#he seems to. do it fully on purpose. and almost take pride in it

[captorations]

i was writing something else but then i checked the doctor who wiki and got slammed by a repeated line about the number of episodes per season getting reduced almost every fucking season for the past decade and wanted to start biting things

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Ribbons

CW: light BDSM, some teasing, being recorded during sex, light praise kink. 18+ MDNI ~1.2k words

You never thought buying the dark, velvet fabric would lead to this. You didn't even have a plan for them initially, buying the ribbons more for the fact you liked the deep, red color that reminded you of your boyfriend rather than for an actual purpose.

Jason was more than happy to find a use for them. The smooth velvet criss crosses over your arms, twisting over your wrists into perfect knots, effectively tying your limbs to the headboard above you.

"So perfect like this, baby," Jason murmurs, fingers tracing patterns over every inch of skin he can reach.

He'd been like this for what feels like hours. Light touches, almost teasing as he touches everywhere but where you need him the most, "So pretty all tied up with my colors."

"Jason," You plead, almost begging as he trails the pads of his fingers over your inner thighs, ignoring the wetness pooling between your legs.

He hums softly, idly rubbing his palm back up your stomach to pinch your nipple, "I'm just admiring you, doll. Ain't nothing wrong with that."

You gasp, arching slightly into his touch as you tug at your binds, "You're teasing."

"I'm taking my time," he counters, hand finding purchase against your throat, not to squeeze, but to rest, counting the thrum of your pulse against his skin, "Enjoying my sweet partner."

You use your best puppy dog eyes, twisting against the knots locked across your skin, "You can enjoy me in another way, Jason."

He grins devilishly at you, eyes locking with yours as his fingers leave your throat to track the rise and fall of your chest, "I could, sure. But I'm too busy trying to memorize how you look right now, doll. Can't you be patient a little longer?"

You whine in protest, mind racing for a solution to get what you want, "You don't have to memorize me."

"I want to," he drawls dismissively, palming your waist to admire how his hand seems to swallow you up.

"No, I mean, you wouldn't have to," You start, voice quieting to a mumble, "if you had something to remember this by."

His hand stills against your skin, considering, "Yeah?"

"Then we both could get what we want?" You ask, voice pitching in uncertainty as you turn your head to the side, trying to hide the sheepish look growing in your face.

He taps your cheek, drawing your attention back to him, "And what do you want, sweet thing?"

"You," You breathe out, squirming against the ribbons holding you down, "want you."

He nods thoughtfully, idly stroking the velvet looped around your wrists, "where?"

"You know where," You huff, testing the knots again.

"Be specific," he suggests, lazily following the lines of your body down to your stomach.

"Lower," You nearly whimper, trying to lift your hips to guide him.

His hand comes to a stop against your stomach, spreading his fingers to press down lightly, "Here?"

"No, I–" You trail off with a groan, pulling at the ribbons again before meeting his sly gaze, "I want you inside."

His eyes light up, face all teeth and pride, "There you go. Good job, pretty. Knew you could do it."

He dips his head down to kiss you, swallowing every noise you make as he pulls your thigh up to his hip. He's distracting, head-spinning, and you fail to notice his free hand reaching for his phone as he kisses you senseless.

It's only when he pulls away, leaving a line of spit between you, that you notice him holding his phone up to capture your face.

"Smile, sweet thing," he purrs, and you do, eager to please. He coos at you, angling your face up with his fingers below your chin, "Look at you, all wrapped up in my colors and needy. Being so good for me."

He hums in approval, aiming the camera for your wrists before slowly tilting it down. The glinting lens captures your attention so fully, you almost miss him lining his cock to your dripping cunt, "Gonna keep being good for me, pretty?"

You nod quickly, "yeah– yes, gonna be good, so good–" he cuts off the rest of your mindless babbling when he eases his dick into your fluttering walls. It draws a needy, high-pitched whine from your throat.

He echoes your noises with a moan of his own, grabbing your waist with his free hand to hold you still.

Heat spreads across your skin, and the way his eyes seem to glaze over at the way you clench around him only makes you keen higher.

"Perfect," he groans, lowering the camera to capture every inch of his cock sinking inside you, "Taking me so well. Made for it, baby, made for me."

You mewl, tugging hard at the ribbons holding you down, "Jason, Jason, I wanna–"

"Shh, sweet thing," he soothes, slowly rocking his hips back and forth, his phone catching every drag of his cock, every noise your cunt makes, every movement you make to buck your hips closer to him, "I got you."

He finds the pace that makes your head falls back, pulls noise after noise from your lips, makes your eyes cross, and your words lose meaning.

He grinds his dick against the spot that has you seeing stars, and a knot starts to twist in your stomach, pleasure building higher.

Your babbling reaches a fevered pitch, matching his own blissed out groans. He rewards the way your eyes flutter at the camera with a harsh thrust, making your back off arch the bed.

"That's it, that's it," he praises, and his fingers find your clit to draw tight circles, until you soak his cock with your release.

He snaps his hips into your pussy until he finds his own climax, spilling inside you with a low moan, "Yes, so– so good for me, pretty."

He kisses you when you whine in response, and only pulls away when you're dizzy and panting.

He doesn't forget about the camera in his hand, though, focusing on the dazed, hazy look on your face before lowering his phone to where his dick is still twitching inside you.

He pulls out slowly, like he's relishing the way his and your cum drip out of you, the mess you made of his cock.

"Beautiful," he murmurs when he slips out.

He uses his fingers to gather up the mix of fluids leaking out of your gaping cunt and slowly pushes it back in, recording every second and every spasm of your aching hole, "You good, doll?"

"Mhm," You half whimper, and he finally drops the camera, expertly untying the knots on your wrists.

He lifts each of your hands, littering your skin with quick, soft kisses along the red marks covering your arms, "Wasn't too much?"

You shake your head, mind a little foggy, but no less euphoric, "No. Was nice."

He smiles at you, soft and adoring, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, "Gonna get you cleaned up, sweet thing."

You hum contently, more interested in rubbing the soft velvet between your fingers, "Can we do that again sometime?"

"Course, doll," he agrees easily, carefully massaging the soreness out of your arms, eyes full of promises, "I'd cover you head to toe in your pretty ribbons, if you'd like."

"I'd like," You admit quietly, soothed by the softness in his voice, the gentleness in his touches.

Jason presses more kisses to the curve of your wrists, gaze locked on every motion you make with sheer devotion. His voice lowers to a hushed vow, "Whatever you want, pretty. Anything at all.”

[earthlybeam]

https://www.tumblr.com/earthlybeam/772545604835475456/hello-can-i-please-request-elves-not-knowing-our

Can you do the opposite? Reader says something and it flustered them? Can you add Legolas please?

You (reader) so when you drop a teasing, flirtatious, or double-meaning comment, it would catch him off guard. His reactions would likely be subtle, with a blush or a moment of hesitation, but still maintaining that stoic, noble façade.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

(First one)

The forest around you is quiet, the air filled with the cool scent of pine and moss. You stand beside a tall tree, feeling the breeze brush past your skin, the delicate touch of nature so familiar and soothing. But there’s an unease simmering beneath the surface as you sense someone approaching—someone who commands the very air with their presence. Legolas moves into your line of sight, the golden light filtering through the canopy casting shadows that play across his sharp features. His gaze is steady, his posture proud, and yet you see a hint of something vulnerable beneath the calm surface. His presence is like a cool stream, flowing with strength and grace, but there’s a sharpness, too, like the edge of a blade just waiting to be tested. “You seem at ease,” you comment, your voice soft but purposeful, catching his attention. Legolas tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a touch as if considering your words. “The forest is always at ease when you are still enough to listen,” he replies, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with an unmistakable sense of pride. He stands tall, his bow slung across his back, an image of strength and composure. You step closer to him, the distance between you shrinking with each movement, feeling the tension thickening in the air. Your voice drops to a whisper, soft but deliberate. “But I wonder… if I whispered in your ear, would you still stand so tall?” The moment the words leave your lips, you see a slight flicker in his eyes, a shift in the air around him. His posture falters for just a fraction of a second, a subtle quiver in his usually perfect stance. You catch the smallest of tremors running down his spine as his breath catches, and in that instant, you know that you’ve unsettled him in a way few things ever have.

Legolas swallows, his sharp features softening as he takes a slow, deliberate breath. His expression shifts, just barely, as the weight of your words sinks in. His long, elegant ears, usually so poised, twitch slightly at the proximity of your voice. It’s only now that you realize how sensitive they are, how intimate it must be for him to allow someone that close to them. His gaze flickers down to the ground for a moment, as if trying to regain his composure, but the flush creeping along his jawline betrays him. It’s a soft, almost imperceptible hue, but it’s enough to make his usual confidence waver. He doesn’t respond immediately, instead seeming to fight with his thoughts, as if your question has left him at a crossroads. “You test my restraint,” he murmurs, his voice lower than before, and there’s something almost breathless in the way he says it. It’s not a complaint, but a challenge, the kind of challenge that carries with it the weight of his centuries of experience. He shifts slightly, almost as though he’s trying to distance himself, but the pull between you both is undeniable, like a thread that binds you together despite the tension in the air. His eyes are still focused on you, but now there’s an intensity there, something deep and unspoken that seems to swirl beneath the surface. You can feel the delicate balance between the two of you hanging in the air, like a breath that hasn’t yet been released.

You notice that he doesn’t step back, not fully, even though the tension crackles in the space between you. His body remains poised, like a predator unsure whether to make the leap or remain still. His lips part, and you wonder for a moment if he’ll speak or if he’s waiting for you to make the next move. Then, without a word, he straightens, his usual calm and controlled demeanor returning, but the faintest of blushes still stains his cheeks, betraying the quiet impact your words have had. “You should be careful with such words,” he finally says, his tone more composed, though there’s a flicker of something much deeper behind his words. As he turns to leave, the air between you feels thicker, charged with something unsaid, something that will linger in the forest for far longer than either of you are willing to acknowledge. The soft rustling of leaves is all that remains, and for a brief moment, the stillness of Mirkwood feels too quiet, too heavy.

As Legolas walks away, his mind is far from the peaceful surroundings of Mirkwood, despite the beauty of the forest that usually calms him. Your words echo in his mind, and his thoughts stray to the delicate, almost electric way you had spoken them. The soft whisper of your voice, so close to his ear, sends a ripple of awareness through him. He can almost feel the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle pressure of your presence as you leaned in, close enough that the softest sound of your voice could be felt as much as heard. A shiver runs down his spine, the memory of your words still alive in the air around him, making his pulse quicken just a little. He imagines it, the intimacy of your proximity, the tantalizing idea of you so close that he could feel the brush of your lips against his ear. His mind lingers on that image, and with each passing second, the flush on his cheeks deepens, betraying the steady control he has spent centuries honing. He shakes his head slightly, trying to push the thoughts away, but they linger. The thought of you whispering in his ear again, of the heat rising in his chest as you get closer, sends a wave of warmth flooding through him. His usually steady breath falters for a moment as the image plays in his mind, and his body betrays the calm exterior he strives to maintain.

Legolas feels a slight tension in his chest, a conflicting surge of emotion—one part of him commanding him to remain composed, to stay as the calm, graceful warrior he has always been. But another part of him, a deeper, more vulnerable side, is caught in the gravity of what you implied, the unspoken connection that still lingers between you. His hand tightens briefly on his bow, a subtle, almost unconscious gesture, as his thoughts wander back to the delicate way you had made him feel exposed, though you had never even touched him. It was the proximity, the sheer closeness of your presence, the undeniable intimacy of your voice. His heartbeat quickens again, and for the first time in a long while, Legolas realizes that there are things, emotions, that even he cannot easily tame. The flush on his face remains, and though he tries to steady his breathing, there’s no denying that your words have left a lasting impact on him, one that will not fade as easily as the gentle breeze in the trees.

(Second one)

The forest around you is alive with the soft hum of nature, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Sunlight filters through the thick canopy above, casting dappled patterns across the forest floor, and a gentle breeze stirs the leaves in the trees. Everything is still, serene—except for Legolas. The Elf stands in the center of the clearing, his bow drawn with such precision that it seems as though the world itself pauses in reverence to his skill. He is in his element, moving with the effortless grace of a creature born to the forest, his focus unyielding as he lines up another shot at the target a few yards away. You’ve been watching him for some time now, captivated by his fluid movements, the way his form blends so seamlessly with the world around him. His every motion is controlled, deliberate—nothing is wasted, and nothing falters. But you can’t help it. There’s a mischievous impulse gnawing at you, the irresistible urge to disrupt the quiet perfection of his concentration. It’s too easy, really. You know just how to push him off balance.

As Legolas draws another arrow, preparing for his next shot, you step forward. Your footsteps are light but deliberate, just enough to draw his attention. He doesn’t turn to look at you, but you can see his posture shift imperceptibly. A slight tension in the set of his shoulders, a faint tightening of his grip on the bow. Even without looking, he senses you—like a predator attuned to the slightest rustle in the underbrush. You wait for the perfect moment before speaking, your voice a casual whisper carried by the soft wind. “You know,” you begin, just loud enough for him to hear, “I’ve heard that Elves are masters at controlling their tension.”

Legolas doesn’t respond immediately, but you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s the barest sign of recognition, but it’s enough. His sharp eyes flicker in your direction, though he doesn’t fully acknowledge you yet. You can tell he’s trying to maintain focus on the target, but there’s a subtle change in him, a slight shift in his demeanor. His grip on the bow tightens just a little, and his eyes flicker momentarily to the side, where you stand. You press the point further, your tone light, but laced with something more—something that thickens the air between you. You take a step closer, closing the distance between you both. Legolas doesn’t move, but you feel the tension in the air growing thicker, more palpable. The forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves are watching.

You lean in, your voice soft but purposeful as you ask, “Do you think you could keep your bow taut if I were to press up against you, just a little?” There’s a playful tone in your words, but underneath it, something else stirs—something charged, something impossible to ignore. The air between you both thickens with a weight that’s suddenly hard to breathe through. Legolas doesn’t respond immediately, his focus still on the target, but you see a brief twitch in his shoulders as you move closer. You step right up to him, closing the gap completely, your body brushing lightly against his side. The contact is soft at first, but it’s enough to make him stiffen almost imperceptibly. His muscles tense, and for the briefest of moments, his breath hitches—a sharp intake that betrays the calm he’s trying so hard to maintain. You can feel the quiver in the bowstring as his fingers tighten ever so slightly, a sign that the pressure of the moment is beginning to take its toll.

You feel the heat radiating from his body, like an ember just waiting to ignite, and the instant your body is pressed against his side, you sense the shift in him. He tries to focus—he has to, he’s an Elf, a master archer, after all—but the effort to hold onto his composure is becoming increasingly difficult. His posture falters, just a fraction of a degree, but it’s enough for you to notice. His back, usually straight and unyielding, now seems to bear the weight of something more than just the bow in his hands. The target ahead of him is still in view, but his usual sharpness, that fierce concentration he’s known for, begins to blur, disrupted by the closeness between you. The bowstring quivers, pulled taut, just like the energy between you both—tight, stretched to its limit. It’s as though the string itself could snap from the strain, and you know that Legolas is doing everything he can to keep his hold steady. His fingers tremble slightly on the string, betraying the internal battle he’s waging.

His eyes narrow, focusing harder on the target, trying to block out everything else. But you know it’s futile. His mind is now torn—half of it on the target, the other half entirely consumed by the nearness of you. His jaw tightens, muscles rippling as he fights against the natural pull of your proximity, a tension deep within his chest. Every instinct tells him to react, to pull away, but the other half of him—proud, disciplined Legolas—clings desperately to his focus. You notice how his chest rises and falls with deliberate slowness, his breathing controlled, but there’s a subtle hitch to it now. His brow furrows in concentration, but his body’s reaction is unmistakable. You see how his throat works, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallows hard, trying to regain his focus, to push down the heat flooding his veins. It’s a silent struggle, one that he’s waging not just with the bowstring, but with himself.

The pull of the string is tighter now, more deliberate, and you feel the slightest tremor run through him. The bow’s resistance matches the tension growing between you—each breath between you both making the atmosphere heavier, almost suffocating. His lips part briefly, as if he’s going to speak, but the words get caught in his throat. He’s fighting to keep his mind on the task at hand, to ignore the steady rise of heat in his chest, the way his pulse is quickening beneath his skin. The target is still there, in his sights, but it’s as though the distance to it has suddenly lengthened. The simple act of aiming becomes a monumental challenge as his body reacts to your closeness. His grip tightens on the bow, but his aim wavers, just slightly, as the tension between you both presses in on him from all sides. It’s impossible to ignore—impossible to shut it out. The bowstring remains pulled back, stretched to its limit, but with each passing second, it feels like it might break.

“Go on,” you whisper, your breath a warm caress against his ear, your voice light but laced with something that shatters the fragile silence between you. “Shoot.” Your words linger in the air, soft yet provocative, like a challenge that cuts through the tension, and you watch as Legolas’s focus falters—just for a moment. It’s so brief that even you almost miss it, but it’s there, in the slight twitch of his fingers on the bowstring, in the sudden, almost imperceptible tremor that runs through his body as he tries to keep control. The world around you both seems to vanish in that instant—there is nothing but the two of you, the breath between you thick and charged, and the tautness of the bowstring as it quivers in Legolas’s hand. You sense his concentration wavering, pulled in two different directions—half of him on the target ahead, the other half focused entirely on you, the space between you closing too quickly for comfort.

For a brief second, Legolas hesitates. His eyes narrow slightly, trying to steady himself, but the strain is evident in the way his jaw clenches, the tightness in his grip. His fingers twitch again, struggling to release the arrow as if fighting against some invisible force that you’ve summoned in the air between you. Then, with a deep, sharp exhale, he releases the string. The sound of the bow’s release is sharp, but the follow-through is less than perfect. The arrow flies, but it veers off course, striking a nearby tree with a loud, echoing thud, several feet from the target. The impact rings in the silence that follows, its sound too loud in the otherwise still forest. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing but the quiet rustling of the leaves and the sound of Legolas’s breath coming faster, more erratic than before. The usual calm that he exudes in moments like this seems to have vanished, and he stands frozen, the bow still in his hand, eyes fixed on the missed shot. His normally poised expression tightens as his jaw clenches again, his teeth grinding together in a quiet frustration. The flush creeping up his neck is faint, but undeniable. His skin seems to burn with the effort to regain control, but the damage is done—he’s missed, and the sense of frustration lingers, heavy and thick in the air.

Legolas’s chest rises and falls with a steady but labored breath, and you watch as the flush of embarrassment slowly deepens, spreading across his high cheekbones and making his usually composed face seem a little less certain, a little more vulnerable. His eyes flicker to the target, and then back to you—his gaze sharp, searching, like he’s trying to piece together the fragments of his focus, but it’s slipping through his fingers. The master archer has been thrown off balance, and you can see it clearly now, despite his best efforts to hide it. The quiet tension between you both swells again, as though the very space around you is charged with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved challenges. Legolas tries to maintain his usual cool, but it’s clear that your closeness, your challenge, has rattled him in a way he’s not used to. He lowers the bow slightly, his fingers still gripping it tightly, though it seems less controlled now—more like a lifeline than a tool of precision. He forces a breath, attempting to steady himself, but his gaze is still unsettled, darting between the target and you, unable to find his center. The flush on his face deepens, and the muscles in his neck tighten, the strain almost visible beneath the smoothness of his skin. It’s an uncomfortable vulnerability he hasn’t allowed himself to show before, and it hangs between you both like an unspoken admission of the pull he feels—the distraction you’ve caused.

“Well,” you tease softly, your voice light but holding a note of playful satisfaction. “Looks like the tension got to you after all.” Your words, teasing as they are, land with the weight of something heavier. You can see the shift in him, the flicker of frustration that flashes behind his eyes, and despite his efforts to hide it, he can’t entirely mask the annoyance with himself. His lips press into a thin line, but there’s something almost defensive in the way his jaw tightens. He doesn’t respond immediately, and for a brief moment, you think he might not say anything at all. Instead, he simply stands there, staring at the missed target, his shoulders rigid, his chest still heaving as he struggles to regain his composure. But then, after a moment of silence that feels far too heavy for this to be just a passing distraction, he shifts slightly, his posture returning to something more controlled, though there’s still a faint flush beneath his skin. His lips part, but only to say, in a voice that’s tinged with both restraint and the faintest trace of frustration, “You test my patience, more than you know.” There’s no reproach in his voice—just the lingering awareness that, despite his best efforts, something has slipped beyond his control. The challenge you’ve posed to him is one he clearly hasn’t been able to ignore, and now, as the tension in the air thickens once more, you both know it will linger between you far longer than either of you is willing to acknowledge.

↓ (After he missed his target he sulking) ↓

[sillygoose067]

A Masked Promise

Ch.29

Dick Grayson(Nightwing) x Reader

You found yourself caught in the everyday cadence of the tower, surrounded by the quiet hum of the team's routines. Mornings started early, the kitchen bathed in soft light as you prepared breakfast for the team—pancakes one day, omelets the next. They were always starving when they returned from missions, and you made it your mission to ensure they had warm food to come home to. The act of cooking, the smell of fresh ingredients, the simple satisfaction of feeding them, became your way of contributing, of feeling like you had a place here.

It wasn’t just the meals, though. Over time, you started to pick up on little things. The med kit didn’t seem so daunting anymore. You learned how to clean cuts and suture wounds under Kory’s watchful gaze, her gentle encouragement easing your nerves as you stitched up Gar’s arm after a particularly rough mission. “You’ve got a steady hand,” she’d said with a smile, and for the first time in a while, you’d felt a flicker of pride in yourself.

When you weren’t patching someone up or trying to perfect Rachel’s favorite curry recipe, you started spending more time in the operations room. It was overwhelming at first—the monitors glowing with live feeds, the comms buzzing with static, the maps marked with cryptic coordinates. Dick had shown you the basics one afternoon, his hand guiding yours over the controls as he explained the system. You weren’t a tech wizard by any means, but you picked up enough to feel useful. Being able to monitor the team while they were in the field gave you a sense of purpose, and when they came back—battered but alive—you felt like you’d contributed, even in a small way.

It wasn’t all smooth, of course. The team’s tension over Slade hung like a storm cloud over the tower. Missions were relentless, each one more dangerous than the last. The weight of it showed in the lines of Dick’s face, in the way his shoulders carried a stiffness that never fully went away. You’d catch him staring at the monitors late at night, his jaw tight, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. You didn’t always know what to say, but you tried to help in the ways you could—leaving a mug of tea by his side, nudging him to take a break, even if it was just for a few minutes.

...

Then came the email you’d been waiting for. The interview you’d gone for on the day of the explosion—the one you’d almost forgotten in the chaos—had led to a callback. The coordinator wanted to meet with you again to discuss the position. The prospect of normalcy, of having a career again, sent a flicker of excitement through you. But when you told Dick about it, his reaction wasn’t what you’d expected.

“You shouldn’t go,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You frowned, the weight of his words sinking in before you could even ask why. “What do you mean, I shouldn’t go? This is a big deal for me, Dick.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “Something about it feels off. I can’t explain it, but with everything going on—with Slade—it’s not safe.”

You stared at him, disbelief and frustration bubbling up in your chest. “So, what? I just let this opportunity slip away because you have a feeling? Do you know how hard I’ve worked for this?”

His eyes softened, but his tone didn’t waver. “I’m not saying it to hurt you. I just—look, I know what it’s like out there right now. It’s dangerous, and I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just about a job. What if it’s a trap?”

“A trap?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Do you hear yourself? Not everything is connected to Slade or whatever villain you’re dealing with. This is my life, Gray.”

His silence only stoked the fire of your frustration. “I can’t just stop living because you’re scared something might happen. That’s not fair.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to control you. I just want you to be safe.”

“Safe,” you echoed bitterly. “Right. Because staying cooped up in this tower is so safe.”

You didn’t wait for his response. The tension was too much, the air between you thick with unspoken words and conflicting emotions. Without another word, you grabbed a blanket from the hall closet and headed for the sofa in the common area.

The cushions were firm, and the blanket wasn’t warm enough, but you were too stubborn to care. You needed space to cool off, to let the anger simmer into something more manageable. The quiet of the tower felt different now—less comforting, more oppressive.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in your mind. He didn’t understand what this job meant to you, how much you needed it—not just for the paycheck, but for the sense of normalcy it could bring. You knew he cared, but his overprotectiveness felt suffocating in moments like this.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the sound of soft footsteps pulled you from the haze of half-sleep. You opened your eyes to find Dick standing over you, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

“Gray, what—” you began, but he didn’t let you finish. Gently, but with an authority that left no room for argument, he slipped his arms under you and lifted you off the sofa.

“Hey!” you protested, squirming slightly, but he held firm, his grip steady as he carried you toward his room.

“You’re not sleeping out here,” he said simply, his voice low and calm.

You didn’t fight him. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the way his chest felt solid and steady against you, but you let him carry you without another word. When he set you down on the bed, his movements were careful, as though he feared breaking you.

“Stay here,” he murmured, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders. His hand lingered for a moment, brushing against your arm, before he turned to leave.

“Gray,” you called softly, stopping him in his tracks. He turned back, his eyes meeting yours.

“I’m still mad at you,” you said, your voice quiet but firm.

A small smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know.”

———————————————————————————-

TAGLIST:

@mybones537 @thereeallink @ziziriaa-blog

[nynyhaha]

Thinking about the way Chrollo represents apathy and passion.

When I first saw him,he gave the impression of someone who is both very serious about his occupation and on some kind of mission,and someone who just lets things happen.

The reason he seemed so enigmatic compared to other troupe members is because we couldn’t grasp what he actually values, besides obviously the spider.This whole line of his about not caring for money,glory or fame.The fact that he sells the loot soon after stealing it.

It doesn’t make sense for a thief to be this indifferent towards the treasures he steals.And while the troupe risked their lives trying to steal from the auction,when things went wrong the loot was the last thing they considered.I always wondered what happened to all the boxes at their hideout.I hope they didn’t just leave it there??But it was never the main focus,

I think he occasionally finds something that fascinates him,just to discard it afterwards.It’s almost like he tries very hard to,excuse me, “fill the emptiness inside him”,with material possessions but is painfully aware that it’s not possible.The troupe are primarily known as thieves but it seems obtaining stuff can’t be that satisfying,at least not to Chrollo. Even if he tells everyone to “just steal” in his character song.

The scarlet eyes might’ve caught his attention at some point but again,he’s very dismissive of the whole kurta theme even when Kurapika demands some response.

So I don’t believe it’s greed that drives him.In fact,he doesn’t know what drives him.

And the reason he’s able to commit all those horrible deeds is because of his disconnection with PEOPLE. Being the leader,he’s somewhat set apart from the rest of the spiders.And there are rules that put the good of the organisation before the well-being of the members.That’s supposed to prevent members from caring as much for one another.Which is tragic.

It all only started because they all cared.

How are characters humanised in hunter x hunter? Trough forming bonds with other characters.

Killua and meruem are excellent examples.Both of them grew to care more about humans in general trough meeting a particular person.

Chrollo lost someone important and that very personal grief lead him to stop caring about human lives.Not just his own,but the ones of his fellow troupe members.

Obviously it didn’t work and they still feel very strongly for each other.The whole yorknew arc focuses on those repressed feelings of camaraderie that aren’t allowed to be experienced fully as that would interfere with the Spider.Pakunoda has to break the rules if she wants to save the life of her friend.

Chrollo can’t do that because the Spider with its rules is all he has.He’s very good at “severing ties” with things like living a save life,the authorities,possibly religion,connections with other people,seeing dead bodies as something to be respected and not as objects.He’s willing to give up everything that made him who he was,but what does he have in turn? Nothing.

The Spider needs to have a purpose but it seems that purpose is lost.Chrollo is lost,all his sacrifices lead to nothing.

He doesn’t even feel hate or anger at the world.He rarely takes things personally.

I think there was some revenge based reason for murdering the kurta clan.The troupe seem like they’d have some reason,even tho it could never be good enough.

But my thesis is that Chrollo’s biggest sin isn’t greed,pride,anger or whatever.It’s apathy.

Nothing prevents him from hurting people who have nothing to do with him,therefore he does.

He’s afraid that things will start mattering again,but at the same time we see him constantly searching for that something.He is scared of it,but he really strives to strive for something so that he can break out of this indifference he feels for everything.

So maybe Hisoka will awake some of this rage buried inside and with it make Chrollo once again seem like a very distressed human.

[l1llina]

"Huh, me? Like him ?"

Alhaitham x Fem!Reader

18+, Minors dni

Synopsis: The Akademiya is pushing a big project to fight the Abyss Order. You along with the other students are assigned to work on it. This project will bring you and Alhaitham closer.

It’s another day, another day of zoning out. What annoyed you even more was this really stuck up guy in your class. He always seemed to look down on everyone else, including you, and you’re a sensitive bitch so this bothered you a lot. 

One day, the school reveals that every student will play a part in building a machine to fight the Abyss Order specifically the Abyss Prince. The pressure and excitement in everyone was of course very high almost overbearing. You couldn’t believe it. This was... amazing. Big ambitious projects with the whole help of the school. The school officially recruited everyone and everyone became an employee for the Akademiya.

Unfortunately, the way they assigned divisions were by class, this was all planned by the day you enrolled. The leader of your division who could order you to do anything he wishes was.. Alhaitham urgh. This went from being your dream to a nightmare. 

He actually didn’t put many rules but the goal for that semester was to finish an elemental laser gun. Surprisingly every person in the class had a different role. You received the Casanova role but why did they need one ? At first, you pondered maybe they just didn’t want to hurt your feelings but then you guessed it was because they still lacked sufficient funding for such a project so you were the leader of your own little crew. The marketing crew!

Your job was to convince people to invest in such a project, and honestly who better for the job hah. Additionally the school encouraged the students to actually date and find love within other similar types. You were kind of manipulated into dating the heads of the project. Since production would go up if a Casanova and Leader got along well.

You were “advised accordingly” to go on a date with Alhaitham, your enemy. You didn’t have any romantic/sexual feelings for him before the date but during the date, he seemed a little obsessed, a little too happy to be here. 

The Akademiya issued Friday to be a day to deepen relationships between the students. Admittedly they cared more if you had sex. They didn’t give the opportunity to buy condoms, since they hoped the students could bear kids to continue the project if the parents died. 

Alhaitham urged you to take a sip of wine, you did out of politeness and out of curiosity to see what he’d do. You didn’t want your gut feeling to be right, to think he’d do something terrible, however when you came to, you were in white lingerie in Alhaitham’s dorm. 

“Hey.. Y/N, I’m sure you know why I abused my position of power to get you here. You teased me on purpose huh, wearing that short pencil skirt. I don’t like helping the school with their corrupt ways but I can’t help but want to keep you to myself so let’s bear a child and we’ll rule the school”

He began teasing you, bouncing you on his thigh, you muffled your moans, refusing to yield to this asshole’s demands, but slowly, after being edged for so long, you started losing your rationale and following his demands. He worshipped the body that would give him an heir and the woman who clouded his mind for years. 

“I saw how you looked at me in class, such hatred and disgust, there’s nothing more satisfying than triumphing over my enemies but in this case, you’re my doll now and don’t worry doll I’ll make sure to treat you right and please you accordingly”

You thought he’d stop at grinding you on his laps but he got down on his knees and started stuffing your tiny hole and circling your clit with his tongue. Urgh the only thing that’s stopping you from giving yourself to him fully is your pride. If you gave in, he’d win and there’d be no guarantee you’ll find real love with him.

“Why are you still holding back, do you think I’ll hit you ? Insult you ? Never, not to the girl I’ve respected for so long”

“W-What, re-respect hngh..?”

“Yeah, you’re a little stupid but you always kept your promises and showed your hatred for hypocrisy and oppression of the system. You’re exactly my type, I love your character and I hope even after this little stunt, you can find a place in your heart to love me too”

“Al.. I didn’t wanna give in because I don’t like losing.. These past few years, I always thought you were an asshole, even now you’re proving my point but right now I couldn’t care less, you being an asshole also ties with your ambition and I couldn’t find anything more attractive than that, well devotion too but you’re that too so. More so, you’re fucking hot.. Are you kidding me ?”

“So, we’re a thing then ?”

“Yeah.. now fuck me with your cock already, just so you know though I don’t really like kids but I still wanna have sex with you right now”

He plunges his cock and makes you cum many times that night. The next day your dorm changed to Al Haitham’s and you shared a dorm now. Outside of school hours and even during, you would be in his office, dating and fucking him” 

At night, you found a new nerd pal to geek out with but he sometimes takes it too far and it ends up in passionate makeout sessions. The next morning, the cycle continues

TBC <3 Pls don't hate me

[genshin-side-piece]

I just read “Love Me Tender” and I’m obsessed with the way you write yandere Neuvillette and his darling. He’s one of those yanderes who are just so soggy and pitiful. I love the idea of a powerful yandere utilizing their power and connections to keep you. The melusines would DEFINITELY watch over you per Neuvillette’s request. And even if they knew he kidnapped you, they wouldn’t do anything about it. Not out of any malice, but because they, like Neuvillette, genuinely believe it’s what best for you. I love non-human yanderes because you can explore the potential of them not understanding humans being a reason for their yandere-ness

I love, LOVE the idea that a darling being submissive or cowering like prey turns him on. I love yanderes who take pride in being gentlemen but then silently salivate at the sigh of your legs. Also, I wish this was included in more fics, but I love the idea of a darling absolutely refusing to be near their yandere. Even if they have to resort to sitting in the corner instead of the comfy chairs by the yandere. I love darlings who try to hang on to the last semblance of autonomy and independence you have.

If you ever write any more yandere Neuvillette in the future I would love to read it!

❤️❤️❤️

Awwww TY Nonny! I'm so glad you liked it. I almost didn't publish this because of how hard I struggled with it. I was considering waiting until 4.1 just to be sure I had his personality right. Ray Chase wasn't kidding when he said Neuvillette was complex AF. It took me a minute to figure out if this was really even plausible for him and what his motivations would and could be. Thankfully the stuff with Childe at the end of the 4.0 archon quest showed Neuvillette could be pushed into action. So the idea that he's happy with observation until he deems there's a threat seems logical. Considering there is a mafia of sorts in Fontaine, and the whole serial k*ller business, it only adds to Neuvillette's mindset. Darling vanishes while he isn't looking and the kill bill sirens go off.

I think he would go deeper in terms of filling a caretaker/protector yandere role. I couldn't work it in fully here, but I believe he would be the type to fuss over your nutrition, your exercise, and your general well being. Not to the point that it's invasive, but enough to where he insures you are being cared for. God help Fontaine if that man ever feels derelict in his duty. The difference between him and some of the other protector yanderes, is in my mind Neuvillette owns the fact that he's the source of you misery. He does what he can to fix it, but he won't deviate from any of his previous actions. He can't.

I love my power hungry yanderes, but it was nice to write something soft for once. His pining and yearning coupled with his own self awareness was an interesting challenge. I would like to get to know Neuvillette better. Like I said, he is a difficult one to get right. I have another one that I am working on for him. I'm just struggling with the end on it. There's a third that I started before he debuted that I'm going to have to completely revise, maybe. He's a bit sterner in it than what he is in the game and there's a slight abuse of power, so I'll have to see. He has that side to him, but I'd like to see more of it for actual research purposes. 4.1 will do a lot for that one, especially considering Neuvillette is willing to manufacture charges in the correct circumstances.

But thank you so much for your lovely comment. I really do appreciate it.

[natsuki-bakery]

⁎˚ ఎ Danganronpa Agere ໒ ˚⁎

is it ok to request a short (danganronpa) caregiver!gundham + little!miu oneshot of gundham taking care of her after she tripped and hurt her knee? ;w;;

Miu Iruma wasn't known for being delicate. In fact, her abrasive personality, loud mouth, and constant tinkering made her seem almost invincible. Yet, in this moment, as she sat on the ground, sniffling with wide and teary eyes. The harsh sting from her scraped knee blurred her usually confident, sharp mind, and she regressed into a more vulnerable state without even realizing it

A shadow loomed over her, followed by a deep voice. "Human injuries are pitiful things... but fear not, for the Dark Lord of Destruction himself will tend to your wound."

Miu blinked, recognizing the figure. Gundham Tanaka, with his dramatic air and mysterious energy, kneeled beside her. His scarf billowed slightly as if it were part of some dark, unseen magic force. The hamsters—his Dark Devas—scurried across his arms, sniffing the air around Miu, sensing her distress

"Ouch..." Miu whimpered, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand as her bottom lip quivered. "It hurts..."

Gundham's eyes softened, though his tone remained grandiose. "Pain is but a fleeting shadow, little one. But do not fret, for I, Gundham Tanaka, Master of the Infernal, shall vanquish it with my sacred knowledge!"

Miu's mind had fully sunk into a more childlike state. She couldn't muster her usual witty, sarcastic comeback. Instead, she nodded, trusting him entirely. Gundham delicately inspected the scrape. His touch, surprisingly gentle, made Miu feel comforted rather than vulnerable

From his coat, he pulled out a small first aid kit. "My wisdom extends to the healing arts," he muttered, removing a cotton pad. As he dabbed her knee with disinfectant, Miu winced and let out a soft cry

"Easy now, mortal. This is a necessary ritual to banish the pain!" His tone, though still dramatic, held a soft undercurrent of reassurance. Miu sniffled again, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her jacket, trusting his words completely. "You're... like a magic healer, papa.." she mumbled, her voice much softer and smaller than usual.

Gundham’s cheeks dusted slightly pink, though he maintained his composure. "Indeed! You are fortunate to be in the presence of one as powerful as I. No harm shall come to you as long as you remain under my watch." He secured a small bandage over her knee, patting it with finality

Once the bandage was in place, he held his hand out to her. "Now rise, child of the stars. The Dark Devas watch over you, and you are safe" . Miu hesitated before reaching up, her smaller, vulnerable self clinging to the warmth in his words. As Gundham helped her to her feet, she didn’t let go of his hand, the contact comforting in a way she couldn't quite explain

"Do... do you think your hamsters could play with me ?" she asked quietly, her cheeks red as she stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact

Gundham tilted his head in thought, then smiled, something rare and genuine. "Very well. The Dark Devas are benevolent creatures and will grant you an audience. But you must treat them with utmost care, for they are ancient spirits of wisdom..."

Miu nodded eagerly, her childish excitement returning. Gundham set down his hamsters, who scurried towards her, sensing her gentle energy. Miu giggled, crouching down to watch them more closely, her pain long forgotten. Gundham watched silently, arms crossed, his usual stoic demeanor unchanged—but deep down, he felt a quiet pride. Though he would never admit it, seeing Miu, so fragile and trusting, happy again after her fall filled him with a sense of purpose.

"Rest easy, little one. For in my presence, no harm shall come to you." His words, whispered to himself, were a silent promise.

If you're in the basic criteria , are DSMP fans, vivziep0p fans , h0tel/h3lluva b0ss fans, Owl h0use fans, St4r butterfly fans, Ghibli fans, ddlg/abdl blogs, nsfw/k!nk blogs, anti-agere blogs, or anti Christians/Christianity blogs : just dont interact !

[butterflypeatea3456]

Rhaenyra x Reader | Berries and Dragonfire | Chapter 4

Summary: New to Westeros as a diplomat, you find a friend in the princess of the realm. POC-coded reader, purposely vague about some details, self-insert away!  

A/n: Y’all it’s summer break and I’m back :)

After the small council meeting ended, You and Rhaenyra lingered to speak more. You noticed how Sir Otto’s Hightower’s eyes darted towards You and your Grandsure. It was a mixture of distaste and mistrust. However your Grandsire seemed unburdened to it, however You were not. It was like he was trying to push you and Rhaenrya out of the room, even though You had barely spoke during the meeting. However the voice of the Princess broke your thoughts.

“I’ve heard many things about what the L/n’s do, what might your role be?” Rhaenyra asked curiously, with a touch of playfulness in her tone. “Well as you know we manage many routes of trade along our land and outside of it as well as our vineyards. Our wine and our secrets trades garner the most interest”.

Rhaenyra nodded at the information, noticing the spark of pride and passion in your eyes. You had just met and were already much more talkative than many nobles. She liked the sound of your voice. However raised, an eyebrow at the mention of secrets. It was no secret that Lord L/n was rather a jolly man, who wore two faces. She was so stranger to that quality especially from her Father’s Hand.

“I assist my grandsire with bookkeeping, managing the affairs of land, rather boring things I’m afraid. But it’s what I enjoy and I wish to be half the Lady-erm Lord he is” You finished, stumbling with the last few words. Normally you’d be terribly embarrassed, especially making such a mistake in front of a Princess. But Rhaenyra simply grinned in response “Perhaps your secrets could be of use when I ascend the throne”.

“I do hope so as well, your grace” You chuckled. Hesitant, You couldn’t help but ask the question “Aren’t you frightened..To be the first woman to sit the Iron throne not through marriage?”. The question clearly caught Rhaenyra off guard, she answered after a moment of silence. Regardless of her hesitations Rhaenrya sensed the genuineness from you.

“At times I am quite frightened and unsure. But my father has named me heir and supported my claim despite what many say since the birth of Aegon. It is my right” She responded undaunted.

You now understand the term “Of the dragon's blood” because here this girl stood with blazing words of her conviction. It excited you undeniably, in a way you almost didn’t understand.

“I was not considered my family’s heir till I was 2 and 10, neither was my mother, she was the second child. My uncle was slain by rouges while traveling to Dorne without any children left to him. My mother admittedly dislikes staying in one place for too long, however she’s the one who suggested that I succeed my uncle.” You explain with a heavy feeling in your chest. Rhaenrya nodded slowly, before taking your hand gently despite knowing the feeling of grief herself, she still didn’t know what to say in the face of it.

“Thank you, If you wish to confide in me I would gladly hope to lighten the burden, Princess” You said softly with a soft smile. “If you wish, you may simply address me as Rhaenyra” She spoke with a genuine smile. You felt heat spread across your face and a higher beating of your heart.

It did not take long before You and Rhaenyra went from friendly to true friends. She often invited you to dine with her, much to your grandsire’s glee. Despite his ambitions you found a sort of comfort in the young princess. You had yet to be fully welcomed to court, and the more conservative members of the nobles had an outright aversion to You. Rhaenyra’s made You laugh with her commentary of them. She enjoyed listening to you talk about your interests from books, plants, to wine she enjoyed your chatter. Once you found out about her love of lemon tarts, you gifted her a bottle of fine aged lemon wine. One that lasted less than a day with you both drunkenly giggling in her chambers.

Mushroom wrote about the young lady who seemed to delight the Princess. A sweet hearted young girl to some, an ambitious wench to others. Who managed to sway the heir to the throne with exotic charm. It was said that Lord L/n and Otto Hightower disagreed on many topics of issue, but especially over if it was the right choice to have his granddaughter in court for so long. Perhaps Otto Hightower was concerned over his own falling influence or that the distance between the Princess and the Queen would push new support towards Rhaenrya’s faction. As the Realm’s delight grew closer to Lady Y/n, the Mulberry maiden. Some say the close friendship was reminiscent of Princess Rhaena and Lady Eelissa Farman.

[miss-bvnny]

Okay fine. MY re-write for Kion.

The lion guard has not existed for several generations. There was never a replacement guard inaugurated after Scar killed his. And while Simba had many friends, he had no siblings. When Scar took the throne after murdering Mufasa, he forbade a guard from forming, fearing that all the younger and stronger lions would form a coup and overthrow him. When Simba returned, he didn't feel the need for one either. Sarafina and Sarabi explained the tragic fate of Scar's guard to him when he returned, and Simba didn't want more stress in the middle of his busy term rebuilding the pridelands. The guard as an idea died out, and perhaps it was for the best. The royal family had enough of a rule over the Pridelands, and did not need to micromanage every little detail to an almost fascist extent. Everyone was shocked but content to see the new King Simba ACTUALLY fully retire the idea.

...And it might've been best if it had stayed that way.

Kion never took anything seriously. He could always be found fooling around and shirking his responsibilities. Simba worried about himfor this. The cub was adopted after he'd been found alone in the grasslands, and having a hard time fitting in with the royal family. Simba was the king. Nala led the hunts. Kiara was to be Queen one day. So...what was Kion? The spare? Royal only by mere adoption? He didn't seem to have any sort of importance to his name like the rest of his family. As a child that had always seemed nice. He would tease his older sister for the responsibilities she would be burdened with. Ha! He had none of that! He was free to play and goof off with the other cubs his age as much as he pleased! Such wonderful golden days! Nothing but a life of Hakuna Matata as far as he could see!!

...The ignorant bliss only lasted until Kion realized what it REALLY meant.

He stumbled across the abandoned lair of the Lion Guard by chance one day while playing. These days, the pride occasionally used it for privacy when lionesses gave birth, but not for much else. When he asked his father what it was, Simba felt like explaining the Guard and its controversial level of control over the pridelands was a good idea. Kiara had learned the dangers and true story about it not so long ago, after her adventures with Scar's heir that fateful day. Kion deserved to know as well. Simba cautioned him that the guard was a gateway drug. An open door to a lust for power that would eat him alive, the same way it had eaten Scar alive. Even a royal lion was not meant to have that much power. Kion seemed to finally take this seriously, and vowed to never become like his great uncle. But....in a way, it was always out of his paws.

The truth is...Kion was almost always destined from the start to follow in Scar's footprints. Despite being adopted into Simba's family with no idea of his own parentage...the evil red lion haunted his family tree far closer than anyone else might've wagered.

Kion was in a hurry to get the Lion Guard out of his head and go back to his normal life. And yet...it didn't leave him alone as easily as he wished it would. He kept thinking about how the guard would give him a purpose. Something important to do in the family. It would be just like being a king, wouldn't it? Keeping everything in check, and ensuring no harm befell innocent pridelanders. A lot of Kion's best friends were prey animals! And he wanted to help his friends! Simba always acted so calm about it in front of mixed company, but Kion heard his father's whispering about the hyenas, when no one was around. There was still a hint of resentment and distrust for the creatures. So...someone had to do something to keep the scum out of their lands, right?

It was a game at first. Something for Kion and his little ''Guard'' playing pretend as they went all over the pridelands. Being heroes and helping where they felt their help was needed. In reality, they were a bit of a nuisance. But the children didn't quite see it that way. The guard interrupted hunts, important ceremonies held by other species, and nearly got other animals killed with their interference. In an attempt to catch the eye of the beautiful Tiifu, Kion thought to show off by trying to fight Janja, the direct descendant of Shenzi herself. Had it not been for Nala interfering, the entire ordeal might've ended much worse.

The king and queen had to do quite a lot of cleaning up to fix the mess Kion and his friends seemed to leave wherever they went. Kiara wet along with them, dutifully trying to prove herself a proper princess in the wake of Kion and his chaos.

They were children. Children playing with something bigger than they could comprehend. Kion saw it as his rightful place in the circle of life, and his infatuation with his ''destiny'' blinded him from the truth. There even came a time when Ono, Fuli, and Beshte grew tired of the game and no longer wanted to play. Their parents had explained the gravity of things to them, and they understood. Kion refused to give in. Surely this was HIS destiny. HIS calling. His so called ''friends'' didn't believe in him. They were just like everyone else! They thought he was a useless spare! Bunga was the only one who stood at Kion's side, but...arguably that was just because Bunga was the only one fool enough to go along with it. Kion broke down in a fit with no one but Bunga to talk some sense into him, and...''talking sense'' was simply not Bunga's strong suit. With what he perceived as his purpose on the line, Kion decided he would have to show them all that this was what he was meant for.

He was so consumed and inconsolable about the idea, that he failed to realize the very familiar path he was walking down. But how COULD he know? He was only a child, seeing things from a very one-sided perspective. A perspective that was bound to get him in bigger trouble with other pridelanders one day....

[justsaysomethingjayj]

WIP First Lines

I truly do love a good opening, so getting to share some first lines is a real fun one for me to be tagged in. Thanks @cypanache for tagging me.

For this I opted to limit myself only to my two most recent writing docs or this list would have been ridiculously long instead of just, you know, long.

Some of these may not end up being the actual first lines, but they are what I currently got there to start with. So with that said, and without further ado… SW, Obidala:

1.

A harmless invitation goes a bit sideways.

2.

He mapped out the constellations of far away worlds against her skin, no touch of his lips on her body seemed to be without purpose. Everything held a sense of meaning.

3.

It began, almost fittingly, with a double take.

4.

“We’re allowed our lapses, Obi-Wan,” she said, as if she could sense the conflict stirring inside of him. Her hair a mess of loose curls she tried to swipe away from her eyes. “They remind us that we’re human. And there is nothing wrong with that.”

5.

He dreamed in the deepest shades of blue; of the places brushed by grief, and the shimmering hue of her long billowy dress. She was his sadness made flesh. Not real, but tangible. To be felt. Always just that. For that was all that was left of her.

6.

She pushed herself against the wall, as he pushed himself into her. Urgency and a frenzied kind of madness had overtaken him at the mere sight of her. The seductive simplicity of her in nothing more than a barely there nightgown of sapphire washed silk and an unruly tide of tousled brown curls spilling down her bare shoulders.

7.

The proposal had been completely innocent. Well-meaning in its initial intent. The idea had come to her then and she had simply thought to ask. Really, she had thought nothing of it.

OUAT, Golden Swan

1.

“It’s quite the thing,” it mused, wearing an old forgotten face, a strange but perhaps purposeful choice for the Darkness to make, “to seek out and covet death. Not the ending one would imagine for a love story.”

2.

Her eyes are full of timeless tales. Some as old as time. Fluttering back into the present. Fragmented speckles of a lifetime of broken promises and stubborn hope, shaded in a spiraling landscape of glittering greens. The subtle dark jade of envy; vibrant emerald of a rebirth; an endless evergreen of love; and just the softest hint and budding pine of corruptibility.

3.

He kills the boy and rewrites the story. Starts by making them all forgot that particularly dark deed. His sickly act of cowardice and self-preservation. Then moves on to the next chapter of the tale by claiming a powerful queen from the proverbial game board to have and to hold by his side.

4.

“There’s a deal here.” “Still so sure of yourself, Miss Swan. No matter how many times you’ve failed to play a meaningful hand against me.” He looked amused. Maybe a tad too pleased with how the cards have fallen in his favour, yet again. “There’s no version of this where you come out unscathed.”

5.

“Your hand is trembling.” The sound of his voice seemed to jerk Emma from whatever trance she had fallen into. She turned sharply to look up at him, but there's a slight glaze to her eyes that told Rumplestiltskin that she hadn't come back fully just yet. 

6.

The Evil Queen doesn't mince her words. Takes—maybe a bit too much—pride in saying them to his face with a smirk smeared across her apple red lips. "A love like that will ruin you."

7.

He’s a fickle and jealous man, and so he makes the pirate stay dead.

Bonus OUAT, Golden Swan Queen:

1.

They are conflicted. He, by true love. She, a possible soulmate. What they wanted, what’s been saturated into their blood and bones and temperamental hearts, was now a liability to their happy endings.

------------------------------ I'm still new and very much lacking in mutuals to tag, and it seems like most of the Obidala crew I know have already been tagged by others. So what the hell, I'm just gonna tag some fav writers of mine: @thestorieswesay @lazybakerart @lemonlovely @harringroveheart @justadram @lainelannister

[bandage-hearted-butterfly]

Hello all!

I've found that my experiences with kin don't quite seem to align with a lot of other people's, and, while I know that this is a subjective experience, I was wondering if detailing my experiences might help to elucidate what is going on for me. Even if there isn't a label, I'm still comfortable under the otherkin and alterhuman umbrellas ✨️

I don't quite feel the same level of identification that others feel with their kintype. I don't see him and feel a response of recognition - it feels less that I am him, but more that he is me. My kin is primarily psychological, and I later adopted the more spiritual side of the beliefs here. I do possess memories, but they are very brief snapshots in time of events - walking down a hallway and trailing my fingers along the wall, vague recollections of what flight felt like, nothing highly specific. I do have a sense of longing for the location he lived in, but not for anyone he knew (with the homesickness of sorts being attributed to a personal trauma response as I've discussed this in therapy, but it feels worthwhile to mention in this discussion).

Something also worth mentioning - while I do not have DID, I did (and potentially still do?) experience dissociation. The very first experiences I had were quite intense and I likened them to feeling possessed, though with less loss of control and more experiencing thoughts and emotions that did not belong to me. As time went on, I became more acquainted with this part of myself and the episodes became a lot less distressing as time went on. My analogy is that, if I were driving a car, the first episodes felt like me controlling the gas and brakes while someone else tried to take the wheel from me, while now they feel like I'm taking driving directions from a trusted friend.

At some point in the turmoil, I recognized the bundle of thoughts and feelings as the kintype I currently identify with (as?). I use his name offline in my life and feel a euphoria I cannot fully name when I am in full cosplay as him. He has insect characteristics (antennae and butterfly wings) and I notice a lot of the euphoria fades when I'm not wearing them, though in canon he was certainly nothing short of a misanthrope who took great pride in his insect nature.

It also feels worth mentioning, I am a semi-active member of the self ship community, and had been shipping with my kintype (as the human I currently am) for what had initially been coping purposes.

I suppose I feel less personal recognition, and almost as though I possess two souls, his and my own. What I had later called kinshifts had been so clearly delineated to me at first, but now I feel a sort of harmony with this.

Does anyone have any thoughts on this? I'm open for questions, if need be.

[satoruists]

what the future holds. (2.0k words) summary: shoko is tired of watching satoru suffer alone. cw: angst with comfort pairing: satosugu but there is only satoru note: dividers are by @cafekitsune !!

shoko isn’t a person who concerns herself with the matters of others too much, but satoru is acting strange. ever since suguru defected, he never seems to have time for anything else besides his missions. that in itself is not unusual. satoru became a fully realized sorcerer during his second year, and the higher-ups do nothing more than assign him mission after mission. satoru at least made some effort to at least see her in the year between his awakening and suguru’s exile from jujutsu society.

nowadays, he seems to brush her off more frequently. shoko gave satoru the benefit of the doubt at first. he is one of three special-grade sorcerers in the entire world. besides, it’s not like she isn’t busy. shoko is trying to juggle college entrance exams, applications, and the regular duties of a normal high school student on top of her life as a sorcerer. though it troubles her when she can’t even remember the last time he sent her a text with the sole purpose to piss her off or called her phone at an ungodly hour of the night.

shoko understands why, now, when she sees satoru practically draping himself over another man in a back alley host club in kabukicho. the only reason she bothered to double-take was because the two – at least from behind – look nearly identical to the couple she saw almost every day for three years. nearly.

satoru may be proficient in fooling others, but she’s accustomed to his little tricks. his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. his hand doesn’t smooth circles into the host’s upper arm. moreover, the eyes beneath his shades hold nothing. satoru used to look at suguru like his boyfriend was the moon, stars, and all the galaxies above — his crystalline eyes reflecting the beauty he saw whenever he laid his eyes on suguru. but here? satoru’s eyes are betraying him for once. it tells shoko everything she needs to know — this isn’t suguru. this isn’t who i need.

shoko cant help but wonder: will he be satisfied after he’s lost himself in the limbs of faceless strangers? does it soothe him to avoid his remaining friend? will it sate the hunger – the yearning – for his one and only? 

she does need to bother asking when she already knows the answer. no, it doesn’t do anything. it probably made things worse. no matter how hard he tries, he cannot pretend like the men who look like suguru are enough. satoru cannot silence the voice in the back of his mind whispering ‘suguru wouldn’t say that,’ or ‘sugu was better’.

regardless, shoko swallows her pride and pushes open the tinted glass door before her. a host club is not where she wants to be on a friday night, and she does not hesitate to tell the hostess that she does not want to talk to any of the hosts. she grimaces at the entry price — 3000 yen — that she is about to pay just to give satoru a piece of her mind as she rummages through her purse for her wallet.

satoru could recognize shoko’s cursed energy from anywhere, but he didn’t expect to sense it through the window of this establishment. part of him hoped she would just move on and ask him about it later, but of course she decides to enter. satoru releases a deep exhale when he realizes that he pissed her off. her cursed energy is coursing off her in waves. he told shoko that he was assigned an emergency mission in tokyo just so he could be here instead.

it’s a shameful little indulgence — to sneak away from the clutches of jujutsu society to breathe for once. to think that he, the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery, would find his way into a seedy little corner of tokyo’s host club district? it makes satoru nearly laugh at how far he’s fallen. satoru unwraps his arms from the host, fishes out a wad of yen from his pocket, and dismisses the worker with a sly wink and a promise to see him again later. 

with that, satoru slowly makes his way to shoko’s table. she doesn’t bother to look up from her phone until he speaks:

“what’re you doing here, shoko? thought you didn’t swing that way.”

“i don’t,” shoko takes a drag of her cigarette. “i’m trying to figure out why the great gojo satoru is at a host club.”

satoru flashes one of his signature smiles, the one that says ‘don’t worry, i’m the strongest.’ he falters when he allows himself to meet shoko’s eyes from behind his pitch-black frames. her gaze solemnly whispers back: ‘i don’t believe you.’

“what, a guy like me can’t have fun sometimes?”

“it’s a little more than sometimes,” shoko murmurs. “you flaked the past three times we were supposed to catch up outside of jujutsu tech.” 

oof. it’s been three times already? satoru isn’t the best at keeping up with his arrangements, but he thought he was making enough time for her. but gojo — a man who struggles to admit his faults — can’t stop himself when he tries to downplay the situation like he always does.

“i told you i’ve been busy lately—“

shoko allows herself to give voice to her innermost thoughts when she retorts: “and you expect me to believe you?”

shoko directs her attention to the host satoru was with. from across the room, she would have undoubtedly mistaken him for suguru if she didn’t know any better. she was hoping the resemblance only applied to her limited view from the window.

“he looks awfully familiar, don’t you think?”

satoru doesn’t have to look in the direction she is referring to. he gathers her meaning quickly.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” satoru grumbles.

“you do. he looks a bit like suguru, doesn’t he?” shoko asks. satoru’s silence speaks volumes. “so this is where you run off to.”

the silence between them threatens to suffocate satoru. shoko sips her coffee and places it back down on the table before motioning for him to join her.

“sit. i need to ask you something.”

gojo pulls out the chair, and the squeaking legs do nothing but agitate him further. he deposits himself onto the seat with the grace of an angry child caught stealing from the cookie jar. 

“what is it?”

shoko rests her face against the arm propped up on the table. she knows she is about to hurt satoru, but she can’t stand to see him like this any longer.

“does this help you?” shoko asks.

satoru’s crystalline eyes narrow at shoko’s question.

“what do you mean by that?”

shoko remains unflinching. she’s seen this look before — many times, even. she’s seen it when he comes back from a meeting with his higher-ups. she recognizes it from the time his relative was on campus for sorcerer business. she knows what it means, too. do not speak another word to me.

“pretending. does it help to pretend like that man is suguru?” shoko prods.

gojo leans back against the chair, his arms folded against his chest. he’s gritting his teeth. his jaw is clenched as if he is trying to prevent the truth from escaping his mouth.

“i’m not pretending. i’m dating again, for real.”

shoko doesn’t attempt to suppress her scoff.

“yeah? after your three-year relationship? be real, satoru. we both know you can’t throw away your feelings that easily,” shoko spits back. “plus, you can’t even date the hosts here. we both know what you’re doing.”

shoko takes another drag from her cigarette and reminds herself that her goal is to help satoru, not reprimand him. it forces her to take a deep breath — even if it is tarnished with countless carcinogens.

“listen, you’re not the only person who lost someone,” shoko whispers. satoru grips the sleeves of jacket. “you think you’re alone? i was there, too.”

shoko’s following statements felt near foreign to her. she isn’t much of a sentimental person. there’s no time for women to indulge in emotions as jujutsu sorcerers. not unless they want to be perceived as weak. 

“i don’t care that you’re the ‘strongest’ or whatever, but you can’t deal with things like loss alone,” shoko looks away from him and sighs. “so just— just stop whatever this is. i’m here for you.”

satoru’s head drops at her last sentence. he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the first tear falls on his lenses, and the dam he built to keep himself safe from his own emotions breaks beneath the pressure of the oncoming flood of emotions. it sweeps him beneath the current, and he forgets where he’s at. all satoru can see are the haunting traces of suguru — his smile, his laugh, his voice — swirling past and drowning him.

“i miss him, shoko,” satoru sobs. “he was my one and only— and someday i’ll probably have to kill him all because he left us like that.”

shoko slides a napkin across the table to satoru.

“it’s cruel, isn’t it?” shoko mutters. “but you know i’m here. i know what you meant to each other. just stop running away from it. you can’t afford to. not unless you want to lose the other people in your life, too.”

satoru takes off his glasses and promptly uses the cloth napkin to hide as much of himself away from shoko. like shoko, there is no place for the strongest to show how frail he feels inside. the strongest jujutsu sorcerer can’t let the world know that there is one person who could shatter his heart to pieces with a single glance. the world cannot know that the gojo satoru is capable of feeling love, hurt, heartbreak, pain— he is told he is a god amongst men, but he is merely a boy at his core.

“you know you can’t change what happened to him, but you still have a future,” shoko says. “there’s always something you can do about that.”

satoru lets out an almost bitter laugh. it feels like shoko thrusted her arm into the depths of the whirlpool just to save him from being pulled under, and he can finally breathe. the sound causes shoko’s lips to curve into a small smile. she hasn’t heard a true laugh from him in ages. satoru really thought he was over suguru for a little bit, but shoko is right. he’s coughing up ten thousands of yen every week for a cheap imitation of what he used to have. he could tell he might have lost her as a friend, too, if she was a worse person. he can’t afford to lose his loved ones anymore.

“i can’t believe i kept trying to avoid you this whole time. you give decent advice sometimes, y’know?” satoru remarks.

“yeah. i do,” shoko affirms, almost smugly. “it’s up to you to follow through, though.”

“you know i will.”

it’s a bit of a shock to shoko when satoru reveals his “latest and greatest plan to change the future!” as he put it. he calls her at some godforsaken hour of the evening to tell her he plans to become a teacher at jujutsu tech. she wishes he left this revelation for a more reasonable time, but she did say she would be there for him. 

satoru kind of stuffed the memory of the host club into the recesses of his mind— or so he thought. it was another restless night because of shoko (who knew she could say insightful stuff like that?), and he finally figured out what he could do for the future instead of wallowing in the reflections of his past. 

“a teacher? i thought you hated kids.”

“nah. i don’t,” satoru sighs. “i hate the way adults in jujutsu society treat them. i don’t want anyone to go through what suguru and i experienced. i get to be right there with them to help instead. pretty good idea, huh?”

shoko pauses to think. okay, maybe gojo wouldn’t be the best at teaching from the book. he is the most disorganized person she’s ever met. it’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s doing! satoru is somehow good at everything he does— and that includes academics. however, every time satoru tried to help her with their educational studies, it ended with her being more confused than when they began. but if that’s his motivation…

“yeah,” shoko affirms. “it’s a great idea. you’ll be amazing.”

[pokemontrainerevan]

Hi, hello, I'm Evan! (Introduction)

(This is a Pokemon RP blog, RP rules are in a Caard linked in my bio)

Hello! I'm Evan (he/him), a Pokémon Trainer from the Galar region! I'm currently travelling Paldea, taking on the Pokémon League, but I've been to a bunch of different places in the past too. My dream is to become a member of the Galar Elite Four!

Despite my being from Galar, my first gym challenge was actually in Alola, on a school exchange trip. That's where I met my starter and eventually ace Pokémon, Rowlet, who is now a Decidueye. I've done gym challenges in Kalos, Galar and Alola but I've never beaten the elite four...

I don't really have a favourite Pokémon type! I like all different kinds of Pokémon, but if I HAD to pick... I think I like the most Fire types?

I'm very passionate about making sure my Pokémon are all comfortable and doing what THEY want to be doing rather than what I want. I use Pokeballs for registration and Pokémon Centre reasons, but I find that travelling with my Pokémon outside of their balls helps to form a greater bond! I've been obsessed with Pokemon since I was little, and I can't imagine doing anything else! I also like cooking and travelling though - the latter of which is why I tend to move on from regions rather quickly. Galar will always be home, though!

I'll mainly post random thoughts about my experiences and my Pokemon, and what we get up to!

I've had many teams throughout the years, who I all adore dearly, but there's a few who have stuck with me on many of my journeys.

Archer, my beloved Decidueye, who was handed to me as a Rowlet by Professor Kukui almost 6 years ago now. As a novice trainer working my way through a foreign region, he was my emotional (and sometimes physical) crutch, and I consider him my very best friend to this day. Archer is a very kind-hearted and gentle Pokemon and will take other Pokemon under his wing in times of need, but he can be rather arrogant sometimes! As an experienced, fully-evolved Pokemon, Archer gets a lot of attention and he basks in it. Little do they know, despite his appearance and noble pride, Archer is a big softy, and will often fall asleep nestled into my side. He wakes me up early on Saturday mornings demanding to watch cartoons. He likes to think he's some mystical serene being of mystery - he is not, he still gets chow on his beak when he eats.

Scorch, my Scorbunny, is by all accounts, my real first Pokemon. My dad gave him to me after the bullying at school got particularly bad. Scorch has never evolved - he doesn't seem to want to, and that's totally fine! He's got, unsurprisingly, a very fiery and passionate personality. He'll cheer anyone on when they're feeling down in the dumps, and is great with kids - but behind closed doors, Scorch is an absolute menace. He'll chew on the corners of tables, empty Pokeballs (how, I don't know), and never leave any vegetable lying around because he WILL immediately eat it. This includes vegetables that get him sick - that was an embarrassing trip to the Pokemon Center. "Hi yes my Scorbunny ate an entire onion while I was in the shower, please heal this little idiot". He's great company and a fantastic friend but he has the IQ of a rock (affectionate).

My Vaporeon is called Link, and I won't get into how he evolved for personal reasons, but he's what my mum would describe as an "old soul". I feel like, if he could talk, he'd be incredibly wise. He's very graceful and polite - he chews his food carefully and slowly (unlike somebody, Archer), and walks with a tremendous sense of purpose. When he was an Eevee, he always had my back on my Alolan journey, and he still does to this day! If I forget my wallet, he'll nudge my bag, and he seems to always know where the house keys are when I don't. I always joke that he might be part Espeon, with how much he seems to just know! In battle, Link is not to be messed with. Despite his appearance, he ended up being the tank of the team, taking hits like an absolute champ while I healed up other Pokemon, and his Water Gun wiped Olivia's entire team. An old lady on the train in Galar once commented "Ah, you've got yourself a wee protector there, haven't ye?" and I think that describes him perfectly.

I never understood the "bratty Pikachu line" stereotypes until I actually got one myself. My Raichu, Nariku, would demand I wait him on hand and foot if I could. I caught him as a Pichu during sunset in Alola, and he's been a right thorn in my side ever since. He seems to change what type of chow he likes on the daily, and will refuse to eat from anything except his own special bowl at home - which is inconvenient when we're travelling. He HATES baths and will shock you if you try to clean near his ears, and he spends at least 3 hours straight cleaning himself after a fight. He's a right brat, but dammit, he's MY brat! He likes to be close to me, and will demand cuddles and carries at any given opportunity. Given that he evolved into a Kanto Raichu and not an Alolan Raichu, I think it's unfortunately safe to say that he was either smuggled or abandoned, and I'm leaning towards the latter, given his response to certain stimuli. I'll pamper him all he wants to make up for what is probably a terrible past. He's very agile and hard-hitting in fights, and prefers to end things as quickly as possible - he isn't a fan of stat boosting moves.

I met my Lucario, Jackal, on a rainy day in Galar's wild area. He was on his own, so I asked him if he'd at least accompany me to a Pokemon Center so I could get him some help. Lucario are smart Pokemon, so he understood me. I have a soft spot for Lucario - my mum had one when I was little. He joined my team shortly after that, and he's been fiercely loyal to me ever since. He can border on overprotective sometimes - if Link is a gentle and calm protector, Jackal can border on overreaction sometimes. He takes battling and protecting me and his team VERY seriously, and will stay up late into the night training by himself. I often have to threaten him with time out in the Pokeball just to get him to go to sleep. He likes to carry the littler Pokemon around if they get tired walking. He sleeps at the foot of my bed with his head on my feet.

I have a very goofy Lycanroc named Fenris. Similarly to Archer, he comes off as this very proud and noble beast but throw a ball for him and he turns into your average Lillipup! He goes absolutely nuts for belly rubs and neck scratches. He's also responsible for 90% of my email spam. Because he's a rare Dusk Lycanroc, I keep getting offers from Pokemon modeling agencies for him to fly out to Unova or Kalos or wherever for a photoshoot. Problem is, travelling that far would require him to be in a Pokeball for at least some of the trip - and he HATES his Pokeball. Nowdays, the Great Ball I caught him in is covered in bite marks and scuffs from when we've used it as a normal ball. Fenris has lots of love to give, and is great at calming both people and Pokemon down.

[fallenstar193]

Martin Slaughter

Nickname: Vampire 

The Horse County Skinner - nicknamed this by the police

Age: 21

Sexuality: Bisexual 

Looks :

Martin is a natural brunette although his current shade is not is natural shade, he takes great pride in his hair. Often seen with a smirk on his face, Martin is often seen as smug and as though he knows something everyone else doesn't. Standing at only 5'6 Martin doesn't seem threatening in the least, although it's surprising how much damage he can inflict.

Personality:

Martin seems very calm on the surface, the kind of man that doesn't break under pressure. Martin keeps all his rage hidden under the surface, only letting it out when he wants it to be seen. He has a keen mind for planning, however he only puts so much thought into things he wants rather than things other people want him to do. Confident compared to most, it seems as though he's found his purpose in the family, even if it seems immoral. But family always comes first no matter what. 

Likes:

Blood

Absynth

Journaling

Candy

Flaying

Star Gazing 

Dislikes :

The Cook

Loud music 

Elevators

His special doves running away from him

Tattoos

Motorcycles 

Fears:

Being alone

The family being found out by the police 

Bio:

Born two loving parents that wanted to distance themselves from a certain side of a family. Of course Martin had an older brother named Abraham who just loved to tease the poor boy. Martin simply endured it but a small piece of hate began to fester. Martin was a good child until the age of 11, where he had accidentally killed the next door neighbor cat. Yet oddly Martin didn’t feel fear but instead a moment of thrill. It was strange and something Martin couldn’t grasp, but for once in his life this feeling made him happy. So in the next 3 months Martin would hunt down wild small animals and brutally kill them. Though such dark secret would easily be told by his brother. This sense of stigma caused Martin to become an outcast within his family, never seen as a person but a monster. Something Martin mother kept reminding him everyday as if he was a curse. Not seeing the factor that Martin needed some help, but this consequence would boil over after 5 years on Christmas Day. The parents were asleep as the boys were awake at night. Sneakily eating the cherry pie until it was the last slice. 

Abraham taunted Martin with delight that he would always be the favorite. And that mother could never love a monster like him. This made something snap with Martin because the next thing Martin was calmly eating the last pie slice. While Abraham dead body rested in a pool of blood. Not faze by the blood splatters on him, the bloody screwdriver on the table nor the screams of the parents when they uncover the scene. And when asked why Martin would do such a horrible crime, his response was simple, “I just wanted the last pie slice.” is what started her inner rage. The parents fully decided that it was best to never let Martin ever leave the home or seen. So in their way of helping Martin they kept him locked in the basement for 3 years. Where at times the father in drunken rage would beat Martin out of anger that he killed Abraham. 

However what the parents didn’t count on was Martin breaking free from his hell hole on the night of Christmas. Appearing before his parents as he held a large kitchen knife as a craze smile crept on Martin’s face. “Hello mother and father. You both seem so shock? It’s okay..let me show you all my love I had store for you both.” Without a second to spare Martin killed his parents before setting the home ablaze. To him this was a new start…a new self. Along his journey he came across a girl named Sissy. Who almost did kill him if it wasn’t for revealing his last name. This brought a new revelation to Martin that there was a family side that was just like him. That bloodlust being unchained and family bond being thicker than blood itself. Without a second Martin soon joined Slaughter family. Sure they were bat shit crazy but to Martin he was right at home. 

Martin quickly earned himself the nickname of the Horse County Skinner due to the fact he flayed his victims. The particularly barbaric way he killed coupled with how many people he managed to kill caused him to become reliable to provide for the family. 

Theme Song: Monster by Lady Gaga

Quotes:

“Bubba I found this pretty wig. I think you’ll look beautiful. Let’s try it on ya!”- Martin to Bubba 

“Times are changing old man. Soon enough you’ll be useless.” Martin to Cook 

“Let's play a game! Which body part do you need the least?' ... ''Please' isn't a body part” - Martin when he is killing a victim 

“What are you doing? You just keep surprising me. I like that.”  - Martin when he is stabbed by a victim 

“Just do what I say, follow me I’ll light the way.” - Martin to a victim 

“In control that’s how I like it .And I’m never letting it go.” - Martin to a victim 

“You must of seen so many things Sissy. Is it really true…that outside of this town. There is a breathless beauty?” - Martin to Sissy

“You get too close and I might break you. I don’t want that.” Martin to ???

”Please let me taste your blood. It won’t hurt. I promise. You’re my sweet dove.” Martin to ???

”What exactly do you see in me? A broken man or a monster?” Martin to ???

”Did I do something wrong? Don’t go.” Martin to ???

[st-juliet]

Love-Performing Night, Part III

Fandom: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: The Reader, an actress at Covent Garden Theatre and neighbor to a certain eccentric detective, is equal parts flustered and delighted when he arrives at the stage door after a performance.

Content: 18+ for highly suggestive (indeed, occasionally blatantly filthy, I blush to report) language and smut, specifically: enthusiastically consensual unprotected sex, loss of virginity, a lightly domineering and possessive Sherlock, and of course, over-indulgent references to Shakespeare.

Notes: I prefer giving a name to the Reader rather than using Y/N, but I hope you will make the appropriate substitutes in your imagination.

Previous Chapters: Part I and Part II

It takes you a moment to regain your senses once the initial awe of your climax fades into little delicious aftershocks that tighten your channel around his fingers, which he removes only for the sake of tossing you fully onto the bed and coming to rest beside you. You fling your arms about his neck and pepper his face with eager kisses, overwhelmed and invigorated and desperate for him to fill you again, but this time in the most complete and inexorable act of love and passion you can share.

“My angel!” he growls sinfully, squeezing you tightly and returning your kiss. “How do you feel? I take it this is your first brush with your own…satisfaction, shall we say?”

“Wonderful, so wonderful, Sherlock!” you exclaim, shivering as another peal of pleasure rings through you. “And yes…I had no idea it could be so beautiful…”

“You are so beautiful,” he says by way of agreement. “And that is but one means by which you might find your peak—I hope you will grant me liberty to teach you them all.”

“Of course…but how might I bring you such joy?”

“Why, any way you wish. I am yours to explore,” he offers, invitingly stretching out to show his body to best effect…as if every effect were not the best when it comes to such a heroic form. His hands folded behind his head show off his broad shoulders, thick arms, and the flex of his chest, and when you eagerly perch atop him, straddling his hips, it brings his cock against your slit with a delicious friction that almost distracts you from your purpose entirely.

You run your hands across his chest, enjoying the feel of thick fur over taut muscle, then trace down further across his abdomen, and lower still.

“May I…?” you ask shyly, and he smiles with a perfect, sinful decadence as your fingers hesitantly brush against his length.

“You certainly may.”

You can hardly fit your hand around him, which seems to bring him no small measure of pride—and a good degree of pleasure, too. He is velvet over iron, and you shyly experiment with a simple glide of your hand up and down, a feather-light touch that seems to tease more than satiate him. You are quickly emboldened by his piercing gaze, the way he bites his lip at the slightest tightening of your fingers, and your name on his lips like a sacred, secret prayer as you slide your hand to cover the head of his cock, your touch a little more sure and steady with each stroke. He groans and tips his head back in ecstasy, and you repeat the motion, once, twice, again, and again, earning you the same fervid response.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he utters, unable to suppress the urge to thrust up into your hand. “Yet you surpass every fantasy—fuck!”

You gasp and laugh a little at this exclamation, feeling yourself flush all the more at such profanity from the all-too-often sober, decorous, logical detective.

“I told you I could not keep up the part of a gentleman,” he chuckles, drawing you close for a deep kiss. His tone takes a turn for the serious, rather than the suggestive, for a moment, and he holds your face between his hands, gently stroking his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “But I will try to spare you pain, and make up for any discomfort ten times over. Will you trust me, Clara?”

“I will, with my whole heart,” you vow, and he smoothly changes your position, coming to rest between your parted legs and gazing enraptured at you laid out for him, blushing but steadily meeting his eyes, even daring to run your hands across your own breasts, teasing the peaks and arching your back, all to his immediate and evident delight.

“You are intoxicating,” he praises. “Yes, that is the perfect word for it, for the more I have, the more I want.”

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep,” you quote, your eyes fluttering closed as he begins to caress your bud again, kindling an even greater warmth and want within you. “The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite—oh…”

“Yes, let my little genius lose all her words…and learn what they truly mean.”

His fingers delve inside your folds again, acclimating your body to the feeling of fullness. Then, with a final, unspoken understanding between you, he takes his length in hand, and presses inside you, filling you slowly but unyieldingly. He distracts you with soft kisses to your lips and neck as he stretches past one final barrier and sheaths himself to the hilt, and the slight sting is almost immediately dissipated into a sweet, burning heat that emanates from your core to every atom of your body.

“Sherlock!”

“Perfect, precious girl,” he sighs, infinite tenderness in his eyes and a perfect reverence in his hushed tone. But you can also see in his expression the tremendous willpower he exerts to keep still, awaiting your assent to take you fully, and you eagerly grant it, shifting your hips against his and sending a shudder through you both.

“Oh, I love you, I love you—please, please, you can move—I’m ready—“

At this, he eagerly surrenders every last stitch of propriety, and begins to thrust in a steady, sure rhythm, all the while pouring unimaginable filth into your ear—“My god—fuck, but you’re tight as sin—good girl, my good, darling girl…” Added to this symphony are the most gratifying, stirring sounds of his own pure pleasure, almost feral in nature, and your own somewhat inarticulate answers, variations on the unmistakably mutual theme of “Yours, all yours…”

The more you become accustomed to these new sensations, the more you can appreciate the tiny nuances of your lover’s face and form: his often furrowed brow made easy as he lets go completely, his eyes a little teary to match yours at the intimacy of the moment. Such permission to see him and know him in this most secret, personal state is as overwhelming as your newfound, shared sensuality; truly, you are giving yourselves fully to one another, souls as much as bodies.

Sensing your ever-increasing comfort and eagerness, he lifts your hips to plunge deeper, and you instinctively wrap your legs about his waist, reaching up your hand to trace the line of his parted lips.

“Look at yourself, angel,” he encourages, and you cannot stifle a moan when you glance down as he directs, watching spellbound as he disappears in and out of your folds. “You take me so well, you are meant to be mine.”

This possessive, adoring declaration, coupled with a particularly deep stroke makes you come undone, and Sherlock follows moments later, emptying himself deep within you, another unparalleled, intimate marvel such as you could not have imagined. His hips stutter against yours as he climaxes, burying his face in your neck with another litany of oaths and adoration. You lie still together, breathing deeply, both memorizing the moment of your perfect union.

With another deep kiss and impeccable gentleness, he finally withdraws, and quickly fetches a soft cloth dampened with water, which he uses to gently clean away the traces of your mingled essence and the slight trickle of red on your inner thighs.

“I did not hurt you too much, my darling girl?” he asks with a flicker of concern.

“I scarcely noticed it a moment,” you answer truthfully, and, satisfied of your comfort, he makes himself comfortable beneath the blankets and settles you against him, your head on his chest and your arms and legs entwined. Time seems to have lost any meaning as you lay together, sharing gentle kisses and whispers of love, assurance, and the promise of the future. In fact, you are easily lulled to sleep by his deep, low voice, but before you slip into a blissful dream, you ken one final line from the fateful play which ushered in this star-blessed sacrament:

“My love, my life, my wife.”

 Epilogue:

The only thing better than to fall asleep in Sherlock’s arms is to wake in them. You are both mussed with sleep, sensitive and vulnerable and never more happy to greet a new day. The soft morning glow illuminates you both anew, and incites you to make love again, gentle and tender. He wraps you up in his overlarge-on-you dressing gown, that you might decently retreat to your own room for fresh clothes, but before you can scurry up the stairs, he takes you once more in his arms.

“I hope you will, if you are in agreement, bring all your belongings to these rooms which must now be called ‘ours’. Damn all propriety; I will have what is mine, in my home, in my bed, at my leisure. But you must not fear scandal too long—indeed, today I mean to make a trip to the estate, on a brief errand, returning by tomorrow evening at the latest if the trains can be trusted. I must retrieve a particular object—but think no more of it, for in an instant I daresay you will guess it, but do me the courtesy of acting surprised, won’t you? You are, after all, such a very fine actress, darling girl.”

You do harbor some suspicions—nay, some certainties—about the nature of his so-called errand, but distract yourself with the transfer of your clothing to the downstairs dressing-room, your books joining his in the parlor, and of course, your glorious bouquet of roses on the bedside table. And of course, there is your work, in particular your eager-eyed friend Amelia, who corners you in your dressing room the minute you arrive at the theatre.

“Have you perhaps solved a mystery?” she inquired with a grin. “The mystery of Why One Is Brought Flowers?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you answer, trying to conceal your blush with a feigned struggle to put on your costume.

“The mystery of What ‘Share a Carriage Home’ Actually Means’?”

“Stop it!”

“The mystery of What Does The Great Detective Look Like Under All That Decorum’?”

“Amelia!”

“I’m sorry, Clara; I was only teasing—“

“Amelia, you were right the roses were for me and we went home together and—” “And?!”

“We made love.”

“Clara!!!” she shrieks, not even bothering to stifle her delighted laughter, demanding the particulars and pouting about your poetic metaphors and outright refusal to confirm nor deny rumors about your lover’s physical prowess.

“That means they’re all true!” she practically sings, swanning out the door to attend to her own toilette. “He is well enough looking—for a man—and I for one rejoice to know that you are well taken care of. And in all ways, I gather—I think “Juliet” is truly in love!”

So you are. And your joy is made complete when the next evening offers a glorious reprise of your first night together: The Sea Voyage concluded, Sherlock, fresh from his “errand to the estate”, arrives backstage again. In one hand he holds another bouquet of roses, even fuller and more sumptuous than the last, and in the other, a small velvet box, the content of which is unmistakable, even before it is revealed.

“I’ve returned for my tour, Miss Cane,” he smiles. “Perhaps we might begin in your dressing room? For I’ve a most vital question to ask you, which, I confess, supersedes my admittedly exhaustive curiosity about this perfectly ridiculous play…”

Thank you so, so much for reading! I delight in your feedback and would be so honored to fill any requests or prompts you might desire. Special thanks to @kebabgirl67 , @may-darling (whose request for more Amelia I was overjoyed to grant!) , and everyone who left encouraging comments on Wild Violets, especially @inlovewithhisblueeyes​ , which helped me summon the courage to write this smutty smutty conclusion to my first attempt at writing fics! 

If you enjoyed this story, you can find my masterlist here!