#how to increase height naturally

[ayurvedic-salah]

Discover natural and effective ways to How to Increase Height Fast and Naturally. Learn about the best exercises, nutrition tips, and lifestyle changes to help you safely maximize your growth potential. Whether you want to enhance your stature for confidence or health reasons, our expert advice offers realistic and scientifically backed methods to achieve noticeable results.

[bookdoctorconsultationonline]

How To Increase Height After The Age Of 21 For Male & Female at Livlong

Want to know how to increase height after 21? Many people are dissatisfied with their height and worry if they can do something about it. Learn how to increase height naturally by reading this blog.

[arolesbianism]

Wormwood hc hours

[hxnbi]

⸻ ❀°。❝ SHORT STACK ❞

requested by @kuppuru: furin boys + togame with short reader

pairings. hajime umemiya, hayato suo, haruka sakura, ren kaji, kyotaro sugishita, jo togame x gn. reader (separate)

note: tysm for your request! sorry if it took so long to write, i was suffering with exams but im finally free now. this goes to all my fellow short ppl out there 🫡 i also just wanted an excuse to find these goofy photos of my boys lmao

𝄞 ─ HAJIME UMEMIYA ♪♩ ₊⁺ 𐫱

What do you mean by that? You’re his significant other and that's all that matters! If anything, that only makes you even more adorable!

UMEMIYA's natural inclination to be clingy and protective intensifies tenfold when he's around you. As you often find yourself enveloped in his arms, whether it's at home, out for a walk, or even at a crowded event. He towers over you, using his height—and admittedly effective intimidation tactics, thanks to him being the leader of Furin—to shield you from the world’s troubles. 

"Up we go!" he jokes, effortlessly picking you up from out of nowhere and spinning you around like a merry-go-round carousel.

“Ume?!” you yelp in surprise.

Without realizing it, his face lights up like a neon sign, and he lets out a loud, joyful laugh. You’re so sweet! How could he not adore you?

Umemiya goes into press his lips against your cheek and buries his face in your neck. "You’re my perfect little charm." His laughter and love are almost infectious. 

Umemiya’s protectiveness doesn’t just stop at physical proximity, but extends to every aspect of your life. He’s always looking out for you, making sure no one dares to mess with you (not that anyone with a half-functioning nervous system would, anyway). Your height didn’t matter and will never matter to him, not when he sees you as his perfect partner and his other half, just the way you are.

𝄞 ─ HAYATO SUO ♪♩ ₊⁺ 𐫱

Without a doubt in my mind, SUO's a person who's all for teasing you. In fact, he revels in it. Even after calling the relationship official, Suo’s playfulness doesn’t stop. Rather, it only increases with time. Suo is all for teasing you about your height, flaunting his own height difference with that characteristic closed-eye smirk of his.

“Oh dear, do you perhaps need help?” he teases, pointing at something on a high shelf with one hand while the other resting at his back. “Would you like me to get you a ladder?” he asks 'kindly,' making you deadpan.

Suo finds your petite stature irresistibly cute, and he never misses a chance to remind you of it. But, to the surprise of nobody, like everything else in his life, he’s not as shamelessly open about it in public as opposed to in private. Rather, I see Suo bringing your height up when you least expect it, in hopes of getting a reaction from you recorded in his mind.

Though his teasing is always good-natured, Suo knows your boundaries well. He can tell when you're uncomfortable, especially around others. That alone is enough to make Suo's usual mischievous brows furrow, and he stares down whoever dares to cross the line, especially when he's around. His protective instincts kick in without hesitation. That, despite his constant banter, it’s clear that he adores you deeply, his eyes filled with warmth and affection so unlike his public persona that he discloses to the world.

𝄞 ─ HARUKA SAKURA ♪♩ ₊⁺ 𐫱

Okay, and? What about it? Who the fuck cares? He’ll just deal with anyone if they even dare to give you shit about it. SAKURA's nonchalant attitude towards your height is evident. He couldn't care less what others think, and he's ready to put anyone in their place if they dare to give you any trouble about it.

"If anyone has a problem with your height, they’ll have to deal with me," he barked, a protective arm around your shoulders. "And trust me, they won't like it.”

Nirei and Suo could only deadpan in unison seeing this. ‘He’s just a big softie…’ they both thought.

Regardless, his feelings for you don’t change. Sakura has also been through a lot. The people who berated and made fun of him due to things he didn’t have control over—his unconventional appearance—why do they care? Why should someone ever care? He understands how it feels to be judged for superficial reasons and is fiercely protective of you because of it. As for you? You felt warm, knowing he always has your back. 

Your height has nothing to do with who you are as a person, and he’s learning that, step by step. He’s always ready to defend you, ensuring you never have to go through the pain and ridicule he did, and not just because of your height, something you never had a peace or sovereignty over. Perhaps, he sees a bit of himself in you.

𝄞 ─ REN KAJI ♪♩ ₊⁺ 𐫱

Doesn't treat you any differently. And why should he? Is there some kind of top-secret reason that he's unaware of? Why should such a thing as height matter in his relationship? Dude grills his vice-captain Kusumi to get the full story, until he realizes that there is none. Tch, do you think he cares about bullcrap like that? Well suck it up, you shouldn't and never have to worry about such an outrageous thing.

KAJI continues to be his calm and composed self (when he isn’t blasting music until his ears bled), offering you the same level of respect and affection as always. Because, after all, "Why would your height change anything about how I feel?" he scoffed, putting back his headphones and closing the conversation right there, making you crack a smile at how matter-of-fact he was. 

Kaji’s grounded nature makes you feel secure. Height, weight, appearance, all those superficial aspects of a person doesn’t matter to him. It never did, because you never judged him for how he was. All he's doing is returning the favour to the one he one he loves, nothing more.

…So why are you looking at him with those sparkling eyes like he just found a cure for cancer?

𝄞 ─ KYOTARO SUGISHITA ♪♩ ₊⁺ 𐫱

SUGISHITA is in the same boat as Kaji, and, in actuality, it’s even more pronounced, as, while Sugishita doesn’t say a word, he’s quietly observant. Your height is just another characteristic to him that he loves in you, nothing that affects his feelings or how he treats you.

He is but a silent trooper that stands at your side.  Admittedly, it gets funny at times, seeing the difference in height between you and Sugishita, apparently especially when walking side by side. But he doesn’t mind. To him, your height is just another thing that makes you uniquely you. And all with a stoic grunt and a subtle smile that he tries to hide, but the hearts in his eyes don’t disappear with such that. 

“They’re so cute, aren’t they? You just have to show it!!” Umemiya says. And show it, he does.

The way Sugishita pats your head and cheeks, similar to how Umemiya would to the same to him, is his way of expressing affection—all in the most awkward way possible, as Sakura would scoff while the trio of Suo, Nirei, and him would from a distance. 

“...The hell is he doing? Does he treat them like a puppy or something?"

“S-Sakura-san!! Y-You might want to—”

All Sugishita would see was red, and it wasn't just from Suo's hair. "YOU—"

But don’t let that fool you. The end was anything but pleasant, as yet another chair became a victim of Sugishita’s wrath, and was broken that exact day, much to the dismay of Umemiya. 

𝄞 ─ JO TOGAME ♪♩ ₊⁺ 𐫱

TOGAME's initial reaction to your height is one of surprise, with the way he would stare and drill holes into your skull, genuinely amazed at how someone could be so short and yet so oblivious, like you didn’t have a care in the world. But his curious stare quickly transforms into admiration. At first, you really thought that he was judging you, from the way his eyes would stare down at you for seemingly uncomfortable amounts of time, but to Togame, it was nothing more than fascination. You were so petite (to him), to the point of being even adorable… 

Togame ran his fingers through his locks of hair. Shit, if you ever knew.

His best friend Choji is a bit on the shorter side, sure, but you? You were like some kind of tiny sprite. Unbeknownst to you, he finds your petite stature almost endearing in a way. And unintentionally or not, takes it as an opportunity to be even more attentive and caring over you. Togame’s affection is shown through his actions, whether it's reaching for items you can’t, or holding your hand protectively in crowded places. Whether it’s out of a sense of curiosity or if he truly loves you, one thing is clear, he can't help but show his affection in every little gesture.

©hxnbi. comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated ♡

[celestialowlbear]

🌿 ♡ Halsin NSFW Headcanon Drabble ♡ 🌿

Pairing: Halsin x Reader (GN)

WC: ~600

Warnings: 18+, NSFW. Smut. Mentions of marking, possessiveness, some fluffiness. Reader/Tav not described besides having soft skin.

A/N: I’ve been having major Halsin thots and had to get them on a page (hence the bulleted list). Enjoy, my fellow big Druid lovers. 😊

You are like nothing else he has ever experienced in his long life. 

He craves you, an insatiable hunger that burns his body from the inside out, and only you can tame that raging fire within him.

Your lips, your gentle touch, your sounds…

You are the rising sun, the soft glow of the moon, the peaceful breeze on a summer’s day, and life at the onset of spring.

Sometimes he wondered if he was a dead man walking, a specter of some sort, because being with you was heaven, or what he imagined it to be.

Halsin has to continuously control himself around you, at least while others are around.

When the camp was quiet and he had you all to himself, was when he could absolutely and utterly devour you, show you just how much he longs for you.

You let him lose control, wanting it, craving it yourself. 

You want to feel his fingers dig into your thighs, hear his louder and louder moans as you take more and more of him so, so willingly. 

When you are very much warmed up by his tongue and fingers, he finally fills you, sinking himself into you inch by inch, careful to never harm you and checking that it was never too much.

Halsin loves praising you, breathlessly comparing you to everything extraordinary and exquisite in nature and beyond.

His honeyed words spur you both on as his pace increases, the head of his cock caressing that spot so deep inside you it leaves you boneless and seeing galaxies.

You know he still holds back, the bear desperate to claw its way out, the primal urge raging under his skin as he pounds into you.

Halsin always wants your pleasure before his, making sure to get multiple orgasms out of you before he finishes. 

The way your body reacts, the way his name from your lips transforms from breathy whimpers to guttural moans of pure ecstasy is seared into his memories until the end of time, and that will still never be enough.

When you are finally spent, flushed and sweaty and thoroughly loved, is when Halsin takes what is his.

He loves flipping you on your stomach, gripping your thighs and pulling you up toward him, sinking into you with one thrust.

He mounts you, caging you in with his body, his bulging forearms on either side of your head, his lips at your ear, his broad chest pressing to your back.

You love it, feeling protected by him, encapsulated by everything that was Halsin.

The man, the bear, your lover, your mate. 

He is always able to get deeper in this angle, his fingers digging into the grass and dirt beneath you, his hot, growling breath on your neck as he finally loses his control.

Your soft body beneath him, the trust you have in him, the love in your eyes even as he fucks you relentlessly like a beast in heat, always brings him to his end, intense and blinding and all-consuming.

When you bask in the afterglow, Halsin carefully maneuvers you, checking you for any wounds he may have accidentally inflicted in the height of passion.

There’s usually a bruise or bite-mark or two, and you have to convince him it’s fine. 

You can tell he always feels bad after losing a bit of control, but part of him loves the fact that he’s able to see the marks on your body, reminding you and anyone else that you were his.

Then you lay in the grass, gazing up at the stars, your head on his chest.

He loves telling you stories about the constellations, and his deep timbre always lulls you into a peaceful sleep, with him following soon after, content in one another’s embrace.

-ˏˋ⋆ Thanks for reading, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! ⋆ˊˎ-

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI’s productivity theater

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

When I took my kid to New Zealand with me on a book-tour, I was delighted to learn that grocery stores had special aisles where all the kids'-eye-level candy had been removed, to minimize nagging. What a great idea!

Related: countries around the world limit advertising to children, for two reasons:

1) Kids may not be stupid, but they are inexperienced, and that makes them gullible; and

2) Kids don't have money of their own, so their path to getting the stuff they see in ads is nagging their parents, which creates a natural constituency to support limits on kids' advertising (nagged parents).

There's something especially annoying about ads targeted at getting credulous people to coerce or torment other people on behalf of the advertiser. For example, AI companies spent millions targeting your boss in an effort to convince them that you can be replaced with a chatbot that absolutely, positively cannot do your job.

Your boss has no idea what your job entails, and is (not so) secretly convinced that you're a featherbedding parasite who only shows up for work because you fear the breadline, and not because your job is a) challenging, or b) rewarding:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

That makes them prime marks for chatbot-peddling AI pitchmen. Your boss would love to fire you and replace you with a chatbot. Chatbots don't unionize, they don't backtalk about stupid orders, and they don't experience any inconvenient moral injury when ordered to enshittify the product:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

Bosses are Bizarro-world Marxists. Like Marxists, your boss's worldview is organized around the principle that every dollar you take home in wages is a dollar that isn't available for executive bonuses, stock buybacks or dividends. That's why you boss is insatiably horny for firing you and replacing you with software. Software is cheaper, and it doesn't advocate for higher wages.

That makes your boss such an easy mark for AI pitchmen, which explains the vast gap between the valuation of AI companies and the utility of AI to the customers that buy those companies' products. As an investor, buying shares in AI might represent a bet the usefulness of AI – but for many of those investors, backing an AI company is actually a bet on your boss's credulity and contempt for you and your job.

But bosses' resemblance to toddlers doesn't end with their credulity. A toddler's path to getting that eye-height candy-bar goes through their exhausted parents. Your boss's path to realizing the productivity gains promised by an AI salesman runs through you.

A new research report from the Upwork Research Institute offers a look into the bizarre situation unfolding in workplaces where bosses have been conned into buying AI and now face the challenge of getting it to work as advertised:

https://www.upwork.com/research/ai-enhanced-work-models

The headline findings tell the whole story:

96% of bosses expect that AI will make their workers more productive;

85% of companies are either requiring or strongly encouraging workers to use AI;

49% of workers have no idea how AI is supposed to increase their productivity;

77% of workers say using AI decreases their productivity.

Working at an AI-equipped workplaces is like being the parent of a furious toddler who has bought a million Sea Monkey farms off the back page of a comic book, and is now destroying your life with demands that you figure out how to get the brine shrimp he ordered from a notorious Holocaust denier to wear little crowns like they do in the ad:

https://www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/intelligence-report/2004/hitler-and-sea-monkeys

Bosses spend a lot of time thinking about your productivity. The "productivity paradox" shows a rapid, persistent decline in American worker productivity, starting in the 1970s and continuing to this day:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Productivity_paradox

The "paradox" refers to the growth of IT, which is sold as a productivity-increasing miracle. There are many theories to explain this paradox. One especially good theory came from the late David Graeber (rest in power), in his 2012 essay, "Of Flying Cars and the Declining Rate of Profit":

https://thebaffler.com/salvos/of-flying-cars-and-the-declining-rate-of-profit

Graeber proposes that the growth of IT was part of a wider shift in research approaches. Research was once dominated by weirdos (e.g. Jack Parsons, Oppenheimer, etc) who operated with relatively little red tape. The rise of IT coincides with the rise of "managerialism," the McKinseyoid drive to monitor, quantify and – above all – discipline the workforce. IT made it easier to generate these records, which also made it normal to expect these records.

Before long, every employee – including the "creatives" whose ideas were credited with the productivity gains of the American century until the 70s – was spending a huge amount of time (sometimes the majority of their working days) filling in forms, documenting their work, and generally producing a legible account of their day's work. All this data gave rise to a ballooning class of managers, who colonized every kind of institution – not just corporations, but also universities and government agencies, which were structured to resemble corporations (down to referring to voters or students as "customers").

Even if you think all that record-keeping might be useful, there's no denying that the more time you spend documenting your work, the less time you have to do your work. The solution to this was inevitably more IT, sold as a way to make the record-keeping easier. But adding IT to a bureaucracy is like adding lanes to a highway: the easier it is to demand fine-grained record-keeping, the more record-keeping will be demanded of you.

But that's not all that IT did for the workplace. There are a couple areas in which IT absolutely increased the profitability of the companies that invested in it.

First, IT allowed corporations to outsource production to low-waged countries in the global south, usually places with worse labor protection, weaker environmental laws, and easily bribed regulators. It's really hard to produce things in factories thousands of miles away, or to oversee remote workers in another country. But IT makes it possible to annihilate distance, time zone gaps, and language barriers. Corporations that figured out how to use IT to fire workers at home and exploit workers and despoil the environment in distant lands thrived. Executives who oversaw these projects rose through the ranks. For example, Tim Cook became the CEO of Apple thanks to his successes in moving production out of the USA and into China.

https://archive.is/M17qq

Outsourcing provided a sugar high that compensated for declining productivity…for a while. But eventually, all the gains to be had from outsourcing were realized, and companies needed a new source of cheap gains. That's where "bossware" came in: the automation of workforce monitoring and discipline. Bossware made it possible to monitor workers at the finest-grained levels, measuring everything from keystrokes to eyeball movements.

What's more, the declining power of the American worker – a nice bonus of the project to fire huge numbers of workers and ship their jobs overseas, which made the remainder terrified of losing their jobs and thus willing to eat a rasher of shit and ask for seconds – meant that bossware could be used to tie wages to metrics. It's not just gig workers who don't score consistent five star ratings from app users whose pay gets docked – it's also creative workers whose Youtube and Tiktok wages are cut for violating rules that they aren't allowed to know, because that might help them break the rules without being detected and punished:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/13/solidarity-forever/#tech-unions

Bossware dominates workplaces from public schools to hospitals, restaurants to call centers, and extends to your home and car, if you're working from home (AKA "living at work") or driving for Uber or Amazon:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/10/02/chickenized-by-arise/#arise

In providing a pretense for stealing wages, IT can increase profits, even as it reduces productivity:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

One way to think about how this works is through the automation-theory metaphor of a "centaur" and a "reverse centaur." In automation circles, a "centaur" is someone who is assisted by an automation tool – for example, when your boss uses AI to monitor your eyeballs in order to find excuses to steal your wages, they are a centaur, a human head atop a machine body that does all the hard work, far in excess of any human's capacity.

A "reverse centaur" is a worker who acts as an assistant to an automation system. The worker who is ridden by an AI that monitors their eyeballs, bathroom breaks, and keystrokes is a reverse centaur, being used (and eventually, used up) by a machine to perform the tasks that the machine can't perform unassisted:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

But there's only so much work you can squeeze out of a human in this fashion before they are ruined for the job. Amazon's internal research reveals that the company has calculated that it ruins workers so quickly that it is in danger of using up every able-bodied worker in America:

https://www.vox.com/recode/23170900/leaked-amazon-memo-warehouses-hiring-shortage

Which explains the other major findings from the Upwork study:

81% of bosses have increased the demands they make on their workers over the past year; and

71% of workers are "burned out."

Bosses' answer to "AI making workers feel burned out" is the same as "IT-driven form-filling makes workers unproductive" – do more of the same, but go harder. Cisco has a new product that tries to detect when workers are about to snap after absorbing abuse from furious customers and then gives them a "Zen" moment in which they are showed a "soothing" photo of their family:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/ai-bringing-zen-first-horizons-192010166.html

This is just the latest in a series of increasingly sweaty and cruel "workplace wellness" technologies that spy on workers and try to help them "manage their stress," all of which have the (totally predictable) effect of increasing workplace stress:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/15/wellness-taylorism/#sick-of-spying

The only person who wouldn't predict that being closely monitored by an AI that snitches on you to your boss would increase your stress levels is your boss. Unfortunately for you, AI pitchmen know this, too, and they're more than happy to sell your boss the reverse-centaur automation tool that makes you want to die, and then sell your boss another automation tool that is supposed to restore your will to live.

The "productivity paradox" is being resolved before our eyes. American per-worker productivity fell because it was more profitable to ship American jobs to regulatory free-fire zones and exploit the resulting precarity to abuse the workers left onshore. Workers who resented this arrangement were condemned for having a shitty "work ethic" – even as the number of hours worked by the average US worker rose by 13% between 1976 and 2016:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

AI is just a successor gimmick at the terminal end of 40 years of increasing profits by taking them out of workers' hides rather than improving efficiency. That arrangement didn't come out of nowhere: it was a direct result of a Reagan-era theory of corporate power called "consumer welfare." Under the "consumer welfare" approach to antitrust, monopolies were encouraged, provided that they used their market power to lower wages and screw suppliers, while lowering costs to consumers.

"Consumer welfare" supposed that we could somehow separate our identities as "workers" from our identities as "shoppers" – that our stagnating wages and worsening conditions ceased mattering to us when we clocked out at 5PM (or, you know, 9PM) and bought a $0.99 Meal Deal at McDonald's whose low, low price was only possible because it was cooked by someone sleeping in their car and collecting food-stamps.

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/article/2024/jul/20/disneyland-workers-anaheim-california-authorize-strike

But we're reaching the end of the road for consumer welfare. Sure, your toddler-boss can be tricked into buying AI and firing half of your co-workers and demanding that the remainder use AI to do their jobs. But if AI can't do their jobs (it can't), no amount of demanding that you figure out how to make the Sea Monkeys act like they did in the comic-book ad is doing to make that work.

As screwing workers and suppliers produces fewer and fewer gains, companies are increasingly turning on their customers. It's not just that you're getting worse service from chatbots or the humans who are reverse-centaured into their workflow. You're also paying more for that, as algorithmic surveillance pricing uses automation to gouge you on prices in realtime:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

This is – in the memorable phrase of David Dayen and Lindsay Owens, the "age of recoupment," in which companies end their practice of splitting the gains from suppressing labor with their customers:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-06-03-age-of-recoupment/

It's a bet that the tolerance for monopolies made these companies too big to fail, and that means they're too big to jail, so they can cheat their customers as well as their workers.

AI may be a bet that your boss can be suckered into buying a chatbot that can't do your job, but investors are souring on that bet. Goldman Sachs, who once trumpeted AI as a multi-trillion dollar sector with unlimited growth, is now publishing reports describing how companies who buy AI can't figure out what to do with it:

https://www.goldmansachs.com/intelligence/pages/gs-research/gen-ai-too-much-spend-too-little-benefit/report.pdf

Fine, investment banks are supposed to be a little conservative. But VCs? They're the ones with all the appetite for risk, right? Well, maybe so, but Sequoia Capital, a top-tier Silicon Valley VC, is also publicly questioning whether anyone will make AI investments pay off:

https://www.sequoiacap.com/article/ais-600b-question/

I can't tell you how great it was to take my kid down a grocery checkout aisle from which all the eye-level candy had been removed. Alas, I can't figure out how we keep the nation's executive toddlers from being dazzled by shiny AI pitches that leave us stuck with the consequences of their impulse purchases.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/25/accountability-sinks/#work-harder-not-smarter

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[k4vehrtz]

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE YOUNG, YOUNG LOVERS? dom ! nanami kento / sub ! m. reader

content warnings. nsfw content / hybrid au ergo predator - prey dynamic where applicable / bunny hybrid ! nanami & reader / explicit mentions of and allusions to social anxiety / age gap (reader is 25 + nanami is 45) / satosugu cameo / self - degradation (brief, nanami) + mild degradation (r receiving) / fingering (r receiving) / spontaneous sex / ‘bunny’ & ‘little rabbit’ used as a pet name / doggystyle / ass‐to–mouth / overstimulation / heat cycles / nipple play / explicit consent / reader is shorter than nanami but there is no explicit description of a body type / virgin nanami ergo loss of virginity

word count. 3K

notes. i’ve had this bunny ! reader req in my inbox for a while and it has been on my mind so i decided to explore a couple ideas :) i’m dyslexic so any errors just give the fic personality

nanami had, over the course of his life, nurtured a particular distaste for other human beings.

he’d grown up in a city — one that never slept; a city that hummed to the tune of debauchery. busy days pre–empted busier nights. and he’d always remember two things: one, that the winters were cold, but the people there were always colder and two, he’d stuck out in a crowd.

hence, at the age of forty–five, he’d decided to leave.

“… so let me get this straight,” satoru, who’d made it his mission to mimic a koala, says as he untangles himself from suguru after having concluded that this was, in fact, a serious conversation. “you’re moving to a small town to avoid human interaction more efficiently instead of addressing your underlying social anxiety?”

satoru naturally spoke faster than the average individual, but his pace increased near the end of his sentence. nanami pretended not to notice (something he’d become exceptionally good at).

“real subtle, smart ass,” suguru hadn’t though, narrowing his eyes at his partner before turning his attention back to nanami, “i think it’s a good idea, better environment to write and all.”

writing, yes. he’d gotten in the habit during high school. it was nothing more than a hobby — something to pass the time between classes. being a loner by choice (as he’d liked to call it), he’d had a lot of time to get lost between the lines of an empty notebook. and being a creature of habit (in the self–proclaimed ‘right’ opinion of the startlingly blue–eyed man sitting across from him), he’d made a career out of it.

“i…suppose,” he responds almost nonchalantly, lacking the energy that his two closest friends possessed.

he hasn’t written since his last work — a collection of essays on how one’s perception of their surroundings is impacted by one’s perception of oneself — was published two, almost three years ago.

he’s embarrassed, a sensation that sticks to his skin uncomfortably and the silence that falls between them only exacerbates his discomfort.

“i’ll see you two, then,” he speaks up after the silence proves to be too much for him, standing to his full height in a bashful sort of way that can only be described as endearing — typical for rabbit hybrids.

the two fox hybrids, long since accustomed to the abrupt end of get–togethers, exchange their goodbyes as they stare at his retreating form with sympathetic eyes.

and nanami, instinctively observant of his surroundings to a fault, doesn’t have to turn around to know the expressions that colour their complexions. he can feel it — the eyes of predators following his every move.

he exhales slowly through his nose: once, twice, and then a third time before the intensity of his heartbeat subsides. they’re his friends, not a threat.

his stride resumes, albeit awkwardly, with full awareness of the fact that he has a problem. he’s had a problem for a long time. but running comes naturally to prey animals.

designated ‘safe spaces’ for prey animals had become the norm in recent years following a series of unfortunate events. the café you worked at was one such establishment.

“…i’m so sorry for the delay, my co–worker called in sick so i’ve been on my own and today is a lot busier than—”

nanami clears his throat, his intention crystal clear, and your ramble comes to an abrupt end.

warmth gathers beneath the surface of your cheeks as you raise your gaze to his, though he swiftly looks away, “what can i get you?”

without looking at the menu, he responds, “a croissant,” and you interject, “so you’re the croissant guy!”

he stares at you for a moment before slowly repeating after you, “the…croissant guy?” and when you smile at him, he can’t help but think that he’d need sunglasses if you were to do that again.

you apologize for the second time before continuing, “you should know by now that there aren’t that many people that live here and, between you and me, even fewer people that buy our croissants,” a distinct warmness to your tone.

nanami nods thoughtfully, responding curtly with an indifferent, “i see,” as he pays for the pastry before finding himself someplace to sit with his laptop.

it’s been a week since he’d first arrived and he considers himself familiar enough with his new surroundings. all that was left to do was to write but, as it turns out, a change of scenery only goes so far.

as he stares at the empty document on his screen, his thoughts wander back to a few minutes ago. you’re a new face — he presumes the co–worker you’d mentioned was the barista he’d met before.

but his thoughts wander so far before you appear at his side, croissant in hand, “i heard you were an author, that’s pretty cool,” and your seemingly perpetual smile curling your lips.

you mean no harm; it’s merely an attempt to be polite, making small talk is perfectly normal. but nanami isn’t normal, he feels strange, a surge of anxiety materializing seemingly from thin air.

“you heard?” he repeats after you, stumbling over his words, and he feels stupid and embarrassed.

you tilt your head to the side, your overly large ears flopping as you do so, before taking it upon yourself to sit across from him.

“isn’t it great to have places like these to ourselves?”

he raises a brow at the sudden change of topic but you continue nevertheless, “i think it’s great, ‘cause you get to meet people who understand you. there’s a book club at the library down the street this saturday, i think you should stop by if you have the time to spare,” before excusing yourself, leaving as fast as you came.

nanami lowers his eyes to the croissant, not entirely sure of what had just happened. while you stare at him from behind the counter, a complex mixture of emotions colouring your expression.

“i think you should go; it won’t hurt to get out of the house.”

satoru’s voice echoes through his laptop’s speaker and nanami falls into contemplative silence.

“besides —” suguru interjects, “you’ve been seeing that therapist, right? i bet she’d agree that this is a step in the right direction,” moving into the camera’s frame as he settles down on satoru’s lap.

they’re not wrong; he, deep down, knows that they’re not wrong, but he hesitates all the same.

“i don’t know,” he breathes out after a moment of silence, pushing the pickled vegetables around his plate with his reusable chopsticks absentmindedly.

the line of communication falls silent once more and then suguru responds, “whatever you decide to do, we support you,” before ending the call.

and nanami exhales slowly, staring at his reflection on his laptop’s screen. he’s aged (of course he has), baby fat no longer rounds his cheeks, and crow’s feet round the corners of his eyes.

but, even now, he stands out — and nanami hates standing out.

he’d stood out among his peers; other prey animals were shorter, always shorter. there was always ‘too much’ of nanami — it made him easier to spot and made his movements awkward. he never fully knew what to do with himself.

rabbit hybrids were meant to be small and cute, two things nanami wasn’t.

you, on the other hand, were the epitome of society’s expectations; smaller and sociable. at least, that’s what he’d observed over the past four days. and he doesn’t hate you for it — ‘hate’ is too strong of a word to describe how he felt.

‘envy’, however, leaves a bad taste in his mouth, it ruins his already depleted appetite, and he pushes the ceramic plate of pickled vegetables away from him when the thought crosses his labyrinthine mind.

he doesn’t envy you; that would be absurd. but, isn’t that what this world is, absurd?

‘it is’, he decides as he changes into more suitable clothing for leaving the house — abandoning his pyjamas for a white shirt tucked into the waistband of black slacks. it was plain, nanami liked plain; he liked uniformity.

but you, you again, you were anything but plain.

as he rounded the corner of the library after receiving directions from the librarian, a sweet elderly woman, your brightly coloured sweater caught his eyes first. it stood out amidst the piles of books of all different shapes, sizes, and colours that surrounded you.

his gaze flickers to the watch around his wrist, an all too familiar sensation creeping up on him. he’d come too late. but the sound of your voice drags him out of his thoughts before he can spiral any further. hell, he hadn’t even noticed when you approached him.

“you should get out of your head sometime.”

he narrows his eyes at you, not entirely because of what you’d said (though it played a role) but because of how you said it. now that you were in such proximity to one another, he can’t help but acknowledge that you look terrible.

you sound as though you’d just run a marathon, your chest rising and falling in quick succession. without thinking he presses the back of his palm against your forehead, beads of sweat dampening his skin but he doesn’t mind. you’re burning up.

“christ,” he grimaces as he gives you a once–over, adrenaline coursing through his veins as his own body begins to heat up in a similar manner.

so, this is not a regular fever, duly noted.

“i don’t consider myself a believer but each to their own,” you grin, a lopsided type that nanami swore could give him cavities. but now is not the time for that.

he clears his throat, making the conscious decision to ignore the growing strain of his cock against the fabric of his slacks, and asks carefully, “do you need a ride home?”

nanami’s studio was a blank canvas; untouched white walls, and brand–new furniture (some still encased in its plastic wrapping) in different shades of grey. even in your heat–induced haze, you could tell that this was a ‘house’, not a ‘home’.

he doesn’t comment on it though, so you keep your thoughts to yourself as he gently guides you to his designated bedroom.

the mattress sinks under the combined weight of the two of you. your chests rising and falling in sync as you stare into each other’s eyes, your oversized ears touching in a way neither of you knew could be so pleasurable until now.

“i look old enough to be your father,” he murmurs, his voice breathier the longer his body hovers over yours. and your response comes between laboured gasps, “i’m—oh shit, you’re big—twenty-five, don’t worry, i’m a big boy.”

you can feel his growing erection through the fabric of his slacks against your own. and the air between the two of you feels charged, igniting as he lowers his lips to your throat, his warm breath feeling like miniature needles against your sensitive skin, “do you or do you not want this?”

it’s the question of the hour and you nod eagerly but he pauses, holding your chin between the soft pads of his thumb and index finger as he tilts your head upwards, “i need words, bunny, think you can use your words f’me, bunny?”

your lips part, a low, open–mouthed moan cascading down your tongue before you manage to form a coherent response, “i want ‘you’, not ‘this’.”

and your choice of wording is not lost on him, he hears you loud and clear.

“i’ve never done ‘this’ before,” he blurts out, embarrassed by his lack of cleverness when compared to your confession only moments prior.

it is the truth though; something he prides himself on being to others — truthful. although it’s up for debate how forthcoming he is with himself.

he had, however, every intention of taking you back to your place wherever that may be. but as the distinct floral scent indicating the arrival of your heat enveloped the confines of his car, he had to make a decision that was for the best of both of you. driving while approaching his heat was no better than driving while intoxicated; thus, the choice was clear.

“i can teach you,” comes your response, sounding as though it took a great deal of effort to say whilst pushing yourself up into a seated position, unintentionally bumping your forehead against his in the process.

“it’s so warm,” you both groan in unison as you pull away from each other, removing all articles of clothing deemed ‘unnecessary’ which truthfully rendered you both nude.

your state of undress mattered not, though, as nanami promptly leaned to the side, rummaging in the upper drawer of his nightstand for a moment before retrieving a lubricant specifically designed for rabbit hybrids (a gift he’d received from the ocean–eyed freak) and handing it over to you.

which you happily accept, coating both your own and his fingers in a considerable amount of lubricant before leaning against the headboard and spreading your legs.

you carefully guide his palm between your legs, gently nudging the tight ring of muscle with one of his fingers.

“i haven’t done this in a — fuck fuck fuck, your fingers are thick,” you hiccup, your breath catching in your throat as you rapidly descend into a string of curses as his finger breaches your entrance. the sudden intrusion hurts, but in the midst of your heat, it’s enough to send you over the edge, your toes curling as ropes of cum erupt from the head of your cock.

and there’s that bad taste in nanami’s mouth again, clinging to his bones and invading his muddled thoughts: ‘you just have to be perfect, don’t you?’ but with it comes the realization that he’s the reason why you’re like this and it fills him with an odd sense of satisfaction.

determination renewed, and perhaps in tandem with his desire to experience such relief, he cautiously adds another thick finger whilst you come down from your high.

“is penetration all it takes to send you over the edge, little rabbit?” he questions, curling his fingers towards what he presumes is your prostate, and you can’t help but whimper.

it’s strangely degrading when you think about it; nanami, a rabbit, a prey animal like yourself taking on a dominant role. a role that isn’t in his nature thus his tone remains mild–mannered whilst his words and actions, while cautious, are the exact opposite. 

 another finger is added — the total amounting to three now. you’re stretched around three of his thick fingers as he memorizes the layout of your insides, curling his fingers in such a way that he grazes your prostate with precision.

instead of teaching him, you’re rendered speechless as he maintains a steady pace with his fingers. the sound of your gasps, moans, and whimpers creating a symphony in the otherwise silent studio.

by the time he retracts his fingers for the final time, you’ve already climaxed two more times, your cum splattered across your bare abdomen.

“you’re so easy, little rabbit,” he whispers as his lips ghost yours before fully enveloping them in a heated exchange of saliva. there’s no real heat behind his words but you shudder nevertheless.

when nanami pulls away from your lips, it’s solely because you both need air. a string of saliva, however, remains connected to both of your lips, a testament to the heated kiss.

as you both catch your breath, you take it upon yourself to reposition yourself so that you’re on all fours, gleefully presenting yourself to nanami who obliges you.

your thighs tremble in silent anticipation of what’s to come, your loosened ring of muscle winking invitingly. but it’s not his cock — no, when the wet muscle breaches your entrance you squeal, almost losing your balance had nanami’s hands not been on your hips.

it’s a strange sensation — his tongue in your ass, his warm breath wafting across your most sensitive region. but you slowly adjust as he ravages you, lapping at your puckered entrance as you subconsciously clench and unclench.

and in a matter of minutes, you’re climaxing once more, the muscles in your pelvis twitching convulsively as your erect cock spurts ropes of cum onto the sheet beneath you. 

nanami pulls away from your ass with a ‘pop’, aligning himself with your entrance before easing into you and savouring every spasm of your gummy walls. he doesn’t move until he’s buried to the hilt, angling his hips as he thrusts into you with a steady pace, his balls colliding with your sensitive skin.

you’re overwhelmed by a sense of euphoria, having experienced multiple orgasms. so much so that salty tears roll down your cheeks as you feel nanami throb inside of you, the angry tip of his cock bullying your prostate relentlessly.

he truly is brutal, desperately chasing his high as one of his hands wanders up to your chest, taking your nipple between his thumb and index finger and teasing it.

nanami’s thoroughly bullying you but you can’t even protest, ‘uh–uh–uhs’ tumble past your lips in rapid succession along with the overwhelming urge to please him rearing its head.

thus, you endure his assault on your body until you fall limp on his mattress in a puddle of your cum as his leaks out of your entrance, some cascading down your inner thighs.

you’re still asleep when nanami wakes up the next morning, golden rays filtering into his apartment through the blinds. and he takes it upon himself to wipe your unconscious body with a damp towel from head to toe before taking a shower and heading into the kitchen.

a sense of dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he ponders the various directions the conversation the two of you are bound to have may go. but with it comes a new perspective.

[muntitled]

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬 𝐄𝐏. 𝐈 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐦𝐚𝐧

❝ 𝘾𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙚𝙚, 𝙄'𝙢 𝙖 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙣? ❞

Pairings: Park Seonghwa x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Being begrudgingly seduced by the anarchist

Warnings: Language, Enemies to Lovers, Cop!Reader, Revolutionary!Seonghwa, Implied Violence, Crazy Form!Au, Seduction, Smut (+18, minors dni) Corruption Kink, Innocence Kink, Masochism, Humping, Fingering, pet names, Rough Sex, Massive Degradation Kink, Dom!Seonghwa, Sub!Reader, Squirting, Humiliation, Unprotected Sex, Hate Sex

A/n: I might turn this into a series featuring all the Pirates with their own smutty little parts because I cannot help re-watching the Crazy Form mv. It's too good

The very sight of the undulating mosh pit has your stomach rolling with nausea as you enter the dimly lit warehouse. The corrugated walls are illuminated only by various splotches of neon paint, and you suddenly feel the uncanny need to pray as you enter the crowd.

You begin to grow fearful, not onky because this crowd might birth a fresh panic attack, but because you fear for your focus as well.

That you may not be swayed from your mission.

The Intel that led you and your police partner here had been incredibly difficult to come by because every one of their little followers were so terribly loyal.

So naturally, upon receiving a tip off about a show being hosted on the seedier outskirts of town, you had no choice but to attend.

In this unpredictable field of law enforcement, of one thing you are completely certain: There will always be a clear distinction between the good and the bad and they are as bad as they come.

They are common criminals, and there is nothing else to it.

In fact, referring to them as anything but, feels like a gross display of exaltation. Exaltation, which is, evidently, what they are used to.

Disgust is smeared across your face as you and your police partner sieve your way through drunken bodies swaying to the sound of Seonghwa's voice. Although you're shoving roughly past people, all in an attempt to get to the front of the stage, you can not help but marvel at the crowd, undulating to the beat of a bandit.

His face, along with the faces of 7 of his fellow delinquents were smeared across every wanted poster in the city, and yet here he is, raging into a microphone while the crowd cheers his name.

“If I hear ‘Seonghwa’ one more time I fear I might shoot myself in the foot,” you call out, to your partner not far behind, “Keep a tight grip on your weapons, please,” you say, craning your neck back as you palm cradles your back pocket with the Glock 14 nestled inside, “We don't know what any of these idiots are on and I dont think we want to find out.”

Your civilian attire is successful in keeping the attention off of you and your partner as you break out of the heat and anxiety of the moshpit, right in front of center stage.

Seonghwa is right above you, cradling a microphone as if it were the Holy grail while his accomplice, a very inebriated San, bounds across the stage, stirring up the crowd like Seonghwa's personal hypeman.

You could almost feel your vexation increasing to ungodly heights.

Everything about this egregious display of egomania makes your blood boil raging hot, and although these are only 2, you find your hands clenching in anticipation of being one step closer to putting all 8 behind bars.

Your hatred seems to be oozing out of your pores because soon, you catch his attention. Perched on a stage elevated amongst the masses, he is looking at you now. You. Instead of any of the other drunken groupies in the crowd begging to get even a sliver of attention.

With both hands cuffed around the mic, he peers down at you and winks before belting out the final words of the song.

How badly you itched to bind his wrists with your silver cuffs.

How badly you wished to get him and his insolent underlings off the streets.

"They do know how to capture an audience… we can at least give them that," Your head snaps sideways as the words of your partner rouses what little patience you're already working with.

You tap lightly at his badge. The sound of your nail hitting the metal is drowned out by the raucaus applaud but your police partner watches you intently as you cooly say, “Don't forget why we're here, Sergeant,” your voice holds caution as the noise of the crowd trickles down.

The set ends, and the man on stage drenched in flamboyant white linen bids the crowd a ‘Very good night’. He strolls off stage, not without giving you one last, knowing glance.

‘If you catch me, it's because I let you catch me,’ is what those eyes seem to be saying.

So much for blending into an unsuspecting crowd.

“These are not your friends. They're common criminals.” Your voice is louder now, with the absence of that Seonghwa's cacophony. “Stay here, make sure none of these degenerates kill themselves.” You're hellbent om following Seonghwa off the stage, but your partner's light snickers have you pausing slightly. You raise your eyebrows in questioning.

“You speak about them like they're not just fans," Your partner shakes his graying head, "Like they're complicit,”

“They are." You almost immediately reply with a narrowed gaze. "As far as I'm concerned, their fans are just as bad as them.”

With those parting words you make your way towards the part of the warehouse sectioned off from the rest of the crowd, where Seonghwa and his accomplice disappeared off to in the wake of their applause.

You reach what appears to be a backroom hidden behind the makeshift stage. It is far quieter than the rest of the warehouse pulsating with cacophony. You do not miss the slight apprehension that swallows you whole when your feet stop you from venturing over the threshold.

“It doesn't look like you have a backstage pass,” San sits beside Seonghwa on a couch positioned in the focal point of the small room. You recognize hid face as another one of the men whose visage was stamped in a very large police docket on your desk.

“Apologies,” you murmer to San, “I only have one of these,” you raise your police ID to the side of your face and San rises from his seat in mild curiosity. He sinks closer to you while Seonghwa, the man who held most of your attention, sits reclined, with his legs spread on the wide sectional.

He sits lazily, almost kingly under a giant white sheet. A flag plastered to the wall, with a giant, obnoxious, A carelessly spray painted in black.

“I thought we said no fans allowed backstage." San says in a sing-song voice, blatantly ignoring your badge with his giant shoulders now bending down to your height. The circumference of his hat casts a wide shadow over you, all in a clear display of intimidation. "That counts for pigs, too.”

His steely gaze never wavers from your face, and you fight valiantly to keep your emotions tamed under a calm, nonchalant reserve. "If you're a cop, where's your uniform?" San does an obnoxious display of racking his eyes over your body.

"Your dad's place," you whisper cooly, "I couldn't put it on in time."

Your words have an unmistakable smile cracking on the sides of San's face. "I enjoyed that very much."

"I thought a degenerate like you might." Despite your words, San is still smiling. In fact, you fear yourself at risk of slipping right into that enchanting gaze of his were it not for the interception of the third voice in the room.

“How interesting,” Seonghwa's voice cuts through the tension blistering between you and San like a white, hot knife.

“Leave us.” San's head snaps backward towards his accomplice, and all Seonghwa does is smile as they communicate, quite literally without words right in front of you. Seonghwa evidently 'says' what is needed in order to get San slyly leaving room. Not before tipping his hat in parting.

With your attention now focused solely on the man ok the couch, drenched in the white linen, whose arms are outstretched and resting on the headrest, you suddenly find yourself completely and unfortunately unsure.

You had met plenty of prisoners. Dined with manner delinquents and questioned many criminals, it is only in his presence when you feel your usually tough reserve quaking at the smallest fraction. In the face of what is apparently true rebellion.

“Why don't you have a seat,” he snickers when he finds you already stepping over the threshold, making yourself all too comfortable in an evil space. Nothing good existed beyond this point.

“I hope you enjoyed the show,” There is a depth to his voice that is regrettably tickling down the edge of your spine, dousing every bit of pateince you had.

“You call it a show… I call it inciting a riot,” you shrug, finally choosing to sit beside him on the wide sectional. Far too close beside him and his outstretched arms.

Despite the warning bells, you refuse to exhibit any fear.

“Is that why you're here?” His voice remains steady as he focuses it on tracing the tips of his fingers against your shoulder. He wants to see how quickly his touch could elicit a valley of goosebumps.

He is all too pleased to find you shivering in protest.

“You're here to arrest me?” In all honesty, Seonghwa enjoyed watching you try to push him away for the sake of your precious morals. Call it masochism, but there is something enticing about a woman who so very clearly abhors everything he stands for. Seonghwa cannot help but find it almost irresistible. His captain always remarked on Seonghwa's enjoyment for not only fixing broken things but also obsessing over them.

You did not know that the frown plastered across your face only accelerated his racing heart more. Desire plunged through his arteries as he immediately recognized you as a challenge.

Something to perhaps break.

It would be so incredibly satisfying, especially because you represented everything he despised in this wretched world.

Order.

“Actually, no.” You say, staving off another shivsr as you evade Seonghwa’s steadily heavy growing eyelids. “We received a call that someone was disturbing the peace.”

“In an abandoned warehouse?” He asks, voice airy and tone almost dismissive because he is much closer to you now, leaning towards you, as if enchanted by your very scent. You watch him with apprehension as you begin to feel the very first signs of what you regrettably realize to be attraction.

However, you can not move off the couch now because you can not control any of your motor functions in your concrete bones. Every one of your morals howl for you to get away from this man. To cuff him, send him down to the precinct and convict him for... something…

but that 'something' does not come quick enough, and he's leaning closer to you, with both arms still resting on the couch behind you. Before you can blow up your entire career, and close the distance, you wrangle some bit of sense to turn your head sideways, evading his half lidded eyes and slightly parted lips.

Your blatant rejection rouses him slightly, and he readjusts himself in his seat. Seonghwa brings his legs together to better manage the heat rushing to his cock in the wake of your rejection and apparent attraction (and immense frustration) as he shifts even closer beside you.

“You will find no disturbance here,” he says, “Only music.”

His words release the floodgates of your vexation, and your head snaps as you fire off. “Music that you weaponize to spew your delinquency.”

“Ah. Ah.” Seonghwa dips his head down to your ear as he whispers, “Delinquency, or rebellion?”

You're laughing humorlessly into the air, effectively causing Seonghwa’s smile to widen and his cock to stiffen completely in the confies of his pitch black dress pants. You are oblivious to his eyes, watching you as if you hung the very moon.

“You and your… freaks preach your vitriol and call it ‘rebellion’ when all you're actually doing is polluting our city with riots and crime.”

“You don't wish to be liberated from an oppressive world order?” He adjusts himself again, getting far too excited with the way this conversation is flowing. Your wide eyes and high vibrato do little to calm his restlessness.

“What oppression!?”

His voice is quick and monotonous, “Capitalism. Classism. Racism.” His fingers clench and unclench before swiping against the back of your neck, “Why do you willingly submit to a system that is simply un-winnable? We want you to free yourselves from the hierarchy. Fucking wreck the system-”

“You're fucking Pirates,” you spit the word out, unwokowungly snapping the very last of your reserve before Seonghwa is pulling you into a heady, heavy kiss by the nape of your neck.

"Fuck yes," He whispers before pulling you in as if you weighed absolutely nothing and you let him. You let his lips move languidly against yours as your hands fall against his chains and the white linen frills spilling from his collar. His hand is still positioned on the nape of your neck and he squeezes, forcing you to kiss him back. He groans into your mouth when you begin to work with him instead of against him. You mouth falling open as his tongue collides with yours.

Vaguely, in the background, outside these four walls, you can hear the crowd beginning to cheer once again as raucous music spills from unseen speakers. You can hear San beginning to sing into a mic, and your hand on Seonghwa's shirt curls imperceptibly.

“You're so beautiful…” You hate how easily his words affect you. You hate what a slave to desire you seem to be as he leans back to immediately push his hands in between your legs.

“Tell me to stop,” he challenges, keeping his feline eyes trained on you as he unclips the buttons of your jeans with one hand. “Tell me you don't want this disgusting delinquent to make you cum over and over again.”

Your lips are pursed painfully, and you throw your head back with your eyes clenched shut as you lift your hips. All the better for him to wriggle your jeans down to your ankles.

As he brings your legs up to his lap to pull off your jeans completely, Seonghwa's movements become all the more reckless and all the more urgent.

“All the same,” he murmurs before kneeling on the floor in front of you, “You conformists are all the fucking same.” Your eyes flutter open, along with your mouth, and the very moment your gaze locks onto the spray painted flag, hanging above you, Seongwha pushes aside your underwear, immediately spearing your dripping cunt with his long fingers. You release a broken moan into the air and his smile has blossomed into a full-on lopsided, evil grin as he brings your knees up to frame his face.

“2 seconds,” he taunts, in between your chorus of broken moans going head-to-head with the sound of San’s sensational belting, “it took me 2 seconds to have you humping my hand like a pretty fucking slut-”

Despite the pleasure coursing through your body, you still manage to keep your teeth clenched as you murmur, “You're the one… fuck… you're the one kneeling in front of me like my personal whore-”

Seonghwa's eyebrows raise, and his eyes glint in excitement at your taunting. He prided himself on being someone who could take as much as he gave out, and you're doing a terrific job at holding his attention when so many other people fell short.

You were interesting, of that, Seonghwa was sure.

“You make me want you so bad, Dove,” he admits before swiping his other hand over his stiffening bulge to the rhythm of his hand pushing in and out of your cunt.

“You drive me fucking crazy-”

“You're already crazy- fuck, just like that! Please don't stop-” your clenching around his fingers, eyes locked on his wide, excited eyes and his close lipped smile as brings his other hand to swipe over your clit.

The very second his calluses make contact with your swollen, puffy clit, you're cumming around his fingers. San’s vocal rages and your screams pour out as you fight to keep your eyes open. Seonghwa's fingers are still pushing into you relentlessly, and your heart sinks when you realise the seat underneath you is drenched with your arousal.

Seonghwa's mind is flooded with the image of you squirting so shamelessly around his fingers. Seeing you give yourself over to him so seamlessly made him feel absolutely restless with arousal, and he's pushing you down onto the couch before you're able to fill the air with idle protests.

His clothes suddenly feel too constricting and he curses the black corset as he wrestles with the buttons of his collar. He does not care that the buttons are flying onto the floor because he is clambouring onto the couch and hovering over you as he slots his hips in between your open legs.

“I need you to make a mess for me,” he whispers, before pulling his collar open, showcasing a patch of his tanned chest to your wide eyes. You unbuttoned your own shirt at the very same time that Seonghwa pulls down the zip of his pants, and he nearly whines at the sight of your breasts spilling out of your top. You are using him just as much as he is using you.

“Just like that, baby,” He nods, forcing his cock deep inside you as you begin to tweak your own nipples to stave off the discomfort of being stretched open so completely.

“F-Fuck- Seonghwa…” He is still nodding as he bends down towards you. Strands of his black hair tickle your face as he positions his hands on the side of your head and ruts into you with urgency. “I don't think I can take it-”

“You're already taking it so well, Baby.” He coos, as he forces his cock deeper and deeper into your clenching walls.

“You're taking everything I have to give and you're doing it flawlessly,” his praises are like that fashioned from a poet and the sheer artistry behind mere words have your head flying backwards as you release a torrid moan into the air.

“Where are you going?” He asks with a breathless laugh as he brings your head back by the grip of your throat. He is driving his cock inside you, his own frills spilling over your skin as he chokes you relentlessly.

Seonghwa is the very sight of violent beauty: hair mussed with his collar completely undone. His corset is still fashioned around his waist but it succeeds in tightening his abdomen, bringing him closer to the edge as the torrid sounds of your fucking fills the air.

"Fuck I'm close,” He grunts with his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his skull. "Tell me you hate me-" he whispers.

"I hate you," you moan out. "I hate you so fucking much-" It fell from your lips so easily because it is the God honest truth. Despite the spell he currently has you under, in the eyes of your aspirations, and everything you've ever worked hard for, you hated him and people like him. People who threatened to dismantle the progress lawmakers have strived to protect. And so, with your orgasm crwsting and your toes clenching, you whisper those words over and over to him. And every time to tell him you hate him, he chokes you harder and fucks you deeper.

"F-Fuck- 'Hwa I'm-" he nods, eyes now incredibly pained as he drives his cock into you with no chance of stopping.

"Cum for me," His whisper has you reading a broken moan into the air and Seonghwa watches as you descend into the depths of your euphoria.

"Gorgeous-" He exclaims through clenched teeth as his own hips begin to stutter, "You're so fucking gorgeous-" He whimpers before spilling inside you.

You're both moaning into the air, at the very same time that Choi San appears at the threshold.

"You work fast," San says languidly. He shifts his gaze from your horror-stricken gaze to Seonghwa who stares at his accomplice with a smirk on his face.

"I work smarter," Seonghwa says, "not harder." You're very much aware that he is still very much inside of you in front of a complete stranger but that panic dissipates when you realize Seonghwa, himself, is nothing but a stranger...

"The police is not gonna be a problem for us anymore, right?" He asks sweetly before dipping his head down in between the crook of your neck. You are starkly aware that your silence is answer enough...

[azrielhours]

Lessons on Relief

Azriel x Reader

Word count: 3k

Synopsis: Azriel is the last of the boys to lose his virginity

Warnings: Smut

A/N: picture az in his early twenties guys lol

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That one likes you, Az,” Cassian whispered, ever the devil’s advocate. “She’s always staring.”

Azriel peered over to where Cass nodded and found a beautiful female watching him, picking clothes off a laundry line. Azriel blushed and broke your gaze when you smiled.

“See?” Cassian chuckled. It’d never been explicitly stated, but Azriel wondered if Cassian knew; of the three brothers, Azriel was the only one who was still a virgin.

That was unheard of in a camp full of warriors, males that perspired pride, who turned to females for relief on grounds meant to harden boys to soldiers. Where fucking and fighting were equal measures of a warrior’s value.

Azriel was late. He’d known nothing but hardness, coveted by powerful males for his shadowsinging. Yet he was still to outgrow his shyness. He’d look at the pretty Windhaven females from afar, brushing off his brothers when they’d insist he should talk to them.

When they spoke about their time with women, Azriel listened carefully. Tales of resistance, of increasing endurance. Of angles and rhythm, speed and relief.

He committed the words to memory so he’d know what to do when he’d finally work up the courage to see through to his need. To seek it inside a woman instead of his fist.

In truth, Azriel couldn’t imagine the females overlooking the scars on his hands, his quieter nature. Yes, he’s noted many of them admiring him, the shy glances cast his way, but he felt like he was overstepping by approaching one.

He’d never known softness in his life, so he didn’t know what to do with it when it came in the form of a woman. In their delicate bones, how they needed to crane their heads up to face his towering height. How they spoke like music, their bodies—supple hips and round arms. Azriel tried to be respectful, to avoid staring, but he loved it all. Sometimes it was a pudge at the base of their bellies, sometimes it was tiny waists. Sometimes it was full breasts, sometimes it was hips with an inward dip in the bones.

He may have yet to bed a woman, but God—that didn’t stop him from wanting them.

And that female—Azriel had seen you before, charmed by your forward nature, how you always held his gaze. You’d finished packing the clothes, hauling the basket onto your hip. “Maybe you’ll see her at the bonfire,” Cassian said.

Azriel watched you walk away, how your hips swayed. You turned one last time, smiling again, and this time, he cracked a smile back.

~

Azriel arrived late with Rhys and Cassian, making their way to a bench amongst the warriors. Everyone was in high spirits, drinking heartily and singing Illyrian folk songs. The steady rhythm of a drum beat in Azriel’s heart, and he let the music wash over him as he accepted a drink from Cassian.

The alcohol buzzed in his throat, releasing the tension in his shoulders as he settled. His brothers were conversing with the men nearby, giving Azriel the chance to scope out the ground. Some men were playing drinking games, some recounting tales, and some were pulling girls up to dance. That’s where Azriel spotted you.

You were even more beautiful in the firelight, glowing like precious jewels, dancing with a group of friends, laughing brightly. Azriel noted many other males watching you, hunger in their eyes as they took in your free-spirited twirls, how you bunched your skirts up to attempt the correct steps. Azriel downed his drink, but it did little to suppress his jealousy.

Rhys nudged his arm. “Go get her a drink.” Before Azriel could refuse, Rhys snatched the empty pint from his hands, pushing him off the edge of the bench until Azriel stumbled off, forced to stand. Cassian nodded in encouragement.

Azriel took a deep breath and made his way to the barrel of ale, filling a cup.

That was when he sensed movement, and it dawned on Azriel who was entering his company. He took a sip for courage.

His nerves were replaced with pleasant shock when he felt you touch a gentle hand on his elbow.

Azriel turned, and there you were.

You smiled sweetly up at him, hands tucked behind your back.

God, did Azriel love the softness of women.

“What’s your name?”

“Azriel.”

“Hello, Azriel."

He returned your easy smile.

Your eyes darted around playfully. “Aren’t you gonna ask me what my name is?”

“Oh—yes. What was your name?”

That pretty grin again. “Y/N.”

Azriel relaxed further. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

He didn’t know what to say next, but you didn’t seem to mind.

“You know, you’re not like the other Illyrians,” you continued.

“How so?”

You shrugged. “You’re not so… domineering.”

Azriel frowned. “Domineering?”

“Like, you’re not the ruffian type.”

He laughed. “The ruffian type?”

You waved a hand. “You know what I mean. I’ve never seen you make any advances on the women. And God knows they’re all dying to be talked up by you.” He looked to the ground, and you laughed. “I’ve never seen a warrior blush.”

Azriel smiled. “I don’t think there’s a shortage of Illyrians being flustered by you.”

You stepped closer, eyes bright. “So you can flirt. Took you long enough.”

 Azriel’s brows rose in amusement. “I was… playing my timing correctly.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right,” he grinned.

“Well, Azriel, since you got the plan all figured out, where do we go from here?”

Before he could suggest returning to the bonfire, to let him watch you dance, you traced a finger down his hand, feeling the raised skin. He tracked the movement, then met your gaze. There was no hesitation in your eyes. You only weaved your fingers through his.

Azriel swallowed, trying to compose himself. “I’m feeling like we could use a change of scenery.”

You stepped closer. “I agree. Will you walk me home?”

Oh.

“It would be my pleasure.” Azriel thanked the Mother for the steadiness in his voice, the same couldn’t be said about his heart.

To his eternal delight, you didn’t release your hold on his hand.

You didn't mind his hands.

Azriel’s heart raced. Sounds of the bonfire grew distant as you led him between and around paths and houses until you stopped at the door of a quaint cottage.

You still held his hand even as you fished in the purse around your waist for a key, leading him inside. You released him, beaming at him as you toed off your shoes.

“You live alone?”

“My father's working in a different camp, and my sister's probably seeking her own fun tonight,” you smiled crookedly.

Not her first time, then.

Azriel just nodded.

Your gaze softened, studying his rigid posture. "You don’t… do this often?"

"Uh, not—not really.”

Your lips parted in realization, and Azriel's face burned with shame. But you just smiled sweetly, reaching once again for his hand. He obliged, holding your smaller hand, vigilantly studying your face.

"That's okay, darling," you spoke, voice honeyed. “I mean, we don't have to—”

"I want to,” he blurted.

Your smile never faltered. “Me too.” A reassuring squeeze to his hand. As if doubling down on your eagerness, you reached behind your back with your free hand, holding his hand securely between both of yours. You led him to the stairs, oblivious to how it made Azriel’s heart soar.

Azriel felt warmth coursing south. The familiar sensation of arousal heightened his bodily awareness, making him breathe deeper.

He realized he had permission to look. To want. His gaze roamed down your form before him—how your body curved and dipped. His need for you calmed the edges of his nerves.

And when the scent of your desire reached his nose, he was honed in. Hungry. He'd heard of lust overtaking people, how it became an all-consuming sensation, but to feel it outside the walls of his bathroom was liberating in a way that felt wholly correct.

You entered a room, lighting a faint faelight.

Good, because Azriel wanted to see it all.

You approached him with a certainty that had Azriel’s breath catching. The need in your eyes mirrored how he felt. He wanted to touch—to taste—

You ran your fingers down his arms. He brought his hands hovering by your frame, available for you to hold again if you pleased. You did just that, yanking down gently, rising on your toes.

You wanted to kiss him.

Azriel exhaled in relief, letting his mouth fall onto yours. Your hands inched up to his neck, pulling your body flush against his. Your lips were soft and warm, moving gently against his. He placed his hands on your waist, pulling you firmly to his body, spurred on by how you moaned into his mouth. You bit his lip and he felt his trousers tighten. Your hands roamed down his front, all the way to where he ached.

When you traced down his stiffness, he broke off from your mouth to watch. Your delicate fingers traced down. He instinctively covered your hand with his, halting at the sight of his scars—maybe you didn’t want them touching your flawless hands—

He released your hand, trying to tuck his away. It was more jarring to see them in the light of your room. You tracked his movement, and Azriel braced himself for your change of mind. You wouldn’t want him to touch you anymore.

You met his gaze with a pinch between your brows. Reaching for his elbows, you tugged his arms back forward, tracing down his forearms to his wrists. Then you lifted his right hand to your mouth.

His breath stuttered when you placed featherlight kisses along his hand. You opened your mouth, putting two of his fingers inside. Azriel’s mouth parted, mind utterly blank as he watched. You sucked his fingers, gaze unbreaking. Your tongue licking freely along his skin reignited the heat in his blood, brought back the ache in his pants.

You pulled his fingers out of your mouth, tugging his shirt out of his trousers. Message received. Azriel tugged it off, dropping it to the floor. Your eyes were dilated, chest rising quicker as you deftly traced down the ridges of his muscled front. Down to his belt when you met his gaze. So he unbuckled his belt with shaky fingers. Anything she wants is fair game. You turned your back, scooping your hair to expose your corset to Azriel as he stepped out of his pants, utterly stripped.

Azriel didn’t allow himself to hesitate. He undid the tie, gently loosening the strings. You shimmied out, pulling your skirt down before turning to face him only in your shift.

You maintained eye contact as you reached for the neckline, tugging it down over your shoulders. Over your collarbones, your breasts, your elbows. Letting it pool at your feet.

Bare.

Mother spare me.

You were everything. Maybe he shouldn’t stare even though he knew he had permission; maybe it was juvenile to take you in like oxygen, but Azriel could do nothing else. He drank in your form like it was his salvation. Studied your silhouette like it was his sole purpose. Down your ankles, up your thighs, your stomach—

You reached for his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips. He tried to breathe deeper as lust baited his sanity. He swallowed at the feel of your softness. You guided his hands to your waist, onto your stomach, up around your breasts.

You released him, letting him take what he wanted. Azriel couldn’t breathe. He squeezed the flesh, noted how it made your mouth part. He ran his thumb over your peaked nipples.

Your pleasure only spurred his need. He would make you feel as good as you already did him. He would—he would please you.

He repeated the motion—anything to get you to—

You gripped his length where it leaked against his stomach. Azriel gasped, jolting. You stroked down and back up, watching his face, setting a steady pace. Azriel’s face contorted, mouth parted as he breathed shakily. His hands dropped to your hips as he tried to focus on anything but the coiling sensation deep in his belly, or your audible breathing that brought him closer—your fingers moved faster, making his muscles tense, his hips bucking forward into your hold, all the while your eyes never left his. His heartrate sped as his breathing grew shallower and you massaged pleasure right into him—

With a gasp, Azriel came undone, ropes of his spend pulsating out of him onto your stomach. You didn’t let up, continuing until Azriel shuddered at the overstimulation, grasping your hand to cease your movement.

He heaved as he came down, knees weak.

Blood rushed to his face as he met your hungry gaze. He came too fast—that wasn’t how this was meant to go.

But you didn’t balk. Your dilated gaze held his, desire colouring your cheeks pink. You weren’t… put off by how fast he finished.

You took his hand and pulled him to your bed to sit. Immediately, your hands were on his shoulders, kissing him. Hungrier than before. Azriel was done with reluctance. He was going to take what he wanted.

He pulled you into his lap, relishing your surprised gasp. He pulled you closer, letting his want guide him. He kissed your jaw. That neck. He nearly growled, letting himself indulge in the softness. Letting himself taste it. Your soft sighs were music to his ears. His hands ran all along your form. Down your arms, across your back, squeezing your ass.

When you were a panting mess in his arms, he released you. The scent of your need was an aphrodisiac he’d happily overdose on. Your hands shook as you brought his hand to your apex where your legs parted on his lap. He let you position his hand, gasping with you at the wet warmth he was met with.

You showed him how to touch you, how to move his two fingers against the plush softness of your sex.

Azriel hardened again at the feel of the wet ridges he stroked. You released his hand, your whole body trembling. Your mouth hung open, brows pinched. He began moving faster, curious to see what would—oh.

You whimpered.

Your pleasure turned him on more than anything he’d ever fantasized about. When you began rolling your hips onto his hand, losing control, Azriel bent forward and captured the peak of your breast in his mouth.

You cried out, gasping as your legs widened and then closed tightly around his hips. He rose to watch, keeping his hand nestled between your legs.

Your eyes were screwed shut as you fell off the precipice, grasping his hand away. Only then did he let up, and you exhaled, your body relaxing onto his lap.

Azriel wasn’t sure if… this meant that it was over, if you were spent, but one thing he knew for certain was he’d take being painfully aroused without finishing anytime if it meant he got to bring you pleasure like that. He was content with going home now and taking care of himself, no matter how much he ached for more if it meant watching you come like that.

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing him. “More,” you spoke huskily. “I want more.”

Thank God.

You got off his lap on unsteady legs, laying back on the bed, and the sight of you spreading your legs for him was nearly his undoing.

But Azriel took steadying breaths, rising and positioning himself over you. His hips hovered above yours, arms holding him up on either side of your frame.

Azriel felt something entirely instinctive take over. He knew where he wanted to bury himself. Where he needed to. He forgot about his worries. There was only the drive to push himself inside.

There was the rest of the world, and then there was you.

He notched the head of his aching length against your heat. You reached down and helped guide him, lining it up correctly. Lower—there, his length rested upon a soft indent. Azriel shuddered. He could hear your heart beat frantically.

He took a shaking inhale and pushed his way in. Just an inch.

His mouth parted, and that feeling—that absolute bliss that was your tightness squeezing him—Azriel couldn’t think.

This was it.

He didn’t realize he’d needed it; all he knew in the wake of your silky warmth was that this was utter relief.

There was an urge to sink in. To sheath himself.

But when he dared push forward, you tensed. Cassian’s tales echoed in his head, to not be a brute, to not take pleasure at the cost of comfort. That it can sometimes feel like breaking for females. Flashes of his father’s brawny form crossed his consciousness, giving him the strength to fight the urge to bury himself. Not him. I’m not him. So Azriel breathed through the reflex, resisting, resisting, resisting. Until you relaxed. Still, Azriel held back.

He must’ve begun shaking because your hands were suddenly soothing up and down his arms, stroking through his hair, grounding him back on earth. “It’s okay,” you breathed. With your feet planted on the bed, you hauled your hips up, spearing yourself further onto his length.

Azriel hissed. You were a temptress, taunting his self-restraint. But Azriel was a fiend, and he wanted you more than he could recall wanting anything.

So he watched as you relaxed again and gave more. Your head rested on the pillow, lolling to the side as you sighed in relief. You liked it, he confirmed. Females want it too.

He gave an experimental pull, relishing the feel of your walls tugging against his withdrawal, then he thrust forward, this time even further. Your brows pinched, giving him momentary pause again until he realized it was in pleasure, not in pain. You nearly took all of him.

It was so good. His head began clouding, a haziness that had him closing his eyes as they rolled back. He understood why the others talked about sex like it was better than breathing.

Another slow withdrawal until only his tip was notched inside, then he pushed forward, finally plunging to the hilt, his hips rested flush against yours. Azriel tried to stay present, to study your writhing, your panting, but the warmth inside you was making it difficult to focus. Azriel dropped to his forearms to keep himself from buckling onto you, the pleasure testing the strength in his arms.

He buried his head into your neck, listening to your erotic moans, holding his breath to keep from losing himself. He waited a few beats, willing away the oncoming precipice he felt approaching. No. He wanted this to last.

Then, you began rolling your hips from beneath him. Azriel groaned, low and guttural.

He set a steady thrusting pace as that knot of pleasure began growing again. He wouldn’t have lasted this long had you not brought him to release by your hand before.

Raising his head to watch, he found your brows pulled taut with pleasure. He was bringing you that pleasure. He wanted to see you tip over the edge again. “Y/N,” he rasped lowly. You opened your pretty eyes in question. “Keep your eyes on me,” he commanded; the darkness displacing your irises pulling a grunt of deep male approval from him.

You whimpered, trying to focus on his eyes, but yours kept falling shut involuntarily. He had the gall to halt when you failed to oblige, as if he could want anything more than to rut inside forever.

With his length paused halfway, your eyes flared, staring in shock. Azriel held your gaze, but yours narrowed in challenge. You planted your feet on the bed once again and began rolling your hips onto his length at the same pace he’d been previously working. It was intoxicating.

Azriel’s jaw dropped, eyes falling to where your bodies met, watched as you speared yourself onto him again and again.

The sight nearly undid him, but luckily, it got you first.

The roll of your hips brushed your apex against his pubic bone, and you whined as you pushed yourself over the limit of your release.

Your hips fell back onto the bed when you couldn’t take it anymore. Azriel seized the opportunity, fucking into you faster as your walls clenched around him. You cried out, gasping. Your warmth suctioned him deeper, squeezing him in waves. Azriel’s climax was harder than he’d ever come before. His arms shook and he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

The pleasure at last abated, and he let himself partially rest his weight on you for a moment until the feeling returned to his body. You stroked down his back, exhaling in relief. Azriel lifted himself, staring at you with wide-eyed bliss. Holy shit.

“That was so good,” you breathed. “Where’d you learn to… how did you—”

Pride swelled in Azriel’s chest as he broke into a crooked smile. “I had the right motivation.”

You glared playfully. Azriel finally pulled out, halting when you gasped. But you shook your head at his concern. “It’s okay—it’s just sensitive after—” you gestured between your bodies. He nodded, falling into bed as you yanked the covers over yourselves.

“But you’ll be okay?” Azriel asked tentatively.

You laughed, eyes closing happily. “I’m more than okay, Azriel.” You traced a hand tiredly over his arm.

He tracked the movement. “I love that,” he murmured.

“You love what, darling?”

“The softness,” he confessed quietly. The softness of women.

You smiled with your eyes closed, winding your arms around his neck, sinking against his body. Azriel enveloped you. “Come find me anytime you want some more softness,” you breathed.

He listened to your breathing as you fell asleep; despite the relief relaxing his body, it took a while for him to fall asleep from the vivid intimacy he felt with you in his arms, how settled it made him feel.

So Azriel basked in it, didn’t fight it as it crept into the crevices of his weary soul and quietly healed him until the sky turned to light.

~

Azriel walked through the camp on light footsteps, his head blissfully clear. He was savouring the rare peace he felt, knowing it was only a matter of time before—

“There you are,” Rhys smiled widely, coming out of the communal hall with Cassian. “Looks like someone’s feeling rather relaxed.”

Azriel cracked a smile, neither confirming nor denying.

Cassian grinned. “Was it with her?”

Before Azriel could respond, he heard soft female chatter drawing nearer. He turned to find you walking to the hall with a friend. You didn’t halt your stride, only brushing the back of Azriel’s hand softly with your own as you passed, throwing a teasing smile over your shoulder.

The boys tracked your movement, giving Azriel the chance to nod while he still had your attention. You had him wrapped around your finger. Cassian laughed boisterously when they faced him once more. “You sly dog, Azriel Shadowsinger.”

He heard you faintly laughing up ahead, having heard Cassian. That gentle, feminine sound caressed him, making him smile easy.

Indeed, he could learn about softness.

~

taglist: @iimisty-a @feyretopia @aroseinvelaris @cullenswife @reiincarnatiion @sfhsgrad-blog @answer-the-sirens @mrstangerinejohnson @marigold-morelli @courtofjurdan @azriels-mate123 @emotionless-lover @marina468 @slvtherinseeker @owllover123 @banasheefan56 @nyotamalfoy

a/n: I’ve been obsessed w this concept for weeks. Young az w his troubled past learning to find reprieve in women? like have you guys ever thought about his first time? he could barely look at Mor when she arrived at Windhaven, how’d he work up the courage to bed a female pls. Special s/o to darling @princess-tulip-writes for helping me w the title and listening to me vent about this obsession :) love you all

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

I read your NSFW Makeout HC for Nat, Seele, and Bronya. Could you do one for Stelle and Firefly?

(Honkai: Star Rail) Makeout HC's with Stelle and Firefly

Mild NSF-W under the cut!

Quoth the Futaba: "OOF, I THIRST"

Stelle's kisses are strong.

Her lips crash onto S/O's, for lack of a better term.

Stelle's fingers grip onto their shoulders, pulling them close to her as she closes her eyes.

Her tongue is not far behind, as they brush against S/O's lips, waiting for entry.

As soon as there's an opening, she moans as her kiss grows deeper, her arms lowering onto S/O's back and laying down on top of them.

The weight of her small body is entirely on S/O, only coming back for air for a few seconds before plunging back in.

Despite how short she is, Stelle's strength is nothing to scoff at, which was evident anytime she began making out with her S/O.

Whether she wants them on top or bottom, they are not moving.

All the better for her as she tilts her head to a more comfortable angle, taking her time and enjoying S/O's taste.

Pulling back, there is a thin strand of saliva connecting both of their lips.

Even though there's an ever-increasing blush on her face, it doesn't stop her from panting and continuing where she left off, her hands growing bolder in where they explored by the second.

Firefly at first makes an absolutely adorable squeak the moment S/O's lips brush against her cheek.

It takes her a second to register what happened before giggling, and then giving S/O a light peck on the lips.

And depending if S/O wants to continue, the pecks evolve into longer kisses, which Firefly's twilight eyes close as she slowly leans further into them.

Both her arms are pressing against their cheeks as she stands on her toes to properly reach S/O if they were taller, repeating the same action even if they were near the same height.

Regardless, Firefly starts humming with every kiss, flinching a little in surprise once she feels their tongue.

With a deep sigh, Firefly lets her tongue twirl around theirs, her soft moans growing increasingly louder.

Even though such a passionate act was getting heated, Firefly still took it slow, letting her mind go blank.

Firefly absolutely loved kissing, feeling S/O's arms wrap around her as she did the same.

With her strength, it doesn't take much for her to either push S/O onto their back and have them stay, or keep them on top of her.

Despite her more shy nature when it came to these things, depending on how she was feeling that day, she can easily go from very submissive to the one initiating the makeout.

After all, this act was fueled by love, and Firefly wanted to show how much she loved S/O.

[theres-a-body-here]

Scumtober- Day 5 (Size Difference)

Montgomery Gator x Male!reader

prequel fic

One would think you'd be afraid of Monty's massive frame and aggressive nature, but you never really felt in danger when he was around. That is probably why management made you his caretaker.

The other band members were concerned. Monty had a reputation for driving away his caretakers, the longest one lasting 3 days. You remember when Freddy pulled you aside and told you to come to him if Monty ever made you feel unsafe. You thanked him but said it wouldn't be needed.

Monty....tolerated your existence. You were quiet, small, reserved, and tidy. You also never got angry at him when he messed his room up. You opted to just get to cleaning as he watched you from his couch. That pretty much ensured that he wouldn't go out of his way to be mean to you. And after a while, Monty just naturally became attached to you. In his own "bad boy gator" way.

Did he mention how small you were? Because you were.

Even for an average male height, his frame was simply bigger. You don't know why the Pizzaplex designed all the animatronics that way. Your neck was starting to get sore from having to look up when talking to the band members

Monty found it funny. He tries as much as he can to be close to you. Pressing his larger body against yours and then making some comment about how he could squish you. You never stopped him, you liked the closeness.

So you probably should have seen this coming.

Monty maintained eye contact with you as he undid your belt buckle. Your spine tingled under his piercing red glare. Despite how he usually was, there was a gentleness to his movements. Like he didn't want to scare you off.

Monty watched in amusement as he pulled your pants down, revealing your cock as it pusled with anticipation. Despite havering an average-sized cock, compared to his monstrous member, it looked almost comical, like a child's toy next to a grown man's weapon.

Despite his initial amusement, he couldn't help but feel a stirring of protectiveness towards you. Seeing you stand defenseless before him, exposed and vulnerable, filled him with a strange sense of possessiveness.

Monty approached your exposed groin carefully, his massive form casting a shadow over yours. Even kneeling in front of you as you sat on his couch, he towered over you, dwarfing everything in sight.

Slowly, he extended his tongue, curving it around to form a perfect O shape. His hot breath fanned against your sensitive flesh, causing goosebumps to rise along your thighs.

Tentatively, he pressed his tongue against your cock, feeling its softness contrast sharply against his rough textured skin.

You let sharply intake air as you feel his surprisingly warm tongue lick your cock. Instinctively, you reach out to try and latch onto his mohawk for better leverage.

Monty wasn't having it.

He presses his large metallic hand to your chest and gently pushes your back onto the couch. Monty may like you, but he wants to be in control.

Monty continued to suckle on your cock, keeping a careful watch on your reactions. He loved seeing the way you moaned in pleasure, the tremors running through your body as he took more of you into his mouth. And despite the fear that sparked in your eyes whenever you saw those sharp teeth, he relished the opportunity to showcase just how capable he was in such intimate situations.

As if to tease you, his massive maw opened wide, revealing rows upon rows of sharp teeth that threatened to tear apart more than just his belongings. You tensed up knowing he was messing with you. With a sly smirk, he engulfed your cock completely, his hot breath fanning against your pelvis as he sucked greedily.

You felt yourself nearing climax. You gently squeeze his hand as a warning.

"M-Monty....." You manage to moan out softly.

At your warning moan, Monty paused briefly, his piercing red eyes locked onto yours as he waited eagerly for further instructions. However, instead of increasing his pace or going faster, he did the complete opposite—he slowly drew back until just the tip of your cock touched his lips before pushing forward again, taking your entire length to the hilt.

You let out a wail of ecstasy as you cum. Every single muscle in your body tensed up, desperate to hold itself together as you came and came again, coating Monty's tongue with your thick, salty seed.

Even as you shook from the force of your orgasm, Monty showed no signs of slowing down. Instead, he applied more pressure onto your chest with his hand, holding you down firmly in place as he suckled greedily at your spent cock. His powerful jaws flexed, milking every last drop of cum from you while he maintained eye contact.

Monty pulled back, releasing your cock from his warm, wet maw. You laid back on the couch, exhausted after your intense orgasm. Monty sat down beside you, wrapping his massive metal arm around your slender frame. Despite his size, he managed to position himself comfortably next to you without crushing you under his weight. You leaned into his warm embrace, nestling deeper into his chest as you listened to the soft gator bellowing he was making.

Scumtober 2023 Masterlist

[macabr3-barbi3]

a request, a need, a plea even:

shotgun kiss with human!alastor

ANON I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG THIS HAS BEEN IN MY INBOX SINCE MAY 😭 I PROMISE I NEVER FORGOT ABOUT YOU AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY

The air is cold when you step outside the diner, fingers trembling and goosebumps erupting along your arms. You had claimed it was for a smoke break, but really you just needed to get out of the building for a moment- the loud, boisterous group that had taken up residence at one of your tables had been grating on your nerves all night, and you knew they weren’t going to tip well, so you just needed a break. You had forgotten your cigarettes at home, and your fingers itch to actually hold one between them, but you would take whatever reprieve you could get. 

Gravel crunches nearby, and you turn to see a man step into the alleyway behind the diner with you. Tall, lean muscles and a mop of dark, curly hair, you greet Alastor with a smile as you always did. He gives you a wave, soft and timid as he approaches, like you haven’t had weeks of time to get to know one another on your smoke breaks during work; you from the diner, him from the broadcast station across the alley.

You make polite conversation for the better part of your break, talking about his most recent shows and the reporting that he had been doing on the serial killer in New Orleans a couple towns over. As always, the air is amicable and comfortable between the two of you while he smokes down towards the butt of his cigarette. It was always nice to spend time with him- he was polite, charming, and handsome as the Devil himself. Who could blame a gal for falling a little bit in love?

Your coworker steps out and lets you know that your table had skipped out without paying, shooting a wink your way when she notices Alastor with you, and the need for a nicotine hit increases tenfold; you’re ashamed to admit to fluttering your lashes coyly at him. “Alastor, you mind if I bum one of those off you?” You ask him demurely, gesturing to the cigarette he holds as he brings it to his lips and to the light.

“Ah, haven’t you learned to keep your own on hand after all this time? I’m afraid this is my last one, my dear,” he says, and your heart sinks while you watch him blow rings into the cool air of the night. “Don’t look so put out,” he chuckles, stepping closer and wrapping a hand around your waist- the shock of it prevents you from putting up any real fight against it, relishing in the warmth that greets you when he pulls you into his chest. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t share.” He takes another strong suck of the cigarette and leans down into your personal space, hand coming up from your waist to coax your lips open with his thumb before he slides it into your hair.

He cranes his neck to meet at your height, lips just barely brushing yours before he’s exhaling smoke into your mouth; you inhale greedily, the sweet buzz of the nicotine mixing with something spicy and dark, so unmistakably Alastor that it makes your head swim. He’d never been so forward before, had never even asked you out to a bar or to dance before, and here he was pressing your lips together like it was second nature to share the air in one another’s lungs. It burns in your veins in the best way possible.

The motion is repeated, over and over with the ash of the cigarette dropping down over his fingers as he puffs and breathed them into you. Your own hands come up to clutch at the fabric of his shirt, like without it you might simply drop to the floor. He doesn’t seem to mind the way your lashes flutter every time he backs off for normal oxygen once again, his own eyes half-lidded and dilated with every pass that the smoke takes between the two of you.

His tongue flicks against yours as he pulls away the final time; the cigarette has burned down to the end, and his usual smile is back in place. “How was that?” Alastor asks softly, using the hand that had parted your lips to cup your cheek, gazing down at you in the dim glow of the streetlight. “You think that was enough of a hit?”

“I- I think I might need another,” you manage to breathe out, and he laughs low and dark, the remnants of the cigarette dropping to the ground where he grinds it in with his heel as he holds you close to him and leans in for a proper, smokeless kiss.

[katerinaaqu]

Ruthless Justice

This fic is dedicated to my dear friend @artsofmetamoor as a gift! She had also expressed an interest to the events of the murder of the suitors but I decided to take it into a more tragic level; the excecution of the 12 maids and I added some random emotional scene afterwards! You are warned this fic includes dark themes!

The cries that filled the room were deafening. The young ears of Telemachus could not bear them. The slave women were forced to clean up the room from the corpses of the blasted suitors that nearly killed him and took the kingdom of his father. It was the first time Telemachus had killed. He still couldn’t believe it how easy it had been! It was almost easier than hunting wild goats and deer in the mountains of Ithaca! Some part of him had felt a wild pleasure, almost hedonic gladness, when he had stabbed that first body and continued. This hedonism increased by the happiness he felt that he was helping his father, that he was useful. He felt pleasure for this justice that was finally prevailing in the halls of his house; finally the constant harassment and insults his mother and himself had gone through was punished and he had finally found his father. He had witnessed his brain and his ferocity, his dexterity and cunning first hand! So far he had only heard of it from others that had met him and yet now he had actually seen it before him; his father who was no longer at the prime of youth he had managed to clean the hall of 108 men 10 or even 20 years younger than what he was. Some part of Telemachus wondered; how was his father in his prime? How much more ferocity in battle he possessed? How much more wits and wiles could he loom in short amounts of time?

However now that the first thrill of battle had gone, now they had finished cleaning the chairs of the hall with sponges and water, Telemachus was shocked at their own strength and results. He looked around at the hall that was basically full of wrapped bodies; the bodies that used to belong to vigorous, young nobles and his father now stood at the hall, hard as the stones that built that very palace. Odysseus was not a tall man (that much was a surprise to Telemachus, for from the conversations he had heard about his father’s strength and name he had expected him to be as tall as he was, perhaps taller), he barely stood at average height, maybe a little less, but his physique showed the power that his hardships built upon him. His raven hair, which had already started turning silver from time and hardships, was curly like his own and long till his shoulders; those strong shoulders burnt by sea and sun. A thick bushy beard was hiding a strong jaw line and mouth shut tightly closed. However Telemachus particularly noticed his stone look as the onyx eyes of his seemed soulless like glass even if they burnt with hatred and anger. Right now he could see before him a man who lived up to his name; “The Anger Bringer”. Odysseus was indeed enraged; that much Telemachus could tell. The almost full day of slaughter seemed to have created a curst thick like salt upon his face, just as thick was the blood that had splattered it, the blood he didn’t have much time to clean. And yet, despite all that, he seemed to stand naturally within that chaos; like only a war veteran would stand naturally amongst corpses and cries. He remained there as the lamenting women were literally dragged and pushed at his feet as he stood at the podium of the throne. He seemed like a judge; a ruthless judge ready to pass judgment. Telemachus had seen him angry, hopeful, crying, tender and then ruthless in his killing but now he was truly disturbed at the shadow that had passed over his face. He saw then the one that had come from war; the Sacker of Cities… Odysseus looked down at the maidens crying and struggling, as if they were insects.

“I took you to my home…” he said, his voice cold as ice and sharp as a knife, “I gave you a bed, fed you, dressed you…made sure you would want of nothing while you were under my roof… I respected your wishes…never mistreated you and this is how you repay me? By mingling with my enemies…the very men that wished to violently claim my wife and kill my son?”

Every word was a hammer upon a nail. Telemachus felt a shiver down his spine. He wouldn’t want to be to the other end of that look that was for sure! The women seemed pale like bed sheets; like the sheets that were covering the bodies they had gathered with their own very hands. He saw the other two helpers of theirs; the two herders Eumaeus and Philoetius, standing over the crying maidens, watching at their master with pride. Telemachus had never seen so much wild triumph to the old face of Eumaeus’s before. Never.

“Eumaeus….” Odysseus addressed him, “What is the punishment for treason?”

“Death, my lord” his voice didn’t even hesitate

“Quite so…” Odysseus nodded.

He glared at the slave girls like a hawk.

“Normally I should drag you all out and stone you to death!”

Odysseus didn’t have to yell. All he needed was to speak in that low voice that boiled with anger, like the bubbling water in a cauldron. And yet that was more than enough to emphasize his anger.

“However we have caused enough ruin already! And I shall not even spare one single sacred stone of this palace for you!”

One could wonder whether he was about to say he would sell them away or something of similar manner, which would already be cruel enough. However the king of Ithaca said;

“Philoetius! Bring me a long piece of rope! Eumaeus, help me bring these treacherous women out! They shall be hanged!”

The word sounded as terrible as I was clear and the women broke to a woe Telemachus had never heard before (and, by gods, had he heard enough woe in his house ever since he was a baby!). The screeches and the cries they released along with their already blood-painted hands trying to claw themselves out of the swine herder’s strong grip, nearly made him throw up.

“Father!” he protested, “you can’t be serious! They are just helpless women!”

His father’s onyx eyes stuck within his own and Telemachus felt that same shiver down his spine. There was fire in those obsidian eyes! The same fire of earth that had forged the volcanic glass that gave his eyes their color seemed to be now burning deep inside those black orbs; it was though a cold fire that burnt like the ice burns the skin!

“Is the betrayal of a woman less serious than the betrayal of a man?” his voice was sharp as a broken sword; sharpness you wouldn’t know where it would cut you the worst; the actual blade or the broken tip

“N-No…” Telemachus stammered, “B-But…”

His voice was being drowned by the shrieks of the women. He couldn’t stand it.

“Does the dagger being wielded by a woman draw less blood when it stabs you in the back than the one wielded by a man?”

“Father please!”

“Stay back, Telemachus!” his father commanded, pushing him out of his way, “You are not to see this!”

Telemachus felt his heart clench but he held his ground.

“No, father, I shall help you” he said determined, “If I am to become king of this land, I must help justice prevail!”

His father eyed him once more but Telemachus stood his ground. He was Odysseades Telemachus. He had to live up to his father’s legacy. Odysseus eyed him in wonder for one second but he did not protest his request any further. Part of Telemachus had wished he had. However he knew he had to be strong and stand by his father’s side. The cries of the female voices still haunted his ears as they went out to the trees of the garden. Odysseus pointed towards the direction of one of the trees. Telemachus gulped. He knew that tree. He had played so many times around it when he was a kid! He had named it “Troy” at some point, running around with his horse (in other words a stick he fantasized to be his horse when he was five) and he would yell at the people of Troy to open their gates for him, like he had imagined his father would be doing, on occasions scaring the birds that sat on the branches. As he grew older he would climb and sit on them, joining those birds, and looking over to the horizon as if waiting for a ship to appear, as if waiting to see the sails of the 12 ships of Ithaca arriving.

How weird indeed that Odysseus chose that particular tree for the execution hall to be built behind it! Telemachus never made that connection so strongly before!

As the men dragged the women out to their final spot; behind that said tree lay the dome of court where a small, confided space, where the women tied up with one single piece of rope from the throats like cattle being led for slaughter were crying and moaning. Telemachus felt his stomach turn. Oh, Athena, he prayed silently, please give me strength to do what I must! He felt then a gentle touch upon his shoulder; like the sun warming him with his rays. His racing heart slowed a bit in beat and he breathed in deeply. Yes, he could feel Athena’s reminder of his own strength. Yes, he had to do it. He was his father’s son. No one dared to speak at that moment. Apart from the endless woe of the women that were about to be executed, it almost felt like a macabre ritual that was about to happen. The women were forced to their final resting place; the narrow hall that was closed up by the neatherd and the swineherd. Telemachus held onto the end with both hands and sighed again, feeling weirdly calm. It was as if all his essence had gone numb. He was self-conscious that his father was looking at him. He almost felt him regretful as if he tried to release him from his task but Telemachus made a mechanical move with his head to stop him. I am Odysseiades Telemachus, he thought, this is my duty! Instinctually he looked towards the sky.

“May this be no clean death…” he heard himself whispering, breaking the silence and the cries of the women, “…that I take the lives of these women…for they were wishing for my head…both mine and my mother’s…when they betrayed us and lay with the suitors…”

His father made half a step forward. Telemachus had made his resolve

He threw the rope over the dome and pulled with all his might.

The cries stopped to give their place to chocking sounds.

Telemachus didn’t cry. He only sighed and closed his eyes.

Soon the haunting sounds stopped.

There was only the creaking of the swinging rope…

~ ~ ~

Telemachus chocked and coughed as he threw up the little contents of his stomach behind a bush. How strange, he thought, he didn’t feel the need to do that when he killed all those men he hated by his father’s side and yet he reacted upon an execution he performed with his own hands. It was, maybe, because he always learnt to respect women and protect them. Quite frankly he never raised a hand against a woman before in his life. And now he had, with one fateful move he had removed the lives of 12 women he considered helpless. And yet that moment of clarity it was as if Athena was speaking through him; these women are not innocent, he thought she said to him, they betrayed you and your father, they betrayed your mother’s secrets and led to more torment to her. They conspired to kill you.

“Then why…?” Telemachus thought, “Why was this so difficult?”

He felt two warm, calloused hands on his shoulders and looked up. He faced the tired look of his father’s; his face full of the blood of the victims they had killed. In one moment Telemachus felt self-conscious and realized he could possibly look similar to this. He turned his look away in shame. What would his father think? What would he say for his weakness? Instead, though, he heard him whisper:

“I am so proud of you, my son…” the voice echoed somewhere in his soul, “I understand that was not an easy decision to make…”

“F-Forgive me…f-father…” Telemachus stammered trying to stop the sobs that were chocking him, “I…I wasn’t strong enough…”

“You’re wrong, Telemachus” his voice was whispery and yet adamant, “You are strong, much stronger than any man I have seen so far. I understand the task that I placed upon you was not a pretty one or a pleasant one. And yet you fulfilled it with the bravery that many men didn’t show in thousands of wars. I am proud of you…”

Telemachus realized what had bothered him so much; his father indeed didn’t seem to separate women from men before the ruthless justice he threw upon them. Telemachus was taught to protect and respect women. However when Odysseus arrived at the hall and ordered the demise of 12 women with hardly even blinking disturbed him. How much had he changed? This was not the father that his mother was describing…nay, he wasn’t the father he had met in the hut of the swine herder that embraced him and kissed him like he were his own soul. He saw some of that father he met right now, to the father trying to console him but before? A few minutes prior he saw an executioner; not the father he knew and loved.

“But how much do I know him, really…?” Telemachus realized, “I first saw his face a few days ago… What kind of man is he? Really?”

Odysseus patted his son on his shoulders and helped him straighten himself. They walked past the tree where the women still hanged like doves from a hunter’s stick. Telemachus couldn’t look up at the blackened and bloated faces of death. Not Odysseus. Odysseus looked up steadily and steadfast. There hardly was a reaction on his face apart from a wrinkle playing between his eyes. He seemed tired, sure, he wasn’t feeling pleasure he wasn’t smiling and yet Telemachus wondered; does this man have nerves of steel or a heart of stone to look up so calmly? How much horror had he seen so that this gruesome sight wouldn’t make him avert his eyes?

“How…?” he whispered, “How can you take this…?”

His father was silent for one second until he finally decided to talk.

“One can get awfully accustomed to the face of death…when they have seen so plenty of it…”

His voice was almost dead; as if he was just stating a simple fact such as that the sun rises from the east rather than talking about the lives of people. That rubbed Telemachus in the wrong places even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“Sometimes…” Odysseus continued, “I feel like my heart has turned into stone… Sometimes I feel like it has no more space apart from you Telemachus…”

It took him a few seconds to realize what his father had just said. Perhaps not even Odysseus himself had realized it!

“What about mother, father? What about her?”

There was silence for one second. However that silence seemed to Telemachus more cruel than any other eternity in Hades’s kingdom!

“Father!” he urged

“Of course, your mother too…” Odysseus finally whispered, “I love her more than life itself! I did everything I could so I can come back to her…to you…”

“You doubted her!” Telemachus whispered in cruel realization, “Oh, gods! I don’t believe it! You doubted her! Even after everything she went through for you!”

“No!” Odysseus immediately retorted, “No, I didn’t doubt her! Not really…it is just…”

“Just what? I don’t believe you! After all these years she waited!”

“I know this” Odysseus retorted almost calmly, “Or rather I absolutely know now. However I needed to make sure…beyond any shade of doubt. This is why Athena encouraged me to hide who I was from your mother, even if it tore me apart inside…”

“But…why…?” Telemachus was almost in tears and he was struggling really hard to keep them under control. “Why would you even doubt her so?”

They had spent years on their own and for as long as he could remember his mother was always waiting, crying and expecting a miracle. He didn’t remember one day to see his mother genuinely happy. She was smiling or complimenting his accomplishments but he had never seen her truly happy; all their life was darkened by the shadow of his father’s absence; of the lack of information whether he lived or not and now his father said that he had doubt, no matter how small it was?! Odysseus sighed deeply and looked at his son. His eyes were almost pleading even if his voice was steady.

“Son…” he said gravely, “I spent years out there…years of ordeals and pain and…many of them changed me… I cannot say much…not now…however there was someone…a woman…”

He gulped. He almost seemed ready to cry himself.

“She…she did unspeakable things to me…for years I endured hoping to come back to you and your mother… She…she kept on planting doubts in my head for years… I didn’t believe her…I didn’t want to believe her! And yet…yet all those years… Telemachus I couldn’t do otherwise! My brain was rejecting what my heart knew… And so I had to make these two come together… I had to…! Please! Perhaps one day I will be able to explain to you…and then you will understand…”

His father began walking away but Telemachus, in the heat of adrenaline and battle didn’t seem ready to let go. Not yet.

“Does this have to do with some goddess Calypso?”

His father froze and then he saw him turn around and saw another emotion he never saw before; fear. There was pure terror on his face. All color had left it; his eyes as wide as plates.

“Where did you hear that name!?” his father croaked out, “Telemachus! Where?!”

“Father…” Telemachus was more concerned and surprised than pitiful at that moment, “Look at you! You’re pale! You didn’t turn pallid when you ordered the execution of these women and yet you lost all color at the name of that woman!”

“Telemachus!” Odysseus called out desperately

“Tell me what happened father! What does this woman have to do with this?”

“I can’t!”

“Please tell me! What did that woman do to you to make you doubt your own wife?!”

“I can’t! I CAN’T!” Odysseus’s voice rose in a constant crescendo, he held his head with both hands as if suddenly his head was splitting in two

“Father, please!” Telemachus urged, “Who is that woman? Who is Calypso?”

“Telemachus!” Odysseus grabbed the shoulders of his son

Telemachus nearly whelped feeling the unbelievable strength of those hands, squeezing him in almost bruising grasp but he didn’t make a sound. He stood his ground. He was his father’s son.

“Where did you hear that name?!”

“Y-Your friend told me about it…” Telemachus finally replied, “I traveled, father. I myself tried to find the answers that I was seeking…and in my travels I visited Pylos…and Sparta…there I met your old friend… He said he had a dream in which you were trapped at the island with some goddess Calypso, but he didn’t know more… You remember him, don’t you? Menelaus the king of Sparta…”

“M-Menelaus…”

He took some breaths and he seemed to find his composure. He slowly released his son. Telemachus noticed that indeed some color had returned to his face. How much had that woman done to him to make his father react that way?! How many horrors had this man experienced to the hands of that goddess so that he would turn pale in terror even if he was completely unhinged by more than 100 vigorous men?

“Yes…of course I remember… Menelaus…he was one of my closest friends…in Troy.” That little recollection somehow calmed him down, “I…I haven’t heard of him for years… Th-Thank gods that he is fine…”

“He is in good health from what I could see…” Telemachus couldn’t lie, he didn’t know much on Menelaus but he knew that ‘fine’ was not exactly the word that described him, “He misses you a lot, you know… He didn’t speak with so warm words for anybody else…”

A sad smile spread to Odysseus’s lips.

“I remember… Menelaus was a really dear friend to me…”

He passed his hand over his face to mop some of his sweat.

“Forgive me, Telemachus…I really didn’t want this feeling to be inside me in the first place but…please understand me…that’s all I ask. That and some time… I will explain everything when I can…”

Telemachus breathed in, defeated.

“I will not pressure you, father…” he finally said, “I understand it is hard. Forgive me for insisting… It is just…”

His father’s arms wrapped around him. That moment he stopped being the heartless judge. He was the caring father again..he was the one Telemachus first met; the caring, protective father…

“Please don’t apologize…” he murmured to his son’s ear, “You have every right to be angry…you have so many questions… I promise you, my son, I will do my best to answer them all…just not yet…I can’t…not yet…”

He pulled back and looked at his son’s eyes.

“Okay?”

Telemachus smiled sadly. Suddenly his own accumulated frustration from the events of the day was evaporated. He needed this breakdown and somehow he knew his father needed it too.

“Okay” he nodded in agreement.

Odysseus patted his shoulders.

“Good.” He said, “Let’s go in now and we must order to get ourselves cleaned now. We must, sooner or later, cleanse ourselves from this murder for we both look like we went mad!”

Telemachus scoffed a bit. He began following his father; never daring to look back towards that grim execution place.

“She didn’t ask, you know…” he suddenly said

Odysseus stopped and turned around.

“What?”

“Mother. When I told her about king Menelaus’s vision, she didn’t ask. She didn’t make any inquiries. She didn’t doubt your integrity not even for one second…”

He saw his father’s chest palpitating almost suddenly. His face almost twisted with another unspoken sob. He turned around, showing Telemachus his back.

“Thank you…” he murmured

Telemachus managed to see one tear running down his father’s bloodstained cheek. There was so much behind that silent cry! Telemachus knew his father was keeping many things inside; perhaps he even blamed himself for everything. He didn’t know. He only hoped that with that last comment, he managed to give him some peace of mind. Apparently either he was right or Odysseus was a very good actor indeed, for he was back to his previous steadfast and calm self. He was once more the king.

The King of Ithaca

The Anger Bringer.

***

Not much to say here. Homer said most of it before me.

I found it disturbing and interesting how it was Telemachus the one to pull the rope of the execution so I thought to add a bit ore angst to this and show this aftermath whirlpool of emotions that could be going on inside hm.

And of course Odysseus and the years of torment, especially Ogygia.

Also in the Odyssey Rhapsody 17 Telemachus does mention to his mother how Menelaus saw Odysseus imprisoned by Calypso but Penelope didn't react to it much. She either believed not much of it in her sorrow or at the same time she felt no need to react at the name of another woman because she trusted her husband.

Hope you like it.