#i do kind of want to write it but more so the idea I had for Eggcellent where Easter Bunny Steve lays eggs.

[thestuffedalligator]

The fire in the circle of stones crackled in the night.

Then — because the battle was done, because they had been travelling together for months, and because this might be their last conversation — the fighter said, “Can I ask a personal question?”

The wizard stopped writing in her notebook mid-scribble. “Uh,” she said. And — possibly because the battle was done, and because they had travelled together for months, and because this might be their last conversation — she answered, “Possibly?”

“How do you do that?”

“How do I do what?”

“That. The thing you do when you talk without moving your lips.”

“…Oh.” The wizard closed her notebook.

“Because I know it’s not telepathy,” the fighter went on. “Telepathy goes straight to the brain. You don’t hear it with your ears.”

“Right.”

“And I didn’t want to question it, because we were busy and there were more important things going on.”

“Of course.”

“But—” The fighter waved her arms vaguely to sum up the past few months. “And now that everything’s kind of settled down, I just — I have to know how you do it.”

The wizard nodded.

“So if it’s not telepathy, is it some kind of — I don’t know, sound magic? Do you manipulate the vibrations in the air? Is it something like that?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s—”

The wizard pursed her lips. Then she reached up and pulled the corner of her hood open.

A tiny, black-feathered face poked out from between her curls.

“Uh,” said the fighter.

“This is Raspberry,” said the chickadee in the wizard’s voice. “She’s my — I guess you could call her my speaking-aid familiar.”

“Oh,” said the fighter. “Oh!” she said when her brain caught up with her. “Sorry, I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” said the chickadee — said the wizard. “I try not to let people know.”

“Well — thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The chickadee wriggled back into the shade of the wizard’s hood. The wizard turned back to her notebook.

The logs in the fire shifted with a soft, crunching noise. Sparks whorled up in a spiral.

“Sorry — can you cast spells if it’s technically someone else speaking for you?”

“It’s my words, isn’t it?” said the wizard.

[rafesbabyg1rl]

You were asking for reqs for rafe x reader, if you are taking them, I have one in mind. In which rafe is extremely possesive of bsf reader, and gets easily jealous. One day she was at a kook party, and a guy approached her and they started to talk and that sh*t went down, rafe got aggressive and almost beat the guy to a pulp. Reader is like a shy cute innocent, bimbo type. And smut after the scene if you write it.

Summary: Innocent!reader X possessive!Rafe, bestfriend!reader X bestfriend!Rafe. Summary is basically the anonymous ask!

Warnings: Rafe is possessive of reader. Established friendship. Rafe almost beats a guy to death. Mentions of drugs (no actual drug use), alcohol consumption. Lots of smut; p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, loss of virginity, SLIGHT degradation (some praise too). The classic 'what are we' at the end. The L word.

Word Count: 6.1k

Author Note: Hello Beauties! Thank you for the support and kindness you've all shown me. And thank you for this ask, I really enjoyed writing it. I hope I did your idea justice. Sorry that this is a bit long, it just sort of happened. Also, I hope you all enjoyed the holiday yesterday, well those that celebrate. I'm hoping to finish part four of The Watcher soon so I can get it out, life has just been so exhausting. Anyways, please enjoy and feel free to leave feedback! I love you all, thank you so much!! Stay freaky y'all.

Your best friend, Rafe, had asked you to go to a party with him. Well, more like he had told you to go. Although it’s not like you’d ever miss the opportunity to party with your best friend. So, here you are; walking around the side of Topper’s house, looking for Rafe. You two didn’t come together, he got here before you. He knows you don’t love being around his ‘friends’ and their various illegal substances, even though he says he’s clean, he likes to have time with them before you get there. 

You round a corner, now entering the Thorton’s backyard. You look for Rafe as you work your way through the loud and busy crowd. You hear a friend call your name, you turn your head to her, and she waves you over. You approach her and a few others with a smile. You greet them.

The other girls chat amongst themselves as your friend speaks up, shouting over the music. “Hey!” She’s over enthusiastic per regular, probably a bit drunk too.

“Hey!” You shout back. 

She begins, “Oh my god! I have to tell you something. Guess who I saw—”. Usually, you’d want to hear all the gossip she’s about to ramble to you, but not right now. “Do you know where Rafe is?” You shout over her, cutting her off.

“What?” She asks, stepping closer to you so she can hear you.

“Do you know—” You’re suddenly interrupted by some guy standing beside you. You turn to face him.

“Hey.” He says, his tone confident. A cocky grin spreads across his face.

“Hi.” You smile politely, “Do I know you?”. You say hurriedly before turning back to your friend. She looks between you and the guy a few times before facing you and giving you a knowing smirk. You know what that look means and before you can say anything, she walks away. Leaving you alone with him. You roll your eyes at her playfully, although you really are annoyed that she didn’t tell you where Rafe is. 

Slowly, you turn your head back to the guy, flashing him another fake smile. He grins again before speaking, “No…no you don’t.” He pauses, stepping a bit closer to you so he doesn’t have to shout over the music as loud. “I’m Devin.”

Your fake smile is getting awkward, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t care about talking to him right now. “Nice to meet you, Devin. B-but I need to–”

Devin cuts you off, “Let me get you a drink.” 

You laugh shyly, “Oh...I-I’m okay, I actually have to…”

“Let me just get you a drink, it’ll only take a second.” He moves closer to rest his hand on your lower back for a slight moment, to get you to turn toward the drinks. 

Rafe was on the back patio sitting on one of the couches when someone had mentioned to him that they saw you. He went to go and find you, which is when he spotted you laughing with some guy, who moments later put his hand on you. Rafe’s already had a few drinks tonight, so his judgment clouded even more than usual, especially when it comes to you. 

As you walk towards the drinks, Devin’s hand falls and he follows close behind you. 

After a moment, you hear a mix of gasps and ‘ooohh’s’ from everyone. You turn to look behind you where everyone seems to be gathering. You find that Devin isn’t behind you anymore.

Immediately your eyes land on some commotion in the crowd, you squeeze through the ring of people forming around the area. Shit. You run forwards, pausing just before the fight. 

Devin is flat on his back, Rafe straddling him. Rafe has Devin’s shirt clenched in one fist, holding his head off the ground as he repeatedly drives his other fist into Devin’s face. 

“Rafe!” You shout. Keeping your distance, not wanting to get too close while he’s out of control. You’ve seen how he can get. In the years that you two have been friends, you’ve had to calm him down from countless fights, since nobody else can ever seem to do it. But, when nobody else steps in to try and stop the fight, you step closer, knowing something has to be done. “Rafe, stop! Stop it!” You scream. 

Devin’s completely unconscious, his nose is probably broken, but you can’t really tell; his face is a swollen mess of blood and bruises. You can’t stand here and watch anymore, and nobody seems to be listening to your cries for help. Because nobody is stupid enough to get in Rafe’s way while he’s like this. You step behind Rafe, putting your hands on his shoulders. You try to pull him back all the while trying not to get punched.

“Rafe! Look at me! Look at me, Ray!” Rafe turns his head to the side, momentarily stopping his actions, letting Devin’s head rest on the floor. You put a hand up to cup his cheek. Speaking quietly now as you plead to him. “Rafe…c’mon, that’s good, h-he’s had enough…”. Your tears slow, but your breath is still erratic as you look at the unconscious man. 

Rafe turns back to the guy, your hand falling from his face. Rafe pulls Devin’s head up, like he was going to punch him again. Instead, he lets go, letting the boy's head hit the floor. Rafe stands up without a word and grabs you by your wrist, tugging you away. 

Before you know it, you’re being shoved into your best friend's truck. His random mumbles don’t make much sense to you, talking about ‘he got what he deserved…Should’ve fuckin’ killed him…yeah, should’ve fucking killed him for that. Touchin’ what’s mine…’

When you get to Tannyhill, Rafe wastes no time pulling you into his room. You sit on his bed stiffly, waiting silently as he paces the room.

“Rafe?” You call out softly. “You okay? What happened back there? What was that?”

“He touched you.” Rafe states. His tone is low and rough, sending a chill down your spine. Even after all the years you’ve been his best friend, you still never know how to act when he’s like this. 

“Barely. He barely touched me.”

Rafe completely disregards what you say, shaking his head and blowing out a jagged breath as he continues to pace across his room, a bit slower now. “Why was he even talking to you? You were supposed to be with me. I told you to go to the party, not him.” 

You take your chance to get a word in as he spews out angry nonsense. “I was looking for you and he started talking, ‘wanted to get me a drink. I was just being nice; I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t even want to talk to him, I was looking for you, Rafe. I don’t even see why that matters–”.

He pauses, looking over at you. His movements are sharp as he strides over to you. “Don’t see why it matters…?” He repeats your words, more for himself than to you. “It matters because you’re mine.” His words are sharp, definitely directed to you that time.

“Rafe…you almost killed him…because of me? I don’t get it Rafe; I don’t nearly kill all the girls you fuck.” You state.

Rafe lets out a breathy chuckle before speaking. “Still don’t get it, huh?” Rafe laughs. “God you’re so innocent. So naive.” He pauses, stepping closer until he’s standing in front of you, looking down at you as you sit on his bed. “I need you, y/n. I can’t…god, I can’t even fuck anyone else anymore without thinking about you. I can’t let anyone else have you, got that? You understand now?” He asks harshly as he runs a rough hand through your hair. 

You try to swallow the lump in your throat. You look up and nod weakly, causing Rafe to flash a devilish grin. “Yeah?” He asks quietly, his voice coming out low. 

“Yeah…” You mumble back brainlessly, too shocked by your best friend's confession. You had always thought Rafe saw you purely as a friend. Although thinking back, you don’t know how you ever thought that with how he acts, especially lately. 

No time is wasted as Rafe quickly leans down, capturing your lips with his. The first kiss is hesitant, and you don’t kiss back. But when he pulls away to look at you, trying to gauge your emotion, you lean in. Your best friend takes that as a sign to continue. His lips quickly find yours again. When he feels you start to kiss back, he escalates things. Kissing you more roughly now, acting as though he’s a starved man and your lips are his meal.

His hand moves from the back of your head to your throat, lightly squeezing. At first you don’t even realize, too distracted by the feeling of his tongue entering your mouth. But when Rafe squeezes your neck even tighter, you move your hands to reach up and wrap around his wrist in an attempt to pull it away. Your mouth still occupied by his, the kiss is too fucking good to break. It feels like everything you didn’t know you needed. He’s giving you what nobody else could, because only he knows exactly what you need and exactly how to give it to you. Your lack of breath reminds you of your situation and you pull away from the kiss momentarily.

Rafe’s grip loosens as he pulls his head back so he can look into your eyes. “Tell me you want this.” He mumbles breathlessly. 

You search his eyes as you catch your breath. Nodding, you finally speak up. “I want this.” You say definitively.

Not even half a second later, Rafe’s body crashes down onto you, pushing you down so that you’re laying on his bed. Rafe has one arm beside your head, holding himself up as his other remains on your neck. He hovers over you, one knee pressed between your thighs. Rafe leans down, his lips attaching to your neck, kissing and sucking frantically at your skin. He’s been waiting so, so long for this. 

His lips find your ear, softly biting at it before whispering. “Let me take care of you, baby. You want that, hm?”. While waiting for your response, his free hand traces down the side of your body until it reaches the hem of your skirt. He moves his face to the other side of your head, giving some attention to your other ear. “Need your best friend to help you feel good…give you what you need, yeah?” His hand slips under your skirt, slowly gliding up your inner thigh, sending shivers through your whole body.

“Yes–” A moan escapes your lips, interrupting you. Your eyes meet his before you continue. “Please Rafey…need you…”

His lips meet yours at the same time his hand meets your clothed cunt. He kisses you sloppily, exploring every part of your mouth with his tongue. Your hands come up to rest on his chest, your touch sending shocks through him. He rubs you through your panties. He can feel as you grow more needy, the wet spot on your panties getting larger. 

He can’t believe this is actually happening. He’s wanted to do this to you for so long; he’s dreamt of this moment happening in almost every way possible, but this…he never could’ve imagined this feeling. “Fuck…you’re so wet f’me already.”

“Ray…please…” You can’t help but rut your panty-clad cunt against his hand, searching for friction. Usually you’re never this bold, but you’re comfortable with him. You always have been, he is your best friend after all. You just pray that he understands what you need. 

Except Rafe doesn’t respond in the way you had hoped for. No, instead he pulls his hand out from under your skirt, eliciting a whine from you. He presses a genuine, wet kiss against your parted lips before moving down your body. Rafe slides down, kneeling onto the floor in front of the bed. He grabs you by the back of your knees and tugs you down towards him until your ass is at the edge of the bed. Without breaking eye contact, he swiftly removes your skirt. He spreads your legs, making them bend so your heels are on the edge of the bed. Eagerly, he presses wet, sloppy kisses up your inner thighs, his eyes trained up on you.

The sight of him like this between your thighs, doing exactly what you need…it drives you crazy. You lean your head back, letting out a moan as Rafe mouths at your entrance through the fabric your panties.

It’s not long before he’s peeling back your panties as well, sliding them off of you completely. Your legs threaten to close from insecurity, but your best friend is sure to hold them open.

“Fuck…this pussy’s even prettier than I imagined, baby. Soaked…just for me.” Rafe leans in, his mouth hovering just above your core. He silently asks for permission.

Being your best friend, Rafe knows that you’ve never done this before. No guy had ever wanted to date you while Rafe’s your best friend, they could see that you’re his, even if you couldn’t. 

His breath is hot on your bare center, he watches as you squirm and clench around nothing. Eagerly you nod, giving him permission. And within seconds his mouth is on you.

At first, he’s slow; gentle as his eyes continue to meet yours. He licks a warm stripe up your center, briefly pulling back to watch your reaction. Your head falls back, your mouth parted, and eyes closed as you experience this new sensation that your best friend is so generously giving you.

Rafe begins to lick and suck at you. His tongue circles your clit as he looks up, knowing you’d like it. A moan slips past your lips as your hand flies to the back of his head, the other gripping onto the sheets beside you. 

“Nnnghh…f-fuck, Ray…” You whine as his tongue fucks you relentlessly. He only mumbles against you in response, sending vibrations through your core. This felt even better than you had ever thought it would. When you heard people talk about sex, you didn’t think it could actually be this good. Though maybe that just has to do with the fact that Rafe’s your best friend, and he knows exactly what you need.

“Yeah?” One of his hands leaves your leg and moves to grope your tits through your clothes. “You like this, huh? You’re just a slut for your best friend, hm? Letting me have you like this…”

“N-need you…” You mutter, grieving the loss of his tongue on you. He stares at you with a devilish glint in his eyes. 

“I know, baby. I know.” Rafe’s mouth continues to work on you. His tongue gathers some slick from your entrance and brings it up to your clit, circling it with his tongue a few times before repeating the process. 

The feeling in your lower stomach is starting to build. It’s getting hard for you to sit still for him. It’s even harder for you to stay quiet. A plethora of moans escape you as Rafe’s mouth stays busy between your thighs. Your hand holds his head down, your other grips the sheets underneath you. 

“Rafe…please. S’too much, I can’t—” You whine. 

“Ah ah ah…stop running, baby. I got you. I got you.” Rafe’s grip on your thighs tightens, keeping you in place. “God,” He mutters breathlessly. “You taste…you taste so fuckin’ good. Hiding this from me all that time, hm?” He leans back down and continues his ministrations on you.

Your toes start to curl, the band in your stomach threatening to snap. Suddenly he stops and before you get the chance to look down to see why, one of his fingers is prodding at your entrance. “Gotta stretch this pretty little pussy out, yeah? Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You nod, allowing one of his thick, long digits to slowly slide into you. You almost scream when he starts to move it, his mouth working on you at the same time. Rafe adds another finger, now thrusting two in and out of you. 

“Fuck baby, you’re gonna squeeze my cock so good. Jus’ gotta get you used to this, hm? You gonna let your best friend be the first to fuck you?” Rafe asks. You nod in response, agreeing to his words. Rafe’s fingers spread apart inside you, stretching your hole, preparing you for his cock. His tongue pauses again as he looks up at you and correct his previous statement. “The only one to fuck you.” Rafe puts his head back between your thighs, his fingers fucking you mercilessly as his tongue sucks at your bud. 

You nod again, followed by a whine. “F-fuck…Ray. I-I think I’m gonna…”

“Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby? Hm?” 

“Mhmm…yes, fuckk–” You respond, your fingers fighting to grasp onto the little hair he has. Your thighs begin to squeeze around him, causing him to pull his head up against the force of your hand on him. 

“Just a little more, baby. You can take it. I know you can. You gonna let me help you finish? You wanna cum?”

“Yes! Yes! Please Rafey…please let me cum.” Your begging makes him chuckle briefly before going back down on you. His tongue moves with precision, working on you with a purpose; to make you cum. 

Without warning, the band in your stomach snaps. You scream out his name as his tongue circles your sensitive bud and his fingers pump in and out of you slowly. Your best friend continues to work you through your first real orgasm. You’ve never felt anything like this. Why the hell did you wait so long to do this with him?

“God…baby. You’re so fuckin’ perfect. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those pretty sounds.” Rafe carefully slides his fingers out of you, making you clench around nothing at the loss of him. He gets up from his knees, standing over you again. Rafe’s face glistens with your slick. His hand moves up to brush your hair back while he brings his free hand up to your mouth. “Open.” He orders. You oblige and he pushes two digits into your mouth. “Taste that? Taste how fuckin’ good you taste?” He pulls his fingers back, immediately moving down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips. Rafe climbs on top of you, his mouth finding the sweet spot behind your ear. He whispers, “You okay?”

“Mhm…better than okay.” You reassure him. Your legs are still shaking with the aftershock of your orgasm. 

“Good.” He mumbles against your skin. “‘Cause I’m not even close to done with you, baby. We’re just getting started.” He doesn’t wait before he’s pulling off your shirt, kissing down your chest. Soon after, he unclasps your bra with one hand, pulling it off of you and tossing it onto the floor somewhere. 

His lips are vicious, attaching to any and every bit of your skin. His hands gently cup your breasts, his mouth finding and attaching to one of your nipples. His eyes stay trained up on your face, he likes seeing how you react to his touch. He pulls back, straddling your lap. Your hand shoots out to grab the hem of his shirt, trying to tug it upwards. He smirks and quickly does it himself, tossing it aside. He watches you like prey as your eyes skim over his bare chest. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless before, you have, many times. But no matter how many times you see him like this, you’ll never get used to it. You’ve never seen him in this way though. It’s different, more intimate. You’ve never shared this kind of intimacy with anybody before. And you’re glad you’re doing it with your best friend, whom you’re comfortable with. 

The low light of his bedside lamps reflecting off of his toned skin, damp with sweat. You let out a slow breath as you take in the sight. “Fuck.” You mutter. 

Rafe leans down, kissing and nipping at your earlobe. He whispers, “Like what you see?” He laughs. 

You nod your head eagerly. “Mhmm…”

“Use your words baby, you’re a big girl, aren’t you?” 

“I…y-yes.” You whine as you wriggle underneath him, trying to squeeze your thighs shut in search of some much-needed friction.

Rafe knows what you need. He knows that you’re ready now; ready to give him everything, let him take your innocence, your virtue. He uses one hand to prop himself up as the other works at his belt. Once you realize what he’s doing, you try to help him out, eagerly unbuckling his belt as he kisses you passionately, like he’s never kissed anyone else before you; like you’re the only girl on this fucking planet. 

Once his belt is off, you work at his pants. He leans up so he can tug them off, throwing them aside with the rest of the discarded clothes. All that’s left between the two of you now is the thin fabric of his boxers. You can feel his hardened form pressing into your leg as he kisses you, practically devouring you. Without thinking about it, you find your hand tugging at the waistband of his boxers. You beg. “Please”, your lips whisper into his ear as he bites at your neck. “Rafey…”

He leans back again, this time getting off of you and standing at the side of the bed and in front of you. You can’t help but touch yourself as Rafe frees himself from the constraint of his boxers. You watch as his hard cock springs up, hitting his stomach when it’s finally freed. He smirks, leaning down to remove your hand from yourself. 

“I got you, baby. I got you. I’ll take care of you.” He mumbles, moving his hand over your core again. His strong fingers circle your clit. Your breath hitches as you watch him touch you, his other hand holding the base of his cock.

“Rafe?” You manage to ask through your cries. 

“Hm? What is it?” Rafe says your name softly, encouraging you to continue. 

“Will it hurt?” You’ve heard that the first time can be uncomfortable. And judging by Rafe’s size, this was going to be more than just uncomfortable. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to back out of the situation, you need this. You need him.

Your best friend’s expression becomes more serious as he looks at you. His hand comes up from your core to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. “It might, baby. It might be a little uncomfortable for a moment, but I’ll do my best to make it feel good, yeah? I’ll go slow. And if you don’t like it I want you to tell me. You’re okay, baby. It’s just me, your best friend. I’m gonna take care of you. M’kay?” You nod in response, his eyes darting between your eyes to get a sense of what you’re thinking. Rafe clicks his tongue. “Ah, ah. Use your words, pretty girl.” His hand reaches out for your chin, tilting your face up towards him. 

“Please Ray…”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me…” The words sound so vulgar coming from your sweet, innocent mouth. He’s never known you to speak this way, but he’s not against it. He pumps his fist over his cock a few times, his head leaning back as he lets out a groan. “Please Rafe…I-I need you in me…”

Your words snap him out of his amazement. “Atta girl.” He replies. You can feel his tip gently rub against your slippery entrance. Your warm juices on his cock feel better than anything he’s ever experienced. You’re like a drug to him. A drug that he can’t get enough of. 

He pulls back before you can get used to the feeling of him. He leans over you, reaching into his dresser drawer. When he moves back over you, you see the shiny square wrapper in his hand.

You place your hands over his as he tries to open the condom. “No…”

His head snaps up at you. “No…? No what?” He asks, confused. “You don’t want to do this?”

“No…Rafe, I-I want this. I just…I want to feel you. No…no condom.” You explain.

“Fuck, y/n. Are you sure?” Rafe’s disbelief and shock is very apparent in his tone. 

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m on the pill.” You confirm.

“God, how much more perfect can you fuckin’ get?” He chuckles, making you huff out a quick laugh. 

Soon his lips are back on yours as he uses his hand to guide his glistening, pink tip back to your puffy cunt. Slowly, he pushes into you, just so that the very tip of his cock is inside of you. He looks up to your face, pending your reaction. 

“F-fuck…Rafe.” Your hands move to his hips, pushing him further inside. Rafe gives in, pushing another inch into you. “Mnghh, fuck…Rafe.” Rafe settles there for a moment before giving you another inch or two. Each time he moves, he looks to make sure you’re still enjoying it, giving you a minute to adjust each time. When he finally bottoms out, you feel so…full. The pain is there, but it doesn’t last long, fading into a light discomfort as your soft walls mold to his shape. You involuntarily squeeze around him.

“Shiiiitt, baby…Squeezin’ me so tight.” He pauses to kiss you, his lips soon finding that soft spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. “M’gonna move now, alright?”

“Mhm…please…” You whine. You hook your arms under his, bringing your palms up to grip onto his back. Rafe continues to kiss all over your neck and chest as he slowly pulls out of you, until only the tip is left inside. Without warning, he pushes into you a bit quicker this time, with a bit more force than before. But you’re not complaining. You cry his name out, your nails digging into his shoulders. He begins to move at a slow, steady pace as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. “F-fuck…” You yelp, gripping onto him even harder.

“Fuck, baby…your nails, they hurt.” He mumbles amusedly into your ear as he nips at it. Immediately your grip loosens. You feel terrible but can’t manage to muster up an apology since you can’t think clearly with how his cock is repeatedly kissing your cervix with each thrust. 

“Faster.” You beg, pressing your forehead into his arm. He listens cautiously, carefully picking up the face. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder. The new position allows him to hit an even deeper spot inside of you. When his digits start to circle your clit you almost let out a scream, making him chuckle. 

“Such a fuckin’ whore for me, hm?” He laughs as he fucks you senseless.

“Fuck…Rafey, no, I…I can’t. Can’t take it.” You moan, throwing your head back as your eyes squeeze shut. 

“You can and you will.” He speaks emotionlessly, overtaken by pleasure. Rafe’s hand moves from you clit up to your throat again, he applies a bit of pressure. Your hands leave his back and wrap around his wrist. Your eyes stay shut as your face contorts into that of pure bliss. His thumb slides into your mouth and you suck and bite at it, trying to distract yourself from the overwhelming feeling of him fucking you. You don’t see how you can ever stop; this feeling is…unlike anything else you’ve felt before. “You got this baby. M’almost there. You can let go, baby. Just let go f’me.”

Sooner than later you feel the newly familiar feeling of pressure building in your lower stomach. When it snaps, your body tenses up, a wave of moans escape your mouth as the band snaps and pleasure washes over you. Rafe continues to fuck you slowly, his movements becoming more sporadic than strategic.

“Fuck, where do you want it?”

“My pussy, please Rafey…fill me up?” You ask, eyes wide with tears as you look up at him. “Please?”

“Shit, you sure?” Rafe groans, barely able to hold on any longer.

“Y-yes...I’m sure.” Only seconds later you can feel his warm seed spurting out inside of you. Your gummy walls soaking him in as they squeeze around him, milking him for all that he’s got.

“Fuckk y/n. Do that again.” As he thrusts into you without any specific rhythm, you obey his words, squeezing tightly around his length again. Rafe lets out a guttural moan, tossing his head back for a moment before looking at you again, watching how well you take him, as if you were made for him. The way he fills you up you is like pieces of a puzzle, just meant for one another. “Shiiitt…you’re so fucking tight. Squeezin’ ‘round your best friends cock so good.”

After you’re both worked through your orgasms, he pulls out of you. You groan at the loss of him, feeling a big opening left where he had been. Rafe leans down to press a deep, meaningful kiss to your lips. He pulls back, wiping your hair and sweat from your face with a proud smile.

“God, baby. You did so good, so fucking good. That’s a good girl. My girl, yeah?” He leans down again, pressing a kiss to your neck. Rafe whispers in your ear. “m’so proud.” Before pulling away completely, he presses a kiss to each of your cheeks, your nose, and one final kiss to your forehead. 

You turn on your side to face him as he lay on the bed beside you. “Rafe…” Your voice shows your exhaustion, but also your hesitancy.

He turns on his side to face you as well, propping his head up against his hand. “Hm?” He says with a smile. He can’t help it, it’s impossible for him to see you and not smile after what you just did. 

You flop back down onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. It’s too hard to say this while looking at his beautiful smile. “That was…” 

“Incredible?” He interrupts, his fingers lightly tracing up and down your arm. 

“What was that?” You blurt out, scared that if you don’t say it now then you never will.

Rafe’s smile fades quickly, he props himself up on his elbows, staring down at you with furrowed brows. “Woah woah, woah. Hey. What? What d’you mean?”

You give a light shrug, his fingers no longer moving over your skin. You avoid looking at his pretty eyes. “I mean like…what happens now?”

He sighs, laying back down next to you, looking up at the ceiling. “Well, you’re my girl now, yeah? I thought that was obvious.” 

“Your girl? The Rafe Cameron I know doesn’t do girlfriends.” You say lightly.

“That’s because I never wanted one. I never…needed one, I’ve got you.”

“So…we’re friends?” You ask, attempting and failing at trying to hide your emotions.

“We are, aren’t we?” Rafe responds, not knowing what his words imply or how they’ll make you feel.

“Yeah…yea we’re friends.” You say dryly. 

He turns his head to face you. “Hey. Y/N. What’s wrong? Hey…hey, talk to me.”

“Nothing, Rafe. I’m fine.”

“Jesus, no you’re not. C‘mon baby, what is it?”

“Nothing!” You snap. You’re angry about your own reaction, feeling stupid once the words leave your mouth. Grabbing the sheets, you cover yourself up.

“Did I do something? What’d I do?” Asks Rafe, making you feel worse about yourself. It’s not his fault you feel like this. “Is it what we did? Look, I’m sorry if—“

You cut him off, not being able to listen to him blame himself. “I just…I don’t think friends do what we just did.”

“Jesus, y/n. Look…” He trails off, cursing himself. “Do you not wanna be my girl or something? ‘Cause I can—“

“No, Rafe. I just…I don’t get what you mean. Your girl?”

“Yeah.” He says, confused.

“Like…your girlfriend? Dating? Us?”

“Fuck. Yes, baby. My girlfriend.” Rafe says the word as though it’s a pain to say it. “Will you be my girlfriend? Please?” You could tease him about the way he’s practically begging you.

“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” You joke, not being able to resist. Rafe laughs, glad to hear your usual self. 

“Well, I’m kinda hoping that I’m your…boyfriend, now.”

“Hmm…let me think…” You say, tapping your chin as if this is something you need to contemplate. You can see his demeanor sadden from the corner of your eye, causing you to look over at him. “What’s in it for me?” You add, a smirk threatening to appear on your face. You can barely hold back your laughter at this point, but he still looks so sad, like a puppy who can’t have a treat. “Jesus Rafe, I thought you’d never ask.” You don’t even give him enough time to respond before you’re on top of him, his lips immediately seeking yours.

“Yeah? You mean it?” He asks between kisses, almost nervously. 

“Of course I do, Rafe. ‘Promise.” 

You always know just what to say to him to calm down his mind, he loves that about you. “Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. God, I fuckin’ love you.” Your eyes widen at his confession, you look down at him. He’s almost just as shocked as you are. He didn’t even know he felt that way. The words just slipped out, but they felt so right. “Fuck, no, I meant—“ Rafe starts, but you cut him off. You kiss him again,  passionately. This kiss shows him exactly how you feel, somehow being more intimate than having sex with him was. 

“I love you, Rafe. I promise.” You know how he can feel like everybody is against him, so you try to reassure him as much as you can. You’re the only one who’s ever made him feel cared for; he just never wanted to fuck things up with you. “Please just…can you promise me that you’ll stop beating up random strangers who talk to me? ‘Cause I don’t care about them, Rafe. I care about you.”

This is all so new, talking to each other in this way. But it’s how you’ve both always felt. “But y/n, he-“ Rafe pauses, reconsidering his words for you. He sighs and then mumbles, “Yeah…I’ll try.” He looks back at you, you with a stern look in your eyes. “I will. I promise.”

You smile, leaning down for a kiss. Quickly, things start to escalate again. Rafe flips you both over so he’s on top. He leans down to kiss your neck, sucking and nipping at it as he works his way down, kissing every inch of you. 

“Mnmh…fuck…” You moan.

Rafe smiles against your skin. “Yeah, baby? That feels good huh?” You only nod eagerly as a response. Rafe takes hold of his already hard cock, using his fist to pump over himself a few times, letting out a low growl. He rubs his dewy, pink tip over your sticky hole. 

You let out a moan, still being sensitive from your previous orgasms. “F-fuck…Rafe, m’too sensitive, s’too much.” You whine.

“Shh…shhhh baby, it’s okay. I’m not gonna do nothin’, jus’ wanna show you how proud of my girl I am.” His mouth works it’s way down, landing back between your thighs. Your boyfriend softly bites at your inner thighs, his eyes staying trained on you as your face contorts in pleasure. Eventually he finds your soaking core, lapping up the mix of your juices. You feel his fingers gather some of your arousal, mixed with his cum. Before you know it, those fingers are deep inside your throat. “Taste that, baby? Hm? Taste how fucking good we are?” 

You nod, whining when his mouth finds your core again. His tongue flicks at your most sensitive bud, making you jump. Although Rafe only holds onto harder the more you try to run. “Baby, it’s okay. Let me take care of you; clean you up.”

It doesn’t take long until you’re yet again, a shaking, crying mess underneath him. When his mouth works it’s way back to yours, you can taste both of you on his tongue. “Fuckin’ love this pussy. I fucking love you.”

You smile a weak, tired smile at him. He rolls off of you, flipping you both on your side so he can spoon you. He kisses your shoulder, his fingers lightly tracing mindless shapes into your skin. “I love you too.” You respond as you drift off to sleep in your boyfriend's arms.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Please feel free to leave more asks, I will most likely get to them at some point. Thank you!

[eatmyheartoutjpg]

𓇻 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗣𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗥 ᵃʳᶜᵃⁿᵉ ˣ ᵍⁿ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 ;; Silco, Sevika, Jinx 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 ;; A collection of dynamics and interactions, SFW, Platonic. In which you're a weapons dealer from Piltover working with the undercity, Zaun, all for the sake of your own benefit. 𝘼/𝙉 ;; I love writing interactions surrounding one character dynamic, so here it is! I'll probably write stuff like this more, it's enjoyable for me. Probably will write a part 2 w/ other characters.

11.29.24 Masterlist

You were an anomaly in Silco’s carefully constructed world—a Piltie who didn’t sneer at Zaun but didn’t romanticize it either. You were coy and calculating weasel who wielded a sharp tongue and a sharper wit with precision, forcibly creating a space in the murky waters of Zaun’s criminal underground.

Your voice carried the tone of sincerity, but it never fooled anyone for long; your smile never reached your eyes, and your words were more weapons than pleasantries. You could smile while explaining the most grotesque scenario known to mankind.

People underestimated you often. Some said you had been overconfident, but you knew you had power—the kind born of understanding the value of everything around you, including yourself. What made you different, however, was that you had the ability to force it under your own bare hands, you claimed ownership of everything you wanted.

You supplied Silco with the finest weapons Piltover could create, the kind that never made it into the hands of their enforcers or the powerful and rich aristocrats. The kind that gave Zaun a fighting chance. But you didn’t do it out of charity or loyalty. It was business, pure and simple, and you enjoyed the game.

Dynamic with Silco:

Silco tolerated you. He had no illusions about who you were or what drove you. You were eccentric and unpredictable, traits he usually despised, but your results spoke for themselves.

You brought him weapons that turned the tides of battles, secured deals that strengthened Zaun’s position, and provided insights that few could rival. You granted him so much power and influence within days.

Your dynamic was a strange push-and-pull. You’d waltz into his office unannounced, throw yourself onto the nearest chair, and launch into a rapid-fire monologue about your latest ideas or complaints. He would sit behind his desk, curling and uncurling his fingers around a cigar, and watch you with an expression of faint disinterest.

You'd never come in with your own bodyguards of any kind and you'd come by so often no one questioned you walking up the stairs of the Last Drop.

You came by as if you were close friends.

“You have a remarkable talent for talking,” he’d say dryly once you finally paused to breathe.

“And you have a remarkable talent for listening,” you’d shoot back, unbothered by his lack of patience.

Still, there were moments of quiet understanding. Silco recognized your value, even if he didn’t particularly enjoy your company, and you respected his vision, even if you didn’t always agree with his methods. It was a professional relationship at its core, but there was an underlying current of mutual acknowledgment that kept you both coming back to the table.

Dynamic with Sevika:

Sevika didn’t trust you, and you didn’t blame her. You didn’t make it easy for her to like you, teasing her with remarks just toeing the line of disrespect (especially about her arm).

Whenever she was tasked with escorting you on high-stakes exports, you could feel her eyes on you, weighing and measuring, trying to figure out where you fit in the grand scheme of things.

You always ignored it. Her distrust didn’t bother you—it amused you. You loved toying with her stoic demeanor, throwing in cryptic comments and unnecessary flair just to see if you could chip away at her cool. You were unpredictable, and she hated that.

She also had to bear with you for the sake of her boss, Silco. She would hold back loud groans every time you flung open his office door and drop a load of plans and logs onto his already cluttered desk.

And sometimes, out of a desire to share the distaste of being around you, Silco stopped asking her to leave his office. He'd have her stand and listen to you ramble and ramble. If he had to, she did too.

Still, you had your moments. Like the time you presented her with a large selection of highly specialized mechanical arms—sleek, durable, and laced with the latest enhancements Piltover could offer. Her reaction had been hard to read, a mix of suspicion and begrudging admiration as she inspected them all.

“What’s the catch?” she asked flatly, flexing the joints, testing the weight of the mechanical arm.

You only grinned, spreading your hands in mock innocence. “No catch. Just a gift for Silco’s most trusted lieutenant."

She didn’t believe you for a second. But when the arms proved to be everything you promised, she found herself thinking about you less as a threat and more as an enigma. Not a friend, not an ally, but not quite an enemy either.

Dynamic with Jinx:

Your first meeting with Jinx was unplanned. You had stormed into Silco’s office mid-afternoon, as per usual, all grins and energy, barely pausing to knock. Sevika didn't stop you, as per usual.

You launched into an elaborate spiel about your newest weapons designs, gesturing wildly as you described their destructive potential, opening blueprints after blueprints on Silco's desk.

He only nodded along, waiting for a pause in your dialogue to ask questions.

But above Silco’s desk, perched like a mischievous cat, Jinx watched you with wide, curious eyes. She had no intention of sitting through one of her father’s boring meetings, but you were different. You were loud and exciting, and your enthusiasm for chaos mirrored her own.

You were the first person she's encountered to have such a bold and eccentric personality like her own.

Before Silco could silence you with a quip, Jinx leapt down, landing with a loud crash on Silco's desk, sending blueprints flying.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she interrupted, eyes gleaming. “You’re talking about guns?”

You blinked, taken aback for only a second before grinning wider. You weren't questioning her sudden appearance, to be honest, you didn't care to. “Not just guns. Masterpieces. Works of art. Top of the state types. Wanna see?”

Silco sighed heavily as Jinx dragged you to a nearby table, where you began sketching designs and explaining mechanisms. The two of you quickly fell into a chaotic rhythm, talking over each other in a flurry of excitement.

“She wasn’t supposed to meet you,” Silco muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

But it was too late. Jinx had found a kindred spirit, and you found yourself with a new, albeit unpredictable, ally. Silco already dealt with two mad inventors separately (one being his daughter and the other a sly weasel), but together? He and Sevika both knew this would become a new headache for them. Silco’s office would never be the same.

ˢᵉᵛᵉⁿ

[felassan]

David Gaider on Cassandra (the last of these retrospective character threads), under a cut for length:

"This is the last of the (major) characters I wrote during my time on Dragon Age. I could go into others, and considered moving onto Stray Gods... but I feel like fewer would be interested, and I honestly can't keep up the pace. So let's make this the last, for now. So, yeah. Cassandra. We knew early on that Cassandra would come into DAI as a companion, along with Varric, that this was part of what DA2 set up for the sequel. Now, I'd written Cassandra's short scenes in DA2, yes, but I wasn't her writer for DAI. Initially, she was Jennifer Hepler's character. By mid-project, in fact, Cassandra was more or less fully written. Jennifer did a great job - solid character, solid quest. The sticking point, it turned out, was her romance. Now, to be fair, Jennifer told me straight up when we began that writing romance wasn't her forte, but she'd give it a go. The problem with the romance as she wrote it wasn't in its execution but more a clash between the character as Jennifer envisioned her and the requirements of her being a romance. See, I mentioned previously that a romance arc inherently limits the kinds of stories you can tell with a companion. Many responses I got can be summed up as "lol skill issue", but consider this: a companion romance isn't a fic you can just throw up on AO3. It's an investment of a lot of resources. If a companion has one, most of their resources need to be devoted to it - it's not "now let's ALSO add a romance"."

"That means it needs to take priority in who they are as a character and their arc. What's more, they need to be *appealing* to a big chunk of the player base - or at least someone we can imagine being broadly appealing, anyway. Thankfully, there are still many many stories this can accommodate. 😊 This, however, wasn't one of those. Was Cassandra a fascinating character? Absolutely. Her romance, though... Well, Jennifer DID warn me. She'd written Cassandra as a serious, self-righteous, pious woman who put the Inquisitor on a messianic pedestal. Romancing her meant changing her view of you. You did this by being... pushy. Jennifer didn't mean it to, I'm sure, but sometimes it came off as, at best, negging. At worst, a bit harassy. And Jennifer would have fixed it. This was a 1st draft, and the issues - while serious - were something a skilled writer like her could handle. No problem. Thing is, Jennifer left. You may not remember, but this was around the time a bunch of GamerGate dudes decided Jennifer was somehow responsible for ALL of BioWare's faults. Oh, the power she wielded! She, a writer, could even command the combat Bio made! The result was a LOT of ugly harassment. 😞 Is this why she left? You'd have to ask her, but it undoubtedly didn't help. The important thing is, she left - and there was nobody as senior nor as superhumanly fast as her to take over any unfinished work. This is where Patrick Weekes comes in: a solid, senior writer who could fill her shoes."

"It was great timing - not only did Cassandra need a writer, I'd slowly fallen more and more behind. It was clear by that point that I'd never be able to write Dorian AND Cole AND Solas as planned. They needed to pick up two. And I let them choose the ones who interested them, like all my writers. Patrick taking Solas was no surprise, and while I had Big Plans for Solas in the future I knew at least he'd be in good hands. I was reeeeaaaally hoping Patrick would then pick Cassandra... but they wanted Cole. My baby. Who I created in Asunder. I grumped, but Patrick clearly loved the character. They had ideas for Cole which... yeah yeah, sounded cool. Fiiine. 😅 Now I had to figure out what *I* was going to do with Cassandra. We couldn't move the romance to someone else, all the other female characters were well underway, and I didn't know the character well enough to fix her with tweaks. That meant a re-write. I didn't WANT to erase all that good work, but I needed to start from scratch. Yet how? A pious, self-righteous character was already a risk in terms of romantic appeal. There are only a small number of traits sorta considered universally unappealing but they're on that list. In this instance, Cassandra already being a known character helped. I came across a webcomic (by aimo, I think? AHH I wish I could find it now) that made a joke about Cassandra reading Varric's books. Off-hand, no basis for it, but funny. 😆 And I thought: YES. THAT'S IT. THAT'S WHAT I'M MISSING."

"I sat down and wrote the "fangirl" scene, just to test it out. Everyone loved it, and it served to change my image of who Cassandra was - a view of the inside, at the idealistic and awkward passion she felt, for so many things... AND the Maker. "Yes," I thought. "I could fall in love with this." Who knew Cassandra could be funny? Not anyone, coming out of DA2, yet here we were. It worked so well and her voice came so easily. Miranda Raison was game ofc, and amazing. Though Caroline did gripe that, if we ever met more Nevarrans THAT accent meant we'd have the Tali Problem all over again. 😅 Cassandra's romance is burned into my brain as the time when we THE most awkward conversation with the animators ever. See, that moment during the sex scene on the picnic blanket when she leans back and... there were suddenly these strategically-placed candles, juuuust covering the Sordid Bits. Thing is, they were so obviously placed just to do that. Plus, we'd already decided to do full nudity in DAI, hadn't we? WHY WERE THEY EVEN THERE? Turns out, the nudity thing was still pretty new to the team. They'd forgotten and put the candles there almost as a reflex. So prudish. So Canadian. 😂 I do find it kind of funny that, these days, what I mostly hear about Cassandra is from female fans upset at me because she wasn't a lesbian option. I mean, right? Who wouldn't want that? Technically not my decision, but I guess I WAS behind the companions having set preferences so... fair enough?"

"Some of them do take it to an entitled place, though, like Cassandra *should* have been a lesbian. Why? Because she looks like one, apparently, and that that's a bit of stereotyping which feels... odd? But it's not as if lesbian players are spoiled for choice left and right, so again: fair enough. It did lead to the best end credits VO perhaps ever, and overall I'm pretty happy with how Cassandra panned out. Things never end up like you expect, right? But such is game dev lyfe. 🥸🖖 Did you know Cassandra was THE most-romanced DAI character, by a good margin? Least, by a good margin? Dorian."

[source thread]

User: "Did you have any hand in her writing for Dawn of the Seeker?" David Gaider: "No, none. Nobody at BioWare had any hand in Dawn of the Seeker, outside of maybe Mike approving the script or direction? Only he could say for sure." [source]

User: "Was Miranda a specific casting choice by anyone on the team (similar to your picks for Merrill/Fenris/Solas), or was she simply a lucky find? I loved Miranda on the BBC series "Spooks", so I was very pleasantly surprised to learn she voiced one of my favourite DA characters" David Gaider: "I don’t remember how Miranda was cast. Auditioned, I expect, and she had a good “steely warrior voice” which is surprisingly uncommon among actresses. The accent she made up was all her, as well." [source]

User: "What's the Tali Problem?" David Gaider: "When Tali was the only Quarian, the actress doing a made-up accent was fine. Once there were others… do we get them all to mimic her? That’s a tall order!" [source]

User: "I'd say Solas is the most popular nowaday, but you need to be such a specific race/gender combo + most straight guys wouldn't go for him, i get hes not on top of the list, but I'd have expected Josephine over Cass." David Gaider: "You can’t go by how fans online talk about playing the game. There is almost zero correlation between the playstyles of the vocal hardcore and the masses." [source]

User: "I was a Dorianmancer. The cut content in Trespasser DLC was sad to read, it definitely felt short/abrupt for Dorianmancers. Anyway to share what was cut at all?" David Gaider: "I don’t know what was cut out of the conversation, as I never played it. I just heard about it after the fact." [source]

User: "Those end credits are truly incredible. Do you remember who wrote them? I'm guessing a combination of Mary Kirby & you?" David Gaider: "I wrote them, but I recall the entire team kind of took part in brainstorming the pieces of it." [source]

User: "I’m very curious- Do you know what direction you would have taken Cole and his story if you’d kept him?" David Gaider: "It's hypothetical at this point, but I suspect I would have been less willing to lose the serial killer aspect... or, at least, would have made that transition occur as part of his arc in DAI. Yet that's easy to say from this side of the divide. Who knows, really?" [source]

User: "With Cassandra you created one of the best characters in DA history." David Gaider: "Personally, my favorite response of hers is where she gets mocked for loving romance and she comes back with a retort about how it's a strength - how loving something and striving for the ideal takes courage. To me, that's central to her core." [source]

User: "inquiry: did you not write any of the Awakening characters?" David Gaider: "I wrote Anders, Justice, and Nathaniel in Awakening - but it was such a hurried project, my memories of it are pretty much a blur. "Yes, I worked on that" is almost all I can say about it, I'm afraid." [source]

[marauder-misprint]

Eek I’m the one that asked about requests, so excited you’re taking them!

My idea was fem!reader x whichever marauder you want (not Pete sorry not sorry) where the reader is flirty but not in a hitting on everyone and pickup lines type of way. It’s in a she’s very friendly, likes to give out compliments just cause she wanted to, and is just warm and open to people type of way.

Ngl im a sucker for some angst with a happy ending so if that somehow works with whatever idea you come up with that would be cool but no pressure!

I hope this sounds like something you’d wnjiy writing but again no pressure at all<3

I hope this has that kind of vibe you were going for! Thank you for being my first request - I'm very excited and very nervous for this. ♡

Sunshine Incarnate

Remus Lupin x fem!reader

1.8k words

cw: fluff, angst

“God, she’s such a fucking tease,” Sirius sighs, leaning back in a plush armchair in the library.

“Who is?” Remus asks, not looking up from his book.

“Her,” he answers, gesturing toward you. “Little Miss Sunshine herself.”

Remus’ gaze shoots up, first looking at Sirius and then at you. You were talking with some Ravenclaw boy, absorbed in the conversation and oblivious to the rest of the library.

“A tease?” Remus asks.

Sirius hums. “Whenever you talk to her, she gives you these eyes. Then she’ll give you some flirty comment and walk away. Fucking. Tease.”

“Don’t talk about her that way,” Remus growls, still not looking away from you.

“Remus, you’ve experienced what he’s talking about though, right?” Peter asks. “She sits next to you in Herbology.”

Remus has experienced the eyes that Sirius is describing. When you talked to someone, they had your entire attention. You were fully engaged. He’d also been on the receiving end of your compliments before as well; he replayed them in his head when he was feeling low. But Remus would be an idiot to ignore that you did this with everyone. 

“Oh my god, I love your hair like that!”

“That’s brilliant! You’re a genius.” 

“I haven’t read that book before. Is it any good?” “Yeah, It’s my favorite.” “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

It’s who you are. As Sirius had called you, you are Little Miss Sunshine. You brightened every room you entered and made everyone feel important. Remus didn’t think there was a single person in all of Hogwarts who didn’t like you. How could they? 

“Remus?” Peter repeats, tossing a crumpled piece of parchment at him.

“Huh? What?”

“Wormy asked you about Sunshine’s eyes and you zoned,” James says. He’s busy working on an essay that the rest of the group had already finished. 

“Of course. Yes. Although I think it’s called active listening,” Remus says, sounding more irritated than he intended. “Something you could work on,” he adds on in a grumble. 

“My ears work just fine, thank you very much,” Sirius says. 

Then his face lights up and he waves at you. You had briefly turned away from the Ravenclaw boy and Sirius’ wave caught your eye. You wave back, excuse yourself and make your way to the Gryffindors. 

“Hi!” you say cheerfully. “Remus, that sweater looks really soft.”

His face flushed at your words. He could barely mutter out a thanks. 

“What’re you working on?” you ask, standing next to Remus. You’re looking at the pages of the book he’s reading, hoping to see a title at the top of the pages but there’s nothing to go off of, not even a diagram to say if it was a Herbology or Charms book. 

“That damned Potions essay,” James answers. 

“Good thing you’re not too shabby in that class then,” you say with a smile. “Can’t be too difficult.”

James looks up from his essay to return your smile. “It’s not. Just annoying to do.”

“Annoying to do is my Divination dream journal!” you reply with a giggle. “Like I need a teacher knowing what happens in my subconscious.”

“I’d like to know what happens in your subconscious,” Sirius says, now leaning forward. 

You give him an eye roll. “Become a Divination tutor and maybe. Remus, did you do that Herbology worksheet yet?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did. Yesterday.” 

“Shoot, I was hoping we could work on it together. You’re so much better at Herbology than I am.”

“Oh, it’s not too difficult,” he says, briefly looking up from his book to give you a smile.

You’re already looking at him with those eyes and a smile. Butterflies take flight in his stomach. He has to look away quickly, despite not wanting to. 

“Okay,” you say, bouncing on your toes. “I’ll see you later.”

As you walk away, Peter hits Remus with a roll of parchment.

“Are you daft?” he whispers, unsure if you’re out of earshot yet. “She was flirting with you.”

He shakes his head. “No, she wasn’t.”

“She wanted to work on Herbology homework with you.”

“Because we share the class? And I’m smart?”

“You’re daft,” James confirms.

The rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Remus is replaying the conversation. Had you been flirting with him? Actually flirting or being your kind self? Even if you were flirting with him, you’d certainly stop as soon as you found out that he was a werewolf. Sunshine incarnate could not be with someone who turns with the moon. He was Moony for goodness sake. But she had complimented both his sweater and Herbology skills in one conversation with only James also receiving a compliment. How had he earned two compliments over Sirius? With all of your kindness and Sirius’ natural charisma, you two usually bantered like an entertaining yet sickening tennis match. 

“You know, the things I would do to her if she said the word,” Sirius says, bringing Remus out of his thoughts. 

“Still on about Sunshine, are you?” James asks.

“Still on about Evans?” Sirius retorts.

“Would it kill you to shut up and stay away from her?” Remus snaps.

Sirius and James shoot him a confused look. He had been mostly quiet since leaving the library, but it was Remus. He just did that sometimes. 

“Stay away from her?” Sirius repeats. “From Madam Sunshine herself? Why would I do that?”

“She’s the sweetest,” James adds with a smirk. 

“Yeah, I know,” Remus grumbles. “She doesn’t need you assholes to bring her down.”

“I’m not bringing her down,” James says defensively.

“Just leave her out of your… fantasies.”

“Why?” Sirius presses.

“Just, it’s… it’s you,” Remus says, gesturing wildly. 

“Yeah, and?” Sirius asks, leaning forward toward Remus with narrowing eyes. 

“You’re messy.” Remus pauses. “We’re messy.”

“So we’re all staying away from her?” Peter asks. 

“I, uh, I guess so.” 

Remus couldn’t tell his three closest friends to stay away from her because they were messy and not include himself, possibly the messiest of the group. But, god, he wanted to be close to you. He wanted to hold you and be held by you. He wanted to kiss your perfect smile that was ever present on your perfect lips. He wanted to be the reason your gorgeous eyes lit up. He wanted you to look for him in the room. He wanted you to be his sunshine. 

Sirius shares a knowing look with James and Peter that Remus misses. Though he had tried to be subtle, his friends know when Remus is down bad, and he is for you. 

---

In Remus’ presence, you’re no longer a topic of discussion. The boys successfully steer all conversations away from you. Remus doesn’t think anything of it, assuming they actually listened to him and are staying away from you and all your perfectness. 

That is, until you walk over and sit next to Remus at lunch. You set your books down gently and give the boys a smile.

“That’s our cue to leave. See you in Dark Arts, Moony,” Sirius says with a grin. James and Peter follow him away from the table, leaving you alone with him. 

“That was… weird,” Remus mumbles, watching them leave before turning his attention back to you. 

He tries to hide the confusion on his face, but you see it anyway.

“Did you not… did you not ask me to practice nonverbal spells with you?”

Remus stares at you blankly. “No?”

You pull out a piece of parchment and hand it to him.

“I got this at breakfast.”

It was a note, in Sirius’ handwriting no less, asking you to meet at lunch to practice spells. When he looks up from the note, you are biting your lip with a hopeful look on your face. 

“Even if it’s not from you, would you mind practicing? I’m rubbish at them and, well, you’re great at everything.” 

Remus feels his face heat at the compliment. 

“You’re not rubbish at them.”

“No, I really am! I try them all the time and they never work! I’ve tried to levitate notes to you in Transfiguration and the stupid notes never lift more than a centimeter off the desk!” you ramble.

“Notes… to me?” 

It’s your turn to blush. You had never successfully passed a note to him. The notes that never made it to him often had compliments on them; the most recent had been to ask him to Hogsmeade. But when you continuous failed to get them to him, you had taken that as a sign from the universe that it wasn’t meant to be, but you weren’t one to give up easily. Maybe you were misreading the signs and you needed to go to him for help. So when you received the note from fake Remus, you were over the moon. 

“Oh, yeah. Just little comments about lessons. Nothing too important,” you lie. 

“You were trying to give me notes…” Remus mutters, still in disbelief that you were writing notes to him in the first place, even if they were ‘little comments.’

“Yes?”

You’re not sure what gives you the boldness, but you dig through your bag again and pull out some of the notes. You’re not sure why you kept them, but you did. 

“Okay, little comments, yes. About the lessons, not really.”

You hold out one for him to take.

You mastered teacup to gerbil quickly. You’re amazing!

“That, uh, that should be the first one.”

His hands are shaking as he reads it over and over. 

“You kept them?”

You nod, a little unsure. He reaches out and takes the rest from your hands. You feel your blush grow as he reads each other. It’s only a slight comfort that his blush is also increasing with each note. 

He looks up at you with a curious expression that’s topped with hopeful eyes.

“You were going to ask me to Hogsmeade?”

You open your mouth to speak but words don’t come out. You nod.

“If the offer still stands, I’d, uh, I’d love you. I’d love to. Ahem. I’d love to go to Hogsmeade with you.”

You’re certain your face is as red as his. 

“This weekend then?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

You lean in and kiss his cheek, your own boldness surprising you yet again.

“We can, erm, work on nonverbals later. I’ll see you later, Remus.” 

He watches you leave the Great Hall in a hurry. His hand slowly comes up to touch the spot where you had kissed him. Maybe, just maybe, you had been flirting with him. 

---

“How did that go, Moony?”

“You are bastards. All of you.”

“How did it go?”

“She kissed me,” he says, still blushing furiously.

“I told you!” Sirius cheers. “I told you he was projecting.”

“Projecting?”

“Mate, you called us messy. I mean, yeah, we are, but it’s your tell.”

[reidgenius]

Low Pain Tolerance | S.R. x Reader

image by reidgif <3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Word Count: 1.4k Category: angst, hurt/comfort? Warnings: commitment issues, wildly insecure!reader (it's really just me) A/N: I haven't written for Spencer before, so please excuse any OOC inaccuracies and be nice okay! I am a long-time lurker/admirer of the lovely @pathologicalreid and am writing this for her cutesy margovember event :) Song Inspo: Low Pain Tolerance by Abby Holliday

You never enjoyed running.

Still, that didn't stop you from doing it often. Whether it be on the job or in a relationship, you ran.

To catch a bad guy. To catch yourself before you fall. To stop something terrible before it happens... You ran.

In this instance, you found yourself running from Spencer Reid.

"Would you look at me? Please?" he pleaded.

You knew if you were to turn around that you'd see his glassy doe eyes and be drawn right back in. You knew your weaknesses, and he was certainly one of them. The biggest one. That's why you stayed put, staring at his bedroom wall.

"I can't, Spence." You meant to say it with finality, but it came out more as a whimper.

"You can't look at me, or you can't-"

"Neither. Both."

As the holidays approached, Spencer had mentioned the idea of the two of you making a trip out to Vegas. "Just for a day or two," he'd promised. Though there wasn't much he treasured about home, you knew that his mother was there, and that was more than reason enough.

This evening, he'd brought it up again after letting you avoid the topic for weeks.

"It's only a matter of time before you figure it out," you admit.

"Figure what out?"

"God, Spence, that I'm only bringing you down!" you nearly shouted, though you hadn't meant to. The anxiety took over. "I'm like... gahhh! I don't know how to do any of this, I-"

To your dismay, he let out a laugh as you finally turned to face him. A real, genuine laugh.

"Bringing me down?" He looked at you with an earnest amusement. "Honey, I don't think you realize what you-"

"I'm scared. Okay? Is that what you wanted me to admit? That I'm scared of meeting her?" A single tear gushed down your cheek.

His brows knit in concern as he quickly thought of ways to disprove the common fears surrounding schizophrenia and it's manifestations.

"Baby, schizophrenia doesn't ma-"

"Dammit Spencer, it's not about that! It's- I..."

You found yourself stumbling over your words.

"I don't care about her diagnoses!" you laughed. (Of course, you did care, but that wasn't what was scaring you.) "I'm scared of this!" you said, waving your hands between the two of you. "I don't want to rush it. I don't want to get her hopes up..."

You let your legs give way to sit on the floor against the wall, your head in your hands, mumbling to the cold hardwood.

"I don't want to get my hopes up."

There was it. That was the truth.

You weren't used to it. You weren't used to someone asking you how your day was and really caring. You weren't used to the notion that a man would want to wrap himself around you at night and keep you close. You'd never been one to draw much attention from men. Or women. Or anyone, really.

Naturally, you figured that there must be something deeply and inherently flawed in you. Something Spencer had yet to discover.

So, being with him was... terrifying. You were constantly waiting and wondering when he'd conclude that you weren't as pretty as he initially thought, or as witty, or as intelligent, or kind, or...

And it would only be cruel to drag Diana into this. To have her think that perhaps her son had found his person. To have her thinking that she might be meeting her future daughter-in-law. It felt cruel to yourself, in some twisted way, to pretend that this was all going to last.

Spencer was typically a fast thinker, but your admission had the cogs in his brain working overtime. You were afraid of him? Of your relationship?

He padded over to join you on the floor, keeping a little distance so as not to scare you.

"Get your hopes up? You don't-" he gulped, "I mean... you don't think we're gonna- that this is gonna work out?"

Still speaking to the floor, you sigh, "I don't know, Spence."

You were exhausted. Incessantly feeling like you're on the brink of being "found out" can do that to a person. It's not that Spencer hadn't done all the right things. No, he was the perfect partner. But therein lied the issue. He was perfect. And, in your opinion, you were far, far from it.

You took a deep breath through your tears.

"I don't think I can keep doing this."

Confusion. Utter shock. Things had been going so well with you the past 8 months. Spencer immediately began to wrack his brain combing through all the possible mistakes he could've made. Did he raise his voice with you? Had he forgotten some big milestone? Was he not giving you enough?

"Honey I-" he gathered himself, placing a hand on your thigh, "I'm so sorry. Can I ask... what makes you say all this?"

Though you were reluctant, you figured that now was as good a time as any.

"Spencer. I am not good for you! Good enough for you!" With each point, you illustrated by raising a finger, "I am impulsive and I complain and I get weird sometimes when you touch me and I can be a massive bitch and I never know how to-"

"Woah, woah, woah-" He snuck up closer to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and placing his head atop yours, all while you kept rambling. "Why in the world do you say that? Not good enough for me? If anything it's me who isn't deserving of you..."

"No, you-"

He stopped you in your tracks just by saying your name in that beautiful way he does. Like its covered in honey and dripping with admiration.

"You are everything. You may think those things about yourself but I certainly don't." His thumb caressed your bare skin so carefully as he continued, speaking slowly so as to allow the words to really sink in. "You are the most generous person I've ever encountered. You care so deeply about people you love. You are courageous and willing to try all the weird foods I suggest even though you really don't want to." He smirked a bit at that one. "You have taken everything that life has thrown at you and navigated it with grace. You really are just... you're it. You're her. You're the girl - the woman - I've always hoped would come my way but never dreamed actually would. Honey, I've figured out everything I need to know when it comes to how I feel about you."

You sat there, warm under his embrace, pondering his words as he spoke. It's nothing he hasn't said before, granted, in much less grand and emotionally charged ways. But it was like you were really hearing it for the first time. You wanted so badly to believe him.

"I love you," he continued. "I love you so much that sometimes I am afraid of myself. Of what I'd do for you. You, god, you make me so much better."

"I love you, too. Too much," you squeaked out.

"No. Not too much." He leaned back to encourage you to look up at him. "You know I really mean all that right? Just the way you are. Quirks included?"

"I guess. And now I'm just self-conscious that I am so self-conscious..."

"You say that as if I'm not the exact same way!" he chuckles, trying to make light of what is clearly a shared wound. You'll deal with that later. Together, preferably. "Please, trust me. Do you trust me?"

And you did. You trusted Spencer with every cell in your body and hair on your head. There was nobody else you'd ever been so confident in. So, you nod against his chest as your tears begin to subside.

"Good. Now why don't we move this party up into the bed?"

"No offense, Spencer, but the last thing I want right now is to f-"

"No no no nooope! Not that, babe," he laughed. "Just wanna lay with you 'til this feeling passes. Is that okay?"

"Please."

And so, the rest of the evening consisted of cuddles under your massive comforter. Sweet admissions whispered in your ear. The tiniest kisses to your hairline and your shoulder and your nose and your wrists.

By the time you dozed into a worry-free slumber, you believed him a little more.

Perhaps you could let Spencer love you, forever.

[covenofagatha]

taking requests, angel? if so...

I saw some Kathryn gifs and an idea came to me: Agatha, after a long and exhausted working week, asks female reader to have a date, but the date is on their house because Agatha is too tired to go out. Reader is happy, tho, because her love language is quality time and physical contact. Something like a dinner, maybe, idk... so they end up having a very lovely time together, cuddling on the sofa until they fall asleep. Smut or not in the end, it's up to you... but I'd love to read something cute from you:( I don't know if that's okay...

if you're not taking requests, I totally understand that! I don't want to bother you.

- 🌙

Fun fact, this is my first time writing something that's not meant to build up to sexy times! Also the fluffiest thing I've ever written so hopefully it's good!

Home is where the heart is

A change of plans in your date night with Agatha leads to a confession.

Word count: 1200

Warnings: fluff, softness

Still on for dinner and a movie tonight? 

It’s the text you sent your girlfriend, Agatha, an hour ago and she still hasn’t responded. This usually isn’t like her, but you know how busy work can get. And you know how tough the last week had been on her, but you were really looking forward to spending this Friday night with her. 

The two of you had been dating for three months now and it always seemed like the older woman wanted to do something, whether it be going to a nice restaurant or mini-golfing or painting pottery. Like tonight, Agatha is supposed to take you to the newest spot in town that just opened up and then you were going to see Corpse Bride as it was playing again in theaters. 

You would never complain about any of this, but you’re a little worried that Agatha thinks that you need all of this to hang out with her. 

A text from Agatha buzzes finally. Doll, I’m so sorry. You frown and pick your phone up, afraid she’s going to cancel. I’m so exhausted from work, how would you feel just coming over tonight for something chill? I can order pizza. 

You breathe a sigh of relief and type back. I would love that! See you later. You almost finish the text with a ‘Love you’ but neither of you had said it yet and you were sure as hell not going to say it over the phone for the first time. 

You also weren’t sure how Agatha felt. She was older and you weren’t exactly sure what she saw in you. She was beautiful and confident and wealthy and could have anyone she wanted, and yet she chose you. 

A part of you deep down is perturbed that this is just a fling for her. It would crush you if that’s what it was. 

But you bury that insecurity somewhere dark inside you and you get ready for date night. 

Since you’re not doing anything special, you opt for a comfy purple sweater and black leggings. You do put on lacy underwear just in case Agatha’s in the mood, but you are totally content if not. 

You just want to spend time with your girlfriend. 

You get to her house right at six, which was when you were supposed to meet anyway, and you only have to wait a second after ringing the doorbell for Agatha to appear. 

“Hey, baby,” she says, stepping to the side so you can enter. She’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top, hair loose, but she’s never looked more beautiful. You press a cheek to her kiss and she hums happily and follows you into the kitchen. “Sorry to cancel our plans at the last minute, I’m just so tired.” 

“No worries at all,” you reassure her, opening the pizza box that’s already on the counter. It’s your favorite kind and you put two pieces on a plate and grab a beer. She does the same and leads you over to the couch where you sit on opposite sides facing each other. “Everything okay?” You ask once you’re both settled. 

She sighs dramatically and her head flops back against the couch. You laugh and nudge her with your foot. 

Agatha looks back at you, mirth sparkling in her eyes. “It was just a rough week, hon. Lots of people bothering me, asking stupid questions they should know the answers to, following up on emails that they haven’t responded to. And I had to work late those couple nights.”

You frown. “I’m sorry. You work so hard and no one seems to give you the credit you deserve.” You take a bite of your pizza and chew it thoughtfully, wondering what else you can say. You know she’s been really busy and you’ve hardly seen her at all this week. 

But she leans forward and pats your thigh. “But this has certainly helped.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “The pizza and beer?” You ask innocently, fishing for more. She rolls her eyes fondly, knowing how much validation you like. 

“And the company, hon. You’re pretty great, you know?” 

You smile and squirm with contentment. “You are too, Aggie. I’m always happy to just sit on your couch and talk. I just want to spend time with you, no matter what we’re doing.” 

She smiles gratefully. “Me too, baby. Now, how has your week been?” You launch into an animated retelling of something that happened at work and she hangs onto every word. It takes you a bit longer to tell the story in-between bites of your pizza, but her attention never wavers. 

It makes you feel so warm inside how Agatha always pays attention to what you’re saying. She makes you feel so seen and you couldn’t be more lucky to have her. 

Once you’re done talking and with the pizza, she puts on an episode of Modern Family, your comfort show. You lay between her legs, your back to her front, while she gently strokes your hair. You trace lazy circles on her thighs through her sweatpants and it’s absolutely perfect. 

She tilts your head to the side and angles hers so she’s able to kiss you softly. It’s just a press of her lips against yours at first, but it slowly becomes more and your mouth parts for her tongue. 

It’s not a needy kiss though, not a kiss meant to lead to something more, it’s a kiss full of adoration and longing and intimacy. 

“You’re so perfect, baby,” Agatha murmurs against your lips.

“Not as perfect as you,” you say back and you can feel her smile against your skin. 

She lets you go back to the show and wraps her arms around you. You can feel her deep breathing and you feel so safe and warm that you start to doze off. 

Right before sleep takes you though, you feel her nuzzle your temple and whisper into your ear: “I love you, baby.” 

Your heart leaps and you suddenly feel more awake than ever. You whirl around so fast that you almost fall off the couch. Agatha’s eyes are wide and you think you see fear in them. 

“Did you just–” You start. 

At the same time, Agatha says, “I’m so sorry–”

You both cut off at the same time. You smile wider than you ever have before and you move so you’re straddling her lap. You put your arms around her neck and rest your forehead against hers. 

“Agatha Harkness,” you say. Her eyebrows raise. “I love you, too.” 

She closes the distance between you and kisses you again, this time with more passion. You whine and try to pull her as close as you can, needing to feel her body against yours as much as you can. 

“Say it again,” she says and you smirk. 

“I-” You kiss her. “Love.” Another kiss. “You.” She grins and gives you a long kiss and it eventually sizzles out and the two of you are just holding each other, your chin on top of her shoulder. 

“I’m so glad I cancelled our other date,” Agatha muses and you chuckle, squeezing her tighter. “Stay here with me forever, love?” 

You promise that you will. 

And when you both wake up in the morning in that same position, she tells you that she loves you again.

You hope she never stops saying it, because you know that you never will.

[cheshiresense]

I’m loving all the parts of your Ichigo & Starrk time travel AU! This is a bit random and would take place some time down the road but I had a thought that Starrk probably still has the scars from when Shunsui almost killed him rigjt? So I was wondering if some combination of TBTP!Shunsui recognizing the kind of blades that would’ve left those scars (his zanpakutou is pretty unique after all) and maybe Katen Kyokotsu sensing her own “mark” on Starrk would result in Shunsui guessing a few things if he sees those scars. Or maybe it’s at a point in the timeline where Starrk and Ichigo have already revealed the time travel thing to a few people but not many details and Shunsui ends up putting more pieces together on his own.

Ooh yesss I do love a good scar reveal. For a scene like this, I'd prob go with the second scenario. I imagine Starrk's a pretty private person and also not one to be stripping down in front of just anyone lmao so there has to be a good enough reason. (I actually have a different ready-made one that would fit a time travel reveal scene that I've already hinted at previously but I think I'll write that another time, so we're going to use this one instead.)

This would take place maybe a year or two down the road, and because Shinigami elites are generally not idiots (most of the time), especially the ones Starrk and Ichigo have grown close to, I imagine Shunsui, Ukitake, Shinji, and Kaien (and prob Lisa) have pooled their observations and guessed that Starrk and Ichigo are from the future and have Experienced Some Shit, possibly under Aizen, possibly under some other major big bad that was bad enough to necessitate time travel. And time travel's hardly something just anybody can throw around so most likely there's some divine intervention involved. And once they've come to these conclusions, they decide enough is enough, leaving the fate of Soul Society and possibly the universe on two people who look like they're running themselves ragged trying to save them all is ridiculous. If nothing else, they're friends and family, and it's not right to just leave that burden to them.

I'm also going to throw Kisuke into this group because 1) Kisuke's observant as fuck and Ichigo's actually really bad at staying away from this one mad scientist who created him and weaponized him and pointed him at the enemy but also followed right after him because to Kisuke, Ichigo is everything from moral compass to magnum opus to greatest sin to the person he owes everything to, and he'd more or less handed over his entire soul into Ichigo's possession very early on. So even a hundred years in the past was never going to prevent Kisuke from gravitating to Ichigo who doesn't flinch from him or his reputation and looks at him like he's more than just a Rukon street rat turned assassin turned Shinigami in a captain trenchcoat who has no idea how to be a captain on a good day. (And everybody knows that once Ichigo is attached to you, it's all over, you're never going to be rid of him again, and more than anything, Kisuke has always just wanted someone to want him to stay.)

And 2), there's no better place for secret meetings than the Study Chamber under the Soukyoku Hill, Aizen doesn't know about it, and the Quincy might but with the place buried under enough seals to avoid all detection and probably withstand a siege, even they can't get in to spy. I want to say Kisuke and Yoruichi are a package deal so she should be around, but I also headcanon that they sort of drifted apart for a while after Yoruichi forced Kisuke out of the Second and onto the captaincy doorstep (which made the fact that she threw her whole life and career away when Kisuke was accused of treason that much more meaningful tbh). So for now she's not around, but she does still hang out with Kuukaku, and while it is very helpful that all these people are regular guests at the Shiba compound so nobody is going to get suspicious if this particular group is absent together from time to time because people would just assume they're holed up at the Shibas' for another party or something, Yoruichi is going to notice sooner or later that they're very much not at the compound when they're missing, so she goes looking for whatever fuckery Kisuke has gotten up to this time, and that'll be her way into this time travel adventure, so to speak.

But all of this is actually just to say, healing hot springs for the win, you gotta be naked in a Japanese onsen lmao and guess who's about to have a midnight rendezvous 😉 let's all thank Urahara Kisuke for reinventing such a convenient trope.

-0-

It's nearing two in the morning, and after the staggering revelations earlier, everyone is asleep.

It wasn't as if they hadn't already expected the time travel, but to have it confirmed, and to know now that the reason for it had been the near-total annihilation of all three realms at the hands of a race nursing a thousand-year-old grudge, one thought to be largely extinct but has actually been hiding in their walls - almost literally - and biding their time until their king's awakening--well, let's just say Shunsui isn't going to be able to walk down a street without wondering how many hidden eyes are watching him from the shadows until the Wandenreich has at least been dug out of the woodwork for all to see.

(It's also perhaps a little more… off-putting for him than the others, though perhaps that's his pride speaking. Shadows are supposed to be his domain, and yet he's never sensed anything amiss in all the long years he's lived in the Seireitei.)

There had at least not been too much of a fuss about bringing them into the loop. Shunsui had admittedly thought they would have to at least argue back and forth about it a few more times, if only because no matter how much Ichigo likes to deny it, the family resemblance is uncanny, whether in appearance or personality, and a Shiba is nothing if not stubborn once they've set their mind on something. Ichigo is exactly the type to refuse outside aid in the name of better protecting the people he cares about, has yet to understand that ignorance does not always mean safe, or outgrow that inexplicably instinctual mindset of his where he seems to believe that he must take on all burdens by himself instead of allowing others to help shoulder those burdens with him.

But then they'd confronted the boy, and while Ichigo had scowled up a storm and tried to bluster his way out of it at first - kid really is a terrible liar - he'd also capitulated far sooner than any of them had expected. In the end, he'd crossed his arms and scowled some more before deciding with the finality of someone who wouldn't budge any further, "Fine, but we wait for Starrk-san."

He'd smirked at them then, still displeased considering the topic of conversation, but vaguely triumphant nonetheless as he'd eyed Urahara and Hirako and Kaien in particular. "It's why you cornered me when you know Starrk-san's out on a mission and isn't due back 'til late, right? Cuz you think you might be able to wear me down by nagging me to death, or worse comes to worst, you can figure it out by watching my reactions. But you won't get anything out of Starrk-san if he doesn't want to say, and he's hard to read even when he's actively emoting."

He'd snorted then, mockery softened by a reluctant sort of mirth. "Joke's on you, he's the reasonable one."

Which, to be fair, had been Shunsui's opinion. Starrk really is frustratingly, delightfully difficult to read, and this is coming from Shunsui, who's always found most people easy enough to figure out at a glance. Case in point, most of the things they'd pieced together for themselves had been clues Ichigo had inadvertently given away, not Starrk. And even then, if Starrk doesn't want them to know, no matter how many well-reasoned conjectures they lay at his feet, he probably wouldn't say a word.

But by that same token, it must mean that the hints he'd started dropping over the past few months could only be his way of encouraging them to ask without directly giving the game away, without giving them any hard evidence or firsthand testimony that would condemn himself or Ichigo, just in case the people they've chosen to trust fail their expectations and choose to hand them over to the government instead of trusting them in return.

To Shunsui, that had basically been an open invitation to sit down for a chat, and Ukitake had agreed with him, but they'd been outvoted - sometimes, he thinks with some amusement that the younger members of their little group don't seem to have eyes for anyone except Ichigo - so he'd let it go since he'd thought there wouldn't be any major issues with trying it this way first either. After all, he doubts Starrk would've shown his hand without Ichigo's agreement. It's just that they'd probably have to jump through a few more hoops if they went to Ichigo, what with the kid's knee-jerk reflex for keeping them at a distance no matter the cost to himself. And he'd been correct, more or less. It's just that they'd had fewer hoops to jump through than Shunsui had anticipated, but he's hardly about to complain.

"My plan was to force Aizen to out himself somehow and then take him down in front of everyone," Ichigo had continued, oblivious to the dawning look of horror on his cousin's face at the sheer lack of regard Ichigo clearly had for his own wellbeing, or possibly for the excessive margin of error implied in every sentence. "And then, you know, hopefully do the same for the Quincy, although I guess they'd be harder to draw out, so maybe we would've had to go to them? But anyway, Starrk-san's the one who's been saying practically from the beginning that we need more people."

He'd made a face then, reminiscent of children everywhere who'd been lectured by a parent for doing something potentially reckless and stupid, but there'd been a grumpy sort of acceptance there too that had lent maturity to his features.

"'Wars can't be won alone,'" Ichigo had audibly quoted with a rueful sort of twist to his mouth, as much to himself as to them. "'And this is their home. If they want to fight for it, let them fight. They're strong enough to make a difference. Besides, there's nothing worse than only being able to stand by helplessly while something you love disappears in front of you.'" He'd huffed and scrubbed a hand over his face, and then he'd just looked tired. "Well, he's not wrong."

He'd looked at them all again, gaze firm. "So if you really wanna do this, fine, but we wait for Starrk-san."

They'd waited. It wasn't as if anyone had actually wanted to exclude the man anyway, couldn't even if they did since he and Ichigo were clearly a package deal. And Shunsui's of the opinion that anybody who can consistently convince Ichigo to stop and look around and realize he isn't as alone as he often seems to believe is someone Shunsui definitely wants onside.

Ichigo had told them that Starrk had been expecting a confrontation sooner or later, and there were only so many places for it to happen if they didn't want anyone else finding out, so if Starrk got back and found their shared apartment empty, he would know to check here.

Sure enough, an hour after, a reiatsu signature - usually so carefully tucked away but one that Shunsui had pressed into his own memory from the very first time he'd had the chance to really feel it - had flared politely right outside the door before wisping away to nothing again, and a moment after Urahara had flashed away to let him in, Starrk had ghosted in, still in his Shihakushou with the wooden case containing his Zanpakutou slung over one shoulder and an exhausted air about him, but the silver-blue gaze he'd swept over them had momentarily felt like the fangs of a beast locked around their throats.

He'd looked to Ichigo, who'd grimaced but nodded, some wordless conversation passing between them, and only then had all those predatory edges been folded away again, leaving only the quiet unassuming man people still barely looked twice at despite the fact that he'd graduated with honours just as impressive as Ichigo's had been, and had even been promoted to lieutenant on Unohana's personal recommendation straight out of the Academy. But most Shinigami saw Fourth Division and looked no further, blind to the power concealed behind Starrk's reserved apathy.

(In contrast, restlessness had stirred beneath Shunsui's skin at the sight. He'd wanted to feel that reiatsu again, to taste the corrosive bite of it against the endless abyss of his own, to revel in the reminder that neither of them could overwhelm the other. He'd wanted to see more of the wolf lurking behind Starrk's eyes too, wanted this man to know he had no need to hide any part of it, not from Shunsui, not when he had the same kind of monster residing in his own soul. But that was all still too much, too soon, and so he'd locked it all behind his teeth once more, waiting for the day he wouldn't have to anymore.)

Starrk had sighed and run a gloved hand over his mouth before wandering over to join them. "Alright, let's talk. What do you want to know?"

That had been five hours ago. The conversation had lasted until midnight before they'd all decided to retire for the night and continue in the morning.

(Ichigo had looked positively agonized at the prospect. Starrk hadn't looked much of anything, mainly because he'd been half-asleep - or doing an excellent job at pretending to be - for a good hour and a half by that point.)

They'd opted to stay in the Study Chamber. Urahara had had more than enough futons to go around, thick enough that they wouldn't feel the ground underneath, and there were bathroom facilities and even a kitchenette included in a sectioned off corner. He and Yoruichi had certainly outdone themselves.

Urahara in particular. He'd invited them to use his hot spring too if they wished - a derivative of Kirinji Tenjirou's very own hot springs, less effective and fast-acting than the originals, only able to speed up recovery, but also far less dangerous - perfect for soaking in after a tough spar or a hard day or anything that results in moderately serious injuries. A veritable work of art.

Still, Shunsui had been more preoccupied with the way Starrk's eyes had lingered on the hot spring even as they'd all headed off to eat something and wash up before going to bed. In that split-second moment, the normally inscrutable man had looked adorably like a cat with a patch of sunlight. It shouldn't have been so attractive, but Shunsui had found himself unspeakably charmed all the same.

Ten minutes after everyone else's reiryoku had levelled out with deep slumber, and Shunsui had likewise tamped down on his own and smoothed it out to mimic sleep, he'd heard the faint rustle of Starrk's futon being pulled back, and then the whisper of footsteps padding their way towards the hot spring.

A better man than Shunsui would probably not have followed. But if that had ever been an option, he'd thrown it out the window from the first time he'd almost drowned in the shattered devastation of Starrk's soul and still decided to go after him.

He'd known since they'd met that there was some kind of connection between himself and Starrk.

He'd known for nearly as long that something about himself made Starrk uncomfortable, at best, and hurt him on a soul-deep level at worst.

He'd known with every interaction they'd had after that - every moment Shunsui could spare to track him down without making it seem too obvious that he was doing it on purpose - that Starrk wanted him to stay away just as much as he wanted him to stay, and Shunsui had taken shameless advantage because he himself had also been unable to do anything less, because he'd looked at this man and the desolate void inside him and couldn't bear to leave him alone.

(Because every moment with Starrk had filled something in Shunsui's own heart that he hadn't even known had been missing until Starrk had slotted into his life so neatly, so easily, that it had felt like he was always meant to be there.)

And he'd known for months, ever since time travel had become the most likely explanation for Starrk and Ichigo's origins, that there was no way Starrk hadn't known him in another life, and known him well, because that was the only thing that explained it all with perfect, horrifying sense.

A better man than Shunsui would not have followed, would've given him space. But a better man wouldn't have reduced someone's heart to a grief-stricken ruin either, cut so deep that it had carved that anguish straight into their very soul, so Shunsui figures that since a future version of himself has already sunk about as low as he possibly can, he might as well keep going and see if there's anything at all that he can do to fix what another him - still him, in the end, with a mere hundred years and change between them - has so clearly, carelessly, cruelly broken.

One of the things that had been revealed earlier had been Ichigo's background, because they'd all noticed the flashes of Quincy and Hollow in his reiatsu. Kaien had broken three sake cups and almost Urahara's face, and even by the end, he'd still looked murderous enough that Shunsui had almost pitied Shiba Isshin's foreseeable future. But Ichigo's ancestry had led to Starrk's, whose reiatsu may be as inherently dangerous as Shunsui's but has never read as anything less than perfectly Shinigami. They'd all been curious for a while, because Starrk was the kind of old and powerful that very few people could get to, and none that could and still remain unknown for so long, but there'd also been no Coyote Starrk in the Gotei 13 until this version who'd time-travelled had arrived in the Seireitei.

Starrk hadn't beaten around the bush. He'd pulled open the front of his Shihakushou and bared the web of scars below his collarbones, slightly branched out but thick and concentrated over his sternum in a distinctly circular mass.

"I'm not a Shinigami," He'd said calmly, plainly.

"You kind of are," Ichigo had mused, even as he'd glowered death eyes at them all when Starrk wasn't looking.

Starrk had shaken his head. "There's no name for what I am. I just evolved enough to fix my own soul."

He'd placed a hand over the scarring, and his gaze became distant enough that Shunsui's hands had twitched with the urge to reach out, even while the others had gaped, visibly shocked because it's one thing to have a soul like Ichigo's, one ultimately man-made, cobbled together from hope and desperation and a scientist's gamble; it's another entirely to realize that Shinigami have perhaps been looking at Hollows the wrong way for as long as any of them have existed.

(Because all Hollows are ultimately the product of the Shinigami's failure to save them in time, though most don't view it that way anymore, if they ever have. Because the possibility of a Hollow saving themselves has never even been a thought exercise in anyone's mind.)

Shunsui hadn't cared. No, that wasn't entirely correct. He'd been just as stunned as the others at this revelation that overturned millennia's worth of ironclad beliefs. But he'd been far, far more perturbed by what he could see of a second scar on Starrk's chest that bisected the circular one, faded just enough to indicate that it wasn't a very recent injury, but still deep and ragged and vivid enough to show how lethal it had been, how fatal, and-

And Shunsui had seen enough- dealt enough damage with his Zanpakutou to know the kind of wounds his blades left in their wake. And as if that wasn't enough, Katen had murmured in his mind, terrible and possessive and ruthlessly final, "Yes, his is a life we claimed for ourselves."

Shunsui had been almost relieved when Starrk had blinked back into the present and pulled his Shihakushou back on properly before continuing in a sedate tone, "We concluded that this is the final step for a Hollow, that they're allowed a chance to become whole again. It's just that even the strongest Hollows usually only survive for a few hundred years before something kills them, or they just don't have the power levels to climb that high, especially in the time they have."

He'd smiled then, but there'd been no humour in his expression, only infinite emptiness. "I survived, and I'm strong. So I guess this was my prize."

Nobody had really known what to say about all that, though Urahara had done an admirable job of recovering, and then an even more admirable job of pretending he didn't immediately want to whip out one piece of equipment or another and start scanning Starrk for data. They'd moved the conversation back to more information on the Quincy instead, although there would definitely be more questions in the future. But it'd been a lot to take in, and everybody had needed time to digest.

Now, hours later, Shunsui waits a bit before getting up as well and quietly making his way to the hot spring. He isn't surprised when he finds Starrk already rising from the water and reaching for a towel, evidently prepared to leave.

"Don't go," Shunsui says before he can think better of it, and he doesn't mean it as a demand or order, but he doesn't take it back either when Starrk goes still, water sluicing off of him - all tanned wet skin and strong shoulders and lean muscle for miles and now is really not the time - half turned away, and it's only because of that that even with the steam, Shunsui notices the conspicuous scar left by a stab wound in Starrk's back, just left of the spine.

This time, he doesn't need Katen to say anything at all.

Perhaps he'd dropped his conscience in a ditch on his way here, because he repeats, can't stop himself from repeating, "Don't go. I don't mean to chase you away. It's more than big enough for the both of us, isn't it?"

He pauses, reaches for a hat he'd left behind on his futon, and settles for shrugging out of his clothes instead. "…I'll stay on this side."

He slides into the water and forces himself to wait. When Starrk slowly sinks back into the hot spring, Shunsui very carefully doesn't react to that either.

The silence that settles over them is less tense than one might expect. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Starrk slumps against the edge of the hot spring, eyelids drooping. He has his hair tied back in a bun to keep it out of the water, and it's rare enough that Shunsui can't help taking a few extra looks.

Then again, that's nothing new. Starrk has always drawn his eye. Ukitake likes laughing at him for it.

"Does it bother you?" Starrk speaks up abruptly, unexpected enough that Shunsui almost startles. "That I'm a Hollow."

Shunsui wants to say that this man is so far from everything he'd ever thought even the most advanced Hollows could be that a part of him simply can't reconcile the disconnect. The rest of him…

"You're the same person now as you were before you told us what you are," He points out. "I don't think anything else matters."

Blue-grey eyes slit open, not quite looking in Shunsui's direction, not quite not, expression utterly indecipherable.

"…Did my future self think differently?" Shunsui ventures, but that can't be right. He can't imagine any version of himself who would think that way, especially one who'd lived even longer than he has. Still, his mind flashes back to the scars on Starrk's body, hidden beneath the water now but seared into Shunsui's memory like a brand, and he can't help coming up with increasingly depressing scenarios.

But Starrk blinks, and his focus finally hones in on Shunsui, genuinely surprised, and Shunsui releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"No," Starrk says after a beat of studying him with that too-perceptive gaze. "You've apparently always been more open-minded than most." He cocks his head. "But you were staring, so I thought…"

I always stare at you, haven't you noticed? Shunsui wants to blurt out, but he swallows it down with only a little effort. Too much, too soon.

After tonight's revelations, after all the speculations he's pieced together bit by bit over the past few months about their past-future relationship, maybe it will always be too soon. But Shunsui's never been in the habit of admitting defeat without even trying, and this time is no different.

"Something is bothering you though," Starrk tacks on, still watching Shunsui through narrowed eyes, and Shunsui wonders if the man realizes how much he looks like he's stalking prey in moments like this.

It should be unsettling, being on the receiving end of such a gaze, and it is, a little, but Shunsui's grown used to it too, grown to appreciate it even, to the feeling of being seen, of being known, and still being wanted.

(Because that's the one thing that's never been in question. Because however much Starrk sometimes reacts like Shunsui's very existence pains him, or how much he sometimes makes Shunsui feel completely bare, every sin and secret laid out for judgement, he's also never looked at Shunsui with anything less than the sort of quiet devotion the tide holds for the moon, or the stars for the sky, or dawn for the horizon, steadfast and eternal. Is it any wonder Shunsui can't stay away?)

"Is it this then?" Starrk asks next, and the water sloshes a little as he straightens up, revealing his scarred chest to tap a finger against the near-horizontal scar cleaved across it, right through where his Hollow hole had presumably still been at the time of the injury. Seeing it in its full gruesome glory now, Shunsui can tell that this wound had to have nearly cut the other man in two.

He feels a little at a loss for words, then sighs and fesses up. "Maa, I suppose I'm just a bit curious." He tries to keep his tone light, but there's really no two ways to say it. "…I did that, didn't I?"

Starrk levels an arch look at him. "Well, you didn't." He slouches back into the water, and somehow, he actually looks a bit amused. "I'm long over it, Taichou-san. We'd just met, and we were enemies at the time. You did what you had to do. We both did. It was war. If it makes you feel better, I gave as good as I got."

Shunsui snorts. That does actually make him feel a bit better. At the very least, this is preferable to the progressively dramatic betrayal scenes he'd been thinking of. He doesn't like the idea of his future self almost killing Starrk, but at least it hadn't happened after they'd become friends.

It does mean he has to reshuffle a few things on his mental timeline though, and across the hot spring, Starrk glances at him again and seems to understand.

"I guess we didn't get around to talking much about Aizen," He muses, then reveals, "We mentioned that before the Quincy became a problem, it was Aizen you all fought. Aizen set up his base of operations in Hueco Mundo, sought out Hollows from all over, and created an army of artificial Arrancar out of them to serve him, using that Hougyoku Ichigo was talking about earlier. I was part of that army."

Shunsui blinks at that revelation, and it's on the tip of his tongue to ask what Aizen - in his quest for world domination - could've possibly offered a man who didn't even like fighting to secure his allegiance. Then again, Shunsui's willing to bet at least a little hypnosis had been involved to ease the way. Aizen doesn't seem the type to bank on genuine fealty without including insurance.

The question stalls in his throat though as Starrk lifts a hand out of the water--his left, the one with the vivid burn scar stretched over the back of it. That isn't something often seen either. Starrk almost always has gloves on. He stares at it for a moment before letting it fall back beneath the water.

"The ten most powerful Arrancar in his army were called the Espada," Starrk explains. "I was the Primera. The first."

"The strongest," Shunsui nods. That sounds right, especially if Starrk had been sent to fight Shunsui.

Starrk shrugs noncommittally and says nothing else, leaving Shunsui to mull over the new information for a minute.

"Ichigo-kun warned us earlier," Shunsui eventually says. "About being Hollowfied by Aizen's Hougyoku. That turning into Visored stunted any chance of growth, and that you weren't even halfway through the Blood War before Lisa-chan and the others' power levels had degraded to barely that of a seated officer's."

Hirako had been grim-faced at the news. Lisa had looked ready to march out and rip Aizen's head off right then and there. Honestly, Shunsui had shared the sentiment.

"Then wouldn't it have been the same for Aizen's Arrancar?" Shunsui continues, watching a puzzled frown furrow at Starrk's brow. "They were granted power by the Hougyoku. Shouldn't it have stunted them too?"

Starrk nods, still frowning. "Yeah, it did. Grimmjow was furious when he found out." He blinks, and then realization strikes. "Oh, you mean me."

Shunsui hums a confirmation. Why in the world would he mean anyone else?

Starrk shakes his head. "I was the exception. Aizen found me last, out of most of the Arrancar. Definitely last out of the Espada. But even then, I was already more powerful than all the others, so he gave me the Primera seat." A corner of his mouth quirks with a cynical sort of mirth. "I didn't want more power, and he certainly wasn't about to give me more. I suppose it was fortunate. I don't think even Aizen knew back then that the Hougyoku would cause stagnation."

Powerful enough to have risen to Arrancar on his own, Shunsui muses, and he has to marvel at that, has to admire it. That kind of strength - mental even more than physical in some ways - isn't something just anyone can possess. Evidently. The only natural Arrancar in the known worlds. The only one to repair his own soul. What an extraordinary accomplishment. Except-

"I'm sorry it took so long," Shunsui says softly, because he knows Starrk is around the same age as himself, and if he was still an Arrancar by Aizen's war, then he could only have spent all the centuries before in Hueco Mundo. Even if he'd had companions there, Starrk would've outlived them all. "It must've been lonely."

I'm sorry nobody could help, because no Shinigami would've known to help. Perhaps most wouldn't have been willing to even if they'd known. I'm sorry I couldn't help.

For a long moment, Starrk is still enough to resemble a statue. Then a scoff of something that could've been laughter if it didn't ache so much claws its way out of his throat. He doesn't lift his gaze from where it's fallen blankly on the shifting surface of the hot spring. "No need to be sorry. I'm used to it."

Used to it. Used to being alone. Used to being left behind.

Shunsui doesn't think he's only talking about those long years in Hueco Mundo anymore, not when he's avoiding eye-contact again, not when Shunsui can suddenly feel the bleak despair radiating from his soul again.

"There's nothing worse than only being able to stand by helplessly while something you love disappears in front of you."

Not for the first time, Shunsui feels an acute desire to have a nice long talk with his future self and ask exactly how much of the agony rippling through Starrk's reiatsu can be placed directly at his feet.

(It isn't as if Shunsui can't understand. Even disregarding all other circumstances, the fact that they'd been at war would've meant that there could be no guarantees.

But still.

Still.

Couldn't he have tried a little harder? Didn't he know better than anyone the pain of being the only one left behind, the way it lingers like a slow unending bleed you're forced to carry until the day death finally deigns to take you too?

Shunsui at least has Ukitake, has Yama-jii, has Retsu-senpai and Sasakibe-san too, has Lisa-chan and Hirako and Kaien-kun, even has Nanao-chan to watch over in his brother and sister-in-law's stead. And in the future, maybe he'd lost them all, but it also sounds like he'd still had one to staunch the bleed, still had Starrk, right to the very end.

Then, who did Starrk have after Shunsui had died?

Isn't the answer obvious? Isn't Starrk still bleeding right now?)

A heavy sigh jolts Shunsui out of his thoughts, and his hands sting from where his nails have dug into his palms, fortunately out of sight. On the other side, Starrk clambers to his feet, water sloughing off his frame as he turns to get out of the hot spring.

The steam obscures his face this time, but even if he could see it, Shunsui thinks it would be one of those times again where he wouldn't be able to read him at all.

"Don't think so hard, Taichou-san," Starrk says, voice as calm as a blanket of snow over a cemetery. "It's not your job to save me."

I can't be saved anymore. I don’t want to be saved.

Shunsui's out of the water and next to Starrk before either of them can blink.

Too much, too soon, a part of him warns, but this time, he throws caution to the wind, reaches out, and closes a hand around Starrk’s wrist.

Starrk freezes, the pulse under Shunsui’s fingers jumps, and for a moment, time seems to stop.

They must look ridiculous, dripping wet and naked, and yet Shunsui barely notices, and Starrk has probably noticed everything but.

"It's not my job, that's true," Shunsui says without letting go, staring at what he could see of the other's face. "And I don't know if what I'm doing is meant to save you. But if you think I'll just let you go to your grave after all this is over, Ichigo-kun is apparently not the one we should've been worrying most about after all."

They had made a mistake, Shunsui realizes. He had made a mistake. Because looking at Starrk and Ichigo--at Starrk who was so steady and composed all the time, and then at Ichigo who was so much more transparent in his misery, in his fury, in his determination to achieve his end goals no matter the cost to himself, that it was almost instinct for everyone to focus their concerns on him. Because for all that Ichigo was reluctant to involve them, and reticent on the best of the days, he was at least also loud about it, and therefore was that much easier to help--to know they need to help.

Compared to him, Starrk has always shown himself to be the rock in a storm that even Ichigo clearly clings to. He has never been anything less than an ocean of serenity, but perhaps they should've remembered that no ocean is calm beneath the surface.

…No, it's Shunsui who should've remembered. He has literal unparalleled insight into Starrk's soul, feels the ache of it regularly, even if not all the time, except he'd just… not forgotten, that's impossible, but he'd been trying to fix it in his own way, with tea and conversation and countless attempts at coaxing out even just one more smile, except he can never tell when he might be going too far, pushing too fast, wanting too much, always feeling a bit like he's standing helpless in front of a skittish cornered animal too hurt to accept any kind of affection, and so perhaps as a result, Shunsui's ended up failing to show Starrk just how far he's willing to go instead.

Case in point, he's still holding onto Starrk, touching him, skin warm against Shunsui's own. Shunsui would've thought he'd be shaken off by now, possibly tossed into a wall out of reflex if nothing else, but Starrk hasn't even attempted to pull away. His pulse is calming again, but Shunsui can feel the tension in his arm, and he's staring down at their limbs with a lost expression.

Shunsui tightens his grip and runs his thumb along the inside of the other's wrist. He feels more than sees the shiver that runs through Starrk's body, for all that Starrk still hasn't moved. But the lost expression on his face also retreats. It leaves exhaustion-bruised eyes and enough sorrow thrumming through his reiatsu to smother the breath from Shunsui's lungs in its wake, but at the very least, he also finally looks up to meet Shunsui's gaze.

"…I don't know what you want from me, Shunsui," Starrk says wearily.

It's the first time he's ever used Shunsui's name. Shunsui only wishes he wouldn't sound so unbearably sad when saying it, but he'd take what he could get.

"That's easy," Shunsui replies, catching that pale mercurial gaze and holding it. "I want the same thing you've asked of Ichigo-kun. I want you to live."

A long silence follows before a rough sound spills from Starrk's throat like shattered glass.

"'Easy'," Starrk echoes, shoulders shaking, with laughter, with tears. But his eyes are dry, and he's the farthest thing from amused, and his soul feels like it might swallow itself whole just to cease its own existence. So this time, Shunsui lets instinct guide his hands and doesn't let himself second-guess it--in one swift motion, he tugs the other man into his arms and wraps him in a hug like he's wanted to ever since Starrk's soul had grasped for his own like he was drowning and Shunsui was the only one who could pull him to shore. Who could convince him to come ashore.

Starrk collapses against him, shuddering like he might fall apart with even just one more word, one more breath, one more touch, but Shunsui only draws him closer, holds him harder, and refuses to let him go.

[goingmerryfics]

HELLO!!! sorry if I request again because I really like how you write😔👊, I come with another request, something that I saw once in a fanfic and I loved the idea, it could be any other character you want but I see it more in Sanji (don't let it be obvious that I'm a Sanji lover HAHAH) well the issue is discovering that the character always carries with him a photo of gn!reader, whether it is a photo of them or the wanted poster of gn!reader

Carrying My Love With Me - Sanji, Shachi, Bartolomeo

Content: SFW, these boys are in love with you, strawhat reader in Barto’s, only Sanji’s is an explicit established relationship

Notes* Noooo please don’t apologize I love getting engagement :D and I finally get a prompt that I feel is perfect for my boy Barto!!

Sanji

Sanji is not shy at all about his picture of you that he keeps in his jacket pocket

He absolutely adores looking at you and your cute face, so when he has any excuse to pull that picture out, he does

He’ll use your photo to brag about you to other men all the time, claiming that you’re all his

That photo would always be in pristine condition, never letting anyone take it from him and making sure it doesn’t get destroyed after a battle

He would also pull it out anytime when he feels down, using your face as motivation in his dark times- even if it’s just him sulking over something

He takes out the photo while he’s cooking and sets it somewhere in sight. He talks to himself a lot as he cooks, so having your photo there makes him feel a little less silly

He promises your photo that he’s making this meal with love, and that he wishes he could share it with you

He does get a little embarrassed the next time he sees you and the crew rats on him about the photo, though

But after you’re reassurance that you think it’s sweet, he melts in your arms all over again, just like he always does

Shachi

What Shachi keeps with him is a picture of the two of you together

He hides it in his pillowcase, not wanting anyone to find it and make fun of him

He’s weirdly sensitive about the crew thinking he’s soft or something

But when you’re not around, it’s nice to have a piece of you nearby to hang onto

He pulls it out when he’s alone just to look at you- to study your eyes and the shape of your nose with a goofy little smile on his face

When people are around or he just wants to hold onto something while he’s lying down, he’ll put his arm into his pillow case and just hold onto the picture with his eyes closed, picturing you beside him, pretending he’s got you in his arms

Shachi is a romantic, he’s just too ashamed to admit it

The day Penguin is on laundry duty, he finds it and teases his friend relentlessly about it, holding it up in the dining hall and loudly proclaiming that he didn’t know his best friend had a girlfriend, and how could he not share this information?

A lot of chaos ensues, and after some teasing he snatches it back possessively

Bartolomeo

With you being a Strawhat, of course he’s got your wanted poster hung up in his room!

Luffy and his crew are his number one, and he loves Luffy, but you and him definitely had a special kind of relationship

Anytime you two meet, there’s always flirting involved

More from you than him, because he’s losing his mind with each compliment and sexual innuendo that comes out of your mouth

He didn’t expect that when he’d met you at first and went wild, swearing up and down that he’d do anything you asked just to hear your heavenly voice speaking like that again

So that picture is special to him, and he ends up fawning over it quite often- especially whenever he feels like he misses you

He rants to the crew all about how much he loves you to anyone that will lend him an ear (and to those who don’t, as well if there are anyone like that on the crew)

You make sure to sign it next time

[buckets-and-trees]

Ahahaha, I was glad for you nudging my muse when I had a few things I wanted to work on and with this being the NEWEST idea in that handful of things and the one I was most hesitant about... it turned out to be just what I needed! I'm proud of this dark story. So, thank you!

I loved writing this Steve because of his brand of cruel ferocity - focused, conqueror, even though he took the opportunity to kind of torture the reader's husband, for me it wasn't eve peersonal so much as this it was a chance for Steve to flex his power and strength as a conqueror in that moment. It wasn't who your husband was, it was that King Steven and his men landed on the shores of the village that day and it was the very day the magnate's son was married? Delicious opportunity to grind in that he'd defeated them and would demand their loyalty or be decimated until surrender or death.

He's a cruel and dangerous man, but he's not vicious or foolish, he doesn't seek spectacle. So that's why he didn't fuck you publicly. But take the rest of the night to ruin you at his leisure? And to do it in private because it was another way to stick the knife into the magnate's son? Yes. He knew what he was doing. And when he made that move in the throne hall, that was all he intended.

But, as you mention here... did he decide to keep you before the morning?

Yes.

He enjoyed you more and more while he took you apart, he liked how you felt sleeping in his arms, and after staying up much later into the night, he finally called for his right hand man (Bucky, obv) and told him to wake the magnate and make the offer - you in return for the peace and safety of the village - so he could have their answer by morning.

Not that they could have refused.

But still.

Steven is a man of honor in the end. Even if it is his own brand of honor.

So Black the Darkness Hums

Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader, unnamed husband of reader Word Count: 9.1k Summary: Your wedding day is destroyed when your village is raided by the vicious king Steven and his viking warriors. He will lay claim to all he wants, including you.

Content/Warnings: DARK, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut (oral - male and female receiving, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, anal fingering, anal intercourse, breastplay, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms), use of pet name (little bride), dacryphilia, innocence kink, implied breeding kink, exhibitionism, human tribute/trade

Notes: I was struck by the idea of a very mean viking Steve last Thursday, and he would not let me go. Thanks to the encouragements from @biteofcherry, @witchywithwhiskey, and @vonalyn. An unapologetically brutal offering for the ninth week of Chris-mas.

Additional Note: I've gone with the term magnate over chieftan per this source.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You had already made a long walk, dressed in white, towards a man today. But where this morning, you had walked happily in the sunlight to your betrothed - the eldest son of the village magnate, now you walk over the flagstones of the village hall to the seat typically occupied by the magnate.

A seat now filled by the brutal and terrifying Steven - warrior and king of an army which had landed on the shores of your village to raid and conquer today.

And conquer they had.

Your white dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to your skin, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and leaves. The veil that had adorned your hair this morning lies discarded somewhere in the forest, torn away by grasping branches as you fled.

The memory of your desperate flight from your wedding into the woods plays in your mind like a fevered dream. The screams of the villagers, the clash of steel, the acrid smell of smoke as buildings burned – all of it had driven you and a group of women and children to seek refuge among the ancient oaks. The forest, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, became a labyrinth of terror as you led the group deeper and deeper, branches scratching at your arms and face, tearing at the delicate fabric of your gown. The sounds of pursuit never seemed to fade, no matter how far you ran.

As dusk fell, you huddled together, exhausted, praying to gods old and new that you would not be found. But the gods were silent, and the crunch of heavy boots on fallen leaves had filled their absence. You were all bound and forced back.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the throne, each step echoing in the cavernous hall. The white gown that once symbolized joy now feels like a shroud.

The smell of blood and sweat permeates the room, a stark contrast to the polished wood and fine tapestries of the hall.

Steven's piercing eyes lock onto yours, a predatory gleam reflecting in their depths like shards of ice. His massive frame dwarfs the ornate chair, his battle-scarred hands gripping the armrests with a strength that could crush them at any moment. He looks both handsome and terrifying, his rugged features perfectly fitting for a fierce Viking warrior. The intensity in his gaze sends shivers down your spine, making you wonder if he is capable of unspeakable violence or if it is all just an act to maintain his reputation as a fearsome leader. Either way, there is no denying the raw power emanating from him, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from this captivating figure before you.

Your steps falter, but a rough shove from one of Steven's men propels you forward. You stumble, nearly falling at the conqueror's feet.

"So," Steven's voice booms, a mix of amusement and contempt. "You are the bride I've heard so much about."

His face is scarred, weathered by countless battles, but still impossibly handsom, and his eyes gleam with intelligence. You see something there – a flicker that suggests he is not just a brutal conqueror, but a man with depth and complexity.

Dangerous.

"I hear you were married to the fine magnate’s son," Steven continues, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "How fortunate that I've arrived in time for the celebration."

Your throat constricts, choking back the bitter retort that threatens to escape. You force yourself to square your shoulders and hold his gaze, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.

Steven's eyes narrow as he studies you, his gaze raking over your disheveled form with predatory intensity. He leans forward, the worn leather of his armor creaking with the movement.

"Come closer, little bride," he beckons, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

Your feet feel leaden as you force yourself to take another step forward. You are by no means small, but he is so large in comparison that the term ‘little’ apply to most who come into his presence. The flagstones beneath you are cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft grass you had walked upon just hours before, your heart full of hope and promise.

Steven's lips curl into a wolfish grin as you approach. "Tell me," he says, his voice deceptively casual, "were you to be a proper bride for your husband?"

The insinuation in his words is clear, and heat rises to your cheeks. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes hungry and leering. You swallow hard, struggling to maintain your composure.

"I was to be a dutiful wife," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steven's laughter booms through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. "Dutiful," he repeats, mockery dripping from the word. "And what duties did you imagine, little bride? Mending his clothes? Warming his bed?"

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. The urge to lash out, to scream defiance in his face, is almost overwhelming. But you force yourself to remain still, knowing that any show of rebellion could mean death – not just for you, but for the other villagers as well.

"Whatever duties were required of me," you reply, striving to keep your voice steady.

Steven leans back in the chair. "Tell me, little bride, do you know what happens to dutiful wives when their husbands fall?"

Your stomach churns at his words, but you force yourself to stand tall. "I imagine they mourn," you reply, a hint of defiance creeping into your voice.

The warrior king's eyes flash dangerously. In one fluid motion, he rises from the chair, towering over you. His hand, calloused and rough, grasps your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"Oh, he may have wished for death in battle, but he was merely conquered an imprisoned.”

There’s a small relief, but it’s fleeting as you know this is far from over.

“Dutiful wives plead and bargain what they can to spare their husbands an even crueler fate.”

You tremble with both fear and anger.

“And the bride of the magnate’s eldest son needs to bargain for far more than the fate of only one man.”

Your sink to your knees at Steven's words, now with the fate of your village laid at your hands. Your once-pristine dress pools around you like spilled milk over the cold flagstones. The stone bites into your skin, a sharp reminder of how far you've fallen in just one day.

Tears blur your vision as you look up at Steven, his massive form looming over you like a colossus. The firelight from nearby sconces casts dancing shadows across his face, making his scars seem to writhe like serpents.

"Please," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Spare them. Spare the village. We are simple folk, we have nothing to offer but our loyalty and our labor."

A low chuckle rumbles from Steven's chest. "Getting on your knees is a good start, little bride," he says, his voice low.

Your cheeks burn with humiliation at his words, but you force yourself to remain kneeling. The fate of your village, your family, your new husband – all of it rests on your shoulders now.

Steven circles you slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. His heavy boots echo on the stone floor, each step sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes a palpable weight.

"Loyalty and labor," Steven muses, coming to a stop before you. "Those are indeed valuable commodities. But I wonder, little bride, if you truly understand the depths of loyalty I require."

He crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. His breath is hot on your cheek as he speaks. "Your village will serve me, yes. But you... you will be the seal on our bargain. The trophy of my conquest."

Your heart stops.

“And to my earlier curiosity, I shall ask plainly and have you answer me in kind: are you a virgin bride? Untouched? Unsullied?”

You close your eyes and nod.

If you had been harboring any hope your fate would not turn this way, it has vanished now.

“A king is entitled, if he so chooses, to invoke the rite of prima nocta.”

Your blood runs cold at Steven's words. Prima nocta - the right of the first night. An ancient, barbaric custom that you had only heard whispered about in hushed tones. Never did you imagine it would become your reality.

"No," you whisper, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You immediately regret it as Steven's eyes flash dangerously.

He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No?" he growls. "You dare refuse me? Perhaps you need a reminder of your position."

With a snap of his fingers, two of his men drag forward a bound figure, depositing him on his knees off to the side but in clear view. Your heart sinks as you recognize your new husband, his body littered with cuts and bruises.

"For every refusal, every act of defiance," Steven says coldly, "he will suffer. And not just him. Your family, your friends, you are all of you conquered and my men can hunt through this village to pull any one of them here if it serves me.”

Your eyes well with tears because you do not doubt his resolve.

“You will spare them if I give you my maidenhood?”

He straightens back up to his full height. “I think I could spare your village for at least one night.”

Steven turns to his men, waving a dismissive hand. "Leave us," he commands, his voice echoing through the hall. "But the husband stays. He will bear witness."

The soldiers file out, swiftly acquiescing to their king’s request. The heavy doors slam shut behind them, the sound reverberating through your bones. Now it is just the three of you - conqueror, conquered, and the terrified bride between.

Steven's fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head back. His other hand works at the fastenings of his breeches. "Show me how dutiful you can be, little bride," he growls.

Steven towers over you, his massive frame blocking out the flickering light from the nearby braziers. You can smell the leather of his armor, the tang of sweat and metal that clings to his skin.

Your eyes flicker to your husband, but he refuses to look at you, apparently unwilling to watch. You would not have him suffer, but his refusal to even look your way hurts. You held no silly romantic notions for the eldest son of the magnate, but he was a fine man, good, you had been happy to make a match with him, and you thought there was a growing affection between you.

“Do not look at him, little bride,” Steven growls, impatiently shaking you by the hair. “Why are you looking at him? Look at me. He can not help you.”

You force your gaze back to Steven, your heart pounding. His eyes bore into yours, dark with desire and cruel triumph. You swallow hard, trying to find your voice.

"I... I don't know what to do," you whisper, heat flaming your cheeks. It's true - you are a virgin, after all, and the mechanics of what he expects are foreign to you.

Steven's laugh is low and mocking. "Oh, little bride," he says, his voice a rumble. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

His hand leaves your hair, moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your lower lip, rough and calloused. "Open," he commands.

You hesitate, your eyes darting once more to your husband. This time, his gaze meets yours, and you see the resentment burning in them. It wounds you more than anything this cruel conquering king has done to you so far.

Steeling yourself, you look back up at Steven and part your lips.

His thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck," he commands.

With trembling lips, you obey, closing your mouth around his thick digit. The taste of salt and leather fills your senses as you tentatively suck on his thumb. Steven's eyes darken with lust, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his free hand working at the laces of his breeches. "That's it, use your tongue."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you obey, swirling your tongue around his digit, your cheeks burning with shame. You try to focus solely on the task at hand, to forget where you are and what's happening. But the sound of your husband's labored breathing, the cold stone beneath your knees, the looming presence of Steven above you – it all serves as a stark reminder of your situation.

The sound of fabric rustling makes your stomach clench.

Steven withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers. They press deeper into your mouth, nearly making you gag. "Breathe through your nose," he instructs. "You'll need to learn this."

Your heart races as you struggle to follow his command, fighting against your gag reflex as his fingers probe deeper. The taste of salt and leather is overwhelming, and you can feel saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth.

"Open your eyes," Steven growls. "I want you to see everything."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. With his free hand, he finishes unlacing his breeches, pushing them down just enough to free himself.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, fully aroused and intimidatingly large. A whimper escapes you around his fingers, and he smirks.

"Don't worry, you'll learn to take all of me in time."

Steven withdraws his fingers from your mouth, leaving you gasping. His hand moves to grip your hair again, tilting your head back as he positions himself before you.

"Open wide, little bride," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. The reality of what's about to happen crashes over you like a wave. But then you hear a pained grunt from your husband, and you know you have no choice. Closing your eyes, you part your lips.

Steven wastes no time, pushing himself into your mouth with a groan of satisfaction. The taste is foreign, salty and musky, and you struggle not to gag as he fills your mouth.

"Use your tongue," he instructs, his hand tightening in your hair. "And mind your teeth."

Tears stream down your face as you try to obey, running your tongue along the length of him. Your whole body trembles with fear and revulsion, but his grip on your hair is unrelenting. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, setting a brutal pace that makes you gag and gasp for air.

"You're doing well, my little bride," Steven grunts, his voice thick with lust. "Just relax and take it all in."

You try to comply, but it's a struggle. Your eyes water from the force of his movements, and you feel like you're choking on him. But you know you have no choice but to endure it or risk angering him further.

As he continues to use your mouth for his pleasure, you feel a sense of detachment wash over you. It's like watching yourself from a distance, your body merely a tool for his satisfaction. You can't believe this is happening – this reality had never even haunted your nightmares.

A sharp pain shoots through your scalp as Steven tugs harder on your hair, pulling your head back even further. You whimper at the sting, struggling against the urge to cry out.

"You make such beautiful noises," he growls. "But I want more from you."

With that, he starts thrusting deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat each time. You choke and gag around him, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

But then something changes – he starts moving faster and faster until suddenly he stills inside you with a groan of release. Your mouth is flooded with his release, and you swallow what you can, tasting him on your tongue as he pulls out of your mouth, leaving it feeling raw and sore. A mess of tears, his cum, and your drool drip down your neck as you gasp for air.

Steven's thumb roughly grazes down your cheek, a false gesture of affection. Then he speaks, his eyes moving from you to your husband. "Such a pretty thing," he purrs. "Isn't she?" the question - a taunt - directed at your husband.

He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with both of you. Steven's laughter fills the room as he continues, "They say you are a noble and good man, always treating her right. I bet you would never ask her to do anything degrading, may have waited weeks or moths before coaxing her to suck your cock."

You don’t even know how to react to what he is saying and how the other man is reacting - or not reacting - to Steve’s words.

“You would never use her.”

Steven’s focus shifts fully back to you.

“But I will.”

A small whimper escapes from your chest as he roughly grabs your chin.

“I will ruin you and wreck you for my pleasure, and he does not get to see what I will do to you next.”

The other man makes a strangled sound, finally trying to fight his bonds.

Steven laughs darkly. “It may have tortured you to watch,” he says, and then leans down and scoops you up from the floor and into his arms - bridal style to drive the point of his dominance and the humiliation of your special day home, “but not knowing what I do to your bride next will eat you alive for the rest of your days.”

As Steven carries you from the hall, your world becomes a blur of sensations and emotions. The warmth of his body contrasts sharply with the cold dread settling in your stomach. His arms, corded with muscle, hold you firmly against his broad chest, and you wrap your arms around his neck for steadiness as he moves so swiftly. The scent of leather, sweat, and something distinctly male envelops you in such close proximity, making your head spin.

As he carries you from the great hall, you find yourself unable to look away from his face. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and cold like the sea in a storm, and it chills your bones. He leans down and steals a fast, ruthless kiss, nipping at your bottom lip, and you look away when he ends it, uncomfortable with the sensation it stirs in your belly.

The corridors of the village hall, once so familiar, now seem alien and menacing. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by flickering torches, creating grotesque shapes that mirror the turmoil in your mind. The stone beneath Steven's feet echoes with each step, a rhythm that matches the frantic beating of your heart.

You pass tapestries depicting scenes from your village's history - harvests, celebrations, battles long past. They mock you now, reminders of a life that seems to have ended mere hours ago.

As Steven carries you further into the depths of the hall, the familiar corridors give way to parts of the building you've never seen before. The air grows cooler, damper, and you shiver involuntarily against his chest. He notices, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Cold, little bride?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon enough."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, to pretend this isn't happening. But the solid warmth of his body against yours, the strength in his arms as he carries you, makes denial impossible.

Finally, Steven comes to a stop before a heavy wooden door. With one hand still supporting you, he reaches out and pushes it open. The hinges creak ominously, and your heart rate spikes as he carries you across the threshold.

The room is dimly lit by a few sputtering candles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. In the center stands a large bed, draped in furs and silks - a stark contrast to the simple furnishings you're accustomed to. You see the ceremonial bridal lace, embroidered with the flower of the magnate’s clan, laying atop the other furs and silks and realize this was the bedchamber intended for you and your husband. The irony is not lost on you - this room, where you should have spent your wedding night and started your new life with your new husband, will now be the site of your defilement.

Steven tosses you onto the bed unceremoniously, and you land with a gasp, your white dress billowing around you.

Steven looms over you, his massive frame blocking out the dim candlelight. His eyes rove over your body hungrily, and you feel exposed despite still being fully clothed. You try to curl in on yourself, to shield your body from his gaze, but he tsks disapprovingly.

"Now, now, little bride," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't hide from me. I want to see all of you."

His hands move to the laces of your dress, and you flinch away instinctively. Steven's eyes narrow, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. With his other hand, he reaches for a knife at his hip, brings it up to the neckline of your dress, positioning the cool blade between your skin and the fabric and pulls down swiftly, tearing your dress down the middle. He releases your hands so he can use both to finish ripping away your clothing, throwing it to the floor. Your attempts to fight him are easily shunted, and once you’re naked, he presses you back down to the bed, pressing the blade of the knife cruelly to your neck, just below your jaw.

“Do not think I will maintain much patience. I will not hesitate to punish if you continue to resist,” he promises. “Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper, a tear escaping and rolling slowly down your cheek.

“Good," he says, his voice low and husky, "it's time to consummate the arrangement you agreed to fulfill."

He moves away, positioning himself next to the bed. His hands move to the fastenings of his leather armor, slowly removing each piece, then his shirt. The firelight gleams off his muscled torso as it's revealed, highlighting scars that tell tales of countless battles. You can't help but stare, a mix of fear and unwanted fascination coursing through you.

Steven notices your gaze and smirks. "Like what you see?" he taunts.

You quickly avert your eyes.

Steven chuckles darkly. "Don't be shy now, little bride. You'll become very familiar with every inch of me soon enough."

He finishes undressing, his massive frame now fully revealed in the flickering candlelight. Despite your fear and revulsion, you can't help but notice the raw power of his body - all hard muscle and battle scars. He is undeniably handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that makes your heart race with a confusing mix of terror and unwanted attraction.

Steven climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he looms over you. His hand trails down your body, callused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver involuntarily, eyes closing.

"Open your eyes," he commands. "I want you to see everything I do to you."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. He looms over you, his muscled body casting you in shadow.

"Please," you whisper, a final, desperate plea. "You don't have to do this."

Steven's hand cups your face. “But I want to,” he growls, “and I always take what I want.”

His lips crash down on yours, harsh and demanding. You whimper against his mouth, overwhelmed by his forcefulness. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring every inch of your mouth as his hand slides down to grip your breast roughly.

You gasp at the sensation, your body betraying you as your nipple hardens under his touch. Steven chuckles against your lips.

"Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind resists," he murmurs, his thumb circling your nipple teasingly.

His hand continues its travels lower, skimming over your stomach before reaching the junction between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee wedges between them, forcing them apart and settling himself between them. His fingers find your most intimate place, and you jerk at the unfamiliar touch.

"So soft," he growls, his fingers exploring the apex between your thighs. "And already getting wet for me."

You flush with shame, hating your body's involuntary response, feeling things you’ve never felt before and with a cruel stranger instead of the man you had pledged yourself to, built a budding relationship and trust with through your courtship.

"So responsive," he murmurs against your lips. "And so tight. This will hurt, little bride, but I'll make it good for you too."

His fingers probe deeper, and you cry out at the intrusion. Steven's mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting as his fingers work between your legs. You feel a building pressure, your body responding against your will to his ministrations.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let yourself feel it."

Tears stream down your face as waves of unwanted pleasure course through you. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of the sensation.

Steven chuckles darkly. "So eager now," he taunts. "Are you ready for me, little bride?"

Before you can respond, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the blunt pressure of him against you, and panic rises in your chest.

"Wait," you gasp. "Please, I'm not-"

But Steven doesn't wait. With one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you. The pain is sharp and immediate, tearing a cry from your throat. Steven groans in pleasure, his massive frame pinning you to the bed.

"So tight," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel even better than I imagined."

Tears stream down your face as he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of pain through your body. You turn your head away, unable to look at him, but his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I told you to watch," he snarls. "I want to see the moment you break."

His pace increases, and you whimper with each brutal thrust. The pain begins to dull, replaced by a strange, burning sensation that spreads through your lower body. Your breath comes in short gasps, matching the rhythm of his movements.

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling with the shock of the intrusion. Steven's hand cups your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that has escaped down your cheek. The gesture is almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality of his actions.

"Breathe," he commands softly. "The pain will pass."

You try to breathe more evenly, but it feels impossible as he maintains his brutal, relentless pace.

Your body feels torn between pain and an unfamiliar, building pleasure. You hate yourself for responding to his touch, for the way your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. Steven notices, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"There it is," he growls, his pace quickening. "Your body knows what it wants, even if you deny it."

His hand snakes between your bodies, finding a sensitive bundle of nerves above where you're joined. You cry out as he begins to circle it with his thumb, waves of sensation crashing over you.

"Let go," Steven commands, his voice husky with exertion. "Come for me, little bride."

Your body obeys even as your mind recoils. The pressure builds and builds until it finally shatters, your back arching as you cry out. Steven groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the mattress, his body slick with sweat. You lie there, trembling, tears streaming silently down your face as the reality of what just happened washes over you.

Steven lifts himself onto his elbows, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You did well, little bride," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

The tenderness in his touch and his voice confuses you, but the moment passes because his eyes

arken once more as he gazes down at you. "The night is far from over," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire.

He shifts his massive body, moving downward until his face is level with your breasts. His rough hands cup the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing with a possessive grip that makes you gasp. You feel his hot breath against your skin, sending involuntary shivers through your body.

Steven's mouth descends on your left breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he takes it between his lips. He sucks hard, drawing a whimper from your throat. His teeth graze the sensitive bud, sending jolts of sensation through your body.

He alternates between your breasts, sucking and biting with increasing intensity. What starts as pleasure soon edges into discomfort, then pain. Your nipples, sensitive and swollen from his attention, ache as he continues his ministrations. You squirm beneath him, trying to escape the overwhelming sensations, but his body pins you firmly to the bed.

"Please," you gasp, "it's too much."

Steven lifts his head, his eyes dark with lust. "Nothing is too much for you, little bride," he growls. "You'll take everything I give you and beg for more."

His mouth returns to your breast, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, tears springing to your eyes yet again. The pain mingles with a confusing undercurrent of pleasure, your body betraying you once again.

Steven's hand slides down your body, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. He begins to stroke in slow, deliberate circles, and you feel yourself responding despite your best efforts to resist. You’re shocked at how your dripping hole is aching again already. These sensations are foreign to you and frightening to experience at his hand.

Steven's fingers move with expert precision, building a slow, inexorable tension in your core. His mouth continues its assault on your breasts, alternating between gentle sucks and sharp nips that send jolts of sensation through your body. The dual stimulation overwhelms your senses, leaving you gasping and writhing beneath him.

His fingers quicken their pace, circling your sensitive bud with increasing pressure. The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the breaking point. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, chasing the building pleasure despite your mind's desperate attempts to resist.

Steven's mouth moves to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "That's it," he growls, his voice low and husky.

Your body trembles on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release, Steven suddenly withdraws his hand. You whimper at the loss, your body aching for completion. He lifts his head from your breast, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

“I told you I would ruin you,” he murmurs, “and this is part of your ruining.”

Steven rolls onto his back, his massive frame sprawled across the bed. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he beckons you with a crook of his finger. "Come here, little bride," he commands, his voice a low rumble. "I want to feel that pretty mouth on my cock again."

You hesitate, your body still trembling from the denied release. Steven's hand shoots out, gripping your hair and pulling you towards him. "I said, come here," he growls, his patience wearing thin.

Reluctantly, you crawl towards him, positioning yourself between his muscular thighs. His manhood lies semi-hard against his stomach, still glistening with the evidence of your earlier coupling. The sight and scent of it make your stomach churn with a mix of revulsion and unwanted arousal.

"Take me in your mouth," Steven orders, his hand still commanding the back of your head. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Slowly, as if in a trance, you lower your trembling form towards his groin. You can't believe the turn of events that have brought you to this point – from a joyful bride to a conquered villager at the mercy of Steven and his ruthless warriors. The knowledge burns in your heart, but you force it down, focusing instead on surviving this nightmare.

As your lips touch the velvety head of his member, Steven emits a low groan of pleasure. His hand loosens its grip on your hair just enough to allow you some movement. Despite yourself, you remember the way he had thrust into your mouth earlier, how he had seemed to enjoy it when you'd used your tongue. Drawing on that brief flash of experience, you tentatively flick your tongue over his cock. The taste is overwhelming - a potent mixture of his earlier release, your own arousal, and the metallic tang of blood. It's a stark reminder of what's transpired, of your lost innocence.

Steven groans as you engulf him, his hips bucking slightly. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire. "Take it all in."

You struggle to accommodate his size, your jaw aching as you try to take more of him. His hand guides your movements, setting a steady rhythm as he uses your mouth. Your tongue teases across the sensitive underside of his shaft, encountering a vein that runs along its length, and you try to apply more pressure there. Steven groans in response, low and guttural, spurring you on.

"That's it, little bride," he grunts, the praise almost an animalistic growl. "Suck harder. Take more of me into that pretty mouth."

You struggle to obey, pushing yourself to take more of his length into your mouth. His hips begin to thrust upwards, forcing himself deeper. You choke and splutter around him, saliva dripping down your chin.

"Relax your throat," Steven commands, his voice strained with pleasure. "Breathe through your nose."

You try to follow his instructions, fighting against your gag reflex as he pushes deeper. Steven's hand tightens in your hair, guiding your movements more forcefully. "Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire.

You raise your eyes to meet his, your cheeks burning with shame as you continue to work your mouth over him. His gaze is dark and predatory, filled with a hunger that makes you shiver.

"Such a good little bride," he murmurs, his hips starting to thrust up to meet your mouth. "Taking my cock so well. But I think you can take more."

Without warning, he pushes your head down, forcing himself deeper into your throat. You gag and choke, face pushed flush to his pelvis. The taste and scent of him overwhelm your senses, throat struggling at his intrusion, and you feel lightheaded from the lack of air. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Steven pulls you off his cock with a wet pop.

Gasping for breath, you look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. His face is flushed with arousal, his eyes dark, but gleaming with… pride?

“You are such an exquisite, pliant thing,” he says. “It has been too long since I’ve been so well-pleased, so near insatiable.”

Your chest constricts at the praise. You did not want any of this nightmare, but his danger is novel and alluring, the unknown pleasures he’s exacting from your body, guiding you down paths you’ve never explored before - it’s all twisting your body and your very soul, seeping through your veins, a poison you can’t stop now that he’s pierced into you.

He sits up, frames your jaw in both of his calloused hands, and then lewdly licks one cheek and then the other, lapping at your tears. It’s not tender. He’s playing with his prey.

Steven's hands move to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sudden, forceful movement, he flips you onto your stomach. You gasp at the abrupt change, your face pressed into the furs on the bed. His large hands grasp your hips, pulling them upwards as he pushes your upper body down, positioning you on your hands and knees before him.

"Spread your legs wider and present yourself to me," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

Trembling, you obey, pushing your knees out further, lowering your chest to the bed, and raising your hips higher. You feel completely exposed, a new kind of vulnerable in this position, and your cheeks burn with shame. The cool air of the room caresses your most intimate places, making you shiver.

Steven's large hands grip your hips, kneading the flesh of your buttocks, spreading them apart.

"Such a pretty sight," he murmurs.

His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your buttocks as he spreads you open further. You tense, expecting the brutal intrusion of his manhood, but instead, you feel his beard brush against your most intimate flesh as he presses his mouth to your core. His tongue, hot and wet, slides up the cut of you, and you cry out in surprise. You had been told your husband would couple his manhood with your maidenhood. You had heard the lewd rumors of men using a woman’s mouth for his cock.

No one had ever whispered even a word that man might put his own lips to your sex, and it’s an onslaught of pleasure you were in no way prepared to experience. The moan you let out is obscene and unrestrained, and you graps helplessly at the blankets and furs beneath you.

Steven's tongue explores your folds with wicked precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your most sensitive areas. Your body trembles uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the intense sensations. You try to stifle your moans, burying your face in the furs, but Steven's hand snakes up to grip your hair, yanking your head back.

"Let me hear you," he growls against your flesh. "I want to hear every sound you make."

His mouth returns to your core, his tongue delving deeper, tasting every inch of you. His beard scratches against your sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing back against his face as he continues his relentless assault. You feel his lips close around your sensitive bud, sucking hard, and a cry tears from your throat.

"That's it," Steven murmurs, his voice vibrating against your flesh. "Let go, little bride. Show me how well you enjoy being ruined by your new king.”

His words send a shiver through you, a mix of shame and unwanted arousal. Steven's tongue continues its relentless assault on your cunt, building a tension in your core that threatens to overwhelm you. Your body trembles, teetering on the edge of release.

His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as you writhe against him. The tension within you builds to an unbearable level, and with a final, targeted flick of his tongue, you shatter.

A cry tears from your throat as the waves of ecstasy wash over you. He laps up your juices eagerly, groaning in satisfaction, before he pulls away.

You whimper at the loss, and he chuckles. “Worry not, there is yet more pleasure I will force upon you this night,” he promises.

Before you can catch your breath, you feel the blunt head of his manhood pressing against your entrance. Steven guides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, over your oversensitive bundle of nerves, and you shiver. But it is soon evident he is in no hurry at this next pursuit.

Steven continues to tease you with the head of his cock, running it along your sensitive folds. Up and down, up and down. Slow strokes, sometimes bumping against your clit, sometimes ignoring it, unpredictable in the pattern so you don’t know when the surge will come. Your body trembles, overstimulated and overwhelmed. Despite your mind's protests, your hips shift back, seeking more contact, even though you're still sore from his earlier intrusion.

His fingers dip into your core, pulling from the wetness dripping out of you, and then he swipes them over your tight rosebud, and you gasp. You know immediately what he intends to do next, though you could never have imagined such a thing, and you can not process any sort of reaction against it. Indeed, he presses the tip of one of his fingers against the tight muscle, then insistently pushes through, and your heart pounds in your chest with fear. The foreign feeling is shocking.

Shocking because it should not feel as good as it does.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears of shame and frustration leaking from the corners.

He moves his finger in and out in only a very small motion - not fucking you with the finger, but pressing pleasure there in small, torturous amounts. He resumes the rutting of his cock against your folds, and you begin to openly weep, feeling wanton, confused, but moans accompany your sobs that you cannot hide from him.

He leans over you, his broad chest pressing against your back. His breath is hot against your ear as he speaks. "Eager for more, are we?" Steven chuckles darkly. "Beg for it, little bride. Beg for your king's cock."

You hesitate, torn between your body's desperate need for release and the last shreds of your dignity. Steven's free hand moves to circle around the front of your throat, possessive, threatening.

"Beg," he snarls.

The words stick in your throat, and Steven removes his finger from your tight hole and his hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.

"I said beg," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

"Please," you whimper, the word barely audible.

Another stinging slap lands on your other cheek. "Louder," Steven demands.

"Please!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "Please, I need... I need you.”

He slaps your ass again. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me exactly what you want."

You swallow hard. But you can’t deny betrayal of your body, aching for his touch, for the release only he can provide. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please... fuck me. I need your cock inside me."

A growl of satisfaction rumbles through Steven's chest. "As you wish, little bride."

He shifts and begins thrusting his cock inside your cunt again.

Steven's cock enters you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping. He sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deep into your core, your body rocking forward with the force of his movements.

His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The room fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your breathless moans, and Steven's grunts of exertion. The musky scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air.

"So tight," Steven growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "So perfect for your king, the perfect tribute."

Your body responds to his words, to his touch, clenching around him involuntarily. The friction of his cock against your walls sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, building a familiar tension in your core. He hits a particularly sensitive spot on the front of your walls that has you writhing in ecstasy, and he presses the head of his cock there over, and over. You're overwhelmed by the sensations, the fullness, the way he plays and experiments with your body, until you spasm, thrown over the edge into another orgasm.

Your body convulses as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you weak and trembling. Your limbs feel heavy, your muscles liquid, as if all the strength has been drained from your body. You struggle to stay on your hands and knees, your arms shaking with the effort of supporting your weight.

Steven senses your weakness, feeling the way your body has gone limp beneath him. With a growl of satisfaction, he pushes you down flat against the mattress. The furs are soft against your oversensitive skin, tickling your nipples and sending shivers through your body. You turn your head to the side, gasping for air, feeling utterly spent.

Before your breathing can return to anything close to normal, before you can prepare yourself, Steven’s rough hands are spreading your cheeks, and he rams his cock into your ass. The intrusion rips a tortured scream from your throat.

The pain is sharp and immediate as Steven forces his cock into your tightest opening. Your body instinctively tenses, trying to reject the intrusion, which only intensifies the burning sensation. More tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for breath, though you don’t know how you still have more tears to shed.

"Relax," Steven growls, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "The more you fight it, the more it will hurt, and I’m not going to stop."

You try to force your body to relax, to accept him, but it's a struggle against your instincts. Steven's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to move. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pain and an unfamiliar pleasure through your body.

"So tight," he groans, his pace increasing. "You feel incredible."

The friction is intense, unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's not quite pleasure, but it's no longer just pain. It burns, but the fire consumes your whole body. You feel stretched to your limit, filled completely by Steven's massive cock.

His hands roam over your body, rough and possessive, groping at your flesh. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but it's futile. Each thrust draws a whimper or moan from you, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

Steven's hand snakes around to the front of your body, his fingers finding your sensitive bud. He begins to stroke in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations of his thick cock stretching your ass and his skilled fingers on your clit create a maelstrom of sensation that threatens to overwhelm you completely.

You're only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping your throat - desperate, wanton moans that you scarcely recognize as your own. This may be the first night you lie with a man, but though you are inexperienced, you think it can not be possible to experience any more of the overwhelming pleasure he seems determined to rip from you yet again.

Your body trembles uncontrollably, caught between the pain of the intrusion and the impossible mounting of pleasure. Each thrust sends sparks of electricity coursing through your nerves, building the tension in your core. You've never experienced anything like this before - the intensity, the fullness, the way your body seems to betray you at every turn.

Steven's pace increases, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. His fingers match the rhythm, pressing harder, moving faster. You are hurled over another cliff of ecstasy, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, body jerking futilely beneath his massive form. He pounds into you once, twice, thrice more, and on the fourth thrust, he shouts and stills, cock buried inside you, and groans as he empties his seed in your tightest channel.

Finally spent and satisfied, Steven collapses on top of you, his massive weight pressing you into the furs. You feel utterly crushed beneath him, struggling to draw breath, yet there's an undeniable warmth from his body enveloping yours that sneaks unwanted into your bones. His heart thunders against your back, matching the frantic pace of your own. The room is filled with the sound of your mingled panting as you both quest for normal breath.

The scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthier smells of leather and furs. Your body thrums with residual pleasure, every nerve ending still singing from the intensity of your coupling. You feel utterly boneless, all strength drained from your limbs.

Slowly, your breathing begins to even out. You become acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - the rough hair on his chest against your back, the way his thighs press against the backs of your legs, his hot breath against your neck, and his lips too close to that tender and intimate space as only a beloved’s should be.

Finally, Steven rolls to the side and off of you, but you are not freed from him as he bands an arm around your waist, resettling you with him. He curls around you, and you resign yourself to being held captive, bound by his thick, corded muscles yet a while longer - possibly until the morning.

Just as you are about to drop off into sleep, he speaks directly into your ear. “I have claimed all of your holes, little bride. You will always know that I had every bit of you first, leaving him nothing.” The words are cruel, wicked, and his voice low and far too intimate.

You take a shaky breath in, and out, and beg for sleep to take you so you do not have to think of how his words haunt you now and will haunt you forever.

In the morning, your body still feels spent beyond its limits, aching, but as you shift and stir, you discover the bed is empty.

Your heart accelerates at this discovery.

Then plummets the next moment as the cruel conqueror speaks breaks the silence. “Get up and get dressed,” he commands from where he’s perched on the windowsill, watching the first light of morning appear.

Your eyes dart around the room, drawn to the scraps of your wedding clothes. “I’ve no clothes to-”

“On the chair over there,” he interrupts and gestures to a pile of clothing and shoes that have been brought in.

You slip out of the bed, trying to ignore thoughts of whether or not he watches you - he has already seen your naked form, so what does it matter?

There is a well-made linen chemise with a fine, blue linen dress to go over it. You hastily slip on the chemise, but as you reach for the dress, you hesitate. The detailing is finer than anything made in your village. This came from him.

“Shall I assist you?” Steven asks, making you jump as he’s silently crossed the room to stand directly behind you.

“No, I can dress myself,” you answer, but it falls on unhearing ears, as he’s already reaching past you for the garment.

He assists in pulling the dress over your head, and his hands roughly tug at the ties of your dress. Then he turns you to face him, and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

"I've decided your husband will truly be left with nothing," he declares harshly. “After last night, I cannot abide him having you as his bride when clearly you should be mine. His father - the magnate - with the rest of the elders have accepted my bargain to take my men, leave your village, and never return on condition that I take you as tribute.”

You cannot speak, the shock of Steven's words rendering you mute. Your mind reels, trying to process the implications of what he's just said. The village elders, including your own father-in-law, have agreed to trade you away like chattel to save themselves. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving you feeling hollow and abandoned, and yet you know it was likely a choice of little difficulty when weighing the safety of the village.

Steven cups your cheek again in that way that pretends a tenderness that is not there, and kisses you roughly. His lips are demanding, forceful, claiming you once more. The taste of him is now too familiar. His beard scratches against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips.

His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessive fervor. Your body responds traitorously, a warmth blooming in your core despite everything, and you tangle a hand in his long hair.

Steven breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and conflicted. His eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.

"You are not why I came to these shores, but you are mine now," he says, his voice low and possessive. "My little bride, my tribute, my prize."

His words send a shiver down your spine - fear, anticipation, and something else you can't quite name. You know you should be horrified, should be fighting against this fate with every fiber of your being. But after the night you've shared, after experiencing all-consuming pleasures you never knew existed, a part of you - a part you're ashamed to acknowledge - is drawn to the thought of belonging to this powerful, dangerous man.

Steven's hand moves to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he speaks. "We sail with the morning tide and leave within the hour. My men are already loading the ship with supplies - food, weapons, gold. And you, my little bride, are the most valuable cargo of all."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. The reality of your situation crashes over you anew - you're leaving behind everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. Your family, your friends, the life you were meant to have - all of it gone in the span of a single day and night.

"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Let me say goodbye to my family, to-"

"No," Steven cuts you off, his voice firm. "There will be no goodbyes. We leave now. I am your husband, your family. My lands will be your lands, and you will learn to forget. Perhaps all the sooner as you learn to crave the pleasures only I can give and ultimately grow with my child in your womb. Mine completely.”

so... if any of you are still alive, screech for help. I won't be able to help, because I have perished from writing this, but someone else might be able to assist you.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[tossawary]

Recent "Star Trek" reboot universes have really tried to sell me on three different romances for Spock with other TOS characters whom he did not have romantic relationships (at least not positive ones) with in TOS, which makes it particularly annoying when some fans try to squirm away from the idea of ST ever doing a future reboot or remake in which Spock/Kirk are explicitly queer.

Like, "But it's not in the original! They want to be faithful to the original!" really, REALLY does not pass the "I think you might just be discomforted by queerness and you should work on that, rather than making appeals to the authority of textual accuracy to avoid being called a homophobe or transphobe" check here. Because it's not as though these reboots care about perfect faithfulness on pretty much any other front. We'll accept that the costumes and special effects get updated to move with the times, we'll accept wildly different characterization choices that essentially give these characters new personalities, we'll accept new timelines that change the entire political map of the galaxy, but you as a fan draw the line at "What if this character was bisexual this time?" Really???

To be clear, I am not trying to dunk on Spock/Uhura, Spock/Chapel, or Spock/T'Pring here, I am merely trying to illustrate a frustrating double-standard. TOS Uhura does notably flirt with Spock several times! I see it! I remember TOS Chapel's feelings for Spock being one-sided, but I also don't think it's a bad thing to try to update TOS's more misogynistic writing choices regarding female characters. TOS T'Pring did... kind of try to kill Spock because she didn't want to marry him, but again, I don't necessarily think it's immediately a bad thing to try to explore her as a character and her betrothal to Spock. It's fine! It's fine by me to explore new takes in new AUs.

It's just that none of that evidence from TOS for those relationships holds much of a candle to whatever the fuck Kirk and Spock had going on to inspire The Premise. "Amok Time" is an Experience. There's only so many times that Kirk can say something like, "The cost [of abandoning Spock] would have been my soul," before you want to put your face in your hands. They are taking shiny pebbles from TOS and trying their very best to sell them to me as the basis for romantic relationships in reboots, sure, while they are standing in the shadow of Spirk Evidence Mountain (TOS).

(Yes, I have seen the recent "Unification" short film. Yes, I enjoyed it. No, I will not consider Spirk "officially canon" until all plausible deniability for the squirmy folks has been completely, explicitly destroyed by a HUMAN kiss onscreen.)

And okay, I must admit, at the moment, I don't actually want Spirk to eventually happen in "Strange New Worlds" now that they've finally met. I'm mostly indifferent to their Spock and Kirk actors, personally, and the writing for every canonical romantic relationship in both SNW and "Discovery" so far has gotten a solid "well, they certainly are standing next to each other" from me. (Yes, even the gay marriage in "Discovery". I just haven't been into it so far.) I think the writers would fumble Spirk if they tried it in this specific show and then annoying fans would use the fumble as "evidence" never to try to do Spirk or queer retakes on other TOS characters ever again, or as "proof" against other queer ST in other shows characters generally.

I'm mostly just mildly annoyed that I have to keep watching Spock specifically, famously read by many people as a queer man, be straight and messy about it, especially when there has not really been a significant queer relationship onscreen in SNW yet, unless you count M'Benga's daughter Rukiya and her glow cloud friend named Debra, which I personally don't, honestly. I'd like an onscreen relationship with a main character with zero plausible deniability. There's definitely nothing yet that comes remotely close to the screentime that Spock/Chapel, Spock/T'Pring, and Kirk/La'an have all been given so far, unfortunately. (Sulu is not here yet. Scotty has just shown up. If Scotty gets to make out with a guy next season, or Uhura or Ortegas gets to make out with a lady, without it being part of some god-like-being's fantasy world, then I may be satisfied.) (Also, yes, I am aware of queer characters and relationships in other "Star Trek" shows, thanks. I very much enjoyed Mariner having her incredibly silly breakup with her girlfriend in "Lower Decks".)

"Star Trek" is one of those properties where some people's double-standards regarding romantic interpretations of the original series really jump out. "They can't do Kirk/Spock because they want to be faithful to the original!" Get real.

[tthoroughfare]

kerosene (part 2) // ellie williams

*･゜ﾟ･* summary: the one where she breaks up with cat.

*･゜ﾟ･* pairing: jackson!ellie x reader

*･゜ﾟ･* content: sfw

*･゜ﾟ･* length: 0.8k

this is part two of this series! find part one here

I AM ENJOYING WRITING THIS SO MUCH i literally don't want them to get together because i just love yearning so much sighhh. i'm already up to the part where things finally happen and i know i'm gonna end up posting those, then going back and writing little extra parts to slot in where they're still friends. anywayyy hope you enjoy <3

something about the conversation makes ellie deliberate for weeks. it was the way you’d spoken about your relationship just not feeling ‘right’, the way she couldn’t really verbalize anything she felt like she should say about cat. she doesn’t know if she’s just overthinking everything. cat’s great. sure, she can’t see herself spending the rest of her life with her, but she makes her happy. they have fun. they have things in common. she feels like she starts to make a mental list of all the reasons they’re together, analyzing the relationship, analyzing her own feelings. she can’t shake the notion that now they’re settled in, the excitement of newness gone, she, too, feels like something isn’t ‘right’.

she hopes it just goes away on its own. but when just over a month passes and nothing has changed, she knows she has to just do it. 

it starts off as a regular day; she meets cat at a spot they frequent, stomach churning at the anticipation. she wants to just rip the band-aid off, but she can’t. the words won’t come out. she flounders around for a while, talking about nothing, knowing full well cat can tell something’s up. finally, when she straight up asks her why she’s being weird, she just comes out and says it. she wants to break up.

of course, she feels awful. cat’s confused, and crying, and asking all kind of questions ellie can’t really express any answers to. she’s upset about it, too. but she just knows in her heart it’s for the better.

it’s cemented when she’s walking back home, realizing she feels a little lighter.

she sees you properly again about a week later, when there’s an event in jackson. she really wasn’t planning on going, not wanting to risk seeing cat (not wanting to have to interact with anyone, pretty much), but dina had convinced her, saying she ‘can’t lock herself away forever.’

she walks in late, party already in full swing, and immediately spots you in the corner chatting to jesse. you haven’t actually spoken in a few weeks, just a greeting when you saw each other out and about, but you seem happier than you were before. she kicks herself mentally when she finds herself hoping it’s not because you’ve found someone new.

she awkwardly hovers around, getting herself a drink and sipping it, people watching. these things were never her idea of a great time.

after about ten minutes, dina appears at her side, visibly tipsy. “what the hell are you doing?” she asks playfully, gesturing at the room full of people. “you’re a single woman now, c’mon. get out there.”

ellie pulls a face, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her drink. “yeah, that's definitely my style.”

dina lets out a short, exasperated sigh, taking ellie by the wrist and tugging her across the room, towards you and jesse. “at least socialize. you’re all… weird. more than usual.”

“oh, shut up,” she retorts lowly, but allows herself to be hauled over to the two of you. her stomach flutters slightly when she gets a proper look at you; you’re a little more done-up than normal, eyes sparkling in the warm light as you greet her.

she doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or something else, but that night is the first time things start to feel explicitly different. on one hand, it’s similar to how it was before — the odd pleasantness dissipated in the air. it feels more like a real friendship again, rather than two people dancing around each other. but on the other, something just feels… new.

she actually ends up having a really good time. she spends the majority of the night with you, drinking more than you both probably should, conversation flowing easily. and when it’s over, she insists on walking you home, despite you saying dina’s staying the night and you weren’t going to be alone anyway.

she just shrugs and smiles.

on the short walk back, dina’s chatting your ear off, thoroughly drunk, but you can’t really focus on anything she’s saying. not just because of the fuzzy feeling in your head, but because of the way you’re so, so aware of ellie’s presence. you’re walking in between them, noticing the way she seems to gravitate towards you, swaying away slightly, then back in. you cross your arms, not wanting to accidentally brush against her, not really understanding why.

she lingers at the door when you get home, dina heading straight in and kicking her shoes off, flopping down on your couch.

“well… thanks. you’re free to go,” you joke after a small pause.

ellie shoots a lopsided smile, leaning against the doorframe. “welcome.” she pauses, like she doesn’t want to go, like she wants to say something. but she doesn’t. she just taps the doorframe and stands up straight. “see you later.”

dina yells out a ‘bye, ellie’, and you wave goodbye as she turns around to leave, trying not to think about the way that smile sent your stomach all funny. “get home safe. update me on the hangover.”

she looks over her shoulder at you as she walks away, chuckling. “will do.”

you go to close the door, watching her stuff her hands into her pockets and make her way down the street for a moment too long.

[ashkabbom]

Temporary stresses - Mouthwashing

A/n: I disappeared but I'm back. I finished school and I'm officially on vacation 😋. I had another idea initially, but then I gave up writing to Curly with that one.🎀 Tell me if I wrote something wrong, English is not my first language and I use a translator a lot.

I wanted a story with a happy ending, although it wasn't supposed to end 100% like that 😭

Versão em português no wattpad: Livro de One Shots - Mouthwashing (Conta: ashkabbom)

•Captain Curly x Fem!Reader

Summary/Synopsis: You hate being emotionally raw and your husband has been acting strange lately.

Notes: I wrote this with a happy ending, but in situations like this stress can actually be very dangerous, so be careful if you are going to do this to someone or if you are the person to receive this one day.

You were uncomfortable, to say the least.

It had been seconds, minutes, HOURS, since he had answered you, he avoided you whenever he could! The worst part is that you don't know the reason for all this, even though you told him to tell you when something was bothering him.

He's been acting kind of strange since yesterday. It seemed like you were the only one who was out of touch with all that nervousness and discomfort.

You had been a bit paranoid for some time now, because of these attitudes you didn't know if you had done something and it was eating you alive.

Searching through all your memories and finding nothing you realize you did wrong. Maybe he just got tired?

"I did everything like I always did..." You were rambling on to yourself. Maybe you said something wrong? You know very well that words, no matter how simple they are sometimes, can hurt.

This was all giving you a huge headache and leaving you a mess of emotions. You were just too exhausted.

You were out of the house now, on your lunch break from work, messing around on your phone for a few minutes, more specifically texting your husband, hoping he would answer you like he always did.

He didn't answer you properly, the messages were short and seemed more direct than ever, your husband didn't write and talk to you like that. God, you just wanted to go home.

"You've got that look on your face again." You hear your co-worker, Linda, say and let out a sigh. "What happened now?"

"This is the fourth time we've seen you with that sad, sullen puppy face in the space of 15 minutes," her other friend, Charlotte, says..

"Do you think I'm old?" You ask suddenly.

"What happened to 'Hi friend, I missed you too'? It doesn't exist anymore?" The first woman says.

"Exactly, calm down. You're not old, you're perfect for your age. And old age comes to everyone! It's inevitable." The second friend explains with a raised eyebrow.

"But now it's so different... When we met I was different, my hair, my body... My age..."

"Girl, seriously, what happened? You haven't had these low self-esteem spikes in months, you were so happy" Charlotte says with a sad tone, sitting down next to you.

"That's the problem, I don't know what happened... Since yesterday Curly has been acting a bit strange, avoiding me and being vague at times, but at the same time he's been very short and direct." You think about what your morning had been like that day.

"Oh my, don't be like that, men are a mess all by themselves. I'm not going to put ideas in your head, but let us know if you need help with that." Linda says, running her hand over your back.

"You're still as beautiful as the day you met, so don't worry. If he's going blind and can't see it, take the trash out of your house before it starts stinking up the whole house" Charlotte says, making it clear what she originally meant.

"I just don't know if something happened and he didn't tell me, if I did something and he was uncomfortable..." You love your husband with all your heart, otherwise you wouldn't have married him.

"Girl, put your cards on the table and that man against the wall, if something is going on he will tell you, he is not a lying man" Charlotte advises you in a lighter way now.

"She's right, you have to talk to him, but really talk to him. Just starting a conversation with him won't make him tell you anything... Ask what's going on and if everything is okay." Linda hugs you affectionately. Honestly, maybe this stress is just in your head? You don't know.

"Okay okay, but I'll do it after work, there's still a few more hours until it's time to leave." Grumbling you and your friends get up, heading towards the door while talking about anything now.

You don't know what you would do without them.

Hours had passed since that conversation, it was already getting dark and you were driving home almost completely peacefully.

Being with your friends relieved you a lot, but you still had a little bit of a nagging feeling, not to mention that you also knew that life is not a strawberry and anything can happen.

You were together for 11 years, dating for 4 years and married for 7 years. There was no reason for it all to go down the drain. At least you told yourself that.

You had texted him earlier, saying you were going home now... He hadn't even seen the message, but that's okay! Sometimes he's just busy with... Anything, you think.

Parking the car, you sigh, You hated feeling as tired as you had been feeling lately, you wish you could enjoy some of your time at home instead of just passing out in bed. On the bright side, you were on vacation from your job in 2 days. Just two more days.

Today you would confront him! You would know what was going on with him lately and everything would be okay! Everything has to be okay.

You open the door to the living room and notice the loud silence, seeping through your entire house. You didn't have a good feeling about this..

"Curly? Love?" You call out as you walk through the door and into the room, feeling a little anxious.

You turn to the kitchen and then–

"SURPRISE!" Some voices say/scream at the same time, scaring you at first, but then you notice the cake on the table, balloons, birthday hats, coxinha and other things on the table.

A wave of relief washes over you.

It was your birthday today.

"Happy birthday my love, you don't know how much- Wow, hey, hey! What happened? Why are you crying?" Your husband's cheerful tone soon fades, quickly replaced by a tone of concern.

You hadn't even realized that the wave of relief had brought you to tears, you were crying.

Did something happen? Is she okay?" Anya, Curly's work friend and maid of honor at your wedding a few years ago, asks worriedly, approaching.

"Honey, is something hurting?! Do you need anything? Anything at all? Do you need to go to the hospital?" He was quick to come closer, putting his arms around you as he checked your body with his tender and concerned gaze. God, this was all you wanted.

You try to explain, through your tears, that you're okay, that everything is okay now.

"I thought-" You stop to sniff a few times "I thought you were mad at me. Acting different and distant."

"I told you you sounded thick, but it's amazing how your head doesn't work sometimes." You hear Swansea's voice and let out a laugh through your tears.

"I'm so happy that everything is okay and that you're not mad at me." You explain as you wipe away your tears, soon feeling Curly's hand on your cheek while the other rests on your waist.

"I'm sorry my love, I would never be mad or upset with you, a thousand apologies darling" He says as he peppers your face with kisses, apologizing several times. "Please, I'm so sorry"

"We told him to hide it and not tell you or give you any hints about your surprise party and such, since last time he ended up telling you... But I think asking him to disguise himself wasn't... the best idea" Daisuke says as he analyzes the situation with a disappointed face.

You laugh a little and soon they join you, then a small silence arises, but it is quickly broken.

"So?" Swansea begins

""Is everything okay in there?" Anya asks, looking at you calmly and with a little concern. "Are you feeling any pain?"

"How are you and she?" Daisuke asks in the most direct way.

You sniff one last time and look down, running your hand over your belly.

"I will never make you cry like that again." He finishes with a peck on the lips and runs his hand over your belly. "I will never worry the two girls in my life again. I promise"

You look at him fondly. "We're fine, we just went through a hurricane today and yesterday." You laugh lightly. "Now let's eat this cake, I'm hungry for two."

The others laugh at your answer and soon everyone gathers around the table to celebrate your birthday.

You really hope you never have to go through that worry again, not even Curly would do it again.

You have the most caring husband and your daughter would have the best dad.

[mydarlingclaudia]

every word I meant to say

note : ermmmm hi. don't ask where I went for like almost a month work is eating me alive and I was sad. this was inspired by that the unsent project thing andddd idk if I really like this it's def ooc but I was thinking about it again today and this has been in my drafts since September so I figured why not

wc : 2.1k

tags : @luvrgreyy @clitorphosis @sonya-semyonova

desc : letters that went unsent. kind of unrequited love, angst (???), more Leon focused, re2r!Leon - DI!Leon, fem!reader, ooc, not proofread

"I meant to write sooner, I really did. I know it's been a year, my life is so different now, I don't think you'd even believe me if I tried to explain it. I hope you're doing better than I am, I'm happy you weren't able to move to the city with me."

Leon hasn't written a letter since, what, his first few years in the academy? Maybe the end of his senior year of high school? He can't really remember, but he knows that this letter is important because it's to you, his friend he hasn't seen since the night he left for Raccoon City. This isn't even an actual letter, he's scribbling out what he thinks might be good excuses as to why he hasn't talked to you in a year on the back of pieces of scrap paper he took from the office.

He's supposed to be asleep right now, same as everyone else in boot camp, but it's been a year since Raccoon City and he's wondering if you ever tried to reach him. Maybe you tried to go to Raccoon City to look for him, only to see the pile of rubble that stood in its place, sectioned off by the government. Maybe you thought he was dead, he wouldn't blame you.

You and Leon had stuck together all throughout high school, even managed to stay friends when he went off to the police academy and you moved a few hours away for college. He doesn't even know if your address is still the same, he really hopes it is, there's no phone-books in boot camp if he wanted to try and call you, you're supposed to have your loved ones numbers memorized.

The last time Leon saw you was the night before he was supposed to move to the city, before he got a letter in the mail the next morning telling him not to come in, he really wishes he had listened. You were so happy for him, starting out as a city cop was a big deal and he had worked so hard to get there, you and a few friends had thrown him a going-away-party, telling him not to forget you once he got to the city. Leon couldn't forget you if he tried.

You had talked about moving to the city with him for a short period of time, it was really just ramblings the two of you kept bringing up. "Oh, when we live in the city..." "I can come visit you at work..." "I'll handle dinner, you'll handle cleaning..." Nothing ever really came of those ideas, but it gave him a warm feeling in his stomach knowing you wanted to come to the city with him.

He hopes you’ve been well, that life has been kinder to you than it has to him. Leon hopes you got that job you were gushing about the last time he saw you, he hopes you still think of him on his birthday because he thinks of you often.

He shouldn’t have gone to Raccoon City, he should’ve stayed home the day he left and instead stopped by your house to bother you about going to see a movie. Or he should have taken you to lunch, anything would’ve been better than walking into a city that was beyond saving.

"I’m not really sure what I’m saying, but I know I miss you. How have you been? I hope I’m able to come and visit soon, everything’s been moving so fast, but I’ll figure something out. Maybe we can get dinner, or something. Whatever you want, I’ll pay for it, don’t worry."

Leon's hands shake a tiny bit when he thinks of you, it's that school boy nervousness that movies portray whenever there's a boy with a crush on a girl who he knows is probably too out of his league. You were friends, at least.

"You're done with school now, right?" He knows you are. "I wish I was there for the graduation ceremony, I know your parents are proud. Do you remember my graduation party? Someone spiked the punch and we both ended up passed out in the bathtub at your house, you looked really pretty that night. I hope your graduation was better than mine. This would probably have been better as a phone call, but I don't know, you said letters were always more thoughtful.

– Leon"

–

That letter never got sent. Every letter needs an envelope, Leon just never got around to finding one, but he kept that scrap piece of paper tucked inside his pillowcase on the odd chance that he got his hands on one. He had stricter rules to follow than the other recruits, being legally dead and all.

But even after he got out of boot camp, he kept the letter. It's hidden away in some drawer in his house, he's not sure where, though.

He didn't make it into the army, he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but being in the position he was in now wasn't much better. He's stronger now, hardened, more mature.

Leon's written a few more letters to you over the years, ones that still never got sent because he either deemed them unworthy or because he became unsure of himself halfway through writing it. But he hasn't thrown any of them away, he'll send them one day, he swears it.

Leon's not using you as a way of journaling, either, even though he should find some way to actually write down his thoughts to get them out of his head. What he writes to you is mostly memories, telling you that his life keeps changing and that he misses you. He knows you're different by now, too. You're both grown, no longer in high school, no longer in college or the academy. If he could turn back time, go anywhere other than Raccoon City, he would. He thinks that's selfish of him, him not being there would've left Claire and Sherry in that city, but how would he have even known?

"Me again, hope you're doing better than I am." Leon's way with words gets worse and worse by the week, not that he cares. "I met someone who kind of reminded me of you, she's a sweetheart, like you. You'd probably become fast friends if you were ever able to meet."

Leon's not allowed to tell you about his mission in Spain, or about the president's daughter. President Graham is putting more body-guards in place for his daughter once she steps foot in D.C. again, Leon's sure the president considered appointing Leon as one of them at some point since breaking the news that she was going to be coming back home safely.

Leon should stop thinking about you so much, it's not like you were his only friend in the world, you've probably forgotten him, anyway.

"My life is still different, but yours probably is, too. This probably sounds stupid, but I miss being in high school. You probably don't, your mom was up your ass all the time and you worked yourself to the bone. Has that changed at all?

I remember that one year I went to Thanksgiving at your house, your uncles were all drunk and your cousins kept trying to get me to come sit with them, your grandpa was trying to get me interested in football. I haven't had a holiday like that since then, your family was always really nice to me."

He's not sure what to say anymore, these letters always just end up dragging out, but Leon has a lot of memories and he hopes you think of them as often as he does.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited. It's harder for me to get time off of work these days, even though I could really fucking use it. I promise one day I'll come back, it's just not going to be for a little while. Just don't do anything dumb.

– Leon"

–

Those letters he's been writing you have piled up in the drawer of his nightstand.

He's definitely sure that your address has changed by now, you're probably not even in the same state anymore. He could always try to find you on Facebook, explain everything that's been building up over the years in a simple text, but there's still rules he's supposed to follow even in his personal life.

Leon didn't stop writing, though. The letters did eventually get shorter, he's not sure if you like the same things anymore or if you'd even be interested.

He writes now mostly about how different his life would be if he was with you, if he had just asked you out in high school or kissed you the night he was supposed to leave for Raccoon City. It almost feels real to him when he goes to sleep, but that might just be the alcohol numbing his brain, not the dream of you sleeping next to him or the feeling of your breath on the back of his neck, not even the little pitter-patter off tiny footsteps coming from down the hallway.

It does make him feel a bit pathetic, dreaming of a life with someone he hadn't talked to in years. Leon can't help but think of you, he always thought you were pretty, and the past always lives in the back of his mind, but it comes alive late at night.

You're an entirely different person by now, someone who he hasn't had the opportunity to meet yet. You're probably married, maybe you even have a few kids running around, Leon's jealous of that. That could've been him, but it's not. But he's not even sure if you'd recognize each other if you passed by on the street, so is it even worth it to dwell on all the maybe's?

"I'm not sure I'll get to visit you for a while, not without a lucky fucking twist of fate, anyway."

All these letters are starting to sound the same, but Leon clings onto the thought of someday sending them to whatever corner of the country you were hiding in and hoping that there's still room in your life for a stranger.

"Do you still want me over for dinner? You don't know what I'd give to just eat a shitty meal with you right now."

You don't know what he'd give to do anything with you, really. He knows that there's a lifetime worth of things he's missed out on and that maybe every once in a while you think about him in the same way he thinks about you.

"I don't know how to ask this, but are you married? I know you'd look stunning in a wedding dress." You probably are, you're a catch, who wouldn't want to put a ring on your finger? Your husband's probably a better man than he is, too. One who hasn't had years worth of trauma jammed into his brain with the proof of it marked across his body, your husband probably takes you out on a date every week, maybe even surprises you with breakfast in bed and kisses the nape of your neck to gross out your kids. "I really hope you're happy, in my head you are.

I wanted that to be us, I never told you, but I was a chicken-shit kid and didn't know how to say it. You show up in my dreams sometimes, you deserve nothing but the best. I meant to get back in touch with you forever ago, but I think it's probably too late.

– Leon"

–

Two years after his last letter and Leon's still thinking of you, seventeen years after Raccoon City and the image of you sitting across from him for the last time still loops in his mind. He doesn't really remember your voice but he knows that you thought handwritten letters were romantic, and he still reads over the ones he meant to send to you but kept avoiding.

He's done with the letters, hasn't written one in a long time. But he just got back from California and your old favorite song is playing on the radio, and he's remembering how in love he is with your memory.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I'm too old for this and I'm sure you'd tease me if we had somehow kept in touch. I don't blame you if you thought I died in Raccoon City, I hope you're still alive and that life is good to you.

You were always important to me, I think you've given me something to cling to over the years. This letter won't find you and I'm not even really sure if I want it to, but I hope you'd still call me if you were able to. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen, but I'm happy you never got to see them.

Love, Leon

p.s. I'd say I love you but it feels like something you'd say in person"

[apricot-blossomss]

Hi, I love your writings a lot. I have another Apollo idea don’t know if you like it but I wanna share it: So, Reader is a deeply devoted follower of Apollo; loyal, loving, kind and compassionate but very insecure, has many self-deprecating thoughts, still, very determined to learn something in his honour. So, she tries to learn the lyre but she is bad in it not talented at all. She is determined though and willing to sacrifice time and effort into practice.

I imagine this plays out in Ancient Greece, the reader is very poor but determined to learn it and then to try her best on the Pythian Games. Apollo is already so smitten with her; he follows her journey from far but doesn’t wanna bless her bc he wants her to success on her own. One night he shows up to her while she’s praying. First, she is afraid he is here to take away her lyre as she is not worthy of it but instead, he is super kind and supportive tells her this effort and hard work is far greater and more meaningful sacrifice than any of the treasures the kings offer to him.

So, he offers her to be her teacher from now on as she can’t afford a good teacher like the others. They have romantic moments, kisses as he continues to teach her. Of course she wins the Games, he has taught her things no human knows about the lyre. At the end of the Games, he shows up to the people and in front of everyone he offers her to go with him and play with the Muses.

This is long I know, so, please do with it whatever you want. Use parts of it if it is too long, I just wanted to share it with someone.

☛ apollo teaching mortal! fem! reader to play the lyre

☛ sfw; fluff; cw: self-doubt, stage fright; not proofread oops

"Just stop already!"

"Why do you keep trying?"

"You have no talent."

It wasn't like you didn't know they were right. A lack of self-awareness is wasn't the problem for you. It was, however, the unexplainable love you felt for the instrument in your hands. It washed out of the gentle wood of the olive tree- you heard that the high lords and ladies sometimes owned gilded or golden lyres, which you could hardly imagine. And it was your most prized possession.

You had given a lot to be able to afford it, since your family wasn't ready to pay for a endeavor as fruitless as your attempts to learn to play it. At night, you dreamt of being able to elicit beautiful tunes out of the instrument, but during the day, reality hit you like a hammer in the head as you awkwardly plucked the strings, sounding more like a dying cat than the musician you dreamed of becoming.

It wasn't fair, you thought, in moments were your frustration overwhelmed you. It wasn't fair that some people had such talent that they could effortlessly handle the instrument while someone as in love with the art of it as you struggled without seeing any results. Many times, you had prayed to Apollo, but the god had never blessed your attempts and by now, you figured it might be some sort of subliminal messaging.

But you didn't care. Well, you did, but none of it could deter you. No matter how many people shook their heads or laughed or told you to stop, you sat down for hours on end, trying to figure out the beautiful instrument. When you walked on the market or the town square, you would stop at street musicians demonstrating their craft, watching their fingers, trying to learn, but you never managed to replicate it.

Your family wanted you to learn some other craft to attract suitors and impress them, but you would not relent. You would practice, you would watch, you would pray. All in the hopes of getting the hang of the lyre someday. And no matter how many times you failed or screamed at your fingers to just do it right, resting them on top of the strings and running them along them always calmed you.

Carefully, you let your hands run up and down, simply tugging one string after the other. And somehow, you still managed to mess it up. It sounded stale and squeaky, no matter how much you tried to soften your movements. Not willing to let that deter you, you tried to play a melody you had heard one off the street musicians play yesterday on the market.

Unbeknownst to you, you had an audience you couldn't have dreamed of. Way above, golden eyes followed the movement of your fingers, listening intently, intrigued. Forearms leaned on the railing of his balcony, he had been watching you practice frequently over the course of the last months. In the beginning , it had been for his amusement. Now, it had become a part of his routine to see how you were doing.

"Brother!"

Apollo looked up from the sight of you practicing in your room to find Hermes sitting on the railing. After a short, distracted greeting, his eyes wandered down once more, as if they were attracted by a magnetic force. And, truly, you were magnetizing. Your unrelenting determination, your love for his holy instrument, the fact that you had set yourself a goal and were working so hard towards it: competing in his Pythian games.

"So, what's got you this distracted lately?" Hermes asked, letting his legs dangle. When he was denied an answer, his attentive eyes followed Apollo's gaze and found you. "Oh, so that's-"

Apollo hushed him to listen to your best efforts, a small smile gracing his lips when he realized with what care you had listened to the mysterious lyre player on the street yesterday that had conveniently played a song more fit for beginners to pick up on.

"Wow, that sounds bad," Hermes exclaimed, whistling under his breath. Curling over in laughter, he missed the pointed stare by his brother. "Planning on punishing her or why are you enduring this?"

"Shut your mouth, brother," Apollo shot back and the sharpness of his tone surprised Hermes. As he looked down once more, he watched Apollos face soften visibly as you stubbornly plucked at your strings. A small smile graced his lips and he propped his head up on his arms as he watched you intently. "She can do it, she just needs a little bit of help."

☀️

Taking a deep breath, your knees met the hard stone floor and you kneeled before Apollo's altar, bowing your head until your hair formed a curtain around your face. After all the unanswered prayers and fruitless attempts, you were still filled with admiration and wonder looking at his statue. Closing your eyes, your lips formed a hushed prayer, as every afternoon in his temple. One that always went unanswered, but if you were one thing, it was persistent.

But today, something was different. Your mind couldn't help but wonder to the humiliating exchange you had had with your mother this morning. Scoffing over your clumsy playing, she had laughed at you, telling you to the face to no longer make her and the world suffer the sound of your lyre play, that you were dishonoring Apollo himself by eliciting such horrid sounds from his holy instrument.

You couldn't help the tremble of your lip, nor the traitorous stinging of your eyes and took a long breath to calm yourself. "Great lord Apollo," you whispered into the ground, your voice laced with shame and doubt, "Please, if you wish for me to stop my attempts, if I am dishonoring you, if I am angering you, give me a sign!"

"Well, hello there."

You shot around, finding yourself face to face with a blond man in a simple but fine tunic and piercing eyes. Eyes that you knew, because you knew this man, and you had spent a full hour watching his fingers handle the lyre so gracefully. It was one of the street artists you had seen on the market, more specifically, the one you had spent your forenoon studying. Was this a divine sign or a simple coincidence?

Realizing that you still hadn't answered the greeting, you scrambled to your feet clumsily and bowed lightly, since you saw first-glance he was of higher social rank than you. Granted, the majority of people was of higher rank than you, but your eyes had picked up on the gold laced into his tunic, his jewelry and most importantly, the intricate craftsmanship of his lyre. Hidden give-aways of a wealthy pocket. "Excuse me," you said softly, smiling while bowing once more, "I'll be leaving." A musician as skilled as him was far more deserving of this temple's glory.

Hurrying past him, the sound of his voice had you stop dead in your tracks. "Do you know what talent is, m'lady?"

Several things in that sentence made you pause and turn around once more, finding the man already looking at you with those magnetic eyes. "I'm not a lady, m'lord," you said abashedly, but his smile only widened. "Sure you are. And you know the answer to my question, don't you?"

"Yes," you answered, wondering what he could possibly want out of this conversation. "It's a gift by the gods that they give to the deserving." The young man hummed with a smile on his lips. "I couldn't help but notice you look a little troubled. What did you entrust your god with, sweet lady?"

If it had been any other man, you would have retreated, excused yourself, exited the temple as fast as possible. But he radiated a feeling of safety and grace that you couldn't help but feel attracted to him, and not just in the physical sense. Even though you had no idea why a man like that would spare a girl like you just a glance. Maybe he was one of those men who took advantage of poor girls like you, but somehow, your gut told you that you could trust him.

"I-," you hesitated, but then, the words broke out of you like a waterfall as you told him about your troubles. Maybe it was because no one listened to you, ever, but you trusted this man with everything. "It sounds horrible," you ended your ramblings, trying to conceal your damp eyes. "Everyone keeps telling me to stop trying, but I want to learn. But, what if I'm disgracing god Apollo himself with how horrible I am?"

"You aren't," the man said with an enigmatic smile and you wrung your hands. "You haven't heard me play, I'm atrocious!"

"Hey," he answered soothingly, taking a step towards you. "You aren't. You just need a teacher. I could teach you," he offered kindly, but you shook your head in protest. "No, m'lord, I have no means to afford it. See, I am a poor woman, I don't have any money of my own and my family would never come up for it. I don't have the financial means to compensate you."

His smile only widened and looking up at him, it left you quite breathless. You couldn't explain it, but there was something about it that made you feel as if warmed up by the sun itself. This man had to be blessed by Apollo. "I don't ask for compensation. I'd give you lessons for free."

Now, that was really suspicious. You weren't stupid, there was a good chance this was a ploy to take advantage of you in some way, because the offer sounded too good to be true. Such a talented artist simply stumbling over you in a temple and offering free lessons? At the same time, you were also desperate. And this man was really talented. If he was being genuine, were you throwing out the opportunity of your life? After a short silence, you looked back up at him. "Why would you do that? Offer to teach me for free, I mean."

A sudden breeze disheveled the man's golden locks, his charming smile unwavering. "Ah, you see... It's because I'm Apollo." Because you had any chance to register the words, the light seemed to explode before your eyes and a reflex brought your hand up to shield them. When you removed it, the man had changed. His robes were of pure gold, as were his shoes, equally golden marks extended over his body like tattoos and his hair was crowned by a shining halo. You were looking at divinity, and it was nearly scorching your eyes.

Shit.

Thankfully, your body showed an above average response time as you dropped to your knees so fast they met the stone floor in a way that had a sharp pain shoot up your legs. The thrumming of your racing heart was louder than any thought you might have had. Bowing down so far you were covering before the god, you pressed your forehead into the marble and raised your hands in a pleading fashion. "Forgive me, great lord Apollo, for dishonoring you by attempting so many times to learn your holy instrument when you had clearly not blessed my endeavors. Please, punish me to any extent you see fit but have mercy on-"

The god interrupted your terrified rambling by placing a hand on your shoulder, rendering you speechless just as effectively as a slap in the face might have. When he spoke your name, you looked up at him tentatively. Looking at Apollo was like looking at the sun itself, and if the man had been handsome before, in this form, he was the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your mortal eyes on.

"Loving the lyre as much as you do is not dishonoring me," the god said and his voice was so smooth and beautiful it wiped your head clean of thought. "Quite the opposite, actually. Your dedication to my instrument is admirable. Hence the reason my offer is still awaiting an answer."

"But-" you squeaked in response and tried suppress the trembling of your nervously wringing hands. "Why would you do that? Why would you teach me?"

You wouldn't get an answer to that question for some time, but it didn't need a lot of convincing for you to agree to let him be your tutor. To avoid your parent's suspicion, you let him in a grove just outside the city gates where he first taught you the basics, gave you theoretical lessons on the functioning of the lyre and showed you the best way to handle it, which you continuously had problems with. But Apollo was incredibly patient, and your nervousness around him subsided quickly.

Over the course of the next weeks and months, he would show you how to approach the instrument, give you practice and help you improve your lyre play. And after some time, you found yourself looking forward to the lessons not only because of the lessons themselves but for the pleasure of his company. You couldn't deny that Apollo's charming wits had done a number on you, and the way you were ogling his hands as he so masterfully demonstrated it in his instrument would have been shameless if it hadn't been for educational purposes (along others).

There were moments when you yourself wondered if the god may reciprocate your romantic interest, as silly as that thought was. The way he lightened up seeing you approach him, the way he was always waiting for you and the way you caught him glancing at you instead of your lyre from time to time. But you stocked it up to your silly mortal delusions. Why would a god be interested in you?

At the same time, said god found himself falling head over heels for you. He had been smitten with you before meeting you, but being around you, seeing you come out of your shell and starting to feel comfortable around him, showing him your true colors- he was so done for. If he hadn't been his fathers favorite son (he was still working on that favorite child title but Athena was hard to beat) he would have earned a few stern talks by now for slaking off, as he procrastinated or full on ignored divine duties in favor of your lessons.

Your humor and laugh pulled him in, your dedication was unmatched and seeing your eyes light up when you succeeded in something did something to him. A blooming feeling in his chest that consumed his thoughts, sending him into the sweetest daydreams. And it was only fueled every time he got to be with you, be around you, enjoy your company. He tended to get caught up in it, and sometimes you caught him staring at you and he always wondered wether you knew what you did to him with those little glances and witty comments of yours.

Nothing excited you more than the progress you were starting to make. The strings were no longer squeaky and you had even managed to play some easy melodies that got more complex as time went on. You were astonished by your own progress, which was of course thanks to the fact that you had the best teacher anyone could dream of, but also hours upon hours of sleepless nights, practicing diligently.

When Apollo found out about those, he was surprisingly worried and you couldn't help but be giddy that he cared. But you listened and got your sleep that he insisted on, if only fleckig praise, seeing the showdowns under your eyes disappear. Also, you were convinced his presence in your life was some sort of good-luck-charm, because there had been no fourth year old suitors asking for your hand in marriage ever since you were a few weeks into your lessons.

But your strumming technique still wasn't as smooth as could be. "You need to feel the music flow through your fingers," Apollo told you, making it look criminally easy as he demonstrated it. "They need to move with the music, as smooth as the music. You are tugging, but you need to caress." His eyes met yours in a silent request to try it for yourselves.

Touched stuck in between your teeth, you tried to imagine the music flowing into your body down to your fingertips, trying to move them naturally along the strings. But still, it didn't sound quite right. To your surprise, Apollo smiled empathetically and leaned over, covering your small hand with his larger one and mimicking the correct movement.

You tried to concentrate, you really did, but it was hard when Apollo sat closer to you on the grass, settling behind you so that his arms almost caged you in, his breath fanning over your neck. Luckily, he couldn't see the redness on your cheeks like this. "Relax," he told you and a light chuckle left his lips. "Are you still scared of me, sunshine?"

Sunshine. It was his nickname for you, and the way he said it made it sound like a melody in itself. "I'm not," you answered truthfully, letting him gently guide your movements. "But I don't think you realize what divine proximity does to a mortal."

Because of your proximity, you felt his head shift as his gaze wandered to you. You didn't return it, because you knew you would get lost in it if you did. "What does it do to you?" the god asked in a hushed voice, and the teasing undertone had your lips twitch. "It feels weird when you touch me," you explained, your fingers taking a little more initiative in running over the strings. "Like you're too real and not at all at the same time. I can't really explain it, but it's like touching raw might. That would feel weird, right?"

"You always manage to surprise me, sunshine," Apollo said and you could hear the smile in his voice. "It looks like there is a poet in you." He let go of you, letting your fingers act on their own and it sounded much better than before. Nothing the difference, you smiled triumphantly. "Don't flatter me, I might get too much of the hubris, m'lord."

"It isn't hubris when it's true," his voice spoke softly as you started to play the tune from before. It sounded much more graceful now and Apollo's adoring gaze, hidden from your view, traced the movement of your fingers, up your arms to your face. When your fingers had become more sure, you turned to him, no doubt with a smart reply on the tip of your tongue, but you fell silent when you found yourself mere breaths away from the god, who seemed just as taken aback by the sudden proximity.

But he didn't pull away, and neither did you. Fingers slowing down, you couldn't rip your eyes away from the mesmerizing gold of his eyes. Apollo smelled of honey and flowers, a smell so sweet it made sense paired with his smile. Though he wasn't smiling now. His lips were parted lightly as he stared at you just as intensely as you watched him.

Slowly but steadily, the tension in the tight little space between you two got too much for you. Your breathing picked up and you had to avert your eyes when his fell down onto your heaving chest and snapped back up at yours with a new hunger. Coughing under your breath, you moved away from him by a few inches, trying to hide how flustered you were. But if you had turned around, you would have caught a rare sight: the god of music looking at you with heart eyes, his cheeks painted by a pink hue.

Little moments like these only pulled you in deeper. Embarrassingly, you had begun dreaming of Apollo, about his smile, his lyre-play, his voice. It was the most prevalent in your dreams, as if he was singing you a lullaby every night. You found yourself thinking about him every time of the day, getting caught up in vivid daydreams as you completed your chores, feeling as though he was with you every time you practiced.

Though that may have not been an entirely unfounded feeling. Sometimes, Apollo would say things during your lessons that had you suspect he was listening in on you practicing- at least sometimes. Why he occupied himself with something he could have so often, you didn't know. But you did feel honored.

Progress was coming, you were getting better, though there were also setbacks. As before, you didn't have natural talent, and sometimes you struggled to a point of frustration that had your movements grow sloppy and disjointed, gnawing on your bottom lip in dissatisfaction. "Hey." You looked up at Apollo who had picked up on your growing annoyance and sighed. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," he answered, gently prying the instrument from your hands. "I think you could use a break." And before you could protest, he added: "How about I play something just for you for a change?" Now, that shut you up real quick and you let him put your lyre aside. Apollo would demonstrate bits of songs or movements for you, but never whole songs, and the prospect of witnessing the god perform one made you giddy with excitement.

Under your curious gaze, Apollo propped up his instrument with great flair and began playing. The melody was unlike anything you had heard before. It was so interacted and beautiful, so masterfully crafted it brought tears to your eyes as you sat there and listened. But none of it could have prepared you for when Apollo started to sing. You had to close your eyes, because looking at him and listening to his singing at the same time was simply too much. You were pretty sure you could get addicted to the sound of his singing.

Apollo sing of pine trees, of secret meetings, of soft lyre tunes, the sounds of two instruments mingling. It was that last part that had you perk up. Could it be? Your grove who dusted of pine trees, you met him in secret- was he singing a sound about your lessons? Or were you just being delusional, thinking the god apollo would write a song- about you. Because now, he was singing about a girl under the pine trees with a lyre. Your heart was thrumming loudly in your chest, and it was the only sound resonating in your ears when Apollo ended the song.

You had to work up the strength to open your eyes, and when you did, he was watching you already, his eyes boring themselves into yours. With the melody still filling your head, you reached for your lyre, but Apollo didn't even register your movement. All he could see was you, as he desperately tried to gauge your reaction. Did you like the song? You had to, he had poured his heart into it. But he would write more. His heart was overflowing with memories as he watched the concentrated furrow of your brows.

And then, you started playing the song.

At once, Apollo snapped out of his trance as his insides roared with another form of adoration. You were playing his song, your song, the song he had written just for you. As if you were answering him. Sure, it sounded a little hesitant, but he was surprised about how masterful it sounded. You had become an expert player, in spite of your setbacks. And it looked like you had the same realization, because you looked up from the instrument and up at him with a glowing expression that said 'I did it!' and he could only nod in astonishment.

As the date of the Pythian games grew closer, so did Apollo and you, developing your inside jokes and becoming more comfortable with physical affection. It was safe to say you were friends with a god, which was something you could have never dreamed about. But as the date approached, your nerves were a little- tense, so to speak.

You cursed when suddenly, something snapped and a string of the lyre broke off, flinging your hand and marking it with a long red line. "Ow," you exclaimed and immediately, Apollo was all over you, taking your hurting hand into his. "Can you fix the string?" you asked nervously and earned a raised eyebrow from Apollo. "What do you think? And your hand is the priority here, sunshine."

"Right," you nodded, nibbling on your lip. "I need it to perform well." A long sigh left the gods lips as they ghosted over the palm of your hand. You jumped when they pressed down on your sore skin and an unfamiliar sensation, a warm prickling, emerged from the spot where he had bestowed a kiss upon you, rushing to your tummy where it exploded into a million golden butterflies, rummaging against your ribcage.

"Sunshine?"

"Huh?" you said, startled, and he showed you your hand, completely untouched, not a trace of the injury. You turned it around as if you were to find the mark, but it had vanished completely. "Thank you!" you smiled, picking up the lyre and holding it to his chest. "Now the string!"

Apollo sighed once more. Youn knew he could have easily fixed it, but for some reason, he opted to do it manually, pulling a spare string out of his tunic and getting to work removing the broken one. "Why are you doing it like this?" you found yourself asking, watching his graceful fingers as the expertly worked on the lyre.

"If you don't struggle from time to time, what's the point to life?" Apollo asked in a light-hearted tone, though you detected something heavier in the statement.

You hummed, thinking about that. "If you don't struggle, you can't succeed." Apollo looked up at you and nodded before returning his attention to the lyre. "That makes sense," you lamented, watching him intently. "But you don't seem like that kind of god to me." When he raised his brows, you attempted to explain yourself. "Of course, I don't know many gods, I only know you, but you don't seem very... human. You seem very content with being larger than life and divine."

The god hummed, inserting the new string. "You made me realize some things, sunshine. You have struggled so much, and have still persistent. Believe it or not, I think you're much stronger than I am. If I were you, I'd have given up a long time ago, because of what you said precisely: I don't need to struggle as much as you do."

Laughing to yourself, you shook your head in disbelief. "You're right, I don't believe you, but still, thank you. And I didn't know being untouchable could get to you like that."

"Oh, I'm far from untouchable," Apollo reassured you as he handed you back your lyre. "I have been touched and I am touched right now. Do you know why I take so many mortal lovers?" You shook your head and Apollo flopped down on his back, resting his head on his arm as he looked up at the sky above. "I love being touched by you mortals. It's an unimaginable thrill. To be a part of a life that is so fragile and so hardened at the same time is a privilege. Humanity is not a weakness but an unimaginable strength."

When he closed his eyes, yours were free to roam his resting body undetected, running over his golden marks and getting caught up on his face, as always. "I always thought... the fact that I had to struggle so much was because I was weak."

Apollo opened his eyes to look at you, and they were so heavy with emotion you had to avert yours. "Weak? Sunshine, you are so strong."

☀️

Delphi was an unsurprisingly beautiful city. As your travel companion, Apollo had disguised himself as a mortal once more and escorted you safely there, even arranging for your stay. During the religious ceremonies in his honor, he had been giggling in your ear in a way that had some priests give him pointed stares for interrupting the process and you jabbing your elbow into his side, making him whine at you being mean.

Then came the actual contest. The other performances flew by you as you had a hard time concealing your nerves, but Apollos calling presence helped. His hand squeezed you every once in a while, and when it was nearly your turn, he guided you to a spot next to the arena from which the performers entered the stage. His bigger hands engulfed your shaking once as he pressed them to his chest. You were surprised to find his heart drumming in a high frequency and widened your eyes at him.

"I can't help it, I'm nervous, too," he smiled cheekily and you bit down on your bottom lip. "Well, it's not you who is about to perform in front of hundreds of people. What if I mess up? What if I'm bad? I don't even have any real talent."

"Do you remember our first conversation?" the god interrupted your ramblings, pulling you closer to him. When you shook your head, he smiled softly and stuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You said that you mortals get your talents from us gods. Well, it's true. I didn't bless you with talent. Do you know why?" You shook your head and he continued.

"Because you tried anyway, and you would not give up. Because of the devotion and love you hold for the lyre. You fought and you struggled, and you made great progress, without any advantages. I never answered your prayers I didn't want you to lose that. You are greater than any of the other artists assembled because of it. I have rarely seen such determination. And I knew you could do it." The god took a long breath. "And it was what made me start to fall in love with you."

Your head snapped up once you processed the words. "You... what?" Apollo delayed the answer by bringing your hands up to his lips and kissing each of your fingertips, making a warmth flood through them that ended their shaking. "I love you. So much. If that song wasn't enough to tell you."

"So it was for me?" you asked, mesmerized, deaf to the announcement of your name. Apollo smiled down at you, leaning in to kiss your temple, your cheek, and finally, his lips met yours. As if they had been waiting for it all along, your arms flew up to wrap themselves around his neck, pulling him closer as his hands dug into your sides.

Suddenly, you felt something on the top of your head and broke from the kiss to feel it. It was a laurel wreath. It was Apollo's laurel wreath. Your eyes were as wide as plates, you were sure, and Apollo chuckled, pointing to it with his chin. "You have my favor, sunshine. Now go and show them what real prowess is."

When you stepped onto the stage, you were overwhelmed by the cheers of the audience. As it was tradition, you recounted a prayer to Apollo, who you spotted in the front row, holding onto your lyre like your lifeline. Then, the crowd fell silence and it was your turn to play.

☀️

In retrospect, you could have anticipated it, as you knew things about the lyre no other mortal could know, thanks to Apollo. But it still blew you away when the pronounced winner of the Pythian games was you. As if in a trance, your ears drowned out the cheers of the audience as you kneeled before the priest who placed the winner's laurel wreath- you had taken off Apollo's, of course - on your head, congratulating you on your outstanding performance.

But even as you barely registered the noise of the crowd, it did catch your attention when it suddenly subsided at once, giving away to a deadly silence. The priest gasped, he was the first one to fall to his knees. Because at the top of the arena's stairs stood Apollo in all his glory, emitting pure power and might. When he met your eye, he winked at you.

As Apollo walked down the stairs, all of the spectators covered, falling to their knees and throwing themselves at his feet. But Apollo didn't take notice of them, his eyes were locked on you as he approached you. A tugging at your skirt made you look down, where the priest made a motion, urging you to kneel as well. When Apollo spoke, his voice filled the whole arena.

"This woman will kneel for no one." His smile was so radiant it took your breath away. So magnetizing you almost missed the hand he was stretching out, waiting for you to take it. Apollo called your name. "I shall invite you to put your skill to good use. Take my hand and play with me and the muses, sunshine."

Gasped echoed all around you, but all you could see and hear and feel was him. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his and it closed firmly around your hand. Urging you closer softly, the god put his free arm around your waist. "Ready to go home, sunshine?"

Your nod was all he needed before he raised you up into the clouds, leaving all bystanders speechless- but not for long. Soon, your story would spread through all of Greece, your name immortalized next to the muses, and held in prayers because it was realized how much more benevolent Apollo was to those who praised your name alongside his.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

[plumpybread]

Asking because of the previous ask, are you not a fan of Ethan anymore? If so, why?

It's complicated, I suppose (rant where i talk abt ethan but then also my OCs in general)

I really do not like the first version of Ethan I made like 3 years ago. Obviously I like indulging in devilish ideas but I don't know, it ended up turning into something I didn't really end up liking too much.

Then I revisited and sort of rewrote his story a bit a while back when making the OC archive site (I'm aware the site is not available anymore for the people who asked, I took it down myself) and was much happier with it for a while.

Don't get me wrong, I like Ethan, I know he's the OC people seem to like the most, but it's still like a personal mental battle of like maybe it's too effed up? Even when I draw characters going through unwilling/accidental extreme weight gain, I make them either ambivalent or accepting of their situation, but for Ethan it's kind of like torture, and I can't bring myself to get like..aroused and excited to draw more of that *personally*.

Changing up his lore wouldn't really work either since his story is based on helplessness and stuff, and it'd be disingenuous to make him be happy with his situation, so I've just sort of subconsciously decided to leave him as is and treat his content as its self contained story more than nsfw art to goon to, if that makes sense. I don't know, maybe I'm just thinking about it too much, but just wanted to say what goes through my head.

I also don't really revisit Ethan for the same reason I don't tend to draw much of all the past OCs I've made, as I see each of them as a way to explore different facets of how weight gain can manifest and adapt into a character's life to create a story around it, and I feel like I've covered most of the ground around them already.

All of my OCs come from a sudden short prompt that pops up in my head, usually out of nowhere. I suddenly wanted to make a big-hearted southern farm guy who was super massive and I immediately ran to draw Rudy, for example.

I draw them a little reference, with my typical bullet points next to them with basic info to get an idea of what their dynamic is like, and a more lengthily written backstory or description if I'm feeling fancy under it, and then for the next week or two it's all art of them and answering questions about them... and then another idea pops up, and a new OC comes in.

It's not that I get tired of them, but I just simply do not know what to draw with them. Ethan is the biggest outlier in this case, since he is my fattest OC and half immobile, you just don't really know how else to bring something new that's not him laying on his bed at a slightly different angle.

I guess that's why I always do OC asks, I sort of need them to be able to know what to draw with them, since I struggle coming with things like that by myself, and you know I always like avoiding drawing a character in a void with no context.

The Genshin Obesity AU is my longest running like "project"?? thing just because there is an endless amount of content I can pull from since there's all these characters, places and possibilities I can write from. My OCs are obviously much more self-contained and moreso serve as individual experiments to explore different people and scenarios, so after the 10th drawing of them... I genuinely do not know what else I can add to them.

I hope that was a bit insightful. I know most of you guys love Ethan, and I love him too! But I don't know, I guess this is why I don't tend to have immobile/near immobile OCs, since the potential art ideas for them drop to just them sitting on a mattress or sitting on the floor and I'm just left confused on what to do with them.

Maybe Ethan in his college days is something you guys might be interested in? Or I don't know, I'm just writing this post as my thoughts enter my head.

Sorry for the rant, I sure do love typing, hope this clears up some questions people might've had