#i might just have to write something extremely self-indulgent

[erenstitanweave]

RUNWAY WALK!

synopsis: rumors quickly began spreading that new york city's hottest model has been spotted seemingly being smitten with spiderman on numerous occasions, little does the public understand, though, the two are far past smitten.

rating: sfw (obviously), two teens in love i fear, kissing, reader is a well known model, reader and miles giggle about an inside joke (will be explained dw), miles is a FLIRT.

a/n: is this extremely self indulgent? absolutely!! do i care? absolutely NOT!! in all seriousness though, i love love love miles so much (no one say i have a type, NO ONE.) so i had to write for him!! this might not even get posted but just in case it does, reblogs and comments are well appreciated, enjoy!!

Headlines were one of two things, a way to spread publicity in a good way, or, more likely, a way for shitty journalists to get a buck. This newest headline about you was unfortunately an instance of the latter.

“NEW YORK’S HOTTEST MODEL SPOTTED WITH SPIDER-MAN YET AGAIN: COINCIDENCE OR SOMETHING MORE?”

You sighed as your eyes glazed over the big bold letters, no doubt you’d be getting an earful from your manager about this later. For now, though, the headline unfortunately took your attention off of the one currently laying on you. Miles groaned in annoyance, snatching your hand back towards him and putting it back in his hair, smirking against your skin once he felt the bliss of your nails gently scratching his scalp. You let out a small laugh and moved the phone away from your face, looking down at him. He peered up at you with a look in his eyes, a mixture of curiosity and what looked to be knowing. “You can't keep stalking me, you know that, right?” You asked, taking your hand out his hair and moving it down to his jaw, rubbing small circles with your thumb into the back of his neck.

He shifted his upper body, taking his face out the crook of your neck and opting to just lie on your chest. “Not stalking..it's called checking on you.” He mumbled, struggling to keep his eyes open as he spoke. The slight ray of sunlight from the window beamed down onto his face, moreso his eyes in particular, his eyes making your heart melt. “You're lucky you're cute, but I can't get fired because you keep ‘bumping’ into me.” You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Just..try to be subtle, my love.” You whispered, feeling his grip slightly tighten around you. He pressed his lips to your collar, sprinkling kisses wherever he could reach without exerting himself too much.

You felt him hum in response against your skin, the sensation making you squirm slightly. His hands moved painstakingly slow up and down your sides, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. You felt him murmuring against you, something that sounded like "I love you", but you weren't entirely sure. "Why don't you go to sleep? You've been half awake for two hours now." You asked, the sight of him making you giggle lightly. He barely shrugged his shoulders in response, staying still for a few minutes before lifting his head up to look at you. "Is it..really a problem? Me coming to see you, I mean." He clarified, adjusting his body and sitting up on his elbows. You hummed lightly, adjusting with him until you both laid down on your sides facing each other. "Not necessarily, at least, not to me." You said, leaning forward a bit and kissing his cheek. "I think she's just worried, stuff like this isn't usually taken well in the public eye. Plus, last thing you need is this backfiring on you."

Miles nodded slightly, his eyes closing in on your face, seemingly studying your expression. "Last thing you need is another mess on the runway because of me." He said with a laugh, making you giggle in response, shoving him lightly. "Yeah..she's still pissed about that, next time, aim the flowers at me and not at a rookie behind me." Miles groaned and rolled his eyes, laughing under his breath. "It was one time! I didn't do it again, so what's she still mad for?" He said, his lips contorting into that stupidly cute pout he always did. You both just laughed at each other, the laughter slowly dying out as the calm atmosphere consumed you both.

"Well, I guess you could start checking up on me before or after the shows..I mean, if you aren't catching any bank robbers or anything." You sighed, picking up your phone and continuing to scroll through the different news articles once again. Miles silently stared at you for a moment, just letting his eyes wander over your face and then the phone screen. His attention was caught by an article you mindlessly scrolled past, making him lift his hand and scroll upward. "Is that..me?" He asked slowly, the disbelief in his voice evident as you squinted your eyes to read the title.

"SPIDER-MAN: FROM THE EYES OF NEW YORK"

The title was oddly worded, at least, until you clicked on the actual article. The sight before you made you burst out laughing, the phone being dropped onto the bed somehow made it even funnier. The photos under the title were seemingly taken by people watching Miles fight, most of the photos probably even frames of videos made the poses caught by the camera even more hilarious. Miles, on the other hand, did NOT find this amusing in the slightest. The first image was probably the funniest, with him mid flip and his lanky arms dangling in the air. The second, taken mid-fight with a few bank robbers, showed Miles in the air looking as though he was floating above the criminals below him. The third, however, was the funniest one to you. Miles apparently had ordered a pizza for himself, only for a pigeon to take the pizza before he could even get it out of the box.

Between your tears and laughter, you silently thanked whoever took the photo, knowing it'd probably make it's way to your wallpaper once Miles left. Miles just stared at you with a blank expression, making the whole thing even more funny. "None of that was funny, baby." He huffed, snatching the phone and swiping out of the app. You breathed in and out for a moment, giggling to yourself as you tried to reach for the phone. "Wait! Come on, I wasn't even laughing that much!" You said, flopping down onto him and reaching for the phone. Miles kept up though, moving the phone every split second before you could grab it. Suddenly, he drops the phone right behind his head, his hands reaching to cradle the back of your neck and your jawline. His movements made you halt on your own, staying wide-eyed and completely still.

"As much as I love you, you can't beat me." He whispered with that stupid smirk on his face, kissing your cheek and around your mouth, very purposely missing your lips. You groaned lightly, giving his chest a gentle shove with a smile on your face. "Stop playing and kiss me, you dork." You giggled, leaning in and letting him kiss you. You moved upward, resting yourself on your knees on either side of his legs, slowly moving your hand off his chest and onto the bed. You peeked out from one eye, quickly grabbing the phone and gently pulling away, watching Miles realize what you just did. "As much as I love you, you can't beat me." You said with a grin, kissing the side of his mouth and opening the phone once more, ready and eager to find your new wallpaper once again.

[willows-escape]

My Angel - 1990!Erik x Reader

Pairing: 1990!Cherik x AFAB!Reader (gender neutral pronouns/language)

Summary: You woke up that morning expecting a peaceful, regular day, but you were quickly proven horribly wrong as things began to travel down south. Fortunately, Erik is there to try and relieve some of the pain - even if it is excruciating.

Warnings(/Tags?): menstruation, descriptions of extremely painful periods (adenomyosis/endometriosis), erik is dramatic but its okay he has an excuse, nausea, mentions of vomit but no actual vomiting, early 1900s appropriate period shame, blood and heavy bleeding, brief mention of reader not eating all day but it's only due to lack of appetite, reassurance, fluff!!!!, like TOOTH ROTTING sweetness!!!!

Words: 6.9k

Notes: this isn't what i originally planned to post today, but i have adenomyosis and when my periods come they come bad and the pain is making me feel very sorry for myself. and i did promise something soon. so this is just self indulgent fluff in the mean time.

the other thing i was writing will be entirely gender neutral, so people who do not at all identify with menstruation or just don't want to read about it will hopefully enjoy that when it's done!

DISCLAIMER - this is based off of my experiences with periods, which will not look like most because I have a gynaecologic condition. but if you do 100% relate to this, go see a doctor! like, yesterday!

The morning began like any other, with a restless night's sleep behind you. As you stirred awake, you found yourself alone in bed, but a smile crept across your face as you noticed the lingering warmth on the sheets beside you - a subtle reminder of a certain someone’s recent presence.

Succumbing to the lethargy that clung to your limbs, you reached for the nearest available outfit. The garments were wrinkled and well-worn, but they served their purpose of preserving your modesty. You slipped them on, grateful for the barrier they provided against the cool morning air, despite their less-than-pristine condition.

As you emerged from your bedroom, you stumbled, the door slamming shut behind you with an echoing thud. Your body felt leaden, each limb weighed down as if filled with concrete. Shafts of light piercing through the stone crevices assaulted your eyes, intensifying the dull throb that had begun to pulse at your temples.

"Erik?" your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. The name came out as a hoarse, groggy mumble, hardly recognizable even to your own ears.

Despite your feeble attempt at calling out, Erik appeared before you almost instantly, as if summoned by your whisper.

"Y/N! You're up," he said joyfully, his body adorned in one of his special going out outfits, "much earlier than usual, may I add. I was in the middle of preparing us a picnic before you have to go back up but-"

His gaze finally narrowed onto your hunched form, his previous relaxed expression shifting to one of concern. Your dishevelled appearance was evident - your hair in disarray, your eyes glazed over, bloodshot, and unfocused. It was clear that you were far from your usual self, and to put it lightly, appeared extremely unwell.

"What is the matter?" he asked. You hadn’t noticed it before, but the picnic basket he had been holding clattered to the stone floor, forgotten in an instant as his full attention focused on you.

As though his question was the trigger, a wave of nausea crashed over you. Your chest constricted, forcing you to hunch over even further. Your skin flushed hot in an instant, beads of sweat forming and quickly multiplying across your skin.

"Angel, what's wrong?" Erik's voice trembled, his words tumbling out in a rush. Had you been more lucid, you might have felt a pang of guilt for causing him such distress.

"I'm fine," you mumbled unconvincingly. His hand gently rested on your shoulder, and instantly your body betrayed you. The comforting touch seemed to signal to your system that it was safe to let go, and suddenly, you felt overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and dizziness.

A dull ache blossomed in your lower abdomen. Your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively pressed a hand against your stomach. The discomfort flooded your senses as your face contorted, a grimace etching itself across your features as you struggled to maintain composure.

Within moments, the discomfort escalated from a mild annoyance to an all-consuming agony that left you immobilized.

Shivers began to wrack your body. Your legs turned to lead, a numbing sensation creeping up from your toes. Simultaneously, a searing, deep-seated ache took root in your lower back.

If Erik was worried before, he was panicking now. His eyes widened with alarm, his breathing quickened, and his usually steady hands began to tremble visibly. The calm composure he typically maintained crumbled in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and urgency.

Your legs buckled beneath you, your vision blurring as you felt yourself wilting towards the unforgiving stone floor. Erik sprang into action, his arms shooting out to catch you. The world spun as he scooped you up, your body limp in his grasp. A sharp cry escaped your lips as the sudden movement sent a jolt of agony through your core, the comfort of his embrace overshadowed by the searing pain that threatened to consume you.

With swift strides, Erik navigated the winding halls, cradling you protectively in his arms. He retraced your earlier path, arriving at the door you had just exited moments ago. With a forceful kick, he flung it open, revealing the familiar sight of your shared bedroom.

"I'm going to set you down onto the bed," he explained slowly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. "I’ll be as careful as I can."

When he gently pulled back the blanket on your side of the bed, you felt a slight jostling. Your attention, however, was abruptly drawn by a sharp intake of breath, his gasp cutting through the silence of the room.

"Erik?" you mumbled weakly. Your words were abruptly cut off as another wave of pain tore through your abdomen, causing you to cry out involuntarily.

Once more, you felt yourself being moved, this time to Erik's side of the bed. Confusion clouded your mind - why the change? But as you weakly lifted your head, the reason became starkly clear.

"Oh god-" you gasped, your eyes widening in shock at the sight before you. The vivid crimson stain on your side of the bed was impossible to ignore, its stark contrast against the pale sheets making your stomach churn with a mix of embarrassment and dread.

“I need to go find Gerard, you need to be seen by a doctor,” he declared, voice urgent and desperate.

He finally lowered you onto the clean side of the bed, and your eyes instinctively sought his face. It was then you realised his mask was off, likely because he hadn't anticipated you waking so soon. Without the barrier, you could clearly see the stark pallor of his unmarked skin and the unmistakable fear etched across his features. His typically composed demeanour had given way to raw, unfiltered concern that was both touching and unsettling.

He turned to leave.

"Erik, wait," you gasped, your hand shooting out to grasp his arm. "The pain is... excruciating, I won't lie. But I don't think—"

Your words were cut short as another wave of agony crashed over you. A strangled whimper escaped your lips as you curled into yourself, your body trembling uncontrollably. The pain was all-consuming, leaving you breathless and disoriented. You clenched your eyes shut, willing the torment to pass, knowing all you could do was endure until it subsided.

"Where's the pain? Can you pinpoint where you're bleeding from?" his eyes darted across your form, taking in your dulled complexion and the sheen of sweat on your skin. "You're burning up. Do you have a fever?"

His questions came in rapid succession, but his touch remained gentle as he brushed your damp hair away from your forehead.

"I... um..." you hesitated, struggling to articulate through the pain. The situation presented a dilemma: discussing such a private matter with a man felt improper, yet the severity of your discomfort and the alarming amount of blood made it impossible to simply dismiss. You found yourself caught.

Another intense surge of pain rose in your stomach, but this one more overwhelming than the last. Your ability to speak fully vanished as your eyes clenched shut. Soft whimpers escalated into frantic, muffled cries as the relentless throbbing in your lower abdomen intensified, twisting your nerves and leaving you gasping for breath.

"Angel, please, tell me what’s going on," Erik pleaded, tenderly taking your hand in his. The desperation in his eyes was palpable as he watched you struggle to form words. “I really believe you need a doctor, please just let me-”

"No, please," you winced, your voice barely audible through gritted teeth. The words came out strained, a mixture of pain and embarrassment colouring your tone. "It's... it's not something I can easily explain," you paused, taking a shaky breath before adding, "it's rather private."

"Private?" he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and concern. "Forgive my being impolite, but you are currently writhing in agony and bleeding profusely- how on Earth is that private!?"

"Erik," you implored, your eyes silently conveying your discomfort with the subject. However, his concern for your well-being trumped any social niceties. Undeterred by your unspoken plea, he persisted with his questions, determined to understand and help.

"If you explain what's happening, I might be able to help," he insisted. You gave him a sceptical look, but he pressed on, "my years in isolation weren't idle, I've acquired a vast array of knowledge from the countless books that have kept me company."

"It's just not appropriate for me to discuss this with you!" you cried in refute, your voice strained with both pain and embarrassment. Despite your best efforts to remain composed, your tone came out sharper than intended.

You silently prayed he would forgive you, considering the fact that you were enduring mind-boggling amounts of pain. Not only that, the fact you could distinctly feel the familiar warm leakage of blood trickling down your thighs and onto the bedsheets below was driving you utterly insane.

Shame coursed through you as your eyes fell upon the stark evidence of your debilitating pain staining the otherwise white sheets. Averting your gaze, you felt utterly exposed and vulnerable. An overwhelming desire to shield yourself from Erik's concerned stare gripped you, making you wish you could simply disappear.

However, your discomfort eased as Erik's touch changed. His firm grip on your hand softened, his fingers now tracing gentle patterns on your skin. Despite the worry in his eyes, you sensed his effort to stay calm for your sake.

Your heart tugged in your chest at the realisation.

"Y/N," he began, his voice tender yet hesitant as he tried to hold himself together. His gaze locked onto yours as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Please, put your shame aside for one moment and let me in- if only so that I can help you. It kills me to see you like this."

His ignorance of the situation was evident in the way his chest heaved and how he chewed the inside of his cheek with a vengeance. It was clear he believed you were in grave danger. You knew you needed to say something to ease his mind, even if it went against everything your instincts were telling you to do.

"Oh," you breathed, wincing as another wave of pain crashed over you. "It's... it's a delicate matter. Not something typically discussed in polite company."

"Do I look like polite company to you?" Erik's sarcastic retort was accompanied by a growing urgency in his previously calm ministrations. His eyes started to dart frantically between the blood staining your skin and your tired, visibly distressed face.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for Erik's potential upset. Despite your fears of his disgust or anger, of him calling you dirty or telling you to leave until you return to normal, a small part of you hoped he might be more understanding than expected. It was this glimmer of optimism that gave you the courage to finally speak.

"Erik," you began hesitantly, "are you familiar with the concept of... menstruation?"

The prolonged silence following your question spoke volumes. When Erik finally shook his head, it only confirmed what you had already suspected.

"Well," you began hesitantly, searching for the right words, "it's a process that occurs in people with uteruses. It involves bleeding and a lot of pain, typically happening monthly for one week out of the month. I don't really know much about the biological reasons behind it, but-"

Your explanation was abruptly halted as another shock of excruciating pain engulfed you. Erik, sensing your distress, quickly offered his hand. You latched onto it, your grip surprisingly fierce. As the agony intensified, your body convulsed against the sheets, and muffled sobs escaped your lips. You desperately willed the torment to stop, but it seemed endless despite your determination to endure.

"Fuck!"

Erik looked taken aback by your cussing, but seeing as you were squeezing his hand so hard he felt like your aim was to tear it off, he didn't focus on it too much.

Eventually, the pain faded back to its baseline ache - which was still extremely unpleasant, but manageable.

"I apologize," you coughed through your tears, your voice strained as you brushed away the beads of sweat trickling down your forehead.

"There's no need to apologize," he reassured, his voice filled with compassion. "I'm deeply concerned for your wellbeing, but I trust your understanding of this situation. If you say it's not life-threatening, I will trust you."

“Yeah, I'm definitely in no life threatening danger," you assured him, "but the pain is so intense, it almost feels like I am."

"It hurts so badly," you whimpered, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. "Ever since I was young, I've had to live with such excruciating pain and such heavy bleeding that I can barely function or even leave my bed. It's so exhausting and I've lost count of the times I've passed out on dirty floors, lying in my own vomit because of this."

"I know, I know," he murmured, not truly understanding and internally slightly horrified but wanting to comfort you regardless. He gently wiped away your tears as they fell, his touch tender and reassuring.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "This is terribly embarrassing. You shouldn't have to witness this. You tried to regain composure, but the combination of physical discomfort and emotional vulnerability made it impossible to stem the tide of tears.

Suddenly, Erik began to move. Your attention was so focused on the hurricane of emotions swirling around your body that you barely noticed him shifting to your side of the bed. It wasn't until he began to lower himself onto the mattress beside you that panic set in, causing you to react instinctively.

"No, wait!" you exclaimed, your sudden outburst causing him to recoil in surprise. Realizing your tone, you softened your voice. "I'm sorry, but please don't sit there. I... I don't want you to get dirty."

"Dirty?" Erik repeated, his eyes flickering to the stain beneath him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "It's just blood, I mean really- it's not like I haven't been covered in my own fair share of the stuff. This small spot is hardly cause for concern."

"Erik, please, it's not just blood!" you insisted, the shame taking over as you looked at the spot where you'd bled. It didn’t help that you were in too much pain and felt far too weak to even do anything about it!

He raised an eyebrow at you. "How can it be 'not just blood'? Does your blood contain arsenic?"

You couldn’t help but groan at his sarcastic retort.

"Menstrual blood comes from a person's private areas," you grumbled, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you tried to convey the gravity of the situation.

He paused for a moment, then replied, "well, that certainly wasn't the answer I expected, but it doesn't change my opinion. Blood is blood, no matter where it comes from. Besides, fabric—and people—can always be washed. You don't need to be moving around for the sake of preserving meaningless things, you need to rest."

"But!-"

"Now that that's settled..." he shrugged off the jacket he’d been wearing and eased himself onto the mattress, inching closer to your awestruck form.

You were utterly speechless. He just- and then he- and he said-

"May I hold you? I won't if it causes you pain," he asked, his voice earnest and gentle. His tender concern only added to your bewildered state.

Words failed you as Erik gently pulled you into his embrace. The warmth of his body enveloped you, offering a comfort you didn't realize you so desperately craved. Despite the momentary twinge in your abdomen as he carefully adjusted your position, you found yourself melting into his arms. In that moment, his presence was a bandage to your pain-wracked body and troubled mind.

"Is this position comfortable?" He inquired. His arm gently supported the back of your neck, while his other hand rested lightly on your upper arm, providing a comforting presence without applying pressure. You managed a small nod in response, grateful for his attentiveness.

"Good. Now, where does it hurt?"

As his hand began to drift lower, more particularly towards your thighs, you suddenly realized the direction his thoughts were taking. Your eyes widened in a mix of surprise and mild alarm.

"Wait, not there!" you exclaimed, immediately regretting your sudden outburst as a fresh wave of pain surged through you. You winced, silently chastising yourself for your impulsive reaction.

"Oh. My deepest apologies," Erik said, his voice tinged with embarrassment as he blinked sheepishly. "I wouldn't have touched you anywhere without permission, but when you mentioned the blood's origin, I assumed—well, I thought—"

"Yeah, I know what you thought," you laughed breathlessly, wincing as another flash of pain assaulted your insides. "But contrary to your guess, the pain is mainly in my lower abdomen. Still, I appreciate your... eagerness to help."

His hand, which had been hovering uncertainly, now settled gently on your stomach. The warmth of his palm seeped through your skin as he watched your face intently, searching for any sign of discomfort. Finding none, he took your relaxed expression as silent permission and began to move his hand in slow, soothing circles.

Your mind went blank.

The warmth of his hand on your stomach felt heavenly. The sensation was unlike anything you'd experienced before. While it didn't eliminate the pain by any means, it soothed the intensity more than you thought anything ever could. As his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on your skin, you felt your entire body relaxing, tension melting away with each careful movement.

Your tears, once born of shame and torment, now flowed from sheer relief.

"Thank you," you sniffled, peace washing over you whilst your body finally began to relax. As your muscles slowly unclenched, the bed beneath you seemed to transform, becoming a soft, inviting cloud that cradled your aching form.

Erik could sense your growing ease just from the shift in your demeanour. He was well aware that the mattress and bed sheets were likely ruined, but your comfort and rest took precedence over any stains—especially ones that no one else would ever lay eyes on. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t always procure new clothes for you if your current ones were beyond saving.

"Rest now, angel," he murmured softly, his hand continuing its soothing motions. "I'll be here when you wake up."

As you drifted off into a peaceful slumber, Erik decided it was probably time to delve into those medical journals he'd long avoided.

What? He just preferred reading fiction, that's all.

As evening fell, you stirred from your sleep, immediately noticing the emptiness beside you. Your hand brushed against the cool sheets where Erik had been, confirming your suspicion—he had left your side some time ago. Disappointment creased your brow as you pondered his whereabouts.

You laid motionless on the mattress, your gaze fixed on the spot where Erik had been before you drifted off. The pain in your lower abdomen persisted, but it had noticeably diminished compared to earlier. Your skin felt clammy, and your throat parched, yet overall, you felt surprisingly okay.

"You're awake," a familiar voice called from the corner of the room.

Your frown melted away as you realized he hadn't left at all. True to his word, Erik had simply shifted to the corner of the room, maintaining his vigilant watch over you.

"It's 7:30 PM, which is quite an unusual time to start your day, don't you think?" he teased. You sat up, observing him sitting comfortably in the chair you two kept in the room for convenience's sake.

This time, he wore his mask, unlike earlier when you had awoken. Your gaze drifted downward, landing on the enormous tome in his hands—the bulkiest book you'd ever laid eyes on. Curiosity piqued, you gestured silently toward the literary behemoth he cradled, wordlessly urging him to elaborate on the book in his grasp.

"I know—this is definitely a hefty one. Thank god for chapter indexes," he remarked, weighing the book in his hands. "However, I must say, its contents are appallingly lacking in knowledge."

"How so?" you prompted.

"Well, this is supposed to be a medical journal, and yet, when I look for information on menstruation, it's woefully inadequate," he scoffed. "It merely states that menstruation is linked to the reproductive cycle and helps the uterus prepare for potential pregnancy. That's all."

"Well, that's still more than I knew before," you said with a shrug.

"It's obscene. I read in another book that it happens to half the population from around ages 16 to 50, and yet so many people have gone their whole lives not knowing why?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "And I thought science had come much further than that."

“You read another book? How many of these have you read?” you asked, astonished by his dedication.

“Oh, just whatever I had lying around. A couple dozen or so,” he replied, as if everyone just had dozens of books on medical knowledge floating around their abode. “But some of them were so old they attributed menstruation to miasma, so I didn’t pay much attention to those. And I also busied myself with books on herbal remedies and pain relief- apparently there’s this new medicine called Aspirin on the market? Exciting, but I can’t get a hold of that right now, unfortunately.”

As he rose from the chair, you noticed the stacks of books surrounding his feet. He hadn't exaggerated when he mentioned "a dozen or so" - they were all massive, thicker than any you'd ever seen! You racked your brain, trying to recall where in the cellars he might have been concealing these enormous volumes, but you couldn't remember ever spotting them before.

"I may be mistaken, but you seem to be feeling better than you did this morning," he observed, neatly arranging the books into orderly stacks rather than leaving them scattered haphazardly.

"Definitely," you nodded. "The pain is still present, but it's significantly less intense now."

"That's good," he replied, humming as he pushed his first pile to the side to work on the next. "You did give me quite a fright earlier. I thought... Well, I'm not sure what I thought."

"It's understandable. I mean, I'm not sure why, but I expected you to have some... slight awareness of the subject," you admitted, awkwardly averting your gaze.

Even though you knew Erik wasn't raised with the same rules and expectations as you, discussing menstruation still felt like breaching a taboo. The topic remained uncomfortable, despite your rational understanding that it shouldn't be.

"I do feel quite foolish for not being aware of it sooner. But then again, how many women do you think I've encountered in my life? Besides my mother, the answer is none. And even that meeting was brief," he said matter-of-factly.

You didn't really know how to respond to that, so you let a comfortable silence settle between you. Erik swiftly finished organizing his books, then hurried out to return them to their proper places. He reappeared within moments.

"Now, unless there are other aspects of your anatomy I should be aware of," he said with a hint of amusement, "I believe a bath is in order." His eyes darted meaningfully towards the bed, drawing your attention to the mess you had somehow overlooked. You were mortified as you realized the extent of the stains, which had spread far beyond where you'd expected, creating abstract patterns on the once-pristine sheets.

"Ugh, yes," you grimaced, suddenly noticing the uncomfortable layer of blood on your skin. "A bath is definitely overdue. But what about you? Have you had a chance to clean up?"

"You've been out for eleven hours. I bathed ages ago," he stated. "Just give me half an hour or so to boil some water for the bath. That way, you won't be freezing in there."

While you appreciated Erik's thoughtfulness, the sensation of dried, itchy filth on your skin was unbearable. The prospect of waiting even a moment longer to cleanse yourself seemed more daunting than enduring the bite of cold water.

"Don’t bother," you cringed, "I can't bear this feeling any longer. I need to wash off immediately, even if the water's cold. The discomfort of icy water is preferable to this... filth."

“Have some patience. It’s the late evening in a cellar right next to a lake, you’ll die from cold exposure,” he deadpanned.

Though you understood the logic behind his words, you couldn't suppress a playful pout. Erik's eyes rolled with amusement as he approached you on the bed. Leaning over, he tenderly pressed his lips to your forehead, the gentle gesture melting away your feigned disappointment.

"Are you sure you're not in too much pain right now? Tomorrow I'll ask Gerard to procure some herbs, but until then I have a few remedies I can try with items lying around," he asked, straightening up to look down at you with a raised eyebrow.

"It's bearable," you affirmed.

"Good," he said, moving towards the door. "Stay here while I set up the bath. If you need anything, just call for me."

“Trust me, I won’t be going far anytime soon.”

Thirty minutes later, Erik returned as promised. During the wait, you occupied yourself with daydreams and silent lamentations about your bodily predicament. You couldn’t help but be stuck on the thought that you’d be stuck like this until you were 50—you weren't even halfway through!

"Can you walk alright?" he asked, concerned about you putting any unnecessary strain on your body.

After considering your current condition, you replied, "I think I could manage, but would you mind carrying me to the bathroom anyway? I've heard blood leaves quite stubborn stains on stone."

Wordlessly, he obliged, gently cradling you in his arms. One arm supported your back while the other nestled beneath your knees. As he carefully lifted you, his eyes fell upon the crimson stain left behind. The sight of such copious bleeding caused a flicker of concern to cross his face, though he tried to conceal it.

You were supposed to bleed that much every month for a week straight without dying?

Pushing aside his alarming thoughts about your potential demise, he carried you carefully to the bathroom, his movements slow and deliberate. As he cradled you, you realized this level of attentiveness was something you could easily grow accustomed to. You made a mental note that future menstrual cycles would be spent here in the cellars, rather than hiding from him in the Opera Populaire as you'd done before.

"Thank you for today," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude. As you spoke, you instinctively burrowed closer, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

He let out a low chuckle, tinged with self-deprecation. "Thank you? I've barely done anything noteworthy," he scoffed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. You couldn't see his expression, but you sensed the frown in his words. "To be honest, I feel rather inadequate. I wish I could have been more helpful to you in this situation."

"Don't say that," you insisted, nudging his chest with your head in retaliation. "You've gone above and beyond what most people would do. You've read dozens of books today just to understand me better. You've prepared a bath for me and prioritized my rest over your bedding. Most men would have either shooed me away or fled in your position."

A door creaked open, plunging you into momentary darkness as Erik gently lowered you to your feet. Your voice softened with emotion as you whispered, "your kindness and attentiveness mean more to me than words can express."

The gas valve hissed softly as it turned, gradually illuminating the bathroom. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed a plush black towel draped over the edge of the tub, ready for use. On a nearby rack hung a set of fresh clothes—their style unmistakably reminiscent of Erik's wardrobe—waiting patiently for you to don them after your bath.

He cleared his throat loudly, a gesture you'd come to recognise as his way of masking his flustered state. "It's nothing extraordinary," he mumbled, his voice tinged with a mix of modesty and discomfort at the praise, "just basic human decency."

“But-“

"Is there anything else you need before I go to clean up?" he abruptly asked.

You sighed, giving him a pointed look for interrupting you. Deciding to let it go, you allowed the shift in conversation.

"I can manage from here, thank you," you hummed. "But would you mind fetching my sanitary belt from my bag? I'll need it after the bath."

“Sanitary belt?”

"Yeah. It's a belt that wraps around your waist and holds a sanitary towel in place to collect the, um, blood," you explained, awkwardly gesturing with your hands to illustrate. "You'll recognize it when you see it."

With a tender kiss on your forehead, Erik departed, promising to return with what you need.

The moment he left, you wasted no time shedding your clothes and depositing them in the nearby basket. Eager for relief, you eased yourself into the bathtub, a contented sigh escaping your lips as the pleasantly warm water enveloped you. The soothing heat melted away any lingering discomfort, allowing you to immerse yourself fully in the task of cleansing. With meticulous care, you began to wash away the day's troubles, savouring the unexpected comfort the bath provided.

He returned shortly after, placing the belt on the rack alongside your other necessities. Once again, he inquired about your well-being, prompting you to playfully scold him for his constant concern. Nevertheless, you reassured him that you were fine, adding that the warm bath water provided more pain relief than you had anticipated.

He seemed on the verge of making a sarcastic comment—likely along the lines of "I told you so"—but thought better of it. Bidding you a final goodbye, he left to strip and prepare the bed, allowing you to finish cleaning up in peace.

You continued this until the water was doing you more of a disservice than it was cleansing you. Pulling the drain cover open, you allowed the dirty water to flow out and empty the tub. Silently, you thanked Erik for installing this modern convenience in his home—one of the few upgrades he'd chosen, despite his ability to afford many more.

A chill crept over your damp skin, urging you to hasten your routine. Goosebumps prickled across your body as you quickly patted yourself dry with the towel, appreciating how he'd made sure it was black and not white. You then clumsily secured the sanitary belt around your waist, wincing at its familiar discomfort.

Immediately after, you slipped into the night shirt he had provided. The loose-fitting trousers were a blessing, their gentle embrace and soft material accommodating your tender midsection without adding pressure. Once you finished dressing, a sense of satisfaction gleamed in your chest. You felt refreshed, clean, and rejuvenated.

You made sure to brush your teeth before finishing up in the bathroom, when the horrific cramps returned once again. Doubled over and jaw clenched, you shuffled towards the door with painstaking slowness. Your quivering hand fumbled with the gas valve, finally managing to shut off the light. The room plunged into darkness as you walked out, door falling shut behind.

Groaning softly, you shuffled back towards the bedroom, where you found Erik fluffing the pillows on your freshly made bed. He wore his night attire, and despite your discomfort, you couldn't suppress a smile. Even doubled over in pain, the sight of him warmed your heart.

He swiftly noticed your presence, helping you onto the bed to spare you the effort of weakly propping yourself up. He then approached the dresser, where a mysterious lump lay concealed beneath blankets. Unfolding the coverings, he placed his hand on the hidden object and nodded with satisfaction.

He refolded the blankets over it before walking over to you. Curious and confused, you tried to maintain an inquisitive look while fighting off the storm raging in your abdomen.

"I anticipated the pain would return once you started moving again," he said, gesturing for you to lift your shirt to reveal your belly. You complied, though your confusion deepened. "This is called a 'hot water bottle,’ a recent invention. Gerard suggested I try one to ease some discomfort from my... condition. It doesn't help me much, but it might work for you."

"How does it work?" you asked, flinching slightly as the bottle touched your skin.

"It's made of rubber and filled with hot water to transfer heat efficiently," he explained, helping you pull your shirt back down over the bottle to keep it pressed against your skin. "Since you mentioned the warm water helped, I thought this might be worth trying."

"So it's like a hot water pig, but made of rubber instead of stoneware and more convenient?" you hummed thoughtfully, resting your hands over the bottle for an extra layer of added security.

“Precisely,” he nodded.

As the warmth from the hot water bottle gradually permeated the blankets, you found it soothing but not quite potent enough to fully alleviate your discomfort. The heat offered a welcome respite, yet you yearned for more intense relief from the persistent ache.

"It does take the edge off the pain," you admitted, biting your lip pensively, "but would it be possible to remove the blanket? I think more intense heat might help even more."

"Absolutely not," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Direct contact with the bottle could result in burns. The blanket stays."

After a moment's consideration, you decided that the risk of burns did indeed outweigh the potential relief from your cramps—at least for now. You nodded, opting to keep the blanket wrapped around the water bottle, appreciating its safer warmth.

A sense of contentment washed over you as you marvelled at how this day, which had started so unexpectedly, had blossomed into something truly special.

You were with the love of your life, freshly bathed and dressed in his clothes, tucked into a clean bed with a soothing hot water bottle warming your skin and fighting against what usually was traumatic levels of pain. Tears welled in your eyes as pure bliss coursed through your veins, overwhelming you before you could even process the feeling.

As the first tear rolled down your cheek, Erik instinctively sprang into action. You couldn't help but laugh through your cascading tears, raising your hands to signal him to relax. Though hesitant, he wordlessly complied with your wishes.

"I'm okay," you sniffled, your words punctuated by small sobs. "I don't know why I'm crying. I'm just so... happy. I think I'm really, truly happy."

His eyes widened behind the mask, a mixture of surprise and awe flashing across the few of his visible features. Unable to resist, you reached up, gently grasping his hand and guiding him to lay beside you on the bed. He remained motionless, seemingly caught between disbelief and anticipation. Your heart racing, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a tender, affectionate kiss that conveyed all the emotions words couldn't quite express.

Wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your night shirt, you clutched the water bottle tighter and rolled onto your side. You nestled into his chest, his arm instinctively wrapping around you as you melded into his trembling form. Yearning for closeness, you draped your leg over his hips, your body seeking every possible point of contact.

"But—" He stammered, shaking his head in disbelief. Bewilderment dripped from his voice as he continued, "You haven't eaten all day. Surely, I should prepare something for you—"

"No," you replied, your tone firm yet affectionate.

"You must-"

"Nuh-uh," you teased.

"Really I should-"

"Shh." You leaned closer, your faces mere inches apart as you rested an arm over his waist. He tensed at the contact, despite the familiar porcelain barrier between you. "Just stay with me like this for a little while, please? Afterward, you can make all the cold meat sandwiches your heart desires."

"You told me you liked those," he grumbled in playful accusation.

A soft laugh escaped your lips as your eyes shimmered with unbridled affection. If Erik were to meet your gaze, all he'd be able to see was the pure, unadulterated euphoria radiating from your smile.

"I do," you agreed with a nod, “but only because you make them with so much love."

"So, you don't?"

You hummed thoughtfully, tilting your head back as if deeply pondering the culinary merits of cold meat sandwiches. "They're good, but they could use a little something extra," you mused. "Maybe some cucumber for crunch? Or a slice of mozzarella for creaminess?"

He scoffed in mock offence, "That completely distracts from the flavour of the meat."

"Flavour?"

"I'm glad you agree."

You pursed your lips before releasing a long, deliberate sigh. Your eyes flicked from his face to the clock. The time read 9:45 PM, yet an unwelcome wakefulness clung to you—undoubtedly a lingering consequence of your excessive eleven-hour nap.

"I’ve completely ruined my sleep schedule, haven’t I?" you mumbled. "It’s late in the evening, and I’m nowhere near tired.”

Erik paused thoughtfully before replying, "I can make you something to aid with sleep, if you'd like."

"What do you have in mind?" you asked, curiosity evident in your tone.

He thought over the matter before deciding.

"I have some dried valerian root that I can steep into a tea," he offered. "I've tried it on rare occasions. It's quite bitter, but I can add some chamomile to sweeten the taste."

"You're so lovely," you giggled, unaware of how he tensed at the compliment. "So kind and thoughtful—you call me an angel, but I think the real angel here is you. My Angel."

He paused, visibly stunned by your words.

His voice was soft and hesitant as he asked, "you believe that?"

You nodded, a soft hum of agreement escaping your lips. "I do," you said sweetly, your voice brimming with unwavering certainty.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath, seemingly trying to steady his racing heartbeat. His hold tightened around you, drawing you even closer. A radiant smile spread across your face.

"So," he stammered, clearly flustered by the compliment, "is that a yes to the tea?"

"I'd love some tea," you nodded eagerly. "But could you stay with me for ten more minutes first?"

He nodded, and you both settled into a comfortable silence—a respite he seemed to appreciate. Your fingers traced idle patterns on his palm, while his gently wove through your hair.

Ten minutes passed in this tranquil state, and you quickly realised that maybe the tea was unnecessary after all. Every thirty seconds or so, you found yourself stifling an uncontrollable yawn—a gesture you noticed Erik unconsciously mirroring.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the combined warmth of his body and the water bottle proving irresistible. You drifted toward sleep at least five times, always jolting awake at the last moment before you fully succumbed. Despite your drowsiness, you yearned to savour this moment just a little longer.

"Do you still want that tea?" Erik asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

You shook your head and nestled closer to his chest. "I'm fine now," you murmured contentedly.

"Good," he replied, his hand gently smoothing down your flyaway hairs. He seemed on the verge of saying more, but fatigue clouded his thoughts, and he let the moment pass.

He yawned once more, momentarily pulling away from you. You whined in protest, but he shushed you as he reached behind his head to untie his mask. Attempting to place it carefully on the bedside table, he misjudged the distance, and it slipped towards the floor.

The mask remained intact, though the sound it emitted was sharp enough to make you flinch. To your astonishment, Erik seemed unconcerned by the possible harm. Instead, he calmly readjusted your position so you were laying as before, then closed his eyes. A surge of emotion swelled in your chest.

Erik had grown comfortable with you seeing him without his mask, though he typically preferred to keep it on unless taken by surprise or during the quiet hours of the night when you were both sleeping. His current indifference toward the mask could mean one of two things: either he was too exhausted to notice its near demise, or he had become so deeply at ease with you that he no longer felt the need to shield himself behind it.

Erik possessed other masks, but they could never replace his favourite. His primary one was treated with the utmost reverence, as fragile and irreplaceable as a feather. It was the one he felt most secure in and allowed him the most normalcy, therefore it was always his first choice regardless of other options. Yet now, without hesitation or concern, he had allowed it to fall away, as though its significance had vanished entirely, as if the bond between you had rendered it unnecessary.

You felt the urge to cry again, but not wanting to disturb his sleep, you suppressed your tears as you contemplated the significance of this moment for both of you.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. Though it could be mistaken for tiredness, the tremor in your words betrayed your overwhelming desire to burst into tears of joy.

After a moment, one bleary eye opened as he turned to face you. His lips curved into a genuine smile as he whispered, "I love you too."

'hot water pigs' are what people used to call hot water bottles, or at least their versions of them, just so you know lol. writing these fics always requires so much research into old terms and the existence of things that are now regular everyday items, it's kind of crazy. like trying to figure out how much was known about periods in the late 1800s early 1900s was a challenge.

[skeletonh0e]

Darling, just start the Chase

Description: You unfortunately go into heat, dealing with that alone is unpleasant but your pheromones trigger each of their own respective heats. Four of the most deadly men in the multi verse are desperate to compete for the right of mate, can you escape or will the boys kill each other trying to get to you? A/N: Extremely self indulgent that's been rumbling around in my brain for a bit, had to write it out. There will be multiple parts, rest assured. Fem Reader with AFAB anatomy, x Killer Sans, Horror Sans, Nightmare Sans & Dust Sans. Everything is consensual (though not safe or sane), but it's a heat fic with the typical elements of dub con/cnc, lost of control, possessive behavior, etc. Reader is a monster, species is vague, kinda went the route of them having an implied romance with all four Sanses going on already but it kind of left all up to interpretation regarding the exact history with each Sans. I did my best to spell check and beta read but it's probably still messy, sworry

MINORS DNI

You're up early, really early. The sun hadn't even properly risen yet, your body felt flush and the moment you went to simply sit up, your nearly groaned as something extremely sensitive coursed through your sex. It didn't quite click yet, you've woke up horny before but as you got onto your feet properly you feel the sheer dampness in between your legs.

Then you remembered the time of month and the year.

Fuck.

This was not the ideal time for this, far from it, your heat cycle was never a pleasant time. You always rode it out alone for better or worse, the thing about it was that once you really got going on it you just couldn't stop. And it tended to go on for a week at best, only cutting short if you managed to get yourself properly knocked up within a few days. Having a kid was one thing but going deep into a craze of non stop week sounded nice at first but it'd leave you tired after the fact as well as throw all current ones out the window.

That couldn't happen you had plans, that's not even mentioning you promised to meet with Nightmares Crew, fuck, those stupid toxic assholes

You nearly whine, flashes of their faces coursing through you and images of being pinned underneath him. Fuck, your insides clench and your can't help but wonder how fucking ruined your underwear is. Your pussy is so fucking ready for this, that instictinual part to be claimed, fucked, breed good and proper. You cringe a bit, it's hard to tell how much that idea naturally appeals to you and how much of it is hormones going crazy. It's probably just both when you get down to it.

No, you cannot see any of them like this. That's not even mentioning how they might react to this news, you could trust Nightmare and Axe to be mature, maybe Dust, but Killer? You're already dreading the thought.

You'll make up some excuse, for now...? You gotta take care of this, wasn't there some medicine that helped with the severity of these? You should get on looking into that. Quickly, your force your feet to your closet, picking out....whatever. It was a pretty boring set of clothes, but it gave you some much needed layers to your sensitive body. More skin covered the better.

The moment you have your bedroom though, there's someone in the hallway. Someone you just decided you were going to try to avoid right now,

"Dust...." you breathe out in clear surprise.

He's leaning against the wall, face completely covered though from his posture it didn't seem like he was looking at anything in particular, he doesn't respond at first but slowly turns to look at you, "good mornin' sleeping beauty"

"I think I'm the one that should be saying that to you....you've been up longer," not that you minded too much, though him visiting was one thing him doing so while you were asleep? That was new, "Do you...uh, need something?"

"boss ordered me and the others to escort you today somethin' happened and he wants look outs on all our resources" he's not telling you everything.

You frown trying to put the pieces together....something was concerning enough for Nightmare to send all his goons to look after you? You'll need to get onto that but, "Where are the others?" you ask, trying once again to ignore your clit throbbing at the idea of the other two here

"on their way here soon I imagine I got here early," he stops leaning on the nearby wall, taking a step closer to you, "seems like a good thing I did"

There was something....strange in how he was looking at you, a brief flash of his multi colored eyes and you felt like prey under the gaze of a far large more dangerous animal, it triggers your instincts to run away but you resist. "Guessin' there's no point in telling ole' Mare that I'm fine for today?"

"cut the shit," his tone was unusually blunt, "I can smell that"

You frown again, about to ask him to elaborate but he motions to your hips, taking another step closer and you take a step back.

"don't think boss knows, would have come to get you himself otherwise, but i'm glad for it I get you all to myself," he presses forward and you're slowly being backed up before you know it.

Your mind is racing, arousal surging through you as you're both scared as hell yet impossibly aroused by the scene unfolding before you. He's already figured out you're in heat? You wanted to hope you had been at least a little subtle but your back is pushed against the wall and loud thuds ring out against both sides of your head. His hands tightly planted on both sides of you as you're face to face with him.

You can even make out a decent chunk of his face from his hood, that's saying something.

"Back off," you hiss out, but he doesn't even falter.

"do you actually want me to?"

You don't respond back instantly, your expression clearly mirroring the flurry of conflicted emotions. You know you want this, need this, but you also know once this starts it's not going to stop. That's not even accounting for other factors like how you liked Dust but you've never gone as far as to sleep with him or even any of them before.

Your lack of immediate response was confirmation enough, as his hands are then placed on your shoulders, an alarming amount of force added just to keep you pinned and in place. Another factor that was added to this already intense situation getting tenser but his forcefulness turned you on even more. You can call it you being a freak or pure instinct but it's there

"you like making us work for it? you like knowing your struggling gets us off?" his voice is nearly a growl, the sound rendering your mind blank enough you don't think about what the implications of 'us' means here, "i'm not much better honestly keeping you here, holding you down, not lettin' you escape, it does something for me"

You're starting to question where all this aggression is coming from, not that Dust was ever gentle in the sense but less violent than Axe or Killer. However his hips grind against your own and you can feel how fucking hard he is through both of your clothes. Heat shoots through your core, further empathized as you manage to fully smell him.

He's in heat too.

You're still tightly pinned underneath him, Dust goes to lean down to bite your jugular, it wasn't extremely painful but it was firm, definitely felt, definitely leaving a mark and the mewl you make in response to it is nearly embarrassing as his hands go to grope at your body, hurtedly burying themselves underneath the several layers of clothes.

How can he be in heat? How? There ain't no way you two both happened to have perfectly synched cycles unless you were truly unfortunately unlucky, did...did you do this to him? Fuck, does it even matter? His smell is making you further messy and needy and your smell is fueling his growing aggression, it's so fucking tantalizing

"Dust," you grasp out, his hips continuing to rut against yours desperate for some frition.

Fuck, what would the others say? They were coming soon weren't they? Is this how it's going to be? The other two walking in on each other dry dumping like horny teenagers trying to hide from their respective parents?

He certainly doesn't seem to care, if you probably asked he'd probably like the idea of fucking you right in front of them. Once again it's hard to tell where these are natural desires you're both having or just getting pushed on by the pheromone filled heat.

"god fucking damn," clearly getting frustrated with all the clothes in-between you two, his hands curl into tight balls clutching your attire clearly about to rip the fabric off you, "inside. i need inside you now."

Was this happening? He was going to rip off your clothes then mate you here probably in front of his other coworkers once they arrive? And how bad was it that at this rate you'd happily let him? Even if resisting would have encouraged him more.

"Dus-" you were going to rasp out his name again, parts of your shirt already torn and the chill of the room hits you, but the scene is quickly stopped as in a blur of red and black, Dust was kicked off you.

Literally. Kicked. And flung across the room.

"You fucking slut," Killer arrived, clearly less than amused by the sight before you. His annoyance at Dust, not you, "You know damn well boss has a soft spot for this bitch, if he finds out you were trying to put your dick in her, he'd be pissed as all hell, especially if I let you."

Dust didn't respond as he got back onto his feet, glaring daggers at the other. Killer already dawning his knife as if expecting a fight already. "And if I'm getting his trouble it's because I put my dick in her, capiche?"

"fuck off" was the only reply that Dust barked back with,

Killer actually looked disappointed, "C'mon your comebacks are usually better than that, don't tell me that-" he froze, smelling something and that's when he turned to look at you. Something...changing in his expression, one that made your stomach twist.

Okay, clearly you and Dust weren't the only one being affected by your heat. Is this going to be the case with Axe too? Nightmare even? That odd mix of both fear and arousal shot through you again, unfortunately Dust and Killer took note of this.

"Oh ho, maybe I was wrong, does Boss know she's all like this?" he took a step forward, you were worried you were about to be pinned for a second time but Dust immediately stands in his way, the two glare at each other but you take the opportunity to shuffle to the other side of the room to gain some much needed distance.

Your pussy was going crazy with want, there were now two other monsters both in heat here and the desperation of your state was starting to show. Mentally you were cursing yourself, at this rate you're starting to think you might as well give up on your plans for the week, the universe was clearly conspiring against you in the best worst way possible.

"I see what's going on here, you were trying to keep her all to yourself? If Boss sent us all to take care of her, we should share shouldn't we?" Killer hummed, though honestly it didn't seem like he actually believed Nightmare sent them out for this reason alone. But it's clear that he wasn't willing to back down and let Dust have you either.

Your eyes scanned the area, you knew your own home like the back of your hand though you weren't aware of how familiar the boys were with your universe in particular. How far could you actually get?

The hooded skeleton let out a huff, "you won't share, I won't share, Axe ain't gonna fucking share either, you know that."

"he's right on that part," the gruff voice startled you as you turned around to see Axe looming off in the shadows, he's....salivating....okay the heat is affecting him too. Fuck, you have not one not two but three lust filled unhinged skeletons in your house, your thighs desperately clenched together.

God dammit....

"H-hey guys, don't I get a say in this?" your voice comes out a bit strained, "I don't want to be with any of you."

That's a lie, it's a bold face lie, the boys can all smell how it's a lie. But you don't want to just give in to it, not yet at least.

"you wouldn't be smellin' that good if that was really the case," Axe informed, his gaze inherently predatory as the others also stalked forward.

"I think she just wants us to chase her? Don't you? She loves being a tease after all," Killer laughed, "Or maybe she wants to see which one of us can successfully hunt her down."

"you both seem to be forgetting that I got here first," Dust added on.

"This isn't dibs, you don't win the game by being first," Killer chuckled, "It's a matter of who gets to her and who keeps her, she's already planning to run away. And when she runs from you she'll run right into my arms."

What is even happening? God, things are escalating, how long can you outrun any of them? They all have shortcuts, maybe Axe uses them far less than the other two but they still have them and how far can you get from three dangerous killers. You feel like easy prey in a growing impossible situation. Maybe you should just summon Nightmare to have him call off his lackies, but that's assuming he wouldn't be affected by his heat.

But honestly even if he wasn't there's no guarantee he might insert himself as a player in this game, despite what he claims he could be just as immature and petty as his underlings.

"You all couldn't even manage to catch me if you tried," you hissed out, playing along for now. If you actually did manage to escape them, then good, you could continue the rest of this week out mostly according to plan. If not well....it took everything in your will power to stop your legs from trembling.

Worst ways to spend a week you guessed.

"so it is a challenge then," Axe hummed, an sinister sounding chuckle erupting from him, "you might wanna be careful with those words, unlike these two i actually have experience tracking down prey and with that scent you won't get far"

"You underestimate me," Killer cooed, Dust pointedly saying nothing. "Let's be a little fair to her, hows about a five...maybe ten minute head start?"

Neither of them interjected, guessed that was agreed upon. Only ten minutes? How much ground could you cover in that time? Does it matter when it doesn't even seem like they're willing to negotiate on that?

"Clock starts now rabbit," Killer informed, pointing to his non-existent watch.

You took a deep breath, this was definitely happening. "Catch me if you can, boys." was the only response you could properly huff out, before immediately turning to book it out the back door. Not before hearing Killer smugly shout out,

"Nine minutes left!"

Silence lingered in the room among the three Sans as they allowed you to at least gain some ground, Dust being the one to break it with a realization.

"boss isn't gonna be happy about this," the one thing Killer was right about.

"What? You gonna snitch?" Killer asked, his tone making it clear that he was against the very idea of this getting back to their boss in any form. "If he finds out, worst case scenario we're all punished for it....best case scenario he joins in on our game."

"you mean he'll cheat," Axe informed tactfully, "already don't trust you on that front,"

"What?" Killer huffed, clearly offended, "I would never!"

"you would," Dust snarled, "so here's the deal, any of us start playing unfairly then we call boss, got it?"

Killer and Axe shared a look, no one wanted Nightmare involved. They were all under his thumb in some form or another and his "soft spot" for you was fairly well known at this point, he'd just steal you away before any of them could come close.

Silently they just both nodded.

"how much time does she have left?" Axe asked, eyes scanning to the door you left open in your haste.

Killer's smirk widened, "Five minutes."

[ameidala]

Monster Among Men

You pray for salvation—only to awaken something far darker. Now, as his love turns to obsession and the shadows whisper your name, you must ask yourself, which fate is worse?

tags: smutty, rated 18+ extreme non-consensual themes, dark!thomas hutter, manipulation, breeding kink, possessive thomas, nosferatu (2024)

word count: 7,700+

this was self indulgent. i love this man so much and there was an extreme drought in fics about him! i might consider writing one or a few more fics if u guys are up for sending dark thomas requests! :)

Fate had a strange way of revealing itself—not in grand gestures, but in the quiet offer of a warm hand on a rain-swept night. It was not the storm that chilled you then, but the thought of how easily a single moment could change the course of a life. He was, in every sense, the love of your life, and you could swear that love had taken root the very moment your eyes first met. It had been a night of relentless storm, the heavens split open with rain, and you, shivering beneath the narrow shelter of an alley’s eaves, had all but resigned yourself to the cold.

Then came him. A man of uncommon kindness, he had not hesitated—upon seeing your drenched and trembling form—to offer you refuge. With a voice steady yet gentle, he beckoned you inside, the flickering lantern in his hand casting golden light against the darkness. His was a heart unburdened by hesitation, unclouded by selfishness. And in that moment, as the thunder roared beyond the walls that now sheltered you both, you knew your fate had been sealed… or so you thought.

He had not only offered shelter and a warm bed, but also a drink that thawed the chill of your bones and a change of clothes to rid you of the soaked, clinging fabric. His kindness extended beyond what you’d expected from a stranger. His voice, like a balm, whispered, “You seem to have lost your way in the rain, Madam. Might I offer my assistance to see you safely home come morning?”

From that moment on, you found yourself drawn to the man in ways that you couldn’t really describe why. It wasn’t just his kindness or the warmth of his voice. There was a connection between it that felt like it was reaching deeper, as though his presence had quietly begun to fill the spaces you hadn’t realized were empty.

Yet, as the first light of dawn crept through the window, the reality of the morning settled upon you. The storm had passed, and with it, the fleeting shelter of the night. It was time to return home.

But before you could gather your things, Thomas greeted you once more with a soft, warm smile. His voice was gentle, almost a whisper, as he spoke, "Would you care for something to eat before you head out?"

You glanced down at the modest table a few meters from you, where there prepared some simple provisions from the man. It included bread, fresh fruit, and a pot of warm tea—nothing extravagant, but enough to make you grateful. "I’m sorry it’s nothing grand," he continued, his eyes meeting yours with a glint of sincerity, "but I couldn’t bear the thought of a beautiful woman leaving without something to sustain her."

His words, though simple, sent a flush to your cheeks, his compliment lingering in the quiet space between you.

"I...I also failed to introduce myself properly," he added with a slight chuckle, as if embarrassed by his own forgetfulness. "Where are my manners? My name is Thomas…"

Thomas seemed to choke on his words at first, as if hesitant to let them pass his lips. But after a brief pause, he finally gathered his courage and, in a voice soft yet sincere, murmured, “Pray, allow me the courtesy of knowing your name?”

You gave a smile, appreciating the quiet efforts the young man had made throughout the night and up until this present moment. His kindness, gentle yet unwavering, spoke volumes—he surely knew how to treat a woman, or perhaps it was simply the way he treated every guest. You didn't want to assume anything more, as perhaps his mother had merely raised a kind gentleman who extended his hospitality to all. Still, his attentiveness lingered with you, and you couldn't help but feel a certain warmth in your chest as you spoke your name and offered your thanks.

The day wore on, and soon he helped you return home. He didn't offer to walk you the entire way, yet there was a certain gravity to his steps, as if he could sense the uncertainty in your heart. “I’ll accompany you to the edge of the town,”he’d said softly, his words almost as if he were offering more than a simple escort—he was providing the comfort of knowing someone cared. His pace was measured, slow, as though mindful of the rough cobblestones beneath your feet and the distance between the world you both occupied. When you reached the edge of town, the mist from the river lingering in the air, he nodded politely, his eyes briefly meeting yours with something that resembled understanding.

"Take care of yourself, Madam," he had said, his voice quiet yet sure, before retreating back into the shadows of the city.

But that would not be the last you would see of his presence.

From that moment on, you found yourself wandering the old, dim-lit streets more frequently, seeking out the winding alleys, the familiar corners where you might catch another glimpse of him. Perhaps it was the pull of hope, or maybe the loneliness that clung to you like the mist, but you found yourself more drawn to the quiet places of the city. You didn’t have much else—only the promise of those stolen moments with him.

It wasn’t a conscious decision to look for him, but more of an instinct, a silent hope that fate would nudge you together once more.

As the days passed, the rhythm of your life returned to its usual pace—slow, almost mechanical. The streets were familiar, yet they seemed to close in on you more each day, as if the world itself had grown narrower with time. There was a quiet repetition to your life now, but the emptiness lingered like the shadows in the alleys you walked. It was in these moments, when the bustling sounds of the town became distant, that your thoughts returned to the past—back to the orphanage, to those early years when you were sheltered from the harshness of the world.

No one ever had to tell you what to do there. You had learned to survive on your own, to blend into ordinary life, to anticipate needs and stay out of the way. You often felt as though you were one step behind, always catching up with the others who seemed so sure of themselves, their places in the world. There was a hint of envy in you towards those people.

The orphanage had been a place of warmth in its own way, but it was a transient warmth—flickering, never stable. It was home only because it had to be. Yet now, as you stand and are trying to face the reality of adulthood, the world outside has revealed itself to be much larger, and far less forgiving. The nonexistent structure became worse as no guiding hand to tell you where to go or what to do, it felt like your world came crashing down. You were left with only your own instincts, and sometimes, that felt like too little.

You had walked these streets aimlessly more than once, feeling the weight of uncertainty on your shoulders. It wasn’t a loneliness that could be fixed by simple companionship, but a deeper sense of being untethered. The world seemed vast, stretching endlessly, and yet you had no anchor.

But in the back of your mind, there was one place you kept returning to—the memory of that night with Thomas. His kindness had been a rare warmth, and in a world where you had learned to keep your distance from others or know that everything might be temporary, it had stirred something in you. Something you couldn’t quite explain.

You had never been one to believe in fate or signs, but there was something about him—his demure courteousness, his gentle ways of speaking—that made you wonder if perhaps, for the first time, someone truly saw you. Not as a stranger, visitor, or even as someone passing through, but as someone of their time worth knowing.

And so, each time you walked through the streets now, you found yourself hoping, almost unconsciously, for another encounter with him. Obviously this feeling was something new and so you didn’t know what it meant yet or how to navigate through these emotions, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this, whatever it was, was somehow different. And you were liking that feeling for whatever reason it why.

Quick visits to the market or running simple errands were no longer tiresome tasks that you didn’t care of. They had become opportunities—small, fleeting chances for fate to intervene, for your paths to cross again. You found yourself wandering the aisles with a quiet hope, praying, almost, that the universe might favor you today, that you might once again find yourself near him, the man with the striking blue eyes.

There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled at your heart whenever you thought of him. The brief exchange that night in the storm had been just that—a fleeting moment. Yet, it had sparked something deeper within you, something that hadn’t been satisfied by the mundane interactions of your daily life. You wanted to know more about him, beyond the kindness he had shown you that rainy night. What did he do with his days? What brought him joy? What dreams did he hold, if any?

Days may pass yet you found yourself, once again, between the swarming townspeople who didn’t pay attention to anything but their own business. Meanwhile for you, it involved pretending to be focused on your task while your mind wandered, imagining the sound of his voice, wondering if you would ever have the chance to speak with him again.

It was a prayer whispered into the busy world, a wish that echoed through the crowds.

And, perhaps, the heavens had finally listened.

A few meters away, you spotted him—Thomas, unmistakable in his simple attire, standing in conversation with a man you did not recognize. The stranger was dressed far more opulently than Thomas—his clothes rich, his appearance polished with a wealth that was immediately apparent. He had a mustache, and his curly hazel locks framed his face with a certain confidence that only money seemed to afford.

You stood there, heart thudding in your chest, waiting, hoping that Thomas would look your way. You didn’t want to be too forward, but a part of you yearned for him to notice you, to recognize you, to remember that night in the rain. You lingered longer than you should have, pretending to be absorbed in your shopping as your eyes never left him.

The minutes stretched on, time slowing as you stood in that sea of people. Your breath caught in your throat each time he turned his head in your direction, only to look past you. He seemed distracted by the conversation, the man beside him far more commanding of his attention. You felt an odd sensation of longing mixed with a pinch of frustration, as if your presence wasn’t enough to pull him away from the company of this wealthy stranger.

It was only when your patience had nearly run out that you saw his eyes finally catch yours. For a moment, he seemed baffled upon seeing the figure in front of him, as though he couldn’t quite place your identity but seemed familiar with it. His eyebrows furrowed.

It was as if he were trying to decide if you were someone he knew—or if, perhaps, you were simply another figure in the crowd. A small thrill of anticipation ran through you as his gaze lingered a moment longer, and then, almost imperceptibly, his lips parted, as though he were about to speak your name but only molded into a small smile.

As Thomas’s eyes met yours, a strange current seemed to pass between you. The moment stretched longer than it should have, the crowded market around you fading into the background. He remained, his expression thoughtful, but there was no mistaking the spark of recognition that flickered in his eyes.

The rich man beside him continued speaking, but his words seemed distant now, drowned out by the unspoken tension between you and Thomas. The stranger, sensing something in the air, took a step back, as if he had no place in this growing connection. It was as though the space around you and Thomas had become an intimate world of its own.

You didn’t move. You stood your ground, but a strange anticipation coiled inside you, as if you were waiting for something to unfold. And then, as if he could no longer stay apart from you, Thomas took deliberate steps forward, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, almost private, “I must admit, I did not expect to see you again so soon. But I find myself quite pleased by the coincidence.”

Your lips curved slightly, a smile playing at the edges of your mouth as you responded, “Strange how the world seems to align when least expected.”

Thomas’s smile grew, but it was more than just polite. You felt his expressions were genuine as though he might also have been thinking of you. “Indeed. And I must confess,” he said, his voice growing quieter, “I’ve found it difficult to focus on anything else since that night. It’s not every day that one meets someone with such... presence.”

Your breath caught at his words, and a warm flush spread through you. His words were straightforward and was unlike what you were accustomed to. But you couldn’t deny that you were even the least bit enjoying it as if the weight of his words matched the gravity of the connection you both started to share.

For a moment, there was a pause between you two as your eyes simply looked at each other. His eyes tracing your face as if committing every detail to memory. His hands awkward at his sides as though he were gathering the courage to say something more.

“I’m not one for... grand gestures,” he continued, his tone still warm but now with a hint of earnestness, “but I would be honored, if you would allow me, to take you to a place where the noise of the world does not drown out the simplicity of two people’s conversation.”

The invitation hung in the air between you, his words heavy with meaning. He was no longer just offering you a dinner; he was offering you an escape—an invitation into a quieter, more intimate world, one where only the two of you existed for a while.

“You needn’t say yes right away,” he added softly, almost as an afterthought, as though he didn’t want to pressure you.

His sincerity was undeniable and charming. You could see it in the way he held himself, how his posture seemed to lean toward you, as though everything in him was drawn to you without hesitation.

You were no longer just an image to him—he was seeing you in this moment, this very real moment, and the warmth between you was undeniable.

And so, the days passed in a delicate dance of stolen moments and whispered words, the connection between you deepening with each encounter. It seemed as though fate had woven a perfect tapestry for the two of you—one of shared glances, tender conversations, and the slow, inevitable pull toward each other. The world outside felt distant, irrelevant, as you found comfort in his presence.

You could almost believe that the rest was history—that the love you had found was destined, unshakeable, eternal. But reality has a way of revealing itself when least expected. Just as the two of you neared the edge of something more—a promise of forever—the world outside your little bubble began to break through, and the weight of the unspoken truths could no longer be ignored.

It was then that you understood—love, no matter how deeply it had taken root, was never quite as simple as it seemed.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆｡ﾟ☆: ♱*.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The candlelight swayed as though it, too, felt the weight of the silence. The air in the room was thick with unspoken thoughts, the walls seeming to feel like they are closing or locking you in with every passing second. It was a silence that made your body quiver while your heart had thumped faster in your chest. The silence between you two that signaled something far darker than mere disagreement.

The evening in the town always seemed long, but tonight it felt dragged-out as with it, the shadows had deepened into dark pools at the corners of the room. The once tender warmth between you and Thomas had begun to feel like something colder, more dangerous. There was no longer the soft caress of his presence—no longer the calm of his hand reaching out to yours. The man standing before you now was a stranger, a creature of need, of desire, his once-gentle tone now edged with impatience.

“You speak of time,” Thomas said, his voice low, measured—almost like a growl. “You think that choice is a luxury, don’t you? As if we can buy or have all the time in the world. But time… time is fleeting. And you squander it, as if it will wait for us.” His gaze narrowed, his lips curling in a way that sent a chill down your spine.

You could feel the sting through his words that fell out of his mouth, all the while darkness from outside inching over more into the room like a fog. He took a step toward you, slow, deliberate, as though the very air was thick with the tension between you. The once warm, kind man was slipping away, replaced by something more urgent, something almost desperate.

“Why do you fear it so?” His words were almost a whisper now, though they hit you harder than any shout.

“Why do you fear the future we could have? The family we could build? Why do you fear something so... so natural?” He moved another step closer, his gaze locking with yours, unyielding, unblinking. “Is it the money that binds you? The lack of it, the chains of our circumstances? Or is it that you fear me? Fear what I could become? What we could become?”

You recoiled, not from him, but from the weight of his questions. You had known this moment would come. You had known it was inevitable—there could be no peace between two souls that might be different, so driven by separate desires.

“I fear nothing of you, Thomas,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I fear us. I fear the madness of rushing into things before the time is right. I fear bringing a child into a world we can’t even provide for. What would we offer them?” Your words trembled in the air, hanging between you like fragile glass. “What will we give them when we have so little?”

He moved again, his presence now engulfing you, suffocating the space between you. “We have everything,” he spat, his voice now sharper, more biting.

He adds, “We have the strength to build. The love to nurture. I have the strength to provide. To protect. And yet you look at me as though I were weak—as though my love, my intentions, are not enough for you. You will wait forever for the perfect moment. But there is no perfect moment. There is only now.”

He was close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, or that it was maybe the tension between the two of you that was obviously seen also in his posture with raw hunger in his eyes. “I will not wait,” he said, his words like a command. “I will not stand idle while time slips through my fingers. I will not be a man who regrets. You will be mine, and we will have a future. Even if I must drag you there.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, not from love but from a deep, creeping fear that now gripped you. You had not expected this side of him. Not like this.

“Thomas, this is madness,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of his presence. “We are not ready. Do you not see how foolish it is? How dangerous? I—”

“Dangerous?” His laugh was grating and dark. It was not a laugh based on amusement, but of something more terrible, something lowly foreshadowing like an omen. “You call love dangerous? You call life dangerous? I am offering you everything, and you call it madness? You wish to deny it all? You wish to deny me?”

He stepped closer again, until there was barely any space between you, his breath warm on your skin, the weight of his presence unbearable.

“You will have a child, and you will have it now or anytime soon… with me. I will not be refused,” he hissed, his tone low and chilling. “You will see, in time, how right I am. You will understand.”

A shudder ran all over and down to your body, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his words— more so threats— from the promise that lingered in the air between you. It was no longer a matter of love. It was a matter of control.

At first, rather the earliest of times that you were bonding with Thomas, seemed nothing wrong.

You convinced yourself that the house was warm, the bed was soft, and Thomas was well, you could say… attentive. Protective. Maybe too much so. But after everything, you tried to ease your thoughts and assure it by thinking it was just his way of caring. He provided for you, ensured you wanted for nothing.

You could say that it wasn’t really a prison if the doors were open, if the windows weren’t locked. It wasn’t control if he only wanted to keep you safe. Right?

But then, little by little things began to shift. The small, obvious details that eventually build up into something bigger than it was, or should be. Truthfully, time really has its way of revealing the truth.

The evident shift with his actions started with the way his grip lingered too long around your wrists. The fingers of his hand tightening just enough to remind you who had more of the strength between the two of you. Who had more power. The way his gaze, once filled with a captivating tone of longing, became something else—darker, heavier, like shackles you could not see but could feel tightening around your throat, wrists, and even ankles.

And don’t get started about the nights. The nights were the worst.

There were moments, just before sleep, when you felt his breath against your skin. But it was not with a hint of candied affection, rather it was like a reminder of possession. Moments when you awoke to find him watching you, unmoving. His eyes creepily gleaming under the dim candlelight of your shared room, his expression hard to decipher what might be filling in his thoughts.

And then came the threats amongst other nights. The first threat of the many more you didn’t know were coming.

Both of you were laying in bed. The quietness of the room contrasted to the endless thoughts that were spinning negatively around your mind. You tried to force yourself into complacency in the situation right now, acknowledging that making a scene wouldn’t help if you didn’t have any concrete plans. Yet as if Thomas had the power to read your thoughts, he simply interjects while you were close to zoning out,

"If you ever think about leaving this place… our place," he murmured. You could feel the mattress of the bed sink with his weight shifting, with him moving from laying on his back to the side facing where you slept. A finger of his trailed cooly and idly along your arm, "Just know… I would find you. No matter where you ran."

"Your existence belongs to me even if we may have not wed yet." The tone of his voice was soft past his lips but his words stung like venom. He says such phrases like he was cursing upon you,. "Where would you go? There is nothing for you beyond these walls—only cold, only hunger, only ruin."

"Why would you even say something like that, my love?" you asked, but in a tone that didn’t intend on fighting back. Your response leaned more towards trying to lighten up the atmosphere and tension. As if the very notion was absurd. As if your hands weren’t trembling nor as if you sucked in to bite down on the insides of your cheek to prevent your jaw from showing evident signs of agitation.

Thomas exhaled. The sound of it being like it was half amusement and half of whatever something else. But you assumed it was cold. His head tilted, eyes drinking you in with the slow indulgence of a predator toying with its prey.

"Do not insult me with such fragile deceptions, my dove,” he whispered. His fingers escalated past the skin of your arm and ghosted along your jaw, a caress at war with the iron beneath his touch. "I have seen the way your gaze lingers at the door, the windows. I know the weight of a mind that plots in secret. A bird does not glance at the sky unless it yearns to fly."

With the same hand toying around your skin, his thumb pressed down onto one side of your cheek while the other fingers on another side. It was just enough to remind you of his strength, that he could break you if he wished. Like a porcelain doll in the hands of something ancient and unmerciful.

"You think yourself devious, but your thoughts are glass to me. Every flicker of hesitation, every pause before you speak… I can see them all…"

It was honestly talented of him to have his words remain subtle, yet his intentions behind each word were far more sinister.. "And yet, you persist in this little charade."

"Tell me, dearest… do you truly believe you can outwit me?" Again, his voice, low and chilling that was filled with ridicule towards you.

You froze where you lay on your side of the bed. The weight of his words sank into your bones. Even with barely any hint of light in the dim room, his indistinct gaze bore into your skin, reading every flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. His fingers were lingering near your throat, playing with both your own body and thoughts almost as if he could feel your pulse rapidly increasing with each beat.

You could not tear your gaze away from his, though every part of you screamed to look away. This was a small yet defining moment where you almost and completely realized that he had you. And you knew it.

"No," you whispered, voice trembling, barely audible in the suffocating silence that stretched between you. The words felt foreign on your tongue, soaked with fear and submission. "I... I would never think or do such a thing like that."

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the chill of the air in the room seep past your body and straight into your very soul. There was no escape.

You tugged on the edge of the blankets tightly up and around your body as if to shield yourself from the fictitious dark energy that loomed in the room. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it felt restless. Your dreams for that night were wildly taken over by some haunting nightmares. It was filled with wickedness and gloom that flashed within the corners of your mind waiting to terrify you like a figure creeping from behind.

Eventually the sun had to finally rise again and you woke up to the sound of the faint ticking of the clock, along with the light peeking through the small cracks in the curtains. You forced yourself from the bed, body feeling heavy alongside your very soul unwilling to rise. You went through the motions. You prepared food. You cleaned. You tried to speak to Thomas as if nothing had changed, as if his cruel words hadn’t dug into your mind and left their mark there, invisible to anyone but you.

You were still trapped within these walls. Wrapped around his grasp. And you wore a mask portraying an illusion of nonchalance, just to survive another day. But it honestly didn’t fool anyone other than yourself

By the time the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, a crushing weight settled upon your chest. Thomas was preparing to leave, his work for tonight had him assigned for the night shift. His presence began to fade from the house, but your heart ached with the hollowness of your own captivity.

Once he had gone, you found yourself retreating into the room that you shared with him, the one where you just had an argument from the night before. You closed the door behind to seal yourself away from the world. The emptiness echoed through the walls as the silence deafening, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness inside of you. It felt like your insides had twisted and left a bad feeling in your gut, a constant reminder that you were apparently being locked in a cage and could not escape.

Your body fell to your knees by the side of the bed. Your hands clutched the edge of the sheets, the fabric crumpled under your fist. Your breath hitched as you fought a sob clawing its way from your throat. You held it back for a moment, just long enough to whisper, as if there were anyone left to hear.

You intertwined both of your hands together, forming a prayer, “Please.”

Your voice started to tear down as it was filled with desperation. “Please, hear my plea. I can’t take this anymore. Save me… Please, save me…”

But it was impossible to expect something while knowing that your cries will be thrown into nothingness, into the void. Consequently, you weren’t entirely aware of the dangers that you were inviting, especially at these times of the night, with whatever wandering spirit there was. There was a faint whisper, like a cold breeze passing through. Something ancient and hungry seemed to respond to your plea, its presence barely noticeable at first, but growing.

Eventually you continued to weep harder, without a care that no one was there for you at your side to comfort you. They were for something else entirely—something that would come to claim you, whether you realized it or not. You had unwittingly opened a door that should have remained sealed.

But for now everything that centered around you was your utter desperation. You felt as if your chest was about to burst under the heavy weight of your own torment. It felt as though the world had sloped and you were falling into it, unable to grasp anything solid, not even your own faith. As you knelt there, hands trembling, your voice still calling out for help, the very walls around you seemed to pulse with something far darker—something that could never save you, only draw you further into the shadows.

You wouldn’t know it then, but this was the moment that would begin your unraveling. And as your tears fell.

The call had been answered. But not by the heavens you were so despairingly pleading to. Not by anything you could have ever imagined.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆｡ﾟ☆: ♱*.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The darkness of the sky eventually became your only refuge

During the daylight, you tried to play the part of being the obedient wife. Merely drifting through the halls of the house that you didn’t feel you belong in anymore. Then you carried out the necessary duties as if there were no invisible shackles forcing you in.

But when nightfall came, you looked forward to your usual routine of salvation. When the house and the bedroom was filled with nothingness and your lover, Thomas, lay sleeping, you would slip from out and under the covers. Your feet fell flat and bare against the cold wooden floor first, and then you kneel before the window which was your only source of dim lighting. The moonlight shines through it. It became a ritual. A sacred act of defiance wrapped in the guise of prayer.

Your voice would waver, no more than something softer than a whisper. “Please…”

Between other nights, it was nothing more than that plea. It consisted of a single word that got lost within the beauty of the gloomy moonlight. But other nights, you weep to the heavens as if confident that someone, or something, might take pity on you. The more you prayed, the more fervent you became.

Of course to your foolishness, you never noticed the way the air in the room thickened. How the shadows crept deeper in the corners. You never noticed the way the walls enclosed further, as if it was breathing, as if something was listening. Something patient, something waiting.

And you never noticed the way a pair of blue eyes began to watch you. Thomas began to watch you.

At first, he said nothing. He would wake to find you on your knees, speaking softly to the heavens, and merely observe from the bed, his eyes unreadable in the dim candlelight. He was always watching, always waiting.

Then eventually one night, the bed was cold when you returned. The side of his bed was as empty as when you left yours.

A sharp chill ran down your spine. The room felt too wrong. Too silent, too still. Then a whisper, a shift in the atmosphere.

“You pray so sweetly, little one.”

Your breath caught. You turned, slowly, to find him standing in the doorway, barely visible in the darkness.

His gaze was unreadable, still dressed in the clothes he used for sleeping. There was something in the way he stood. Something rigid, something restrained and it all felt too terrible, leaving a wrench in your gut.

"Tell me,” he murmured, stepping closer, “who is it you call for so desperately?"

Your lips parted instinctively, but no words came out.

His fingers trailed along the edge of the table. Slow, deliberate, as he took another step forward. "Tell me, my dearest… What answer are you expecting? Who are you expecting?”

You swallowed hard. Your hands tremble at your sides as it falls on either side of your body. “I—”

"You do it every night.” His voice remained soft, yet there was an edge beneath it. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t hear?”

He was standing in front of you now near the edge of the bed. So close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. He lifted one hand, brushing away a strand of hair from your face. It should have been a loving gesture. It was not.

"You kneel there by the window,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, "and you beg. You plead. For what? For mercy?" His fingers trailed down your jaw, pausing at your throat. "For deliverance?"

You shuddered beneath his touch, your breath shaky. "I—"

He lets out a low simulated chuckle. "You pray to something that does not answer you, and yet you ignore the only thing that holds you in its hands."

His grip tightened. But terrifyingly it was not enough to hurt, not yet, but enough to remind you. Enough to make your heart thump faster and pulse around that area pound beneath his touch.

"Enough of this, my love,” he spat. “You insult me. After all I have given you."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips softly grazing against the skin of your ear. "If you run, I will find you. I will drag you back by your pretty little throat and remind you why you should never have tried."

Slowly he pulls back a little with a cruel smile, one that did not reach his eyes. The tone of his voice remains the same, "You could throw yourself into the ocean, and I would still retrieve you from its depths. You could beg the wind to carry you far away, and I would tear it apart with my bare hands."

Your knees nearly quivered.

"I would burn this house to the ground before I let you walk away. You, and everything in it…” Again, his fingers found a way and tightened ever so slightly around your throat, not enough to choke, but enough to remind you of his strength, his control.

His eyes filled with darkness were unfathomable. He held you captive, drinking in the flickers of fear you could not hide. He tilted his head, studying you with a cruel, measured patience, as if savoring the weight of his next words before letting them fall like a death knell.

"...If I can’t have you, then no one will. Not even the earth to bury you in."

There was a pause that stretched between the two of you. The silence weaved with it had suffocated you aside from the weight of his hands. Then, Thomas sighed with a slow, measured breath. One that sent an unspoken warning through the stale air. His grip on you slackened, just slightly enough for you to breathe again. But you knew better than to think it was mercy.

“You still don’t understand it. Why don’t you?” His voice was quieter. The sharp edge of rage tempered into something even worse—certainty. “I don’t make threats, dove. I tell you what is.”

His hands were rough as they cupped your face. The calloused palms scraped against your skin and the way he held you was almost… gentle. Like a man admiring something fragile. Something he had no intention of breaking—not yet.

“You’re mine,” he said, as if the words alone could bind you in chains. “You always have been. And soon, there won’t be any question left of it.”

The pit in your stomach churned violently. The dread crawling up your throat like bile that you want to vomit out. You knew what was coming before he even spoke of it. He had already spoken about it before. But now… now it wasn’t just a suggestion.

His thumbs traced along your cheekbones, down to your lips, pressing there for a moment before he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin.

"You will carry my child," he murmured in between kisses. His voice as sure as the walls around you, as unyielding as the locked door you knew you had no key for. He pulls back with a breath, "And then, maybe… maybe you’ll finally stop pretending there’s a way out of this."

Your breath hitched as one of his hands drifted lower past your nightgown. It stops to settle over your stomach. The tips of his fingers pressed there, not cruelly, not harshly, but with intent. Possessive. As if there already was life he spoke of existing beneath his the area of where he touched.

"There will be no running," he continued, his voice still calm. Terrifying in its conviction. "No more foolish prayers to a god who’s long since stopped listening. No more pretending you have a choice."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, to imbibe in the terror you couldn’t hide. And then he smiled, a small, almost satisfied smile before leaning forward and securing to pin you down to the bed. “Shh,” he hushes against your soft skin.

Your arms at first try to push him away, palms pushing against his chest. However, your size was considerably in contrast with Thomas. His figure was huge and you were no match with his mass alone. And so you tried to stretch out your arms in hopes of reaching for anything, any object that you could use in defense.

The weight in the bed shifts as Thomas tries to position himself better above you. So that he could pin you down better to his advantage. With one hand, he flawlessly gets to put weight around both your wrists, successfully further trapping you underneath him as he continues to indulge between your kisses.

“Don’t be so obstinate, my love,” he says while using his other hand to scrunch up a segment of your nightgown under his fist so that he could steadily lift it up while still forcing you down. “You will be alright. I’ll take good care of you. I- I won’t hurt you.”

An impatient hand of his slips under your clothing that makes you pull your knees back and try to use your feet to kick against him. But you are further pushed down onto the bed in opposition to you trying to get away.

You feel one of his fingers tug against the fabric underneath, slipping past in order to access the skin of your cunt. He brazenly toys with each layer, indulging and acknowledging the growing wetness that made the cheeks of your face flush in embarrassment. Embarrassed that your body was reacting this way so which for sure Thomas would impose on.

Your lower back slightly arches at his cold touch. The tips of his finger finding its way inside, slowly and teasingly which as essentially a torture. But he doesn’t continue all the way, which you would rather prefer as it could just end already.

No. He makes sure to do it in a devious way. He plays with you so gently, making sure to soak the entire face of your cunt covered in your own wetness. Dragging along the fingers that he used to push inside and outside, he glazes over your clit as well which sends shivers across your body.

As he continues to be curious about exploring your lower body, you try to push your thighs together with the goal to cease his attempt on making events escalate into something more. But you were unsuccessful and this measure that you did had honestly provoked Thomas into advancing more.

He continues. Your strength was no match against him. You couldn’t prevent him from doing what he wants. He was so certain of what he wanted.

“T-Thomas,” you trembled underneath his touch. You look up directly to meet his eyes, “Please, no.”

It was no use and you weren’t sure if the man feeds onto everything in contradiction of what you’re crying out. As you were too distracted from all the worries that you were giving out to him, you had not realized how fast he had undone your clothes and that your flesh was left nothing but your thin gown.

Your skin was bare and completely naked underneath, and it didn’t help that it was scrunched up to reveal and expose your entirety for Thomas. Your body shakes intensely due to the coldness of the night and the darkness that came from him. It was not the same man you fell in love with at first. How did such completely change over the course of time?

Or were you just foolish enough to not see it from the start?

“I’ll make love to you all night, my dove,” he moans as he tries to undo his own clothes. His grip loosened for a short moment but you were so shocked that it left you paralyzed. He continues, “Let me carve my claim into your very blood...”

"...You will swell with my child.” He says but for you it comes off more as an intimidation. “Proof of what we are, what you cannot run from. I will make certain of it. You will carry me within you, bound by flesh and fate alike."

While you try to deny everything and shake, enough to show contest but not enough to force him away, he continues. And within the next moment Thomas gets in between the insides of your thighs, positioning himself before sinking deep and slowly into you. He lets out a deep groan, almost animalistic.

Then he continues to thrust, heavily jerking his hips while your mind fights to stay focused on what you were really feeling. It wasn’t the first time you had shared a moment like this, like any other couple would. But this time was different. There was a strong desire and immorality behind the intent.

As he spreads your legs apart to welcome himself in between your cunt, Thomas leans his body further forward. He buries his face in the crook of your neck. His weight further trapping you down as he drinks in the pleasure of fucking you senseless. “Need not resist, my love,” he murmurs, "I-I won’t harm you. I’ll… tend to you, cherish you, as only I know how."

The moment was an act of deep intimacy, entangled deep within the darkness of the room and night. It screamed and whispered both salvation and ruin. The warmth of his words was suffocating with promises that should have been comforting but instead invoked fear.

The closeness was only something you have seen and gotten from Thomas. He was right for that as you have never known it from anywhere in the cruel world.

Eventually his movements became unkempt and his rhythm was nowhere near steady. He threw his head back, the skin of his face covered in sweat as his hand trembled and lost within the sheets of the bed. He lets out a louder groan, and you knew from then how your fate would be sealed.

The intimacy shared was both tether and binding, suffocating and consuming. You couldn’t help but think this was another level of closeness shared with Thomas, the closest your souls have ever been.

Then his hands hurriedly find a way to snake and pin you down from your stomach. He grips on your body firmly with each thrust he does deliberately. With each of his last few thrusts, his moans were loud as the pleasure mixed with greed while steadily filling your bare cunt with his own seed.

He breathes our raggedly, "I won’t hurt you, darling. But I will care for you, in ways that will bind you to me forever."

“I adore you.”

i discovered i love writing gothic settings. the dialogues were immaculate and i hope u guys enjoyed reading this as much as i did writing! fell free to send in prompts of dark thomas or leave feedback :)

[hoover1st]

A Likely Pair

Summary: Astarion has been desperately attempting to earn your affection. At the tiefling party, he uses your drunken inhibitions to his advantage. Not knowing you have your own share of trauma, his evening is derailed, likely for the better… Gender Neutral!Reader/Astarion Tags: Implied SA, Angst and Fluff, No Pronouns, Sexual implications but nothing happens, reader has sexual trauma, follows events of Act 1 Astarion Romance. Word Count: 2k AO3 | Masterlist

*A/N: This is extremely self-indulgent. Inspired by a beautiful fic from @tavs-tressym. I didn’t want to make this an OC, because I want my writing to be as accessible as possible, but it’s glaringly obvious that this is written from my own experiences… Again, TW for SA*

Your world has been turned upside down since the day that damned illithid parasite wormed its way into you, but more so since meeting the colorful band of companions who’ve chosen to join you.

Some will still deny it, but you’re magnetic. You don’t complain or nag, rather just handle situations without missing a beat, and your relentless optimism isn’t as suffocating as one might think.

You hate the term leader. You’re not above any of your companions, you just happen to do the talking and the problem-solving. 

The independence that was so valuable throughout your life is hard to unlearn, relying on your companions is still something you’re grappling with. But above all else, the quality that comes to mind when thinking of you is that damned charm. 

You were always teetering on the edge of plausible deniability. Your companions have started to expect it from you, most believing it’s just your personality. You’re attractive, decently kind, and effortlessly funny. 

Mix those qualities, and you get someone whose banter and compliments confound most. You can’t help it, it’s just who you are. It doesn’t help that you genuinely find each of your companions endearing.

There are these moments when you’re spending time with one of them, and they attempt to reciprocate. That’s where the delicate dance begins. Once it clicks in your head that they’re flirting or making implications, you’re gone. Leaving them in their bemusement.

There’s one companion who’s especially engaging. The banter is never dull, because he too has learned this dance. It’s not hard to admit Astarion is indisputably gorgeous. Your personalities are two sides of the same coin. The mischief is like a song, the harmonies balanced.

It’s plain to see that Astarion is pursuing you with the most vigor. You act coy, but you secretly enjoy it, even if it frustrates him to no end. He should have been able to seduce you by now. Knowing that if he could be the one to have you, he’d be protected.

Every time he thinks he’s got you, and his words are more than innuendo, you’ve cleverly removed yourself from the equation. You’re not sure why you do it. Astarion is attractive, and the flutter in your stomach can’t always be blamed on shitty cooking.

There’s something in you that stops anyone from getting too close, at least in that way. You don’t know why? You’ve healed, right? It’s been years since it happened. The touch of others doesn’t make your skin crawl like it used to.

Mother always said it’s natural to touch and kiss others. So why is it that every time they get close, you pull away?

Tonight, the people you so 'selflessly' saved in the Emerald Grove have insisted on throwing a party. Your flirtatious nature is only amplified by the increasing amount of alcohol in your system. You might have even met your match with the Arch-Druid Halsin, but no one is trying as hard as Astarion, and with your inhibitions lowered, you’re starting to consider his proposal.

Swiftly shooting down every other offer is second nature, but for whatever reason, you leave Astarion’s up in the air.

The party stretches on, and you’re not ready to turn in yet, a force compels you back to the rogue’s tent. A drink in hand, you drunkenly saunter back to Astarion, your body leading you like a moth to flames.

Astarion sees you cross back over to him, his gaze unabashed as his eyes rake over your form. This was it, he was finally going to seduce you. As a drunken grin stretches across your face, he feigns a pout, his voice a purr,

“I’m glad you’re back darling. I started to consider you’d found company elsewhere”

You grin and shake your head teasingly, “Most of the ‘company’ has turned in. If there’s someone I know to stay up late, it’s you Astarion dearest”

The wolfish grin you know all too well returns to his face, and he leans in closer, “Well darling if staying up is what you desire, my offer still stands~”

Normally this would be when you’d conveniently snake your way out of the conversation, but the alcohol, and the way he looks in this dim lighting, have you considering it.

Of course, Astarion notices this immediately, and his grin only widens. He knew alcohol would be the key to finally having you. Without letting you respond, he’s moving closer, his voice lowering,

“I’m gonna take that as a yes. Finish that drink of yours and meet me in the clearing near the stream, I’ll be waiting darling.“

With that, he’s gone, slipping away to not give you the chance to say no. Your mind is reeling, did you just agree to do this? Now you feel obligated to go, what if he’s there waiting all night for you? 

Finishing your drink, you go back to your tent to check yourself, suddenly feeling a bit nervous.

As you walk out to the clearing, you look good. A drunken saunter looks sexy on everyone, right? But it’s not your looks you’re concerned with. 

You can do this. It’s no big deal, right? Maybe he doesn’t even actually want sex? But even so, it’s fine. Sex is normal. People do it all the time. Why can’t you?

As you walk into the clearing, he’s posed against a tree, and saunters from his spot. It’s almost comical to you. There’s something so practiced about his movements, the way he’s already lost his shirt.

His body is gorgeous, he’s placed himself so the moonlight casts shadows on the lines of his body, illuminating his pale skin. You wouldn’t be surprised if he scouted and planned this days ago.

Even his voice is perfectly practiced as he purrs, “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You keep up your playfulness, despite your racing mind, “Poor thing, I was worried you’d be out here all night.”

Astarion cocks a brow and hums, “Oh? Don’t tell me you’ve been reconsidering? it’s so obvious you want this, you mustn’t deny it any longer darling.”

You narrow your eyes teasingly, “And what’s that Astarion? What is it you think I want?”

His predatory expression grows more intense, but inside, he’s growing impatient. Why are you so difficult? “Darling, I think it’s pleasure you want. To lose yourself in me”

You grin, finding comfort in the stalling, “Astarion dearest, I quite like myself. But what is it you want?”

Your question takes him off guard. You see his eyes flicker as if you’d struck some nerve. It takes him a beat to get back on track, and as quick as it was there, it’s gone. The suave charm back,

“What do any of us want, darling? A pleasurable distraction. To find solace in each other.”

His words combined with your intoxication have you nodding, but you’ve lost the playfulness. “If that’s what you want, I’m inclined to agree”

Astarion notices your shift, but he’s too focused on going through his motions, doing what he knows, what he can control. Astarion won’t admit it, but he likes you. Yet, at the end of the day, his focus is on his survival.

At your agreement, he’s moving in. Not wanting to squander the opportunity. Knowing if he doesn’t seize it now; you might pull away, like you always do.

Astarion breaks through your drunken haze, his touch light and experimental, feeling your body before he closes the distance between you. You start to like it. Your senses zoned in on his touch, enjoying the feeling of his caresses. He moves a hand up to cup your cheek and kisses you.

At first, the kiss was nice. It feels good to kiss him, maybe it just took having a handsome stranger like Astarion to cure you?

The kiss becomes more heated, and you start to melt into him. His hands wander, and he kisses you hungrily, but something feels off.

It starts to become all too much to handle. You’re attracted to Astarion, a lot, but when the kiss grows deeper, your face scrunches up into a whine. Astarion likes you, but this is a job to him, something he deems necessary for you to like him. He’s already on autopilot, his brain registering your whine as one of pleasure.

Your fists clench and you start to shy away from him. Something is wrong. This doesn’t feel right, your issues, mixing with your intuition tell you that neither of you is entirely present. You bring your hands up to his chest and apply pressure, after a moment you gently push him away from you.

Your face is scrunched up as your chest heaves, except it’s not from pleasure. Astarion’s eyes widen as he looks at you, taken completely off guard, nothing like this has ever happened to him.

After a moment of staring at you in confusion, he speaks up, his voice betraying his offense, “What’s wrong?!”

You’re curling into yourself, feeling embarrassed. You shake your head and avert your gaze from him, “I’m sorry, I just, I…” you trail off looking for the words, Astarion cuts you off with a huff, 

“What in the bloody hell is your problem?”

Astarion’s mind is racing, has he lost the one thing he was good at? His only valuable asset?

You don’t respond, you can’t stop it, you’re caving into yourself. You try to take deep breaths, your arms wrapped around yourself. Astarion has never seen you behave like this, you’re always the strong, confident one.

Astarion stares as you curl into yourself, watching you walk to the stream nearby, sitting on the bank.

Astarion doesn’t know what to do, he can't remember the last time he cared to comfort another. Why should he? Not like anyone would give a shit if he broke down. He doesn’t even know what to do but his feet are moving, and he gently sits down next to you on the bank, staring into the moving water.

After a long moment, you speak up, eyes never moving from the stream, “I’m sorry Astarion, I hope I didn’t disappoint you”

Whatever Astarion was expecting, it couldn’t have prepared him for the way your words tore through him, he gaped at you his voice unsure, “What do you mean?”

You tear your eyes from the stream, meeting his gaze. Your expression is pained, your voice quiet, “I know you’ve been wanting this Astarion, and I thought I could do it, but it all felt so wrong.”

Astarion’s expression is unusually unguarded. It's as if he’s so perplexed, that he can’t think to put on his usual charming smirk. He stares at you, brows furrowing. Before he can stop himself, his voice uncharacteristically insecure, he’s asking “Did I do something wrong?”

You’re immediately shaking your head, trying to reassure him, “No, no Astarion it’s not you. I just, struggle with things like this”

You both break eye contact, going back to stare into the stream. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. After a while, you’ve calmed down and sobered up, you turn to Astarion with a soft smile, “You could put your shirt on if you’d like, you look a little chilly”

Astarion grins up at you, glad that your teasing is back. He rolls his eyes, “Darling, I’m a vampire, I don’t get ‘chilly’. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to those beautiful eyes of yours to cover all of this” he gestures down to his bare abdomen.

You laugh and shake your head, “I never said I didn’t appreciate the view Astarion dearest, just trying to be considerate”

As the two of you sit on the bank of the stream, things have finally returned to some semblance of normal. It’s nice. Neither of you talks about your past, or what just happened, but there’s this feeling between the two of you, one of understanding. 

Tonight didn’t turn out the way either of you expected, but sometimes things happen this way for a reason. Maybe the two of you had more in common than you could ever imagine?

*Again, sorry that this was so self-indulgent, thank you for reading!!*

[starsoverbrooklyn]

just the headline, doll: post-mission patch-up turns into something else entirely (#3/30) starring... Avenger!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: smut!!! oral [f!receiving]. brief mentions of injuries. inked just for you: 516 a word from yours truly: extremely self-indulgent scenario. i definitely prefer reading smut over writing it... but please, hope you enjoy the fruit of my suffering! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

A rough hand ghosts up your side, callused fingers catching on the edge of the bandages hugging your ribs. Each breath is a stretch—tight, aching, fragile—and he traces the swell of your body like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too hard. Or worse—splinter.

But he’s starving.

His hand lingers, trembles. Then, with reverence or ruin—you’re not sure which—he palms your breast. Squeezes. It sends a bolt through you, sharp and electric, a cry snagging in your throat.

He hushes it with his thumb, slow circles over your nipple, rolling it between insatiable fingers like he’s trying to memorize the weight of you.

“B-uck…”

“Careful, sweetheart.” His voice comes low against your cunt, warm breath ghosting over slick skin. His nose nudges your clit—soft, unhurried—and those dark eyes are locked on you like he’s reading scripture between your thighs. “Can’t have you falling apart before I’ve even started.”

Then—pressure. A cold, thick finger pressing into you, slick heat sucking him in like it’s what you were made for. Your hips twitch. You arch. And he gives you another—metal dragging against your walls with a kind of brutal tenderness, the vibranium plates shifting like armor turning to teeth inside you.

It’s too much and not enough, every curl of his fingers a benediction, every stretch a promise. He’s fucking you open with patience, like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to ruin slowly.

And when he finds that spot—just right, just there—you break open.

Moans fall from your lips like confessions. Soft. Shaky. Wrecked. They’re met with his own sounds of pleasure, a rumbling groan vibrating against your pussy and sending shockwaves up your pelvis. “That’s it, baby—open up for me.”

Your thighs tremble around his head, the muscles twitching with every flick of his tongue. He groans again—deeper this time—like the taste of you is something he’s craved for too long, something he plans to gorge himself on until it’s etched into his bones.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet,” he murmurs, lips brushing slick heat, the words more exhale than sound. “Could stay here all goddamn night.”

The tip of his tongue circles your clit, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the way you gasp, the way your back bows despite the bandages threatening to split.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your vision blanks out at the edges. White-hot and blinding, the kind of pleasure that scorches everything else out of focus. You’re gasping now, chest stuttering, your hand fisting in his hair as you grind against his mouth without shame.

“Bucky—please—”

He pulls back just enough to speak, chin soaked, voice ruined.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you. Let me make it better.”

And then he’s back on you. Tongue flattening, fingers fucking into you deeper, faster—hitting that spot again and again until your body starts to shake, until the heat at your core winds so tight it feels like you might snap in two.

“Come for me,” he growls, and it’s a command laced with worship. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on my fingers.”

[stardustvanfleet]

Rediscovery — Josh Kiszka x F!Sapphic!Reader

SMUT. 18+ ONLY! MDNI!!!

Pairing: Josh Kiszka x F!Sapphic!Reader

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Your crush on your best friend, Josh, has been becoming harder and harder to ignore. There’s only one thing holding you back from admitting your feelings— most of your experience has been with other women, and you know that Josh’s history is equal and opposite, having mostly been with other men. But after one of your usual nights out, aided by a few drinks and a joint, things are finally coming to the surface. And you’re about to rediscover everything, together.

Warnings: Friends to lovers smut with switchy!Josh. Oral (m & f receiving), fingering/handjob, unprotected sex, dirty talk. Both the F!reader and Josh are written as explicitly queer in this fic.

A/N: This might be one of the most self-indulgent fics I’ve ever written… and I couldn’t be more excited to finally share it with everyone after spending the last few months working on it. I’ve noticed that even though there’s a huge sapphic community in the Peaceful Army, there aren’t a lot of fics written from the perspective of an explicitly queer woman! I absolutely poured my heart into this one and I have some amazing friends I need to thank for the endless encouragement and inspiration. My best friend, @sinsofstardust — thank you for all the hours of discussion that lead to SO many incredible ideas. I love you ENDLESSLY!!! I also want to give HUGE thanks to my loves, @jakesguitarsolo @losfacedevil @kenobicoffee for being my beta readers and giving me the motivation I needed to finish writing 10,000 words… I love all of you SO much 🤍

FIC BEGINS BELOW THE CUT!

//

There was just something about Josh Kiszka.

Maybe it was the way he seemed to radiate a kind of warm, exuberant energy; one that was impossible to ignore from the moment he walked into the room. Maybe it was the little gap between his teeth when he grinned that you’d found yourself immediately drawn to, or those wide, sparkling brown eyes. There could have been a hundred reasons, and, in truth, it was more than likely that there were that many— and then some.

Regardless of what had caused it, the fact that you had a rapidly developing crush on your best friend was becoming harder and harder to push into the back of your mind.

You and Josh had met almost a year ago now. One of your favorite bars downtown had karaoke nights on Thursdays, and on a whim, you had come in after a particularly stressful day at work. You weren’t planning on doing anything but sip your drink and listen to strangers perform their favorite songs, but to your surprise, the curly-haired man sitting next to you at the bar had struck up a conversation so easily and naturally you couldn’t help but fall comfortably into chatting with him. The two of you had a lot of things in common, with a similar love of music and an interest in meditation. And when he told you he was going to go up and sing, he offered his arm as an invitation, which you gladly took, leaving you blown away by his voice as he covered Adele better than anyone you’d ever heard. The two of you had spent the entire night talking, and had exchanged numbers with the intention of hanging out some more, and over the next several months, you two had become incredibly close. And yet— there was one important caveat that, beyond his standard affectionate touches, had kept things between you and Josh entirely platonic.

One of the biggest things that you and Josh had bonded over during your numerous deep conversations was the similar way you both seemed to experience your sexualities. Like Josh, you didn’t put a label on yourself, finding that the way you felt love and attraction to be hard to pinpoint under one term, but the majority of the lovers you’d had throughout your life had been other women. Josh’s history was both equal and opposite, with his experience mostly having been with other men. Being queer was something that was extremely important to both of you, and you knew that. And yet, throughout it all, the increasing feelings you held for Josh were growing stronger and stronger. Eating you alive. Burning into your mind and body.

Talking to Josh was always so easy. So why did it feel so impossible to breach this particular topic?

//

It had been another one of your frequent nights out with Josh. The two of you had gotten into a routine of meeting up at least once a week for drinks and a joint or two, and it quickly became evident to you that spending time with Josh was undoubtedly the highlight of your week. Knowing you’d be able to sit with him, laughing and joking and talking about everything that had stressed you out over the past several days, had become a thought that would get you through even the most difficult times. You tried not to linger too hard on what this could possibly mean for you and your heart, and instead let yourself just try to enjoy the present moment with the ethereal man sitting beside you on the couch.

It was late, very late. Tonight, you’d met up with Josh at a local bar that he had introduced you to a few months earlier, one that was only a few blocks from his apartment. His neighborhood was easy to get to from where you worked, but it was admittedly somewhat out of the way from where you lived. By the time the two of you left the bar, the trains had stopped running, and Josh had insisted that you shouldn’t have to pay a small fortune for an Uber when he had a perfectly good spare room in his apartment.

Josh’s apartment was just as cozy and inviting as he was, and his living room featured a low coffee table surrounded by beanbags and large floor cushions. The couch was pressed back against a cream-white wall decorated with prints and paintings that surely all had a story behind them, framed by the glow of string lights and the numerous plants both lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling. He had immediately offered you one of his t-shirts, and a pair of his own pajama pants that fit you surprisingly well, given that you were both of similar height.

And now, here you were, sitting side-by-side with Josh on his couch as he lit up a joint, with one of his favorite records playing softly on the turntable in the corner. The domesticity of the moment was not lost on you— the clothes you had borrowed still smelled like him, his intoxicating androgynous scent of spicy bergamot and soft jasmine. You both had already had several drinks over the course of the night, and Josh’s cheeks had flushed to a familiar rosy pink that signified his tipsiness. As of right now, all of your energy was going towards not letting your gaze linger on how beautiful he looked. On how hard your heart was beating.

As Josh took a long drag from the joint, his eyes fluttered shut, and you felt your heart skip a beat, unable to stop yourself from watching him. You were still gazing at him when his eyes slowly opened through his long exhale, the cloud of smoke intertwining with the plumes rising from the incense he had burning on the coffee table. He turned to face you as he cleared his throat a little, giving you an affectionate smile and holding out the joint for you to take, which you gladly accepted. Your fingers brushed his as he passed it to you, and you tried to ignore the way the contact made your brain start to buzz.

Now Josh was watching you as you took your hit, his eyes already a little glazed over as the high began to settle in. That was when he spoke, using his favorite pet name for you that you liked far too much to ever admit. “Doin’ alright, mama? Hope I’ve been a good host, though if I haven’t, I’ll be blaming the Fireball.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little as you exhaled your first hit, nodding towards Josh and managing a grin as you said, “Josh, I promise, you’d be a better host blackout drunk than most people would be sober.”

His face lit up at your words, and he let out a laugh of his own as he replied, “I’ll be sure to hold you to that statement if I manage to set the whole damn place on fire,” his eyes lazily following the plumes of smoke you had exhaled before his gaze fell back on you when you giggled, his pupils blown wide in the low light.

“Okay, now that sounds like you,” you teased, moving to pass the joint back to Josh. As the familiar hazy feeling began to settle over your mind and body, you found yourself inching just a bit closer to him as he took it from between your fingertips, bringing it to his lips with a smirk and a twinkle in his eye as you continued, “Well, if it comes to it, I’ll make sure to implement an accidental-house-fire clause in my perfect host assessment…”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he grinned, the joint dangling between his teeth as he did so, and when his mouth suddenly closed around the end to pull a deep hit, the sight of his plush, puckered lips sucking around the joint was enough to make your head spin. He held the smoke in for a moment, before pulling the joint from his lips with two fingers, letting his jaw fall slack and exhaling the smoke in one large cloud, a sight so effortlessly sexy it made your breath catch in your throat. Josh turned to you, and you thanked your lucky stars that any difficulties you were having finding your breath could be chalked up to the smoke now beginning to accumulate in the room. His head cocked to the side just slightly as he looked over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes having grown heavy-lidded as the weed began to take its effect. “Well, I’ll say tonight’s adventure got us off to an interesting start…”

You began to giggle again, memories of the evening you two had enjoyed so far flashing through your mind. Overall, it had been another fun and relaxed night out, with you and Josh having met at the bar and recounted how the past week had gone in your usual playful fashion, delving into the stress you’d been dealing with at work and his frustrations with his brothers through overdramatic storytelling and a lot of inside jokes.

After you two had been out for an hour or two and were beginning to feel pleasantly tipsy, two people had sat down at the small high-top table beside yours— a guy and a girl that looked to be around your age. They had been speaking loud enough that it quickly became evident that they were on a first date… and it became increasingly clear to you and Josh throughout the night that this couple’s date was not going well. You had spent the next hour or two getting increasingly tipsier and trying to stifle your laughter whenever the man at the other table made another comment about his crypto startup.

“We really got our own personal reality TV show tonight,” you agreed with a laugh, unable to take your eyes off of Josh as he took another drag, his brows furrowing for a moment as he held the smoke in. Beginning to exhale, he started giggling through it, and you felt your heart rate heighten even further.

“Talk about shitty dates,” he said, shaking his head as if to express pity. “And I’ve been on my fair share of dates with mediocre men…”

“That guy doesn’t even get the recognition of being called mediocre,” you said decidedly, taking the joint when Josh offered it to you again, before he leaned back against the couch, stretching his arms out against the back of it as he watched you speak and grab the lighter. “He didn’t even let her get a word in edgewise…”

“Ouch! Tell me how you really feel…” Josh said with feigned betrayal, making you laugh again and move even closer to him so you could smack his arm playfully— the feeling of his firm bicep underneath your hand making your brain grow cloudy for a moment.

“Oh, shut up, Josh… it’s cute when you do it,” you teased, feeling a twinge in your own heart while using words that were so secretly reflective of your own feelings, but this was how your friendship with Josh had always been. Verbally and physically affectionate, especially in these moments—- but platonic. Never escalating. “Besides, you don’t ramble about crypto…”

Josh nodded, grinning and sticking his tongue between his teeth; “Okay, you’ve got me there.” While gazing over at him, you found yourself caught off guard by the way his cheeks suddenly seemed to be reddening even further. Reminding yourself that Josh blushed frequently, and that this could be caused by any number of things, you did your best to shove any distracting thoughts as far back into your mind as you possibly could while lighting up the joint again. It’s nothing. He’s your best friend; that’s all. Your thoughts, however, were interrupted by Josh’s voice, which continued, “Although, I don’t think he’s as bad as the guy I saw that one time who yelled at the waiter…” As Josh recounted how awful this one particular date was, complete with impressions of the terrible guy in question, you were giggling wildly, the high only intensifying the absurdity of the guy’s entitlement in the story.

“And that is exactly why it’s been so long since I’ve dated a man,” you laughed, shaking your head, remembering the nightmarish experience you had a few years ago that had made you opt for a long break on going out with men. “The last date I had with a guy? Absolutely terrible. I swear… he was trying to get in the Guinness Book of World Records for ‘most complaints on a first date’…”

Josh laughed at your sarcasm, watching with amusement as you took your hit. You could feel his eyes on you, even when your own eyelids fluttered shut thanks to the smoke you were holding in. You let out a long, slow exhale, and when you opened your eyes to let your gaze fall on Josh again, you found yourself wondering if he had inched a bit closer while you weren’t watching him— then quickly doubted your own assumption, telling yourself it must be the high only making it seem that way. Once you had taken your hit, you continued, hoping you were maintaining your external composure, “Seriously, you’d think he had a personal best that he was trying to beat. Nothing was sacred. The restaurant, the people around us, my outfit…”

“Your outfit?” Josh asked incredulously, shaking his head in astonishment as you handed him the joint again, which was now over halfway gone. “Well, if he screwed it up with you, I already could’ve told you that he had bad fucking taste, but that really seals the deal…”

You felt heat rising in your cheeks at the compliment, reaching out and squeezing his arm affectionately in thanks without even thinking, making him giggle— the sound of which left you positively reeling. The high which had settled over you made everything feel a bit hazy, a bit dreamy, on top of the fact that you couldn’t take your eyes off of Josh. Everything about him was just as intoxicating as the liquor and the weed you’d shared that night, if not more so, and you could feel your heart hammering in your chest as he took another slow, long hit, while you continued talking to fill the silence that threatened to tug even harder on your heartstrings. “Seriously, though… I can’t believe he was the last man I ever fucking kissed.”

Josh’s head suddenly turned to face yours, the joint smoldering between his fingertips. He raised an eyebrow, and gave you a look that mixed pity with disbelief, along with… some other emotion, one that you couldn’t quite place. “You actually kissed that guy, mama?” There was a touch of irritation in his voice that, if you didn’t know better, you might have placed as jealousy.

You kicked yourself mentally for the thought, while simultaneously, you hadn’t moved your hand from Josh’s arm. For some reason, the pull felt magnetic.

Scoffing a little, you nodded, saying, “I know… not my ideal scenario.” In your tipsy, high state, the words seemed to be spilling from you without any internal consideration, and suddenly, you found yourself blurting out, “I mean… him? Why couldn’t it have been another guy, someone I actually like being around… or literally anybody else?”

As soon as the words fell from your lips, they were hanging in the air. Floating. The breath left your lungs in an instant when you realized what you’d just said, as Josh’s brows furrowed for a moment, those particular words seemingly bouncing around inside his mind. He blinked a couple of times, his lips parting slightly, and it was impossible not to notice the way his gaze seemed to intensify, studying you a little. He cocked his head, the rise and fall of his chest having intensified as you felt your heart rate heighten even further— and that’s when he finally opened his mouth to speak, his brown eyes on you, his pupils blown wide.

“Y/N… do you… do you want it to be… somebody else? The last man you kissed?”

Your mouth fell open, but your thoughts were moving so much quicker than your words could. All you could manage was a soft utterance of “Josh…” as his gaze once again fell to your lips. More openly this time. Lingering. Your head was spinning, your fingertips beginning to grip tighter at his arm. You knew you had to find your words before you lost the wave of courage that was beginning to wash over you, and breathlessly, you let out a soft, “Yeah, I do… I just never thought…”

All coherent thoughts fell apart when Josh’s hand suddenly rested on top of yours, and you trailed off, your breath catching in your throat. Quickly and almost effortlessly, without ever letting his gaze leave yours, he ashed the smoldering joint in the little glass tray on the table with his other hand, and he murmured, “Neither did I…” beginning to lean closer, starting to close the distance between the two of you. Through your rapidly increasing lightheadedness, your lips were already parting in anticipation, your mind racing, your hands trembling. Inches turned to centimeters, and then millimeters.

And when he finally caught your lips with his, it was as if the whole world melted away around you. There was nothing else. Nothing but Josh, his lips taking you in passionately and eagerly, the feeling of his warm, flushed skin against your own…. and, soon enough, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip, as if begging for entry— which you couldn’t help but grant. You could feel his soft facial hair brushing against you as he deepened the kiss, and the feeling was both new and dizzying. All inhibitions you had been holding within you melted entirely away as Josh licked into your mouth, and you found yourself falling into him, your bodies colliding and hands beginning to reach out, touch, grab. Without ever letting his lips leave yours, he was suddenly pulling you by the waist into his lap, and you were letting him, throwing your arms around his neck and fully straddling him, savoring the heat of his body underneath you, the feeling of his firm, solid chest… god, it was all so new, and intoxicating beyond belief.

His kiss was warm, inviting, and all-consuming. A fire had been lit within you, burning incessantly and licking up through your lower stomach as Josh let out a soft sound resembling a moan right into your mouth. It was so pretty, with the slightest hint of a whine, and the thought of hearing more from Josh… sounds increasing in need as he slowly unraveled… immediately made you lightheaded with arousal. An involuntary moan that matched his in its intensity slipped from somewhere deep within you as Josh’s tongue explored your mouth, and the instant tightening of his grip on your waist and arching of his hips right up against you proved beyond any doubt that your sounds were eliciting a similar reaction from the man beneath you. You moaned again, louder this time, and Josh groaned immediately, pulling back just enough to murmur a breathless “You sound… fuckin’ divine, mama,” before hungrily pulling you right back in, your hands sliding up to tangle in his curls, tugging at his roots as he hummed with satisfaction and need, right against your lips.

You were rolling your hips against him now— and with a nearly overwhelming shock of desire, you were suddenly aware of the way Josh was hardening underneath you as he continued to sigh and moan into your mouth. Most of the people you’d been with didn’t have the anatomy that Josh had, and the realization that you were making him hard had you lightheaded. Breathlessly, you started giggling into the kiss, and he pulled back for just a moment to look at you curiously, his cheeks flushed red and his brown eyes wide, sparkling. “What are you giggling at, mama?” he asked playfully, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he watched you rock against him, his pupils dilated with lust.

“It’s just… oh, fuck…” you giggled again, throwing your head back for a moment as you let the feeling of him underneath you just wash over you. “God… I forgot what that felt like, Josh….”

He was licking his bottom lip now, looking just as giddy and flustered as you felt. When Josh’s gaze pulled itself away from your eyes for a moment, he let it drag down your body, right down to where you were grinding down onto him, before right back up to resume looking right at you– as if he were able to see something far deeper in you than what was on the surface. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Tell me, mama…” he started, his voice low and breathless, his eyes remaining on you as he began to roll his hips to the rhythm you had established. “...tell me how it feels.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, his ability to slip so easily back and forth from needy to commanding making your head spin, and the word slipping out made Josh lick his lips, clearly enjoying being able to watch your expression shift as your arousal grew. Focusing on every feeling, you breathed out, “So good, Josh. Feels so fucking good…”

“Paint me a picture, mama…” he sighed, his eyes glazed over with desire, his hands beginning to glide up and down your body, exploring you slowly and passionately, as though trying to commit your every inch to memory by means of touch alone. Everything had escalated so suddenly, in such a frenzy of accidental admissions, and you didn’t even care. You couldn’t even begin to think of a damn thing beyond what was happening in this present moment, and just how fucking badly you needed him. You couldn’t believe how wet he had made you so quickly.

His desire to hear you speak on your pleasure was intoxicating. You were breathing heavily, unable to take your eyes off of him. He looked angelic, his curls framing his face so delicately and beautifully despite the way your fingers had been knotting into his hair moments earlier. Josh was practically glowing in the dim, warm light, his features illuminated in a way that was simply and undeniably breathtaking. There was a look in his eyes that was making your whole body tremble, and the feeling of his cock continuing to harden underneath you was almost overwhelming. You had never felt an ache quite like this one before. It was different, and it was… good. Focusing all of your attention on exactly what you could feel beneath you as you both grinded against each other, the words left your lips in a breathless, rambling moan.

“Feels… so fucking hard… and thick, Josh… oh, God… I’m soaked… I’m burning for you…”

He let out a shaky groan, his plush lips falling open as he watched your eyes flutter shut while still rocking against him— and you let out a soft cry of need when you felt him twitch against your clit through the layers of fabric between you. “Fuck… mama, you’re a poet…” he panted, leaning his head back for a moment as he bucked his hips up against you. “God… It’s been so fucking long…” When the words left his lips, the thought occurred to you that, just like it had admittedly been a long while since you’d been with a man, it had likely been just as much time since Josh had been with a woman— and the realization somehow made your hunger for him grow even greater.

“Too many clothes,” you managed to gasp out, and Josh was nodding, his eyes having darkened even further, allowing himself to pull his hands from your body long enough to sit back and watch as you pulled your top— his own t-shirt —over your head, throwing it onto the floor without a second thought. You had taken your bra off when you changed into his pajamas, and the sight of you topless was enough to make Josh’s breath audibly catch in his throat, his eyes wide and ravenous, taking in every last inch of skin that had been revealed to him.

“Fuck,” Josh breathed out, his cheeks flushed with arousal, “You are so fucking beautiful…” his words making your head spin as he found the hem of his own t-shirt, tugging it over his head and tossing it to the floor alongside yours. You had seen Josh without a shirt on before, but never anything like this, and being so close was damn near overwhelming. Immediately, you were running your hands up his chest, savoring the feeling of his toned, firm skin underneath your own.

“Josh, you’re fucking beautiful,” you sighed, and the look in his eyes was unlike anything you had ever seen— astonished, adoring, voracious. His own hands began to slide up your body, mirroring the way you were exploring his, before moving to cup your breasts. Dizzily, you were left reeling at the size of his hands, his long fingers, the way he touched… giving your tits a gentle squeeze at first, your resulting moan encouraging him to squeeze harder, pressing your cleavage together as a low groan escaped his throat. You bit your lip, looking back at him and watching how his eyes devoured you. “Do you like them…?”

Josh’s gaze immediately flashed to meet yours, and the eye contact felt like a shock going straight down your spine. A sound resembling a growl escaped from the back of his throat, and your mouth fell open involuntarily as he said, “God, I fucking love them…” continuing to grope and squeeze, his cheeks red, his chest heaving. Your hand continued to slide up his chest, your fingertips finally reaching his necklace, and you just couldn’t resist— tugging it towards you, pulling Josh towards you and kissing him as hard as you’d ever dreamed of doing, drunker now on the feeling of him kissing you back than on anything you’d had at the bar. His hands slid around to the small of your back to pull you into him, your tits pressing up against his bare chest for the first time. The contact made you practically light-headed, moaning into his mouth as the kiss grew sloppier, before Josh’s lips began to trail down to your jaw, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. Your hands slid up to grab at his hair again as he continued his journey downwards, beginning to kiss and lick at your neck— and you were left gasping and writhing underneath him.

“Oh my God, Josh…” you panted, feeling the way his tongue was now beginning to flick and tease at your pulse point, your fingers tightening in his curls. “Fuck…” Your words elicited a moan from Josh against your neck, and you found yourself bucking your hips against him harder at the sound. He continued kissing lower, down your neck to your collarbones, seeming determined to explore every inch of your skin with his mouth, and his obvious desire was making the heat between your thighs burn ever greater. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him as he reached the top of your breasts, letting his mouth and tongue kiss and caress sloppily downwards, looking up at you through his lashes all the while.

He pulled back only for a moment, licking his lips as he gazed up at you, breathing out a low, heavy, “You have no fucking idea how many times I’ve imagined this…” his words sending shock waves straight to your core that were only amplified when, without warning, Josh leaned in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss right to your nipple, sucking it right into his mouth. The pleasure was so sudden and so overwhelming that your own mouth fell open wide as you arched into him, crying out and gripping him even tighter. Josh let his tongue trace in circles around the hardened bud, before flickering it over you at a speed that had you gasping and whimpering, making your mind reel with possibilities of what else his tongue could be capable of. Your moans were growing louder and more desperate as he moved to pay the same attention to your other nipple, one of his hands sliding up your body so his fingertips could continue playing with the first.

It was already so much. He was so skilled with both his mouth and his fingers, and your anticipation of what was to come was matched by an insatiable hunger burning deep within your core. “Oh, fuck… Josh… that feels so good,” you moaned breathlessly, your voice already shaky, overwhelmed by the way he was working both nipples at once while continuing to grow harder underneath you. The look in his eyes was dark, mischievous. He was clearly being encouraged by your praise, and he was chuckling against you, both the sound and the vibrations enough to make your body shiver against him. He continued worshiping your tits like this for minute after minute, his sighs and moans against you making your head spin and your arousal pool between your thighs. After a while, the feeling of his hard cock rubbing up against you through your pajama pants was becoming impossible to ignore, and the layers of clothing between your bodies felt far too much. Your next words escaped you in more of a whimper than you had intended, thanks to Josh’s relentless tongue against your left nipple and his fingertips rolling and tweaking the right. “Please, Josh… baby… I’m so wet, I need more…”

The words made Josh’s eyes flutter shut for a second, groaning with need as he pulled back from your nipple with an obscene pop. “Fuck, mama… I’ll give you more… lover… let’s get these off you, yeah?” he asked, his hands reaching the hem of your pajama pants as you nodded voraciously, the new pet name he’d just used sending chills up and down your spine.

Swiftly and almost effortlessly, Josh was pulling you off of his lap to press you up against the back of the couch, kissing you deeply all over again as he repositioned you, before pulling back to look you in the eyes as he moved to untie the pajama pants you had borrowed from him. You lifted your hips to aid him as he hooked his fingers underneath the waistband of both the pants and your panties, his gaze meeting yours as if to check in for one final time that this was what you wanted, and you were nodding before either of you even had the chance to speak. “Please…” you breathed out, and that was all the confirmation he needed, tugging them all the way down your legs and lifting your ankles to pull them off of you. Your head was reeling as you watched him kneel before you through heavy-lidded, lust-clouded eyes. Slowly, as if uncovering something sacred, Josh’s hands landed on your knees, gently pulling them apart, revealing you to him— all of you, for the first time.

His lips parted in astonishment. “Oh my fucking God, mama…” He was devouring your pussy with his eyes, staring at you as though witnessing the divine. “You’re so fucking wet… fuck, you’re a goddess… Aphrodite incarnate.”

You were left breathless at his words, and if that wasn’t enough, in a frenzy, Josh’s mouth attached itself to your inner thigh, kissing eagerly, lapping against your sensitive skin, and beginning to climb higher by the moment. Utterly overwhelmed by the feeling, by his desire, you found yourself growing lightheaded, panting out, “You wanna taste it, Josh?”

Between hungry kisses to the inside of your thighs, he looked up at you with a wild ferocity in his eyes you’d never seen before, and his voice was husky as he breathed out a low, hot, “Not want. Need.”

He had left you speechless, the only sound escaping your lips a desperate whimper of arousal that made Josh groan against your skin as he continued his ascent. Moving higher with every kiss, every lick, every graze of his teeth— you were trembling as Josh grew closer and closer to your burning heat. It had been a long time since any man had made you ache like this, and you couldn’t believe just how badly you needed him, how little you cared about anything beyond the promise of his tongue.

Josh was nearing the apex of your thighs now, only inches away from where you needed him most. The feeling of his lips and his facial hair, watching the way his nose pressed into the soft skin of your upper thigh… keeping your eyes on him felt addictive. He was a work of art, devoting his mouth and body to your pleasure, and you couldn’t look away. That was, until Josh fulfilled his promise— hands gripping your thighs and eyes right on yours as he pushed his head forward, immediately pressing a slow, wet kiss directly to your pussy.

The cry that left your lips was louder and more desperate than any of the moans Josh had already drawn out of you, and your thighs immediately tightened around his head, your hands flying back into his hair as you threw your head back. Josh had flattened his tongue, licking a stripe along the entire length of your slit, before letting his tongue explore your folds, his lips kissing and sucking all the while. You were practically incoherent already, astonished at how he could possibly be so good at this. Expletives were falling from your lips completely outside of your control, your desperate moans of “Oh, God… fuck…!” only serving to encourage Josh further, pressing his face in even deeper and sucking at your clit, his mustache tickling at your most sensitive spots while his hands kept a white-knuckled grip on your thighs.

You were practically seeing stars, tugging at Josh’s hair in unbridled ecstasy as he started flicking his tongue against your clit, at a speed you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. The feeling made you let out a sound so needy and pornographic, you hardly recognized yourself. Pleas began to tumble from your lungs as your thighs started to shake, the pleasure building quicker than you ever could have imagined. “Please, please… oh, God, Josh, don’t stop…”

His fingers dug into your thighs as if to assure you that he was not going to stop, his tongue continuing to flick and lash at your clit from every angle, lapping at your wetness, humming and groaning into your heat. Devouring you as if it was his last meal, Josh looked up at you with his brown eyes wide, sparkling, practically innocent; and the sight had you choking on your own breath, his name escaping your lips in a desperate whine— and the sound of that, perhaps combined with the taste of you, left Josh’s eyes rolling up into his head, eyelashes fluttering wildly, as he worked your cunt with his tongue. The sight, combined with his relentless worship of your pussy, the lapping of his tongue against your clit, sent you right over the edge— all at once, you were moaning louder than ever as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your thighs clenched and tightened around Josh’s head as he groaned into your pussy, licking up your release as you gushed onto his tongue. The orgasm was all-consuming, wracking every inch of your body with shudders, and Josh made sure to work you through every second of it, keeping his pace until you began to come down. Only then did he slow his tongue, beginning to press slow, passionate, gentle kisses to your pussy as the last few spasms of pleasure coursed through you. He only pulled back when your grip in his hair loosened, turning to gentle strokes of your fingertips through his curls.

With one final, soft kiss to your heat, Josh came up from between your legs, licking his lips and looking at you almost bashfully, his face flushed and slick with your release. The sweetness in his gaze combined with the depravity of the moment sent yet another shiver down your spine. Chest heaving and eyes glazed over, you let out an incredulous giggle, savoring the softness of his hair under your fingertips, and the way he was looking at you. “Jesus, Josh… you didn’t tell me you were so good at that,” you teased, still somewhat in shock at the fact that all of this was really happening.

“You never asked,” he teased back, sticking his tongue between his teeth, and the sight had butterflies erupting in your stomach all over again. You were struck by an overwhelming need to kiss him, and you again let your hands find his necklace, beginning to tug him back up towards you, and you watched Josh’s eyes widen and lips part as he raised himself to close the distance between the two of you once more. This time, when your lips met and Josh licked into your mouth, you could taste yourself on Josh’s lips and tongue, and that little fact combined with his soft moan into the kiss left your body growing hot all over again.

You kissed sloppily for another minute or two, letting your hands begin to slide up and down Josh’s chest, and the sounds your touches were eliciting from the man positioned between your legs were making your mind grow foggy. In the midst of the kiss, Josh’s hips pressed up against your core, his clothed erection rubbing up against your bare cunt, and the feeling made the both of you gasp. Josh pulled back a little to capture his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When he opened them again, you already knew exactly what you wanted. “Josh…?” you asked softly, seductively, and his gaze on you alone had you practically seeing stars. “You made me feel so good… please… let me return the favor…”

As the words left your lips, you were sliding out of your position on the couch, keeping your gaze directly on Josh. “Stand up for me? Please?” you asked, your eyes wide, your teeth grazing your own lower lip. He was mesmerized, looking at you with so much visible desire that you could hardly think straight, but stood up for you, his body practically glowing in the soft, golden light. Through your haze, you were able to sink down onto the floor, finally ending up exactly where you wanted to be. Kneeling in front of him. At eye level with the bulge straining through Josh’s pajama pants. Looking up at him with those same doe eyes, you slid a hand up the inside of his thigh, and Josh let out a soft, melodic groan, his own hand falling to stroke your cheek and run his fingers through your hair. His tender touches only served to encourage you more as your hand stroked further and further upwards, before finally reaching its destination— wrapping around the visible bulge in his pajama pants and giving it a squeeze, arousal flooding your veins at both the feeling of his hard cock in your hand and the moan that escaped Josh at your touch. It had been so long since you’d done this, since you’d been with anyone who had a cock, but… Josh knew that. He’d known that for almost as long as you’d known him at all. And somehow, the fact that it was him you were here with, exploring, rediscovering— truly made any nerves or hesitation you might’ve had disappear without a thought. “Fuck, you’re hard, baby…” you breathed out, looking up at Josh through your lashes, and the use of the affectionate pet name made his grip tighten in your hair.

“It’s all for you,” Josh replied, his voice husky, his breaths coming hard and fast. The sight of his toned chest rising and falling so rapidly in combination with his words was making your head spin as your hands slid higher, hooking around his waistband. He groaned a little, his hips bucking involuntarily at the loss of contact, but his next words were low, seductive. “You wanna see what you do to me, mama?”

A soft moan slipped from you at his question, and you were nodding before you found the words. “Yeah, Josh… I wanna see it…” His teeth sunk into his bottom lip once more as he watched you through lust-blown, darkened eyes, cocking his head, which made his curls fall across his forehead in a way that made you squeeze your thighs together involuntarily. Finally, you couldn’t resist any longer, tugging down Josh’s pajama pants while he kept his gaze on you, hungry and intense. And when you laid eyes on his cock for the first time, the wave of desire that crashed over you was enough to leave you utterly and completely dazed.

“Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen,” you whispered, almost reverent, and Josh let out a giggle so breathless and aroused that you felt yourself grow practically lightheaded, his cheeks somehow flushing even redder at the compliment. The statement was the inarguable truth; you had slept with comparatively few men as opposed to women, and not one of them had a cock that left your mouth watering the way Josh’s already had— upon sight alone. He was deliciously thick, the head of his cock an identical rosy pink to his plush lips and slick with precum, making his own desire more than evident. You were left awestruck, staring at all of him for a moment, wondering how it was possible that tonight’s events had truly led to the situation you were currently in.

He was gazing at you through heavy-lidded eyes as you lifted your hand, reaching out and letting your fingertip trace all the way up the one pretty vein that ran up the underside of Josh’s cock. At your feather-light touch alone, Josh shuddered, his fingers curling in your hair and a sigh escaping his lips. “God, lover…” the words left him in a husky whisper, so low and breathy, and the sound had you squeezing your thighs together all over again. Blinking up at him innocently, you spit into your hand, shivering when Josh let out a little growl at the sight. Your heart racing, you wrapped all your fingers around the base of Josh’s thick cock, savoring the feeling of his warm skin, and the moan that slipped from him was so pretty you couldn’t wait any longer, starting to pump your hand slowly up and down his length. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, watching the way his expression changed, how his plush lips fell open, his brows knitting together a little, as he moaned out, “Oh, fuck…” Stroking him up and down, you began to repeatedly swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, and the action was making Josh grow breathless underneath you. You heard him sigh your name, his chest heaving, his hips beginning to buck against the motions of your hand.

Feeling drunk on desire and the way Josh was somehow continuing to harden in your grasp, you were unable to make yourself wait any longer. “I love this cock, Josh…” you managed to breathe out, another wave of desire washing over you as he tugged harder at your roots, biting his lip. “…and fuck, I need a taste….” The arousal was written all over Josh’s face, his cheeks flushed red and his mouth still hanging open.

His voice was breathier, a little shakier, when he opened his mouth to reply. “Go ahead, lover… it’s all yours…” The sound of that particular nickname leaving his lips while urging you to go on, his tone almost needy, made your eyes nearly roll back into your head with desire. Keeping your gaze on Josh while you continued to stroke his cock, you leaned forward, your head spinning and breaths coming fast and heavy. And when your lips touched his sensitive skin, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock, the sound that escaped Josh was enough to send a lightning bolt of arousal straight through your entire body. His eyes were wide, lust-blown, his pretty lips hanging open as his chest heaved, tangling his fingers in your hair as your kisses turned into kitten licks to his head, exploring his soft skin, lapping at his arousal.

Josh was falling apart so quickly, and you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Reeling from the taste of him, you started taking him deeper into your mouth, flames of desire licking up into your lower stomach with every moan from Josh, every buck of his hips. Expletives fell from his lips like a prayer as you continued, feeling every inch of him as you took him deeper into your mouth, further down your throat. Practically gagging on the sheer size of him, you finally reached the base of his cock, the tip of your nose pressing up against his pelvis as you blinked up at him with wide, almost innocent eyes. A strangled noise somewhere between a moan and a growl escaped him, his fingers holding a white-knuckled grip in your hair, while his whole face, neck, and even the top of his chest were flushing pink with arousal. “God… fuck… look at you… so fucking beautiful,” he was panting out, his words coming out in a desperate, rambling groan. You had never seen Josh so incoherent, and the sight was beyond dizzying. His praise was electrifying, and finally, you hollowed your cheeks around him, beginning to bob your head up and down his length. Josh let out a loud, uninhibited moan, throwing his head back and letting out another strangled “Fuck… oh, Jesus Christ…”

His moans, his body, his cock; it was all so unbearably addictive. The way his chest was rising and falling with such rapid, intense gasps. The way he was bucking his hips back against your eager mouth. The way his fat cock was somehow still getting harder, thicker inside your mouth. Swelling. Throbbing. The drool was practically dripping down your chin as you sucked him off, bobbing up and down, using your tongue to explore as you watched his contorted, blissed-out expression shift with spine-tingling curiosity. Josh’s hands were practically trembling in your hair as he continued to moan, praise, and curse— the words seeming to fall from his lips entirely involuntarily, as though erupting from his soul itself while you let his pleasure build.

You had almost entirely lost yourself in the taste of his cock, the way it was stretching your jaw, how it felt filling up your mouth and throat, that you were caught by surprise when Josh started pulling back with a shudder, his hard cock slipping from your lips with an obscene pop. Any confusion that you felt, however, was immediately dissipated when Josh breathed out, voice husky, “God, mama… I’m gonna fuckin’ cum if you don’t stop… and, fuck…” he was helping you stand to meet him at eye level again, his eyes dark and desperate as he stroked a hand through your hair, down past your cheek, dragging his fingertips down your neck. “I need to fuck you, lover…”

Hearing him say those words made your mouth fall open a little, beginning to nod before you could even speak. “Oh, God… please, Josh… fuck me. I need it. Please, just fuck me…” Upon hearing that, Josh was growling again, the sound still making your entire body tremble, as he began walking you backwards towards his sofa, his hands on your body and his eyes on yours, intense and hungry. Before long, you were trying to keep your breathing steady as Josh laid you down on the couch, his eyes all over you, his necklace dangling over you enticingly. Your heart pounding, you sat up against the arm of the sofa, biting your lip at Josh as you slowly, teasingly opened your legs wide for him. His gaze was ravenous as you blinked up at him, breathing out a soft, tantalizing, “Come and get it…”

That was all Josh needed. Immediately, he was climbing on top of you, positioning his flushed, firm body between your legs and letting one hand rest on either side of you on the arm of the couch. His face hovered above yours, his cheeks red and his eyes dark with arousal, as one hand landed on your shoulder, pinning you to the arm of the couch underneath him—- the action immediately sucking all of the air from your lungs. His free hand now began to slide down your body as he cocked his head, studying your expression with hungry brown eyes as he groped at your tits, then let his hand slide down your stomach, before letting his fingers part your folds. You moaned, bucking your hips into his touch, and a groan escaped Josh at that as he stared at you incredulously. “Fuck, mama… you’re so fucking wet…”

“God, Josh, it’s what you fucking do to me,” you panted, little whimpers and sighs escaping your lips as he gathered your wetness on his fingertips, before trailing up to play with your clit. After a moment of this, he trailed his fingers down, letting his index finger tease and press at your entrance, and you were moaning, nodding your head, the eye contact that Josh was maintaining heightening every feeling, every sensation. Upon your nod, he was pushing one long finger up into your cunt, and you were crying out all over again, your walls immediately clenching around him— and that drove both of you into near madness, as you immediately leaned up to kiss Josh as hard as you possibly could, moaning into his mouth, bucking your hips against his hand as he began to fuck you with his finger, pumping it in and out, getting your cunt ready for his cock.

You were grabbing at his body, at his necklace, his curls, pulling back to stammer pleas desperately against his lips. “More… God, Josh, I need more…” the words left your mouth in a rambling, desperate beg, and the low groan of desire that escaped him in response made your eyes roll back a little even before he slid a second finger into your pussy, fucking them in and out of your wetness as you writhed beneath him.

“What do you need?” His voice was husky, teasing, his eyes heavy-lidded and never leaving yours, his nose hovering millimeters above your own. Your heart felt like it could give out within your chest at any moment as Josh’s fingers worked you, stretched you. “I wanna hear you say it, lover…”

“Fuck, Josh… oh, God, I need your cock. Please…” you begged, reaching out and tugging at his curls, savoring the way he leaned into your touch. “…I’ve imagined it so many times, baby… please just fuck me…”

Those words, the admission that you’d pictured this before on numerous occasions, must’ve been exactly what Josh was looking for, as a moan even lower, darker, huskier left his lips. “Fuck, mama… sound so fucking pretty when you beg….” You shuddered at this, looking up at him with pleading eyes, as Josh nodded slowly, and pulled his fingers from your dripping pussy, the loss of contact making you shiver. You watched, dazed, desperate, as he wrapped those same fingers around his hard, thick cock; giving it a few solid pumps before lining it up at your entrance. The look in his eyes was unlike anything you’d ever seen before— powerful, commanding, full of need, while still unbearably affectionate. Practically loving. You could hardly think, drunk on your desire, gaze fixed on the beautiful man hovering above you. Teasingly, teeth sinking into his lower lip, Josh began to rub the head of his cock up and down your soaked slit, and the friction left you whining and bucking your hips desperately against him, his own mouth falling open at the contact. “Gonna fuck you so good, lover… so hard, so deep… gonna have you fucking screaming for me, mama…”

He didn’t even give you the time you needed to process his filthy words— because it was right as Josh spoke that he was pushing his hips forward, his hard, fat cock parting your folds, sliding into your tight, soaked cunt, inch after inch filling you up and stretching you out. Your eyes flew open wide, your mouth falling completely open alongside them as a moan louder than any you’d let out all night escaped your lungs. You weren’t alone, Josh’s own mouth hanging open with pleasure as his eyes rolled back a little, lashes fluttering wildly as he pushed in, up to the hilt. Your chest was heaving, hands desperately reaching to grab at Josh’s body, his strong arms, as little gasps and whimpers left your lips. “Oh, Josh… fuck… you’re so thick…”

He was groaning a little, fighting to keep his eyes open against the overwhelming pleasure of your cunt wrapped around his cock. “So fucking tight…” he managed, his voice restrained, rough, almost shaky. “…gonna move, lover…. you ready? You wanna get fucked?” It was all so overwhelming already, so dizzying, and you were nodding with unbridled desperation, clinging to his biceps as you fought to catch your breath. Yet, as Josh fulfilled his promise, it was clear you wouldn’t be finding your breath anytime soon.

Slowly, he was pulling back nearly all the way… before immediately thrusting his hips forward with such intensity, such purpose, that you cried out instantly, your hand flying to grip Josh’s necklace, which had been dangling just above your breasts ever since he climbed on top of you. He started slow, but the measured pace didn’t last long as he began to pick up speed, starting to thrust harder, faster, deeper. You were so quickly being rendered incoherent as his thick cock pushed in and out, hammering into your cunt and stretching you deliciously with every hard thrust. Moans of his name began to fall from your lips as he fucked you, and you found yourself wrapping your legs around his torso, hanging your head back with overwhelming pleasure as Josh fucked up into you again and again.

“You feel that, lover….? Fuck… you’re squeezing me… so fucking tight…” Josh was groaning, his gaze heavy, his eyelids fluttering, his eyes threatening to roll back again and again. He was twitching inside of you, throbbing, even, and the feeling was beyond intoxicating as you felt your thighs beginning to tremble around him.

“Oh, God… don’t stop, Josh, don’t stop… feels so good…” you were moaning, rolling your hips in response to his relentless thrusts, feeling your pleasure beginning to build rapidly for the second time that night. He growled, beginning to fuck you even harder, adjusting so he was slamming his hips into you from a new angle— and when the head of his cock began to shove up against your g-spot with every thrust, the cry that left your throat was so needy, so desperate, so whiny that it elicited a moan of matching intensity from Josh.

“I can feel you… fuckin’ clenching,” he was groaning, not once slowing the pace of his thrusts, his hand still pinning you to the arm of the couch below him as he fucked you. “You gonna cum again for me, sugar? Yeah? Gonna cum on my cock this time?”

You were whimpering, nodding, tears beginning to well in your eyes as Josh pounded into you, your tits bouncing with every hard thrust of his cock into your pussy. He never once hesitated, only continuing to hammer into you, his gaze intensifying, his sounds growing hungrier, more uninhibited. “Not gonna stop, sugar… gonna fuck you ‘til you’re cumming all over this hard cock… make this tight, pretty pussy cum for me…..”

His words were growing filthier by the moment, and it was only making your head spin even faster, your thighs tremble even harder, your grip on his necklace tighten as the heat began to build deep within your core. Tears began to spill from your eyes; the pleasure starting to become almost overwhelming, moments away from the edge— and Josh must’ve been able to tell, because all of a sudden, his fingers were right back on your clit, circling it mercilessly as his cock slammed into you again and again… and that was all it took.

With a desperate, pornographic cry of his name, you were clenching down onto Josh’s cock as your orgasm crashed over you. Wave after wave of pleasure wracked your entire body as you clung desperately to Josh, moaning again and again and trembling, shaking almost violently against him, seeing stars and practically sobbing as you melted into euphoria.

Josh was groaning, fucking you as hard as he could through your orgasm, his eyes beginning to roll back— and he managed to pull himself from your cunt just in time, your name leaving his lips in a desperate moan alongside a string of obscenities as he exploded all over your stomach, stroking his cock and bucking his hips into his hand. His expression was damn near angelic, his brows knitted together, his mouth wide open with ecstasy, before he caught his lower lip between his teeth, thrusting up into his hand as he finished riding out his high.

Slowly, slowly, gasping for air, you found yourself beginning to return to Earth, your grip loosening on Josh’s arms but refusing to let go, still savoring the feeling of his soft, warm skin; his muscles flexing underneath your fingertips. The chorus of moans between the two of you had evolved into breathless sighs as Josh collapsed onto you; and when you finally managed to open your eyes, you found yourself giggling without even meaning to— your head still spinning, your heart still racing.

Josh was breathing hard, a bashful grin on his face as his own eyes fluttered open, gazing down at you with what could only be described as adoration. Reaching up to run a hand through his tousled curls, you giggled again, your heart swelling in your chest at the way he was looking at you, before he began to join you in your shy laughter. “Wow…” you managed, biting your lip a little, as he let out a giggle of his own, nodding in agreement. You felt heat rising in your own cheeks as you admitted shyly, “Josh, I… you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that with you.”

He smiled at you, the affection in his gaze making you practically breathless as he said, “Truthfully? I think I do… because I’m sure I’ve wanted it just as long,” letting his arms slip around you, and the feeling was a new kind of dizzying. You giggled again, before leaning up to press another kiss to his lips— this one soft, slow, lingering. The frenzied hurry that had motivated the majority of your actions had dissipated as you realized, with a rush of excitement, that you had all the time in the world.

When the kiss broke, you were laughing again, running your hands across his arms, up to his cheeks, savoring the way his eyes fluttered shut at your touches. “All the time we’ve wasted…” you sighed with a grin, thinking about the months you’d spent pining after him, certain that your thoughts and feelings weren’t reciprocated. He was smiling down at you, holding you close to his body.

“We’re here now,” Josh said with a grin, pressing another kiss to your cheek. “And I intend to make the most out of every moment…” as you felt yourself blushing all over again, your heart racing. This really was just the beginning.

It was a long time before the two of you managed to work up the motivation to move from your positions tangled together on the couch, but Josh’s promise of a warm shower and the invitation to share his bed was more than enough to convince you. As he helped you to your feet, his arm wrapping around your waist while your thighs trembled, you felt your heart nearly overflowing with affection. When you turned to look at him, however, a thought struck you that left you giggling all over again, leaving Josh looking at you with a curious grin, arching an eyebrow inquisitively. “What’s bringing on that cute giggle now…?”

You grinned at him, biting your lip and leaning in to press another kiss to his cheek. “Tonight may have been our best adventure yet.”

He laughed again, his happiness utterly infectious, as he leaned in, his lips only millimeters from yours. “And we’ve got plenty more to come, lover.” Closing the distance between the two of you, this kiss was gentle, passionate. A promise that he was yours. That you were his.

As you two headed towards his room, his arm around your waist, there was one thing that was certain. No matter what else was to come, you knew that Josh was right. You two had so many adventures in store.

And you couldn’t wait to rediscover it all.

//

TAGLIST: @sinsofstardust @jakesguitarsolo @losfacedevil @kenobicoffee @sparrowofthedawnsworld @gold-mines-melting @texas-bbq-pringles @mountain-in-springtime @alwaysonthemend @tripthelightfatality @runwayblues @shutupdevvie @heavens-hearken @godly-sinsx @sacredjake @ignite-my-fire @kiska-enthusiast @songbirds-sweet @viagvf @wetkleenex-gvf @jaketsparrow @rhythm-of-space @the-starcatcher @hsfallingsky @fuckyoutommie @earthlysorrows @ascendingtostardust @joshsindigostreak

If you want to be added to my taglist, you can do that right here! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it 🥰 All my love, Li xoxo

[ducksido]

hi ado! Mootie here!! I loved how u wrote it! I come with another request. Could i have an azul with a fem/ fem leaning gn reader with body image issues as well? But instead of being insecure about cubbiness, she’s insecure about how skinny she is? I myself am basically a stick figure and have nearly no meat on my bones, and am under 100 pounds while all my peers are over 100. I’ve been teased about this, and was wondering if you could write a reader with this? Like no matter how much she eats, she never gains any weight and is super insecure about it?

sorry if this seems too self indulgent, its just i’ve seen lots of chubby! Readers, but not a lot of extremely skinny/ near stick figure readers. If you wish to ignore, you can, but i just want to see how they would deal with their self images together.

(I’m really proud of you. Your feelings are real, valid, and you deserve stories that make you feel seen. Always.)

Azul x Fem/Fem-leaning GN!Reader (TW: body image insecurity, teasing mentioned)

Azul was fussing with his collar in the mirror, eyes flicking over every inch of his appearance with that same overly critical gaze he always seemed to reserve for himself. The lounge had closed for the night, and you were sitting quietly on the edge of his bed, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed by your hands.

He turned to look at you. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Your head rested against your knees, face half-hidden. You hoped the shadows in the dim light might shield you from his concerned expression.

“Sorry. I’m just… thinking,” you mumbled.

Azul sat beside you, close but not touching, giving you space. “About?”

There was a pause. You almost didn’t answer. But something about Azul—the way he always let silence sit gently between words instead of forcing them out—made it feel okay to speak.

“…My body,” you admitted. “I feel like people only talk about body issues if it’s about being ‘too big.’ But what about the other side? What if you’re too thin?”

Azul blinked, surprised by your words. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again—careful with his thoughts.

You went on before he could interrupt. “No matter how much I eat, I don’t gain anything. People make these jokes—say stuff like I’ll ‘fly away in the wind’ or ask if I even eat. I do. I eat plenty. But it’s like my body just… doesn’t change.”

You glanced down at your arms. Thin. Delicate. “I look in the mirror and I see a skeleton. And next to everyone else, I feel so—so wrong.”

Azul’s gaze softened. He reached over slowly, placing a hand gently over yours.

“…I know that feeling,” he said quietly.

You looked up. “You do?”

He gave a bitter chuckle. “All too well. I used to avoid mirrors entirely. I hated how I looked in my merform. Hated how people saw me. I felt like I had to earn my value by changing myself. But no matter what I did… I couldn’t shake that emptiness.”

He shifted a bit closer now, warm and careful. “Your struggles are real. Just because they don’t fit what others expect doesn't make them less valid.”

You felt tears prick your eyes. “It’s hard not to compare myself to others.”

“It is,” he said, “especially when the world seems so determined to make us feel like we’re never enough.”

There was silence again—but this time, it was soft. Safe.

Then he smiled, tentatively. “But to me… you’re not too little. You’re not lacking. You’re you. And I’m grateful for every part of you—your wit, your kindness, your heart, and yes, your body too.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to change a thing to be beautiful,” he added gently. “You already are.”

You finally let yourself lean into him, his arms curling around your frame without hesitation or worry.

“I’m trying to love myself,” you whispered.

He pressed his forehead to yours. “Then let’s do it together.”

[crepesuzette2023]

Fave reconciliation fics?

What a wonderful ask, thank you!

Reconciliation is such an important part of many Beatles fics, especially those about John and Paul. Don't we all wish they could have...And what if...and why couldn't they...

It's interesting, because on the one hand it's an intellectual challenge to come up with a good reconciliation story (could they have reconciled? How?), and on the other hand, it's pure self-indulgence: a way to give them the ultimate warm, fuzzy, tear-soaked, slicked up, soaring piccolo trumpet catharsis they deserved. Together.

Or perhaps their reconciliation will be a small gesture? A silent agreement? A warm little spark? Anyway, enough waffling: here are some older faves and more recent stories with reconciliation at its focus. Focus is on John and Paul, with some others added. It's a long-ish list, so here's a break.

(Just like) Starting Over by dollylux. John and Paul are writing together again in 1980. Is there anything better? (I found this one on @beatlesficrecs! Thank you, recommender.)

dreaming of the past by @revollver. 1969. To deal with the Apple corps horrors, John imagines a very sexy Tiny Paul during business meetings. When he confesses this to real Paul, something starts shifting.

broken-hearted jubilee by @backbenttulips. John listens to McCartney and...understands. He and Paul meet. Dot dot dot.

where the spirit meets the bone by @scurator. All right, "reconciliation" might be a bit of a reach, but on the other hand, no, it isn't. How would you call it if a man makes peace with the lost love that haunted his life, and breaks through to the happiness he deserves? Heartbreak and one of favorite endings ever, period—all in one fic. Read it to experience it yourself.

Aninut by @pauls1967moustache. The Beatles reconcile after Brian's death, the way they should have done.

believe me when i tell you by @zilabee. John talks to Paul about the way he sings Oh! Darling. The mesmerizing sight of the elusive McCartney heart, captured but not crushed by John's beautiful hands.

Lucky You by @crumblingcookies. 1970's. On a whim, Paul answers an ad in a gay paper looking for a Paul McCartney lookalike. The person placing the ad was John. It turns out this roleplay setting helps them to...reconcile.

Running with Scissors by @unchaineddaisychain. John and Paul reconcile after John cut the dress of Paul's girlfriend in Hamburg. Blood and blades and cuts and aftercare—incredibly hot and intense.

the touch of the velvet hand by downtothelastdrop. Early days. After Paul gives John his first blowjob, things become fraught and awkward. But not for long.

Origin of Love by @scurator and @paulmcfruity. 1971. After a boring business meeting, John and Paul spend some time alone and do what they fucking should have done. Extremely satisfying read.

Stop all the Clocks by @javelinbk. Paul and John retreat to Paul's farm in Scotland after Brian's death and confront their feelings about everything, including each other. Brian is beautifully present in this story.

Adventures in Total Honesty by @merseydreams. 1975. Paul and John meet after the grammies. They talk. They drink Margaritas. They...reconcile.

Slip of the Tongue by @pauls1967moustache. Maybe my favorite reconciliation story? 1960's. Paul and John reconcile after John says Stu's name during sex. John POV, but there's also a great POV switch to Paul here!

Bonus 1: Paul and Stu

Baselines by cloudy_blue. Stu gives Paul his bass after leaving the band. Reconciliation? A kind of truce.

filling the cracks that ran through the door by @wronglennon. Hamburg. John fights with Stu. Paul can't stand Stu. And yet, sex and reconciliation and sex are possible. A comforting thought in these times.

Bonus 2: Paul and Jim

Hand in Glove (Hand Covers Bruise) by @cherrycreamtangerine. Paul and Jim have the talk they should have had.

Bonus 3: Omegaverse Art (J/P). Yes, they reconcile. Thoroughly.

I Need You by @macca-is-art. Treat yourself. Just go there.

[awkward-tension-art]

Clones and Your Grief HC's

I’m coping with the fact that a family member died by writing headcanons for copy-paste-men. Yes, this is entirely self indulgent. Yes, I am writing based on what I had felt/gone through in the last 24 hours.

CW: Death of family member, reader is gender neutral, This isn’t proofread at all, grief, mourning, If i miss a tag lmk

Clones: Rex, Fives, Wolffe, Hunter, Echo, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair

Minors DNI

You got the call this morning. Right before you got ready for work, you got the call of your family member passing away in the night. no warning. all so sudden.

It felt like you were struck with a speeder. Then, you felt nothing. 

Logically, you knew it was shock. Your brain was overloaded, and you were unable to process. You weren't incapacitated yet, so you got up.

You have work to do.

So you went to work, shutting down and doing what you needed to do in order to make it through the day. You were in a daze the entire time. 

Time went by too fast but also too slow.

You don’t even know when you got home. You just know that you clocked out and walked into your apartment. Unsurprisingly, your clone lover, who had a key, wanted to see you that night.

He took one look at you and knew something was seriously wrong.

When you told him, the grief finally hit you. 

Rex

Will hold you, remaining silent.

He's lost brothers on the field and was forced to continue as if nothing happened. He knows why you shut down due to shock that morning.

So he understands.

He's just going to hold you tightly, and not let go until you do.

Rex is well aware that sometimes talking about it isn't going to help. So he keeps quiet and lets you speak when your ready.

He's a silent comfort. Let's you come to him if you need him to hug you, listen to you or cuddle you.

Fives

Immediately his arms are around you and he's whispering comfort

He might get teary-eyed too out of pure empathy.

He knows grief. he knows pain. and he knows what your feeling. So he wants to help you through it.

He had shut down too before, and only truly felt the emotion afterward. He gets how numbness might hit you in waves.

He'll go with you to the funeral if you want. he just wants to be by your side to help you.

Expect a lot of cuddling, honestly. He just wants to hold you and not let go until he's certain your alright.

Wolffe

He was one of 4 survivors of his entire legion getting killed. Trust me, he knows the feeling of grief.

His brothers and him all leaned on each other through their grief, and he's going to do the same for you.

He'll ask what you need, and act accordingly.

He's a steadfast shoulder to cry on. Like Rex, he doesn't talk much.

You'll have to go to him, he isn't going to push or pry. He knows if he tries to force you to feel what your not ready to feel, it'll do more harm than good.

He'll hold you, keep you close and try to give you everything you need.

Hunter

He knows something is wrong even before you walk through your door.

He's the type to try and comfort with the usual words of 'It'll be ok' or 'they're in a better place.'

If this doesn't help you much, he's flexible and patient. He'll adapt to what you need from him. Space? you got it. Closeness? he's there.

He's going to catch on very quickly if you don't eat or drink properly, so he's going to be pushy in that regard.

Hunter isn't going to let you abandon yourself because of your grief.

Like I said, he's patient and flexible, he'll do whatever he needs to help you through your grief.

Echo

He's the softest out of all of them. He's going to hold you, kiss your face and just be there for you.

Like Fives, he's extremely empathetic. He'll shed a tear just because your crying.

He'll take care of you, honestly. bring you meals, brush your hair (if you want), help you to bed, everything.

Your his heart, and he's in actual pain that your grieving.

Though, if you shut down the same way you did that morning, he's going to worry

He understands how quickly someone can spiral in grief, and he's going to move the entire galaxy to help you.

Wrecker

Like Rex, he's holding you and never letting go.

He's going to try and distract you, make jokes, get you outside into the sun, or get you moving at the very least

He won't allow you to close yourself off. He'll give you space, but he won't let you shut him down completely.

Also wants to attend the funeral with you, if you allow him. He'd be holding your hand the entire time. Though, if it's a family-only event, he understands.

He's pretty quick to pick up on what you need. You need someone to hold you? he's there. You need to get your grief-driven anger out? He's got a pipe ready and some scrap piles that need beating up.

He's going to be by your side through it all.

Tech

First thing he asks is 'What happened?'

Admittedly, he gives some standard responses, such as 'I'm sorry for your loss' and other things like that.

If it doesn't help much, he stumbles slightly. He knows your going through mourning. He knows whats happening logically. but he can't logic his way through this.

So, Tech is going to act with his gut feeling, and try his best to help and comfort you.

He does some researching and looks more into how best to help you through your grief. He's fully prepared depending on the stage of grief you've hit.

He'll talk you through the bargaining phase. Help you get your anger out. Make sure your eating and taking care of yourself through the depression phase.

He's with you, to the best of his ability.

Crosshair

He's not going to say a lot. his words are minimal at best, instead opting to physically comfort you.

He becomes...protective. more so than usual.

It's because your at an extremely vulnerable position emotionally and mentally. He'll be damned if he lets something or someone cause you any more pain and grief.

He's going to attend the funeral with you. if its family-only he's going to go anyway and remain at a distance. Practically shadow you.

Crosshair is going to be extremely sweet and soft holding you. He doesn't want you to bottle up your emotions, so he's going to just wrap his arms around you and let you cry.

Again, his comfort is more physical rather than verbal.

[tyrantisterror]

At Sea Without a Map Post-Script

After two months of so, my little writing experiment At Sea Without a Map has come to an end. And because I'm vain, I not only felt compelled to share it, but to talk about it in depth after the fact, so here we are. This is going to be long, though, so I'm not only going to break it into sections, but put it all under the cut for the sake of your dashboard. So go ahead and dive into the depths of the Sea of Monsters with me one more time!

Part 1: Never Stop Blowing Up

The writing process of Wizard School Mysteries Book 3 was really strained - not because of the book itself, mind you. When I was actually able to work on it, Book 3 came together really well - I think it required the least substantial rewrites of any my novels thus far. It's just that real life was kind of beating the shit out of me while I was trying to get it done - or maybe the better metaphor was that it was just slowly but steadily draining me of energy all the time. I'm honestly surprised I got the book out in roughly the same amount of time as the first two - by the way life had been treating me, it should have taken longer.

But when I got done with it I was accutely aware of how tired I was. I still had the creative drive, but fuck I needed something simple as a palette cleanser - something easy, and more importantly, something that was allowed to be bad. I needed something creative to do that was surplus to requirements and fully within its rights to suck ass so long as I had fun making it.

Around this time, I decided to rewatch Dimension 20's Never Stop Blowing Up. Brief explanation of what that is: Dimension 20 is an actual play show, i.e. a recording of people playing D&D and other TTRPGs. I'd say its reputation is built on the contrast of its main DM, Brennan Lee Mulligan, who makes these meticulously crafted campaign plans, and his chaotic band of improv comedian players who promptly derail those plans spectacularly. Like, a good deal of the show's humor comes from Emily Ashford or Ally Beardsly doing something so off-the-wall that it shatters whatever the scene was going to be and creates a far more absurd and zany spectacle in its place. Which is why Never Stop Blowing Up is pretty notable, because it's the one campaign where Brennan himself is the agent of chaos, fully unleashing his own brand of madness that the players struggle to keep up with. And fuck does he seem to have fun with it.

Of course, all of the analysis above is purely from the outside looking in - it's likely that a lot of the "chaos" is played up for the audience. But still... there is something to the idea of a person who's been working on meticulously structured stories letting loose and just doing something extremely stupid.

So I decided to give myself a Never Stop Blowing Up moment - a short story that would be simple by design, with no standards to live up to or goal beyond "have fun telling a silly little story." I then came up with a few key criteria:

It can't be set in the Midgaheim/ATOM universe. I don't want the burden of figuring out where this story would fit among others.

It's gotta be a romance. People who've read my books might have picked up on the fact that I like to write about people falling in love, for the same reason I like to write about fire-breathing reptiles and friendly monsters (i.e. I use writing to indulge in things I'll never experience in real life). I've only used romance as subplots in my fiction before, and tend to feel a bit guilty if I focus on it too long - like I'm being self indulgent. Well, this is all about self indulgence, so the romance should be front and center.

It's gotta be SIMPLE, episodic even. Not complex plotting required.

I almost chose my xenomorph romance for this, but I had developed its outline to the point where it would be too complex to fit. I then considered a sort of superhero story that could be pitched as "what if Bringing Up Baby but Katherine Hepburn's character is a Harley Quinn-esque supervillain and Cary Grant's character gets turned into some sort of horrifying genetic mutant in the first ten minutes." That one hit a weird roadblock when I got to the character brainstorming phase (the first phase of any writing project I do) - I was trying to figure out what the mad scientist who turns out Cary Grant-figure into a mutant would be named, came up with the name "Dr. Skullfuck," immediately realized that having a character named "Dr. Skullfuck" is a Mark Millar-ass writing move that I could not allow myself to do, but then couldn't stop thinking of the name "Dr. Skullfuck" and giggling, which just brought all thinking to a grinding halt on that project.

(I'll still probably do it someday, though - just, you know, without Dr. Skullfuck)

Inspiration struck again, though. I'd been getting into Epic: The Musical, a musical retelling of The Odyssey, and it put me in the mood for a sea monster story. But, more than that, it got me thinking about one particular archetype from sea monster stories - but that brings us to the next part of this Post Script...

Part 2: It Was Always About Calibani

Ok, so, one of the big changes Epic: The Musical made involved Odysseus's encounter with the sirens, and before you read more of my rambling, I'd like you to watch two animatics for the two songs in question here:

A summary: one of the sirens takes the form of Odysseus's wife to try and tempt him into getting in the water, Odysseus tricks her into giving him directions, captures her and the rest of her kind, and proceeds to have his men slaughter them horribly. In the OG story the sirens don't die - nor does their song involve imitating a man's wife, for that matter, it's just a really pretty song.

This is done for an important narrative purpose - Epic: The Musical is focused on analyzing the moral ambiguity of Odysseus, and how it is constantly challenged by the impossible choices he is forced to make in his attempt to get home. At this point in the musical, Odysseus has decided to stop trying to be a compassionate man, shirking all mercy in favor of utter ruthless pursuit of his goals. These two songs are meant to be unsettling as hell - this is the beginning of a series of heartless choices by both Odysseus and his men that will culminate in the mutiny and complete annihilation of Odysseus's crew, as well as Odysseus himself being so hopelessly stranded that nothing short of divine intervention will save him.

I bring this up because when I first heard these two songs - specifically while watching these two animatics - it, like... it devastated me. I was so horrified and sad, so shaken by it. And part of it was for the reasons outlined above, but admittedly that wasn't the gut reaction I had. No, my immediate reaction was, and I quoute my own broken brain verbatim here: "You can't kill the sirens! They're not for killing, they're for loving!"

...now, those of you who know me are probably not surprised by this very stupid sentiment coming from me. One of my more popular posts is just me talking about how down bad I would be for various folkloric monsters whose whole shtick is "looks like a pretty lady but Watch Out." But as a person filled with immense self loathing and doubt, my brain immediately looked at that very stupid sentiment I expressed and said, "Wait, no, that's fucking dumb, I'm fucking dumb. The sirens are remorseless murderers. These sirens in particular preyed upon a man's love for his wife, who he has not seen in twelve years, to convince him to let them kill him. They are, by all standards of morality, Very Fucking Evil, and if they were not women you would not feel bad about them getting killed."

And as my brain argued with itself over this topic, I got to thinking about the various monstrous/othered sea women of The Odyssey - not just the sirens, but the witch Circe, the nymph Calypso, the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. And I thought about the others of their kind in other myths and folktales - selkies, mermaids, etc.

There's an archetype of sea monster that focuses entirely on one specific anxiety sailors are prone to, namely the fact that (for a good deal of human history) being on a boat meant spending a lot of time away from women. The horror of this monster is how it uses that desire for female company to tempt people into danger - like a mirage, it leads you to expose yourself to danger in pursuit of an illusory comfort.

But, unlike real world mirages, these monstrous sea women DO exist in their stories. More than that, they're often, like, sad and lonely. Their narrative purpose is just to be a temptation, but that doesn't change the fact that they do have lives of their own in these worlds. And, softie that I am, I can't help feeling sad for them, especially the ones who actually seem to want the same companionship the sailors they tempt want. Sailors don't stay with their Circes, they don't marry their Calypsos. The sirens live on a barren rock, alone, Scylla is left to wallow in misery at her monstrous form, and the selkie always has to leave for fear of being trapped by a person who won't love her on her terms.

I realized I had my hook for this simple, easy, silly little sea monster romance story: I was going to give a sea woman the happy ending she'd never get from anyone else.

Sailor may be the protagonist, but make no mistake: At Sea Without a Map was always, always, ALWAYS about Calibani.

The goal with Calibani was simple: I was going to set up a fairly standard Monstrous Sea Woman, but where other stories would let her be in one episode of the travel narrative and move on, this one would stick around. She'd be an unambiguous predator of human beings - an open and admitted maneater - but she would have no true malice to her. She, like all predators, eats what she can get to survive, and it just so happens that she's adapted to eat humans. And the story would pose the same question to the reader that my brain posed to me during Different Beast: is there any way you could make a siren-style sea monster sympathetic? Can you make a normal person who doesn't have my particular brain rot look at a maneating siren and think, "You're not supposed to kill her, you're supposed to love her!"

One of the few unavoidable plot points of At Sea Without a Map was that Calibani and Sailor's relationship would become romantic. What kind of romance it was could have varied substantially - it could have been one-sided, it could have been toxic, it could have been far more tragic OR far more comedic. But it was always, always going to be a romance of some sort - the goal of this experiment was to make you, the reader, love Calibani. All else was icing on the cake.

I decided to base Calibani's personality on Miranda from The Tempest - i.e. a sweet girl who is both wordly and naive, who understands the strange setting of our "lost at sea" story far better than the audience viewpoint character does, but views the mundane world of the audience viewpoint character with wonder and naiveté. In fact I almost named her Miranda outright... except I already had a character in the setting I chose for this story who had that name, and as an allusion to the same Shakespearean character no less. So I settled on naming her after Miranda's adoptive sibling (of sorts), Caliban - more fitting in some ways, as Caliban is a fish-human hybrid who is arguable more native to the magic island in The Tempest than Miranda herself.

(Calibani isn't the only Tempest name homage, either - her mother, Sycorax, takes her name directly from Caliban's unseen but oft-spoken of witch mother. Dr. Antonia Warefore takes her first name from Antonio, one of the human villains in The Tempest who hopes to use being lost at sea as a way to perform a coup. And the mothman Iriel takes her name from Ariel, the wind spirit in The Tempest who aids the wizard Prospero in controlling the magic island. If Sailor has a "real" name, it's probably either Ferdinand or Miranda, the two lovers who manage to blend civilization and the wilderness together with their romance.)

Visually, I wanted Calibani to not be any common archetype of sea monster woman, but rather something that evokes the popular images while still being her own thing. She's not a mermaid or a siren or a selkie - she's basically "what if a sea serpent was also a girl." In-universe, she's chubby because she, like all marine megafauna, needs blubber to survive. Out-of-universe, she's chubby because I've found that routinely drawing cute chubby girls is good for my mental health.

Part 3: CYOA

Now, while we live in a post-Muncher society where shame and cringe are emotions only the cowardly should experience, I am nonetheless Very Catholic about expressing my own feelings of, like, liking girls and shit. I cannot help feeling guilty when publicly expressing adoration of women without, like, an excuse - it's gotta be a joke or something, you know? I can't be genuine about it, or else Jesus will beat me with a cane for disrespecting women with my lecherous gaze.

But luckily I've cultivated a loyal audience of fellow monsterfuckers, which meant I had an excuse lined up: if I made this a choose your own adventure type deal, a story with audience participation, then you all would be my accomplices. And Jesus can't cane all of us! He doesn't have enough hands! I found a loophole bigger than his stigmata!

Plus I love collaborative story-telling - there's a thrill in not having total control of where the narrative is going. As Brennan Lee Mulligan must know, there's a joy in having to deal with the chaos thrown your way by letting others grab the figurative ball, even if just for a moment.

Part 4: Offbeat Melody

Since I did not want to set this story in Midgaheim, I decided to steer myself away from a vaguely medieval setting altogether. But I also didn't want to limit myself with the need for "realism" that putting it in a normal sea would require, and making a new setting whole cloth would start pushing this project into "not easy" territory.

Luckily, I had a setting lying around that I hadn't played with in a while, which just so happened to have a location that was PERFECT for the sort of Never Stop Blowing Up style madness I was aiming for. For a few years I ran a Monster of the Week TTRPG campaign called Offbeat Melody, and one of its core setting elements was taking the goblin universe hypothesis in paranormal science (yeah it's a real hypothesis) to an illogical extreme. We had specifically seen glimpses of the Sea of Monsters in Offbeat Melody, i.e. the parallel universe where monsters like Nessie, Ogopogo, Champ, and the like all hail from. Well, why not have a whole story set there? It's literally a universe devoted solely to creating sea monsters - what better place to strand our modern Odysseus?

Offbeat Melody was always sort of a Never Stop Blowing Up project, or at least NSBU adjacent. Some of my most unhinged story-telling moments are in that campaign - you could make a supercut of just the "commercial breaks" in the various sessions and it'd basically be an I Think You Should Leave episode. Taking one obscure corner of its multiversal world and exploring it in detail was perfect for this project.

Part 5: Monster by Monster

With our main romance as sorted out as could be for a CYOA story, it was time to figure out the "episodes" of this sea voyage. I settled on there being ten to roughly align with The Odyssey - just in terms of number, mind you, not in a one-to-one comparison. The first was, obviously, Calibani herself, which left nine more slots for me to fill with monsters. Let's go through them together in brief:

Tree Storks - any lost at sea story eventually has to get its protagonist into an island at some point, but this immediately begs the question, "Why don't they just stay on the island where it's safe?" The answer to that question has to be, "it's not safe there, actually." The Odyssey does this quickly and cleverly with a one two punch: the first island seems safe until you realize the food on it brainwashes you into forgetting everything except your desire to eat it, and the second island is full of delicious sheep but also giants who will eat you just as easily as they eat the sheep. When other islands show up in the story later, you immediately regard them with suspicion, because you don't know HOW they're going to be fucked up, but they definitely will be. My goal with the second episode was to establish the same sort of danger - that land is NOT safe, that islands WILL be fucked up and dangerous in ways you might not expect.

I also wanted to establish that this is not just a sea of monsters, but a very WEIRD sea of WEIRD monsters. It couldn't be any old monster on this island - it had to be one that was unique, unexpected, and maybe just a bit silly while still being menacing.

I've always felt that there's a lot of un-mined horror potential in storks, cranes, and herons - any bird with a long neck and spear-like beak it uses to stab smaller creatures from above. Just imagine yourself in a frog's place in the world - tiny, going about your business, when suddenly something shoots down at you from above and impales you before you even feel the shadow fall over your face. Or perhaps you did see the shadow - some of these birds spread their wings to create shade specifically to attract fish, and then spear the poor little bastards.

Well, what do people often look to islands for when out at sea? Shade - the shade of a palm tree. And palm fronds kinda resemble feathers, don't they? Wouldn't it be both ludicrous and terrifying is there was a stork big enough to mimic a palm tree - and wouldn't that be a DEVIOUS trap for a sun-drenched sailor to fall for? So the Tree Storks were born.

The Globster - I made a list of sea monster archetypes in the early planning for this project, and one I wanted to include was a kraken, i.e. some sort of tentacled sea beast. But I didn't want to do JUST a big squid or octopus, or even a riff on them. I wanted to take the idea of "big sea monster with lots of tentacles" into a stranger direction.

Since the Sea of Monsters is explicitly the home universe of lake and sea monster cryptids, I thought it might be fun if ASWaM's kraken equivalent was a globster - just a big ball of rotten meat. I love drawing monstrous faces, so I decided it'd just be, like, MADE of hideous rotten faces, all melting and congealing together, with its tentacles doubling as the tongues of its many mouths. A perfectly wretched image that, like the Tree Storks, would do well to establish how Fucked things could get in this setting. Plus similar monsters had appeared in Offbeat Melody, which would make for a fun sense of familiarity for the, like, five or so readers of mine who had listened to that campaign before.

Captain Peter & the Dolphin - Another thing I did in the early planning stages of this project was make a list of the different sea voyage stories I know and love, the most contentious of which is The Life of Pi. That's a story that I love on a literal level but kind of hate on a figurative level - its whole theme/message is that doubt is the worst thing you can have, that if you don't commit to believing something with zealous conviction you are a coward. As a person who thinks doubt is valid, that "I don't know" is sometimes the ONLY truly valid answer to a question, I have issues with that message.

But I can't help loving the beautifully ludicrous idea of a non-anthropomorphic tiger sailing the ocean on a big Odyssey of its own. Like, if that story didn't actively hate me for being agnostic, it would be one of my favorites.

So I decided to, you know, just steal the idea of a tiger Odysseus. The tiger in The Life of Pi is named Richard Parker. Richard Parker also happens to be the name of Peter Parker's dad. Hence we get Captain Peter - the figurative son of Richard Parker, if you will. And to ratchet up the absurdity of a tiger Odysseus, I made him a pirate and the sole sailor of his voyage. Somehow, this tiger has manned a boat on his own.

Captain Peter was intended to be the hero of another story - a sign for the readers that it IS possible for a stranded person (or, in this case, tiger) to survive out here. To that end, he had to rescue our heroes from another threat, but not one that would be interesting enough to take the focus off of the tiger pirate. Originally I planned for that threat to just be a big shark, but I ended up liking my shark design too much to put it in a role that small, so I quickly designed a nasty dolphin for the role instead. I think that worked out well, honestly.

Dr. Neptune - Episodes 5 and 6 were the mid-point of this journey, so I wanted the two monsters of those to escalate things significantly. I figured episode 5 was probably a good place to FINALLY give some meaningful exposition on what was going on, and there are a lot of stories about mad scientists doing weird shit on islands in my big list of sea voyage stories I love. So we get Dr. Neptune, a classical brain-in-a-jar mad scientist who's affable enough to give more-or-less accurate exposition but loony enough to be a problem. This also felt like a good spot to remind the reader that Calibani is not just a girl with a tail but rather a Sea Monster herself, and one that we'd been making stronger by allying with.

With his human-but-not-quite nature and cyclops eye, Dr. Neptune could sort of be seen as the Polyphemus of this story, couldn't he?

The Crocodisle - One of the sea monster archetypes on my list was "the island that's actually a sleeping monster," of which there are many in mythology and folklore. My favorite is the Jasconius from the voyage of St. Brendan, mainly because it's more or less benign and actually comes back to help St. Brendan and his crew at the end of the story. I always love when I can find an old story with a friendly monster in it.

When thinking of my own spin on the island monster concept, I remembered the only Magic the Gathering card I had as a kid, which I still have and love to this day: The Sandbar Crocodile. This card already inspired Crocogon's color scheme in The Atomic time of Monsters, but I felt I could go to that well again one more time, and so made a crocodile that wasn't just a sandbar, but a whole damn island to itself. And, like Jasconius, it turns out he's pretty chill.

I did not think of the pun name "Crocodisle" until I was actually writing the chapter in question.

The Femdom Mermaids - These three were a late addition to the roster. When I had Calibani bring up mermaids early in the story, I realized as soon as I wrote her rant about them that we'd HAVE to meet some later on in the story.

The readers had significantly shaped Calibani and Sailor's romance by this point, and I decided that it could be useful to have a chapter that was devoted to showing definitively how these two were good for each other. I thought the mermaids could provide a good contrast: have them act out a seemingly more benign take on the monstrous sea women trope (they abduct our hero to protect and care for them!) only for it to quickly feel MORE deranged than Calibani's comparatively simple desire just to eat him.

The spirit of Calibani's rant about mermaids was taken from weird* girls I knew in high school complaining about cheerleaders, so I wanted the mermaids to look like the sea monster equivalent of popular kids to Calibani's chubby weird girl. Two of them got the names of famous beauties - Helyne = Helen of Troy, Clio = Cleopatra.

(*when I say "weird" I mean it in a complimentary and affectionate sense)

Bob, meanwhile, kinda... rebelled, I guess? Before I had names for them, I listed "bob" by her as just, like, a descriptor for her hair cut, but then I liked it as her name, and once she was named Bob she became more than just a mean popular girl. She was a weirdo too, the little punching bag of the two mean popular girls who did their dirty work and smiled through their abuse because hey, at least they included her. It gave the trio an easily defined dynamic, helped make two of the three more visibly nasty, and gave us comic relief in an arc that could very well have gotten too uncomfortable otherwise.

And I guess it worked - readers REALLY loved Bob, and were very vocal about it, and I realized mid-arc that I had accidentally made her too likable to just leave in this arc. So Bob got to be rescued from her awful friend group thanks to readers like YOU.

Lord Ironteeth - yeah, this was the shark that was too cool to be a minor threat. When I drew his noggin, I realized he would need a chapter of his own, one with gravitas. I decided he'd specifically be the threshold guardian -once we beat him, we'd know for sure how to get home, even if there were a few more threats in store.

Spindle Inc and Sycorax - when I was a kid I used to have this recurring nightmare about being on some sort of underwater sea station that had this huge sea serpent trapped inside it. I'd look at the sea serpent from a window within the station and see it coiling in its tank, only for it to look at me with fury. In that glance I would suddenly realize two things with absolute clarity: first, it was going to break free and kill everyone, and second, we deserved that destruction for what we had done to it. The terror of the dream was less that the sea serpent was going to break free, and more the guilt of knowing that all the mayhem that was about to unfold was our fault to begin with.

I thought that would be fun to homage with the penultimate chapter of this story. OBVIOUSLY the sea serpent was Calibani's mom, obviously the trauma of its capture was why Calibani grew into a predator that specializes in hunting humans, obviously we would have to free the sea serpent despite that running counter to Sailor's goal of getting home. Easy, easy, easy plot point to include.

Spindle, Inc. is the primary antagonistic force in Offbeat Melody, so they easily slotted into the role of the arrogant humans who captured this monster for nefarious and selfish motives. They could tie a lot of other plot threads together too - Dr. Neptune was a scientist who worked for them as a contractor only to get screwed over (i.e. they stranded him in the Sea of Monsters, expecting him to die, and then used his research to make their own base of operations in it), we'd learn of him through a spindle briefcase left behind by some unfortunate rogue agent who got eaten by the Globster while he was trying to escape, hell they could even be one of the possible origins of Sailor themself (more on that later). Very useful villains, Spindle.

The Abyssal Mother - I knew the last sea monster would need a lot of punch to it. I briefly considered just a big whale - the Moby Dick to Spindle's corporate Ahab - but it felt underwhelming after all that came before. So I went for arguably the most dramatic possible sea monster, a full on Cthulhu-style elder god. If you're a frequent follower of this blog, you might know I have particularly high standards for Eldritch Abominations, so I realized this was going to be a pretty big challenge for me to live up to, and decided to keep the cthulhu in question reserved to the last few entries as a result - the less it appears, the less it has to live up to.

I realized I had a good angle when my experiments with the Cthulhu "squid for a head" concept ended up having a face framed in shadow - you know, the same visual that our protagonist has in most appearances. That provided some very juicy parallels between the two that made this final monster feel particularly noteworthy to me, ones that I'll leave you to ponder, since they tie into...

Part 6: Themes

I did not set out to have a theme in this story. I just wanted to make a sailor and a sea monster kiss. That was my only goal.

But I really don't begin with theme in ANY of my writing. I figure out topics I want to address, but for all my novels I feel like the themes didn't start coming together until about halfway through the first draft, when enough of the elements of the story had been set down and interacted with each other enough for me to realize what I was saying with them. A huge part of my second and third drafts for my novels have focused on making the themes of my stories more concrete and unified.

Well, ASWaM is very much a first draft of a story, but it's a simple enough story that I think the theme found itself pretty well despite lacking subsequent drafts to refine it.

ASWaM is about doubt and direction. It's about being adrift in a world that is in many ways hostile by nature, about not feeling like you're where you're supposed to be or even WHO you're supposed to be, and about setting off aimlessly in the hope that maybe you'll find your way to that mythical land of "what my life is supposed to be."

When I began the story, Sailor had amnesia and wore clothes that obscured their identity as a way to make it easier for anyone to step into Sailor's role. Sailor had to feel like You, the Reader, and so we don't know their name, their gender, their eye color, their hair color, even their skin color (note that their hands are always wearing gloves, and their face is always in shadow).

But it also meant Sailor is, well, undefined, at least at the start of the story. Sailor doesn't know who they are, what they are, how they came to be. Sailor feels distinctly that they should be Something Else, should be Somewhere Else, should be Someone Else, should not be who/what/where they are. Sailor is plagued by doubt, by a need to go in a different direction, by a need to be other than they are.

This initially contrasts with Calibani, who begins the story very confident that she is doing exactly what she was designed to be doing and acting exactly like she should be. As they interact, they begin to shift each other in opposite directions - Calibani questions her existence and nature, sometimes to a self destructive degree, and Sailor begins to find something about who and where they are that they like. They find a healthy middle ground together - doubtful enough to want to be better people, but with love for themselves that allows them to not feel the need to up-heave their lives entirely.

I knew at the start that I would build an expectation for there to be some answer to the question of who Sailor is and where they came from, because those are the questions that begin the whole narrative. I brainstormed a number of answers to those questions, but once I got a few chapters into writing the story and saw this theme of doubt developing, I realized I couldn't answer them. From a thematic standpoint, the doubt HAD to remain. So I gave hints to possible answers, bits of evidence to support the possibility of them being true, but never planted a smoking gun that answered it for sure.

Sailor can't know the answer because NONE of us know the answer. Outside of blind Life of Pi style faith, you cannot know for sure that you are living the life you're supposed to live. All you can do is figure out whether you're happy with the life you've got, or if you need a change. Sailor will never know who they are supposed to be, but they did learn who they are, and they love that person now.

For those curious, the possible Sailor origins are:

Occam's Razor: they're exactly what Dr. Neptune theorized, i.e. a human who got stranded in the Bermuda Triangle (or the Devil's Triangle or any other number of paranormal triangles) and fell into the Sea of Monsters. The trauma of that experience gave them amnesia. It's just brain damage and bad luck.

A Spindle Experiment: Dr. Warefore mentions that Spindle has been trying to find a way to make a human who can evolve like the denizens of the Sea of Monsters. Sailor may well be an attempt to do just that, perhaps one they wrote off as a failure and abandoned (they do that a lot)

A Deep One: Sailor is the offspring of one of the denizens of the Sea of Monsters (most likely the Abyssal Mother herself) who has somehow been tricked into believing they are human, to the point where they seem to be human to everyone else, even other monsters. Maybe a human summoned a sea monster to breed with on earth, and Sailor ended up being subconsciously drawn back to the Sea by their blood. Maybe Sailor never actually lived on earth at all, but was only made to THINK they had as part of the transformation into a human.

The Platonic Ideal of a Sailor: the Sea of Monsters is full of archetypal concepts, and arguably a sailor trying to find their way home is just as archetypal as any sea serpent, mermaid, or kraken. Our only proof that humans aren't native to the Sea of Monsters is Dr. Neptune, and he's not as reliable an expert as he claims to be.

This theme of doubt and direction also made the compass more important to the narrative than a simply mechanic for audience participation - a compass, after all, gives direction, and the feeling that Sailor is not where they're supposed to be, that they need to head in a different direction, is ultimately the catalyst of the plot. The compass is, in many ways, the antagonist of the story - the force that keeps Sailor from accepting themself. I realized this a little after I started making the different directions have personalities - initially they just represented broad concepts (North = follow conventional wisdom ala the North Star, South = preserve your short-term self interest at all costs, East = act with curiosity and be willing to take calculated risks, and West = throw caution to the wind and do anything that seems novel and exciting), but over time they became little characters themselves.

Since it was our thematic antagonist, I decided to pepper in some ideas about what the compass might be in-universe - and, in a move that would no doubt frustrate the compass, we also don't know for sure which of those is "correct." Is the compass a poltergeist, some amalgamation of dead sailors who try to steer other lost souls home? Is it a malign entity that leeches off of those desperate enough to seek its aid, living through them while pretending to aid them? Is it a device Spindle made to lure sailors to their clutches, OR to guide their experiments in human/monster hybrids? Was it a cursed item that forced a sea monster to assume a human shape? Who can say - the compass sure can't, it can only tell you a direction to go in.

Part 7: Q&A

Since this was an interactive story, I felt it was only fitting to add one last interactive element to this post-script write up, and some of your happily obliged me by sending in questions.

When I noticed how fast readers were falling for Calibani, I figured there was a good chance we'd end up staying in the Sea of Monsters. By chapter 7, I figured it was more or less a given, and by the end of the Lord Ironteeth encounter I was almost 100% sure Sailor would remain at sea. There was always a chance, though - while a look at the polls shows that the audience got more and more on the same page towards the end, there were always dissenting voices, and the desire to get an answer to the question of Who Sailor Was remained strong, as a number of people kept trying to find angles where they could get that AND stay with Calibani.

I was surprised early on by how easily the audience fell in love with Calibani, to the point where I made a few posts commenting on it. I mean, I shouldn't have been - as I said earlier, I have cultivated an audience of fellow monsterfuckers on here, and I know at least a few of them saw my bait and knew they could get me to be freaky in a way we found mutually agreeable (thank you all again for helping me escape being caned by Jesus for being horny).

Like, we REPEATEDLY ignored developing the plot in the Tree Storks chapter for several days just to spend more time with Calibani - something that I enjoyed immensely (this whole thing was an excuse for me to write and draw a cute chubby sea monster girl as much as possible aftter all) but also knew as a storyteller was not what most would consider a good story call. I like how it turned out, but it defied conventional narrative wisdom, you know? I was surprised.

On the other side of the coin, I was also surprised by how the audience NEVER chose an option that was humorously disastrous. I gave plenty of them, and, like, generally in collaborative storytelling there will be at least one moment where your collaborators decide to do the really, REALLY stupid thing that makes everything spiral out of control really quickly. I figured at least once the audience would choose the troll response, but no, you guys worked hard to keep Sailor and Calibani alive. You refused to let them hurt each other, refused to let them throw themselves into danger, refused to imperil them for your own chuckles. It was very sweet and unexpected.

I say "you refused" but to be fair it's not like NO ONE voted for the troll options - they generally got a handful of votes, just one that was beaten by a landslide of more reasonable options. Hopefully those of you who voted for the troll options enjoyed Bob throwing you a bone by disintegrating Dr. Warefore - that was my consolation prize to you.

Yes. I knew at the beginning that there would be two endings for this story: either Sailor leaves the Sea and goes home, or Sailor stays there forever. Or, you know, Sailor dies as a result of you guys choosing several stupid options in a row, but as stated above you guys avoided those scenarios pretty decisively.

Had Sailor gone home, the following would have occurred: first, they would forget everything that happened in the Sea of Monsters. Second, they would wake up in a hospital, having been found in the Atlantic Ocean by a human-recovery charity run by... oh, isn't that funny, some tech company named Spindle Inc! Spindle would foot the medical bills and even offer Sailor a job, but Sailor would decline because even now they're still not sure what Spindle even does. Sailor would go back to their life and find it familiar and utterly mundane, but not particularly happy. Their father died when they were 18, their mother was never in the picture, they have no siblings. They worked an office job and were sort of a nonentity - that position has long since been filled, but Sailor gets a new job and lives out much the same life: simple, mundane, dreary. Every now and then they get a pang of desire to leave, to go to sea, but they push it out of mind. They never even see the ocean again as long as they live.

Sailor would have gotten the normal life they thought they were supposed to have, the normal memories and name and identity, the mundane life of a normal person. And they just had to trade everything they found in the Sea of Monsters to get it. A question is answered, a direction is followed, but is it the right answer, the right direction?

Well, I think doubt would have remained.

I had a very vague idea for there to be some sort of man-eating giant in, like, a crystal castle. He got cut to make way for the mermaids.

I wanted to fit in a big whale and a giant crustacean, but there wasn't room or an interesting angle for me to want to make room for them. Saved for a possible sequel, I suppose.

I also wanted to have a scene with, like, DOZENS of sea monsters, including some of the ones from Offbeat Melody, but the goal of "this should be EASY you dumbass" made me kill that idea pretty quick.

Thank you!

The primary inspirations were:

The Odyssey and Epic: the Musical

The voyage of St. Brendan

The many "weird shit happens on an island" movies in Toho's filmography, i.e. Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster, Son of Godzilla, Yog Monster of the Deep, Matango, etc.

The Island of Dr. Moreau

The Boy and the Heron

Ponyo (specifically Ponyo's parents - I wanted Sailor to have the same desperate energy as that wizard who fucks the giant sea goddess)

The Life of Pi

Slay the Princess (perhaps most obvious in the use of second person narration, multiple voices in the protagonist's head, and falling in love with a creature that has tried to kill you at least once)

I'm going to use this to springboard to a related point in a second, but first a genuine yet humorous answer: Yes, absolutely yes, I am enough of a big romantic sap that I would give everything about my life away to be with a person who loves me and explore a world of monsters in a heartbeat. Hell, I would have jumped in the water the minute Calibani asked and died with her fangs in my neck and a smile on my face. I am dumb this way. Do not follow my example.

On that related point, though... Most stories like this, I daresay ALL stories like this that I know of, end with the hero abandoning the fantasy world in favor of reality, never to return. And that seems like the proper choice and lesson on the surface - we don't want to tell audiences to give up their real life in favor of a fantasy, after all. That's encouraging escapism, and that's not healthy!

But, like... textually speaking, the fantastical world IS real to the characters in these stories. And it's often not really an escape - was Sailor's life devoid of conflict and suffering in the Sea of Monsters? Fuck no! It's just that they figured out how to deal with that conflict and suffering - they built skills and a support system, they adapted, they learned how to overcome what was there.

I think it can be argued that sometimes the return to a "normal" world is, in itself, an escape - the idea that your life can spiral into chaos but that's ok, you can just reset everything and go back to The Way It Was and Should Be is just as unrealistic and unhealthy an idea as You Should Escape to A Better World. Sometimes your plans for your life fall apart, sometimes you're thrown into a place you never intended to go, sometimes you have to learn skills you never anticipated needing and ally with people you never thought you'd befriend to deal with problems you never dreamed you'd have to overcome. And sometimes it's ok to look at your derailed life, your Not Where You Should Be life, and say, "Well, I've learned how to live here... maybe I can stay."

Especially if there's a cute chubby sea monster girl who loves you.

Bob was never supposed to appear past chapter 7, but about halfway through that chapter I realized the audience and I myself would be heartbroken if we didn't rescue her. Definitely for the best - she provided some well-needed comic relief in the final chapters.

This is gonna sound snarky, but, yeah - there were 58 choices with four options a piece, and we only chose one of the four. While some of the options would have similar results, almost none would have had identical outcomes. And some would have been VERY different.

Like, to go back to the beginning: when Calibani attacked, we could either throw a net on her, harpoon her, try to drive around her, or hide below deck. We picked the net, but for the other three options:

Harpooning would result in us hitting her in the thigh, causing her enough pain that she collapses on our deck and we, horrified at the violence we committed, just sort of push on. Calibani would be wounded for at least the next chapter, perhaps longer, and significantly weaker (and probably harboring a great deal of hidden resentment while also being genuinely scared of Sailor). She would be vulnerable during the stork attack, forcing Sailor to take a more active role in that chapter.

Trying to steer around her would result in us essentially fighting her with our boat, resulting in the boat capsizing and Calibani getting tangled up in it. We'd wake up alone on Stork Island and have to travel in search of our boat, alone and vulnerable among man-eating trees. We'd run into Calibani again, also beached and in trouble, end up recruiting her to help us get our boat out of the sand.

Hiding below deck would end in a sea storm that leaves us inside our boat as it's beached on Stork Island. We'd fend off the storks alone, and run into Calibani once we get our boat out to sea, as she got away more or less unscathed.

All of these would have majorly changed the trajectory of our relationship with Calibani and our identity as Sailor, despite seeming to have the same component parts on the surface. Now account for how similarly slight changes in the other options could have gone, and we could have had a very different story indeed.

Part 8: Our Girl

I just think she's neat!

[quantum1mmortality]

Just read some of your stuff, absolutely BEAUTIFUL I might add. Can you sfw/nsfw headcanons do the Lin Kuei boys with a super social gal? Like she’s all energetic and is HUGE on the PDA? Can she also have big titties? (Totally not self projecting or anything)

Tumblr is still being mean and not letting me edit drafts ugh so this is probably gonna be really bad srry

Tw/cw: afab reader, jealous bi han, toxic bi han? he's his own warning guys, kind of just scenarios and not hcs, still hcs tho I cannot deny you all of that, WRITING THIS AFTER I WROTE EVERYTHING AND I FORGOT THE PDA PART IN BI HANS FORGIVE ME ANON, boobs galore, Kuai being a tit guy, I literally hate this so fucking much

Not proofread fuck you

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

Bi han

Sfw

Wouldn't admit it, but he finds you adorable.

The way you're the complete opposite of him makes his heart melt.

You practically do all the talking in your relationship while Bi Han silently observes and listens.

When you're out together, he mainly stays beside you as you lead him everywhere.

He finds your ability to quickly make friends amazing, considering he was never able to do that(skill issue).

He can't help but smile when he sees you talk so kindly to everyone, whether you know them or not.

He usually wears his mask when you two are together because of this.

You'd most definitely be the person in the relationship to say "excuse me, he asked for no pickles", mainly because he'd refuse to send his food back because a meal is a meal.

Nsfw

Cool, calm, collected. That's what Bi Han likes to describe himself as. But it's much different when it comes to you.

My god, does this man love tight shirts. It doesn't matter what color, what time of the day, if youre wearing one, he's in the mood.

And he hates how much power you have over him.

He hates when you wear tight clothes in public, too. Mainly because it's extremely hard for him to control himself.

He sees how well you get along with others, how people stare at you with nothing but admiration, and he can't help but feel jealous.

More jealous than he'd like to admit.

Bi Han thinks that he should only be the one staring at you, that he's the only person who can give you the love you deserve.

He'd occasionally see other men staring, looking at your curves and the smile that Bi Han loves so dearly.

He hates the amount of jealousy that pulses through him, clenching his fists tightly as he tries his hardest to keep his composure.

When you get home however, he's showing you just how much he loves you, deserves you, needs you.

He can't help his hands from wandering your body, taking in every curve and relishing in just how beautiful you are.

He'd whisper praise as he kisses and nibbles lightly on your neck, cupping your breasts as a gasp escapes your lips.

You could feel the tent in his pants as he began grinding against your inner thighs, desperately calling out your name as he continues.

His breathing is heavy, fanning your neck as his teeth sank into your shoulder.

A surprised yelp escapes your breath as you can now feel his breath hitting your ear.

"Look what you do to me, you'll have to help me with this, you know."

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

Kuai Liang

Sfw

He'd absolutely love seeing you socialize with others.

He'd love the way you can strike up a conversation with anyone and just turn such a bad mood into a light hearted one.

He completely commends your social skills and practically can't go anywhere without you.

Kuai Liang himself would most likely indulge in PDA on his own, so if you initiate, he isn't going to stop you.

He loves holding your hand in public, he loves making people know that he's with you.

He'll also kiss you in public, but not often. Like, at all. He prefers to keep something like that private.

But if you insist, he can't really deny you.

Nsfw

Two words: staring problem.

This man can NOT keep his eyes off you.

Seriously, who decided you can be THAT fine? He genuinely can't stand it.

He's in love with all of your curves, and he LOVES your breasts.

He genuinely can't help wanting to nap on them. Theyre big and soft, can you really blame him?

Kuai Liang would just, touch them. All the time. No warning, he'd walk up to you and just palm them.

Oftentimes, this leads into other things. Kuai is generally just a big fan of titties. Any size, any shape, any color, if you have them, he loves them.

So, he's a professional titty sucker. Willingly.

Kuai genuinely does feel comfort in bringing you pleasure, and if you both get pleasure from doing something, he's all for it.

But if you want to make a night all about him? He's more than excited.

He'd absolutely have you tit fuck him.

He kind of doesn't even get pleasure from the actual feeling, he mainly gets off to how you look during it.

If he was going to be completely honest, seeing you topless and pressing your breasts around his cock is so much more pleasurable than most things.

He'd be a complete mess while watching you, he'd grip the sheets in his hands tightly as he watches his cock disappear and come back through your breasts.

He whimpers as you begin to place kitten licks on his tip, hissing as his grip on the sheets tighten.

Seeing you like this never fails to turn him on quickly, anything that involves you turns him on, but that's not something he'd admit.

"Y/n- please,, let me cum already~"

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

Tomas

Sfw

Oh my god.

This man would be OBSESSED with you.

You're pretty AND social? He might as well propose immediately.

He's constantly around you, literally never leaving you alone, especially not in public.

If Tomas has to go into a public setting and he can't bring you, he isn't coming.

To him, you're like an emotional support person. You're usually the person who starts conversations for him, and he genuinely doesn't know what he'd do without you.

He loves how kind and naturally nurturing you are, the smiles he sees on other peoples faces simply because of you is something that has made him more happy than he's willing to admit.

Nsfw

STARING PROBLEM but worse.

Tomas is genuinely insufferable when it comes to your body.

Since he practically worships the ground you walk on, he worships your body even more.

If you were to ask him for literally anything, no matter what it is, he'd do it for you, but he has weaknesses.

If you were to ask him for something while batting your eyelashes, he'd simply stop working.

Because of this, sex with him usually results in him being a bottom.

Yeah, I know, it's practically cliche at this point to make Tomas a bottom, but have you SEEN him?

That man is on his knees day and night trying to please you.

He'd usually have you ride him as one hand would be on your waist while the other is firmly holding one of your breasts.

Sometimes he gets too in the moment and holds both of them, but can you really blame him?

Hes entranced to say the least. They're big, soft, warm, how could he not want to hold them constantly?

Even just touching them is enough to get him off.

His head would be thrown back is pleasure as his grip on you tightens, moaning out your name as he bucks his hips upward.

"Shit- hah,, y/n~ I'm so- ngh, close~"

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

Might disappear and never post again wouldn't that be fucking funny

[madameisaacpereire]

Showing Henry your new shoes by jumping onto the sofa next to him and tossing your feet into his lap. Batting your lashes and having a sweet smile on your face as you await his opinion. May or may not have been bought with his credit card! (pic: the shoes in question)

omg i love those shoes. now, i normally wouldn't seriously entertain the idea of henry being some kind of super giving bf (though i do find it incredibly possible and likely, i don't dare think about it too much for fear of my writings drifting too far out of character) but i'm reading june's book club book today (summer in the city, alex aster. i follow along with the readings of the parkcityavenue book club on instagram and adore it idc how frivolous this sounds. i love romance.) and so i'm giggling over this idea.

WARNING idk how close any of this is to how henry would genuinely be. this is just my entirely self indulgent daydream while i'm fresh off reading a silly billionaire romance with very little literary merit.

i see this working best in a situation where you're financial equals and had extremely similar financial upbringings. just so he doesn't run the risk of feeling used, you know? but with this in mind, i'm sure he'd love spending money on the right person. perhaps too much money. i don't think you'd be dating, bc i don't think he dates in the traditional sense (how many times have you heard a guy his age call themselves 'too evolved' for labels? sorry but he's the same as them,) but i can see you being friends that have morphed into more.

think: if angel wasn't a tragic story. yes yes yes. anyway, so it would probably start with his paying for things anytime you're out together. gentlemanly, merely henry fulfilling his chivalrous duty. but eventually you'd start to find spare cash hidden about your own apartment. some under the couch, some in a pair of shoes, some in a purse. $20 here, $50 there... for reference, $20 back then would be $77.62 today. $50 would be $200 today. it's no small sum.

when confronted about it, he'd probably say he remembers you complaining about wanting new shoes, but you're too responsible to really dip into your own allowance. depending on the type of person you are, you might try to give the money back, or elect to keep it somewhere safe without using it. but eventually, you'd see something you really want. something you'd deem too frivolous. and you'd like it so much that you cave. so you use the cash he left for this precise purpose, and you buy the item.

first it might be something small. small enough to justify, at least. a bracelet or delicate necklace that clearly costs more than you'd typically part with, but it's within the realm of possibility. and i don't think he'd verbally acknowledge it, but he'd probably know you well enough to know that you finally gave in; that you allowed him to buy you something frivolous.

and eventually you'd find yourself getting used to it. accepting the money that just appears without argument. even acknowledging that he has paid for your new things. 'do you like the earrings you got me?' or 'this is the new skirt you bought.'

you'd never get to the point where you expect it- you aren't like bunny. and this makes him all the more generous. it would become this cheeky, flirtatious, extra component to your relationship. and seeing you in things he bought would thrill him, what with his yearning to be needed, and appreciated, and to control everything. this would feel like a deeper layer of control to him, i think.

which would eventually lead to this. you skipping into his apartment, wearing a new pair of prada shoes- your most costly purchase yet- and resting them on his lap.

"they suit you," he'd say, though he would hardly spare them a glance, "but i'd rather you keep them off my lap, angel. you'll spoil my suit."

i imagine your cheeks would tinge pink when he gently nudges your feet toward the floor. you'd feel some level of embarrassment, yes, but also an almost perverse sense of pride, of pleasure, due to the fact that you've gotten his approval.

oh yeah. this dynamic could and would turn toxic so fast.

[eowynstwin]

Hi everyone. It's been a while—exactly a month since I last posted to this blog. How have you been?

A month isn't really all that long, but it's enough time to be able to look at everything that happened and understand it better. In the end, the whole situation (I've been calling it The Fuckening in my head) really didn't have anything to do with me. I was unlucky enough to run across someone willing to hurt anyone they could for attention, but also lucky enough that everyone who mattered to me in this fandom went to bat for me.

So I’ve decided to come back to this blog. I'll be posting about call of duty again as well as posting my writing. I also plan to blog about other fandoms (I’d already been doing it anyway); I've been getting back into rdr2, for example, and there's some writing I'd like to do for that.

There’s more context which I’ll put below the cut, but that’s the most important part of what I have to say; I often regret how long winded I can be, so the rest is just self indulgence if you can forgive it. I’ve thought a lot about this choice and I’m satisfied with my decision. I hope none of you will mind.

So, lol, things were not great outside of fandom stuff when it all kicked off, though I didn’t mention it publicly because we all know by now that asking for any sympathy when you’re the target of a mob is more likely to just get you raked over the coals harder. I’m still not entirely sure about talking about all of this, but I have a bad tendency to clam up when I really should be asking for support. So:

I mentioned briefly before the accusations started flying that I was dealing with bedbugs—turns out it was actually something else, but leading up to a doctor’s visit I was convinced I had an infestation, and I was stripping my bed every day to look for them. I had alarms set to wake me up twice a night to see if I could catch them, so I was not sleeping all that well. I couldn’t find anything, but I had no other explanation, and it was driving me fucking crazy. Post doctor visit it turns out I had a viral infection. No idea where I caught it, and nothing to do but wait it out. I had a massive, gnarly looking rash all over my body, and to add insult to injury I developed a fever that took me out for a whole weekend. (I’m recovered now but I have a nifty new scar on my hip from getting a biopsy.)

Next to that, I was having some PTSD flareups of my own. This was (mostly) unrelated to The Fuckening. Now, I understand that that might be hard to believe, given “Myka’s” claims, and I can’t make you believe me. Nor will I provide details to convince you, other than to say there were some things going on in my neighborhood that recalled a period of time in my life that was extremely unstable, and I found myself irrationally terrified to go home every day. For those of you who don’t experience the symptoms of PTSD, I think it’s appropriate to note that it isn’t just emotional turmoil; I, personally, experience physical pain in my entire body that lingers for hours, days, or even weeks after being triggered. (Everything regarding this, too, is fine now. I have a great therapist and a supportive family.)

All of this to say, I wasn’t exactly thinking rationally when I decided to leave this blog and fandom. And I regretted the decision almost instantly.

However, I didn’t want to let grief make any decisions for me, and also I was still VERY scared Myka was going to hunt down my personal information and either dox or harass me elsewhere. I think this fear was justified; it has happened to other writers in this fandom before.* So I decided to take some time to cool off and watch the situation develop without me.

I don’t think I need to get into the details—although if you’re interested in them, @fulltacs has been keeping track of the drama. Given the most recent development with the four obviously sock puppet blogs that popped up and immediately began stirring shit up again, I realized Myka probably would have done what she did with or without me. I just so happened to give her the ammunition she needed to do something REALLY big. It was pure bad luck.

(Also—and I’m sorry if this is just stirring the pot, but after everything they did to me I feel I deserve to make the accusation—I’ve suspected for a while that the two loudest blogs leading the witch hunt against me were far more involved in this farce than anyone has assumed. I have no proof and I do not want anyone to do anything about it on my behalf, leave them the fuck alone. But I will not forget the distress they caused me for a long fucking time, and the only way for me to let this go is to say my piece. So there. Done. Let that be the end of it.)

Having this hindsight, I feel comfortable coming back. I’m still very touched by everyone’s support, which in the end was louder than the harassment. I also think it’s important for people who care about fighting racism in any community not to run at the first sign of trouble, which I did, and I feel pretty sorry for.

That’s the gist of things. If you’ve read all of this, thank you for doing so!

*I was going to add a paragraph about halfmoth-halfman’s situation but decided against it. For one thing, she wants to be left alone, and for another, talking about the experiences of fans of color, particularly black fans, deserves its own post separate from my white experience, if I should even post about it at all.

[chvoswxtch]

hi! could i request a fic where frank is helping reader with urges to relapse in s3lf h@rm? or maybe they already relapsed? if this is not something you’re comfortable writing please feel free to just ignore this :) i’m struggling w/ this lately so it’s just self indulgent for me lmao and your writing is ADDICTIVE. you have such a talent and i hope you’re doing well!! x

my sweet sweet sweet nonnie. I am sending you all the love I possibly can. I am so sorry that you are struggling. I know what it's like to struggle with this, and I promise you it does get better. I know everyone says that and sometimes those words can sound so hollow, but I mean it from the bottom of my heart. it can't rain all the time darling 🖤

I hope you are doing well today, and I hope this brings you the comfort that you need. thank you for trusting me with this, and know that I love you and am so proud of you

just a quick psa to everyone on my frank taglist, because this is such a sensitive topic, i'm not tagging anyone in this one. if you are not comfortable with this topic or if it could be triggering for you, please sit this one out. you will not hurt my feelings, I promise.

warning: mentions of depression & self harm word count: 775

let it out.

Frank noticed everything. He was trained to look for subtle clues of threats everywhere, to anticipate them and quickly conjure a counterattack, or eliminate them before they even got a chance to strike. After that tragic day in Central Park, his sense of hypervigilance only became even more extreme. 

Which is why he knew that things were getting bad for you again.

He could see it. That bright sparkle in your eyes that could put the stars to shame grew more and more dim until it was nothing more than achromatic ash. The heaviness weighing down on your chest that turned the subconscious act of breathing into a relentless struggle and made your movements lethargic was like an astral presence only his eyes could detect. He could hear it in your voice, the melodic warmth replaced by an echoing numbness. It seemed as though each day another of your vibrant petals withered and fell until you were rendered a bare and hollow stem.

It killed Frank to see you like this. He wanted so badly to help, he just didn’t know how. You wouldn’t talk to him about it, wouldn’t tell him what you needed. But he didn’t get upset with you, because he figured you might not even know what you needed. He was growing increasingly worried because nothing he was doing seemed to help at all. Fear was an emotion Frank very rarely experienced, but he was terrified that he’d lose you to your own cruel mind. 

Things were bad right now, but it would pass. You’d fallen from the clouds of progression, backsliding until the cold hard impact of relapse bruised and rattled your bones, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t find your way back up again. It didn’t erase all the breakthroughs in your recovery. And if you couldn’t make it back up on your own, Frank would carry you himself.

Frank sat with you in the bath, enveloping you in the comfort of his body and the hot water, hoping it would soothe you. Taking care of yourself had become as hard as getting out of bed, but it was okay. He could help you with that. He’d washed your hair, taking his time to massage your scalp before gently rinsing the shampoo out completely. His large and calloused hands slowly and tenderly lathered your skin in the suds of your body wash, not missing a single inch of you. 

Your face was as blank as a pure canvas, but there was raw sorrow in your eyes and agony building up along your lash line. Frank held onto you tightly, tracing your self-inflicted scars with the pad of his thumb, applying pressure with each stroke while he spoke quietly in your ear.

“I know it hurts, baby. But you ain’t gotta let it out that way. You can get the hurt out without hurtin’ yourself. You gotta feel it, sweetheart. I know you don’t wanna, I know it feels like it’s too much, but you can’t distract yourself with a different kinda pain. It ain’t gonna make this one go away.”

Frank knew you were listening. He could see the saltwater slipping down your cheeks, your expressionless face slowly morphing into a portrait of unrefined grief. He pressed his lips softly to each of your scars, holding you even tighter in a protective embrace.

“It’s gotta heal from the inside, baby. I know it’s hard, but you ain’t gotta do this alone. I’m right here, sweetheart. Just let go, I got you.”

He could tell that you were fighting it. That you were scared once you opened that door, a tidal wave of misery would devour you entirely and trap you beneath the current until you drowned, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. His deep voice was laced with sincerity and promise as he spoke into your ear again.

“I got you.”

The choked sob that caught in your throat broke his heart. The wail that tore from the depth of your soul was the worst sound he’d ever heard. Your shoulders shook from the impact of your overwhelming emotions, but when you shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, Frank was there to collect them all. He’d patiently help you put them all back together, no matter how long it took. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, gently rocking you as he soothingly ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of your head.

“There ya go, that’s it. Let it all out, sweetheart. Take as long as ya need, I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Just let it all out.”

[cambria-writes]

Chapter 1: Blow out all the candles

pairing: astarion x bard!f!reader word count: 6,010 rating: T13 warnings: swearing, mentions of blood and gore, implied past sexual abuse/assault, nothing outright spoken about, if there's anything else to be tagged please let me know

a/n: it's here! and it's proofread! i'm very excited to put this out because i've been working on it for actual months by now. i think about this when i go to bed at night and i look forward to the weekend to keep writing. i don't know that there will ever be smut—there might be, i just haven't properly considered it yet—but there will be a lot of self-indulgent soft moments with the bastard.

please let me know what you think, and comment if you'd like to be tagged for future updates!

You feel like shit.

You feel like shit, there are burns all over you, and the whole of your party smells like soot, death and disappointment. Well, at the very least, you, Lae’zel and Astarion do. Karlach seems to be managing perfectly fine if her boasting is anything to go by. And she tends to smell like smoke most days, to begin with.

Shadowheart, bless her, manages most of the minor wounds on her own. Chastises you gently for running into a burning building again—this time literally. Her lecture has no bite though; she can see on all your faces that this latest encounter has left an extremely bitter taste. In all of your mouths, not just yours or hers, and not just because of the smoke.

Once you no longer look like more of a corpse than your actual undead party member, you drag your feet back to your tent. Grab a change of clothes, pull a bucket from by the fire—with a promise to a whingeing Gale to bring it back, clean and preferably full of equally clean water—and thoughtlessly head towards where you’d last seen running water. It would suck, it would probably be freezing, and the idea of being mostly unarmed in any state of undress makes you want to curl in on yourself and disappear into the Underdark. Maybe let the monsters there take you, while you’re at it. At least then you wouldn’t have to worry about an uninvited guest in your fucking skull.

But there is work to be done. Horrible, dreadful work. You know you’ll sleep… maybe not better tonight, but at least not as miserably, you hope. All that physical exertion has to be good for something.

You try not to think of the people at Waukeen’s Rest as you walk. Conveniently—or supremely inconveniently—there’s already someone in the clearing you’ve wandered into. The shock of white hair lets you know it is, in fact, Astarion who’s sat at the water’s edge. You figure the only reason he hasn’t noticed you yet is because he seems very… aggravated. His back is turned to you, but you can tell he’s violently trying to scrub something out of his hairline.

Probably the same blood, gore and soot that’s dried into yours.

You raise the bucket in your left hand and knock into it with your right. The vampire flinches and spins around so quickly you wonder if secondhand whiplash is a thing. There’s a moment where his face displays what you’re almost certain is fear, before he controls his expression into something more akin to familiar annoyance.

“Oh. You. What do you want?”

You wrinkle your nose at his almost pouty tone. Lately, Astarion’s been especially bitter with you. No idea why; maybe it’s because you turned him down those two times he propositioned you? You hadn’t figured he was serious. He flirts all the time with nearly everything with a pulse—probably things without if given half a chance—how would you ever know if he was being genuine?

…or maybe it’s the whole conversation with Raphael. Hm. Well it’s not like anyone—except Astarion, apparently—could fault you much for not wanting to trust a devil. At all. Ever.

You’re thinking too much about it.

Instead of offering an immediate answer, you approach Astarion with a not insignificant amount of caution.

“I can…” you start, but trail off. If you offer help—which he clearly needs, what with being unable to see his own reflection and therefore see his own face to wash the dried blood, soot and grime off of it—he’s going to refuse you. If you try to impose yourself, you’re probably just… not going to make it to see the next morning, actually.

So you hedge your bets and, after taking a few more careful steps forward, reach your hand out, palm up.

“May I?” You ask, gesturing vaguely at the washcloth Astarion’s holding. He predictably narrows his eyes at you. His gaze flickers between your outstretched hand and your face as though there’s some form of deception there that he should be able to see.

His right leg shifts, just barely. You already know that’s the side that has a small dagger hidden in the boot. You do your best to pretend you don’t see or know.

You’re not sure you do a terribly good job of it. Astarion sighs—a terribly loud, put-upon sound that just reminds you of a child being told to clean their room.

“Fine. Just be quick about it.”

You’d sigh yourself if you didn’t think it would set him off even more. So instead you approach, carefully and slowly as you can manage without looking too terribly awkward. Once you’re a foot or two away, you grab the washcloth and give it a quick rinse in the river. Once you’ve wrung it out, you maneuver the bucket upside down to sit on it and scoot yourself a bit closer to the… very obviously displeased vampire.

You barely catch yourself; when your right hand comes up to his face with the washcloth, your left immediately follows. It hovers by his cheek and you freeze, for a moment, and try to remember to breathe under Astarion’s extremely judgemental stare.

“Can—do you mind?” you ask, barely over a whisper, quickly glancing at your left hand. You’re already curling your fingers to pull it away.

The vampire spawn rolls his eyes like your antics are truly the most boring thing in the world before answering.

“Whatever gets this over with the fastest, if you don’t mind. I would really love to stop wasting time on a face I can’t even see.”

You nod and try not to swallow thickly. But you don’t think any effort matters. The sound of your thundering heart would probably bury any other sound your body would make anyway.

His skin is incredibly soft, but you bite your tongue to prevent yourself from saying so. You focus on what you’re meant to be doing, focusing on a spot above Astarion’s left brow. Then the right brow. You do your best to remember to breathe through your nose the whole time. No talking. No fast or twitching movements. You pray the smell of death and fire are enough to overpower whatever your breath smells like.

You don’t realize when he closes his eyes. Maybe after the second or third time you gently push his head this way and that. You run the washcloth around his ears, along his jaw. Meticulously avoid the two puncture wounds on his neck.

“As good as it’s gonna get,” you whisper, quickly casting your eyes down before Astarion opens his, and busy yourself with folding and refolding the washcloth. Take a deep breath and look back up while you pass the cloth back over. “Still gonna want to dunk your head, though. Hair’s still…” You gesture vaguely at what should be a shock of pure white.

It’s… well it’s not entirely white anymore.

There’s a moment where you catch an unusual expression on Astarion’s face. It doesn’t last long enough for you to be able to figure it out. And where maybe you would’ve asked, any other time, today doesn’t—the timing doesn’t feel quite right.

“Well then,” you start, grabbing the bucket by the handle and quickly moving to the river to scoop up a decent amount of water. You pretend it’s not heavier than you think it was. You’re trying to figure out what you should say as you leave—if anything at all—but your companion makes the choice for you.

“Thank you,” he says, not quietly, but not with the usual bravado you hear from him. It’s enough to make you pause. “I would hate for my slovenly appearance to ruin vampires’ prim and proper reputation,” he continues, and you can’t help but let your mouth twist into the smallest grin. “Even though red is my colour.”

You snort in amusement, but quickly shake it off. There is something you want to be saying, actually, and you open your mouth before you can lose your nerve.

“When you’re done, can you—do you mind passing by my tent?”

Astarion’s eyes narrow as he wrings out the washcloth. He doesn’t move, despite the fact that you’re pretty sure he wants to slighter back to the water’s edge. You cut him off when he opens his mouth; you’re not sure you’re ready for whatever biting one-liner he’s got ready for you.

“Actually nevermind, I’ll just—I can see you tomorrow morning. It’s not that important.”

You beat as hasty a retreat as the weight of the bucket of water lets you.

You help Gale for supper. Wash, peel and cut various vegetables, fetch more water by the riverside—Astarion has blessedly left by the time you crouch back down by the bank—and take the time to throw the ball for Scratch a few times. By the time the sun begins to sink into the horizon, the smell of deliciously spiced duck, stewed in with a mouth-watering variety of vegetables, wafts over to you and lures you by the fire where your companions have assembled.

Your local vampire is, predictably, absent. You find yourself wondering if the smells that are so tantalizing to you now would be repugnant to you if you had survived on the blood of pests for two hundred years.

Supper is generally a calm affair. You catch up with whomever was absent from the adventuring party for the day, offer Gale some praise for the meal, indulge Wyll with a few dances—kept at a very polite and respectable distance—and eventually settle by the fire.

Lae’zel and Shadowheart seem to have made peace, for now. They watch each other from their respective tents. There’s not as much contempt and disdain as there was a few nights ago when they’d tried to kill each other. You’re relieved they no longer feel the compulsion to ask to the rapidly mounting pile of absolute bullshit you have to deal with. As if mindflayer spawn in your brains and the looming threat of annihilation weren’t enough to sate their need for excitement.

Well after the sun has set, Wyll rests a hand on your shoulder before sitting himself next to you by the fire. You nod in acknowledgement and quietly retreat to your tent. You’ve set yourself up far enough from the campfire if only just for some solitude after a day surrounded by other people and death. Close enough to the water that, when you return to camp at the end of the day, you’ve an easy time just shrugging off your armour and clothes and just walk into the water after sliding into a well-loved, black cotton slip.

You’ve sat yourself behind a makeshift low table—really just a few planks of wood, scavenged from a damaged dock, atop a pair of crates you’d emptied—and open your journal to begin writing. You were never an avid diary-keeper before being abducted by the nautiloid. Never saw the relevance of it. Not that you could remember to keep track of your daily activities, either way.

But now that so many things happen in only the span of a handful of hours, and so much planning to do, and so many people to remember... you find it easy to sit down at the end of the day and write down everything you saw. You write about Halsin’s release from the dungeons in the defiled temple. Write about how conflicting he seems as a man, and as an elf—so incredibly large, and his speech is so incredibly gentle and soft until it suddenly is... not so much.

You take a moment before writing about your encounter with Abdirak. You keep it brief; the only person reading this journal should be you, after all, and you trust yourself to remember how you felt, beneath the mace, and how you feel now, trying to untangle those feelings.

You omit Astarion’s interjection, much as you do spend a minute thinking about it.

You’re flipping to your fourth page of daily notes when you hear a gentle knocking on one of the wooden poles holding up the canvas of your tent. You don’t look up from your writing but call them in, anyway. You gesture vaguely in front of you, motioning in what you think is the general direction of the cushion set in front of your makeshift desk.

“Sit,” you command. “I’ve just got to... finish. This sentence,” you add haltingly. You have to cross and rewrite a word, spend a few more seconds completing your sentence, before finally putting the quill down. When you look up from your notes, you hastily shut your journal, still-wet ink be damned.

There are... probably too many things written down that you wouldn’t want Astarion to see, especially if his current smug expression means anything.

“What, too caught up in waxing poetics about my boundless charms?”

You scoff at the play of arrogance before pulling one of your smaller packs into your lap and stuffing the journal back inside.

“If you must know,” you start, tossing your back near the back of your tent. As far out of reach of a rakish rogue as you could manage in such a small space. “I was writing down my expectations for the day tomorrow. Which includes going back to the grove to collect our reward from Rath.”

Astarion raises his chin and you and narrows his eyes. “Suspiciously selfish of you, bard.”

You shrug your shoulders and lean back on your hands, letting your legs stretch out in front of you. “I’m not as tooth-rottingly sweet as you seem to think I am. My altruism is also self-serving.”

Astarion shifts and pulls a knee up to rest his arm against and leans in. There’s a glint in his eye you recognize. Your heartbeat flutters, for a second; you could say that you don’t like it when he looks at you like a roast to carve, but closer to the truth would be to admit that you’re terrified of it for lack of knowing how to respond.

You clear your throat before adding, “I’ve got too many people relying on my decision making, besides. I can’t afford to extend a hand if I can’t be sure we won’t all get bit. I very much intend on having us all get to Baldur’s Gate in one piece, and live to see our brains roommate-free.”

Astarion scoffs and leans back. You breathe a little easier now that he’s back to being more aloof and judgemental rather than overly-observant.

“I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse,” he replies, feigning interest in the cleanliness of his nail beds. “The fact that you’ve assumed that kind of responsibility for... what, exactly?” He turns his gaze to you, and you can feel more than see the derision in his eyes.

You look down and take a moment to think. The obvious answer, the first one that comes to mind, is that you feel you have the moral obligation to help when you’re able to. It’s how you were raised.

Another answer, just as true as the first, is that you hope that if you treat others with kindness, maybe they’ll allow you mercy when you need it. Self-serving altruism, just as you’d said.

“Safety,” you eventually respond, lifting your eyes to Astarion’s and tilting your head. “Same as you, I figure.”

Astarion bristles at this, but only barely. You can see it in the tension appearing in his shoulder and the way his face seems to become a little more taught, a little more rigorously controlled.

“Safety, you figure?”

You hum in agreement. “I’m the one you chose to bite that night.”

Again, he scoffs. “Because you were the one least likely to stake me, darling. Not because I thought you’d keep me safe.”

“You thought I’d keep your secret safe, though” you say, pulling your legs back towards you and lean in to rest your elbows on your desk. “I was the safest risk because somehow, all of you with the brilliant exception of Wyll, think I’m a bleeding heart with no sense of self-preservation.”

“You quite literally wandered into a room full of smokepowder barrels with a torch in your hand. A lit torch.”

“I didn’t know there would be smokepowder there, come on!” you exclaim in defense. You compose yourself almost immediately; you know Astarion’s just trying to rile you up. Looking at him, he’s not quite smirking, but there’s the pull of an expression there that feels like it could be satisfaction.

You sigh and run a hand down your face. It feels like a cold shock to have him speak so casually with you now when he felt so unapproachable by the river, earlier. Maybe it’s the fact that he chose to come see you, come into your space, makes it feel different. You feel more in control, if only a little.

In here, you still have the pretense of being the leader of your eclectic group. By the river, stripped of armour and excuses, you felt untethered.

“Whatever. Is there a reason for your visit or were you just bored with getting under everyone else’s skin?”

Astarion fakes hurt and offense, a hand to his chest. “You wound me! You’re the one who asked me to come to you, or has the tadpole knocked the memory loose?”

You lean back a little. You had forgotten. In the midst of the food and the dancing and the writing, you had completely forgotten that you’d asked for him to seek you out. You had, however, figured he would actually wait until the morning. Or maybe another week, if you survived that long. Or never at all.

You were never quite sure what Astarion thought of you at any given point in time, nevermind how seriously he would take your words.

“Right. I just fi—it’s. Right.” You trip over your words, before leaning off to one side to grab at a small pouch. You pull at the drawstring as you right yourself, and plunge a hand in to pull out its singular content.

You hold it up in front of your eyes for a second. It had started as a peculiar stone, but with some time and effort and possibly too much polishing, had revealed itself to be a particularly beautiful opal. Clear nearly all the way through save for a single starburst of vivid colour in the center, tendrils of refractive colours reaching out for the edges.

It had reminded you of sunlight, when you had first held it up to a candle after the final polish. And then, unbidden, you thought of Astarion, and his complicated and upturned relationship with the sun.

You slide the pendant, carefully wrapped in looping metal wires, strung on a simple braided leather cord, over the desk to Astarion.

“I found this in the village,” you explain, trying to calm the panicked thrumming of your heart. “It reminded me of you so I... well, it’s yours if you want it.”

This felt like a good idea at first. While grinding down the rough edges and sanding the surfaces smooth, it felt like a kind gesture. Currently, it feels like maybe you might have given Astarion even more to relentlessly tease and bully you with. Like perhaps you’ve found something that would add another weight to you both.

You keep your eyes on the table. See Astarion slowly reach for the pendant to hold it up in front of his own eyes. You swallow thickly and motion to the candle at the edge of your desk.

“If you hold it up to the light, it looks better.”

He wordlessly nods and follows your directions. The stays motionless for several seconds, and you’re having to remind yourself to breathe. His expression doesn’t change at all, and that makes you even more nervous.

This feels like the riverside all over again. You never know how Astarion will accept kindness, you realize.

“...I don’t understand why you would give this to me if it reminds you of me,” he eventually says, though his eyes are still riveted to the flame-like starburst of the stone. “Why would I keep it?”

You flounder for a second and do your best to try and remain composed. I just wanted to isn’t going to be an acceptable answer. When Astarion turns his gaze to you, otherwise unmoving, you hold a hand up.

“Give me a second,” you rush to say, biting the inside of your cheek and looking down at the wood of your desk to think. There has to be a string of words you can put together that will make sense, even to someone like Astarion. Surely.

Some bard you are.

“I suppose,” you start slowly, placing your palms flat on the desk. Astarion brings his arm down. You don’t see what he does with the pendant. “I wanted you to have something that meant someone thought kindly of you.”

You expect to see a sneer on his face, or something akin to disgust, maybe revulsion. But, no, he’s returned to examining you again. You feel the tadpole squirm behind your eye and squint against the discomfort. Is he trying to...?

Well, fair enough.

You hardly have any control over the tadpole—not that you want to control it, you only want it out of your skull—but do your best to try and let him see you finding the stone. Try and open the door just wide enough for that single experience.

Astarion, of course, pushes his luck. Though he’s about as skilled with using the tadpole as any of you likely are at this point, and gets pulled into your mind like a receding wave. Your mind shows you sharp, white teeth and crimson eyes. A shock of silver-white hair under moonlight just as his face comes into view. Teeth at your neck and the feeling of uncertainty of what any of this means for you. The flood of relief when you realized your campmate was just a vampire, and that he was never intending to do anything worse than taking a sip.

Astarion withdraws suddenly and violently from your mind. The absence of him feels like the bleeding gap left by the removal of a particularly large splinter. There’s a headache beginning to drum just behind your eyes that has nothing to do with the illithid parasite. You rub at your eyes with the butt of your palms to try and ease the soreness there. When you pull your hands away, the expression you see on Astarion’s face is indescribable. There’s horror there, but understanding and a non-insignificant amount of apprehension.

“Next time,” you croak, clearing your throat and rolling your shoulders. “I would appreciate if you just asked.”

“I did, and you let me in,” Astarion answers, uncharacteristically soft and quiet. He says nothing else before standing up and turning to leave your tent. You feel aloft in the wind before he turns around to add, “Thank you, for your gift.”

The canvas of your tent moves back into place. Your candle keeps burning. The quiet of the camp is only broken by the habitual night time sounds of nature, the occasional sound of Scratch’s collar, and the crackling of firewood when Wyll throws in another log.

You whistle sharply, two tones, and you hear Scratch eagerly making his way over to your tent. He pushes the canvas out of his way with his snout and quickly comes to sit in front of your desk.

“Is something bothering you, friend?” the dog asks, tilting his head to the side. You smile when one of his ears flop over.

“I’m alright, boy,” you answer with a relieved sigh. “Mind spending the night here with me?”

Scratch stands back up excitedly, tail wagging. “Of course!”

You make short work of moving the planks of wood to the side and stacking the crates out of the way. Unfurl your bedroll and pull some salvaged sheets for some extra padding. When you lay down, Scratch curls up at your side. You put an arm around him and distractedly scratch at his back.

When you trance, you try to keep your mind as clear as possible. You need to be sharp, alert and aware for the day tomorrow. You need to clear the rest of the goblin camp, prepare yourself for the brutality of it. And then report back to the grove and Zevlor once you’re done.

This does not prevent ruby eyes shining like stones from appearing in the shadows every now and then.

You walk to the grove with everyone in tow. You, Astarion, Lae’zel and Wyll are covered in blood and probably viscera. Karlach seems mostly untouched, and though Gale and Shadowheart look exhausted, they seem perfectly fine. Nothing a nice, long rest won’t fix. Probably.

In front of the large wooden gate, you call out to Kaldani.

“Let them know it’s done,” you shout up. “The goblin camp has been cleared!”

There’s shouting as the gates open, and immediately the tieflings begin to swarm you. Zevlor appears out of practically nowhere. Alfira even makes an appearance to interrogate you about the goblin camp, the defiled temple. You end up following her deeper into the Grove to sit and regale her with your... well, you suppose they are heroic endeavours, but you take a moment to sincerely let her know it was horrible. Yes, you whole group is competent, yes, all together you make for a terrifyingly effective strategist. But slaughtering people who don’t know any better because it was kill or be killed isn’t something heroic. It is not magical or fantastic. It is brutal and it is bloody, and when you say that, you wrinkle your nose.

You’re still covered in blood. And gods know what else.

Alfira makes sure to convey her understanding, lets you know that she won’t be composing something wonderful and fantastic. She tells you she wants to make it a cautionary tale; being influenced by powers you cannot see and compelled to perform acts of cruelty yet unmatched. The grit and resolve it takes to prevent such a thing, and the knowledge that sometimes you must choose means for ends you cannot promise. It’s a bit much, but you appreciate it.

You don’t bother letting the rest of your crew, swarmed as they are, know of your departure. You slink off to go collect from Rath, as you had mentioned. Leaving the inner chamber and escaping unnoticed, however, was a significantly greater challenge. As you’re attempting to make a quick escape, you get held up by Zevlor. He offers to pay you for your help—the word makes you grit your teeth—and given that you’re alone and no one else can complain about your decision making, you refuse. Looting the defiled temple had provided you all with more than enough tradeable materials to make for a sizable amount of gold.

And you have a feeling the tieflings are going to be needing whatever they can get their hands on far more than your lot will.

You accept Zevlor’s offer to celebrate your party tonight, if only because you don’t have the heart to turn him down. And maybe also because the idea of drowning your sorrows in several bottles of wine and ale sounds like an amazing idea.

Shadowheart is the only one that spots you trying to make a hasty getaway. She smirks at you before looking away, back to whoever she was conversing with. You let out a sigh of relief and trudge your way back to camp.

By the time you make it by the extinguished fire, you’ve already taken off your breastplate. You feel better already, without the weight of it on your shoulders. Make your way over to your tent and make quick work of the rest. Staring at the pile of metal and leather, you find yourself wishing you knew any transmutation spells. Prestidigitation would be very useful right now.

You disrobe, piling your clothes into a wicker basket, before slipping into your cotton shift. Grab the wicker basket and make your way to Astarion’s tent. You pilfer one of the six bars of soap the man has before making your back back to the waterside. You’d at least like to be clean of blood and dirt and have the possibility of wearing clean clothes if you’re going to be up all night drinking to what you suppose is a job well done.

You let your face screw up in disgust while you scrub at your face with a threadbare washcloth. Evil as goblins may be, you’re still unsure about the near-thoughtless slaughter of the children you found in the dungeons. There’s something off-putting about anything resembling genocide. You let yourself get angry, in between scrubbing your hair with soap and dunking your head in the water to rinse it out. Angry about being in the horrible position of leading a group of people with different ideals, angry about the stupid fucking worm in your head, angry about everyone looking to you for the correct path to take.

“Correct path my left fucking nut,” you spit, flattening your wet hair away from your face. “Like a bard’s supposed to be a moral fucking compass.”

“Well, isn’t that unusual,” you hear from the riverside, and take a moment to close your eyes and brace yourself. You take a deep breath before turning to face Astarion.

“I hardly think bathing is unusual,” you retort back, twisting and wringing the water out of a tunic particularly roughly. “Did you also escape ahead of the tieflings, then?”

Astarion leisurely kicks a log—probably one that was by the fire—before taking a seat a few feet away from the water. He looks... alarmingly clean for someone that emerged from the same hellish depths you have. You don’t listen to his reply, but instead try to remember whose face you remember seeing in the grove. His was not one of them.

A twig hits you in the forehead and stuns you out of your thoughts.

“What in the world was that for—”

“I was asking you a question,” Astarion says, leaning an elbow on a knee and cradling his chin in his hand. “But it seems someone was too preoccupied with my shoulder to properly pay attention to me.”

“I realized you didn’t follow us to the grove,” you trail off, turning back around to continue washing your clothes. You freeze, for a moment, realizing he very well could have seen you sneaking the bar of soap from his belongings. You resume your scrubbing, determined not to bring it up if he doesn’t. Not like Astarion hasn’t pilfered some of your own things before.

“I did,” he replies with all the drama of someone being called a liar. “I simply left once the news had been given that we’d been successful.”

You hum to yourself. “So you left before they even opened the gate to let us in, then.”

You hear a scoff, then, “Are you going to answer my question or not?”

“You’re the one who was saying I wasn’t paying attention,” you say with a bit of a huff, twisting and wringing out your trousers before slinging them over your shoulder. “What was the question?”

There’s a long enough pause when you’re scrubbing and rinsing your undergarments that you wonder if Astarion’s just left. You let the clothes fall back into the wicker basket you’d wedged in some tall grass and turn back around.

He isn’t looking at you. You don’t think you ever quite understood the concept of someone looking through you until this moment. Astarion’s gaze is, technically, you suppose, on you. But he seems far away, like recalling a memory he isn’t quite sure how he feels about.

“Well?” you prompt, grabbing the wicker basket and making your way to ground.

“When we spoke, last night,” he starts, and you find he sounds a little unsure of himself. Hesitant, maybe? “When you... let me in.”

You’re not sure if you shiver because of where the conversation is going or because your dripping, waterlogged shift is making you cold. You don’t say anything and wait for Astarion to continue.

“The first night I—when I bit you, what...” he trails off and looks away. His face contorts into something like disappointment, but you’re not quite sure what with. “What is it you were scared of?”

You busy yourself with finding a nice, wide rock, exposed to the sun, to lay your clothes out to try. Do your best to make sure everything is flat and won’t wrinkle.

“I was scared of the same thing any woman would when she wakes to a man looming over her.” You try to keep your voice level and not let the vitriol—the result of equal parts rage and terror that Astarion couldn’t possibly ever have had any hand in—out of your voice. “It wouldn’t have been the first time,” you add quietly.

You turn around to wring the water from the bottom of your shift. You keep your eyes down as you twist the fabric, but catch Astarion standing in your periphery. When you do look up at him, after he’s taken a few steps toward you, something horrible and expanding twists in your stomach.

He looks ashamed, somewhat, but there’s something else in his eyes that takes you a moment to place. It’s understanding, it’s knowing that he had put you in a position that he, himself, is intimately familiar with. It’s the kind of look you seldom ever see on a man. It rends your heart, a little bit.

“Right,” you say suddenly, moving to shake and wring the water out of your hair. “Glad we’ve got that out of the way, so if it’s all the same t—”

“I’m sorry,” Astarion blurts out. Like the impulse to apologize for his transgression was stronger than the need to preserve whatever image he’d constructed himself. “I wouldn’t have—if I’d known—”

“You could have,” you interrupt him in turn. When you look down at your hands, you can see your veins honeycombing in a familiar pattern. You still the shaking in them by picking up the hem of your slip. “I’m not being fair to you, sorry. I can understand why someone in your position wouldn’t have been asking for everyone’s personal circumstance.”

“How—what do you mean by that?” Astarion asks, frowning like he thinks you know something he doesn’t. You shake your head.

“The expectation would have been for you to share your own history,” you explain, making your way to your tent. You pretend you don’t loathe the feeling of dirt and grass stuck to your feet. “Even if you’d lied, that would’ve all been blown away as soon as we got to Bladur’s Gate, wouldn’t it?”

Astarion looks down and away. You shrug your shoulders as he follows you. Busy yourself rolling and tying up the fabric that served as a door to your personal space. You turn your head just in time to see him open his mouth to speak, but whatever he starts saying is lost under Gale’s booming greeting.

“There you are! We were wondering where our fearless, valiant leader had gone!”

You glance over Astarion’s shoulder, where you can see Gale leading your merry band of misfits, before looking back at the man in front of you. He already looks detached and aloof again.

“Suppose I’ll leave you to your social duties then, darling,” Astarion says as way of a parting greeting, and ambles over to his own tent and disappears inside.

You let Gale fill you in on the plan—wherein the tieflings will pack everything up and, on their way out of the grove tonight, will come celebrate their ‘liberation’ with the camp. You sit on the small stool you have set in front of your tent and only half-listen while coming through and braiding your hair.

You don’t see Astarion again until well after the sun has set.