#how far can you stretch a metaphor

[timblrdrake]

okay okay @officialbernarddowd we should talk about the restaurant

it’s a chain- it has locations all over the place with different names but it’s all the same family of restaurants

when you come over i can show you a more niche branch, its pretty underground so not many people have been there

[screampied]

Hii baby veygusssss<33 hoping you a nice day / night🩷🩷, so um hear me out Choso x shy reader re-creating one of p-hub most liked nor watched vid? Just a silly thought of mine hehehei feel free to ignore this. Muaaaaa😚💗

- 🧃 ( new anon, I hope it's not taken yet😞 )

꒰১ cw. fem reader, doggystyle, hair pulling, choso tries dirty talk, premature ejaculatıon, mdni.

“baby, i— i wanna do this,” choso mumbles, showing you the video that displayed across the screen. oftentimes he’d show you some positions he’d wanna try, the only ones you’ve ever done with him so far was missionary or cowgirl. his ultimate favorite out of the two—just you straddling him, staring into his eyes always makes him shudder. “can we try it?”

peering at the screen, it was a woman and a guy performing a well known prominent position. with a shy expression, you speak in a soft tone. “doggystyle? you wanna try that?”

“yeah,” he pouts, closing out of the web page before turning back towards you. the both of you were on the bed, tangled limbs keeping each other warm before he pants. “i think you would look pretty like that,” and he gulps. “i mean, you’re always pretty— but like . . on your hands ‘n knees for me, you know?”

you giggle, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “i know what you mean, baby, and okay. we can do doggy if you’d like.”

choso’s face lights up and he only grows more flustered once he sees you sit up. “okay, okay,” he tries to compose of himself, gawking openly as you lie flat on your stomach. then, you sit upright, placing the palms of your hands on the bed with your knees in place. his lips quiver, taking a three second glance at your ass. “a-and i’m gonna get behind like this, i think,” he cutely tries to remember the video. choso’s already starting to pant, shallow breaths of clouded puffs depart from his lips before he springs out his dick. he lets off a whine, staring at your pussy and how it was a bit moist from the outer entrance. “oh, it’s so wet from up close.”

“choso,” you tease, feeling yourself grow hot yourself. “any day now, baby.”

“s-sorry, sorry,” he snaps out of his erotic trance, reaching near the nightstand drawer to take out the lube bottle. he tried not to take too long, he wanted to be inside just as much as you wanted him inside also. quickly, he applies the lube in the right areas of you before focusing his attention back towards his throbbing cock. “give it a f-few pumps before going inside,” he speaks to himself underneath his breath, stroking his length once or twice. you wriggle your ass in anticipation and he only grows more abashed. you were shy just as him, although you were a bit more of an impish tease. “tell me if it’s too much, ‘kay?”

“okay, ‘cho.” you comply.

after a bit, he inches the head of his tip near your slit that’s starting to open. he’s mesmerized, his mouth slowly pries open at the sight before he’s gradually starting to sink his way in. as choso grows quiet, you let off a soft moan that makes him pause.

“baby? does it hurt? what ha—”

“choso, ‘m moanin’ because it feels good, ‘m okay i promise,” you simper in a shaky breath, leaning against your folded arms. not even facing him yet you could tell he was so big—standing tall proudly with inches underneath his metaphoric belt. “keep going.”

he gulps, nodding with a sweet, “okay,” before resuming where he left off. such thickness has your lips spreading apart,

he falls in love with the warmth that your gummy walls provides—sending him into straight nirvana.

it feels almost blissful, you squeeze against him before relaxing, he’s barely even halfway in and you already feel the elastic stretch. it’s too good, the moans that constantly let out from your mouth only makes his dick twitch more. once you let off a whine, he whines. “just a few m-more inches, princess,” he swallows—choso’s throat becomes suddenly dry and you bite your lip. so big, the way he’s so gentle to not break you was oh so cute nonetheless. “so warm.”

choso speaks in a low gruff voice, yet it’s still so whiny. your goopy walls forever cling onto him before within seconds later, you’re rightfully stuffed. he gasps, a sudden sweltering sensation waves over him once he realizes he’s buried balls deep. a few languid seconds inside your pussy and he was already losing it — the poor thing, you had him whipped.

“ugh,” he whimpers, preparing for an impactful thrust. choso’s a bit awkward, trying to remember what his eyes saw from the video as he holds your hips firmly. “gonna f-fuck you now, baby,” he mewls, and gives you a single thrust. he’s hesitant, wanting to make sure you’re okay before you’re babbling for him to not stop. a single thrust like that was purely addicting—you throb and he feels it, the way your walls constantly tease him by constricting around it.

so evil,

your ass is held up high against the bed before he starts to fuck you at a sloppy pace. sweaty thumbs of his brush against your hips as he’s holding you firmly in place, trying to maintain a decent enough rhythm. “ngh, so hot inside, feels so good,” he hiccups, feeling the very bottom of your hips tilt back. skin against skin — it feels like you’re melting against choso, it’s heavily intoxicating.

with the way your ass sticks up against him like glue, he goes crazy, feral. choso makes you spread a bit further before he’s really driving his cock into you. he makes sure his pace isn’t too fast before he lets off a melodically lewd moan. with his sculpted abs flexing, he lets off a soft whimper. “baby can- can i pull on your hair a little too?”

you giggle, nodding as you’re continuing to adapt to the feeling of being jostled against the silky bedsheets. “yes, choso. go ‘head.”

choso’s wheezy pants grow heavier and heavier, he leans up close to where he’s shoved right up close against you. with your knees widening, he grabs a good amount of your hair before giving it a soft kitten tug. “is that good?”

“baby, harder. ‘s okay, you can be a l-little rough.”

he pouts, giving you a more harder tug and you moan— leaning forward with your head lying back down between your arms. “just like that, doin’ so good baby, keep—keep going, fuuuck.”

your torso’s upright, he moans at how good you feel from the inside. choso can’t help but feel himself starting to drool a bit. your pussy was addicting in every way. you fuck back against him, rotating your hips a bit and he squeezes your right ass cheek. choso’s never really stared at your ass much, but now, that it was constantly bumping back against him—he just couldn’t look away. “m-my goddd, ‘s warm,” he pleads out, desperate for more of this feeling. you clamp down on him tightly, nerves all over his body send him shivers inside and out. choso can already feel himself start to sweat, his dick continuously reaches every orifice inside of your stuffed pussy. for a moment, he closes his eyes shut, getting hard at the rough recoil your ass smacks against his torso. it’s sexy, something within him was telling him to spank you but he wanted to ask first. “f-fuck, um . . princess? one more thing?”

“yes baby?”

“can—” he breathes through jagged breaths, slowing his pace down just a bit to rub a thumb against your hips. “can i spank you o-one time?”

“yes, ‘s okay, spank me, choso.” you moan, feeling his tip reach deeper throughout your tightening cunt.

he’s so sweet, he caresses the left cheek of your ass before giving it a spank. it jolts you forward and you let off a sweet gasp, though once he realizes you like it, he starts to spank you over, and over, and over, until you’re being more vocal than him. choso’s so in love with your voice that he could listen to it all day,

it was something about the smoothness in it. the way you whine for more in such a honeyed tone makes the tips of his ears burn. he still couldn’t fathom that he, choso kamo—was making you feel this good. but the more he starts to rut into you, the more he starts to feel something creep up. it’s sneaky—steadily arising before he feels a pool of warmth reside near his lower abdomen.

“i- i think ‘m gonna cum,” he whimpers, and he says it quickly, you feel the vein that runs down his shaft pulsate through you and your legs squeeze together for a moment. he pokes his bottom lip out, about to spank you against but he hesitates. he doesn’t wanna be too mean, so he caresses your bare cheek instead, brushing a thumb against your ass like a brush paints its canvas. “should i p-pull out?”

“i-inside, choso. inside.” you whine, and darkened brows of his raise. his mind’s racing and he’s taken aback, you want him to finish inside?

choso grips your hips with both hands, trying to remember the video before he cutely spews out a specific dialogue. “g-gonna flood your pretty vagina with my sticky cum, whore.”

and you giggle—you giggle and choso gasps.

“w-what’s funny?” he frowns, pausing his hips. “did you not like my dirty talk?”

he’s still buried deep into you from the hilt and you bite on your arm before replying. “heh, no it’s just .. nevermind,” and you have a soft smile, still not facing him. “but we gotta work on your dirty talk, baby. no one really says vagina or sticky cum.”

“…oh,” he says with his brows curling into a furrow. so cute, yet after a while, he finishes anyway.

his orgasm hits him like a truck — it’s so good that he whimpers, rocking his hips against you before feeling the drenched sloshes of oozing cum pouring into you. it’s thick, ropes and ropes of his velvety seed trickles into your sopping folds. he came a lot too, despite it being a bit early. whines welt from his mouth before he pulls out slowly, staring in revere at the way your pussy’s plugged all in. momentarily, his cum starts to dribble out and he runs a thumb down it to touch it. it’s warmth, he shudders before averting his attention back towards you, towering over you. he pants, “s-sorry, you didn’t get to finish.”

“we’re not done, silly,” you kiss the bridge of his nose where his scar lays. “and don’t be sorry. you did amazing with doggy, you’re a natural.”

choso pouts, yet grows flustered once your lips hit against the bump of his nose. “eh. but i could do better. i wanna learn how to talk dirty for you.”

“we have all the time to practice, baby,” you softly whisper, pulling him into a hug—wrapping your shaky legs around his slim waist. choso inhales, staring at you with rough pants leaving his lips every millisecond. “we’ll get better.”

he lets off a relieved sigh at how understanding you were, he lays his head against your chest, bristle hairs of his ponytails tickle against your skin before he speaks in a shy tone. “o-okay, okay but um .. can we maybe try another position i saw?”

“what is it baby?” you hum, stroking the edge of his temple in such a hypnotic way—the benign rhythm of your fingers was so soothing he found himself almost drifting off to sleep.

he had a cute smug grin. “f-full nelson.”

[ryin-silverfish]

One nerd's musing about Chinese religion and "respect"

-I try to stay away from fandom discourse, but, much like how you can smell the stench from a dumpster fire without walking into said dumpster fire, I've noticed something that seemed to come up a lot in western JTTW + adjacent fandoms: "respect Chinese religion".

-Usually as a reason for why you shouldn't ship a character, because of fucking course it's shipping discourse too.

-And my first reaction is "Man, you are taking Chinese religion too darn seriously, more than people who are born and raised in China."

-My second reaction is "I mean, most of us are atheist/agnostic by default anyways, with a good number of what I'd call 'atheist/agnostics with superstitions': people who said they were not religious, yet believed in Fengshui or divinations and burnt incense at temples for good luck."

-My third reaction: "But why do I get the feeling that when you mention 'Respect', you are thinking about something completely different?"

-Then I reread an essay from Anthony C. Yu, "Religion and Literature in China: The "Obscure Way" of Journey to the West", and the metaphorical lightbulb just lit up over my head.

(Everything below applies more to Daoism + associated folk religions, but by the time most classic Chinese vernacular novels were written, the blending of the three religions had become well and truly mainstream.)

(The conception of gods differs from dynasty to dynasty. What I'm describing here is mostly based on Ming and Qing ones; if you went back to Han or pre-Qin times, most of these would not apply.)

(I am one of the "atheist/agnostic by default" people. I just have an interest in this kind of stuff. I am also just one Chinese person, and an actual Daoist/Buddhist/Religion Studies researcher would probably have a lot more valuable information and perspective to offer when it comes to contemporary practices and worship. Like any people on the internet: take my words with a grain of salt.)

-Even in the past, when society was far less secularized, Chinese gods are not omniscient, perfect beings whose worship is a solemn, humorless affair. Some's worship are Serious Business, but that has more to do with the sort of gods they are and the patronage they enjoy, not godhood in and of itself.

-And even the ones that you are supposed to "treat seriously" are still very human. To use an analogy I've used plenty of times before: you respect and fear them in the same way you'd respect and fear an emperor's official, or the emperor himself, because if you don't, you are not gonna like the consequences.

-However, unlike Jesus, the emperor & his officials were capable of being temperamental, flawed, or an outright asshole, divine or not. Ideally, they wouldn't be, and if you were one of the "serious" believers——people who actually got an official permit, became ordained clergy, and went to live in a temple, you were unlikely to think of your gods in that manner.

-But it wasn't a complete, utter impossibility. The lower you go in the pantheon, the closer you get to popular religion, the less "serious" the gods and their worship become. By that, I mean general attitude, not sincerity of faith. You still shouldn't be rude to them, but, well, they are more likely to take a joke in stride, or participate in the "vulgar" pleasures of commoners because they weren't as bound to Confucian moral standards or religious disciplines.

-To stretch the same analogy further: you should still respect your village head, they could still give your ass a good spanking for being a disrespectful brat, but you were not obligated to get on your knees and kowtow to them like you would do in front of a provincial magistrate, the emperor's minister, or the emperor himself, nor did they have the power to chop your head off just because you were rude.

-On the other hand, the emperor would never visit a random peasant just to help them fix their broken plow or treat them to a nice meal, but your village head could, and your relationship would probably be warmer and a lot more personal as a result.

-Your respect for them was more likely to stem from the things they actually did for you and the village as a whole, instead of something owed to this distant, powerful authority you might never get to see in your lifetime, but could change its course with a single stroke of a brush.

-Now exchange "village head" for your run-of-the-mill Tudis and Chenghuangs and friendly neighborhood spirits (because yes, people worshipped yaoguais for the exact same reasons), emperor + his officials for the Celestial Bureaucracy, and you'd have a basic idea of how Chinese religions worked on the ground level.

-This is far from absolute: maybe your village head was a spiteful old bastard who loved bullying his juniors, maybe your regional magistrate was an honest, upright man who could enjoy a good drink and a good laugh, maybe the emperor was a lenient one and wouldn't chop your head off for petty offenses. But their general degree of power over you and the closeness of your relationships still apply.

-Complicating the matter further, some folk gods (like Wutong) were worshipped not because they brought blessings, but because they were the divine equivalent of gangsters running a protection racket: you basically bribed them with offerings so they'd leave you alone and not wreck your shit. Famous people who died violently and were posthumously deified often fell into this category——shockingly enough, Guan Yu used to be one such god!

-Yeah, kinda like how your average guy could become an official through the imperial examinations, so could humans become gods through posthumous worship, or cultivate themselves into immortals and Enlightened beings.

-Some immortals aren't qualified for, or interested in a position in the Celestial Bureaucracy——they are the equivalent of your hermits, your cloistered Daoist priests, your common literati who kept trying and failing the exams. But some do get a job offer and gladly take it.

-Anyways, back to my original point: that's why it's so absurd when people pull the "Respect Chinese Religion1!!1!" card and immediately follow up with "Would you do X to Jesus?"

-Um, there are a lot of things you can do with Chinese gods that I'm pretty sure you can't do with Jesus. Like worshipping him side by side with Buddha and Confucius (Lao Tzu). Or inviting him to possess you and drink copious amount of alcohol (Tang-ki mediums in SEA). Or genderbend him into a woman over the course of several centuries because folks just like that version of Jesus better (Guan Yin/Avalokitesvara).

-But most importantly, Chinese religions are kinda a "free market" where you could pick and choose between gods, based on their vicinity to you and how efficient they were at answering prayers. You respect them because they'll help you out, you aren't an asshole and know your manners, and pissing them off is a bad idea in general, not because they are some omnipotent, perfect beings who demand exclusive and total reverence.

-A lot of the worship was also, well, very "practical" and almost transactional in nature: leave offerings to Great Immortal Hu, and he doesn't steal your imperial seal while you aren't looking. Perform the rites right and meditate on a Thunder General's visage, and you can temporarily channel said deity's power. Get this talisman for your kids at Bixia Yuanjun's temple, and they'll be protected from smallpox.

-"Faith alone" or "Scripture alone" is seldom the reason people worship popular deities. Even the obsession with afterlife wasn't about the eternal destination of your soul, and more about reducing the potential duration of the prison sentence for you and your loved ones so you can move on faster and reincarnate into a better life.

-Also, there isn't a single "canon" of scriptures. Many popular gods don't show up in Daoist literature until much later. Daoist scriptures often came up with their own gigantic pantheons, full of gods no one had heard of prior to said book, or enjoyed no worship in temples whatsoever.

-In the same way famous dead people could become gods via worship, famous fictional characters could, too, become gods of folk religion——FSYY's pantheon was very influential on popular worship, but that doesn't mean you should take the novels as actual scriptures.

-Like, God-Demon novels are to orthodox Daoism/Buddhism what the Divine Comedy is to medieval Christian doctrines, except no priests had actually built a Church of Saint Beatrice, while Daoists did put FSYY characters into their temples. By their very nature, the worship that stemmed from these books is not on the same level of "seriousness" as, say, the Tiantai school of Buddhism and their veneration of the Lotus Sutra.

-At the risk of being guilty of the same insertion of Christianity where it doesn't belong: You don't cite Dante's Inferno in a theological debate, nor would any self-respecting pastor preach it to churchgoers on a Sunday.

-Similarly, you don't use JTTW or FSYY as your sole evidence for why something is "disrespectful to Chinese religion/tradition" when many practitioners of said religions won't treat them as anything more than fantasy novels.

-In fact, let's use Tripitaka as an example. The historical Xuanzang was an extraordinarily talented, faithful, and determined monk. In JTTW, he was a caricature of a Confucian scholar in a Buddhist kasaya and served the same narrative function as Princess Peach in a Mario game.

-Does the presence of satire alone make JTTW anti-Buddhist, or its religious allegories less poignant? I'd say no. Should you take it as seriously as actual Buddhist sutras, when the book didn't even take itself 100% seriously? Also no.

-To expand further on the idea of "seriousness": even outside of vernacular novels, practitioners are not beholden to a universal set of strict religious laws and taboos.

-Both Daoism and Buddhism had what we called "cloistered" and "non-cloistered" adherents; only the former needed to follow their religious laws and (usually) took a vow of celibacy.

-Certain paths of Daoist cultivation allow for alcohol and sexual activities (thanks @ruibaozha for the info), and some immortals, like Lv Dongbin, had a well-established "playboy" reputation in folklore.

-Though it was rarer for Buddhism and very misunderstood, esoteric variants of it did utilize sexual imageries and sex. And, again, most of the above would not apply if you weren't among the cloistered and ordained clergy.

-Furthermore, not even the worship of gods is mandatory! You could just be a Daoist who was really into internal alchemy, cultivating your body and mind in order to prolong your lifespan and, ideally, attain immortality.

-This idea of "respect" as…for a lack of better words, No Fun & R18 Stuff Allowed, you must treat all divinity with fearful reverence and put yourself completely at their mercy, is NOT the norm in Chinese religious traditions.

-There are different degrees and types of respect, and not every god is supposed to be treated like the Supreme Heavenly Emperor himself during an imperial ceremony; the gods are capable of cracking a joke, and so are we!

TL;DR: Religions are complicated, and you aren't respecting Chinese religions by acting like a stereotypical Puritan over popular Chinese deities and their fictional portrayals.

[hypnagogics]

UM HI SURPRISE. i promise im working on loreful things but this is bouncing around my brain atm i need it to leave so enjoy. fluffy? smutty brainrot meow yk the drill idk what this is. 18+ whiny & teasing subtop!ellie. "baby/babe" petnames, praise, fingering (r! receiving).

"mmmm i wanna feel you baby." laying on top of you in bed, ellie squeezes at your waist and pushes her head further into the crook of your neck. "you're so warm, so soft. need more." she mumbles, pecking at the delicate pulse point beneath her lips. she coaxes delighted giggles to burst from you, and you feel her face widen into a smile against you, her teeth grazing your neck. fast forward a few moments, and she's sitting by your knees, face flushed, rose petal mouth pursed into a needy pout, shaky hands pulling at your waistband, causing it to snap back against your skin. "lemme fuck you. just wanna make you feel good, m'kay?" the way she's asking—it's so earnest, so eager. "mhm." you nod in approval, heat already pooling in your lower abdomen.

she chuckles, then leans over you to capture your jaw with one hand, and kiss you deeply, her tongue teasing yours with a tentative flick. she knows all the tricks, every little maneuver to make you clench around nothing and crave her more. but, dear ellie being ellie, has as much fun with that as she can.

the moment she feels you buck your hips skyward to bump against her front, she pulls away. cheeky grin taunting you, although without malice behind it. "so cute when you're needy, hm?" "shut. up." you hiss, also in a lighthearted manner. another thing about her, is she never takes it too far. she doesn't irritate you genuinely, just enough to work you up perfectly. to mold you and melt you under her touch, like putty.

her elegantly tattooed hand slinks down your body, tweaking every peak and valley it passes by, finishing its journey between your legs. she palms your pussy gently over your clothes, biting her lower lip when she sees the micro expression on your face. in one swift motion she removes the fabric barrier, your legs instinctively fighting to close in order to combat the cold air. wordlessly she prevents that, greedily eyeing your already-sopping folds, like a lioness about to devour a kill.

"so fuckin' pretty, fuck babe." your heart flutters at the praise, and warmth floods your face. ellie takes her time, swiping one lazy finger through your pussy, collecting your slick to spread you open, unable to hold back a moan as she watches the sight before her. the light touch sends your spiraling. your eyes rolling, back arching, it was nearly embarrassing.

she can't help herself, and stuffs her middle two digits inside you, within no time at all locating your spongy g-spot, beginning to frantically prod at it. her other hand pushes your knee further to the side, and thumb of her working hand stretching up, circling your thumping clit with increasing urgency.

by how she was acting, you'd thing she was the one getting fucked. your breaths speed up, and fingers twisting the sheets underneath you to stay grounded, and you wish you could force your eyes open to watch intently, because the pathetic look on her face was utterly golden.

whines tumble from your lips, louder and louder, reacting to her actions. your brain getting screwed to mush, you will her to go harder, faster, deeper, and as if she's a mind reader—she does just that. "c'mon, yeah, look at thattttt. so beautiful. this all f'me baby?" her voice crackles and wavers, little whimpers cutting her off.

the metaphorical elastic band in your abdomen gets tighter, and you arch backward, and she feels the way you're sucking her in, the pulsing of your clit under her thumb getting more intense as the peak approaches. you cry out her name, and can almost hear her sound tearful as she eggs you on to cum, blinding pleasure overtaking your being, you make a mess all over her hand. she works you through it steadily until the overstimulation aches, until your body is wrung of every ecstatic shockwave. by the time it passes, you open your eyes, and it seems as if she's just as out of breath as you are. she wraps you in an embrace, murmuring praises into you, massaging your still-tense body.

insert your own ending im lazy. if you'd like to be tagged in my fics, click here! thank you for reading, asks, reblogs, and comments are appreciated more than you know. ♡

tags: @andersonfilms @ch6douin @aouiaa @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @paqerings @r3starttt @littlefallenangel111 @srooch @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ine @anniee333 @pinkcwake @marsworlddd @caszzine @saturnsdrafts @ashaynep @mascdom @xysbree @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @bunnitewsilly @mimasroom2 @deliriousrn @infiniteinquiries @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut

[hurlingdown]

HUNGRY WORK — TOP MALE READER X RORONOA ZORO

synopsis. these days, making love to zoro feels different. it always leaves a part of you so complex and insatiable, like you're always hungry for more. or: you come into terms with the raw hunger that has wormed itself into your every living thought. wc. 2.1k

tags. sub! zoro, dom! reader. religious sex, porn with feelings, by that i mean so so much feelings, body worship, metaphorical womb-fucking, breeding kink, mentions of vore, unhinged religious dirty talk lol. title taken from a hozier song.

There are many shapes that want can take form in. For you, there’s only one. 

Zoro lies underneath you, basking in the glow of the tender sunrays, stretching lazily like a cat. The corners of his lips are lifted, and there’s something quietly smug about the way he’s looking at you, watching as you sit back on your haunches and roll your hips against him. 

“Mmm. Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” you whisper. You didn’t mean for it to come out like a whisper, but it just did. The sight of him so sweetly unfurled by your touch, the way he would part his thighs a little more without having you coax them apart, being so comfortably unguarded around you, so carelessly vulnerable. It left you breathless. 

“Yeah,” he says. His lidded gaze never leaves you, not even once, silently waiting. For what, you think, is the question. A flip of the coin could bring about maelstrom and thunder and Zoro—Zoro would follow. It was the fun part of him, in the thick of all the pieces you want to consume within you: keep him inside, away from the rest of the world, in a picture of a locket hung on a throbbing heart. 

You wish it were that easy. 

“Something’s—mm.” He parts his lips to let out a soft, guttural moan as the tip of your cock crushes against his sweet spot. “Something’s on your mind.” 

It was always, always like that. The way he reads you as though he were deciphering text, and the funny thing about all of it was that Zoro does not read, but he reads you still. You feel your heart squeeze at his small, concerned frown, dark grey turning silver under shallow light. 

You want to crawl into him, or swallow him whole, it doesn’t matter. You would resort to begging if you could, you would drain the sea and burn every gritty bit of this vile world into cinder and offer him its remains in the shape of a heart on a platter, if you could. 

Death was far too light of a promise. 

“It’s alright,” you tell him, because you’re not alright, but it doesn’t matter. 

He gives you a look, one that tells you to try harder, not convinced. His hands skid up your forearms, resting in the crook of your elbow, thumbs pressing into the tender meat there. Then he takes one and guides it to palm the sharp jowl of his cheek, and nestles his face into it. 

You seize a shaky breath. You're not sure why it happens at first, but it does.

“Move,” he murmurs, nudging his hips against the base of your cock, as though he doesn’t see the way your eyes burn with the water of tears, doesn’t feel the stutter of your heart in the way his lips press into your pulse. 

“No. You don’t,” you choke, throat tightening, “you don’t understand.” 

Do I have to? is what you think he would say, but he doesn’t, only sighs. 

“You don’t know how I feel about you,” you say, feeling oddly defensive. “You’d feel sick to your stomach if you did.” 

His eyelid flutters close until there you can barely, barely see the tint of grey beneath, unwilling to acknowledge you, but he’s listening. 

“You would hate me,” you continue, almost rambling at this point, baffled as to why it feels so hard to breathe all of a sudden, like you’re drowning in your own false words. “Sure, you would pretend not to, because you’re good at that stuff, and I’m not. You would pretend to love me. You wouldn’t even mention it to the crew—and—and everything’s going to be fine, but in reality it wouldn’t be because you’d hate me.” 

You want him to see you. Both sides of you. The one he fell in love with—the sinless, pristine one on the surface; and the one who wanted to carve yourself into him, take him apart and devour him wholly. 

Zoro’s quiet, and you’re seized with a sudden fear that maybe he did fall asleep, and you were talking your heart bare to nobody. But then he opens his good eye, and there’s almost nothing, nothing within, except for a warmth so potent and all-consuming, so tender and selfless, that it sends sweet bile rising in your throat, makes you want to kiss and take and love so much, all because he is willing. 

The words come out all wrong. 

“I can’t stay,” you tell him, weakly. “Not if it’s like this.” Not if it feels as though I’m hiding myself from you, constantly, always. I want you to love me. The whole of me. Please. 

There’s too little to fill the silence, each moment pressing new bruises into skin, branding a new kind of ache into you. “Say something. Zoro.” You’re desperate, even for a goodbye. A profanity. Anything.

It takes him a while to respond. But then all he says is, low and unwavering, as though none of this is affecting him, none of this matters to him as it does to you—

“I won’t keep you if you leave.” 

The words sink in for half a second, before your eyes snap to his—in hurt, bewilderment, both, you don’t know. You suppose you are deserving of his harsh words, but it still tears into you like a jagged, unsharpened blade, an ugly tool only meant for breaking. You prepare yourself for the next. 

“—but I want to.” 

It drowns you like a tidal wave. 

You would’ve thought you were dreaming, if not for the tightening of his fingers wound around your wrist, as though to forbid themselves from trembling. A strong, firm grip, heavy warmth oozing from underneath. Zoro’s hands have always been the steadiest part of him, if not his heart. 

“Do you understand?” he asks, almost pleading, and the sound trickles into every crook of your soul. 

“Okay,” you whisper. You find that you can breathe, finally. “Okay.” 

“I won’t keep you,” he continues, “because you are free. I don’t own you. But I want to. Gods, I want to.” 

Zoro does not believe in god, but he will pray to a religion of your name. 

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, stifling any noise, but your vision blurs and all of a sudden there’s wetness spilling down your cheeks and dribbling onto the face of your lover. You wipe them away with your thumb, sucking in a wobbly breath, but they keep coming and coming, trying to submerge you in a sea where everything will drown. 

“Fuck—shit, ’m sorry. Give me a sec.” 

It's no longer fresh pain, but to have him here, his touch surrounding you, telling you that what you feel for him—this carnal hunger that has wormed its way into your every living thought—is the truth, is the surviving, that you aren’t insane, and it makes you ache so impossibly sweet. Because he wants you too, wants to own you in a way that he knows he shouldn’t, can’t. It grounds you to reality. 

You feel his hand on your cheek, a soundless comfort in return, and you lean against it. 

But then all of a sudden, in a twist of events far too brisk for your liking, there’s a sharp glint to his smile, and he coos in a disgusting voice, “Aww, crybaby,” because of course he would. Frustrated, you snap up and thrust your hips against him, and he yelps, letting go of your face to fist the sheets, surprised. 

This is the fun part of Zoro, you recall. Always. Maelstrom and thunder. 

“You’re a bastard,” you hiss. “We were having a moment!” 

“Were we?” He tosses you a dirty smirk, legs locking around your waist so casually and innately that makes something inside you churn. “You were the one, ah, fucking into me so suddenly, if I recall.” 

He has no cover, as usual, vulgar and to the point, and you begin to think that somewhere within him dwells a part as hideous and self-seeking as yours. 

“I don’t plan on stopping,” you mutter, fingers pressing bruises into his hips as you ram back into his hole. “Zoro. I want—I want to do so many things to you. With you. You have no idea.” 

The drop in tone makes his demeanour shift. Slightly, but you see it. These things do not escape you easily.

“I know,” is his breathless reply. “Please.” 

“I want you so much it drives me mad,” you breathe, “I don’t just—want this, and I am happy if this is all you want to give, but I want all of you. Every inch. Every scar. I want to read your body like a book. The insides and the outsides. All of it.” 

He lets out a soft almost-whine at your words, head tilting to the side to expose his neck. “Please,” he repeats, with a little more meaning. 

“I want to—to break you apart and seal you back together because that would mean I created you. This version of you, not some dirty god out there, not some nameless devil. Zoro, do you understand? Zoro.” 

“Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, please. Do it. I want it.” 

“I want to carve you, bone and marrow. I want to make your womb swollen with me, they're gonna think someone's knocked you up. Make you all mine. Fuck, I want to eat you,” you groan, “want it so much I think about it every day—want to bite you, sink my teeth into you, drink in your blood.” 

Zoro’s pupils are blown wide with lust, and he clenches around you, gasping. “Fuck. Yeah, do whatever you want, I want it all, so please, already—” 

That’s his answer enough, and you bend down to kiss his exposed neck, nipping and biting carelessly, leaving a trail of raw purple wherever your teeth go. You pound into him harder, and he moans, snaking a hand to grip the back of your head, pressing you against him, as though you weren’t close enough, still. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you whisper, and it feels like a truth’s been pulled out from you. “So divine. I want to ruin you.” 

Zoro shudders in your arms, and he gives a shaky nod, strong arms compressing you from above, keeping his thundering chest pressed to yours. “Ruin me,” he rasps, “and leave a scar, so everyone would know you did it.” 

Then he’s seizing a sharp breath, pulling you into a kiss as sweet moans needier than the last spill into your mouth like sour wine, and you vaguely hear the wet splatter of his come against skin before his hole grips you wickedly tight.  

How ironic.

These are the words that you last register when you finally spill out all of your sin into him, and he locks up around you tight to keep it all inside his filthy, tarnished womb, and it takes you straight to heaven. 

You cry out in pleasure, or maybe it’s him who does. Holy light pours into you from above, and you part your lips to drink in it. 

It might have taken a minute, or two—maybe more, but you feel so blissed out and high that it takes you a moment to notice that you’re almost sinking, all the strength leaving your body. You realise that the thing beneath you is the only thing that belongs to you. It is solid, and warm, and you hold it to your chest to feel it breathe. 

“Y’okay?” your thing asks you between heavy breaths, and you shake your head, far too dizzy. 

There’s a low chuckle, one that resonates in the entirety of it. And as the vibrations seep into you wave by wave, tremor after tremor, there’s a slow, heavy bubbling in your chest. It begins in small fizzes, like the ones that froth when billows collide, but then it starts to grow larger, and larger, like hot, gurgling lava in the midst of a volcano. It feels tight, hard to breathe, almost. 

“Zoro?” you ask, unsure, and the hand on the nape of your neck squeezes. 

“I’m here,” he answers, tiredly. Always here. 

“I feel weird," you tell him, truthfully.

“Is it a good kind of weird?” 

You take a second to think, that he must be right. “... yeah. Maybe.” 

“Then it’s fine,” he sighs, arms wounding around your shoulders to shift your weight to the side. “You deserve to feel good.” 

He presses the side of your face to his chest, your ear right above his heart, before slowly drifting into slumber. 

The bubbling within you simmers, gradually, over time, and you close your eyes. You deserve to feel good, his words echo in the dark. 

It hits you, the belated apprehension, that this—whatever you’re feeling—is happiness. 

It breathes life into you.  masterlist! # feeding the zoro lovers. repost of my old work btw - fav thing i've ever written for him so far. zoro canonically has a complicated relationship with god and religion so it was fun to explore how he views religion in carnal desire

[laurorne]

༊*·˚ CRAVING YOUR WARMTH | aegon ii targaryen x targaryen bastard sister!reader

summary: two dragons who seek to move closer for warmth during their grief must remain apart, as they can only hurt one another with their sharp teeth and barely contained flames. though they both share the intentions of a close relationship, they're unable, for reasons they cannot avoid.

content: targaryen incest, angst, allusion of self-mutilation/harm, bastardphobia in westeros, night after intimacy suggested, self-hatred, blood, wonky metaphors and personification, no beta we die like vizzy t, badly written angst, that damn necklace

word count: 1.5k

a/n: let me tell you that i struggle writing angst, but god do i love reading it. i'm like my own self entertaining paradoxical concept and it astounds me

A gentle hand smoothing over his back is what stirs him from the throes of sleep, nails skating along his marked skin softly enough to tickle. He shifts as the hand moves from the expanse of his back up to his hair, rubbing circles into the crown of his head. Twirling bits of hair between deft fingers as she presses a kiss to the slope of his shoulder.

He hums, limbs stretching out clumsily as he rolls onto his side, fingers weak as his hand dances along the goose-down duvet until it reaches her. Her, and her softness, and her warmth.

“Wife.” He’s barely awake, even with the exasperated sigh that comes from his older sister.

“We are not wed, Aegon.” A gentle reminder from soft lips, her eyes taking in his tired demeanour, the curve of his brow.

She brushes the strand of choppy hair from his face, thumb dragging along the apple of his cheek.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lids finally fluttering open as he stares up at her with those watery eyes. The ones he knew made her weak to suggestion. He lets his hand creep up her calf –where he can still feel the divets of scars from their childhood running through the gardens– until it finds home on the hand she has in her lap, he threads his fingers with hers. The number of rings adorning her fingers was thanks to him: he and his obsession with keeping his older sister glamoured. 

Imported Dornish rings that gleamed with the heat of the sun, Essosi ornate cloth and dresses that were far from the modesty of Court, hair pins adorned with pearls from the Summer Isles, and an intricate necklace crafted from the smelted metal of a Valyrian sword, inlaid with gemstones he had pulled from the Red Keeps vaults.

She was wearing it now, the stones gleaming under the sun that spotted through the lace curtains of her room. The engraved details scatter the few beams of light they catch like dew drops upon spider silk. The stones dangle between the valley her breasts create, the smallest of them twirls some intricate dance as she shifts. Like molten silver, it fits her without any of the stiffness metal should have. 

“We should be.” He glances down at his hand intertwined with hers and watches her thumb rub over his —in the way she always has ever since childhood— it makes him all the more rueful.

He’s hopeful, far beyond it. His bones ache and his head throbs from a swelling hangover, and he feels his throat ache something terrible at its use. His eyes trail from their hands to her face, he wants anything aside from sorrow to be there.

It’s worse. 

Her brows are furrowed as she stares down at him with pity, oh how he wishes it wasn’t pity.

“Oh, sweet boy.” She pulls her hand from his grasp and holds his face in her gentle hands with all the care he needs. “Some things, they just can’t be.”

His lip curls, a pathetic smile covering his visage as he cups the backs of her hands in his own. “But they could. Helaena would not care, she loathes our marriage. As do I. We could take Valyrian vows on Dragonstone. Just as our sister and uncle have. We could leave.”

“Aegon.” A wistful breath of his name, pained and twisted with grief of things that never were and never will.

“We don’t need to stay. Just you and I, riding atop Sunfyre. Across the Narrow Sea.” He moves onto his knees, staring into her wet doe-like eyes as he speaks. He doesn’t leave her an opportunity to doubt him. Doesn’t allow her to pull away as he keeps her hands on his jaw.

Her lips twitch and so do her fingers against his. “Aegon, don’t be foolish.”

“You mustn’t know what you mean to m-”

“Aegon, please.” She tries to pull away now, but he winds his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and presses forward. Wine-stained lips crushing against the curve of her nose, fluttering across her brow like the gentle wings of a cotton moth as it devours silks and linen allied— devourer of all things beautiful and plain. 

He drags his lips to hers finally, soaking her up in a way only someone as depraved as he could. It’s like stretching out upon a rock after not feeling the son for years, like stripping yourself of shackles you’ve worn since birth. Her lips are chapped, a split in her lips from all the worrying she does to the poor thing scratches along his upper. He surges forward, pulling her so fully against him that it fills some empty part of him, like a puzzle piece that’s never been slotted into place. But oh —how it has— and how it always disappears just as quickly as it comes to him. He licks at her bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth and shudders out a breath as she reciprocates. Her lashes fluttering against his cheeks as they finally shut, as she cups his neck and presses her butterfly kisses onto him, licks into his mouth as she breathes hotly across his face in a way only Aegon can enjoy.

He nips at her tongue accidentally, overexcited and eager as he is. And that seems to bring her back from whatever hole he had dragged her into. But he persists, hand drifting down to the smooth metal of her necklace as he thumbs at a jewel. He tries to savour her presence even as her face scrunches and her fingers fist the hairs behind his ears. It nearly pains Aegon, with the way his head tilts away from her just slightly, Adams apple jumping against pale skin as he stares oh-so adoringly, heady breaths stinking of wine fanning her bruised lips.

“We could start a family in Essos. As many children as you want.” He desperately reaches for her again.

“Aegon.” 

“A home in Braavos, on the beach. Where we could lo-”

A hiccuped sob that withers in her throat is what stops him, punches the wind from his lungs.

Her lips are pursed and her hands have loosed upon his hair and move to cup his ruddy cheeks. Nails pressing into the flesh of his face hazardously. His eyes are dark and his lips part as he stares up at her, he sees the tears edging along her waterline. That deep frown she has when she’s trying not to cry, whether it's about something he had done or when she’s ordered by their Grandsire to stop her hysterics.

“Aegon,” It’s a sullen whisper as she lets his face go entirely, fingers slipping down his chest before they land in her lap again. “I am not a trueborn daughter. I will never be. I am not right in the mind. I will birth lunatics and monsters and wailing death. You can’t love me.”

He doesn’t know what to say, for once he has no sharp-tongued quip or comment. He pushed her from a height, just when she had finally reached the top of her spire. He retracts, fingers loosening from the grip he had on her pale hair, and lets her fall back onto the plush of her bed as she stares up at him like he’s burnt her. Like he’s dragged a dagger across the soft of her flesh and told her he never loved her. She pushes herself away, curling in on herself as tears cut through the flush of her cheeks. A wobbly exhale, and another as he drags a hand through her hair.

Her fingers dance down her neck and across the skin of her arms where they find home on the pale scars marring the upper parts of her arms. He can see her fingertips quivering with the urge to dig. To pull at chords of muscle beneath her skin and scratch at her bones. She had told him about things she saw. Things that hunted at the edge of her vision and scattered when she went looking. Dreams that came to the waking world with her. A pale man with the stench of darkness seeping from his pores.

“I love yo-” He leans forward to comfort her. 

“You don’t.”

“I know that I love you.”

“You know nothing, Aegon.” She pulls herself to the edge of the bed and drags herself to stand, the silk bedsheets slip away and her goosebumps raise upon her bruise-marred skin, she’s as bare as the day she was born. Her throat is too tight and her necklace feels heavy as she stumbles to the secret passage, she slips from the room unbidden and leaves a smudge of blood on the wooden grain of the bookcase as Aegon sits in her bed. Salty tears of his own roll down his face as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

[girliism]

the girls (me) yearn for more priest in training!art 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

(i hope the girls (you) like this)

patrick was quick to blab to art about the things you said in your confessional.

“dude, she wants you bad.” patrick throws his arm around art’s shoulder as they walk side by side talking in hushed whispers. art shakes his head. “i already took your advice and talk to her. she was terrified of me she’s even moved seats.” patrick stops him in his tracks looking him in the eye. “if you could have heard the things she confessed you’d be all over that. just talk to her again.”

so art did. he tried to talk to you again so many times, but the second you saw him you’d flee. until he caught you in the library.

“can i sit?” you looked up hearing a voice when you saw art. gasping you quickly start gathering your things. “wait, please don’t run away.” art placed his hand on your shoulder stopping you. you wanted to run away again, but you thought back to your confessional. if you kept running from him the move he would chase after you so sat back down.

the two of you sat next to each. you focused on your work and art focused on how he could smell your body wash and the way your breast stretched against the fabric of your white button up with every breath.

art cleared his throat. “i apologize for the things i said to you that day.” he wasn’t really sorry, but when dealing with a sweet girl like you he had to pretend to be a gentleman not the perverse man who’s been staring at your tits imagining cumming on them.

you looked at him. his eyes were soft like he truly ment it. “really?” art grabbed your hand. “really. i have no idea what came over me that day.” art let his head hang. “he must be testing me, and i failed by giving in to such a lustful way of thinking. maybe i should give up my training.” was art going through the same things you were? maybe the two of you could help each other.

you pouted no wanting art to give up. you looked around the library, there wasn’t really anyone there just three other people, but you still leaned in close to him whispering. “i think we can help each other.” art looked up in your kind eyes so desperate to help.

art told you to meet him behind the school so you did. he was leaned up against the wall smoking when you walked up to him.

“art?” art’s head snapped up to see you standing far off very clearly nervous. he stomped out his cigarette walking towards you. “you actually came?” you nodded your head. “and your sure this is gonna work? these thoughts they’ll leave me after only one session.” “oh yes, i’ve already started to sleep better at night.” and it’s true, you have, every night after your roommates have fallen asleep you sneak your fingers down into you pants and rub at your tiny bundle of nerves whispering a certain blondes name into your pillow before drifting into a peaceful sleep. “the phoenix can not raise if there is no ashes right?” you smile repeating what patrick had told you. art has to hold in his laughter hearing the stupid metaphor patrick constantly used.

art’s hands twitched at his side as he watched your trembling fingers work open the button of your shirt like he asked you too. “fuck.” art said under his breath when he catches sight of your boobs covered by your white bralette and the gold cross that hung in between them.

art has seen a lot a porn but none of that compared to seeing your nipples harden up from the cold air in real time.

“do you want me close my eyes?” art immediately shakes his head fumbling with his belt and zipper. “no -fuck- no i want you to watch me need you to watch me.” art pulls out his half hard cock. you’re gasping at the sight of it. the only time you’ve seen a penis was on the pages of your anatomy book and thought they were quite ugly. buts art’s was different, it was blushing red and slightly wet at the tip.

you had to bite your lip to hold back the needy sounds that threatened to come through as you watched art spit on his hand and jerk himself off.

art’s moans and curses along with the squelching sounds can be heard. art wants to roll his eyes back but he keeps his view on your pebbled nipples and how you try to discreetly squeeze your thighs together. “holy shit, you’re probably so wet right now watching me.” he grunts other hand coming down to squeeze to his balls. “wish i was fucking your pussy instead of my hand.” you blushed at his words. maybe saying it out loud helps him not think it anymore. he stops moving for a second to tease at his slit, spreading his precum around his cock head before stroking himself up and down faster moaning louder.

you eyes never moved from watching him pleasure himself. it was so different than want you did, and your hands balled at your side to stop yourself from reaching out and grabbing him. it looked heavy and big you wonder how the weight would feel in your hands.

“so close.” art whined. his couldn’t really stop himself from reaching cupping in one of your tits and squeezing. your mouth instantly fell open and a moan came out. art came on the spot from hearing that sound alone. “s-shit.” hot ropes of cum shot out of him landing on the ground and little on your skirt. your eyes widen and the pooling wetness in your panties starts spilling down your thigh.

you were gone before art could fully come down. he lifted his head to see your figure rounding the corner.

you made your way to the bathroom locking yourself in the last stall replying in your head what had just happened while you got yourself off. lingering in the back of you mind how much pray you’ll have to do for forgiveness.

[kellysue]

The Suit-Making Metaphor

[Written in January, 2024] The cold eventually got bad enough that the Grandma, the kids and I fled to a hotel while Matt stayed at the house with the dogs. We were fortunate to be able to that of course, and sharing a room in a nice warm hotel was not suffering by any stretch of the imagination. Even so, it was stressful. We brought ipads, paints, books and needlework to keep the kids entertained and alleviate some anxiety, but time also had to be made for school work—especially as they would be going back to class just in time for finals. We made lists of their classes, what they had to study, what we could help with and what questions would need to be put to their teachers.

Henry’s 16 now (!!) and instead of an exam, his Humanities final was a personal essay. We chatted a bit about his writing process, what he liked about what he had done so far and what was frustrating for him. Though he had a terrific topic, he’d written and rewritten his opening paragraph several times and wasn’t making any real progress.

Been there, buddy.

As we talked, I stumbled on a metaphor that I found helpful, and so I’m going to try and share with you roughly what I said to him, and perhaps some of you will find it helpful too.

I get it, I do. It’s exactly my inclination as well. But writing like this-- where you try to perfect everything as you go, effectively writing the third draft before you finish the first--it’s like trying to make a suit from the top to the bottom. You can’t make a suit like that. You can’t start with the collar and get that perfected and then move to the shoulder. You can’t topstitch the upper part of the button placket before the bottom even exists. And even if you could figure how to do it that way, your suit isn't going to fit. Because that’s just not the best way to make a suit. Finishing the thing from top to bottom is not the best way to write, either. You start by choosing your fabric—your topic. What material are you going to craft the suit from? What’s the subject of the essay? You want to write about your relationship to various monsters. That’s terrific! That’s like a nice wool; there’s heft there—memories and feelings and personal details that resonate as truths; it should make a rich and interesting suit. Now, instead of cutting out the collar immediately, let’s choose a pattern. We need a pattern to help us cut the wool into the proper shapes. The pattern is the very basic structure of your essay. How might you organize your thoughts and feelings about monsters? The order isn’t as important as the categories. For the suit jacket, we’ll need right front, left front, sleeves, collar, lining etc. For the essay, what monsters do you want to write about? King Kong, the Rancor, the Minotaur and Bernard the Bull. Perfect. Cutting the pattern pieces out is equivalent to gathering your thoughts on each monster. Write freely about each one, taking the time to remember in as much detail as possible where you first encountered each monster, how old you were, etc. Go through each of your senses to help you recall the moment. What did you see? Smell? Taste? Feel? Who was with you? How did you feel in your body? How did you feel in your heart? Include everything that jumps out at you, you can always edit it down later. In our metaphor, this step is not just cutting out the pieces but also taking the time to transfer the pattern marks. You might not need them all, but you're sure to make a finer suit if you have them all available. Once you have the pieces, the next step is to see how they fit together. Read through each monster and look for connections. Is there an order that suggests itself? Rearrange and then edit and expand to highlight those connections. The first pass of this is basting stitches—loose connections just to test the fit—once you’re happy with the shape you can go ahead and lay in seams. Here is where our parallels start to fall apart: For the suit, you’ll want to do all the finishing touches—the handstitching, buttons, pressing, etc.—and then try it on and style it. But in writing your essay, these steps are reversed—styling is crafting the last paragraph, bringing the piece to a close. Your essay doesn’t have to wrap up neatly, in fact, you don’t want it to be too matchy-matchy. Just as an outfit’s style is improved by personal idiosyncrasies, a piece of writing is enriched by the author's capacity to engage with complexity and ambiguity. With the styling done--when you really know what it is you're trying to say--now you can go back with needle and thread and do that hand-stitching: tighten the prose where you can, polish rhythms, word choice, grammar and voice. With the whole of the thing in front of you, you now have what you need to do the kind of “third draft” finishing work that was impossible to begin with.

This might be the very definition of beating a metaphor to death, but I surprised myself with it. It was as revelatory for me as it was for Henry--probably more so.

And with that, I need to get back to those now-422 emails.

Cheers,

Kelly Sue

PS New creator-owned book coming out late fall this year--first launch in a decade or so, I think? I do need to figure out this whole newsletter/blog conundrum sooner rather than later. Advice and opinions welcome.

[daydreams-after-dark]

MDNI // smut warning ⚠️

Oh Jeongin, Innie, Baby Bread, Big Daddy Busan… His fingers are just grrrrr so fucking long and slender. But STRONG.

Can you imagine the places those fingertips can reach - effortlessly?

Or he can curl them up, creating a stretch (because his curled fingers take up a lot of room inside you), as he digs into that squishy spot that makes you cry his name and cum all over him.

He just loves it when your juices trickle down his fingers. “So wet, I have to taste you.” He says as he pops them into his mouth, smiling slyly.

He loves how dripping you get when he fills you with three fingers, fucking you slowly.

And don’t get me started on how he works his fingers on your other hole. Circling his finger on your rim, spreading the lube around getting you ready. Then easing his way into you. His fingers reach such depths that you’re metaphorically choking on them.

God, you love to feel his fingers everywhere, and he loves to touch you everywhere! From wiping your tears away, or protectively holding your hand, to massaging your thighs while watching a movie, to gripping your wrists and holding them above your head while he fucks you dumb with his long cock. You love it, he loves it.

After he’s finished fucking you and painting your insides with his hot, white cum, he’ll often use his fingers to push the cum back up inside of you.

Or he’ll just as likely scoop up some of his cum and shove those fingers so far into your mouth your literary chocking on them. “Come on sugar, lick me clean.”

You love it, he loves it.

@kangnina @noellllslut @channieandhisgoonsquad @weareapackofstrays @newhope8

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

prompt. loquacious devil gets his cake and eats it: telepathy during cunnilingus.

When he offered you a reward and you told him what you wanted, you didn't expect him to agree. So when he did, since you've been such a good little mouse after all, you couldn't contain your excitment, giddily scrambling onto the bed. The devil laughed at you, a little mean, observing you languidly.

"My, my. How eager you are to see me on my knees - metaphorically or not. Perhaps I should be concerned..."

"No," you said, aware of the line to tread around Raphael. He liked it when you begged, when you simpered, when you wanted him. He liked it when you were bold. He didn't like when you were audacious. When you dared to push above your station. "I just - your mouth on me...it's..."

"Oh?" An eyebrow raised on Raphael's handsome face, a sly smile spreading his pretty, thin lips. "Is it a fantasy of yours, pet? A naughty thought that has kept you warm at night when you're lonely in your bed?"

"Yes," you murmured. Fought not to combust with embarassment at the salacious way the devil smirked at you. He was delighted by this information, you knew. His tail swayed to and fro.

"Well," he purred, "far be it from me to deny you something you've longed for."

Like a huge red panther, Raphael crawled onto the bed after you. His feline smile never faded. His big wings flexed. His size dwarfed you. You watched him, your heart pounding with anticipation. Blood roared in your ears. You let your thighs fall open for the devil's broad frame, gasping in surprise when he clicked his fingers and your trousers and small-clothes disappeared. You stuffed your knuckles in your mouth and bit them. To have Raphael between your legs like this was as electric and arousing as you imagined, but in hindsight, potentially dangerous; a predatory gleam in his eye, sharp teeth so close to your softest, most vulnerable parts...he had less penchant for biting than his incubus, but you knew from experience the possibility definitely wasn't off the table. A testament to how doomed you were that the threat didn't frighten you.

(You had no idea.)

"What's this?" Raphael crooned. Tilted his head. Dragged one claw through the softness of your pubic curls to brush over your clit and between your mons. You took in a sharp breath, but Raphael simply pulled his finger away to show you it was coated in slick. He was deeply amused. "Wet already and I haven't even started yet...how utterly pathetic your desperation for me is. But fret not, my sweet, wanton little mouse. I can keep a secret."

Before you could say anything, he sucked his claw clean, humming as he did so. "Not bad. This won't be as much of a chore as I thought."

Raphael, squatting in the space between your knees, grabbed the meat of your thighs and widened their spread, stretching almost to the point of pain. You liked the discomfort. The threat of ten sharp points, ten cambion claws piercing your skin and drawing blood. The devil stared at your sex, so close each hot puff of his breath tingled, raising all the baby hairs on your arms and the back of your neck. He stared until you began to squirm.

"Raphael," you whispered.

The devil chuckled, a deep and throaty sound that, quite literally, went to your cunt. Without fanfare, his rough warm tongue lolled out and licked you from the base of your sex to the top of your clit in a single, harsh swipe. You whined, biting deep into your own knuckles. Your other hand longed to grip one of Raphael's mighty horns, but you knew that you weren't to touch him until he allowed it, so instead you twisted your fingers into the sheets beneath you. He squeezed your flesh in his big red hands tighter, claws scratching light welts. Again he licked, and again, and again, and again; hard, harder, sloppy, effortlessly rolling the meat of his tongue against your entrance, teased it with its separate forked tips, spreading your gooey slick around as he pleased. Your back arched, pushing your aching sex into his face. Encouraging him to enter you. Lick you inside and out.

"Yes, please please please..."

So greedy. I'm already rewarding you with my generous service, and yet you're still asking for more. Perhaps I've spoiled you too much.

You twitched. You heard the devil's voice clear as day, but his mouth was occupied. You opened your eyes (you didn't know when you had closed them) and glanced down. Though he was buried in your snatch, Raphael’s reptilian eyes, onyx and fire, were fixed on you. His gaze was searing. What a fucking sight. Your stomach dropped, and then it roiled with shock and desire. He was in your head, you realised. Sifting through your thoughts like sheets of paper, projecting his words directly into your consciousness. Of course he would find a way to keep talking despite having his mouth full of pussy.

Crass.

"It's...mmm, ahh, my mind..."

Wrong. You belong to me, don't forget. What's yours is mine.

That shouldn't have thrilled you as much as it did. You felt Raphael's amusement and satisfaction about that as though it were your own. Your body trembled, guts taut. He was sucking on your labia, flattening his tongue to rub on your slick flesh everywhere except where you wanted.

Suck my clit, you thought, please, I need you to suck my clit.

You couldn't control your thoughts, though, mind racing about how gorgeous, how handsome, how beautiful he looked all the time as though he'd been carved to life by hellish angels, how fucking incredible he was between your legs, how you could come just by watching him down there because he painted such an erotic portrait lapping at your pussy that you'd be masturbating to the memory for the rest of your life but it would never feel as good as it did now, oh please suck my clit...

Hells. It was a groan, gruff, a tad irritated, but you sensed the desire in him, the fire you were igniting in his blood as you stroked his ego. Your thoughts are so chaotic, so loud. I'm tempted to lobotomise you, my needy little pet, but then whose desperate, carnal fantasies about myself would I indulge in, if not yours?

Finally, at last, he took pity on you. Enveloped your swollen clit in the moist cavern of his mouth. Sucked hard. So hard his fangs scraped you. You squealed, you couldn't help it, your legs clamping around his head. He seemed to like that. His arousal, his true fiendish nature, began leaking into his projected thoughts.

So warm. So pliant. How good your sopping quim tastes. I can smell your sweet mortal blood pumping through your veins, you know. You would let me tear you open and drink straight from the still-beating source, wouldn't you? Yesss...such a good little creature you are...

You'd let him take you to pieces. You'd do it yourself if he asked. You rutted against his face, rolling your hips in desperate pursuit of the violent orgasm you could feel pulling at all the strings that made you a person. Strings held by this devil, the puppeteer of your ruin, and your salvation. You loved him. You adored him.

And now he knew. Shit.

This time you physically felt his dark, smug, infernal satisfaction like the scuttling legs of spiders across your brain. The cruel smile pulling his lips around your fat clit. How utterly you had ruined yourself. He had ruined you.

Oh, you poor thing. You can't keep a secret at all. He cooed to your very quivering soul. Slid his serpentine tongue up your entrance suddenly, a selfish invasion, groaning in dark delight when your insides clamped around it and you shrieked. Grabbed his horns reflexively. He let you, fragmented thoughts drifting by of you split on his cock and screaming as he writhed and rutted and emptied his balls, filled you and fucked you and bred you over and over and over. You were taking his tongue so well. You'd take everything else, too. So, so greedy. But that's alright. We're going to have such fun together...aren't we?

[ponyextulparlog]

//OKAY OKAY guess who played How Fish Is Made (and the dlc). yeah that's right. this may be one of the funkiest ways i've seen someone advertise their game not gonna lie. anywayss about my thoughts on it;; I love how it gives more context to Jimmy/Curly's weird relationship they have going on. esp the scene with the isopod and in the dlc where Curly actually makes an appearance. "I ate his tongue and we've been coworkers ever since!" Jimmy acts exactly like a parasite. He latches onto people and takes what he can get, even if it ruins them in the end, just to benefit himself. But a parasite can't do that without a host, because it's the only method it can keep itself alive. it's a disgustingly co-dependent relationship, one can't be without the other. It also clarifies even further to us when Curly in the dlc mentions being the one that brought him in, which implies he directly influenced in Jimmy being hired by the company. "Quick buck, just a few trips" (to keep it short). these two are destroying each other and despite so they are inseparable. in a bad bad way. hell i dare even go as far as saying the DLC is in Jimmy's pov considering we are an amalgamate mass that keeps consuming. it's never enough. I also think that the big fish before the endings of the first game also may be a metaphor to Swansea?? i picked up on the way it speaks and they definitely sound similar. I'm not sure about the others but if yall have any ideas on it do tell. this may be a stretch of mine but the Do fish feel pain? in the musical sequence may also be on par with the I hope this hurts in MW. And the raw meat twitching this is definitely about Curly. okay now for theory timeee back to the isopod thing. Jimmy manipulated Curly to bring him closer, so after being fucked in life (probably by his own choices) he could continue his parasitic cycle. as host, Curly fails to notice this until he is unable to take it any longer. He victimized himself to appear small and break down Curly's walls. Earn his sympathy so he could attack, appear as friendly as possible- at first, at least. and it worked WAY TOO WELL. Curly's a good man, everyone's dependable guy. of course he'd help him. it was way too easy of an opportunity to miss and Jimmy knew. ANYWAYS i could say more but i shall spare yall of my incessant yapping. just know that i WILL make fanart about this (how the fuck do you draw an isopod??)

[grahminradarin]

Hi hey hello. I've been watching Miraculous since September, and I just finished.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS FANDOM?

That finale was amazingly well-made. I definitely get why people were disappointed, but there's no way that's everything. The writers who made the rest of the season so good are not capable of writing something this confusing and unsatisfying, unless it's on purpose. This story isn't done.

There has been a lot of focus in the season on class dynamics, but in the last couple of episodes they really start bringing this theme of how people deal with power to the forefront

With Ladybug and Chat deciding not to do anything against Chloe because it's not their responsibility even though they have the power to do it, everything with Lila, the increasingly reckless and harmful ways Gabriel is manipulating people because he thinks he gets to decide what is good for others, Gimmi complaining that no one ever summons them to tell them anything good and only summon Gimmi to use Gimmi's power.

And the thing that brings it together: Marinette's speech right at the end, just before Gabriel makes the wish, when she says the power is only valid when it's used for the greater good of other people.

And then the statue of Gabriel. Right after all of this, a statue commemorating the man who refuses to use his power for the good of others. The dissonance is on purpose. This story is thematically incomplete, and I think the London special will finally wrap it all up.

What does the fandom come away from this talking about? How interesting this all is and wondering how it gets resolved? No. The fandom on the subreddit (and some of them on Tumblr) say "The villain won without consequences! This is bad writing!" and "Why is Marinette not telling Adrien he's a sentimonster?".

I just. How do you watch that and come away with your biggest concern being "Marinette didn't tell Adrien the truth"? How do you not see that it's so much bigger than that? That's not one dangling plot thread, we're looking at an unfinished garment and complaining that the edges are fraying.

And a good portion of the fandom cannot for the life of themselves see the loom and the people working it still going. I don't know how to stretch this metaphor any further, but I cannot believe that anyone would look at something so blatantly incomplete and still treat it like it's the entire picture. It's a microcosm of a bigger issue with the fandom, which is, as far as I can tell, that this fandom wants to watch a different show. Seasons 4 and 5 are so vastly different from seasons 1 and 2, and I think the people that came here to enjoy the first two or three seasons but hated the later ones are angry with the show for not following the traditional kinds of stories in the genre.

This show isn't trying to be an episodic or somewhat serialized story about love squares and middle school nonsense. It's a deep and varied exploration of what being a magical girl does to a 14 year old (in addition to many other things), and it's not pretty. The show is trying to say "this was terrible for everyone, and it shouldn't have happened, but it did, and here's how". And most people didn't want that, which is fair. But it doesn't mean the show is badly written, nor does it mean the writers hate certain characters. It pisses me off that a show this well made, with so much time and effort and care, is constantly dismissed as a badly-written, disorganized piece of crap that people only like ironically. Something this well made deserves a more neutral presentation to let people form their own opinions, and it deserve appreciation for the innumerable things it does well, especially in later seasons and the specials.

In summary, Miraculous isn't bad. A vocal part, maybe even the majority, of the fandom just wanted something else based on the first 3 seasons, and hasn't realized it because they're so devoted to hating on the show. And it deserves a much better reputation than it has.

[serenescribe]

the once (and many) prince(s) Twisted Wonderland | 3.3k Summary: Silver is, has always been, and will always be, the crown prince of his kingdom. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54424864 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hi everyone! @ohsleepie and I are back at it again with another collaboration based on his wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU! This fic is meant to act as a companion story of sorts to the Malleus-focused "the prince's physician," this time focusing on Silver within the AU! Once again, this fic features incredibly beautiful and amazing art drawn by Sleepie; please check him out and follow him, if you haven't already!

I hope you all enjoy!

The worst part of reincarnation, Silver thinks, is the constant cycle of relearning everything all over again.

Okay, perhaps it would be a bit of a stretch to call it the worst part. There are many negatives, many downsides, far too many to count, to being stuck in a loop of constantly dying and reincarnating. But this particular aspect is, in Silver’s honest opinion, one of the worst out of them all.

There is a bookshelf carved from expensive ebony that sits in his chambers, nestled against one side of the wall. There are several bookshelves in his room, but this is the only one that Silver ever uses, filled from top to bottom with centuries worth of journals — leather-bound books gilded with gold and silver, every detail immaculately painted and carved, the cover opening to expensive parchment made from calves. He tends to absentmindedly run a hand along the spines, eyes glazing over the muted leather colours, before plucking out a book, and reading it through.

Silver only lives a good seventeen years at best, always dying before crossing the pinnacle into adulthood. How much of those seventeen years consist of just… reading? There are, of course, his early years, where he is much too infantile to read and write. But he barely has a few years of reading simple children’s stories before the latest journal is pressed into his hands, and he is briefly explained about the details of his curse.

He pores over the words of those who came before him — the Silvers who came before him, his previous iterations, all dying to form the next one. Their handwriting ghost his own, not just similar but straight up identical, and if he stresses his brain hard enough, he can almost conjure up wispy, fading memories of putting a quill to paper, ink curling across the page in the same, sweeping cursive.

And yet, it is a necessity to read all of it, all over again. Because Silver remembers — but not enough.

His memories are shattered, like an ancient mirror that has been cracked right through the middle, fractured into thousands of tiny, individual pieces. It is akin to a kaleidoscope of lifetimes; when he gazes into this metaphorical mirror, a thousand Silvers stare back, each one reflecting his exact appearance, yet distinct and different in their own ways. And yet each piece is but a shard; Silver remembers only the smallest bits of each past life, the pieces coming together to form a jumbled jigsaw of sharp-edged recollections.

He has lived far too many lifetimes as Silver — the crown prince of his kingdom, the only living heir of their royal family. He has lived far too many lifetimes as a Silver — distinctly different with each rebirth, living a short number of years until the day he inevitably dies.

Silver is immortal, and yet he is not. He lives on as the royal, the prince, a beacon of hope—

But Silver the person changes, with each new looping cycle.

(And so he reads through their journals, no matter how much it exhausts him.)

Many a time, his gaze wanders to his bedroom window.

As the sole heir to the royal family, Silver resides in the largest chambers of the castle, a sprawling set of multiple rooms, from a drawing room to receive guests, to his private bedroom where he slumbers at night. What this also means is that he is privy to the best views of everything within his kingdom, from the area stretching across the castle grounds, to the rest of the kingdom beyond tall and guarded stone walls.

There are many things for him to peer at, but today, he is gazing at the soldiers’ barracks again. They have their own section of the castle, tucked out of the way, but Silver can view them from the sanctity of his study, a room where he pens his thoughts in his journal and reads through old ones.

The emotion that dwells within him is nigh imperceptible, difficult to describe. It feels as though someone has tied a rope around his ribcage, double-knotting it and pulling it tight before tugging at it, and pulling him forward. There are twinges and pangs that cross his heart, a hollow cavern yawning as his soul collapses into itself.

He feels this as he stares out the window at the soldiers training in their courtyard. His eyes fixate on the swords in their hands, at the way they slash and thwack their weapons against straw-stuffed training dummies. Occasionally, he will spot the soldiers gathering together, jumping and yelling as two of them spar with wooden swords, all of them oblivious to his peeping.

He wants this. He longs for this. He—

“Your majesty?”

Silver blinks. It takes him a split second, pulling himself out of his thoughts, shoving away the deep desires that permeate his heart, but he quickly turns around, eyes fixating on the familiar figure in the doorway.

“Malleus,” Silver greets, shoulders relaxing as a smile slips onto his face. Of course it is Malleus; there are few who have his explicit permission to enter without needing to knock, and his physician is one of them. He waves his hand, ushering him in. “How long have you been standing there? Come on in, take a seat wherever you’d like. And what have I said about the formalities?”

Malleus is here for another check-up, and Silver gladly acquiesces. He can think of no other person he trusts more with his very life and soul than Malleus himself. He allows the man to lead him through familiar routines, magic permeating his body as he searches for something Silver cannot see, before shifting to more physical methods of testing Silver’s health.

Still, as Malleus works in a near-silence, preferring to focus and get his duties done before they can relax and spend some time together, Silver cannot help his thoughts from wandering off again. His desires are not new; he has seen them expressed across multiple journals, scrawled in identical, curling scripts across expensive parchment. The desire to pick up a weapon, to learn to fight and defend, to learn how to wield a blade like a true prince — that is what he so desires.

But he is frail, and the council insists that he stays in, that he can learn to fight once they break the curse. So never, Silver thinks bitterly, eyelids slipping shut as he feels cold claws brush against his forehead. Never in this lifetime, and not while I’m alive.

Malleus is many things.

To the populace, he has many names, many signifiers, viewed in many different ways. He is a blessing and a curse, for his magic is by far the only thing that can cure their prince, but all of it comes at the cost of his very existence itself: A fae; a deplorable, wicked creature; a monster that is the very scum of the earth itself. The history of their kingdom is written in the blood of their ancestors, shed through grievous wounds inflicted by the sharp claws and gleaming maws of the fae that slaughtered them all.

To the nobles, the members of the council who govern over the kingdom in Silver’s stead, making decisions on his behest, Malleus is something they tolerate. They do not speak of what will happen after the curse is broken and Silver is cured, but Silver knows, from their whispers and sly glances, from the words penned by the others who came before him, that they wish for nothing more than to rid the world of the last of the wicked — not, and never, fair — fae.

Humans gaze upon Malleus with distrust, wariness, abject hatred.

But for Silver, Malleus is one simple thing alone.

To him, Malleus is his friend.

There are two distinct points in the history of Silver’s incarnations: Before Malleus, and After Malleus.

The difference is like night and day. The journals of before are dismal and depressing, imbued with a bone-deep loneliness that carried all the way through into the parchment pages, stained in the very ink used to scrawl thoughts across the pages. The Silvers of that time tried — truly, they did — to cling to hope, to believe in what their people believed: that one day, their prince would be freed from the shackles of his horrific curse.

But with the passing decades, the many years, the many Silvers that lived and died, they all seemed to suffer from the same truth: there was no cure in sight.

And then there was Malleus.

The guards found a young fae child today, lurking in the borders between what remains of the valley and the kingdom, his own handwriting reads, the parchment yellowed with age, the ink long-since dried. This, Silver knows, is the first point at which Malleus is mentioned, though not yet by name, tucked away in a notebook he recognises by the distinct fern-green colour of its cover. Even now, as I write this, I still cannot believe the abysmal state he was in upon meeting him. No child, whether human or otherwise, should have that many injuries on their body, and though I have had a stern word with those who found him, I fear for his safety.

He shall remain with me for the time being.

Though Silver does not have favourite journals — for such a concept is lost on him when all the journals are such a drag to read, recounting the day-to-day experiences of his past selves, a depressing fog seeming to permeate every page of words — this one is perhaps the closest one to such a concept. Because this journal is different — he clings to every word, phantom feelings of a fierce protectiveness flaring within him, as though this particular incarnation has stirred somewhere deep within him and seized his soul.

It is so painfully obvious how much his past self had cared for Malleus — taking care of him, granting him such patience and endless kindness, spending time with him teaching him the human tongue, of how to read and write. There is a page filled with endless delight upon learning the fae’s name, ink smudged together where the page reads Malleus. Their activities did not end at the crude essentials; there are sweeping recounts of games played together, of crayon drawings and delicious platters of sweet treats — and Silver aches when he reads every word of it, possessed by a longing to return to those simpler times, when Malleus was not his physician, and was merely his friend.

And this care is made so apparent by the last few pages, the cursive made shaky by the cold, approaching winds of Death. To the next Silver, it reads, take care of Malleus. If there is any hope of breaking this curse that ails me, it lies within the powers of the fair folk. And yet, the rest of the page is filled with sentiments, rather than explaining how Malleus is the key to breaking the curse:

I wish this could last forever, these sweet days of playing together. For much of my life, I have been haunted by a bleak loneliness, isolated by my circumstances, and haunted by the weight of all our pasts. I have never had any companions my age, and I know from my readings that all of my predecessors shared the same lonely fate. To indulge in such fleeting luxuries, to have someone to speak to as though we were on the same level, intimately so— it is a happiness unlike anything I have ever felt before.

Blotchy circles stain the pages, the ink smeared in places.

Things may be different from now on. I understand that the council wishes for him to begin his work when the next cycle begins. And it is with that knowledge that I must remind the next Silver: Malleus may be our physician, and he may be tasked with breaking our curse—

But before that, before any of that, he is our friend.

Never forget that, for as long as we may live.

“Thank you for joining me today.”

Wispy trails of steam rise from two cups of tea, sitting in elegant saucers. Before Silver, and in the middle of the round tea table, is a small spread of sweet delicacies: scones accompanied by small glass jars of jam; finger sandwiches, some filled with goat’s cheese and roasted pepper, others filled with cucumber and salmon; and a small, round cake, tiny enough that it’s perfect for just the two of them.

“Of course,” Malleus replies, his voice smooth as usual. He raises his head slightly, slitted-eyes roaming over the tea-time spread before them, before he dips his head. “I thank you for the invitation, your majesty.”

“We have been over this many times, Malleus,” Silver says, unable to hide the exhaustion that spills into his voice. “You need not refer to me by such formalities.”

He knows why Malleus does so, of course. The answer is written across several different journals — It is difficult for him to reacquaint himself with us in each new cycle, and I truly cannot blame him. How alienating must it be, to witness someone you grow close to, time and time again, look upon you with no familiarity in his eyes? There is another reason too, though one of mere speculation, for Malleus has never confessed the truth by his own tongue — Earlier today, I witnessed a council member chide Malleus for regarding me with such familiarity during our meeting. I do wonder if this may be another factor into those needless formalities.

Thankfully, Malleus always obliges whenever Silver asks this of him — though whether it is because Silver is his prince, or because Silver is his friend, he never knows. “Is there any occasion for this meeting, Prince Silver?” Malleus asks, as Silver beckons for him to help himself, unwilling to dig in first when the fae’s eyes are flickering over the food, glinting with hunger. I wonder if he has forgotten to eat again, Silver thinks. Malleus carries over a scone and a sandwich with his utensils, leaving the cake intact. “Not that I mind it, by any means; it is always a pleasure to spend time with you.”

“There is no special occasion,” Silver answers, finally reaching for the spread as Malleus cuts into his meal. “I… only wished to spend time with my friend.”

Their relationship is a strange, tenuous thing. There is undoubtedly a bond there, from the way that Silver always feels so safe and secure in Malleus’ presence, and the gentle way that Malleus treats him, always appearing whenever Silver calls for him. There are even some rare occasions where the facade of dutiful physician slips, a careful veneer crafted for the sake of survival in the court, and Silver relishes those times, watching as Malleus’ expression sours, the stinging barbs that spit from his mouth more endearing than his usual regal elegance.

But all the same, compared to the earlier journals after Malleus’ appearance, filled with much more warmth and life — even as he learnt his role, Malleus would still happily chat with those Silvers, accept his offers to play games, spend the night with him on many occasions — there is a gap between them now. Driven by age, driven by time, and driven by the eternal, scathing judgement of the many humans of this kingdom, who cycle in and out of life and death, but are all fuelled by the same spiteful hatred and prejudice, taking it out on the only fae they know.

Still, Silver tries his best. He knows Malleus does too.

He sees it in the way the fae’s shoulders relax, expression smoothing out at the edges. “In that case,” Malleus says, after a moment’s pause, “let us indulge. How have you been lately… Silver?”

It is a good day for the two of them, Silver reflects. They drink their cups of tea and drain the pot of its excess drink, and the tray of delicacies are filled with nothing but crumbs by the time they’re done.

Even the cake, a dessert regarded with conflicting feelings by Malleus, is finished by the end of it. For once, Malleus eats his slices with a small smile, both their forks scraping the bottom of the plate as they help themselves to their fill.

Death no longer scares him, unlike everyone else. Death, in its own way, is a comfort, an inevitability: Silver knows he will reach his demise at the same time, at the same age. Very few people can ever be privy to such knowledge, going through their lives not knowing if they will pass on at age fifteen or fifty.

In that vein, what does it matter if Silver chooses to speed up the process?

He is not allowed proper access to weaponry. The council states that it is because there is no need for him to pick up a blade when he has guardsmen patrolling the halls around his room at all times, but Silver knows better. This is not the first time he has longed to die earlier than he usually does; he can count the other occasions on two of his hands, based on cryptic journal endings dated months earlier than they usually do.

To an extent, a part of him wonders what the point of it is. He will die, inevitably; why inflict such pain and suffering if he knows he’s going to come back? What is the point of it all?

The point, Silver tells himself, is that there isn’t one. He’ll always come back. He’ll always return — and so why should he languish and rot in his bed as his body slowly gives out on him? Why waste those months feeling his muscles weaken and his grasp on reality slip?

Why not do everyone the honour of ending it early, ending it now?

(The silver blade of the dagger, requested from some rookie soldier who knows no better than to deny this particular request from the prince, is cold against the flesh covering his heart.)

Silver is so, so tired. His life is stagnant, unchanging; he lives and he dies the same person, the same name, the same cursed prince of the same bloody kingdom, every childhood filled with days of reading the same handwritten journals signed with the same, stupid name.

When will he be allowed to rest? The weight of a legacy, the weight of his people’s hopes and dreams, drag him down, like impossibly heavy weights that are shackled to his limbs, pulling and pulling until he’s flat against the ground. He never asked for this — and god, it’s so selfish to even think of that, but it’s true.

Nobody ever thinks about him, Silver the person. They are only ever concerned with Silver the prince, Silver their saviour.

Except—

A memory flashes to mind, unbidden — of twisting, dark horns and raven-spun hair, and slitted green eyes that crinkle at the corners as he smiles at him.

(His hands tremble.)

Malleus.

The name fills him with an ache. If there is anything Silver can take comfort in as he straddles the line between life and death, it is simply that Malleus will always be there. Malleus is a constant throughline throughout Silver’s life, and while Silver may ebb and flow, weaving in and out of the many, many years of a fae’s long lifespan, Malleus will always be there.

And though the thought of that face, rendered a child once more in its shock and sadness, causes his chest to knot itself with hesitance and reluctance, Silver steadies himself.

The humans may come and go, live and die, but Malleus will always remain.

(And the blade plunges down.)

[in1-nutshell]

Hey it's me again sorry if I'm overwhelming you with my multiple asks what could you do more old Predacon buddy with maybe just hanging out with the kids and stuff along with they're adopted son aka preking (I hope I'm saying his name right) Just some wholesome fluff and possibly make sure ratchet actually recharges and doesn't stay up all night working including the Optimus and the others old Predacon buddy has those sweet old Southern Grandpa vibes or you could do some old Predacon buddy interacting with Megatron during his glory days or something similar to that whatever you choose I'm not really picky also Make sure not to overwork yourself and make sure to hydrate every now and then and eat something at least healthy =]

They are back!

Caution: Grandparent vibes nearby

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy the Old Predacon slice of life

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Cybertronain reader

TFP

It had been a rather busy month on base.

After the latest Decepticon mining activity, all the Autobots were on edge and running around like crazy.

Buddy mainly took care of the humans while everyone was busy on base. They swear if they didn’t have such an eye sore of an alt mode, they would pick up the kids instead of having to remind some of them to do it themselves.

Buddy lumbering around the console behind Bulkhead.

“Bulkhead? What are you still doing here?”--Buddy

“What do you mean?”--Bulkhead

“Bulkhead why isn’t Miko here? Is she sick?”--Buddy

“She at school today.”--Bulkhead

“Bulkhead its Saturday. Miko doesn’t have school.”--Buddy

“…”--Bulkhead

Bulkhead transforms quickly and drives out.

Buddy shaking their helm at Ratchet.

“Kids these days.”--Buddy

“You said it.”--Ratchet

“You count too Ratchet.”--Buddy

Ratchet raises an optic at Buddy and vents a bit.

“You may be old by these young bots but don’t forget I’m the eldest here.”--Buddy

“Yet you try to do things a young bot would. It’s not good for your joints.”--Ratchet

Buddy gentle flicks Ratchet in the back of the helm with their tail.

“My frame allows some extra movement.”--Buddy

Buddy stretches their arm.

SQUEAK!

“…”—Buddy and Ratchet

“…Buddy—”--Ratchet

“Not a word Ratchet. Not. A. Word.”--Buddy

Buddy knew that entertaining the kids with stories was only going to go so far. Especially when their guardians could stay with each of the children for long.

It was frankly getting on Buddy’s nerves.

It finally reached their limit when Movie Night came around.

The kids had gotten permission to spend the night at the base.

The original plan was to have a movie night with everyone.

Just some quality time with one another catching up on everything.

But it looked like most of them had forgotten about it.

Buddy didn’t like this. At. All.

And their spark broke a little seeing their disappointed faces.

Buddy looking down at the kids.

“Kids meet me at the exit with the gear.”--Buddy

“The gear?”--Jack

“Yes, you which one I’m talking about. Meet me over by the exit, we’ll have that Movie Night when we are done with it.”--Buddy

Once the kids came with the gear, Buddy knelt and had them climb on using their magnetic seatbelts.

These were almost light the Earth car seats but they were specially designed to be placed on Buddy via magnets.

Nothing was going to peel them away from Buddy until the end of any trip.

As soon as everyone was ready Buddy shot upwards.

Did they scare the kids a bit?

Yes, but it was worth it.

Buddy flying through the night sky.

“You seem pretty fast for an old timer.”--Miko

Buddy huffs a bit.

“This old timer still has a few tricks up their metaphoric sleeve.”--Buddy

“Buddy.”--Jack

“But you shouldn’t fly too fast, you can pull something.”--Raf

“Buddy.”--Jack

“Oh, my sweet Rafael, I’m spry for my age.”--Buddy

“Buddy!”--Jack

“Yes Jack?”--Buddy

Jack points forwards.

“Predaking!”--Jack

Buddy wasn’t too bothered by the sight of Predaking.

But they might have forgotten how the kids didn’t know the other predacon like they had.

Soon the two Predacon’s were flapping their wings circling each other.

The clouds around them slowly formed around them.

Through a series of clicks and roars the two talked.

‘Buddy.’--Predaking

‘Predaking, how are you? It’s been too long.’--Buddy

‘Fine Buddy. How are you faring with the enemy.’--Predaking

Buddy huffing.

‘They are not the enemy of mine, Predaking. I’ve told you before.’--Buddy

Predaking’s turn to huff.

‘There’s a reason you wanted to talk isn’t there?’--Buddy

‘…You know me too well.’--Predaking

‘I would be an awful ‘grandparent’, as the humans say. At least that’s how I remember the saying.’--Buddy

Predaking huffs.

‘I have been considering… leaving the Decepticons.’--Predaking

Buddy raising their optics.

‘You have?’--Buddy

‘Yes.’--Predaking

‘I can put a good word in with the Auto—’--Buddy

‘No. At least… not now…’--Predaking

Buddy nods.

‘You still need time. I understand. Just let me know, okay?’--Buddy

Predaking nods and flies the other way.

Buddy huffs a bit.

“What.”--Jack

“Was.”--Raf

“That!”--Miko

“Oh yeah I forgot you don’t understand the clicks yet.”--Buddy

“Yet?”—Raf

“I will teach you three one day.”—Buddy

“Sick.”—Miko

“What did he want?”--Jack

“He just wanted to talk, nothing more.”--Buddy

They continued their flight before it was time to go back to base.

As Buddy touched down, they could see some of the Autobots come out of the base to see what was going on.

Buddy simply walked inside with the kids still on their back.

Buddy kneeling down so the kids could get down and take the gear off.

“Where were you four?”--Arcee

“Flying around Arcee. It can get stuffy in here.”--Buddy

“You know that someone could have spotted you?”--Arcee

“I am fully aware of that Arcee. I think with one of the largest alt modes here, I’d keep that in mind.”—Buddy

“Then why—"--Arcee

Buddy stands back up to full height.

“I do believe that there was a ‘Movie Night’ that you all needed to attend.”—Buddy

Buddy stretches a bit.

POP!

SQUEAK!

PANG!

“…”—Everyone

“…I’m old, okay. Haven’t you all heard of joints popping?”--Buddy

“Yes, but not like that.”--Bulkhead

Buddy lays down near the projector.

The kids follow with their blankets and pillows.

“Beep boop bop bep? (Do you need to see Ratchet?)”--Bumblebee

“I’m fine. Now let’s watch the movie the children have chosen.”—Buddy

Team Prime give Buddy a side eye, but ultimately gives in.

The Autobots crowd around the projector to watch the movie into the late hours of the night.

Buddy looks around, just happy to have a family together.

[rosemarytales]

Why I think the Madrigals believed Bruno to be dead

The adults only speak about him in past tense. "Bruno didn't care about this family". As far as she knows, if he's still alive and not back it means he actively still doesn't care about the family, so why not say that? Félix also speaks in past tense ("You better figure it out, because it was coming for you"). Julieta's "My brother Bruno lost his way in this family" makes sense regardless of whether she thought he'd died or not, but to me it does sound very final. Pepa cannot even hear his name without thundering. With the amount of love she has for him, the thought that he might have made himself a happier life in a town that does not shun him should bring her at least a bit of comfort, but she's inconsolable even after so much time. I'm sure there are more examples of this and if I can think of them, I'll add them in the replies.

The door going dark. Now, we know it stopped being lit because he had decided not to use his power anymore, but it makes far more sense for it to be because he couldn't use his power anymore (because he was dead). Casita, much like Bruno, can tell the future, so she knew he was going to use it again, the vow did not really count for anything. Are you telling me that anytime a family member leaves their room and considers not using their power for a while their door goes black?? It makes a lot more sense for the family to have thought he had died. The same applies for Casita not being able to help inside the room: it sounds like a metaphor for the Madrigals not being able to help Bruno anymore.

The deleted scene. In the "Chores!" deleted scene, Félix talks about a fight Bruno had with the family (possibly even the moment he left the family?). In this scene, Bruno displays actual suicidal tendencies ("I wish I was dead!"), and, when he leaves, his room starts rotting and decaying. This scene was removed in the final movie, because it is clearly too dark for kids, but we have no reason to believe that it is not still canon in the universe, as we can see that his room is actually decaying and falling apart. If a family member tells you they wish they were dead and then disappear leaving no trace, it is not a crazy jump to think they are not still alive, especially considering the next point.

Bruno left behind most of his belongings. We do not know how much stuff Bruno had in the first place, but when he leaves his room after the vision, we do not see him holding a bag (or anything really) and even if it's there, it is definitely not a bag big enough to sustain someone leaving their home for good. The stuff he has in the walls was likely gathered long after his family had stopped searching for him. He also has no money and the social skills of a rat, where was he even going??

The room falling apart. Not entirely sure about this, but I think the characters' rooms reflect somewhat the emotional state of their owners (Isabela's room in What Else Can I Do + if I'm not mistaken, Camilo's room is supposed to change colour based on his mood like a chameleon). This is further demonstrated by the stairs, which had been growing for years before Bruno actually left. This is a bit of a stretch, but I think the family could have seen one of two alarm bells in the decaying room: a) Bruno's room was decaying like him (kinda gruesome, but it makes some semblance of sense); b) it did not change at all for 10 years. I don't think rooms change only when their owner is in them, so Bruno's emotional state supposedly not changing for so long is alarming. But again, this point is the one that convinces me the least.

Dolores. Dolores mentions hearing Bruno in the walls three (3) times, in the movie alone: in We Don't Talk About Bruno, at breakfast ("and the rats talking in the walls") and in All of You. It's been ten years and she still mentions him constantly, so she's probably been talking about it since the very beginning, but no one believed her. So, a child keeps hearing their relative who disappeared without a trace in their family home, without seeing him and with everyone saying it wasn't possible. Logical conclusion? It's a ghost.

The family's reactions to him returning. Alma is the most striking. It takes quite a long time for her shocked face to wear off. Julieta is equally shocked as well, like she'd never expected to see him ever again. It could also be she just didn't expect him to come back. Pepa looks relieved, like she'd been on edge for 10 years and can finally know peace. Why would that be? The fact that he's back does not mean they are going to rekindle their relationship, but it does mean that she gets a new chance to show him she loves him, being the first to run to hug him. Her eyebags also show many a sleepless nights tossing and turning, maybe feeling guilty because she hadn't shown him her love enough and she thought she never could again.

Bonus: "The mountains around the Encanto are pretty tall!" In this scene, after Bruno says this sentence, he makes a weird face, like he's already considered how tall the mountains are and he's trying to understand if Mirabel caught onto that.

[toximblee]

hello smeefo nation ,,, new fic alert ???

ao3 has yet to send me an invite email so ill be posting this fic here :3 very inspired by 'feral love' by bdoubleds on ao3 !!! i wouldnt say its to the point of a rewrite but i thought the fire metaphor was too good not to try out ,,, absolutely open to criticism, but pls try to keep it polite :D i copied the text str8 from my word doc so the formatting is a little off in some areas for some reason :( word count : 967

              Etho was burning. He was being swallowed by it. Flames licking at every bit of his body, consuming. The red and yellow of his bone marrow was blackening, charring with the outside, crumbling off in pieces.

              Being red was smoldering him alive, and he wanted more. Uncontrollable. The forest fire in him would engulf everything in its path, taking him with it.

              The flame in his chest didn’t start out blue-hot and rising. Episode 1, as he was spawned into the Game, something was gnawing at his upper torso like someone had taken a diamond pick between his pecs and hollowed him out. Then he met Joel in the mines. Playing around, joking about how he was so disappointed. Beside the hole, a small, supine red candle-flame flourished to life.

              Then Joel built him the ‘Relation’ ship. The fire swelled, crackling orange and marigold. Joel’s hand fit perfectly in his as he dragged him along, and so did he himself inside the soulmate-shaped cave in his chest. With Joel above him that night, Etho took to memorizing every mole and freckle on his skin, and all the constellations they linked together to make. Committing to memory very scar and discolouration, and the sandy beaches and crashing, rolling, foamy waves that consisted of them.

              Etho began to fall in love with everything Joel did. With Joel. With the green streak in his bangs, how he stuck out his tongue in concentration while belatedly redying the clump of hair yellow in the Relation after their Joel-enderman caused death. With his little cackle-giggles. With how he softened the ‘th’ in Etho’s name to a ‘f’ as a result of his lisp.

He too, softened around Joel, trusting him so far as to close his eyes as his soulbound would pluck arrows out of his body from the pillagers and smear an herbal ointment stretched with an awkward potion over the openings. Relaxed as he woke in the early mornings to Joel beside him. Thanked his mask for hiding any sort of embarrassing emotion after Joel traced the scar across his one red eye with tender, feather-light fingertips. Not that it did too much for him, as the tips of his pointed ears would flush pink-red occasionally. Traitorous things.

The transparent string of the fishing rod wrapped around Joel as he was tugged up. Unable to clutch, he plummeted.

<Smallishbeans> fell from a high place

<Etho died>               Joel’s eyes had turned to red after they respawned.

“They killed me, Etho. They killed me.”

Red. Red. They were Red.

Yellow. Canary. White-hot.

Joel chased Pearl down, who was clutching his chestplate. He sliced at her with his diamond axe before she died and her items exploded out across the moonlit grass, the blue-teal of the head of his axe shimmering with red.

Red.

“Shouldn’t have messed with us, Pearl! Shouldn’t have messed with us!” Joel cried as he laughed and took his items back.

The others started scrambling and fleeing. Cowards. Etho’s gaze connected with one before they’d left.               ‘You really let him do that?’

Etho’s eyes conveyed a message of their own.

‘You think I can control anything he does?’

Nah. He was just along for the ride. Joel was an unstoppable force. No immoveable object would even slow him. He didn’t let Joel do anything. He simply watched, strapped into the rollercoaster that was his soulmate. The most he could do was throw his arms up and laugh along.

“You do have it, we’ve been- we’ve been told you have it, you just lied through your teeth to us,” manic, frenzied red eyes focused in on Scar as Joel cornered him, diamond axe to his throat, “do you wanna lie to a red-name, Scar?”

Nervous laughs, attempted de-escalation from Grian.

“Oh, you don’t have any sugarcane, huh, Grian?” Etho felt the red curse biting as he walked towards Grian, “No sugarcane?”

He reveled at the laugh and hiss through his teeth he heard Joel make, teeth bared under his mask mirroring the sharp grin of his soulbound’s that he knew was boring into his back. Joel had changed him, or perhaps it was the curse, or both, and he had to tug himself back from slicing at Grian, from watching the crimson flower bloom and blossom and pour out.

Etho had never been red for long before in the Life Games. His series always ended soon after. This, this was different. He was with the infamous Red Joel. He was alive, and the red curse was swirling in his brain, and he’d wake up in the middle of the night, crazed for blood.

The Games tinkered with everyone’s brains, especially when the end of them were close. Everything became more lucid, nothing seemed real. It made people do stupid things. Too stupid.

They burned the ship.

Blue. Perano.

“The ship burns, everything burns! The ship burns, everything burns!” Joel yelled, chanting hysterically as he sprinted across the server, flint and steel in hand as he set fire to anything in his path.

The ship had burned. Everything would burn.

The yellow streak in Joel’s hair was red. Smeared, having been dyed from soaking up the blood of his kills.

Joel screamed, groaning, growling after he’d killed Scott. His red eyes glowed. If Etho looked too long, too hard, he could spot the flames flickering behind them.

“Etho, they trapped it, get back through!” Joel’s voice was shaky for once, not with mania, but with fear. He sputtered incoherently as his hands scrambled, latching onto Etho.

And they laughed. Foreheads pressed together. Laughed.

<Etho> tried to swim in lava

<Smallishbeans> burned to death

The flame in Etho’s chest mixed with the lava, dwindling, flickering out, as did the ones behind Joel’s irises.

After all.

The ship burns, everything burns. Including them.