few scratches. This made Thanos shriek and double over, attempting to stand up when Nam-Gyu grabbed his shoulder.

"Oh no, don't think your getting away that easy-", he taunted, before digging all ten of his fingers under Thanos' arms.

Thanos couldn't repress his frantic shriek, or stop himself from collapsing backwards onto Nam-Gyu's lap in ticklish agony, with his attacker's hands following flawlessly.

"Whoa, this is priceless", Nam-Gyu chuckled.

Thanos, who now had his head in Nam Gyu's lap and was lying facing the ceiling, tried desperately to tug his arms free, all the while screaming with boisterous laughter.

"This is actually gold", Nam-Gyu said, overwhelmingly delighted at this new discovery. "Hey, Min-Su!"

"NOHOHOHO!", the rapper protested, kicking his feet in the air, as if that would help.

"You shut your mouth", Nam-Gyu responded, squeezing Thanos' sides which made him shriek again before his laughter resumed.

Min-Su peeked his little anxious head out from around the corner. Nam-Gyu beamed.

"Look at this! Thanos is ticklish!"

Min-Su looked confused at first, but, after a few seconds, he giggled a bit.

"LEHEHET ME GOHOHOHO!", Thanos begged.

"No-ho way dude, I still haven't found all of your weak spots yet!"

With that, Nam-Gyu tested out the sensitivity of Thanos' stomach, wiggling his fingers gently. This made the rapper's laughter die down as he let out a few whiny giggles.

"Cohome on mahan", he chuckled, "Stohohop beheing chihildish".

Nam-Gyu smirked, "Me? Childish? I'm sorry, remind me which one of us is laughing like a five year old? Remind me which one of us is too weak to handle a bit of harmless tickling?"

Player 124 told himself that he was being mean, that he was bullying Thanos. The man deserved it, getting his name wrong all the time and treating him like shit. He definitely wasn't doing this because it was a relief to see Thanos smile, his giggles were overwhelmingly endearing or he cared for the man and wanted desperately to make him feel better. Definitely not. None of the above.

Nam-Gyu, not entirely satisfied with Thanos' weak protests and lack of legitimate struggling as his stomach was prodded, decided to move on to the man's sides.

Now this really got to Thanos. His giggles got louder and he started banging his head against Nam-Gyu's lap.

"Eheeeheheee!"

The man's laughter was almost a screech. Nam-Gyu just chortled at him.

"So youv'e lost your pills huh?", he said, digging one of his fingers into the side of Thanos' right rib, making him buck.

"I wonder where they are....", the black-haired one continued. "Here?" A poke to his lower right side. "Here?" A gentle scribble at his left armpit. "Or maybe here?" A gentle squeeze to the side of the rapper's waist.

"Nahaha! Thihihis ihihihis....."

"Hold up!"

Nam-Gyu's fingers paused momentarily. Thanos let out some very loud huffs and puffs, taking a few moments to notice the way that Nam-Gyu's smirk had become twice as evil, and his eyes were lighting up as if he just discovered a hidden treasure.

"Well well well, what do we have here?", he quipped, pressing a bit on a section of Thanos' jacekt pocket that was bulging a bit. He reached into the rapper's jacket and withdrew...the missing necklace. With the pills inside.

Thanos felt a surge of relief, followed by confusion.

"B-but, I looked in there"

"Obviously not hard enough", Nam-Gyu responded, evilly twiddling the necklace between his fingers.

"So...let me get this straight", player 124 continued, his shit-eating grin widening by the second; "You made me empty my pockets. You patted me down like a security guard. You fucking turned my jacket inside out! And you just had the pills on you the whole time?!"

Thanos felt himself tremble, shrugging sheepishly.

"O-ho, your in for it now-"

With that, Nam-Gyu dug both of his hands under Thanos' arms, wiggling and squeezing roughly with his fingers.

"OHOHOHO NOHOHOHO!"

"Oh yes-", Nam-Gyu teased, "You deserve every second of this you asshole".

Thanos had his arms pinned to his chest and his hands squeezed into tight fists. He was bopping his head up and down and thrashing like a maniac. If it weren't for his laughter, one could have easily guessed that he was being brutally murdred.

"PLEHEHEASE! IHIHIM SOHOHORRRY!"

Nam-Gyu scoffed, "Your begging? Pathetic".

Oh, how Nam-Gyu loved torturing this poor, helpless boy. For reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that it made him feel close to him, or that his reactions were adorable.

"Hey, give me more room", Nam-Gyu chuckled, using one hand to grab at Thanos' arms that were pinned to his sides. In a swift and coordinated motion, the attacker grabbed both of Thanos' hands and pinned them above his head, using his other hand to scribble heavily into the hollows under the rappers arms, alternating sides every few seconds.

And that was when Thanos died. Dying of laughter was the last way he thought he'd go in a place like this.

His screams went silent, his face went dark crimson, and he let out a stream of giggly whimpers. Having his worst spot completely exposed and wrecked like this was just too much for the poor man.

After a few seconds of this, Nam-Gyu got bored and showed his ally some mercy. This, of course, had nothing to do with the fact that he cared for his new friend and didn't want to go beyond his limits.

As Thanos panted and scrunched his body into a ball, still giggling like a child, player 124 just watched him in awe.

"If the next game is a tickle fight, your'e fucked", he snickered.

Up until this point, both Nam-Gyu and Thanos had completely forgotten that Min-Su was still standing there, watching the scene unfold. The boy had got a lot of enjoyment out of this, he had a bright smile. The affection - even if it wasn't directed at him - made him feel light and fuzzy. Maybe Thanos and Nam-Gyu weren't so intimidating after all?

"The fuck are you looking at?", Thanos barked, his threatening tone having clearly been revived.

Min-Su whimpered, blushed and scuttled away.

Hope you enjoyed!! My back is hungry for feedback as always.'

Have a slay day! (:

[your-favourite-yapper]

Biblically accurate Remus lupin hcs (sorta modern au)

Tall but w the weirdest ratio of legs to arms to torso

The worst ugliest handwriting EVER

Probably a minecraft kid (20 yrs old)

The weirdest facial expressions like his face DOES NOT match w what is coming out his month

Has been said alot by @mrstellmeafuckingsecret but is the biggest crybaby

Mama's boy

First time he was wo his mom was at uni and he cried himself to sleep for 3 weeks

Structures his sentences funny

Cannot tie a tie

Cannot cook

Cannot knit

Cannot crochet

(He still makes crocheted gifts for sirius)

Cannot REALLY pull off any style except the grandpa sweaters and like sweatpants

makes the funniest noises under his breath

Acc not that dumb but just, not good enough esp compared to his friends

However he is the biggest Dumbo in terms of street smarts

He gets scammed 5 times a week

And then he calls Sirius and cries 2 him abt it

Organizes his shelf by authors and not genre

Uses the most banged up iPhone 12

And when it was time to sell it

He cried

He got his first car at like 20 from his dad

Bc he was too scared to acc drive even tho he got his license the earliest

Ev it broke down completely

And he cried

A chocolate SNOB

Will not buy gas station schocolate

No no it's ALL name brands for him >:)

rlly wants to get suppeeer good grades to make his parents proud

Even tho they don't rlly cate that much abt stuff like grades

He blushes at his ears

Fingers constantly covered in pen ink bc he uses a burst pen

He bites the pen cover

The pickiest eater (me)

Will not eat food if there's a visible: onion, vegetable esp cabbages and spinach, mushroom, etc etc

Well he'll eat it but he WONT enjoy it

Enjoys watching cooking shows, cooking tiktoks but does not function in a kitchen

the SLOWWST reader ever

It takes him like 2 months to fin a small novel book

Not bc he's dumb or anything he LIVES for reading into the stuff, annotating etc etc

Hates coffee

Hates most sugary gums

Hates the smell of most colognes (excpet siriuss)

A BIG hit w older grandma type ladies

At a family function he's always surrounded by grandmas in their pink petticoats and gossiping

Bc he DOES gossip

Will feel VERY bad after

But he still does it

ONe thing he WONT do is confront/argue w someone to their face

He got into like 2?? Arguments ever and cried after each one

He'll be a bit rude or snarky if he's REALLY mad

But that's it

Does not have tiktok

Does not have snapchat

Does not have Twitter

Does not know how to use insta

I feel like he's chronically offline except for utube

But he still knows the most important brainrot terms

He's just a chill guy 🥺🥺

Triple checks EVRY text message b4 he sends to make sure no punctuation errors or spelling mistakes

HATES presentations

Litr puked after doing one once(or twice or three times)

Can not hold his liquor

But he's like immune to weed

Has no idea how to style his hair

He doesn't do ANYTHING to it

Has onky gotten one(1) haircut by his mum in high-school

And that's it

Can handle the most explicit smut (not that he activeky looks for it in a book)

But the moment 2 characters kiss in a movie he gasps like an old lady

Spent sm time w his mum and her crew of old grandma's so when he first met his friends he acted like an old lady

Said stuff like : "oh golly"and shit

And he swore too bc of his dad

So like it was "oh my fucking gosh" (bc saying god is blasphemy)

Can read social cues just doesn't kno what to do w them

Thinks: "Oh yeah shes obvi v mad bc she used her own perfume and not her bfs bc they got into an argument"

Says: "Hows ur bf ?"

Is acc very good at playing the recorder

Or another equally obscure instrument

Knows sm abt rocks and bugs

Has a rock collection he started when he was like 6 to this day

Terrifi3d of the dark

Gets new pj's once every year

Terrified of children

Terrified of scary music

Terrified of all his friends secretly hating him

When Sirius confessed his feelings Remus did NOT know what to day

Litr looked like 😮🫢😯

To this day feels like Sirius could do better

Looks v awkward in a suit

Has nvr entered a gym in his LIFE

but he's sorta?? In shape?? bc he takes silly little walks in the morning

Takes FOREVER to get out of bed

He wakes up b4 james at like 4am but is still sleepy and in the process of waking up at 10am

has a self-imposed bedtime of 10pm

Any longer than that and he's v angry

Has nvr pulled an all-nighter

In hs his mom would tell him to go sleep

And so when it was time for college he just didn't want to

Makes the worst dadjokes

His jokes are funny BECAUSE of his delivery

Esp when he's w his close friends

But w other ppl he ruins a bomb 10/10 joke w his terrible delivery

He likes to think that he's indie and listens to underground artists

But his faves are the same as every1 else in this world

Except for one artist w like 50 monthly listeners and their top song has 1k streams on spotify and they haven't released new music in 3yrs

His way of showing love is by acts of service

His way of receiving love is words of affirmation

But he legit doesn't kno what to do when he gets a compliment

Looks like this when u give him 1 🧍‍♂️

It's not bc he doesn't get any its just that he Gen doesn't kno what to say

Smiles weird

Stands weird

Walks weird

Eats weird

laughs weird

Terrified of ALL animals

Doesnt hate them tho

Just is v scared of them

Has planned the most evil pranks

The boy is NOT an angel

his fav shows are: children's show(and not in the an animated rilm that acc has good lessons and is like for kids 7-8 way, i mean he watches shit like "tayo the little bus" and "storybots"), a wild ripoff of a popular TV show, and a boring nature documentary

is probably a trs pet not in the way he likes the tr he just Gen can't say no to a figure of authority (not in that way tho)

LOVES his parents

Has the prettiest eyelashes ughhh

Has the prettiest ugly nose ever

Has the prettiest di

Is v aware of his body AT ALL TIMES

So bc of this when he tries to be "natural"

He's v much overthinking it

And he looks low-key robotic

His preferneces: fluff > smut > angst

My boy canNOT handle sad literature, paintings, songs, movies

He's also mine <3

Btw all this info is 100% acc bc he litr told me this in my dreams

[mushroom-words]

The Devil Take That Woman || Michael Langdon

Fandom: American Horror Story Pairing: Michael Langdon x Fem!Reader Words: 6318 Notes: Okay, so I'm not totally sold on the ending (I suck at writing endings), but I am pleasantly surprised with how this one turned out. Warnings: Dubious consent, death (mentioned and alluded to but not shown), Dom!Michael, Sub!Reader, Witch!Reader, fingering, hair pulling, choking, gagging, humiliation, crying, violence, spanking, nipple play, slight degradation, pussy slapping, fear arousal, autassassinophilia (paraphilia where a person is sexually aroused by the risk of being killed), spitting, restraints (by magic), biting, brief aftercare. I think that's all, but please please please let me know if I missed anything. Summary: Michael storms Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies and eliminates the witches, but he has a special debt to collect from you.

AHS Masterlist 🍄 Ultimate Masterlist

Special shout out to my girl @langdonss for wholly enabling my lust for this demon spawn.

A SHROUD OF death seemed to loom over the academy. You felt it in the way your sisters were quick to snap at each other’s throats, in the way your powers seemed to fizzle out right when they reached their peak potential, in the way the gardens seemed to wilt. You even saw it in the way the sun and moon shifted positions from day to night.

        It seemed to warn you of an impending danger. An inevitable travesty that would rock the foundation of everything still holding the world together.

        Michael Langdon. His nature threatened humanity at its purest form, and he was rising quicker than anyone could stop him. He had passed the Seven Wonders with disturbing ease. He’d even brought four witches back from the dead as only a small demonstration of the range of his power.

        The warlocks prophesied he was to be the next leader, known as the Alpha—and as Cordelia was fading far quicker than Fiona had crumbled, the future was looking bleak. In a time where the Antichrist was rising exponentially, there was no rest to be had. Every possible avenue must be investigated, and everyone was scrambling for a solution.

        Cordelia prompted your name softly. “Zoe has offered to take over your class this afternoon,” she said, placing a delicate hand atop your shoulder like you were crafted out of the finest glass. “You’ve been working yourself to exhaustion. You need to rest.”

        “We have to be prepared.” You didn’t lift your focus from the material spread out in front of you, your tired eyes desperately soaking up whatever information they could. “The only way to do that is to know everything.”

        Your Supreme’s failing health had your coven fraying at the seams. Mallory looked to be well on her way to rising, and most efforts not centered on Michael Langdon were focused on helping her nurture her magic. But the cloud seemed to be closing in on the young witch too. She was starting to struggle to perform what had come very easily to her just months prior.

        Desperation clawed furiously as the hourglass seemed to empty a little quicker each day. You’d taken to pouring your attention over religious studies. Whatever free time you had available between mentoring your junior witches and helping Mallory, you spent on learning all you possibly could on the Antichrist and its variants. Knowing the enemy was a vital step in defeating them.

        Cordelia sighed. “You’ve done enough for right now, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You won’t be good to anyone if you’ve burned yourself out.”

        You reluctantly looked away from the text and up at her. She offered a soft smile that no longer reached her eyes. There wasn’t much happiness that did anymore, but still, she tried to be strong for her girls. Just as you tried to be strong for her.

        “I couldn’t have asked more from you than what you’ve already given to me yourself, (Y/N).” She pressed a palm against the curve of your cheek. “Give your eyes a small break. Try to get some rest.”

        It was the soft plea in her tone that encouraged you to agree. Plus, the thought of a hot bath was almost too tempting for you to ignore. You’d been staying up at all hours cramming whatever knowledge you could in preparation for the holy fight you felt was edging closer. The prophesied battle of good and evil.

        The marbled bathroom you shared with Queenie was your sanctuary—or, rather, it used to be. Not so much in the past few months. You set out a small pile of towels and your robe so they were within easy reach. Letting the water reach the perfect temperature, you decided to splash in some scented oils and bubble solution before easing into the porcelain tub. The familiar daily activity of Miss Robichaux’s floated up from downstairs. It soothed you to have it as a background noise, reminded you that your sisters were safe for the time being behind the wrought iron gates.

        Right now was the only time that mattered most to you. It was the only time when your decisions could be made and determined to shape the future. What waited beyond right now was unpredictable at best but was utterly frightening to consider.

        You had witnessed Michael Langdon’s ability firsthand. He had presented himself as your savior when he had sauntered up to you while you were reliving the very worst of your repressed memories, magnified by then, just as you’d been since your fatal blunder during the Seven Wonders years ago. The monster of your past had been slain valiantly by the very one who now had the coven tearing their hair from its roots.

        Nobody but Papa Legba had the power to walk the realm of the Underworld—not until Michael Langdon had done the very same, freeing not only you but three of your sisters too.

        It was terrifying what he could do. Even more frightening was what he was written to do.

        A deafening series of gunfire shattered the casual peace. An ear-piercing chorus of shrieks and wails quickly followed suit. Lukewarm water sloshed over either side of the tub as you hastily ejected yourself from submersion. You just stared wide-eyed at the door while the screams of your friends and students—your sisters—echoed through the academy in sharp succession. Everything in you froze. You couldn’t move, forced to just listen to the chaos.

        It fell silent nearly as abruptly as it had erupted. Too silent. Deathly silent.

        Heart pounding and mouth dry, you shakily got to your feet, trying to make as little noise as possible. A million thoughts raced through your mind with enough speed to give you whiplash. There was no satisfactory response to any of them. You wrapped yourself in your plush bathrobe and slowly opened the door to peer into your shared bedroom.

        “Where are they?”

        The smooth tenor chilled you right down to your very soul. Michael Langdon—his voice carried through the halls, which you guessed were now hauntingly void of any of your sister witches. You could only hope that some of them had managed to escape or, at the very least, weren’t too badly injured. From what little you could overhear of the frustrated conversation, you were able to determine that Cordelia, Myrtle, and Mallory had managed to flee from the carnage.

        The small spark of relief you felt at that was, however, short-lived.

        “And what of our dear little friend (Y/N)?” He was dangerously close to your bedroom now. You’d barely heard his footfalls come up the stairs, let alone bring him so near to where you stood frozen. “It would be such a shame if she were whisked away with the other three.”

        You swiftly ducked back inside the bathroom. Not a moment too soon, either, as you heard somebody enter the bedroom just a second after you clicked the lock into place. The footsteps were heavy now. Each crisp step of expensive leather shoes against the polished hardwood flooring sent a fresh wave of dread through you. You backed away from the door slowly, your bare feet merely whispering across the slicked marble.

        The footsteps paused. You held your breath.

        A gust of energy suddenly busted the door down. Your body was thrown through the air and into the opposite wall. The wave crashed just as easily as it had crested, and you crumbled to the floor. Your bones ached at the harsh impact of the hard marble against your soft flesh.

        You reluctantly lifted your head, your blurry eyes trailing from those designer shoes and up the perfectly tailored suit until they met the icy stare of the man—the warlock, the Antichrist himself—who had been strategically chipping away at your sanity ever since he pretended to be your knight in shining armor.

        A lazy smirk presented on those delectably pink lips, but his eyes held nothing but a darkness so deep it coiled invisible shadows around your fallen body. A darkness tinged with bloodlust, satisfaction, twisted amusement, and the excitement of a chase that had finally reached its lethal end.

        “There you are,” he said softly, the words whispering along your skin like silk embedded with daggers. “I’ve been looking for you.”

        He clasped his hands behind his back and took measured steps towards you. You scrambled up to your feet and around to the other side of the bathtub, placing it between you. You’d always wondered why someone would design a bathroom with the tub in the middle of the room, but now you were silently thanking them.

        “Stay away from me, Langdon,” you demanded, your voice coming out much stronger than you felt at the moment.

        “I think we’re past the formalities, (Y/N).” He continued an easy path around the bathroom, taking two steps forward for every one you retreated. “Your sisters are dead, little witch. And the others—well, they’ve left you here to fend for yourself, haven’t they? You’re alone,” he said.

        You were torn between focusing on his approaching figure and being careful on where your feet landed, knowing one wrong move could result in you slipping in the puddles of water. It was difficult to keep your attention divided equally between them. Another step back, another step closer to the door. Not that you even dared to think you could just run out and evade him. But it might give you a fighting chance—if he allowed that much from you.

        Biting back the tears that clung to your lashes, you thrust your hand out towards him. The energy thrumming through your veins centered warmly at your palm. It died there, fizzling out like it had been doing so frequently in recent days.

        He chuckled quietly, the sound causing the hairs on your neck to stand to attention. “That might have worked before,” he said, sauntering closer still. “But I’m too strong now. Your magic is nothing compared to what I have.”

        “What the fuck do you want from me, Langdon?” Fear squeezed your lungs until you were having to fight to get in any oxygen. Your fingers trailed along the edge of the tub to help guide you as you continued backing away. The door was almost within your peripheral vision now.

        “What filthy words to come from such a pretty little mouth.” He clicked his tongue, running it along his teeth and shaking his head as though disappointed in your language. “I already have what I want, little witch. You’re right here.”

        It felt like his words punched a hole in your chest. Your legs started to struggle to hold your weight up, like the realization was too much for your body to handle. Like it wanted you to give in to those feelings you’d fought against following your resurrection.

        Michael Langdon might have needed the coven out of his way to achieve his overall goal, but he was after you specifically. He wasn’t happy that you had run back to your sisters to actively work against him, to give your all into plotting his downfall in order to save humanity from extinction. He wanted to keep you at his side.

        Your coven had been the only reason you’d left him in the first place. If it hadn’t been for their unending love and acceptance, hadn’t been for the family they had given you for all those years, you would have listened to the burning desire you’d held for your savior and run into his arms.

        Even now, in this little game of cat and mouse that had icy fear seizing your heart, you felt the dim fire sizzling in your lower stomach. Your body would always sing out for him regardless of the monster he was. It was a matter of mind over matter—heart versus body.

        “No.” The word came out much too soft to convince anyone of your devotion to your sisters.

        “Yes, little witch.” His voice dropped to a belittling croon that chased shivers up your spine. “You’re mine, and I’m not one to make the same mistake twice,” he told you.

        You acted before you lost the courage to do so. Whirling around on your feet, you lunged for the door. It slammed shut just as your fingers grazed the doorknob. Your body continued to pitch forward, your bare feet losing purchase on the slippery marble. You cried out as you flung towards the floor.

        Michael was in front of you in the blink of an eye. A hand wrapped firmly around your throat, the other planted against the small of your back, bringing your body flush to his. Your hands flew up to his chest to steady yourself as your face was tilted up, forcing you to look at him. Your pulse raced against his touch, lips parted to let loose tiny puffs of air.

        He dipped his head until his ears brushed against the shell of your ear. “You can pretend to fight me—hate me—all you want, if that’s what makes you feel better,” he murmured, his honey voice a sweet caress over your frazzled nerves, “but we both know the truth, (Y/N). You were mine before the ashes of your fragile creation.”

        Your lashes fluttered as you felt his fingers flex against the column of your throat. A turbulent storm churned within you, deafening claps of thunder pounding against the inside of your head and streaks of lightning branching out from your very soul, alighting your body with sin. Your head tilted back, lips parting further to let the pathetic whimper fall from them, your resolve starting to crumble into the very stardust from whence you came.

        The tip of his nose dragged along your jawline. He inhaled deeply before letting the air back out in a contented hum, pulling back just enough for your heavy eyes to gaze into the depths of the devil himself. Your legs buckled beneath you under the weight of his stare, his hand pressing more firmly against your back, keeping you upright and so close you could feel every hard, lean muscle of his body against you.

        “Langdon…” His name fell from your lips like a breathless prayer you begged to have answered. Your fingers curled into his suit, itching to travel north and feel the planes of his chest, the contour of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones.

        He leaned in. His lips whispered over yours, so close you could taste the cool sin on his tongue. “No. Say my name,” he demanded softly. “I want to hear you say it.”

        Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. Words bubbled up but died on your lips. All the things you wanted to say shriveled up and disintegrated like ash. You’re the devil, you wanted to tell him. A bastard born of sin with a heart of evil. You wanted to spit curses at him, tell him to get his hands off of you, demand he leave you alone and never to darken your doorstep again.

        At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself that you wanted to say. But the words fizzled from your tongue because you knew better. Sometimes the truth was more bitter than the lies.

        “Michael,” you whispered.

        His mouth slanted over yours as soon as the syllables rolled from your tongue. He swallowed every breath, every whimper, every last shred of your resolve as his lips commanded yours. His tongue pried them apart to claim your mouth, mapping out every inch, pushing against you in a dance that left no room for anything but your submission.

        You melted into his touch with a shiver, your body malleable under his hands as your head went blank. All lingering reservations fled your mind at the way he turned you into putty for him to mold into his vision. The tears that clung to your lashes slowly fell in a final fight for the grief and despair that entrapped your heart in bitter vines.

        Michael nipped at your bottom lip before pulling back. He moved the hand at your throat to press against your cheek, dragging his thumb along your cheekbone and tracing your swollen lips. Your watery lashes fluttered as you gazed up at him. He smiled gently at the tears he collected against his fingers.

        “That’s it, little witch,” he murmured. “Cry for me. You look so pretty when you cry.”

        A quiet sob wrenched from your throat. He hummed and slid his hand around to the back of your head. Tapered fingers wove between your damp hair before he suddenly yanked your head back. Your cry was swallowed by his mouth as it descended upon yours, lips hard and hungry and so delightfully sinful that your breath evaporated from your lungs.

        Michael lifted his hand from your back and deftly plucked at the tie holding your bathrobe together. Cool air kissed your skin before the chill was chased away. He palmed your breast, rolling it in his hand and squeezing, a blossoming ache forming beneath his fingers. You arched your back with a whine as he trailed his lips along the curve of your jaw and down to the thin flesh where it met the slope of your neck. He sucked your pulse point into his mouth, dragging his teeth over where it fluttered before sinking them into the skin.

        You mewled pathetically, hands flying from his chest to slide into his hair, fingers grappling at the golden curls as your body trembled with an ache that left your skin flushed. His fingers pinched your nipple, rolling it in his touch before tugging the hardened peak and forcing you to rise up on the tips of your toes. Another cry wrenched from you as he balanced you so perfectly on that precipice between pain and pleasure that had your head floating in the clouds.

        He released your nipple and traced his hand over the curve of your body, dragging his fingers along your flesh until they wedged between your thighs. Your legs threatened to collapse when he cupped your pussy. His name left your swollen lips in a breathless plea, syllables broken and cracked as you shifted to widen your stance for him. He groaned quietly and pulled away from your throat, pausing only to lave his tongue over the pretty imprint he left on your skin. Your hands fell back to his chest as he straightened.

        “So wet already, little witch,” he mused. “Tell me—is this all for me?”

        Michael dipped into your folds, gathering the evidence of your arousal. Shame plucked at your conscience like a harp. Nothing about this situation was right. It was wrong—so very, very wrong. It was the forbidden fruit that always tasted the sweetest.

        He lifted his hand in front of your face. Separating his index and middle finger, showing you the sticky slick that clung to his digits. Closing your eyes, you tried moving your head away, not wanting to be faced with what you already knew. Michael clicked his tongue and grabbed your face, pinching your cheeks and puckering your lips out, your slick smearing across your flesh.

        “Eyes on me, princess,” he demanded softly. You reluctantly brought your gaze back to him, fresh tears clinging to your lashes. He smiled. “Good girl.”

        Michael released your face and tapped his fingers against your lips. They parted in a quivering acquiescence to his silent command. He slipped those fingers into your mouth, pressing them against your tongue and pushing back until you were gagging around them. You tried to raise your hands to his wrist, desperate to dispel his fingers from your mouth, but they remained rooted at his chest—you couldn’t move. Forced to just stand there and take what he decided to give you.

        He smirked as the realization caused your gaze to shutter. “You look so good like this, (Y/N). Gagging, completely at my mercy. You were made for this.”

        Michael yanked your head back further, shoved his fingers deeper until they slid down your throat, and watched you struggle to breathe through your growing panic. Desperate, you bit down, and he merely clenched his teeth against the pain, releasing your hair to grab your chin. He pulled it down so you couldn’t bite anymore, his blunt nails scratching gently across your jaw as he did.

        Only when you were on the verge of either blacking out or vomiting did he withdraw his fingers. A string of saliva kept them tethered to your lips. Coughing and struggling to take in a proper breath, you shoved him away from you, only vaguely registering the magic that had held you prisoner in your body had been lifted.

        “What the fuck, Langdon?” you spat, your voice strained and choked between the gasps of air you sucked down into your lungs.

        Michael tsked and drew you back into him. He whipped you around until your back pressed against his front. His hand cradled your throat, thumb nudging your jaw until your head tipped up. The tip of his nose dragged along your damp cheek.

        “And here I thought we were finally getting somewhere.” He sighed, the exhale fanning across your face. “You’re gonna be screaming my name, little witch, until it’s the only one you remember. Your submission tastes so fucking sweet,” he murmured.

        He kissed your cheek before dragging his tongue over the tears that fell. You shuddered at the wet trail left in its wake, a whimper pushing past your lips as you fell further back into him, eyes growing heavy as his hand squeezed the column of your throat. His fingers pressed on either side of your windpipe until your head was floating back into the clouds of depravity.

        His lips came to rest at your ear, the smooth tenor of his voice prompting your pulse to race at the promise it held. “I’m never letting you run from me again, (Y/N). Even if that means I have to keep you tied to my bed until you realize you belong to me—and there’s nobody left out there to come save you.”

        Keeping his hand around your throat, he walked you forward until you stood before the bathtub. When your legs hit the porcelain, he pressed his lips to your temple, released a contented hum, and shoved you forward. Your hands flew out to catch yourself before you were dunked in the water, a sharp gasp pulling from your lungs as you gripped onto the opposite ledge, keeping yourself held up.

        “Langdon—”

        He brought his hand down sharply on your bottom, cutting off your words with a quiet cry. Your hair was roughly twisted in his fingers as he yanked your head back, forcing your neck to arch at a near impossible angle that had your thighs shaking as your bare feet slipped in the water on the marble floor. The only thing keeping you upright were his hips pinning you against the bathtub.

        Michael flipped the bottom of your bathrobe up to your lower back and spanked you again. “That’s not what you call me, (Y/N),” he said calmly, rubbing his palm over the stinging flesh. “Try again, princess.”

        Your fingers grappled at the ledge of the tub. You tried to push yourself up, to gain a bit more leverage, but quickly realized you were once again held completely at his mercy. Magic kept you exactly where he wanted you—stuck in place, completely at his mercy, unable to move anywhere past where he positioned you.

        The sensitive flesh of your inner thighs grew slick with your growing arousal. It forced a pathetic moan from your throat, eyes slamming shut as the humiliation swirled with the lingering shame. Your soul was tainted. Corrupted. Black as the sin that shrouded the magnificent Boy Wonder whose destiny laid out a path for world domination.

        Maybe he had sensed it in you when he’d pulled you back from hell. Like calls to like—and maybe your soul was so twisted, so deliciously depraved, that it reached out for him like a red string of fate.

        Maybe this was where you were meant to be. At his mercy. Under his control.

        The Antichrist’s little pet.

        “I can’t hear you, little witch,” he said after a moment, leaning down to whisper the unholy filth into your ear. “Who do you belong to?”

        “Y-You,” you whimpered, feeling yourself falling further from grace with each passing breath.

        “And what’s my name?”

        “Michael…”

        “Good girl.” He shoved your head back down, your face stopping just a mere inch away from the water. His boot nudged at your feet until your legs spread to his satisfaction.

        Two fingers suddenly pushed into your cunt. No resistance—he just slipped in easily, the realization making your face burn as you acknowledged just how turned on you were for this man. This fucking beast of hell. Your mouth popped open in a soft moan, your legs already shaking under the expertise of his touch.

        You were already falling apart for him, and he’d only just gotten started.

        He curled his fingers to press against a spot inside of you—a spot you hadn’t realized existed until now—that threatened to wipe away any sense left inside your mushy brain. Your body quivered like a leaf caught in the wind, senseless noises slipping from your lips, your walls fluttering around his digits as slick leaked out to coat his hand.

        Every attempt to push back against his fingers only stoked the frustration bubbling inside your chest. You whined, clenching your jaw as he dragged his fingers against your gummy walls, stroking you so beautifully that stars started to pop off in your vision.

        “Look at you, little witch,” he mused, scissoring his fingers inside of you, twisting them with every plunge inside of your cunt, drawing obscenely wet noises from where he worked you. “You’re drooling for me, aren’t you? What would your dear Supreme say, hmm?”

        A silent sob wrenched from your throat, your eyes slamming shut as you desperately tried and failed to rock back against him. Your breaths were starting to come out in ragged gasps, your chest heaving, bottom lip sore and swollen from how hard you’d embedded your teeth into it. The tang of blood trickled onto your tongue when you bit down on a particularly rough plunge of his fingers.

        Michael chuckled and brought his hand down on your ass, coaxing a high-pitched squeal from you at the burn that mingled with the fire stoked in your lower stomach. “Answer me, (Y/N),” he said—you didn’t need to be looking at him to know he was smirking, taking a twisted enjoyment out of your body’s reaction to him. “How would Cordelia feel if she knew what a sweet little harlot her precious witch is for the devil’s spawn?”

        More tears squeezed from your lashes to drip down into the cool water below you. Your senses were going haywire, your body fighting with your mind, your heart with your soul. How could someone so fucking evil make you feel so damn good—bring you to heights of pleasure you’ve never dared venture before with just his touch? God, Cordelia would be so damned ashamed of you if she knew. All of your sisters would.

        Consorting with the enemy was one thing. Submitting to the Antichrist, laying yourself bare and all but begging him to fuck you, was another entirely. You were unbelievably pathetic. Disgusting. Living up to a witch’s reputation as the devil’s whore.

        He promptly withdrew his fingers at your silence and smacked your pussy. You cried out, struggling against the magic holding you in place. Then he shoved three digits back inside of you, his motions much rougher than before, blunt nails scraping against your walls to create an illusion of bliss that teetered with pain.

        “I’m feeling generous, princess, so I’m going to give you one more chance,” he sneered. “Now tell me—how ashamed would your Supreme be if she saw you spread out like this for me?”

        “She—She’d hate me,” you cried. The truth slammed into your chest, breaking your heart into a million little pieces to be picked up later. But it was overridden by the overwhelming desire flooding your system. Your walls clenched around his fingers, the band of lust around your chest tightening to a breaking point. Every muscle was tensed and coiled, prepared to release as soon as that coil snapped.

        Michael hummed, then you heard him spit, felt the saliva land on your ass and slowly trail down to where he was plunging into you. You groaned as it mixed with the evidence of your arousal, listening to the way your slick squelched with every movement. Your legs shook almost violently from the expert way he played you like a fiddle, knowing exactly where to press his fingers and how deep to draw out your pleasure.

        “Fuck, Michael,” you mewled, your breath catching in your throat as you felt the wave start to crest, a mere foam on the horizon. “P-Please…”

        “Please what, princess?” he cooed, suddenly twisting those wicked fingers just right, making you cry out in pure, filthy desperation for him to bring you to release. “Are you gonna cum, little witch?”

        “Yes,” you sobbed. Your neck was starting to ache from keeping your head held up above the water, your hips from being pressed against the sides of the tub.

        Michael traced up the curve of your spine, the heat of his palm radiating through the plush robe, before weaving his fingers back into your hair. He gripped tight but didn’t pull your head up like you expected him to. Instead he leaned forward, his front pressing against your back in firm lines and lean muscle, placing his lips right back at your ear.

        “Deep breath, (Y/N),” he instructed coolly. 

        You sucked in a breath at his words but didn’t have the chance to let it back out when he suddenly shoved your head under the cold water. Your eyes popped open only to be met with the sting of the oils and bubble solution you’d poured in there earlier. Panic gripped at your chest. You still couldn’t move, but you thrashed your head, trying desperately to dislodge his grip from your hair.

        His fingers withdrew from your cunt but were quickly replaced. Michael snapped his hips forward, sheathing his cock inside of you in a single thrust. Immediately your mouth opened to release a muted scream. The bath water filled your mouth, sucking down your throat and into your burning lungs. Your entire body shook beneath him. The panic turned into the purest form of fear you had ever felt, topping the dread you’d had when you’d found yourself in Papa Legba’s clutches.

        Michael reached around your hips to place his fingers at your swollen clit. He rubbed it in tight, quick circles that almost instantly catapulted you over that ledge. Your walls clenched around him, your slick coating his cock as the coil finally snapped, a fire branching outwards to burn its way through your body. It licked its way down to your toes and the tips of your fingers.

        Darkness started to edge into your vision like a vignette. Your lungs screamed for oxygen. You tried holding your breath for as long as you could even through the tremors of your orgasm, through the feeling of Michael fucking you, his cock stretching your walls to their limit, filling you to the brim in a way you would be crying for if you hadn’t been on the verge of drowning.

        Was this his way of making sure you never ran away from him again—was he going to fuck you until your heart stopped beating?

        Just when you were about to try to breathe, when you thought you were going to pass out, he pulled your head back up to the surface. You greedily tried to suck air down into your lungs. Immediately you began to cough, dispelling the water you’d ingested past your burning throat. Michael wrapped his arm around your throat and yanked you to hold you to him. The grip was light enough not to constrict your breathing, but you were too far gone to appreciate it, let alone realize the magic gluing you in place had been lifted.

        He continued to rub your clit, the overstimulation linking with the oxygen deprivation and near-drowning experience to force you into a floaty headspace where nothing made sense. Static buzzed in your ears and your vision was overtaken by a flash of white. Everything hurt—yet, you’d never felt so high up in the clouds.

        More water pushed past your lips just as you were dragged into the depths of a second release. You would have collapsed if it hadn’t been for Michael holding you up, pinning you against his body as he continued to thrust up into you, his grunts fizzling through the static to reach your ears. You thought you might have heard some semblance of words but couldn’t make them out through everything beating you into a pile of malleable clay to be molded by his hands.

        Rising higher and higher, everything around you blanked out until you were no longer aware of anything. Maybe he actually had killed you, and this was a sort of limbo space before you would be dragged back to Papa Legba, forced to relive your very worst nightmares over and over again for the rest of eternity.

        Would he leave your body there, or would he dispose of you? Would Cordelia, Mallory, and Myrtle eventually return to the academy to find you cold on the bathroom floor, surrounded by water and marked by the beast?

        Your lashes fluttered as the static surrounding you started to fizzle out. The first thing you heard was your ragged breathing, your lungs still crying out for precious air, your chest heaving as you struggled to give them what they needed. Then his voice floated inside your head. It started out as a mere whisper, muffled like you were still held under the water, but gradually became more clear.

        “You’re okay, (Y/N). Breathe with me.”

        Then you felt him. Felt his lips pressing against your temple and your cheek. You felt his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, felt the thrum of his heart in his chest. An arm was wrapped around your waist. His fingers brushed through your hair, keeping it out of your face.

        You blinked heavily as more of the world returned to you. Your head was lolled back on his shoulder. His cologne filtered through your nose. Your lips parted as a quiet moan slipped past them, your tongue heavy in your mouth.

        He tightened his hold around your waist. “Breathe with me,” he repeated, taking in slow, deep breaths. Unable to do much else, you focused on following his pattern until your own breathing had evened out. “Good girl. There’s my little witch.”

        Clarity starts to bleed back into your system now that your brain was getting an adequate supply of oxygen. You silently took in your surroundings through heavy eyes, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Michael had you between his legs as he sat on the ledge of the bathtub. Your cunt ached in a way that only came from being fucked beautifully, and you could feel the sticky liquid seeping out to coat your inner thighs. You were empty now, meaning he was no longer inside of you.

        “What—” You winced at the rawness of your throat, the raspiness of your voice. “What the actual fuck, Langdon?”

        Michael chuckled softly, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. The intimate feel of it made you shudder. His chest rumbled with the sound. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your manners already, princess,” he said. “I’d be more than happy to remind you.”

        You rolled your head away from him. “Fuck off, Michael,” you scowled, spitting his name like it left a vile taste in your mouth.

        His hand shot out to grab your jaw, twisting your head back around to face him. Crystal eyes met yours in a clash of hardened ice that made your stomach lurch. Your breath hitched in your throat, lips parting to let loose the last of it before the rest got stuck in your windpipe.

        “Don’t mistake my mercy for weakness, little witch,” he said coolly. “You’re only alive because I’ve made it so. Watch your tongue.”

        Michael suddenly pushed you off of him. Legs still shaky, you stumbled but kept on your feet. He stood to his full height as you whirled around to face him. It was with a rush of disdain that you took note of his put-together appearance. He looked as he did when he first barged into the bathroom. Then there was you—drowned in the water that filled your lungs, bathrobe hanging open, flesh on display with pretty bruises blossoming against your abused skin and lashes clumped with teary remnants.

        He sauntered up to you as you fumbled with the tie on your robe. His hand wrapped around the column of your throat, pulling you closer to him. You resisted the urge to shove him off of you, a heavy realization of being totally, completely fucked draping over you.

        Michael Langdon owned you. You were his to do with as he pleased.

        “What a pretty little thing you are,” he mused, smirking at the way your pulse fluttered beneath your touch. Your fire hadn’t yet been snuffed out, but you had the good sense to bite your tongue, even if he could hear all of the insults you wished to throw at him passing through your mind. “Tell me, (Y/N)—who do you belong to?”

        You swallowed thickly against his hand. “You, Michael,” you said softly. “I belong to you.”

[dixonsdarkelf]

You're In Control: Scud Frohmeyer & Fem!Reader

Summary: What was supposed to be an unforgettable night ends in a way you were hoping to avoid. But your boyfriend assures you that this doesn’t change anything, and he’s not going anywhere.

Genre: Hurt to comfort/fluff & angst

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: implication of past SA, victim blaming oneself, panic attacks, mention of flashbacks. swearing, discussions of sex, no use of Y/N

A/N: This is by far not my best work. I wrote this in like a day and a half, which is the quickest I’ve ever written something after coming up with an idea. But I hope you still enjoy it. This is 100% self-indulgent copium don’t mind me. Writing this healed something in me, and I hope, if you need it, that it heals something in you too 🖤

The night had started blissfully, everything going according to plan. There was dressing up, dinner, the newest comedy movie to hit theaters, and the most handsome man in the city with you on his arm. It was a date night that was supposed to be unforgettable, one that you planned to end off with a little mattress action.

But now here you were—curled up in bed, topless, the covers pulled tight against your chest, having yet another panic attack.

Not according to plan. Not according to plan at all.

You had tried. Countless times, you had tried. Every time you ended up in bed together, it went the same—pleasure, flashbacks, panic. You wanted him. Badly. But your mind and body had other plans, trying to protect you in its own weird, fucked-up way.

Scud sat across from you, maintaining a respectful distance as to not overwhelm you. He watched with pain in his expression as you sat there, shaking like a leaf, clutching the covers to your chest like your life depended on it. Every time, it happened just like this, and every time, it managed to break his heart a little more than before.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth baby,” he instructed, slowly extending a hand out for you to take, only if you wanted. All the while, he kept his voice as soft and soothing as he could muster. “You can do this.”

You took a single, shaky breath in through your nose, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out through your mouth. Square breathing, your therapist had called it—inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four, pause for four, then repeat. You reached out and took his hand, intertwining your fingers between his while keeping your gaze locked on your lap.

An almost invisible smile tugged at his lips when he realized what you were doing, working through your panic to implement one of the skills you’d learned in therapy. “Good job, baby. Can you do it again for me?” he asked, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. He tilted his head slightly, hoping it would coax you to look up. “I’ll do it with you.”

You slowly lifted your head and peered up at him, and the sight of your disheveled state broke him—tears streaming down your face, your eyes puffy from crying, and your face tinged red from embarrassment. He wanted nothing more than to scoop you up in his arms and rock you, soothe all your worries as he stroked your hair and kissed your forehead. But he’d come to learn that you needed space in moments like this. The torrent of comfort cuddles would come later.

“Keep goin’,” he encouraged, maintaining eye contact while he leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing the first article of clothing his fingers came in contact with—his shirt. He held it out to you, still keeping the same breathing pattern as you in hopes you’d continue. You always preferred to put your clothes back on after something like this happened, and he knew this time was no exception. Whether it was an article of his clothing or yours, you didn’t care. You just needed something.

“Fuck, this is humiliating,” you croaked, taking his shirt in your trembling fingers. Your vision was clouded with tears, but your attempts to blink them away were futile as they continued to well up in your eyes faster than you could blink them away.

“You have nothin’ to be embarrassed about, baby,” he reassured. He turned to the side, giving privacy while you got dressed. Despite having seen you topless countless times, he was happy to give you as much space as you needed while you were feeling extra vulnerable. “Just keep breathin’. You’re doin’ great.”

You continued your square breathing as you released the death grip on the covers, letting them fall into your lap. You slipped your boyfriend’s shirt over your head, the faint scent of the cologne you’d gotten him for his birthday still lingering in the threads of the cotton. Slipping your arms through the sleeves, you reached out to him again, your fingers grazing his tricep to indicate it was safe for him to turn back around.

Pride swelled in his chest as he saw you continued your square breathing. Sometimes, helping you utilize your coping skills required a little more effort, but today, you seemed to be keeping them going with ease. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, his voice barely above a whisper. Swiftly, he hopped out of bed and stepped out of your room, returning a minute or so later with a glass of water. He took his spot back on the bed and passed it to you, not releasing until your shaky hand had a firm grip on it.

“I’m sorry, Josh.” Your voice came out groggy, tired, like you had just woken up. And perhaps, in a weird way, you had.

“What are you apologizin’ for?” He knew the answer. You always apologized when this happened, despite him always assuring you that it wasn’t necessary. “Apologies are only for when you’ve done somethin’ wrong, and you certainly haven’t done anythin’.”

You let out a deep, shaky exhale before taking a sip of the water, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat. “I just feel like I should be past this by now,” you muttered under your breath.

His heart shattered at your words. You said it so bluntly, so harsh, like it was fact. He didn’t believe it for a second, and though your tone conveyed otherwise, he was hopeful you didn’t truly believe it either.

“Don’t say that,” he practically begged, his voice a mixture of sweet and commanding. He held a hand out, letting it hover near your leg but not touching it, silently waiting for your permission. When you nodded, he placed his hand on your knee, drawing small shapes with his fingers. “You don’t need to be past anything. What you went through was terrible, and there’s no time limit for your healing. You take as long as you need.”

“You deserve better,” you sighed, the matter-of-factness heavy in your words, “you deserve someone who’s not going to have a panic attack every time they try to have sex.”

His retort was quick, hardly missing a beat as you finished your sentence. “And you deserve to feel safe during our little escapades, which takes precedence.”

You curled into a ball, hugging your legs tight to your chest and burying your face in your knees. Your eyes burned, and the heat radiating off your face from how red you were scalded your skin. The embarrassment you were feeling now was all-consuming. You were sure it was going to kill you.

“My love? Can you look at me?”

You looked up at him, peering through strands of hair that had fallen in your face. His hand was held out again, giving you space for you to take it if you wanted but leave it if you didn’t. Wanting to feel his touch, you took his hand, pulling it toward you slightly, indicating that you wanted him to move closer. He moved slowly, coming up next to you and adjusting himself to face you.

Finally, you looked at him—really looked at him. You saw the sincerity in his eyes, the honesty he had shown you time and time again. You saw the adoration that ran deeper than you could fathom, and as you locked eyes, you took one last final, shaky inhale, your breathing having almost returned to normal. You never doubted his words, but something about tonight and the way he looked at you hit differently this time.

“You’re in control here, baby. I don’t want you doubting that for even a second.” He wiped a few tears off your face with his thumb, a smile barely tugging at the corners of your mouth as he caressed your cheek.

“I know. You’ve never done anything to make me question it,” you assured.

“That’s good,” he mused, a soft little grin forming on his face as he gave your hand another squeeze, “you take as much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

You adjusted slightly, pulling the covers up over him and scooting into his lap, relaxing into his chest as he snaked his arms around you. More than ever, his arms felt like the safest place in the world. “I love you.”

He kissed the top of your head, pulling you tighter against him. Beginning to rock you gently, he buried his nose in your hair, whispering your favorite words he’s ever uttered. “I love you more.”

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[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again