#his thing is that he is human in all human messiness and glory

[werecreature-addicted]

going to underground fighting rings not to place bets or to drown your sorrows in cheap booze and blood sport but because the werewolf who fights in the cage matches is so. fucking. hot. You're no better than a sad man in love with a stripper. but you come back every week, you sneak in after dark and stand in the jeering crowd looking up at the hulking monster and watch him fight. Sometimes you hope he'll look down and see you, most nights you're too embarrassed to show your face.

There's something about watching that werewolf tear into the other opponents that sets your blood on fire, the blood, the sweat, the way his lips curl back in a snarl when you're close enough to the cage you can hear him pant and growl, every punch he throws makes your knees weak. It's better than porn. you almost never make it through the entire match. Not when he's the one fighting at least. You watch the werewolf punch the other guy so hard he's lifted off the ground and your brain goes fuzzy picturing those big hands lifting you up by the hips, pinning you against the cold metal grate of the cage that surrounded the fighting ring, you picture him forcing your thighs apart with those scared hands of his and drop you down on his cock.

You push your way out of the crowd and to the dingy bathroom. You can't help it. You really can't. you lock yourself in one of the stalls and touch yourself, fingers quick and messy just trying to be quiet as you picture The fighter breaking your nose and licking up the blood. choking you with his big hands while he mounted you from behind on the dirty floor of the ring. One time you'd seen him bite another opponent and now the thought of him biting you like that, sinking those sharp teeth into the side of your neck or into your thigh was the only thing that could get you off. You thought about it now, feverishly touching yourself with one hand, the other covering your mouth, still, little whimpers of pleasure escape you.

You need to be more careful, more people are coming in and out of the bathroom, the fight must be over. someone's going to get pissed that you're taking so long soon. You're surprised when a half-hard cock pokes through the glory hole an inch in front of your face. You jump. In all your time masturbating in this shit-hole bathroom, you'd never noticed the hole in the side of the stall wall.

You stare at the cock for a second, hand still in between your legs. it's too big to be human, and the half-swollen knot throbbing at the base makes you think of your fighter, your werewolf.

"I know you're in there, i can fucking smell you, just like i can smell you getting horny in the crowd, fucking surprised you don't leave a puddle on the floor slut." he snarls and bangs on the side of the stall.

"Go on take what you want, suck this dirty cock you've been drooling over," You lean in and smell him, it's almost enough to make you cum right there. You should do what he wants, blow him like a good whore, but you are so so bad at denying yourself. Instead, you run your tongue over his balls, whimpering at the taste, you're drunk off of the musk of him, and the low groan he lets out is almost enough to make you cum right there. Eventually, though you move your mouth up, kissing and licking his shaft, and take the tip of the werewolf's cock into your mouth. He wastes no time thrusting into you, fucking your face. You let him, really it's the least you can do for the champion.

[juleswritesstuff]

Blind

james potter x reader

I saw that post right in the middle and I just had to.

Warnings: none (it's a bit suggestive, but nothing major)

You could live like this, you think.

It would truly be the best life ever in your humble opinion.

Sitting on his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, holding on to him like a lifeline as your bodies fit perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle. His hands are all over your body, fingers exploring wherever they can reach before sneaking swiftly under your shirt to trace along the length of your spine, pads dancing on your soft skin and making shives erupt all over you.

And his lips. Oh God, his lips. 

James has the face of an angel, and the mouth of a demon. And you love it. You revel in the feeling of his lips claiming every part of you, every inch of flesh. They are soft and reverent and teasing and filthy, and in this moment they are devouring yours with a hunger that matches the fire blooming inside of you.

“You have no right to look this good” you whisper on his lips, biting his bottom one before swiping your tongue right over it.

You couldn’t help yourself when you saw him. All disheveled after quidditch practice with his hair still a little damp, the first three buttons of his shirt free, tie loose and crooked and a half smirk on that perfect face of his; knocking on your door completely clueless of the effect he had on you.

He looked like sex on legs. A literal sin in human form, and you were ready to fall from grace when it came to him.

“Didn't know post-quidditch me was so sexy to you” his voice has a little strain to it, breathless and teasing as his hands roamed all over your body.

You let out a breathless chuckle, hyper aware of every centimeter of him pressed against you.

“You have no idea” your hands get to work on his shirt, unbuttoning it as fast as you can, until his perfectly chiseled torso graces your eyes in its full glory.

Your mouth waters at the sight.

You slide the fabric off of his shoulders, brushing the smooth skin and feeling all those firm muscles that he hides behind his beloved sweatshirts, biting your lip as the flames inside your body grow hotter by the second. 

Your mouth latches to his once again, never having enough of his taste, of him.

He starts to lay down and you follow him, never breaking the embrace of your lips, intoxicated by the way his tongue caresses yours in the filthiest of dances. His back hits the mattress and you are fully all over him, chest to chest.

The kiss becomes messy, a clash of teeth and lips and tongues. You are sure the thing running through your veins is not blood anymore, but liquid fire, consuming every cell of your body and setting you ablaze with desire.

“Hold on, love. I have to-”

God, he was so beautiful like this. All worked up and breathless, laying underneath you like the tastiest meal you ever had the pleasure to taste.

One of his arms leaves your waist and reaches up, until his fingers are wrapped around the slim, golden frame of his glasses, taking them off in a way that should be considered illegal in at least twenty countries. All smooth and seductive with that little grin of his and-

“Woah, you're fucking blurry” 

For a split second the room falls silent, not a single sound can be heard inside those four walls.

You blink a few times, enough to let his words sink in.

And when they do you can't help but burst out laughing.

A real, genuine laugh coming straight from your belly and echoing through the room like you had just heard the joke of the century.

James’ eyes are wide in disbelief, flabbergasted by your reaction. But his mouth is stretched in an incredulous grin, sprinkled with a glint of mirth as he himself can’t stop the chuckle bubbling in his throat.

“Are you making fun of my blindness ? How cruel, Y/N” there is not an ounce of offense in his tone, just light-hearted and hilariously exaggerated teasing.

“Me ?” the fake and over the top innocence in your voice makes him smile even harder, the little dimple on his left cheek that you adored so much peeking through. You dip forward, leaving a kiss on those dreamy lips of his before whispering right against them “I wouldn't even dream of it” 

“Oh, you wouldn't ?” he cocks a perfectly arched brow in a challenging and yet adorable manner, eyes sparkling with mischief as his fingers start poking at your ribs, making you squirm and giggle like a middle schooler.

“No ! No, no, no ! Jame-”

He is laughing too, now. Glasses back in their place and eyes glistening with joy and pure adoration as he looks at you struggling not to lose a lung from the almost hysterical shriek coming from your lips at the ticklish attack he had you under.

You are so focused on not collapsing from the laughter and the skillful way his fingers move in every place he knew was the most ticklish for you, that you don't even register the way his hands suddenly stop.

They land on your hips, holding them in a delicate but firm grip, and, before you know it, you are being flipped over. Your back makes contact with the mattress of your bed as the delicious weight of your boyfriend’s sculpted body settles over you. 

You let out a yelp of surprise at the sudden change of position, a sound that threatens to turn into a full moan considered your current situation.

James is now on top of you, and the breath almost gets knocked out of your lungs as you admire him in his full glory.

His hair is wild and messy, but they frame his face in a way both so beautiful and so sexy that it makes your heart stop beating and your body run hotter. His eyes are still crinkled up in the ghost of a smile, but the haziness in them, that glint of adoration and reverence as he looks at you through his eyelashes, renders you speechless. His golden specks are hung a bit low on the bridge of his nose, giving him an adorable but mouth watering beautiful look. His lips are curled up in a half smile, playful and gorgeous and so, so incredibly sensual that you are not even sure if he knows the power that mouth has on you.

“Cat got your tongue, love ?” he brushes his nose with yours as he murmurs the question right on your lips, leaving a kiss on your cheek right after.

You wish you could just function like a normal person and tell him that, no, your tongue is definitely still in its place and it works perfectly fine, thank you. But your boyfriend is shirtless on top of you, with your legs still wrapped around his hips and that deadly handsome grin plastered on his face. Suddenly, the only thing you can think about are some other couple of ways in which your mouth could definitely be useful. 

“I-” you gulp loudly as you try not to drool at the sight of his muscles flexing right before your eyes “-what ?”

He lets out a chuckle, his head hung low as his shoulders shake with laughter. His wild locks tickle your chin and you can feel the ghost of his smile pressed lightly on your collarbone

You can’t help but follow him as the delightful sound of his laugh echoes through the room, spreading a warmth in your heart that you had never felt before meeting James.

When he lifts his head back up and his eyes find yours again, all sparkling with joy and fondness, you really think your heart is seconds away from bursting in your chest.

“Am I really that distracting ?” there is still a hint of that cocky smirk on his face, but it fades into something sweeter as he catches the light blush blossoming on your cheeks.

“You know perfectly well that I stop functioning properly when you are on top of me, Potter” your grumbling tone doesn’t faze him one bit, he just dips his head lower and captures your lips in a searing kiss.

“Really ? I hadn’t noticed” the unimpressed deadpan look you give him makes him chuckle again and you can feel the vibration right on your chest with how close he is.

“Sorry, sorry” his laughter dissipates, replaced by a more relaxed smile.

“If it’s of any consolation-” the hand not busy holding his upper body up and preventing his full weight to be laid on you, reaches the supple flesh of your thigh, letting his fingers dance on the exposed skin as they please “-my brain stops working, too” 

His mouth starts a journey that begins on your lips and slowly and tortourously ends on your neck, which seems to be his favorite place to worship to make your brain short-circuit.

“Mmh, does it actually ?” you don’t know how the hell you manage to let a single word out, especially in that teasing tone, as you are sure nothing except pure filthy sounds threaten to come out of your throat.

He grins against your skin before lifting his head up once again.

“Oh, trust me. It does” he whispers sensually against your lips “In every position you have me in”

Yes, you could definitly live like this.

I am not sure if I am a 100 % satisfied with this, but I tried my best.

I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading 💗

[apollowhoo]

could you pleasee do a gravity falls one shot?

so basically Bill Cipher meets the youngest Pines member but they're like 3-4 years old. And basically Bill doesn't know how to react, he's all confused but also in awe. Make it fluff and i know it's going to be hard to write this as canon Bill Cipher so you can ignore if you want <33

Bill Cipher x Child!Reader (PLATONIC)

The forest surroundcing the Mystery Shack was quiet. Somewhere between dimensions, floating lazily, was Bill Cipher, his single eye half-lidded with boredom. His typical schemes to cause chaos were on hold, and for once, he was simply… existing.

That’s when he heard it—a soft giggle, light as a feather. Bill’s eye snapped open, immediately. There, standing among the wildflowers, was a small figure with messy hair, chubby cheeks, and a bright, curious gaze.

The youngest member of the Pines family.

His eye narrows slightly. A little kid, no older than three or four, was staring right up at him. Her tiny hands gripping a stuffed animal that seemed to be some kind of hybrid between a cat and a duck—perfectly nonsensical, just the way Bill liked things.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Bill floated closer, his voice carrying its usual sarcasm. “A little ankle-biter out all alone? Shouldn’t you be with your oh-so-boring family?”

The girl tilted her head, eyes wide and sparkling with the kind of innocence Bill found really weird. She didn't seemed scared. She suddenly reaches out, poking Bill with a tiny finger in pure curiosity.

Bill’s eye widened a little in surprise. Most people who encountered him would either scream, run, or try to strike some ridiculous bargain. But this little human? She just poked him like he was some new toy.

“Hey, hey! Hands off the merchandise!” Bill exclaimed. He wondered, why wasn’t she afraid? Why wasn’t she running? And why, in all his chaotic glory, did he find this child so… interesting?

The child giggled again, a bubbly sound that seemed to echo in Bill’s mind. She pointed at him with her free hand, her other continuing to clutching her stuffed toy close.

“Triangle!” she declared proudly, their voice high-pitched and filled with wonder.

Bill let out a bark of laughter, genuinely amused. “Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you? That’s right, kiddo. I’m a triangle, the best triangle you’ll ever meet. Got any other shapes in that little brain of yours?”

The kid smiled. They started babbling, half-formed words about god know what, pointing excitedly as if expecting Bill to just understand them. The demon was used to others feeling fear, but this… this innocent curiosity was something else.

“Alright, kid, slow down,” Bill said. “You think I can just whip up stars and moons like a party trick? You’re talking to Bill Cipher, not some street magician.”

For the first time in… well, forever, Bill felt utterly out of his element. He could outsmart the smartest, scare the toughest, and twist anyone around his finger, but this kid? She just saw him entertainig.

Bill hovered beside them, his eye following them every move. He had cought a small, harmless ball of light, flickering in and out of existence.

“Yeah, yeah, enjoy it while it lasts, kid,” Bill mumbled, though there was no more venom in his voice.

The girl just grinned, leaning her head against his triangular form as if he were just another friend, not a demon with a penchant for chaos. Bill let her, floating there quietly as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

For once, he wasn’t planning anything. No schemes, no deals, no manipulation. Just a strange, peaceful moment with a little human who saw him not as a threat .

And for reasons Bill couldn’t quite fathom, he didn’t mind it one bit.

[7-wonders]

"Watching horror movies together"

From a Halloween prompt list. Thanks for reading, guys :)

In your humble opinion, October is one of the best months of the year. How can it not be, when there are so many fun activities that come along with the fall season? Pumpkin patches and apple picking, haunted houses and costume parties, colorful trees and fall-scented everything. One of your favorite parts of October? An excuse to watch as many scary movies as you could possibly desire.

You don’t just watch scary movies in October, of course. Halloweentown and Hocus Pocus were made for this month, and it’d be a shame to not watch them both at least once. But horror movies, in all their spooky, creepy glory, have a special place in your heart, and they’re something that you go out of your way to watch this month. There are only so many days that you can pack in all the Halloween you can handle, after all.

You’re spending the night as you do so many others in October—with the lights off, a snack on your coffee table, and the horror movie of your choice on the screen (tonight’s pick being The Conjuring). The movie is maybe 15 minutes in when you get your first jump scare, but it doesn’t come from the screen. Instead, it comes when a man materializes out of the shadows of your living room, making you yell in fright before your eyes recognize the messy head of black hair and alabaster skin.

“You scared me!” you exclaim, quickly getting over your fear and being unable to stop smiling when it sinks in that Morpheus is actually here.

“My apologies.” He takes in the scene before him, you sitting in a darkened room with a blanket on your lap watching a movie, with interest. “What are you doing?”

“Watching a movie. Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re almost never in the Waking.”

It takes him a moment to figure out how to say what he wants to say. “My duties have kept me away from you as of late. I wish to rectify that.”

After translating from Morpheus to English, you have to exert a lot of willpower to keep from breaking. He came all the way to a realm he’s not comfortable in simply because he missed you? Because he feels guilty for being busy and wants to try and make it up to you?

(There’s no need for him to make anything up, because you’re not mad at him in the slightest. He’s the ruler of a freaking realm; of course, that’s going to take precedence over almost everything in his life. But if his misplaced guilt causes him to spend more time with you, then you certainly won’t complain.)

“Okay. Do you…want to watch the movie with me, then?”

He considers the question, likely the first time he’s ever been asked such a thing. Regally, he answers, “I suppose.”

Now he’s here, sitting next to you on your secondhand couch in your cozy apartment, trying to wrap his all-knowing mind around what a horror movie is. You’re simply pleased beyond measure that your boyfriend is doing something so human and mundane with you, and therefore willing to answer any of his questions that take your attention away from the screen.

“These are watched with the express purpose to leave the viewer frightened?”

“Exactly. You know, like how people read Dracula and Frankenstein?” Relating the movie to classic literature he’s familiar with (you doubt he’s had time to catch up on Stephen King novels) finally makes it click for Morpheus, who nods. “It’s fun to be scared, sometimes.”

Even though this is likely one of the first movies that Morpheus has ever watched, he has enough of an idea of the concept to realize that it’s an activity that’s mostly conducted in silence. It’s a concept he respects…for the most part.

(“Why do they not simply move to another home?” Morpheus asks when one of the daughters sees someone standing in the dark behind her door. Smirking, you simply say, “Now you’re asking the right questions.”)

When the pictures fall off the wall and remind you that one of the best scenes is seconds away from happening, you smile as an idea comes to mind. 

“There is another plus to watching scary movies together,” you begin, making Morpheus look at you curiously.

“And that would be?”

“Well, when scary things happen on screen…” Carolyn Perron falls down the stairs as the spirit locks the door. “And if I were to, say, jump in fright because of it…” The basketball is thrown from within the cellar, and you jump exaggeratedly. “Then it would only make sense for you, as my romantic interest, to…” Taking Morpheus’s hand in yours, you maneuver his arm until it’s draped around your shoulders. “Comfort me.” 

It takes him a moment to settle into the new position, for his arm to relax around you until he naturally pulls you closer to him. When he does, your smile widens until you’re flashing a very smug grin at him.

“I believe you are right,” he says. “This does make the experience better.”

Laughing lightly, you kiss his shoulder before turning your attention back to the movie. October continues to be full of new reasons as to why it’s one of the best months of the year.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

the art of breaking: part two

the art of breaking, part two: theory of decay

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. this fic contains themes of abuse and extremely dark content.

words: 10k

summary: joel knows just how to make you his forever. a sequel to "the art of breaking"

warnings (new warnings in red) and story under the cut; reader discretion is advised.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, glory hole, reader gives tommy a blowjob (joel and tommy do not touch), body modification, permanent marking, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, whipping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, vaginal, reader x other men, degradation, humiliation, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare, blink and you miss it piss "play," straight up abuse this time guys, overstimulation, forced eating, needles, voyeurism, objectification, human furniture/ashtray, cigarettes, consumption of non-food items, nipple/clit pumps, this one might be worse than the first idk sorry

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it. 

Please read responsibly. 

i. dessication

When he goes to work, he leaves you free to roam the house and do your chores. For shorter trips out, he tends to put you in your cage. There’s no real reason, but it keeps you in a good place. You’re always softer, quieter when he gets back and lets you out. 

He couldn’t do it all the time, of course. There are things needing to be done. Plus, every day, he gets to come home to you knelt, waiting by the door with dinner kept warm. He could afford a housekeeper, but then you’d have nothing to keep your mind and body occupied when he’s away. 

Of course, sometimes he leaves you chained up in the basement. He can’t always be nice, after all. And the thing he loves to come home to most, second only to you kneeling at the door, is your exhausted body still tied where he left it, bearing the marks of his latest pleasure. 

Sometimes, he just leaves you in stocks to contemplate all the raw kisses from his favorite whip. Sometimes, he has you pinned to the table with a vibrator strapped to your clit for the day. On the lowest setting—he’s not a monster. 

Well. It starts on the lowest setting. He can do whatever he wants with it through a handy app. It was the only way Tommy could convince him to upgrade to a smartphone.

But today, you’re just set about neatening up. Neither you nor Joel are messy— though he does have a tendency to empty his pockets wherever he’s standing—and it’s not a huge house. You finish up early and have time to read while supper’s in the oven. 

You’re already kneeling when you hear the key in the door, eyes down, hands behind your back, but you have to tense up not to flinch when you hear a second pair of boots.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” drawls a voice you don’t know. 

The only reason you don’t panic is because Joel’s boots enter your field of vision. You’re intimately acquainted with them—literally—and despite the fresh layer of dirt, you’d know them anywhere. 

“Ooh, damn, she’s good,” says the voice.

Joel chuckles and reaches down to stroke your cheek. “Told ya.” 

You melt a little against his hand, letting the pride in his voice warm you.

He rubs his thumb over your cheek and lets you press a little kiss to the digit before stepping back to take his shoes off and dump the handful of change and crumpled receipts on the foyer table. “C’mon,” he says, snapping his fingers so you know he means you, too.

You resist the urge to look at the stranger, but you don’t like the way he lingers to follow you instead of following Joel. You can feel his eyes on your exposed flesh, the dress just short enough to show off your cunt when you crawl. 

No one has ever come into the house before. At least not when you’re out and about. You don’t know if Joel’s had company while you’ve been in the basement or something; you’ve never even thought about it. All you know is that it’s been a long time since you’ve seen another person. 

It’s terrifying. 

You go to kneel between Joel’s feet, but he stops you. “Turn around,” he says, guiding you with firm hands to face forward. 

He laughs when he sees that you’re still staring very carefully at the carpet. “Y’can look at him; he ain’t gonna bite.”

The other man, who has settled in the armchair facing the couch, laughs too. “I might,” he says.

“No, you won’t.” Joel’s voice goes hard for a moment, and you don’t need to see to know he’s glaring. 

It makes you feel better. So what if someone’s looking at you? Joel’s still protecting you. 

He lifts your chin up so you have to look at the other man. He’s broad, though not as much as Joel, with dark curls and dark eyes that make you feel like he wants to cut you open and see how you tick. 

“This is my little brother, Tommy,” Joel says. “Go tell him hello.” 

“Hello,” you say quietly. 

“C’mon, now, go give him a proper greeting,” Joel nudges you with his foot. You crawl over to Tommy and kneel between his legs. Your gaze darts from him to Joel, teeth worrying at your lip. 

“Don’t embarrass me, girl,” Joel warns.

Tommy lifts your chin with his hand. “He wants you to suck me off. Go ahead.” 

It’s nice, but it’s not his permission you need. You risk one more glance at Joel. 

“You heard him. You got two seconds, sweetheart, before you’re gonna regret it,” he growls.

“You goin’ soft? You usually have ‘em trained better by now,” Tommy teases, but his words have Joel seeing red. 

You sit back. “What?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, did you think you were special?” Tommy says with a nasty smirk. He pats your face. “Poor thing.”

You look at Joel, tears welling up. 

“What, you think I had a house full of equipment that’s never been used? Y’should be grateful. All my toys before you had to suffer some trial and error. I got it perfected now, and you’re wasting it, being a fuckin’ disobedient bitch.” 

You close your eyes tight and choke back a sob. He’s never, ever spoken to you like that before. When you turn back to Tommy, you have your mouth open wide and waiting.

He leans back. “Well? You gonna make me do all the work?”

“Can I use my hands, please?” you say, eyes darting from Tommy to Joel. 

“Great, now you got her all nervous,” Tommy bitches, and Joel rolls his eyes. 

“Go ahead,” Joel tells you gruffly. You’ve been so good. So obedient. Maybe he shoulda warned you that he wanted to show you off. No, he thinks, it’s not his fault. He didn’t owe you a warning. You should just accept it and obey.

You’re shaking when you tug open the button of Tommy’s jeans, fumbling with the zipper. Apparently, it takes long enough that he grunts and knocks your hand away, pulling his cock out. 

It feels like a trap. Joel has not explicitly ordered you to do this. But he doesn’t usually try to trick you. 

“For Christ’s sake,” Tommy snaps, and yanks you forward. You get with the program quickly, wrapping your lips around him and trying to do your best. 

He’s smaller than Joel, but it’s a decent cock. Not that it matters to you. Despite not having to gag on him, you can’t breathe anyway, too preoccupied. Why is Joel doing this? Is he going to punish you for it later? 

And the worst thing, the thing that keeps bouncing around your brain as you try to get Tommy off: What happened to the other girls? Did he get tired of them and kick them out?

Was he not going to keep you?

You don’t notice you’re crying, but Tommy clearly enjoys it. He moans and holds you down as he cums down your throat. You aren’t ready, though, and sputter a little, coughing and leaking his cum down your chest. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snaps. He gets up off the couch and yanks you away from his brother by the hair. “What the hell's the matter with you today?” 

“I’m sorry,” you cry. 

“Shut up,” he says, and drags you out to the place you visit in most of your nightmares, despite only having been there once in reality. 

The Pit. 

ii. consumption

When he comes to get you in the morning, you’re wrecked. Deflated, no more tears left to pour down your cheeks. For now, at least.  

The sun is against his back when he opens the gate, reaching down for you with one strong arm. Bathed in the golden light, he is every inch your savior, and when you’ve climbed out on shaky legs, you prostrate yourself at his feet the way he likes. 

He’s still mad, though, so he steps one filthy boot on your head and grinds your face into the mud. He pisses on it for good measure, the hot stream dripping down your hair and face onto the soil. 

He’s got a switch in one hand. With you effectively pinned in place, he wastes no time in swinging it down on your ass. 

You scream and sob as he beats you. When he finally stops, when he’s drawn every bit of his anger in welts against your skin, he lifts his boot from your head and squats down. 

“Why d’you have to make me do this?” He’s solemn, sorrowful. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say, focusing on controlling the hysterical sobs wrenching from your chest. 

You don’t know what will follow, so you remain still, not daring to move without an order. 

“I should drop you off at a fuckin’ whorehouse,” he mutters. He pulls you up by your hair, and you scramble to your knees. “You can learn to suck who you’re told to suck.”

“Please, sir, please don’t, please—” It’s too much. You stumble, sobs wracking your body hard enough that you can’t move. You collapse in the grass with his hand still holding your head up. 

He lets go, letting you fall. 

You crawl to his boots and kiss them, mud be damned. It wasn’t like you weren’t covered in it anyway. “Please, sir, I’m so sorry, please don’t—” you say between sobs. 

“Please don’t what? You think you’re in any position to be askin’ for anything?”

“Don’t get rid of me, please; I promise I’ll be better; I can be good.”

“I’ll think about it, if you can fuckin’ earn it.”

“Please, please let me try to earn it.”

He squats down and helps pull you to your knees in front of him, cupping your filthy face in both hands. “I don’t wanna send you away. You know I love ya. But if you can’t be good, then what’s the point, baby?”

Your sobs are subsiding out of the pure elation that comes from his gentle touch. “I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

“I know ya will. You don’t really have a choice.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna get you fed and taken care of. But you’re about to have one of the worst days of your fuckin’ life.”

You choke on a sob and sway a little. The fear and the hunger are like a fog over your brain. 

“Hey. Listen t’me.” He holds your hands in one of his. “You’re gonna learn, and it’s gonna be real hard for ya. But at the end of it all— if you take it all like a good girl—you’ll be forgiven. Got it?”

You look up through tear-sodden lashes, lip quivering, and nod your head. 

There’s no part of you anymore that registers an issue. No warning bells, no red flags, no hair raising. 

You follow him to the bottom of the patio steps, where he nudges you to kneel back down, folding over so your face rests against the soil. You wait while he goes inside, unsure of how much time has passed until he comes back out with a plate of eggs, scrambled with cheese and little bits of sausage. 

That raises some alarms. Not to the way he treats you, but more of a signal for what to expect. It’s protein-heavy, which isn’t necessarily unusual, but it smells delicious. And there’s no way you’re getting to eat that after behaving so badly. 

You’re half right. He squats down next to you and scoops up a bite with the fork. You don’t take the bait; you know that’s not for you. 

He moans exaggeratedly when he chews, grinning all the while. And then he scrapes the rest off the plate into the dirt in front of your face. 

“Ah, ah. Not yet,” he says, and you close your eyes at the sound of his zipper being yanked down. 

“You get wet from that beating earlier?” he asks.

You nod, even though he’s already reaching down between your legs and shoving his fingers in your cunt. He brings back his shiny hand and strokes his cock. 

“Look at me, baby,” he says, shifting onto his knees so when you open your eyes, you’re faced with his fist pumping away at the red, angry head. “Coulda been you. Shoulda been, but bad girls don’t get what they want.” 

You whimper. It really does hurt your feelings, but you know you have nothing to say for yourself. 

“Open. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and get some fresh.”

You obey immediately, squeezing your eyes back shut as soon as he starts to cum. A little bit lands in your mouth, which you hold open.

“You can swallow that. But don’t eat yet.” 

He walks away, puttering around on the patio. You try to work up the nerve for his command, stomach churning. Maybe it’ll still taste fine. Maybe cold semen and dirt won’t ruin it that much. Maybe. 

If you hadn’t earlier, you believed him now about it being the worst day of your life. He certainly wasn’t starting out small. Sure, you’d eaten off the floor before, but inside the house. The house you clean, so you know how sanitary it is. 

But thinking about doing this makes you want to cry. And when he tells you to get started, you do cry. Just a little. 

“You got about six minutes,” he says, checking his phone for the time instead of the eternally broken watch on his wrist, “and there better not be a single crumb left. Get your ass up here as soon as you’re done.”

You’re not sure how long it takes you, but it must be nearly the whole six minutes, because by the time you’re knelt at his feet on the patio, he says, “Cuttin’ it damn close, sweetheart.” 

He’s playing fucking Candy Crush, legs kicked out on the little wooden table in front of him. He’s got you knelt at his side, and after a few minutes, he digs into his breast pocket and hands you a smushed carton of cigarettes. 

You draw one carefully out of the pack and extend it to him, letting go once he’s pinched it between his lips and pulling out the lighter. Carefully, you ignite the tip for him and tuck it back away. You go to give the carton back, but he shakes his head.

He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth to blow smoke. “Hang onto that for me. And this,” and he hands you his coffee cup. 

It’s not the first time he’s used you as a table. He tried using you as a footrest but found it less satisfying. You try to sit and work through your nerves, try to ignore the terror that he might not keep you if you can’t endure the day. 

It’s a good thing that he drained you of any concept of dignity long ago, cut you open, and let it ooze away like pus from an infection.  

“Open,” he says absently, not bothering to look away from his game.

Your eyes and mouth snap open, and he taps the cigarette against your lip, letting the ash fall onto your tongue. You jerk back a little but correct it immediately.

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’ll give ya a pass this time. But keep your mouth open, tongue out, and don’t fucking swallow.” 

He’s clearly happy to spend the afternoon like this. He goes through a second cigarette and still doesn’t let you swallow or spit. Your knees ache from the planks of the deck. 

He gets up and goes inside for a few minutes, taking his empty coffee cup with him. You don’t dare drop your position, though. 

When he comes back out, he hands you a bottle of beer, condensation already dripping. He resettles to watch the game on his phone. 

Anything resembling hope is trickling out. He hates watching things on the little screen, peering at it through his glasses. But he never smokes inside the house, so he’s resigned himself to this for the sake of your punishment.

It makes you feel less than the ash on your tongue. 

By the time it’s over, your mouth has long gone dry, itching with the ash of four cigarettes, when he stands up and stretches. He leans down and holds your chin before spitting in your mouth.

“There ya go. Swallow.” 

And you do. When you cough a little as the ashes cling to your dry throat, he pries your mouth back open and spits again. 

It helps a little. 

iii. dismemberment

You’d only been in the Pit once before. The first time was arguably your worst offense, which was good, Joel thought, that you still hadn’t topped that misbehavior. 

But as glad as you are that it hasn’t happened a lot, it means you don’t really know what to expect. When he brings you into the ensuite, you know this routine enough that you kneel on the shower floor, barely flinching when he turns only the cold tap, and the faucet sputters to life. 

He never gets in until you’re shivering, so while he gathers fresh clothes and towels, you scrub the mud from your body. When he checks and finds you satisfactory, he turns the knobs until the water runs warm. 

Your shivers don’t subside for a few more minutes, though. Not until you’re practically done cleaning him with the spongey loofah. Hot tears burn in the corners of your eyes, though only a few slip loose.

When he turns around and takes it from you, you thank him for letting you wash him. 

He gives you a smile, hand cupping your cheek.

“Of course, baby. Don’t worry. I’m going to help you remember how to be my good girl.”

But first, before he can follow up on the threat, he washes the mud and piss from your hair with gentle hands, massaging your scalp. You hold still, head tipped back, and let the tears come harder.

He notices but doesn’t comment. It’s normal now, when he takes care of you after a hard punishment. Or, in this case, in the middle of one.

You go to speak, to pour out your regrets and devotion, but he shushes you.

“I want you quiet ‘till I say otherwise,” he says. “Nothin’ outta you unless it’s an emergency. Got it?”

You nod, and he helps you to your feet, drying you with a soft towel and taking care around the raised welts on your ass. There will be some nasty bruises tomorrow, but when isn’t there? Your tits have mottled spots of yellow fading, and the shape of Joel’s hand around your throat basically never leaves. 

He gives your raw, burning skin a sharp smack, sending you off to put on the dress he’s laid out for you.

He tells you nothing, just leads you to the truck. The drive is quiet, apart from the crooning voice on the radio. It’s a bit of a drive, and you park in a broken-up lot surrounded by rusty chainlink fence. He grabs your hand and takes you across the street to a dilapidated building. A cheap banner is tacked above one of the doors. 

Joel hands a bill to a man, who opens the door just enough for you to squeeze in. It doesn’t take long to figure out where you are.

“Been a while since I brought you someplace nice, baby. Hope you like it, ‘cause we’re gonna be here most of the night.”

That’s the understatement of your life. He hasn’t taken you out of the house in over a year. You’re not sure you remember how to exist away from home, clinging to his arm as he leads you through the club.

You can’t decide what will be worse, but you don’t have to wonder for long when he drags you around to an empty stall. He’s not there to use a hole. You’re there to be one. 

He clips your collar to the wall with just enough slack that you could pull back to breathe if the person on the other side doesn’t let you. 

He takes the ring gag out of his pocket and dangles it in front of you. “You need this, or are ya gonna be good?”

“I’ll be good,” you say immediately, a phantom ache in the hinge of your jaw. 

“You sure? ‘Cause if you have to ask later or I have to make that decision myself, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper. 

“Good.” He pats the side of your face, two sharp smacks in lieu of a caress. There will be no softness for you tonight. 

He waits to talk to you until your mouth is full. You look miserable, but you don’t hesitate. It’s not to the standard he’d usually require, but you’re both aware of the hours ahead, so he lets you pace yourself. 

He crouches down near you. “You like that? Some random dirty prick in your throat?” 

You, of course, can’t answer, but your eyes close against the hurt.

“It’s fucking disgusting. You think I want to let just anyone use you? I could fuck any hole I want. I could go out there and have every cunt and ass and mouth. You know why I won’t?”

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t try to answer, don’t stop what you’re doing. 

“Because they ain’t you, sweetheart. You’re my perfect girl. Nicest I’ve ever had. And if I got something this nice, and I don’t share it with my brother? You don’t even suck him off right? How do you think that made him feel, baby?”

He keeps it up, past the point where he feels like carrying on, but he can tell it’s wearing you down faster than the relentless facefucking. You’re starting to work your jaw, joints popping in between visitors, but even that doesn’t compare to the way you’ve started to shake when he’s scolding you.

“I know you’re tired, baby. I hope you remember this fuckin’ lesson because I’m not sacrificing two nights of sleep again to repeat it.”

You whimper around the stranger’s cock, which encourages them to fuck into you harder. But Joel knows the tears in your eyes aren’t from that. 

“Yeah, you were bein’ selfish, huh? I couldn’t fuckin’ sleep with you out there, and now I’m up all night with you here.”

There it was, he thought, watching you break. A little too early; it was going to be tough to keep you going. But nothin’ did you in like the thought of having hurt him in the process. 

And it was true. He never slept with someone out in The Pit. Too fuckin dangerous. He kept watch on a camera. He needed you scared and sorry, not dead. 

He watches as you choke down the stranger’s seed, looking like you might retch. He shuts the little sliding door for a few minutes and gives you some water. After you’ve rehydrated and seem a little less green, he opens it back up.

“Alright, get ready for the next round.”

In the truck on the way home, he keeps you tucked close to his side. Between the dark, empty highway and his coat wrapped around you, you start to doze off. 

He nudges you a little. “None of that now. Ain’t finished with you yet.”

You whimper, not in protest but in exhaustion. Despite how hard you try to fight it, you’re fast asleep when he pulls into the driveway. 

He thinks about waking you up anyway, to follow through on his word. He carries you inside and up to the bedroom, still deliberating, but when he tries to set you down on the bed, you cling to him desperately, even in your sleep. He manages to wriggle the coat off you and lays down beside you. He’ll just let you both rest for a little while.

You wake up, mid-afternoon, shaking all over. Joel awakens moments later, eyes wide as he tugs on your arm to roll you over. 

“Oh, baby,” he says, and moves to get out of the bed. “Knew I shouldn’t have let you go to sleep.”

But you grab onto him, lip trembling. 

He knocks your hand away. “I‘ll be right back, jus’ hold on.”

You’re curled into yourself, sobbing, when he gets back three minutes later. 

He hands you a water bottle anyway. “Sit up; you need to eat. It’ll help.”

Somehow, you find the strength to struggle and wriggle your body into sitting. He brings you to lean against his chest while he leans against the headboard. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a kiss pressed to your head. 

You start crying hard all over again. 

“I know. M’sorry. I should have talked to ya last night, huh? S’that what you’re all worked up about?”

You nod. There you are, sitting in his bed, when you hadn’t fucking earned it. But he doesn’t shove you off or hurt you for it; he just feeds you a protein bar and lets you sip at the water between bites. 

After he’s given you the last of the bar, he has you slide down to your knees by the side of the bed.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I disobeyed and embarrassed you.” 

“I didn’t ask you what you did wrong.”

“Oh,” you say softly, and have to think. “I didn’t understand, at first. That you wanted me to suck his cock.”

“And after you did?”

“I—” you don’t want to say it. You know he’s going to be mad. He doesn’t like when you question things like this.

“Is this because Tommy said you weren’t special? ‘Cause you know better.” 

“No, I just… why did you get rid of the others? What did they do?” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, and cups your face in one hand. “I don’t think that’s anything you gotta worry about. Not anymore.”

“But how will I know how to do better?”

“You already are. None of ‘em ever made it this far. They talked big talk but couldn’t back it up. Some of ‘em didn’t want to give up the things you have, some of ‘em couldn’t handle my expectations. I told you, you’re the nicest thing I’ve ever had. You’ve let me make you exactly the way I want you to be.”

“Even though I was so bad the other night?”

“Yep. Because you took every consequence, and I know you’ve learned your lesson. And you’ll probably fuck up again someday. But if you keep wantin’ to be better, I’ll keep teachin’ ya.” 

You can’t help but cry again. You’re so tired and so tired of crying. 

“What, were you worried I was gonna replace you with some new young thing someday?”

You nod, and he clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“I’m gettin’ old, sweetheart. I don’t want to keep breakin’ in toys that ain’t worth my time. I just finished puttin’ you back together exactly the way I like ya. You stay my good girl, and you’ll be mine ‘till I die.” 

It doesn’t stop your tears.

“Hey,” he says. “What do you need?”

It startles you. “What?”

“What do you need? What’s gonna make you feel better, baby?” 

You’re not sure when the last time you’ve had to think about something like that is. He’s been taking care of you for so long now. 

“Whatever you want,” you say. 

“No, baby, that’s not what I’m asking.”

“That’s my answer, though,” you realize. “I need to feel whatever you want me to.”

“God damn,” he whispers. “I fucked you up, huh?”

Your lip trembles.

“No, baby, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just kinda incredible. Jesus. How could you think I’d ever get rid of you? There’s not a fuckin’ bit of you that isn’t mine.” 

Your cheeks burn, so you bury your face into his palm and press a kiss to the center. 

“You want to know what I want, is that right?”

You nod. 

“I wanna fuck your pretty little mouth. And then I want to order us some fuckin’ takeout and eat it in the bath.”

It makes you smile just a little. 

“Yeah? That sound good, baby?” His thumb rubs against your cheek. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, open up for me.”

You wrangle yourself into position. The initial weight and taste of him sends warmth through your bones for the first moment since he dragged you outside. 

It’s sloppy, the way he fucks your throat, in a way it usually isn’t. It’s always messy, but his thrusts are erratic. You can’t keep up with his pace because there simply isn’t one. It’s not long before he’s holding you down and pumping his cum down your throat.

It trickles down and cleanses everything in its path. You’re lighter, like you can breathe again. You thank him sweetly, pressing a kiss to his twitching cock. 

He’s panting, but strokes your cheek with one hand. “That’s my good girl. Feel better now that I washed all those other guys outta your mouth?” 

Technically, he had done that last night, had shoved three soap-covered fingers in your mouth in the gross club bathroom. Wretchedly, it had the side effect of making you nauseous, and he had insisted on doing it over after you threw up.

But this felt more pure to him, more consecrational in a way. The soap might have cleared the actual evidence away, but his come was your wine and wafer. 

“Yes, sir,” you say into the flesh of his thigh where your head rests. You kiss there for good measure, eliciting a pleased hum from him that sends you preening a little. 

He lays back on the bed, leaving a hand on the top of your head to stroke your hair while the other gropes around for his phone. “What do you want, baby? Lo mein?” 

“Oh, yes, please.” 

He feeds you noodles in the bath and then eats you out until you fall asleep. 

iv. reduced to bone

You’re on your knees in the basement, bent forward over a metal pipe placed at just the right height to nestle into your hips and keep them tilted up in the air. Stocks hold your head and wrists in place, tits hanging just below. The wood is slowly dampening as you drool around the ring gag. 

“Got a surprise for you, baby,” he had said when he led you down. “You know how you keep beggin’ me to hurt you worse, and I have to keep tellin’ you I’m not tryin' to wear you out?”

“Yes, sir?” 

“Well, I think you’re going to like this.”

That had been… well, you’re not entirely sure. A while ago, maybe, but your brain wasn’t the best judge of time right now. After he had secured you here, he had dragged out the little machine. It’s sitting under your torso somewhere, thin clear tubing stretching out like a web he’d caught you in. 

There’s no noise but the hum of it, which you’ve gone pleasantly numb to. The pressure is unending, each nipple and your clit being tugged into the tiny cups relentlessly. 

It tingles, just on the side of too gentle to be fulfilling on its own. That’s okay. You’re pretty sure you’ll be in delicious, mind-shattering agony soon. 

This you know because, well, it’s Joel, but also because of the tools he’s laid out on the little wheeled cart and left for you to stare at. 

A thin cane. Clover clamps with a length of chain. A tawse with a tapered, pointy tip. A wand. 

It makes you dizzy to look at. 

Also, you know because it’s a Friday night. Joel enjoys you however he likes any day of the week, but he’s careful about saving the deepest of his cruelties for Fridays. Because mind-shattering wasn’t really an exaggeration. When he gets like this, you sometimes don’t surface enough to take care of yourself for a day or two.

On those occasions, he never leaves you alone. Doesn’t want to, both because he loves when you need him that deeply and because you’re so soft and pliant. Truthfully, he thinks he could do anything to you then and you’d thank him for it. 

Which is why he’s got Tommy coming over tomorrow. It’s not that he thinks you need to be out of it to avoid a repeat of last time. He knows you learned your lesson and you’ll be good. 

But he’s got something special in mind that he needs help with. It’ll just be easier for everyone if you’re at your most agreeable. 

And yeah, you owe Tommy a blowjob. One of the ones that make Joel feel like he mighta died and somehow gotten through the pearly gates by the grace of your devotion. 

Plus, he’s pretty sure you’re going to love his plan, and he wants you unprepared, so you’ll cry real pretty and be truly desperate to show him your appreciation. It’s been on his mind since that night a few months back when you didn’t seem to believe him about never letting you go. 

He’s never fucking letting you go. There’s nothing in this world that could take you from him. He’s made sure of it. 

Sometimes, he has to remind himself that you don’t know you’re married. 

He thought about telling you that night, so you’d understand the depth of the commitment he’s made. But he doesn’t want you to take it the wrong way. Doesn’t want you thinking you need to act like a wife . 

He’d had a whole bucket of bullshit cooked up to excuse it, but when he told you to sign the paper, you hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t questioned that you couldn’t see what it was, only the line where he pointed. You’d signed the fucking paper and never asked a goddamn thing. 

He was glad. He didn’t like lying to you. This was just one of those hoops to jump through in a world that didn’t understand what you shared. 

When he comes back down, your eyes are already glazed over. Your body shines with a thin layer of sweat, and your chest is heaving as you squirm. It’s gone beyond gentle. The waves of suction have you whimpering soft and high, barely louder than a breath, but nearly constant. 

He chuckles and strolls over, crouching down to wipe the sweat off your brow with the bandana from his pocket before it gets in your eyes. You give him a truly pathetic look, eyes wide as you drool helplessly. 

“Not so nice now, huh?” 

You whine. 

He strokes your cheek with an exaggerated pout before sliding two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on the back of your tongue. It tries to curl around them, eliciting another cruel laugh. 

“Jesus, girl. S’there anything that would stop ya from gagging for my cock?”

You shake your head. Even if you weren’t spread by the ring gag and choking on his fingers, you’re beyond speech. Too far deep. 

Joel actually doesn’t mind when you talk. He’s got no rules restricting your speech (well, most of the time). As long as you’re respectful, he likes the company. 

But he really likes when you go quiet like this. When he’s pushed you so far that you can’t . 

“Look at you, all worked up. We haven’t even gotten started, baby. You gonna be able to take it?”

You nod, whining, and he pulls his fingers out of your mouth and wipes them on your cheek. 

“What was that, baby? Couldn’t quite understand ya.”

Tears spring to your eyes as you whine again. 

“I’m just teasin’,” he says and kisses your forehead. “I got ya. I know you’re gonna be my good girl and take everything I fuckin’ want.”

He reaches down and tugs the tubing until the cups pop free of your breasts. You cry out, but it turns into a desperate moan when he tugs the one off your clit. 

Yeah, he coulda turned the pump off first so they just fell off, but where’s the fun in that? 

He’s grinning wickedly as he reaches back up to your breast. He barely, just barely, brushes over the side of your nipple, and the sound you make goes right to his cock. 

“Fuck, you’re so swollen.” He has to remind himself he’s playing the long game; he just wants to pinch and pull so badly. He’s pretty sure you’ll scream, even though normally it wouldn’t be much at all. 

But he wants to fuckin’ torture you tonight, so he’s going to drag it out. He wants you incoherent and beaten down when he’s done, so far gone you’ll stay there for days. 

So he’s gotta start soft. He drags his fingertip around your areola, not quite brushing the nipple but tracing the ring left behind by the cup. You twitch, shoulders jerking back, and he grips your breast. 

“None of that, now,” he croons, letting go and switching sides to torment your other breast. 

It’s holy, in that way you never quite understood. Not like the Jesus kind, though you never were much for church either, but in the way that people chase salvation through empty bottles and sharp needles. 

With the wand and the tawse, he breaks you down again and again and again. But that’s the thing about Joel. He reduces you to pain or pleasure or the delicious apex of both that brews between your thighs, and then he cleans you back up, puts the pieces back where he likes them.

He makes you come until you cry, and then, when you’re sobbing and exhausted, that’s when the night really begins. You’re twitching and jerking at the barest contact, writhing with every snap of the cane. 

It’s so, so good. Until it isn’t. But he’s running that damn mouth of his, that sweet, filthy mouth, and you can’t not take it. Your tears are gone, all run out; he likes to wring you dry. And he keeps rubbing his hand over your hypersensitive flesh, already raw and ruined, and murmuring soft words and sweet taunts. 

“Look at you,” he croons. “My pretty little toy. You’re so beautiful, suffering for me like this, baby.”

And so you do. You suffer for him. There’s nothing left in your little subby brain right now but Joel Joel Joel. 

You’re dry. He almost can’t believe it. The only time you’ve not been a sloppy, soaking mess was when he broke your finger. 

He whistles low and slow. “Shit, baby. Guess you have some limits after all, huh.” 

It’s impressive that you can even lift your head enough to shake it weakly. An overwhelming fondness washes over him. 

“ Aw. Takin’ it for me anyway, were ya?” He comes around and squats near your head, unhooking the gag and easing it out of your mouth. He rubs gentle circles on the hinges of your jaw as you whimper.

“Did so good for me, baby. Lemme get you outta there, and I’ll give you my cock.”

You shake your head, tears spilling over, but you don’t have a voice. The words don’t come together in your mind, just devastation.

His grip turns tight, forcing you to look at him. “No? You tellin’ me no?”

You shake your head again, lip quivering. 

“You don’t want my cock?”

You shake your head harder and try to reach for him, hands flexing where they’re bound in the stocks. Trying to make him see just how bad you want his cock. 

Luckily, he understands that much. “You wanna stay there? Baby, my knees ain’t gonna like fuckin’ you here.” But he can tell from the way your face crumples that he still isn’t quite getting it. 

“Are you tryin’ to tell me you want me to keep goin’?” 

You nod and he slaps you, a sharp strike that catches you by surprise.

“Stupid girl,” he says, scowling, and gripping your chin tightly between his thumb and forefinger. “I decide when we’re done. The whole point of this was not to ruin ya. This ain’t a punishment. Well, it wasn’t. Might be, next time.” 

He stands up, shaking his head. “Dumb fuckin’ cunt.”

It hurts worse than the cane did. 

When he sees the heartbreak on your face, he sighs. “Ah, shit. Look, I know you’re just tryin’ to please me. But you’re makin’ me feel bad for tryin’ to be careful with ya. If I take it too far today, you won’t be able to take as much anymore. I ain’t breakin’ you.” 

You’re sobbing too hard to respond, but you don’t try to argue or struggle when he releases you. You crawl to lay kisses to the toes of his boots and nuzzle your cheek against them.

He sees it for the apology it is. 

v. parched to dust

This time, when Tommy Miller takes out his cock in front of you, you’re ready. And there’s no way in hell you’re disappointing Joel again, so you wrap your lips around him, not quite eagerly but with enough determination that no one could fault you.

When you drag the second consecutive orgasm from him, he tugs you away with a fist in your hair, panting and gasping. Joel swats his hand away and beckons you back to his lap. 

“ Jesus,” Tommy finally says, tucking himself back into his jeans. 

“Told ya it was just a bad day,” Joel snipes. 

“Sorry,” Tommy says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shoulda figured. It’s just… you’re a little soft for her, yeah?”

“Course I am. But I’m not soft on her.”

You know he loves you. You do. But hearing him admit that he’s soft for you makes your chest ache. 

“Got another surprise for ya, baby,” Joel says, rubbing his hand over your back. 

You’re overwhelmed. It’s not that he doesn’t give you things or do things for you; it’s that it’s never such a big deal. It just is . He takes care of you. That’s how this works. Not gifts and surprises. 

You bite your lip so you don’t question it, but he sees through you.

“Now I know you don’t remember. D’you even know what day it is?” 

“Saturday,” you say. “You’re home.” 

He shakes his head, but it’s betrayed by the smirk. “You’re right, baby. But what’s the date?”

You actually have to think for a minute. You hadn’t crossed off the calendar this morning like you usually did, and yesterday’s activities have you a little rattled. “It’s um, it’s August 19th?”

“That’s our anniversary, baby.”

Your brows scrunch as you try to think back. That’s not right. Your first date was in February. You moved in sometime early in June. You’re not sure what his metric is, but August doesn’t make sense. “Um. Are you… are you sure?” 

He doesn’t get mad like you thought he might. He just laughs. “Course, I’m sure, baby. It was the night we came home from your folks’. When you agreed to be mine.”

Your face heats. “I’m sorry—”

“Y’ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, baby. I didn’t expect ya to remember. But you’ve been mine for two years now, and you’re still worried I ain’t gonna keep you. But I’ve been thinkin’, and I know how to prove it to you.” 

If this doesn’t convince you, he thinks, nothing will. Never mind that his whole goddamn life revolves around you. Never mind that you’ve worn his collar for the last 731 fuckin’ days. 

You’re busy wondering why he made you suck another man’s cock today if he cares about your anniversary. But then again, you’ve long accepted that what he wants won’t always make sense. It’s not your job to make it make sense. It’s just your job to do it. 

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs,” he says. 

You swallow hard around the sudden fear, and he laughs. 

“What? Had enough yesterday?”

“No, sir,” you say. It’s mostly the truth. Mostly. 

He shakes his head. “Not today. C’mon.”

Now that he moves, you follow. 

Tommy’s already in the basement, which almost gives you pause, if only because his movement startles you. 

Joel has you hop up on the padded table instead of the metal one, typically a sign that either you’re going to be here for a well-extended time or that he’s going to fuck you on it. 

Tommy’s setting things you don’t recognize out on the little cart, but you don’t try very hard to look. Looking makes your breathing get a little ragged, so you look at Joel instead. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, bending slightly to give you a kiss before he begins to slowly circle the table, fastening straps over your body. 

He’s left the dress on, which is weird, too, but you’re not complaining. It’s always a little chilly down here and even though you know you shouldn’t, you’re glad he’s not made you bare yourself completely in front of Tommy. 

It’s a lot of straps. You watch curiously, if not a little dazed, as he secures your ankles, thighs, stomach, chest both above and below your breasts, arms in three places, neck, and head. 

The one around your neck clips to your collar, not adding another band or choking you. But you’re unable to lift your head and neck at all. 

When he’s done with the strap across your forehead, he smooths away the worry lines that crease beneath it. 

“Just need ya to hold real still. You’re probably going to like this, but don’t fuckin’ come.”

“Yes, sir.” Your eyes are wide and worshipful as you wait for further commands. 

“Be real good for Tommy, okay?”

Your heart pounds in your throat, but you promise immediately. 

He hops up to sit on the spanking bench nearby. 

“Where first?” Tommy says. 

“Hip,” Joel says, settling in to watch. 

Tommy goes about his business and pulls the bottom halves of the table apart, wrenching your legs open slowly. He spreads them wide and slides a stool over, situating himself right up by your cunt, and flips the hem of your dress up over your belly button. 

You whimper and try to look at Joel for any indication of how you’re supposed to behave, but the restraints don’t allow enough wiggle room. 

Something cold smears across the front of your left hip, and, much to Joel’s surprise, you break. You’re still raw in more than one way from the previous day. 

“Please, sir,” you blurt, lip trembling and eyes squeezed tight. 

He hops down, brow furrowed, and comes closer, raising a hand to Tommy to pause him. 

He cups your face. “Please, what, baby?” His other hand rubs up and down your side. 

You force your eyes open to look at him, blurred through waiting tears. 

“Please, can I have a gag?” you say. Your eyes are scrunched, and fists clenched. 

He strokes his hand over your cheek. “‘Course you can. Good girl.”

The praise keeps you calm while he steps away. When he comes back, you open your mouth wide, and he settles it between your lips. 

You nearly cry in relief when you feel the little bulb press inside, not much different than the head of his cock. A few tears spill over when he leans down to kiss your forehead. 

“Atta girl, he says, pinching your chin before returning to his perch. 

The warmth of his touch lingers, and you let the pressure of the gag distract you from where Tommy starts to move again. You suck on it steadily, eyes fluttering shut when you feel the unmistakable scrape of a blade across your hip. 

Shaving. He’s shaving you. You can’t fathom why, with only peach fuzz reaching there. And you think maybe it’d be a cold day in hell before Joel let anyone shave your pubic hair. He liked it kept trimmed but not too neat. 

“I’m from the seventies, baby. Women’re supposed to have a nice healthy bush,” he had told you fairly early on when you were just dating. He hadn’t told you to stop shaving and waxing, but of course, you had. 

Warm water washes over the area with a washcloth not far behind. Tommy’s firm hand does a final sweep with something cold. 

“Alright, honey,” Tommy says, his voice almost seeming fond , “just hold still and be a good girl, okay?” 

As if you’d do anything else. 

You startle a little at the loud buzz that kicks up, and Tommy rubs gloves fingers over the opposite hip for just a moment. 

And then he gets to work. It hurts . But the pain clues you into what’s going on, and you come to the only logical conclusion: Joel’s having you tattooed. 

You start to cry, the feeling of being loved and owned overwhelming. You don’t hear Joel’s chuckle, buried as it gets under the gun in Tommy’s hands. 

You thought it was overly cautious of him earlier, to worry about you having an orgasm during anything involving Tommy. But you get it now. The pain itself is bearable, almost delicious, but the rush of euphoria in your veins from the mere concept is intoxicating. 

It goes on and on. Maybe it’s only half an hour. Maybe it’s four. The pain cycles, fading to a soothing heat before building back up to a scald. 

You don’t realize it’s over right away. The buzz of the gun plays on in your brain even when the room falls quiet. And Tommy’s doing something to it, probably wiping it down, but your skin still rages. 

Joel hops down and comes over to the side of your left leg. “Shit, that’s fuckin’ gorgeous,” he says to his brother. 

“Looks damn good. Hey, she’s got a real pretty pussy, huh?” He says, elbowing Joel. “S’funny, watchin’ her leak all over.”

Joel peers over, running a finger over your cunt, and laughs. “Knew you’d like that,” he says.

You whimper. 

He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. “Want to see, baby?” He asks though he’s already turning the screen to you. 

The skin is red and irritated, but the ink takes your breath away. In shiny black, right there on your hip, sits a blocky “JM” surrounded by a circle. It looks like a fucking brand. 

Your eyes fly to his, whining desperately and praying he understands. A sly grin spreads across his face, and the tip of his middle finger traces oh so gently up your slit. 

“Come for me, baby,” he says, not bothering to touch you further. He knows you won’t need it. 

Vision blacking out, you writhe uselessly against the restraints as the pleasure batters through you. You’re only vaguely aware that the loud keening sound is coming from you, but it’ll register later when you feel the raw ache in your throat. 

Tommy whistles. “Sorry I doubted you, princess.”

You whine through the aftershocks, tears welling up again at the thought of the tattoo. You hope Tommy would leave so Joel will fuck you. 

Then you remember him asking, “Where first?” just as Tommy drags his stool around to the right side of your torso. 

Joel comes with him, rolling up his sleeves and tinkering with something on the cart. They both touch your arm a lot, fingers roving and adjusting you. You start to tune it out until Tommy lathers a spot on the inside of your wrist. 

Once it’s been shaved and cleaned, someone presses something against the spot for a moment. 

“Well?” Joel says. 

“Lines look clear to me,” Tommy says. He’s leaning close to your arm. 

Joel doesn’t walk away this time. As the gun kicks back to life, he stays with his hand resting on your upper arm, looming over Tommy’s shoulder. 

It’s easier this time, now that you know what to expect. It hurts, but you’ve had worse and probably will again. You’re feeling a bit too dizzy, though, when it finally stops. 

“This one’s for you to see,” Joel says, starting to unlatch the straps. He frees your arm first and then your head and neck, plus the gag. The ache makes itself known as soon as you shift a little. 

You peer immediately at your wrist, and a strange clenching tears through your chest. A few inches below your palm lays the dark outline of Joel’s thumbprint. 

“Oh,” you whisper, a strange tingling spreading through your limbs. “Oh.” 

“Knew you’d like it,” he says, lips curling into a smug smirk. 

Once you’re untethered, he peels your dress off so the fabric won’t brush against your hip. 

“There’s a protein bar and a bottle of water on the coffee table,” Joel says. “Go eat and wait by my chair.”

You’re swaying a little but he helps you down and makes sure you can stay on your feet before he removes his hands from your waist. 

You make your way upstairs in a daze. Truthfully, you don’t really remember it. When they come upstairs, you’re knelt in your place, wrapper and empty bottle on the table. 

“Good girl,” Joel says, lowering himself with a little groan into his recliner. He shifts around and pulls his cock out. “C’mere.”

You hop up immediately, and he takes you by the waist to help you settle where he’s fully hard already.

“Don’t move,” he says, to your great disappointment. “None of that,” he scolds at your pout. “It’s my turn. Just relax.”

Tommy sets the gun and equipment up to the side of the chair. You settle against Joel’s chest, snuggling in and resting your head on his shoulder so you can watch. 

Joel’s other hand, the one not waiting in place, comes up to cup the back of your head. He bends his head down to kiss where he can reach. “You’re being so good. Just a little bit more, and then you can take this cock.”

“Do not come on her tattoo, Joel,” Tommy says. 

Joel laughs, but Tommy smacks his arm. “I’m serious. It’ll fuck it up and probably infect it. Don’t fuckin’ do it.”

“I’ll wait ‘till it’s healed, don’t worry.”

You moan and clench around him at the idea, which only encourages his pleased chuckling. 

Tommy takes your hand, peeling it from where it rested against Joel’s chest, idly brushing through the hair there. You let him, letting it go limp and unresistant.

He presses your thumb against an ink pad and pushes it down on a piece of paper, rolling it carefully. He repeats the process a few times before he’s satisfied. Wiping it clean, he coats it one more time before pressing it against Joel’s wrist.  

You stare, rapt, as he traces the lines of your fingerprint onto Joel’s thick arm, framed by dark hair. It sits in parallel to the watch on his other wrist. 

“Where d’you want these?” Tommy says after he’s wrapped up and started to pack away the equipment. He’s holding the papers where they tested your print.

“The safes. One in each office,” Joel says. 

It’s weird, certainly, but so is Joel, so you don’t give it much thought. 

He’s cradling your face in his palm, looking at you with something so tender and ferocious that you can’t possibly look away. He thrusts up into you, his other hand tight on the hip opposite the tattoo.

It hurts, but, well, you don’t mind. 

The way he fucks you open now is slow, cruel after making you sit still for so long, but he’s savoring it. Savoring the way you can’t help but stare at him in worshipful bliss. It’s like a drug, the way his attention makes you hazy. He’s got you hooked, addicted, right where he wants you. His. 

Not a damn part of you that isn’t. 

The smirk curls across his face, and his hand curls around your neck, abandoning the gentle caress for something you both understand as love. You come on his cock when he tells you, every time he tells you, as he leaves you gasping and clutching his forearm, not prying him away but holding on as the room spins. 

When he fills you, he kisses you deeply, hand back around your throat as his mouth takes the rest of your air. You collapse against his chest when he lets go, and he holds you there with a smug, satiated smile and a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You doze in and out in his lap as he and Tommy share a bottle of bourbon. 

“Damn, I shoulda brought Daisy over. You haven’t had someone for her to play with in a while,” you hear Tommy say through the fog of your brain.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Joel says. His hand is scratching at your scalp and it feels so good you almost forget Tommy is talking.

“... my wife and your little pet—” he’s saying.

You don’t mean to open your eyes, but you catch his as soon as you do. He laughs. “Yeah, I got a wife. I’m not as mean as my brother, here.” 

You find that hard to believe, but also, you don’t really think of Joel as mean. He’s strict, sure, and he has high expectations. But he takes such good care of you, and you want for nothing. 

The phrase stirs something odd in your head. Do you want for nothing? Well, it’s at least partially true. You don’t want anything, not a thing you have or don’t have. You’re happy with whatever Joel gives. 

It’s probably the same thing. Besides, you wanted that career; you wanted to put on a face, a mask, and pretend to be someone who gave a shit about the company’s reputation. And you were wrong, so wrong. And Joel’s always been right. So what do you know about what you want?

Joel’s rumbling voice startles you a little where you’re tucked against his chest. “She was one ‘a mine, y’know,” he says to you. 

Tommy’s wearing a sly grin. “Yeah, until you scared the shit out of her,” he says, laughing. “Poor little thing didn’t know what to do with herself.” 

“She wasn’t like you,” Joel says. He waits as if he expects a reaction, but you don’t stir from your safe place in his arms. 

“Nah, not everyone’s as fucked up as y’all,” Tommy says. “I ain’t a sadist,” he says to you, a glint in his eye. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love puttin’ her in her place, but mostly, I just like havin’ my pretty little wife at home.” 

Joel’s watching you; you can feel the heft of his gaze. But you’re so blissed out, so calm right here in his lap, dripping his seed slowly around where his cock still fills you. 

“Would that bother you? Playin’ with a girl who used to be Joel’s?” Tommy goads.

You think about it for a moment. “She ever get his mark?”

Tommy grins, teeth like a shark. “Nope.”

You hum, unbothered, and nuzzle your cheek against Joel.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. “Knew you’d learn this time.” 

You gaze at his thumbprint on your arm. The cells around it will grow and die, but not his claim on you. 

It’s almost comforting, you think, that by the time that fades, there’ll be nothing left of you anyway. 

bonus: the art of breaking playlist

thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who asked for a part two and expressed love for the first. I will admit I am INCREDIBLY nervous to publish this both because it's kind of fucked up but also because so many of you loved the first part and I'm scared this won't live up to your expectations.

please, if you enjoyed this, let me know! soothe my anxiety lol. and if you don't want to publically do so, anon is always on.

i love you!

[armandsfangs]

Armand in season 3 needs to have his face covered in blood from being a messy gremlin with humans. Every other vampire on the show has had that moment and we all know he has it in him. He's been so clean about things and it shows his control but since he's now lost that control...bring on the feral creature in all his glory! I really hope they do that for him

Agreed! I pondered what would really make him lose control and well... The answer below may be obvious. Light gore and fluffiness ahead.

---

The first time it happens, it was a young man, early twenties at most, in a worn out leather jacket that smelled like Newport cigarettes. He smiles at Armand and calls him 'babe'.

Armand rips out his tongue.

The second time it happens, it was an older man, late fifties, peering over his rimless glasses with sharp green eyes. He takes a wrong turn into an alleyway and looks at Armand like he's something that scuttled out from an overturned rock.

Armand plunges his nails deep, deep, deep into the man's eye sockets until those green irises were no longer staring at him.

The third time it happens, it was a man with a soft face framed by brown curls and a lopsided smile as he smoked by the river, thinking of his boyfriend in the next town over.

Armand closes his fingers around the man's still beating heart, hot and slippery and spewing like a scarlet geyser, and crushes it in his fist.

The fourth had a Californian accent and white powder on his upper lip. The fifth laughed like the world was ending. The sixth tasted like mint and cream. At some point, he loses count. There is only the haze of crimson, the scent of iron, and the howling emptiness inside his chest. Blurry streetlights winking on and off, on and off.

Armand is sinking his teeth into a man's twitching aorta, blood pouring down his chin to his chest, when footsteps approach.

In walks worn out leather, green eyes, curly hair, and that stupid fucking lopsided smile that makes his pulse race like a rabbit.

"I'd ask if you miss me, but I think we both know the answer to that," says Daniel, with a nod toward the flayed open body going limp beneath Armand.

Armand spits out a mouthful of blood and rises to his full height. The emptiness inside him roars and bares his fangs.

"You have five seconds to run," he growls, low and venomous.

Daniel doesn't move.

The mutilated body slams into the wall behind Daniel, the echo of crunching bones reverberating in the room. Daniel flinches, and a sick sort of pleasure coils deep inside Armand's belly.

And yet, Daniel squares his shoulders defiantly.

"You don't scare me," he says. He steps closer. Amber shards glow in his eyes and ivory glints in his teeth.

"Five," Armand snarls. His hackles are up, tensed like a predator about to strike.

"You couldn't have been more obvious with all the murder victims, you know."

"Four."

"All of them - white guys, curly hair, green eyes, and attitude problems." He checks them off his fingers. "Your type can be seen from outer fucking space, babe."

"Three."

"Couldn't take what you wanted then, so now you're taking it out on strangers. Typical."

"Two."

"But now I'm here, and I've seen all that there is to see about you."

"One."

Daniel digs in his heels. "I'm never leaving you again."

Armand lunges.

Daniel catches him. He smells like Newport.

His lips are soft.

He laughs like the world is just beginning.

[k9wa]

𑣲 MINE, ALL MINE. ft. SATORU GOJO

⠀ — so when i die, which i must do,

⠀ OR

⠀ — it isn’t gojo’s death that kills you, not more so than the circumstances.

⚠︎ 236 spoilers, angst, gn reader, i miss him so much i’m literally spiralling, its been three months i actually can’t take it anymore, angst, Angst, maybe angst idk. wc 797

december 30th rolls around faster than you can hope to process.

nothing in your apartment has been moved even the slightest inch in the last week. 

two coffee cups still sit atop the kitchen counter, their contents long spoiled and beginning to smell.  one of them is far worse than the other due to the abundance of cream and sugar inside it. 

a large pair of black boots, leather with a pointed toe stay messily in the doorway— you’ve already memorised the steps to take not to trip over them and knock them out of place. 

the bed remains the same, blankets and pillows in the identical messy pattern they were on the morning of the 24th. (you haven’t even gone into the bedroom, actually. you don’t have the bravery. you sleep on the couch.)

…the place is empty. it’s full, what with the clutter and picture frames on the wall and furniture. but it’s empty. cold, even. like a hand reached in through the ceiling and grabbed any warmth, ripping it out without mercy and leaving you in the frigid remains.

he should be here, you keep thinking. this is his home too.

maybe you’re dramatic. maybe his death shouldn’t have turned you so utterly pathetic. maybe you should be able to get a semblance of a fucking grip and at least clean the apartment that is suffocating you with memories you can’t bare to discard because it’s all you have left.

but it isn’t satoru’s death that kills you, not more so than the circumstances. it’s how.

and it’s not that he went out in a blaze of glory, fighting against the strongest sorcerer of all time who he, momentarily, had backed into a corner. not that he died with a smile on his face, the adrenaline of combat surging through his veins because to his core he enjoyed it.

but that it was megumi who he had to go against. that he found it easy to fight him no holds barred because of the irreparable mark the boy’s father had left on his very soul when he himself was just a boy. why? why did he deserve such a fate? why was it placed upon him? it isn’t fair.

his death incapacitates you because of how sudden it is. with no warning, lured into a false sense of security, just to have the rug pulled out from under you. at only 29 years old, over ten years of companionship are reduced to nothing but what used to be.

you’ll soon forget how his hand feels in yours, the sound of his laugh, the tickling of his hair against your nose when he nuzzles your cheek. it’s nauseating just to think about, yet not being able to recall at all might just be more than you can handle.

it’s not satoru’s death that kills you, because everybody dies. and in your line of work, it’s always sooner rather than later. satoru, strongest or not, is—was human. his death would rear it’s head some day, that was something you both knew. 

but fuck you’ll curse every night to a god that doesn’t listen, and to the walls of a room that no longer feels like yours that you didn’t get more time.

he deserved to hit 30, to have what remained of his students crack jokes and call him old, and to watch him whine and run to you with complaints. he deserved to grow old enough to where he could finally be at peace with the death of suguru getou, or at least find peace within it enough to where it didn’t plague his life anymore— despite his insistent denial that it didn’t.

fuck what he deserved, damn it all to hell. you wanted him to do these things. wholly and perhaps even selfishly. 

you wanted him to grow old with you, 

you wanted him to stay by your side so you could stay by his. 

you wanted him to reach a point someday where jujutsu society no longer had the two of you bound in heavy chains like two puppeteers; despite satoru’s advocacy and determination to make it different. where you could live your life together free of its terror.

…you wanted to see him succeed at that so badly. to see the proud look on his face when he no longer had to watch more children be sent to death.

look how well that worked out, huh, satoru?

you open the front door to your apartment, feet weaving easily around the pair of shoes obstructing the walkway. you walk past the same two grey coffee mugs on the counter, past the half shut bedroom door, and sit on the couch. you lay down, still in the same clothes, the same shoes.

you spend the night wishing it was you who’d gone first. 

maybe tomorrow you will have the bravery. 

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[dont-offend-the-bees]

’Cause You Cut Through All the Noise

Happy Painland Week! Day one is LOVE LANGUAGES! I could've picked touch or gifts or quality time or whatever as my love language but you know what? No. Life-affirming therapeutic domination. Edwin's love language is ordering Charles around. Fight me. Anyway, no smut here, but some steaminess/flirtation/allusions to sex. Some light angst bc Charles starts off in a bit of a spiral, bless his heart. Don't worry, Edwin'll put him right <3 (Quick translation note for any Americans reading: I'm referring to Charles' suspenders in British English, i.e. as braces rather than suspenders. Suspenders for us are generally the little sexy straps for stockings and would instantly up the kinkiness of the scene at least 70% (which I am in favour of, it's just not the fic I'm writing right now lmao)) 5.3k, M-rated, also available on Ao3. Thank you @painlandweek for putting this all together! Enjoy! 💛

Sometimes it seemed that the more Edwin learned, the less he knew. Or rather the more he thought he knew, the more he had left to learn.

Acquiring knowledge on any particular topic, it seemed, was only building the groundwork to question it further. Perhaps that's what an expert was, in the end: not a vast repository of facts, but one skilled in the art of digging for more. Not a pursuer of answers, but a pursuer of more interesting questions. Edwin had found it to be much the same across fields, across all his broad areas of interest and study.

Charles Rowland was one such area of interest.

It was quite astonishing; but thirty years into their partnership, Charles still managed to elude Edwin's understanding. Frequently. He was a lively, complex butterfly who simply would not be pinned (metaphorically, that is. In the more literal sense, he was most certainly not opposed to being pinned by Edwin. But he digressed.) They must have exhausted every conversational avenue two dead boys could traverse by now. How, then, could they persist in finding new things to say to one another? How, despite a mere sixteen years apiece of life before death, could they still find anecdotes unshared, secrets unspoken? Despite knowing Charles better than Edwin knew himself there was always, always more to learn.

And a great deal of learning had been done over the last eighteen months or so, indeed. Since the chaotic inciting incident: the now infamous milestone Case of Crystal Palace. Crystal, in all her messy human glory, had taken a battering ram to their comfortable routine. She'd rather shaken things up in the process — and thus, shaken a fresh slew of secrets from Charles and Edwin both.

Edwin's biggest secret was no longer a secret, of course. It was now common knowledge — though Charles, loyal to the last, hadn't shared it with another soul. He hadn't told anyone of Edwin's confession, nor had any official announcements been made by either of them as the 'situation' developed. But develop it had, in ways difficult to overlook. In touches, in kisses, in soft words and flagrant flirtations. Edwin imagined their friends and colleagues must have put two and two together by now, vis-a-vis Edwin and his feelings for Charles. And if they hadn't... well, it would certainly raise some concerns about the quality of their detective work.

Charles, likewise, had revealed a secret or two. Far less pleasant ones. Secrets that, in his more cynical moments, Edwin wondered if Charles would ever have told him without external pressure. Without Crystal's well-meaning badgering, or the Night Nurse's former villainy. Secrets about his family, his father, himself — or at least his own perception of himself. Harrowing they may be, but Edwin had filed each secret away carefully. Each bitter truth was a new supporting fact, a new data point. A fresh insight that peeled away Charles' brave face, and shone an interrogating light upon decades of behaviour.

Edwin had always known, of course, that Charles was not merely the plucky optimist he purported himself to be. Glimpses under the mask were rare, but inevitable. He'd have been foolish not to notice. But Edwin was not inclined to go picking at scabs. So what if Charles wished to maintain an image of himself? Image was everything; or so Edwin had been raised to believe. How a man chose to present himself to the world spoke volumes. Charles wished to be seen as a positive force, and Edwin had always respected him for that. Loved him, even, though he hadn't known it at the time. Charles' insistence on being a stubborn idealist had awed, amused and frustrated Edwin in almost equal measure. He wouldn't have changed it for the world.

But it was one thing to know that the chipper, animated, relentlessly positive Charles he'd come to know was a crafted image. Finding what lay behind the mask was another. It was a new level of understanding, of intimacy, to finally know the bedrock that lay beneath every too-bright word or action.

Charles Rowland was an inveterate people-pleaser.

In retrospect, of course, it made perfect sense. Edwin had sat with it, applied his new knowledge to a thousand interactions, and found it fitting. It had been a relatively easy fact to accept into his broader understanding of Charles.

The bitterer pill to swallow had been in realising just how often Edwin was, himself, a person Charles felt the need to please at all costs.

Edwin liked to think that their relationship had improved since those various revelations. It had certainly changed in notable ways. Especially since last November. Bonfire night. The night Charles had kissed him under the fireworks and thanked him, sheepishly, for 'waiting for him to get his head out of his arse'.

But the kissing and... other activities weren't the only new additions to their relationship. Moreso than ever before, there were repeat and regular attempts to open the lines of communication. They did not always succeed in those attempts. Charles' fear of rocking the boat and Edwin's discomfort with emotional outpourings were at odds with one another, and often left them at an impasse.

Nevertheless, Edwin was determined to try. Charles deserved nothing less; there had never been a person, alive or dead, more deserving of Edwin's trust. And it was the dearest wish of Edwin's afterlife that he could be the same for Charles. That he could be a person Charles need not perform for, or hide from. That he could be allowed to know Charles, to learn him, inside and out.

And while there was still, undeniably, work to be done, Edwin truly believed progress had been made. Through trial and a considerable amount of error, they had come to... understand certain things about one another. About what they each wanted, what they needed. Edwin was making leaps and bounds in the highly specialised field of Charles Studies.

So when Crystal stormed out of the office after another of her and Edwin's (admittedly rather petty) spats, he knew Charles needed attention before her footsteps had even faded.

"Charles?" Edwin prompted, with caution. He was not always an expert at 'reading the room', but in reading Charles he was growing more fluent by the day.

His dear friend's eyes snapped to him with a hunted look. Just as Edwin had thought they might.

Edwin cleared his throat. "Are you... alright?" he asked.

Charles, in that practised manner of his, plastered on a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, mate." He couldn't seem to look Edwin in the eye. "I'm brills."

Hm. A likely story.

He should have suspected this might happen, in the wake of such a heated disagreement. The very air in the office still seemed to ring with the reverberating slam of the door. An overreaction, really. Even mere minutes later, the whole altercation seemed rather silly. But such things were bound to happen on occasion. Edwin had certain opinions, and no qualms about arguing in their favour — and in Crystal Palace, he'd met his match. The two of them often wound up in the unfortunate scenario of a minor dispute devolving into a full-blown tiff. Such squabbles generally didn't end until someone (Charles) laughed and broke the tension, or someone else stormed off.

Edwin didn't doubt that all would be well shortly enough. If their pattern held, Crystal would come slinking back in a few hours. She and Edwin would exchange either sincere regrets or stilted half-apologies (depending on the severity of the argument). Then they would smooth over any remaining awkwardness by finding something minor to agree on (usually something Charles-related), and go swiftly back to normal.

But that resolution was some time away, yet. And in the meantime the air hung heavy; saturated with ire and discontent. Charles, emotional sponge that he was, was clearly bearing the brunt of it — and, as usual, trying his utmost to 'laugh it off'.

Edwin responded to the blatant fib with a single raised, questioning eyebrow.

Charles flinched as if struck.

Oh, dear. The situation was more dire than Edwin had thought.

“Charles,” said Edwin again, softer this time. It was important not to go on the offensive; in his current condition, Charles was liable to take any careless word as keenly as a knife in the back. “Please tell me what’s on your mind.” After a moment’s consideration, he added: “I promise I won’t be angry.”

It felt like utter nonsense to say out loud, a patronising placation as one might give to a child. But Charles, in Edwin’s experience, responded well to directness. His panic thrived in the mires of ambiguity.

Releasing a ragged breath, Charles rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “Just… dunno what to do sometimes. When you two go off at each other.” He peered at Edwin with his uncovered eye, and tried for a smirk. It fell short of the carefree, playful expression it was aiming for. “Dunno what side to pick, do I?”

He voiced it like a joke; but Edwin was listening well, and he knew an incomplete sentence when he heard it. He stepped closer and, slowly, giving him time to retreat, took Charles’ free hand and squeezed it.

Charles closed his eyes, dragging his hand down his face. “Can’t keep you both happy,” he admitted on a low mumble, like it was a shameful secret.

Guilt curdled sour and heavy in Edwin’s stomach, but he kept it from his face. Any indication that Charles had made him feel bad was bound to make him shut down further. “It should not be your duty to keep the peace,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I will speak to Crystal later, clear the air.”

Charles nodded, but remained hunched unhappily in on himself. Propped against the edge of the desk as if he needed the support. Edwin could see his brain turning itself over and over in miserable little spirals; wondering if he should have stepped in earlier, said something else. Wondering what he could have done differently to make everything better. To make everyone happy.

Edwin swallowed tightly, and placed his hand upon Charles’ shoulder. “Charles. Look at me, please.”

He did so, without question or hesitation. Responding with ease to the polite command as if it had come from his own subconscious. Quick, and keen. Already Edwin had a strong suspicion of what was needed to calm him; but it was always important to test the waters, first.

Edwin, with great care, hooked a finger through the gold chain around Charles’ neck, and tugged.

The effect was instantaneous. Charles’ wide, fraught eyes softened, slackened, his lined eyelids drooping. His lips parted around a quiet sigh, smoother than his last ragged exhalation. His shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been released from them.

Charles may be an ever-unfolding and expanding area of study. But to Edwin’s expert eye, on occasion, his needs were remarkably simple to interpret.

Meeting his now somewhat unfocused gaze, Edwin leaned in. “Put Crystal out of your mind for now,” he said, a quiet command. “In fact, put everything out of your mind.”

“She’s upset,” Charles mumbled in half-hearted protest.

“Yes — and she will continue to be so for a while longer, regardless of what you or I might say.” Edwin smoothed the collar of Charles’ polo shirt. “When the dust has settled, I will find her and smooth things over. I promise. For the time being, you’ll do none of us any good with your overthinking.”

Charles snorted. “Overthinking? Me?” he joked.

With another gentle, but recriminating tug of the chain, Charles gasped and quieted. Already, his bright eyes were taking on a dreamlike haze.

Edwin sighed and leaned close, ‘til his nose grazed across Charles’ cheekbone. “Granted, your tendency to underthink before making dangerous choices borders on the pathological,” he teased. “But I suspect you’re thinking a lot of very unkind thoughts about yourself right now, and I’d like for you to stop. Please.”

Breath shuddering, Charles’ hands lifted, fisting in the front of Edwin’s waistcoat.

“That what you want?” He asked, his voice a small and broken thing. For all his strength of body and character, he felt as vulnerable in Edwin’s hands as a baby bird.

“How about I tell you exactly what I want for a while,” Edwin offered. “And then all you have to do is listen.“

He delivered a swift, dry kiss to Charles’ cheekbone. "No detective work required.”

It was a very simple solution, albeit one Edwin tried not to employ too often. He and Crystal had a sort of pact in place to discourage Charles' need to please others, rather than lean into it. Within reason, of course — Edwin had no wish to change Charles fundamentally as a person (or to discourage him from doing what felt good to him in intimate settings. If it made Charles feel good to make others feel good, who was Edwin to begrudge him the pleasure?). But they'd agreed that it was probably the healthier option, in the long term. To steer Charles away from hingeing his self-worth on what he could do for others.

But sometimes, the damage was already done. Sometimes Charles was simply too vulnerable to rejection, too stuck in his own head. And on those occasions, Edwin had learned the kindest thing to do was to take him by the hand, and take the guesswork out of the equation.

Charles sniffed. His soft curls tickled Edwin's forehead as he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."

"Good." Edwin gave him another kiss, pressing this one to his temple. Charles melted under his touch, leaning into him, his hands tight and hot on Edwin's chest. "Thank you, dearheart," said Edwin.

Charles shivered. "Fuck me..." he swore, a dazed mumble.

"Hmmm... No, not tonight, I don't think," Edwin quipped — gratified when Charles managed a snort of mirth. Edwin thumbed up under Charles' jaw, finding where the tension still lingered and soothing it out with firm strokes. "I have something better in mind," he said. He released his hold on Charles to roll up in his own shirtsleeves in brisk, meticulous folds.

Charles watched his every motion with a hungry gaze. "Yeah?" he breathed, somewhat stunned; eyes devouring each newly exposed inch of Edwin's skin up to the elbow. He did have a fascination with Edwin's arms; it was a tried and true method of holding his attention.

"Yes." Edwin glanced over Charles' shoulder with a hum, and settled his hands upon Charles' slender waist. "First things first; let's get you sitting comfortably, shall we?"

He braced himself and, with careful exertion, lifted Charles to deposit him in his usual spot on the desk. Charles went without struggle, and with a gasp that morphed swiftly into a groan. His legs flopped open at once, one ankle hooking around Edwin's thigh in invitation. He tugged on Edwin's waistcoat with a soft whine of his name.

Edwin, maintaining his composure admirably, shushed him. He removed Charles' hands from his own chest — though he pressed quick, apologetic kisses to the heels of each. "Later, my love. Now. Where did I put it..."

He patted down his trouser pockets. When that yielded nothing, he sifted through the stationary cup on the desk. He suspected the object he desired might still be in his coat pocket, but he was loathe to step too far from Charles. Luck, however, was on his side. He recovered the coil of string from a box of spellcasting odds and ends with a small sound of triumph.

Charles watched Edwin's hands unwind the string; rapt despite the slight glaze of his eyes. "You gonna tie me up, then?"

Edwin tsk'd. "What a one-track mind you have this evening," he teased. It wasn't a scold. Having Charles focused and fixated on trying to get Edwin into bed was vastly preferable to the jumble of insecurity. "Hold out your hands."

"Sure you're not tying me up?" said Charles, brow furrowing as he lifted his hands — palms up, beautifully willing.

"I suppose that depends on your definition," said Edwin, as he tied the ends of the string together to form a wide loop. He nudged Charles' hands into place, about a foot apart with palms turned inwards, and draped the loop over them.

Charles, through the haze, finally twigged. "Cat's cradle?" he said, with a slight chuckle.

"Do you object?" asked Edwin.

"Why'd you wanna do this?"

"Because I like playing games with you." Edwin directed Charles to rotate his wrists, winding the string into loops around his hands. He indulged in a gentle touch as he did so, tracing his thumbs along the creases of Charles' skin. The smooth stretch where once a 'life line' would have resided. Edwin had not set much stock by the art of palmistry, until he'd discovered that little commonality between he and Charles. "Again, please. One more loop."

Charles didn't argue — of course he didn't. Edwin doubted he currently had the capacity to argue; so deep had he already descended into that quiet space in his head. The one he occupied only in their moments of deepest intimacy, when Edwin took charge, took him in hand. His eyes, such quick and clever things, now gazed down at Edwin hooded and glassy. Perfect, still pools of pleasantly addled warmth. He'd sunk so readily, so splendidly, all but curled up in the palm of Edwin's hand.

Edwin watched him a moment before proceeding, soothing the ragged edges of his own Hell-torn soul. Whatever he'd done in life to earn the trust Charles placed in him, it must have be something very good indeed.

In next to no time, they had the string pulled taut between Charles' hands, forming the neat double cross of the eponymous Cat's Cradle. Edwin hummed in approval. "Well done," he praised, as he pinched the crossed strands and pulled them outwards. "And now to me. Soldier's Bed, please."

Though Charles appeared to be away with the fairies, he was attuned to Edwin's voice and acquiesced to his command with ease. This was a game they had played many times, on long and quiet nights. When they'd had nothing to hand but an old bootlace, and nothing they wished to do but keep each other's company. Charles didn't need to strain to recall how to release the strings into Edwin's hold. Or how to begin forming the next shape after that, his confident fingers pinching and tugging the relevant strands.

Peaceful and methodical, they worked together, shape by shape, hand to hand. When Charles was pulling the strings for Edwin he was focused, intent, a little wrinkle in his brow. Once or twice his tongue darted out, bitten between his teeth in concentration, and Edwin resisted the impulse to distract him with a kiss. When Charles was merely holding the strings he subsided into utter relaxation. Breathing slow, eyes closed or halfway there, watching Edwin's face and hands with hazy satisfaction. Occasionally he dropped a thread, but it was never a serious blunder, and Edwin got them back on track with a polite command to pick it up. In a customary game they'd have to restart, but this was no customary game. Now was not the time to dwell upon harmless mistakes.

The game served as Edwin had hoped it would. After a few rounds of he and Charles working in perfect tandem, he could feel the air had settled and Charles with it. The grounding touches of their fingers and the face-to-face contact couldn't have hurt. Edwin had fallen into a rhythm, politely requesting each new shape by name and praising the end result. Charles had likewise fallen into a rhythm of mellow compliance. As the rounds wore on he even offered the odd cheeky verbal acknowledgement of Edwin's commands. A 'comin' right up' here, an 'on it, boss' there. His voice was thick and sweet, his tongue succumbing to the same submissive, slumberous spell as his mind. But a little of his bright, energetic spark was creeping back beneath the haze.

By the time they'd worked through the established shapes, and exhausted their own catalogue of invented ones, Edwin was satisfied. He felt they'd left the storm behind and sailed into calmer waters.

"Good game, Charles," he said, as he took their last custom shape — the aptly named Nail in the Coffin — into his own hands, and unraveled it. "Thank you."

Charles hummed, drowsy, swaying a little where he sat. "What'chu wanna do now?" he asked, dark, glassy eyes intent on Edwin's face. Like it was the most important question in the world.

He looked so lovely like this. Of course he always looked lovely, as handsome a boy as Edwin had ever seen. But like this especially, so far gone in his peace and pleasure, there was nothing to compare. Warm and golden, soft and tousled; his eyes black and bottomless and only for Edwin. Gazing at him as if he'd hung the moon and the stars.

Edwin faltered, a small gasp catching in his throat. He remained adamant that he wouldn't take more than Charles should give, at this moment. But... perhaps a small indulgence.

"Kiss me," he said, tucking a finger beneath Charles' chin. "Please."

Charles nodded — a hasty gesture compared to his otherwise lethargic motions — and swayed forward. He crashed his lips against Edwin's in an artless kiss, his hands finding Edwin's waist and gripping tight. Like he couldn't get him close enough.

Edwin sighed into it, stepping into Charles. Into the comfortable vee of his sprawled legs, where he'd come to spend many a peaceful night of late. He tilted his head, guiding Charles into a gentler kiss. Leading him as he would in a dance and letting him fall, gratefully, into step. Edwin explored the curve of Charles' jaw with his fingers, the charmingly pointed shell of his ear. He thumbed across his sparkly earring, and Charles huffed a little laugh into his mouth.

"Magpie," he mumbled.

Edwin chuckled as well, a natural release of the warmth suffusing him. He broke the kiss to dust smaller, feather-light ones across Charles' cheeks. "Well," he said, a thumb pressed to Charles' plush lower lip. "I do seem to collect the most beautiful things..."

Breath hitching, Charles wrapped his arms around Edwin's shoulders and squeezed. Edwin returned the embrace without hesitation. Never before Charles had he felt at ease with this sort of thing — this effusive, uncurbed physical affection. With anyone else it was still a struggle. He had little desire to touch, or be touched. But inviting Charles into his embrace was never a hardship; it was simply his proper place. It was a fact of the universe: Charles belonged with Edwin. In his arms, on his desk, in his bed, on his nerves.

Charles belonged with Edwin, as Edwin belonged with Charles; holding his hand, steering him true. And, where necessary, using a firm word and a firmer hold to put those wretched doubts in his head to rest.

Edwin pulled away with a parting kiss to Charles' temple. Charles felt warm, in that strange, prickly way. Ghostly body heat wasn't so much a thrum of blood as an excitation of atoms. To Edwin's mind, he felt warmer than usual at present. "Are you hot?" he asked.

"Dunno," said Charles with a lax, flirtatious smile. "Am I?"

Edwin rolled his eyes. "In the non-figurative sense, please, Charles."

"Mm. Yeah, bit hot." The smile widened into an impish grin. "Or maybe that's just you."

"You're incorrigible," Edwin muttered — but there was a smile in his voice and likely on his face, as well. His own cheeks were beginning to feel rather warm. He cleared his throat and tugged, meaningfully, on one of Charles' braces. There was a tantalising give and take to the elastic as his fingers slipped behind it. He was half tempted to release it, let it ping back, see what sound Charles made at the slight shock. But now wasn't the time for that sort of play.

"You may remove a layer, if you like," Edwin offered magnanimously — no ulterior motive whatsoever. "I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable."

Charles didn't need telling twice. He slid the braces off his shoulders and grabbed his polo shirt at the back of the neck, dragging it off over his head. It was altogether a clumsier attempt than his usual so-called 'strip teases', but his hooded eyes burned on Edwin's face throughout. Afterwards he was left in just his sinfully tight white vest — and, of course, the enticing glimmer of his golden chain on top. But he remained pleasantly flushed and glowing, with not a hint of cold or discomfort. Charles was prone to chills in times of stress; a morbid sense memory of his last night alive. But he always seemed to warm in Edwin's presence.

Edwin, with an exhale that was just a tad on the ragged side, bowed his head and grazed a kiss across Charles' exposed collarbone. "Better?"

He could feel Charles' soft groan ruffling his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, feels good." He pulled on the hem of Edwin's waistcoat. "Bet you're hot too, yeah?"

Increasingly so, yes. Edwin was clinging to his composure by a thread. "It is a touch close in here," he agreed. He could feel Charles' restless fingers tugging, so he took them in his own hands, and guided them to the top button of the waistcoat. It was only fair he restore the balance. "Would you be so kind?"

Charles groaned again, this time so close to Edwin's ear it sent a ripple down his spine, and obeyed. His hands, as was often the case when disrobing Edwin, tripped over the buttons, rendered all fingers and thumbs in his eagerness. But they were in no hurry. Edwin closed his eyes and waited, tucked into the crook of Charles' neck and perfectly satisfied to be so.

When the final button surrendered the fight, Charles made haste to shove the garment off Edwin's shoulders. Edwin corrected him with a polite "Gently, please," and Charles took it in more careful hands, mindful of causing wrinkles. It made no difference, of course — Edwin could will his clothes to look as pristine or rumpled as he pleased. But Charles shuddered sweetly at the direction, and Edwin so enjoyed directing him. Besides, there was never any harm in promoting good habits.

"Fold it, please," said Edwin — stepping back to give Charles space. He watched Charles take the waistcoat in hand and, inexpertly, fold it in half twice. Lengthwise first, then the opposite. Hardly proper protocol, but Edwin didn't much care. He just took the haphazardly folded garment with gratitude and set it aside on the desk. "Thank you."

"Anything else?" Charles mumbled — his fingers teasing Edwin's shirt, itching to tug it free of his waistband.

Edwin sighed, and stilled Charles' hands. Perhaps he was letting the situation get away from them a bit. Charles was quite the difficult temptation to resist. "Perhaps later," he said. At Charles' disappointed pout, he made an amendment. "Definitely later."

Charles snorted, and let his head flop against Edwin's chest. "Alright," he mumbled. He sounded tired. Overwhelmed. It was a lot for him, this complete surrender, and Edwin well knew it. "Whatever you say, love."

"I say it's time for a rest." Edwin took Charles' face in both his hands, holding him still as he bestowed one more kiss upon his forehead. "Go and sit down, please. Comfortably, on the sofa. I'll join you momentarily."

Charles grumbled, but nevertheless did as he was told. He hopped off the desk, hand trailing across Edwin's chest as he passed him by. Edwin caught it for the barest second, just to give his fingers a parting squeeze. An altogether impossible urge to resist; and the loving way Charles' eyes found him over his shoulder affirmed his decision.

Tearing his attention from Charles and his smiles and his soft, trusting eyes, he turned it to the bookcase instead. He knew exactly what he wished to do with Charles, now. Something they'd had neither the space nor quiet for in quite some time. He scanned the shelves, deep in thought.

"Charles," he called out, careful not to cut too sharply through the peace of the room. "Douglas Adams, or Sir Arthur?"

It was a gentle prompt, and a simple choice. The stakes couldn't be lower. He waited to see if Charles would hand it back to him, anyway — still unwilling and unable to bear the thought of making an incorrect decision.

"Mmm... Doug," Charles mumbled.

Edwin smiled to himself. On the mend, then. "Excellent choice," he said; sliding their well-loved second edition of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency from the shelf.

He turned on his heel to find Charles, folded onto the sofa in a loose tangle of limbs, chin on his fist. He bore sleepy, squinting eyes and a dopey smile, both directed at Edwin and warming him through like late afternoon sunlight.

"Like how it sounds in your voice," said Charles, nestling in further. The very picture of contentment. Seemed he could scarcely keep his eyes open; but he must not have wanted to look away from Edwin just yet.

Edwin could sympathise entirely; he rarely wished to look away from Charles, either.

Edwin smiled as he stepped in close, a hand on Charles' knee; a smiling kiss dropped to his head of rampant curls. "Quiet, now, darling boy," he softly commanded, tugging on Charles' knee to make room. "And enjoy yourself."

~

“How long did the Monk believe these things? Well, as far as the Monk was concerned, forever,” Edwin read, his thumb tracing circles on Charles’ wrist. “The faith which moves mountains, or at least believes them against all the available evidence to be pink, was a solid and abiding faith, a great rock against which the world could hurl whatever it would, yet it would not be shaken. In practice, the horse knew, twenty-four hours was usually about its lot.”

They were a scant few pages into the book, and yet Edwin suspected that Charles had drifted into a doze. It was hard to tell without facing him. They'd settled on the sofa with Charles tucked up against the arm and back, and Edwin reclining between his sprawled legs. Edwin's back pillowed on Charles' torso; Charles' arms wrapped around Edwin, like a large teddy bear. Edwin could feel Charles' chin propped atop his head. On occasion, he nuzzled into Edwin's hair with soft hums as he listened to the story. But the hums and nuzzles both had grown less frequent already, subsiding to near silence.

Edwin read on regardless. Charles, like all ghosts, rarely if ever actually slept, and was likely still listening. Even if his mind was wondering elsewhere for the time being, he'd find his way back. He always did. And Edwin would be waiting for him.

A few chapters later, as Edwin recounted the thrilling mystery of the horse in the water closet, he felt Charles stirring. Soon, Charles' wrist was slipping free from Edwin's grasp, the hand coming to rest instead atop Edwin's hand in a gentle hold.

"Thank you," Charles mumbled, nuzzling into Edwin's hair.

Edwin smiled. "There's no need to thank me for reading to you," he said. "I enjoy it."

"I meant, like..." Charles sighed, squeezing Edwin's hand. "Thanks for, y'know. Bossing me around a bit," he said, sincerity threaded through the lighthearted tease. "Seriously. It proper helps."

Edwin laced their fingers, and brought Charles' hand to his lips. "Charles," he said, simple and serious. He kissed him on the knuckles. "I shall always be here to boss you around when needed."

Charles laughed. Quiet, unobtrusive. It seemed neither one of them was quite ready to break the spell just yet. "Love you," he murmured.

Marking his page with a finger, Edwin leaned back onto Charles' shoulder. He tilted his head back, all the better to look his beloved in the eye. "I love you, too."

He only had to lift his lips, a silent prompt.

Charles needed no further instructions.

~~

Thanks for reading! Consider dropping us a comment/reblog, they do so make my day/week/month 💛 Might not manage every day of this week but I will defo see you tomorrow for a fic/collab I'm SUPER excited about!!! Painland Week Prompt List

[itsblasttothepast]

Why do you like Max? He was horrible to Checo, the way his family spoke about him was so awful, I can't understand how Checo fans can like this guy

Oh anon, this is a very complicated question, because like many Checo fans in 2022, I also hated Max back then.

But it will be a long, long, LONG rant, so click under if you want to enter this particular rabbit hole:

Before they were teammates, Max was just another driver in my radar (as you are asking for my PoV, which is clouded as a Checo fan), nothing to notice there except a few interaccions with Checo; I was very surprised in Turkish 2020 because I thought Max would go for blood when Checo made him spin around twice (minute 1:20 of this video). But nope, at the end they even chatted and everything (a small Chestappen seed was planted since Monza 2017 and it had been growing with these interactions).

Anyway, when Checo became Max teammate, the contract was clear: He was there to succeed in what other teammates failed: helping Max winning the championship and take the heat of the team.

And he did, during 2021 they were working hard for that championship, and bonded really well, they seemed to get along great, share some sort of weird sense of humor and they were really nice to each other.

But in 2022, Checo thought that since he already fulfilled the requirement for 2021, he could fight for the championship in 2022. That led to straining the relationship with Max, and all that tension boiled over in Brazil. It was messy, and yes, Max was an asshole back then because they weren't fighting for the podium, and Checo needed the points. But what came after was the worst part because the declarations from both Checo and Max, and the Max's mom getting involved with the cheating thing... honestly I don't know how they managed to finish the season without killing each other.

Most Checo fans said that Max tried to make up with Checo in the 2022 Honda Racing Thanks day thing; all I noticed was Checo with the fakest smile he could put for the cameras. PR to the bone. I mean, they had Marc Márquez there to be a buffer, along with Yuki and Pierre, you could see it in the pictures:

They had Marc there to keep Max chatty:

You could see how far apart they were in the group picture (far apart for what they have us accustomed to):

(they left space for Jesus)

Also Max said he would help Checo in the last race of the season, but that was just adding salt to the wound.

Checo had just renewed contract, so we thought he would get the boot because obviously RBR was keeping Max, the one expendable was (and is) Checo. For some reason, they decided instead of doing that, to try and smooth over the situation. Checo apologized for his statements to the press and said it was all good with Max, and they had couples therapy.

No, really, they hired a 'mediator' or something like that, to help them regain the camaraderie of 2021. But instead, they fell in love and got really close. However, RBR had their plan B, bringing Ricciardo as the third driver in case things didn't work out (in fact, this is why we thought Checo was out of the team for 2023, we were looking options, seeing which teams needed drivers... wild times).

So, when Max did the Brazil thing, obviously Checo fans hated him and wanted his head, I remember people not even in the F1 fandom hating him (still butthurt about the world cup and the 'no era penal' thing). I particularly thought it was a dick move, but also kind of understood where Max was coming from. He was raised for glory, totally different to Checo who practically raised himself since he was 15. Checo and Max families are also vastly different, and the culture as well. So I hated him but not really?

So during 2023 I saw Max changing and being more mature, calmer, softer sometimes. He wasn't a bad person, he just made mistakes like any human does, and the pressure people put on him was insane! To me, Checo and Max balance each other really well, which is why they could work things out. If Checo could move on and be friendly with Max, I'm sure that we, as his fans, can do the same.

I like Max because he's genuine, and he learns from his mistakes. He is a little crass when provoked, but in general he is a nice guy; I don't know if you believe the whole 'Max is faking caring' that most haters say (they imply Max hates Checo and just tolerates him because he's forced), but I do believe Max can't fake this much this long.

Anyway, as usual, I went overboard with this, sorry anon, I wanted to give you context about why I like Max, and then filled this with my ramblings.

You can dislike Max anon, that's fine, just don't be hateful or claim to know better than them. Only Checo and Max know how is their relationship, but if Checo seems okay with him, that's all good in my book.

I think I haven't rambled this long in a while 😅

[im-not-corrupted]

Very well! XD Since four has been done how about...12

Now, that I can do!

----

Waking up to his lover's face is something Hob Gadling wouldn't trade the world for, truly.

It's mid-afternoon when he does. The afternoon sun bathes the room in gold through a sliver in the curtains. He hadn't closed them properly the night before, but they were...otherwise occupied, in his defence. And his lover, Morpheus, still sleeps soundly beside him.

He's cute while he sleeps. He'd deny any comment about being cute instantly, of course—he prefers Hob to call him pretty or gorgeous, and Hob is more than happy to pile those compliments high. They are true, after all, and he believes his lover should know just how highly Hob thinks of him, even after twenty years of being in a relationship, and six hundred odd years of acquaintanceship before that.

The compliments never get old, not really. Morpheus preens every time Hob says something and feeds his still-intact arrogance and pride—he never really needed to be Endless for either of those things, not really. Hob loves that about him. Loves the slightly arrogant tilt to his chin, how regally he holds himself even if there isn't a crown upon his head anymore. (If he's telling the truth, he loves everything about Morpheus. There's not a single thing about him that Hob dislikes. They've had their moments, of course. Their frustrations. But they work through it, always, even when Morpheus is half convinced their spats are the end of the world, melodramatic bastard that he is. (Hob loves that, too.))

Cute, though, is the one that pops into his mind now as he gazes at his dozing lover. His hair is a worse mess than usual, a proper bird's nest, haloing his head where it rests on his pillow. He looks relaxed, in a way he rarely ever does during his waking hours. Even without the burden of Endlessness upon his shoulders, there is still a lot in his head.

It is easier now. He has had twenty years of being human to adjust to all of its messiness. Morpheus has told him, in the quiet of night—A time of confession, he'd mused at one point, and Hob does agree that there's something about the darkness of night time that makes being seen a little bit easier—that he aches less, these days. It is still there, and he has episodes where it aches so much more than usual, but they are easier to deal with.

Hob is glad for that. Glad his lover didn't take the easier way out. He thinks about it, sometimes, about how close he came to losing him—the thought catches him in its grasp, sometimes. Brings tears to his eyes. He does not like to imagine a world without his dearest friend.

He is glad that he never had to face that, not really. Instead, he gets this—soft, golden-lit mornings on Valentine's day, in which his lover continues to sleep and Hob gets to bask in the glory of having a love like this.

He does have plans for today, and he already woke up later than he would've liked. It is that thought that leads him to brush his lips against Morpheus's cheekbone in a gentle kiss, murmuring his name softly.

His lover doesn't sleep all that deeply. He dreams sometimes. There used to be nightmares, earlier on, that woke him in the middle of the night. He still has them sometimes, but they are rare. Occasional.

It's easy to wake him. He only needs to say his lover's name a little bit louder than he did the first time before Morpheus begins to stir slightly, and Hob smiles down at him with a soft, "Good morning, love."

Morpheus blinks up at him blearily. It takes him a moment to catch his bearings, but when he does, a smile splits across his face. It's soft, loving, and Hob loves the sight like he loves that of the rising sun at dawn. "Hello, lover," he murmurs, his voice raspy, still clinging onto sleep with some degree of determination. And then he blinks, seeming to recall something, before he moves to cup Hob's face with the palm of his hand. The band of his wedding wing is cold against Hob's skin. "And. Happy Valentine's Day, if I recall correctly."

"You do," Hob replies. He turns his head slightly, presses a kiss to the inside of Morpheus's wrist. "Happy Valentine's Day to you too, my love."

Immortality is great, truly.

Hob has never regretted a moment of it, not really. There have been moments, of course—the 1600s weren't great for him, and immortality didn't quite seem worth it when he spent practically every day for eighty years tired, hungry and so terribly cold. It never got bad enough for him to consider giving up—Hob didn't know what would be bad enough to make him consider that, not really—but despair was a familiar companion those years, and it was hard to find a reason to continue waking up every morning.

It got easier, just as it always does. If immortality taught Hob Gadling one thing, it would be this: there is very little in this world that lasts forever, and bad times aren't on that list. There is too much time for everything to remain the same in a world that is ever-changing, and no amount of bad times will make that any different.

Still, there are some downfalls to immortality. These downfalls will never be enough to make him ask for death. If he can live through the 1600s and come out of that with hope, then he knows he will only ever want to live.

One of those downfalls is the lack of constancy. Hob Gadling is immortal, but the rest of the world around him...is not. The rest of the world around him has a life span that lasts however many decades, and at the end of that, Hob still lives.

He does not regret that he does, but God's wounds, it does hurt. It is terribly lonely, sometimes, to be the only person left after everything. Friendships, relationships—they can't last, and it aches.

There is one constancy, though. Morpheus. He has been there since 1389. In the grand scheme of things, that is practically the beginning of his rather long life, and though they only saw each other once every hundred years, it was enough. More than enough, really.

He could never get tired of this. Of loving Morpheus, of getting to be with him. Even after celebrating so many Valentine's days with this man, he thinks he still wouldn't get tired of it.

"I assume you have plans for today, my love," Morpheus prompts.

"Mhm, I do." Despite his words, though, he allows himself to lay back down next to his lover, to pull him close. "But we can lay here a little longer. I'd like to hold you for a bit."

His lover nuzzles closer, letting out a soft, pleased noise. "I wouldn't dare complain about that," he agrees.

Hob places a gentle kiss upon his forehead. Yes, he will never tire of this, no matter how many times they get to do this during their immortal lives.

[plutoccult]

OUT OF THE WOODS

pairing: levi ackerman x gender neutral reader

description: you were notorious for following levi’s every order without hesitation. it was practically unbearable for him, but the one time you disobey him is when he is eternally grateful.

word count: 2.8k

also available to read on my ao3 here

author’s note: this is something i’ve never done before aka write for levi! i’m hoping i haven’t strayed too far from his character, but it’s worth trying something new. i must admit, this is a little messy and i’m quite iffy about it, but i at least tried my best. i almost named this “the monsters turned out to be just trees” because i 1. love taylor swift and 2. thought those lyrics captured this almost perfectly, but i decided it was too long and just went with the song title those lyrics are from. this is something entirely new and never before posted anywhere else, but it will also be shared on ao3 as everyone has their preferences on where they like to read. as always, i hope you enjoy <3

you always obeyed levi’s every order, and god, he hated it.

“yes, captain.” you’d say. “right away, captain.” was another one of your go-to phrases. you could just… talk to him? like a normal human being? yes, he was your captain, but levi craved a normal conversation with you.

oh, wait. why did he want that so badly? why did he want to hear your voice say things other than replying to his commands for you and the squad? it’s not like he liked you. no, no! he couldn’t stand you. that’s what this was. right?

levi was particularly known for only listening to commander erwin’s orders and no one else’s, but he didn’t see himself of such importance. it wouldn’t kill you to protest a little bit for once. he even tested your obedience by demanding you glue a broken vase back together. you then proceeded to spend hours restoring it to its former glory. he was surely impressed, but at the same time, he couldn’t believe you actually did it. dare stubborn ol’ levi ever admit it, but he found it kind of cute.

when it came down to the 57th exterior scouting mission, your final order was simple; retreat back to your horses. things didn’t exactly go as hoped, and while the scouts learned something new that day, there was still so much work to do. you wished for everyone’s sake that one day you all could share a proper victory, but it didn’t seem possible just yet with something as stubborn as the female titan.

you and the rest of levi’s squad did as told, but it all went by the wayside when gunther was attacked out of the blue by a figure hidden under the disguise of your scout gear, their green hood concealing their face. there was no time to go along with the plan, now was time to fight back. the squad couldn’t let whoever killed their comrade get away.

as you all attempted to attack, the disguised assailant transformed in front of your very eyes into the female titan you all failed to successfully capture before. now this truly meant war, but the squad was simply no match for this monster.

it all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. you lost your squad members one after another. you were the last one remaining, you knew this was it. this was your time to die, wasn’t it? part of you always thought it would end in the middle of battle, but not like this. this couldn’t be the end. you didn’t want it to be.

your brain struggled to catch up with everything happening so fast and hitting you all at once. it was impossible to think straight, to get your head together and fight properly. but it was also impossible to realize eren was turning into his titan form until it was too late. the impact of his transformation knocked you straight into a tree, leaving you unconscious as he avenged your fallen squad members, all while your captain had yet to head to the scene of the crime.

levi immediately knew something was wrong the second he saw the sudden glow of eren’s transformation from afar. of course there was something more to this mission. he had to get there quick before it could possibly get any worse, but his idea of “any worse” had already become true; his squad was gone.

he couldn’t do anything to stop eren just yet, levi knew that. this fight between two titan shifters was to be expected. if only the hothead wasn’t so blinded by rage. levi knew better than to let emotions get to the best of him, no matter how much it hurt seeing his squad like this, dying under his wing.

his eyes scanned the states of everyone. gunther, eld, petra, oluo, and then… you. you, who laid there motionless. the life taken out of you, or so levi thought. he couldn’t let this affect him. levi kept all emotions hidden, tucked and buried in deep where no one could find them, no one except the one person who was capable of bringing them out.

“captain…”

huh?! was his mind playing tricks on him? who dared to deceive his ears? it couldn’t be real. it was nothing. nothing at all. you were dead, levi was sure of it, just like the rest of the squad. he was left alone once again, seemingly cursed with this fate from the day he was born.

but then you let out a cough, blood coming out of your mouth and splattering onto the grass. my god, it wasn’t some sick joke from his brain. you miraculously were alive, and levi was too stubborn to let you die out.

he immediately rushed over to you and flipped you off your side so you laid on your back. you breathed heavily and coughed violently, muttering out weak apologies as blood stained your hands, but levi didn’t care. he’d stain himself over and over for your sake.

“you disobeyed orders.” levi said, trying his best to force himself to stay his usual coldhearted self, but it was a losing battle, just like today’s mission. he placed a hand on your cheek, his eyes once filled with anger now becoming soft. “you disobeyed me.”

you could’ve sworn the sight in front of you was like seeing heaven. the impact from earlier made your memories quite hazy, and while you knew you weren’t dead, you sure wouldn’t hate it if this was it. levi’s head blocking the sun made him look like an angel sent from the very land itself, and it was pure bliss.

you closed your eyes with a smile on your face, unbeknownst to you what had truly occurred. to your captain, it seemed like you had left him for good this time, but when he pressed his ear against your chest, he felt the rhythm of your heart as if it were a symphony.

levi couldn’t stand to leave you like this. he had to make sure you got to safety and were treated right away. even if it took you god knows how long to recover, it didn’t matter. but with the female titan trying to take eren alive, he had to remember why he was here in the first place and attempt to clean up the mess the scouts created. you were able to hold out for a little while longer by some sort of miracle, and when levi was able to capture eren back with the help of mikasa, he took you back to where you belonged; with him and the scouts.

by the time you returned to base, you were fast asleep, worn out from the mission. as there wasn’t enough room for all those who were injured, levi took matters into his own hands and tended to your wounds himself, even giving you his bed as he had a much bigger room and it wasn’t like he slept that much anyway. it seemed almost wrong and unprofessional to do so, but when it came to you, he couldn’t help but be a little selfish. it’s what a good captain would do anyway, right?

after what felt like ages, you finally woke up, your mind struggling to remember everything from yesterday. you grew confused as you found yourself in what wasn’t your room, and it became even more puzzling as you saw your captain sitting in a chair next to the bed waiting for you to wake up.

the look of impatience and worry was all you could read from his face and body language. his arms crossed, index finger tapping repeatedly like a drum on his bicep. he was looking away from you, watching the wind blow on the trees outside. levi had been using that view to pass the time and keep himself calm, but it didn’t really help much. only the sound of your voice was medicine to him.

“captain?”

levi lightly jumped in his seat and turned to see your face. you had been bandaged up, not a single wound left dirty. you were also quite bruised, and you immediately winced when you tried to adjust the way you sat. you couldn’t help but wonder what happened to you. if only you hadn’t hit your head so bad.

“you’re awake.” he said plainly. he didn’t want to show too much enthusiasm and freak you out, but on the inside, levi was so glad to see you were okay. the look of confusion on your face made him worry, and he felt the need to overshare and explain what was going on. “uh, this is my room. i took care of you since there wasn’t enough help.”

“oh?” you furrow your eyebrows. “what… what happened?”

“i think i could ask you the same thing, y/n.” levi replied. he had been waiting all this time to hear the truth of what happened. you saw what had happened to your fellow squad members, but with the way you lost consciousness, you had a hard time remembering it all. you could only draw blanks, and you felt as if you disappointed your captain.

“i’m… not sure. i don’t remember. i’m sorry.” you frown.

“i figured.” he sighed. he couldn’t get too mad, but part of him longed for an explanation so he could know where everything went wrong.

“where is everyone? surely petra must have helped you with this, right?” you ask, the question paining levi without you knowing a thing. “you couldn’t have done all of this by yourself.”

levi found himself unable to think about how to go with this. he wanted to let you down easy, lessen the blow, but with that look of innocence in your eyes, you just made it so damn hard for him. “y/n, they’re all gone.”

“gone?”

“gone.” he hated having it come out so harsh, but he had to get the point across without any sugarcoating. levi couldn’t lie, it would be an incredible disservice to you.

“no…” then you began to recall all that happened yesterday; the forest, that god damn female titan, it all replayed in your mind like a never ending horror movie. “no, this is all just one big nightmare. you can pinch me now, okay?”

your delusions only made it worse for levi. he couldn’t let you fool yourself thinking there was the slightest chance they weren’t gone, but he saw, he knew. all the life had been taken out of them, and whoever was behind the monster did it so cold-heartedly. it made him seem a little more humane in the eyes of his peers, as shocking as that was.

“i found all of you scattered on the ground. i thought you died just like they did.” levi said, those last few words coming out strained as he struggled to keep it together. he couldn’t let you see him like this, no way. he had to find an excuse to leave you be so he could go somewhere and let it all out without anyone seeing him.

“this can’t be, oh god.” you sob uncontrollably, making levi uncomfortable. he felt this way because it only made him want to cry with you, but at the same time, it felt wrong to feel like that.

“i can give you space to process this.” he began to stand up, but you tug on his sleeve to stop him, much to levi’s surprise.

“no, no, no. stay.” you giving him orders? he couldn’t believe it, but he would let you stop him, just for a moment.

“it is typically me who gives orders, you know.” levi spoke deliberately.

“well.” you pause, trying to find the right words. “i order you to stay.”

and just like you always did with him, he couldn’t help but obey your order. you let go of levi’s sleeve as he sat back down in his chair, too flustered to look you in the eye.

“i just… i wanna say i’m sorry i failed the squad, but most importantly, i’m sorry i failed you.” you say, your words full of utter shame, feeling like a complete failure. it was like you had just harshly tugged at levi’s heartstrings, despite it being crazy to think that levi ackerman did in fact have a heart.

“there was nothing you could do. the female titan outsmarted all of us.” he replied in that typical monotone voice. it almost started to irritate you. you were trying to have some sort of heartfelt conversation and it seemed like he couldn’t take you seriously. levi wanted to take all of it seriously, but he continuously battled with his mind and heart, and his mind kept winning.

“but it shouldn’t have happened.” you try to protest.

“we can’t turn back time, y/n.” levi argued back.

you can’t help but roll your eyes at him, a huge shock on levi’s end. “god, your words are terrible.”

“excuse me?”

“don’t you know it’s okay to feel things, captain?” you ask him. “i know they call you “humanity’s strongest soldier,” but is being emotionless a requirement?”

he’s unable to form words. where had this fire in you come from? had it been hiding this whole time? where had this disobedient soul been during the entirety of levi’s reign? he couldn’t help but be shocked yet amazed at the same time.

“that squad was like family to me.” you say with tears streaming down your face. “i thought you would’ve felt the same way, but i guess that suspicion i desperately tried to push away was right.”

“…and that is?”

“that you never liked any of us, not one bit, especially…” your lips tremble, but you force yourself to finish your sentence. “especially me.”

when you said those last two words, levi almost gasped. it made him feel so… terrible. so goddamn terrible he knew he couldn’t let his mind win anymore. it was time he chose his heart for once. “that’s nowhere near how i feel, y/n.”

“and how is it that you feel, captain?” you question, refusing to let your tears stop you from standing your ground.

this was it. this was the moment levi would pour his heart out to you. you were a rare jewel who was capable of giving him those pangs in his chest. not everyone could do that, but you sure could without trying or realizing it whatsoever.

“all my life, i thought that there was no point in caring because you’ll lose it eventually, but…” he began to speak, almost tempted to hold back, but he refused to do so any longer. “all i’ve ever been given here is a reason to care, and i didn’t want to show it. i didn’t want anyone to see it, and i wish they could know that i did. i did care, more than what’s possible to express.”

your hardened expression turned soft. to think he didn’t have such feelings made you feel so stupid. it’s easy to judge a book by its cover, isn’t it? but you read levi all wrong. oh so wrong. “you did?”

“i do, even now. that applies to you too, you know.” levi replied without shame.

“i didn’t think it did.” you avert his gaze.

“it’s almost disgraceful to admit how often you cross my mind, y/n.” your eyes widen when those words escape his mouth. was this real life? it seemed too good to be true. levi immediately thought he crossed a line, so he tried to shut the situation down as quickly as he could without ruining this moment. “i’m sorry if that came out weird, i—”

“no, no! it’s not weird!” you swiftly interrupt him. “i… i could say the same thing.”

“you could?” he said in amazement. it was like he was completely oblivious. why else were you always so eager to obey his orders and make sure you never let him down? you wanted him to notice you, and now he has given you his attention in the best way possible.

“yes, which i guess is kind of odd considering this is the first real conversation we’ve ever had.” you say with a faint giggle towards the end. “it’s a shame it had to be under these circumstances, really.”

“i know, and i’d like more, if you do too. it’s not an order, i swear.” levi replied eagerly, which was a pleasant surprise.

“i’d like that, captain.” you grin.

“can i… give you an order though?” he asked with a bit of hesitance.

“seems like poor timing to me, don’t you think?” you question, almost tempted to laugh at him, but you were going to see where this went.

“it’s not. i just… would prefer it if you called me levi from now on, please.” as if this couldn’t get any better. levi was saying “please” to you. god, you loved it.

“okay, levi. now i have an order for you.” you say with a smirk. “have a cup of tea with me, and you’re making it.”

levi smiled at the thought of what he would say next. “right away, y/n.”

© plutoccult / 310802. please do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my content in or outside of tumblr. reblogs are appreciated <3

[jester-lover]

First Years with an Artist Girlfriend

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of insecurities, bribery, terrible attempt at a southern accent

Ace Trapolla

He is a deeply annoying boy when it comes to your artwork

“Y/N, hey- Y/N! Draw me! I’m pretty cute yknow!”

He thinks you look very cute when you’re all focused in, messy clothes and hair, doodling everything you see

If you actually take the time and draw him, he’ll be EMBARRASSINGLY flustered, literally hand covering mouth, redder than his hair, shaking, homie is in heaven

Deuce Spade

He is so comforted by your presence

Deuce is accustomed to more vicious behavior in life, but not you, you relax him

He’s the type of guy to stand behind you as you draw, just staring in awe

He would rather die than ask, but he hopes that you draw him somewhere

“You have a really great talent, I hope I can be around to see you flourish.”

Epel Felmier

Wowie

He’s probably the least invested in your artistic talents, but he will commission (bribe) you to help him distract Vil with your artistic talents

You do end up drawing him, because he’s an aesthetically pleasing looking guy, but you try to up the masculinity a little bit to make him happy

He finds watching you work really captivating, he’ll often just…lay there and watch you work, the sound of pencil hitting paper is soothing after a hectic day

“Just stand right there and let’em look at what yer making. Just long enough for me to slip away!” (I am so sorry southerners I’ve tried and I’ve failed)

Jack Howl

Opposites attract huh?

This boy absolutely adores having an artist girlfriend, he is the best person to use as a living reference, he’s SO good at standing straight for long periods of time

Will get so giddy if you show him your sketch book, he thinks it’s such an honor! Jack will sit there, tail wagging, just ever so carefully turning each page in pure awe

“So where did you get the inspiration for this one?”

Sebek Zigvolt

He’s so difficult istg🙄

He’s a great boyfriend, but he feels the need to question everything you draw like he’s a toddler

Why are the eyes shaped like that? Why is the nose so high up? Why do you only use this paper with these paints?

The questions never end with this crocodile man

That is until you tell him straight up that you literally don’t know why you do certain things, you just do

Now he’s on about how humans are so weird, just kiss him ffs

Jokes aside, he does absolutely adore it when you draw around him. He’ll turn his head to the side and watch you, but if you notice, he’ll flip his head right back around.

He never asks for you to draw him, he COMMISSIONS you to draw LORD MALLEUS in all his GLORY

He pays very well

“I’ll pay you as much as you want to paint a 3x3 foot portrait of the Young Master! For a human, your skills are exemplary!”

(I bash Sebek because he’s my favorite.)

Thank you for reading! I apologize for any dialogue discrepancies, I’m still getting comfortable with doing dialogue.

[splatsvilles-fashionista]

I Can't Stop Thinking About Mr. Grizz In Space

I'll preface all that I am going to say with the fact that Return of the Mammalians as a story has a lot of problems. Its pacing is kind of wack and basically all of the actual plot happens literally at the end. I think I like it more than most, certainly more than a lot of other high-profile Splatoon blogs here, but there's no denying it has a ton of flaws.

It did, however, leave me with a lot to chew on, and perhaps one of the things it has had me thinking about the most is actually just a little gag in the credits

About three minutes into the credits, Mr. Grizz is shown slowly orbiting around earth, given so little thought that the credits roll right over him, but I genuinely think this is one of the most poignant and evocative images in the whole game.

Now, Mr. Grizz wasn't handled very well in this game, primarily as a consequence of that whole "all of the story happens in the ending sequence" thing, but I think that conceptually he is about as perfect of a villain as they could've made for the supposed "finale" of the story they've been building up to now.

One of Splatoon's primary themes, especially with its villains, has been the dangers of clinging to the past. Octavio is a bitter old warlord stoking the flames of a long-gone conflict mostly to satisfy his bruised ego. Commander Tartar is obsessed with an idealized version of the past and seeks to remake the present when it can't live up to that ideal, even when that ideal never existed. Splatoon 3 even went further, revealing that inklings, octolings, and all the other land-living sea life are in fact humanity's truest successors, and Tartar tried to wipe them all out anyway.

Mr. Grizz continues this trend and takes it maybe as far as possible because he doesn't just want to reshape the present, he sees it as something unnatural and wrong on a base fundamental level, a mistake that can only be resolved by restoring the status quo, giving the planet back to the mammals. Coming as close as possible to literally turning back time. With Splatoon's focus on youth culture and pop media, it's hard not to read this theme as an allegory for the ways that older generations can cause immense harm in rejecting the new and in making futile attempts to grasp a world that once was but never can be again.

But Splatoon isn't trying to tell us that the divides between us are unmendable, far from it. Over the course of the first two games we see how inklings and octolings grow closer and closer until it's a complete afterthought in the third game, and even Octavio, when push comes to shove, is willing to bury the hatchet for the greater good. Calamari Inktantation 3MIX is perhaps the purest expression of this, a mix of old and new, a traditional folk song turned into a pop song, complemented by three artists that each pull from completely different cultures (Frye = India, Shiver = Japan, Big Man = Brazil) all mixed together by a 100+ years old DJ. Calamari Inktantation is old and new, pop and traditional, Inkopolis and Splatsville, octoling and inkling (and manta ray), in a chaotic, messy, beautiful swirl of sheer ecstatic joy. As a song, it is peak Splatoon, clear and simple.

But this isn't about Calamari Inktantation 3MIX, as excited about that song as I am, this is about Mr. Grizz, and after spending so many games exploring the dangers of clinging to the past, Splatoon 3 uses him to show us what happens when you cannot let go.

Mr. Grizz could not accept the present he found himself in. To him it was wrong, it was offensive, and he fought tooth and claw to bring it back with him, into the past, to the glory days, and he fails. Of course he fails, you can't stop time, much less turn it back, and the people of the present will always fight to protect their future. So where does that leave him?

Alone. Gazing down at a planet he was born on but can no longer recognize. From his orbit, he can see thousands, maybe millions, of little lights along the coastlines, each one an entire city, buzzing with life and all of its eccentricities. It's a world that would probably welcome him, if he gave it the chance. But he didn't. He rejected it and sought to return to a time and a place that no longer existed, and in so doing, all he achieved was isolating himself. And now, as he circles the world, all he can do is watch as it moves on without him.

[horizon-verizon]

I find it strange how much hate Daemon gets from TG, while Otto seems to escape the same level of scrutiny.

🤷🏿‍♂️

Most want male primogeniture. Some think Otto was entitled to have his grandson as a king/be rewarded for his Hand service done since Jaehaerys' time, just as they argue for Alicent having a reward bc she risked her health to birth 4 kids--3 sons and a daughter--for Viserys.

(I don't much mind the Alicent bit, accept by that logic Aemma also deserved to have her child become a ruler, even arguably MORE so since she literally lost dozens of would be or infant children before AND after birthing Rhaenyra...and let's say it's bc Alicent "succeeded" by having 3/4 boys while Aemma "only" had a one girl...this is diff from what I siad bc they are arguing in favor of the idea of girls < boys AND that, actually, women should risk their bodies to be breeders for men, bc if you say they are "rewarded" for that, the breeding systems in place are actually valid and "not that bad", even good & necessary, so the women who "prove" their worth and give birth to mainly or only boys are intrinsically "better" than those who don't....which is sexist and self defeating if you really wanted to support or justify Alicent as a human being. Again, you'd just be relegating her as a breeder machine, not a human.)

Which is funny, bc they still will wax poetic abt Jaehaera shouldn't have died, but cont to deny that Otto's ambition basically led her there and that they are really just supporting the same behavior that killed her.

Also, they hate that their favs are foils of black members in numerous different aspects at diff times: Daemon v Aemond (general), Rhaenyra v Aegon (general). They hate that at any time one could refer to Aegon's having a 12 year old "paramour" confirmed by Mr.I-hate-Rhaenyra Eustace whenever they try to say Daemon's a p*%dp*ile; that I can pull up the exact moment Aemond decided flaming the Riverlands was the natural thing to do instead of rescuing his sister and mother, deciding to not share the "glory" with Daeron so he didn't go south with Criston, yada yada. Because it all ruins this impression and lie they try to promote that the greens were "messy but close", which is what Rhaenyra and Daemon were. They hate they can't really appropriate Daemon's "cool" (yes, even with many in the fandom not TG who also hate him, it's just fact that he's one of the more accomplished and impressive characters of this history/book) believeably.

But perhaps most obviously, they try to say Alicent is Rhaenyra's one true love, was only looking out for her, was a perpetual victim and non-abuser, was her lesbian, Saint Mary moral "guide"...inspired by the show. And contrast her to Daemon in order to ignore all the true abusive things she did in canon to the same women they actually despise.

It's a maelstrom, up in their minds.

[ghostlymarauder]

Suzanne Collins' love letter to society

If there's one thing I absolutely love, is the Hunger Games. Not only it is beautifully written, but it also is one of the most captivating stories I've read in my life.

I started loving the Hunger Games when I first saw it at the age of 8 years old (and yes, I was a little too young, but whatever), and I didn't love it in the bizarre way of enjoying the actual games, but I loved it in the way that it was an spiritual awakening for me.

It changed my entire perspective on life, and every time I watch the movies or read the books, it teaches me something new.

And one of the things I love the most about the Hunger Games is how I think is a love letter from Suzanne Collins to humanity. And you might wonder, how a dystopia with a totalitarian government and morbid games where teenagers kill each other can be a love letter to humanity?

Because it constantly reminds us we are humans. Nothing more and nothing less. And that makes us both beautiful and terrifying.

Peeta is human, and the way he loves Katniss is human.

Katniss is human, and the way she would do anything to keep her love ones safe is human.

Gale is human, and the way his resentment turns him into a menace is human.

Finnick is human, and the way he's a career but quickly realizes that the Panem government is not right is human.

Johanna is human, and the way her anger moves her is human.

Tresh is human, and the way he shows Katniss mercy is one of the most beautiful things from the Hunger Games.

Even Snow is human, and the way he has convinced himself that love doesn't exist and the way he resent the districts is human.

Not all of them are good, and not all of them are bad, but all of them fall into that gray spectrum of human behavior. Suzanne Collins humanizes all her characters in a way that you can emphatize even when you don't like them.

One of my favorites examples of this is Cato. We don't like Cato, and we're not really supposed to like Cato. But we have to understand and internalize he's a teen, just like Katniss, but he has been brainwashed into thinking the Games would lead him to glory. And we're supposed to feel bad for him in the moment of his death.

The Hunger Games is Suzanne Collins' love letter to humanity because it showcases every single aspect of human behavior. We have the good, and the bad, and the half-good, and the half-bad. There's no character you don't empathize with at least once and that is beautiful because humanity is messy and morbid but it also is beautiful and kind.

[physalian]

Toy Story 2 | Still a perfect execution of a fantasy story

One of the things people uesd to complain about is that the cars in "Cars" did not need to be cars. As in, the fantastical element was not necessary to tell the story (which I wholeheartedly disagree with but that's not the point of this post). You could have told Finding Nemo with the fish as humans and have Nemo caught by... a traveling circus, or something, but to many, Cars was the damning example.

While Toy Story was the antithesis of Cars in every way.

Have not and will not see the fourth one but the first two films are perfect fantasy, and you don't immediately think of them as "fantasy".

I just rewatched TS 2 so it's fresh in my mind, and this story could not exist if these characters were not toys. Everything from the little details like the Etch-a-Sketch speed-drawing the map from the commercial to the "high stakes" rescue and escape that's only "high stakes" beacuse they're toys and not people and that one intersection is a death trap.

But the big thing is the main plot of the story: Woody is in the role of a has-been who wants to reclaim his glory days (like Mr. Incredible) but unlike a human, Woody himself was not part of those glory days, he's just one of many toys sold with the Woody's Roundup TV show, theoretically endlessly replacable, as all toys are. Unless you gave your hero amnesia, in no other storyline would this work with a human character, because Woody is both an outsider and the hero making his homecoming.

At the center of this trilogy is what it means to be a toy: A child's plaything. How each character relates to that fact is central to their arcs. The first movie tackled the divide between Woody's "I exist to be Andy's favorite toy" and Buzz's "I ain't no toy, I'm a Real Boy".

The second movie takes it one step further: Is a "toy" something you play with and inevitably ruin through playtime and the messy love of a child, or is a "toy" something you keep perfectly preserved in its packaging? And the consequences of being a toy when your human outgrows you, in Jessie's story, and is a valid point by Stinky Pete.

TS 3 takes the "what happens when the kid grows up" to its natural conclusion, with Andy going off to college. While I think it got a little carried away in spectacle and the incinerator scene, the endless replacability of a toy is Lotso's whole schtick.

The nature of what a toy is is the whole point—a piece of wood or metal or plastic that is effectively immortal, but an immortal being forever in a place of willful servitude to children.

—

It seems rather obvious to give fantastical characters a fantastical story, but a lot of uninspired or forgettable fantasy takes a human plotline and just reskins it with fairies or animals and never takes full advantage of what the characters are.

When your fantastical elements and setting are just window dressing, like Avatar '09, a fancy backdrop for a bland story, why bother writing a fantasy story? Why waste all that worldbuilding and all that creativity? (I actually know the answer, Cameron got cold feet when his creative teams went all out to create something indeed alien, and kept nudging it back to something more friendly and recognizable until we got what we got).

Avatar '09 sure made a lot of money... and zero impact on our cultural memory. It's no one's favorite movie, no one's favorite retelling of Dances with Wolves. It's just pretty to look at.

You can write a retelling, a "modern take", a book of tropes and clichés, sure, but I'd encourage you to at least make one arc of your fantasy or sci-fi story only possible in your world, with your lore, with your characters. Otherwise, what's the point?