#i should spend time with them i should eat with them i should never cost them anything and repay the debt as soon as i can

[anaalnathrakhs]

my parents aren't abusive in any way, but living with them is like... letting your kid cousin play with a prized collection, gritting your teeth and hoping for them to be done with it soon, knowing any second something could be broken, and anyway you'll have to put the whole thing back together right afterwards. and like the kid cousin, you gotta not necessarily keep an eye on them, but always be on call, thinking about WHAT the kid might be doing and WHERE they are, so you don't make them feel too unsuported or unheard

[helaintoloki]

Can I request something with Five Hargreeves where Five and Lilia gets back to their family after the 7 years (nothing romantic happened between them, just purely platonic), and when he sees the reader for the first time after almost loosing so much hope in seeing her again, he just can’t help but latch onto her and never let go, kissing her all over cause he finally gets to see the love of his life again :,D

a/n: ty for sending in this request anon i really enjoyed writing it <3 this is basically the “good ending” of the subway incident

warnings: fluff, mentions of five and lila but in a platonic way not the bad way

His lungs feel like they’re on fire as Five pushes himself to continue his sprint to your apartment. It’s been seven years without you, and after almost losing hope of ever seeing you again, all he wanted now was to have you in his arms as proof that he truly was back in his own timeline.

He never should have listened to Lila when she insisted on traveling the subway system in search of a solution to the Cleanse, but he had been desperate to find a way to keep you and his family safe no matter the cost. He didn’t mind having to eat subway rats and sleep in flimsily sleeping bags on dirty platforms for your sake, but with no end in sight the entire thing began to seem futile. What good was putting himself through torture if he could never go back home to you?

Thus, when he found the journal that detailed the way back home, Five did not hesitate to jump on the next subway car and return back to his own timeline. He didn’t feel sorry for practically shoving Lila out of the way as soon as the doors opened, and he didn’t waste a second waiting for her to follow before he was booking it out of the station and down the streets to your apartment. While it would have been faster to just jump there, he didn’t want to risk accidentally placing himself right back where he started, and he didn’t have the patience to wait for Lila to find a car and drop him off herself. Seeing you could not wait, and so he ran.

Though Five has experienced seven painful years of being stuck with Lila in the subway, only four hours have passed since you last spoke to him on the phone to discuss your evening plans. He was meant to be at your apartment thirty minutes ago so you could enjoy a lovely dinner at a nice restaurant, and yet here you were sitting painfully board at your kitchen island watching the minutes tick by. You knew he wasn’t exactly keen on eating out when he’d rather stay at home and spend quality time with you, but surely he wouldn’t stoop so low as to miss your date entirely.

“Screw this,” you huff in indigence as you snatch your keys from the counter and grab your previously discarded purse from its spot on the couch. “He’ll just have to meet me there.”

After putting on your coat, you fling the door open only to met with the sight of a breathless Five, his fist raised in the air as if he was about to knock before you beat him to it. He looks completely disheveled with his mussed up hair and wrinkled suit, his eyes blown wide as he swallows down a big gulp of air and takes in your features. You look more beautiful than he ever thought possible, and he can’t believe that he’s really here standing in front of you after being trapped in a time travel hellscape for seven years with his idiot brother’s idiot wife.

“Five?” You utter gently, brows furrowed in confusion and concern as you reach out to place a gentle hand upon his cheek. He’s warm to the touch, most likely a side effect from having sprinted for three blocks, but it worries you nonetheless. He nearly melts into your palm as his eyes flutter shut in contentment at the feel of your skin against his own. He’s missed this, and he’s missed you. “Where have you been, I was just about to leave without you. You okay?”

You jump at his sudden movement when Five practically throws himself into your arms. You lose your footing and tumble back into your apartment, and it takes you a moment to process what’s happening before you tightly return the embrace. You know Five loves you, but he’s never been so forward with affection like this, so his behavior takes you by surprise.

“Sweetheart, I’ve never been better,” he breathes out in relief as he takes in your warmth and your smell and your touch and everything good about you. He never thought he could miss anyone as much as he missed you, and Five swore in that moment he’d never take you for granted again.

“Are you sure you’re really my Five and not a total stranger?” You question teasingly, poking fun at his uncharacteristically tender behavior. While normally you would be met with a biting and sarcastic response in return, you are instead given a passionate kiss as he cups your face in his hands and desperately pulls you closer to him. Your startled gasp is swallowed by his lips as he deepens the kiss and pushes you further into the apartment before shutting the door with his foot.

“Five,” you manage to breathe out after he pulls away for air, your face hot and your mind frazzled as you struggle to comprehend the sequence of events that have just occurred. “Five, we’re going to be late.”

“I couldn’t care less,” he replies with a faint smile, reaching out to carefully tuck your hair behind your ear. “I missed you.”

“Missed me?” You repeat in confusion. “You saw me this morning. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll explain everything in time,” he assures you carefully, “but right now I just want to enjoy this moment with you.”

With a faint smile gracing your lips, you know you can’t argue with that. You probably will miss your dinner reservations, but none of that matters as Five pulls you in close and showers you with seven years worth of pent-up affection.

You could really get used to this side of him.

[honestsycrets]

Stung | [Miguel O'Hara x Reader]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | after a discus malfunction, you're bitten by an anomaly and refuse medical attention. you're in a state that you refuse to show to miguel-- at all costs.

❛ tags | NSFW, sex pollen, mention of a wound, slight chase, miguel o'hara doesn't like to be ignored, cum eating, creampies, abnormal amount of fluid, venom bite, slapping, some insecurity, spanish is not translated, sexual memories.

❛ sy’s notes | my obligatory ABO-sex pollen fic for ATSV. i usually make a ABO/Sex Pollen piece per fandom I write in, so here's one for Miggy 🐝

“All done!”

You slipped out of HQ’s packed infirmary with a jaunty bounce in your step. Crispy, coppery blood was matted onto your forearm concealed behind a hastily tied bandage. You weren't concerned about it. It would resolve within the hour. Likely less. As would your elevated body temperature. Despite the doctor's prattle about the benefit of further testing, you found their concern to be a non-issue. These things were virtual non-issues, even if the doctor and your man thought otherwise. 

The hallways at HQ were like any other day in your city. Congested with the coming and going of spiders in their daily lives. A glimpse at any group might reveal decadent flirting and haughty laughter. Some were in a rush to their own worlds, but most were completing work assigned by the Spider Society. The one you were looking for reclined against a wall with his arms interlocked one over the other. His displeased rumble prompted you to his presence above all other voices in the crowd. 

“You should have let them run the tests.” His voice was teased with concern but became mild, little more than a drab sigh at your refusal. You blew off his concern with a shake of your hand, gone yellow and bubbly behind a bit of ineffectual gauze. His eye glazed over the wound. You couldn't tell what he was thinking behind his mask, but you didn't need to. You only needed to convince him you were right.

“It’s stopped bleeding, Miggy. It’s just a scratch,” You held up your arm, flicking it with emphasis. His eyebrows raised for a moment, then flattened, staring at you with a dull rictus. “It was just a brief malfunction of the discus.” 

Technically it was more of an impalement, but if Miguel wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to invite him to delve deeper. Otherwise, you might spend the next few hours of your life fixing a wound that surely would have closed up by the time results were back. The injury site mildly itched. That was all. Never mind, the slight, honey-colored rash migrating from the puncture site to your elbow. Or the referred pain. Minor things. 

“You’re being stubborn.” 

“You’re the one to talk.” You snapped the discus free from your sash and chucked it toward Miguel.  He caught it with an unsurprising amount of ease, claws clicking in unison against the ineffectual metal.

“¡Qué problema!” he mocked, his voice dry and absent of discernible emotion. 

You closed the distance between your bodies to slide your arms around his broad neck. His other hand came to your lower back. It was warm, the way he touched you, from the bundles of affection that fluttered in your belly to the heat dappling across your chest. You missed this every day. It made fleeing the infirmary all the more worth it.

“I put the anomaly in another discus. One that actually works, no thanks to your programming.”

“That’s what happens when you take things without asking.” He flicked the discus between his thumb and index finger, waggling it for emphasis. It was true that there had been nights that went with banging, clacks, clatters, and the occasional outburst when things weren’t quite going his way. There were a few discuses on his desk. You just so happened to take the one that malfunctioned. “I was working on it. ¿Qué era?” 

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Just some stingy bees. What harm could they do?” 

His eyes roamed your wound. You couldn't help but look down too, both horrified and fascinated by the way the rash had moved in just a brief few minutes. The colour had begun to fade. You glanced up, flattening your mouth into a slight, forced smile.

“Fine. If you're sure.”

To be fair, you secured many anomalies with and without the help of others. They all went into their cozy, temporary forcefield homes until they could be fairly redirected to their appropriate dimensions. In the downtime, you could help or hinder Miguel's progress. Then, your watch would alert you to another disturbance and the cycle would continue. 

Until that morning. 

Your watch blared, and blared, and blared some more. The early morning sun began to rise and cast offensive beams of light into your room. Usually, it didn’t bother you. But this morning, everything offended you from the scratch of silky sheets on your naked body to Lyla illuminating what darkness was left, all golden and cute. You wondered if that was how Miguel felt when you forgot to pull the curtains, strung out on the bed after he finished with you.

“Woah! Oops!” she turned, covering her eyes with her spindly fingers. A growing ache throbbed between your legs. It wasn’t quite the same dull soreness from Miguel’s late-night visit last night, either. “Sorry, sorry. Miguel--”

“He can handle it,” you bit out, snappier than you intended. It wasn't like you. “Or-- Jess. No, Gwen. Gwen can do it, she loves--” 

“He asked for you.” 

Of course, he did. You scrunched a pillow over your head. Your Miguel couldn’t see you this. Absolutely not. You debated getting up, ignoring what you called a negligible ache that was quickly morphing into a terrible pounding. You can't believe how quickly the thought fell apart, pushing yourself to sit up in bed. The ghost of his scent floods your nose, flashing memories of the night before.

Something at work set him off. Something that commanded no intimacy, but the mechanical release of his rage that wouldn't destroy precious resources. He sat on the edge of the bed, driving your mouth onto his cock with the aid of your hair bundled around his fist. You recalled the shakiness of his thighs under your fingers, his firm legs spread wide fucking your mouth with cold abandon. He chased his own orgasm selfishly, needing the release, needing to see your body painted by whips of his cum sprayed across your exposed breasts. He pulled you off in silence, inspecting the drool and cum that spilled down your chin and throat in rivulets. "What--"

Your face tightened, glancing down at the growing tension in your belly. Everything began to annoy you, especially the scratch of the sheets against your skin, your bed empty of his presence. How could you tolerate that uniform plastered to your ass? You buried into the offensive bed. This was fine. This was normal, recalling what you'd done last night. Surely, the burn had to do with the whole being launched through not one, but two crumbling buildings the day before. The dust and rubble. Were you close to your cycle?

“Tell him I’m dead,” and without another word, you resolved the call. Within seconds she popped up again, bent at the waist because this was your life now. Never could you just… take a day off. There was always something. You muffled your screams of protest into the mattress and dug your feet in, kicking off the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, all of it.

“Is this a fit? You’ve never had a fit before,” Lyla noticed. A fit? She thought the burning of your body was a fit? Damn AI. Resolve. 

Resolve. Resolve. Resolve.

It became cathartic after a good while. Or it would have been if not for your senses hyper-fixating on every minor change in your body.  Despite your apprehension, you knew. What was once a dull pain radiating from your forearm morphed into something much worse. Something you couldn’t blame on the rather average experience of being pelted through the average event of windows and concrete. It was more than a tingle. It burned as it coursed through your body. 

You stumbled over the bundle of bedding into the bathroom. It was there that you realized that to your horror, you weren’t just lubricated, now you were soaked. Your fluids coursed down your thighs as you dabbed the region clean with a bundle of tissues. It did little good. Touching the area exasperated the issue. Maybe you needed an orgasm, maybe ten. An hour or so later, you slammed the heel of your palm into the mirror, fracturing it into shards of terrible glass that crumbled onto the countertop. Beads of blood dabbled onto your reflection. 

“If you d--” resolve.

So not a reaction to your average bee sting. Correction. A great, big, fat colony of hissing, buzzing bees. The act of recalling information was like jamming your hand into fluid water to snatch a tiny hair tie. No matter how many times you tried to recall the information, you couldn’t quite grasp it. It was there, floating around your head, but inaccessible. Your mind traveled back to Miguel. How gentle his lips could be, trailing soft kisses along your neck and shoulder when you rode him in reverse. How deep he'd go. 

"Fuck off!" Your watch blared again. Its beeping filled your bathroom, echoing over and over. You reached behind the door to pluck a silky white slip from its hook and dragged it over your head. You were about to resolve the call again when the hot timbre in his warm voice saying your name gave you pause. Your Miguel, popping up in a golden haze. You found yourself gazing at his full lips, full and plump. If only he was here. He could have his lips on your--

“What are you doing?” 

Lost in thought, you failed to realize that Miguel had been calling you by name again. You shook your hazy mind free of the thoughts that formed a swirling cloud over your head. You slumped down the wall and onto the floor.

Help was what you failed to say. As your mouth opened, nothing came out. The words were not wording. The vulnerability of asking for help was palpable. You soothed yourself by shifting your hands underneath your skirt. What would he think if he saw you here-- ripped asunder by your own biology? Whore. Miguel lowered his gaze, his eyes squinting at the sweat dabbling down your neckline as he looked you over. He wouldn't want you anymore.

“Are you listening? ¡Coño! What is wrong with you!?” 

Resolve.

You resolved him. Your Miggy-- resolved. Oh, you swallowed dryly. He wasn’t going to be happy about that. It wasn’t a matter of if Miguel would come for you. It was a matter of when. When he had time to separate himself from trashing-- whatever was the closest object to him in the lab-- to take out his rage on you. You reached for your medicine cabinet. You had more important things to worry about. First on the list? The searing heat.

Your watch was better off tucked away in a chest in the closet.

Night came with no solutions. You crouched on your window sill, chest rising and falling. You sought to stare at anything but the mindless buzz of the tv screen inside. Even with light pollution, some stars winked in the distance. Your body was a bundle of warm heat, buzzing with irritation after a fruitless day of soothing your body. You grew accustomed to your pert nipples against your silky slip, the lubricant coursing down your leg. At first, denial. Now, acceptance. You thought tomorrow might be better.

You felt his presence before you heard, smelled, or saw him. Through the sea of scorched sensations battering your senses, there was one that stood apart. A tickle that niggled at the back of your head. It could have been anyone, but you didn’t have to guess to know who it was. “Lyla." 

“You haven’t called him all day,” Lyla squeaked. 

“Called all-- I answered his call!” Your dress was matted to your body, cloaked in an abhorrent amount of sweat. It was only minutes ago that you retrieved your watch confident that you could bullshit something, anything, for a few days of reprieve. You jammed your shaking finger to resolve the call. 

“Not all of them. Miguel was worried.” 

“Worried! Lyla, that is not worried,” you spat. That was your Miguel, scaling the side of your apartment. His talons cracking the siding of your apartment. The reverberations spiraled up your legs, sending waves of anticipation lapping at your core. After your long day, you weren't sure how you were still somehow upright. With every crack of his talon into the brick siding, you were running out of time to come up with an excuse.

In a bid to escape, you fell into your room. The hard floor knocked the breath out of your dry lips. You stumbled onto your feet and supported yourself with a bookcase of less than half-read books. “Lyla, he can’t see me like this!” 

“Then tell me what’s going on,” she popped back up. “C’mon, you can tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

If her tone was playful in some half-baked attempt to neutralize your fight, the threat was imminent. Your hand connected with the top of the window, applying pressure to close the window. A hair too late. At the same time, Miguel’s clawed hand curled around the bottom of the window sash. You were too slow for the man who excelled with power, speed, and efficiency. You weren't going to win this fight. Not with your body threatening to crack at the very sight of your man's strength.

Though you saw him nearly daily, he always took your breath away. His sinewy body was always a sight, his suit accentuated his thick and fine cut. You moistened your lips, longing to run your fingers through his thick dark brown hair as you did every night. You caught his sharp gaze a second longer than you should have.

 “Open up,” he whispered coolly.

He was a distraction. The wind was not on your side either, blowing wisps of his scent into your overwrought senses. His natural musk mixed with the sweat of a hard day's work. Somewhere in there, bitter blood. You could smell the caramelized scent of the flaky, buttery empanadas and hot coffee you shared the day before. It gave you pause, his intoxicating smell and the sultry trill of his voice. But you couldn’t let him see you, not like this.

“Oop, there he is. Just checking on you,” Lyla chittered. Resolve.

“Miggy, please go away,” you sobbed in frustration, shifting to shoulder the window. “Why are you so stubborn!?” 

“It’s who I am.” 

The window cracked all at once. With mere milliseconds to respond to the sash careening into the upper rail, you whirled past the bedroom door. Miguel broke into a run behind you with long strokes of his legs. He made contact, sending you barreling into your lazy sapphire couch from the impact. You saw stars for a fraction of a second before you lurched on your palms and elbows, scrambling off of the couch and across the floor. His hand caught your ankle and dragged you underneath his body.

“¡Ay!” you bit out. “No, no no no. Miggy!” 

“¡Callate!” 

His hand wrapped tightly around your throat to force complacency, pinning you back to the hardwood floor. Your palms slammed onto his chest, drawing lines down his chest. Bits of pathetic electricity fizzled on his broad, muscular chest, a consequence of your fading focus. That focus was eviscerated when Miguel threw his hips flat against your core. Your frantic fidgeting against Miguel soothed some of the terrible, buzzing pressure rattling between your legs like warm honey on a sore wound. The ache for his relief became more important than the impulse for substantial breaths.

“Don’t move. Why are you--”

“I can’t help it,” you cut him off, straining against his large palm to stare at his crotch. His gaze fell on yours, following the path to his soft cock. His eyes widened with the sudden attention. Tears threatened to spill over from your eyes, pricked with spikes of pain. "It's too much!"

You ate your shame with his body crouched between your legs and his large palm choking the air out of your throat. The influx of air not only brought your scent, but your day-long desperation to fix what you believed was wrong. He could smell it now. He could see it now. He could hear it in your voice. He knew why you failed to answer his calls. The violent jabbing of the resolve button. Throwing your watch into your cramped closet to ignore the calls. The pheromones that soaked your apartment. It was unavoidable.

“You can’t help it,” he repeated. Miguel considered you with razor-sharp eyes, nearly as sharp as the talons that rescinded into his arms. 

"I'll see about that." His hand left your neck to reveal bundles of bumpy shivers that soared across your skin. He raised his finger to wipe away the wet tears that fell from your flushed cheeks. Then dropping lower, Miguel chased the thin straps of your gown with his claw and slid the offending fabric off of your breast. The nub was as hard as it had been hours ago when you twerked the nipple between your fingertips and dreamed of Miguel.

“You’re...” he cupped your breast in your palm and massaged your nipple with one sharp twist of his thumb. The gasp that left your lips wasn’t one you were proud of. Your undulating hips that ground down on his cock weren’t entirely unwarranted. You needed it. "Hot. As if you're in heat."

This couldn’t be happening. From a ball of rage to one of arousal, he released a tiny amused chuckle. You spent much of the day in different parts of the apartment with your hand, toy, ice, and water into your body to soothe this terrible ache. So Miguel wouldn't see you like this. It was this moment you sought to avoid after your long day: The moment of Miguel's disapproval. Now he laughed at you.

“Happy?” you sobbed into the forearm that kept Miguel stable. “Go away, someone else could use your stupid help.”

“Don’t you need me?” Miguel dipped his head down. Strands of his dark hair tickled your hypersensitive skin. With the lightweight fabric of his suit, pressing your cunt back against his clothed bulge felt wonderful. You bit your lower lip and watched his cock jut against its fabric. You lifted your puffy eyes to his gaze and found a wicked gleam there. He knew it wasn’t enough contact for the pressure and painful spasms to abate. Deep down, you knew that Miguel was your only hope for relief. Who else could, or would, you call in this condition? Mostly because Miguel always fixed everything.

"Miggy," you murmured. After this pitiful display, he wasn't rejecting you? Your mind flowed weightless and light. The terror of your day faded under his careful caress. In its place, comfort that he would take care of you.

“Don’t you?” His hand snaked between your folds and found it soaked wet, the low throbbing of your pussy palpable. He retracted his fingers and spread the sticky fluid between his thumb and middle finger. At some point, silence became better than an answer. Miguel brought his hand down on your cunt for a sharp slap. Bundles of nerves cried out under the abuse. It shook free a squeal from your lips, bitten raw by the pressure of the day. Your head bobbed into a mechanical nod as to save yourself from another slap.

“You know how to ask. It’s si Miguel, por favor Miguel.”

You needed the warm sensation of his cum. But making those words proved too difficult. Your canines pierced bloody holes in your lower lip. You clawed up his forearms, trying to leverage and force him closer. Miguel grabbed your shoulders and thrashed them back down onto the floor. You felt bad for the downstairs neighbors. 

“Say it.” 

“Miggy,” you looked into his eyes. They were blown wide, nearly fully black with a thin outline of scarlet, chasing the outline of your exposed breast. For all his talk, you realized he wasn't immune. Even with his face tight, his eyes focused on the same thing you needed. Maybe, all this time, you were baiting Miguel with half-assed answers. They were invitations. Invitations to come to fill this need you had. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t what you wanted this whole time. Finally, you had him where you wanted him. 

Miguel broke eye contact first. He cupped his plush lips around your nipple, suckling the breast taut and wet. You cried out in surprise and arched into Miguel’s mouth, enticed by the fangs that grazed your nipple. As quickly as he came, he was gone.

You lurched up, palming Miguel's dick through his pants. His hips bucked into your palm. He refused to make any sound as he considered your next movements, releasing Miguel’s cock from his suit. Impatience and need coalesced into your brave movements, sliding your palm against him. He was impossibly thick and hard, dribbling at the tip. Miguel huffed a small noise as your palm ran over him. You dared to call it a moan.

Miguel sneered and shoved you back onto the floorboards. “I’ll only tell you one more time. Ask me properly.” 

"You do too, don't you?" You giggled. A noise that grated his ear. With the belief you wouldn’t bolt, Miguel shifted back onto his knees. You wouldn’t. There was nowhere left to run. Not that you even wanted to, fat and hungry off Miguel's growing desperation.

"Come here." He snaked his hands underneath your knees, dragged you close, and pushed them to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. Moments later, the sensation of his thick dick sliding against your engorged folds forced them back open. It gave you just enough relief through the pulsing pain to look at him with your hazy eyes. From this angle, you appreciated how large Miguel had gotten. His round cock-head bobbed and crested over your mound as it rubbed against your aching clit. His face was trained, focused. He wasn't going to relent first.

The nagging pressure never abated. You sought something more, something better, the sensation of being filled. With every glide, you squeezed your walls in protest to his absence. Your hips protested the restriction of your movement, shimmying against the firm hold he had that kept you in place. You wanted more than that. You wanted true relief from his teasing. Miguel drew back to inspect the fluid over his fat shaft as held you down. You gave in, whining at him like a brat.

“Por,” you scratched his forearms. “Por favor, Miggy. You don’t know what it's like.” 

“All fours-- face down.” 

The cacophony of desire battered and overcame any other human emotion you could have. You complied, crawling onto your fuzzy indigo rug for what came next. Miguel’s gloved hand skimmed across your ass, middle finger skimming toward the center. He followed up his gentle touch by reeling back his hand and cracking it across your ass, searing the nerves alive. Once, twice, and then a third. Tears pricked your cheeks again, a consequence of your nerves being overwrought and now assailed.

“Miggy!” 

He shushed you with fervor, another thwack beating the jiggling flesh hot and red. Your legs trembled under the weight of his slaps. “Ignore my calls again and you’ll get much worse.”

“I didn’t-- you wouldn't want me,” your lips parted in defense of what you’d done. Miguel dipped down to spread your folds, rolling his index finger along your pulsing walls. Your body drew him in, squeezing and urging him forward. Your swollen walls were impossibly tight, straining to bring him in more and more.

"You know I do."

The need for more devoured any other thought, any threats of what he’d do next time. You rolled your hips to ride his hand. In place of a slap, Miguel slid another finger slid in beside the first to stretch your walls open. He faltered at your next words and slid his fingers free.

“Not like… not like I need you.” 

“Who decides that?” he pressed on your upper back to force it down. You complied. Miguel stumbled forward, finally pressing his thick head to your pulsing entrance. His round head pressed, just barely, into your wet hole. You clenched down, inviting him into your warmth. You weren’t sure he’d actually give it to you. It was so damn close.

“You do, Miggy,” you murmured, pushing back. He watched as his shaft slowly disappeared into your body, your apprehension of retaliation rendered you too slow to finish.

Miguel snatched your waist and forced you to take the rest, a soppy squelch lubricating his shaft. The sound that slipped from your lips was entirely uncouth, punctuated by his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls strained around his cock. No matter how many times you took him, the drag of his cock and slap of balls against your body always felt somehow like the first. It filled that ache-- the consistent burning need to have him here, inside of your greedy body, scratching something that you could not itch all day. It’s what you wanted. 

“That’s right, I do.” Miguel rumbled, short, punctuated thrusts beating your clenching cunt into complacency. The pleasure ruptured through your cunt-- battering his dick in response. He let loose a sharp grunt followed by a string of curses. Your sweet release spilled over his dick and balls, dripping down your thighs. Your legs threatened to shook, but Miguel was unwilling to allow your trembling legs to give out.

"Ah! Miggy!" His fangs punctured your shoulder to force you to stay in position, his pelvis stuttering against yours. His growl punctuated the warm, soothing cum that soothed your walls like warm honey over a wound. Your walls milked him free of his cum, spasming in response to his orgasm. He pieced himself together against your back, pulling his fangs free and settling a soft kiss over the burning wound on your shoulder. As if he hadn't been the one to tear his fangs into the crook of your neck.

“You’re not letting go,” he hummed in annoyance. He turned his attention down to your ass, ghosting his fingers over the healing bruises over your backside. You squealed, jerking forward. He followed you forward, punching a hole in the floor by your side. “Fuck, don’t move!” 

You cast your attention back toward Miguel. He huffed forcefully out of his nostrils. He motioned toward your ass as if it were obvious-- your walls were clamped over his cock, unwilling or otherwise unable to let him go, as if he had any more cum to give in that current moment. You took it all.

“I. I didn't-- I can’t--” 

“Yeah, I know. That Bee venom does that. Mine should neutralize it.”

At some point, you murmured. It sure as hell wasn’t doing it now, keeping him seated into your cunt that bubbled with the mixture of his and your release. “You knew about it? I could have died!” 

Miguel chuckled. 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too stubborn to die,” he sighed, fiddling with his watch. The tests-- that you never had ran. Ones that he suggested. Ones that you refused quite openly. “Why would I deny myself the fun?” 

His cock slipped free. Your hips dropped and fell slack against the floor. You weren’t proud of the cum that oozed out of your ass over your decimated room, nor the fact that your useless neighbors hadn’t called for help once. Not that you needed it-- but still. You palpated your stomach, slightly distended. Miguel bent down and gathered the mixture of your bodily fluids on his fingers, suckling his own fingers dry. You watched his wet tongue swirl around his fingertips. It wasn't fair.

“Fun? What fun!? Do you know how long I-- You’re a mean man, Miguel O’Hara.” 

He lurched over, his breath tickling your lips. He kissed you, salty and sweet. Your nose scrunched up, pouting against his lips. He left the room for the kitchen, fetching a wet cloth to clean his body with. He zipped himself back into his suit shortly after and dropped the sodden cloth by the cum puddling under your ass.

“Never said I wasn’t.” 

[bellaxgiornata]

SAHD!Frank Castle Headcanons

I picture Frank being an amazing, hands-on father if he ever managed to fall back into that role again and I just think he'd make such a wonderful stay-at-home-dad. I couldn't resist sharing some of my SAHD!Frank headcanons so they're below the cut! And I'm also just going to make him a girl dad here because he absolutely is in my mind.

I could also certainly be persuaded to share some girl dad!Frank Castle headcanons...

With the ridiculous cost of daycare, you and Frank would eventually come to the conclusion that it was just more cost effective to have one of you stay home with the girls. And while you might be tempted to do it yourself, you'd also know how much Frank would cherish being present for every moment with his kids. He'd never want to miss a single thing after the tragic loss he'd experienced, and you'd have already seen his steadfast devotion during your pregnancy. While he would argue that you should be the one to stay home with them, eventually you would win out.

On weekdays, Frank would be awake early every morning--possibly even before your alarm went off. He'd always have a mug of hot coffee or tea made for you whenever you finally stepped foot into the kitchen. And when you did, you'd find him preparing breakfast for the girls. He'd always make you up a plate of whatever he cooked, insisting you eat something before you were out the door for work ("You gotta eat, baby. Just a few bites, c'mon."). And Wednesdays would forever be known as pancake day in your house.

Frank would never run out of activities to do with the kids, even if you found some of them to be very 'Frank.' He'd have them help him build things (a new bookshelf, a baby crib, a birdhouse, etc), and he'd teach them what tools to use while he's at it. He'd have them assist him with changing the oil in the car, fixing a leaky sink, or preparing vegetables in the kitchen for dinner (with child-safe knives that he always complained to you later about how "they can't cut for shit."). When playfully teased about the things he teaches them, he'd tell you he wanted your girls to learn "the real shit they won't get from school."

Every Friday is Library Day in the Castle house. Frank would take the girls to the library in the morning for story time where he would sit back and watch with a big grin on his face as his girls sat "criss-cross applesauce" among all the other kids and listened to the books with rapt attention. Aftwerwards, he'd let them pick out new books for bedtime for the upcoming week. Then he would always make the morning extra special by taking the girls out for brunch.

He loves nothing more than to free up more time for all of you to spend together as a family on the weekend, so he would be the dad running errands during the weekdays with a toddler holding each of his hands (or a baby strapped to his chest in a carrier). He'd be out grabbing groceries, hitting up the hardware/home improvement store so he could work on projects around the house, or he'd be taking the kids to their doctor/dentist appointments so you wouldn't have to think about it later.

Frank would be the cool dad at all the parks, the one not afraid to play with his kids and push them on the swings. He'd be making small talk with the other moms and setting up play dates for his girls. He'd also be the one all the other kids flocked to on the playground whenever he was there because he was known to easily be persuaded into playing hide and seek or tag.

A few times throughout the month, Frank would stop by your work just before your lunch break to drop off food with the girls as an excuse to see you ("Had to come see my favorite girl. Wanted to make sure you're not workin' too hard."). You always loved it even more on the random occasions that your lunch came with a bouquet of flowers--either store bought or freshly picked on a walk by him and your girls.

If Frank knew you had a big presentation coming up or that you were just having a rough week/day, you could always count on coming home to something he made with the girls--pictures they colored or crafts they made--to cheer you up ("S'posed to be a butterfly ring or something. Shit, I don't know. Girls wanted to do somethin' with pipe cleaners. Blame YouTube.")

At the end of a long work day, you'd come home to see that dinner was almost finished cooking most nights. You'd either find Frank out back with a beer in one hand grilling while the girls were playing in the yard, or he would be in the kitchen surrounded by high-pitched laughter.

And when you came home from a long day of work, you could always count on Frank greeting you with the biggest smile. He'd wrap you up in his big arms and give you the sweetest kiss, even if he had to pause cooking dinner ("Missed you today, sweetheart. Hope you're hungry."). It would be the thing you looked forward to most at the end of every day, especially on particularly difficult days.

[rileys-battlecats]

micaclan tumblr dash simulator

☁️ the-fluffiest-puddle follow

I cannot believe the things my friends talk me into. on an unrelated note where can you hide a baby coyote

#puddletalks #seriously where did they find that thing #and WHY did they keep it??

(3 notes)

⭐️ larkstar-unofficial follow

if you catch prey and eat it before bringin anything back to the clan i'll kill you on sight <3 many such cases, unfortunately

🌠 larkstar-official follow

Laureltail I know this is you. I've told you twice now to delete this blog. Meet me in my den this evening, we're having a talk

⭐️ larkstar-unofficial follow

chat i think im going to die tonight

#remember me #never forget my sacrifice

(24 notes)

🐆 speckled-trees-and-autumn-leaves follow

people looove to ask me "oh birchspeckle tell me the future, will the clan thrive this greenleaf, will i find a mate that loves me" but then the SECOND i tell them the exact time and date of their death suddenly I'M the bad guy?? like ok sweaty you're the one that was after forbidden knowledge you don't get to be choosy about what you learn

#justmedicinecatthings #seriously they get so upset when they learn this stuff like. how do you think i feel? #i just gotta sit on this information forever? im not allowed to vent?? #this is why i never hang out in the camp smh

(1 note)

🐦‍⬛ muddy-paws follow

anybody else finding the torment relentless

(0 notes)

💊 owlpounce-official follow

This is your reminder to stretch before partaking in any strenuous activity! The best way to stay healthy and happy is to take steps to avoid being hurt in the first place. Stretching first may seem like a waste of time, but I promise it's much better to spend a few minutes stretching your legs before hunting than to spend a few days in the medicine den recovering from a pulled muscle!

#PSA #selfcare #safe practices

(15 notes)

🍐 having-a-peary-good-day follow

I don't want to name any names, but I feel like we as a clan have an issue with delegation of labor when it comes to the care of our most vulnerable members. Watching the kits is all well and good, but as the only current queen in the nursery right now, I find myself doing so much repair work for the den walls all by myself. Nominally, our apprentices ought to be doing much of this work, but quite frankly, our 'paws simply don't have the necessary experience to fix the more delicate areas, and I have ended up redoing much of their work myself. This isn't to disparage our apprentices, they've been doing their best, but I have ideas as to how we might better address these issues as a clan.

Keep reading

#genuinely I think we could be doing this so much more efficiently #like I understand that the 'paws need the learning experience #but not at the cost of our kitten's warmth and safety #you know? #and that's not even mentioning the elder's den

(7 notes)

💫 swooping-hawk-rising-star follow

fffksnkd. Ssssssksdjsj,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,h

🪷 white-tipped-tail follow

You ok, Hawkpaw?

💫 swooping-hawk-rising-star follow

COYOTE PUP ON MY KEYBOARD

#HELP

(4 notes)

🦊 foxjaw-official follow

The dawn patrol spotted bear tracks this morning just past the northeastern border, near the old hemlock tree. The tracks were old, and did not lead into Micaclan territory. Be that as it may, remember to remain on guard, and to travel in groups of 3 or more until it can be confirmed that the bear has not remained close by.

#PSA #patrol reports

(15 notes)

��️ gullys-tuft follow

Why is Sandleap retching into the bushes

#should i really be asking? #do i even want to know?

(2 notes)

🌸 resting-on-your-laurels follow

gonna stuff a frog inside a squirrel for my morning meal. surf and terf

🌸 resting-on-your-laurels follow

dont do this

🔥 embers-and-sparks follow

you can't tell me what to do

🔥 embers-and-sparks follow

dont do this

🏜️ pocket-sand follow

It can't be that bad!

🏜️ pocket-sand follow

dont do this

#the texture #its so bad #i dont want to waste prey but. i dont think i can swallow this #not pogchamp

(13 notes)

—————————————————————————

[riediaries]

satoru knows every part of you. every things you like and hate. he's able to locate each and every mole you have on your body and how many it is. it's like knowing you have been a second nature to him. in order words, he knows your whole nature and that's how you fell in love with him.

he knows you don't like eating a watermelon with seeds on it. you don't want to spit it out after or let alone eat it.

satoru silently observes you as you payed all of your attention to the sliced watermelon on your hands. picking every black seeds you see in the fruit.

you were getting irritated and he sighs, picking a sliced watermelon on the table and removed all the seeds in mere seconds.

"here, eat this. i already removed all of the seeds." he hands you a sliced watermelon. the red juicy part was clean. no seeds. just like how you like it.

"ah.. thanks.." you murmur, accepting the fruit and that was first time you felt a fluttering emotion on your tummy as you stare at the watermelon he handed you.

"mhm.." he hums. "you don't like it with the seeds on it, right?" he asks and you nodded. he hums again, nodding his head in a subtle way.

no seeds on her sliced watermelon, got it.

you like the beach, especially the sunset. he remembers peeking on your phone one time and due to his curiosity, he opened your photo gallery and you have a folder named 'sunsets<3'.

it has a lot of your pictures in the beach, capturing the breathtaking sunset and there are also pictures with just the sun but he likes the pictures with you in it. you're prettier than the sunset, anyways.

"we should go here sometime. the four of us." he tells suguru as they walk on the sand barefooted.

they just finished their mission and their flight will be tomorrow morning so they're spending their time to relax.

satoru keeps his eye on the setting sun. pink and purples hues were seen on the sky.

picture.. yes. i should take a picture for her. he thoughts and brought out his phone to take a picture. he sends the picture to you.

annoying blue-eyed freak: sent a photo.

annoying blue-eyed freak: sunset's pretty here today. you might like it.

you take a look at the photo he sent and the photo's automatically saved on your folder 'picture he sends'.

sunset lover princess: thanks, love it.

he smiles over the three letter word you sent. yep, his day's now complete with just your reply.

unknowingly to him, suguru secretly took a photo of him and he captured the most breathtaking satoru gojo photo to exist.

it's a photo of him on his side, smiling on his phone and the background is the sunset.

cool bangs: sent a photo.

your phone dings. you thought it's another photo of sunset from satoru but no. it's satoru with the sunset but he's not looking at the camera.

you stare at it for good few minutes.

cool bangs: if you're just going to stare at it, you might as well save it. i might delete it.

that message from suguru alone had your fingers saving his photo and put it on another album. a secret album named 'photos i love'.

yes, definitely 'love'.

satoru also knows that you love movie nights with them. horror, romance, or action. name all the genres present. you once told him that it's not about the movie you're excited but being able to spend time with your friends.

being a jujutsu sorcerer at a young age costs your freedom as a child and to dream. you will never know when you will die or vanish from this world. that's why you're spending all of their freedom time with you and they're actually okay with it.

same feelings, as they said.

"ahh! suguru! tell me when the haunted dolls are gone!" satoru clings to suguru as he scream out of his lungs.

"no, you watch it satoru. be a big brave man." he teases the young boy more. "i heard she likes men who's brave and can watch horror movies with her." he whispers to his best friend.

satoru eyes his best friend with a look of suspicious. "are you... sure?"

"her biggest turn off is actually a scared cat like men." he hums, adding more false informations about your type. "meaning, a boy like you, satoru." he dramatically covered his forehead and his eyes to express his disappointment for his best friend.

suguru knows that even when his best friend is screaming like a lady, you'll still like him. even though he can't bear to watch a single horror movie, you'll still like him because he's satoru. the annoying blue-eyed freak that constantly running on your mind twenty-four seven.

the two best friends eyes the two of you. shoko and you, unimpressed on their nonstop bickering and satoru's screams and unbothered on the horror scene in front of you.

wow. just wow. what a scene.

ever since then, you always invite them to watch a newly released movie, mostly horrors but in rare cases, you want to watch romance.

"oh sweet. they're kissing like it's the end of the world." satoru commented as he pushes a mouthful of popcorn on his mouth.

shoko and suguru went out for a smoke since romance is not really their thing but they still agreed to watch just to see you happy. and they couldn't refuse when you were that cute begging them to watch it with them.

"because that's how they are desperate to be with each other." you reply. "i mean, you'll surely kiss a person like that when the world's trying to separate you. you will pour all of your emotions in that kiss to express your feelings." you further explains.

he raises an eyebrow at you. "i thought you're only interested in horror. why are you so knowledgeable about love?"

"books..?"

"yeah? and?"

"what do you mean by that?"

"have you ever kissed a person like that before?" his question caught you off guard and you turns to him.

"what? no! it's not like that! do i need to have an experience to explain those?" you defend yourself. you haven't been kissed yet!

"want me to give you an experience, then?"

you were caught you off guard and you didn't have time to react when he leans to you, kissing the side of your lips. too close to be called a kiss. too close to end your 'no first kiss' phase.

"i like you." he mutters as he looks at you straight in the eye. you're still close to each other and you can feel his breathe on your skin. "more than any of my favorite sweets." he adds, making you laugh.

"i like you, too. more than any favorite sunset i had captured and saw." you confess.

he smiles but his face immediately turns into a sour face. "even though i can barely watch a horror movie?" he asks cutely and you burst into laugh.

"w-who.." you can't stop yourself from laughing. "who said that?"

"suguru." he mentions his best friend. so, the dark haired male is the suspect on spreading false claims.

"I like someone who removes all of the seeds on my sliced watermelon." he smiles at that sentence.

"i like someone who will immediately thought of me whenever he sees sunset and sends me a picture of it." he smiles even more as he closes the gap between you slowly.

"yeah? and? you like someone who's very handsome, too, right?" he grins. "you like a certain someone whose contact name is 'annoying blue-eyed freak', right?"

it made you chuckle. how did he even know that one? you always made sure to lock your phone and keep the password to yourself only.

"i like someone who can't watch a horror movie with me and full of screams–"

he shuts you up by putting his lips onto yours and then pulls away.

your 'no first kiss' phase have officially signed off.

satoru clearly knows that you love movie nights, especially horror movies with him screaming but satoru knows that you love him even more than your collection of horror movies and the sunset you have ever captured and saw in your whole life.

[rahuratna]

Nanami Kento: Relationship Headcanons (now a fic), Part 7

Contents: relationship, establishing feelings, slow burn, office kisses.

Warning: Things get a little ... spicier from here on out. Content warnings will be given for the relevant chapters.

You lingered with him in the little alcove, listening to the rhythm of his breath in the grooves of your ear. You lingered on the stairs leading back to the car. You traced the elusive outline of his fingers with yours, again and again, committing them to memory. There were no words passed between the two of you, from the moment he'd kissed you outside the restaurant, until you parted ways outside your apartment. There was no need for words. Neither of you wanted to break the spell that this evening had cast upon you.

When he finally said goodbye, the hoarseness of his voice, the softness of it, was enough to tell you how much he wanted, how much leaving you there was costing him. It was the same in your mind, of course. Discipline, control over desires, the measuring of love in increments until some vital point was reached, what was the need for it all?

You'd happily open your front door to him, lead him into a place you'd make sure he'd never want to leave. And yet, there was still something holding you back. It must be the same for him. Something that had been slinging you both in natural trajectories, the orbit of celestial bodies that slowly swayed each other's tides until the season came for you to be closer than ever.

You could be patient for this. You could watch this sweet, gentle unfolding between the two of you, as patiently as a predator in ambush. If nature was to take its course, then it was well worth the wait.

The way Kento walked you to your door without touching you, but then snatched up your fingers and pressed them to his lips, told you how much he valued your time together. It wasn't so much that he had kissed your fingers, it was more like he was committing the feel of them to his lips, as if he'd drink from the sensation on every night he'd spend without you.

Until the night it wouldn't be necessary any longer.

He began to make an effort, of course, to bind your lives more fully together. The things that were important to him were things he wanted to share with you. Sometimes, those moments of sharing were performed unconsciously on his part, in ways that made you want to take his face between your palms and plant soft kisses on his eyelids.

On one fateful afternoon, he'd purchased some specialty mochi from a store near where he'd been posted for duty. He knew how much you loved them freshly made, with red bean filling.

You hadn't seen him for almost a week at this point, messaging him regularly to check up on his safety and whether he was eating and sleeping on time. He always replied promptly, unless deeply occupied with something.

When he strode into your office that evening, the small parcel in one hand, tie slightly askew, you knew he'd rushed to catch the last train to be here. Jujutsu Tech vehicles were not always on call at this time. You stood and beamed at him, watching his shoulders relax and the tension that hung about his face disappear.

At work, you both were very careful to keep gestures of affection to a minimum. Not that you were concealing what was growing between you. It was simply a matter of not wanting anyone else to intrude on the moments between you that were truly special. Nanami couldn't help himself, though.

Drawn across the room, as if in each other's magnetic pull, you both met halfway, his hands coming up to enclose your own. You gently extricated one of them and brushed it lightly over his forehead, smoothing out some of the lines there.

"What's this in the bag?"

"Mochi. The kind you like."

"You should have gone home and rested. The mochi could wait."

The soft smile you were giving him took the edge off your strict words.

"Hmm. But it was fresh. I saw them stocking the shelves."

"Come, sit. I'll make you some tea."

He sank onto the couch set to one side of the room with a sigh, loosening his tie. Unable to help yourself, now that he was in your presence, you traced the line of his jaw delicately on your way to the kettle. Kento leaned slightly into your touch. He didn't have to tell you how much he'd missed you.

The kettle was soon boiling merrily while you prepared the cups and saucers. You kept many different tea blends in your office, and you knew, by now, which ones he preferred. You could feel his gaze tracing down, over your shoulders and back, down to your hips and then to your fingers on the smooth porcelain.

He insisted that the mochi was for you, and that he wouldn't eat any of it. Kento could be as stubborn as a bull when it came to things like this. Sighing slightly, you took a sip of your own tea, then a bite of the mochi, Kento's eyes now following the shape of your lips over the rim of his cup.

You almost choked.

Now this was unexpected. Glancing down, you desperately fought the urge to burst into laughter when you realized what had happened. He'd purchased mochi filled with natto instead of red beans. In his rush, he must have got them mixed. Natto wasn't a common filling either, but this was a specialty shop, so it must have been made on the day.

"Something wrong?"

"Not at all. They're so soft and fresh. It's been a while since I've had any like this."

"Oh?"

He looked so pleased with himself that you silently patted yourself on the back for managing to conceal that so well. At that moment, the door to the office burst open and Gojo strolled in. Tall and charismatic as ever, he glanced around, gaze almost traveling right over you as he focused on the target of his attention.

"Nanami! Why are you holed up in here? I've been looking for you all over. Where's the report?"

The tension lines on Kento's forehead were back in full force.

"I'm attempting to sit down and take a break after a long day, as you can clearly see."

Gojo grinned and knocked Kento's knee with his shin.

"Okay, Mister Grump. But where's the report?"

"Filed with Ijichi, obviously. I always send my paperwork in first thing. You know this."

Gojo clicked his tongue and Kento's eye twitched alarmingly.

"Why you gotta be so proper. Now I have to go find Ijichi."

"You could have - "

"Ooohh, what's this?"

To your immense alarm, Gojo had spotted the mochi. Everyone and their grandmother knew about the special grade sorcerer's penchant for all things sweet. You attempted to push them aside slowly.

"Uh, you don't want these. They're - "

"Huh?" He pointed at you, scandalized. "Are you trying to keep them all to yourself?"

"What? No, I - "

Kento stood and folded his arms in a manner that showed just how much he meant business.

"Gojo, leave those mochi alone."

"Oh hell no. You go all the way to the mochi store I've been dying to go to all week, and you don't even get me any? What kind of friend are you?"

Before either of you could stop him (for very different reasons) he grabbed one of the mochi and popped it into his mouth. He chewed happily before stopping suddenly, face crumpling, gagging slightly.

"What the hell? Why is there natto in these?"

Kento turned, very slowly, in your direction. Studiously avoiding his gaze, you cleared your throat.

"That was at my request. I love natto mochi. That's why I tried to stop you from eating them."

Grabbing your half-full cup of tea, Gojo took a large gulp in an attempt to wash away the flavour.

"Natto mochi? Why? Just .... why? Oh, never mind. Thanks for trying to stop me anyway. Oi, Nanamin, you owe me some strawberry mochi for next time, okay?"

So saying, the whirlwind that was Gojo exited your office, footsteps shuffling away on the floor outside. You examined your fingernails. Kento's gaze was burning into the back of your head.

"Ahem. Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"No?"

"Why didn't you tell me these were natto?"

"I like natto."

"Liar."

You huffed out a small laugh, finally meeting his disapproving expression with a mischievous one.

"Fine. I'm not a fan of natto. But you were so happy to give them to me, Kento. I just wanted to see you smiling and looking relaxed for a change, so I - "

Before you could utter another word, he had plucked the glasses away from his face with a decisive motion and taken two strides into your space, his arms coming up and surrounding you in an embrace that pulled you like a vice into his chest.

"Kento?"

Your voice was a little shaky, not in an unpleasant way, as he leaned forward without hesitation, tilting his head. You swiftly dodged away, your breathless laugh mingling with his own unsteady breathing.

"The door isn't closed all the way. And I've just... wait! I've just eaten natto, you - "

His mouth was positively hungry on yours this time. Regardless of whatever flavour was lingering there, he was pushing you back until the desk collided with your thighs, his hand coming up to grasp and tilt your face until your mouth fell open helplessly against his. He was licking into you like a man starved, pausing in between to whisper to you about how he'd missed you, how he wanted you, how you looked so beautiful today and now his lips were on your throat, then on your mouth again, teeth knocking against yours, clumsy in his passion. There was something so fierce, uncontrolled, so primal about the way he was touching you, as if every restraint he had placed on himself (and by extension, yourself) had come crashing down among the rapidly narrowing spaces between your bodies.

Your hands were on his shoulders, and it probably looked as if you were trying to push him off you, but you were actually bracing yourself as something warm and molten started to run straight down the middle of your body, making you hyper-sensitive to his touch, to the feel of him on you. He was so large, so warm, so solid, the ripple of sinew against underlying muscle so evident under your fingers. You could run your hands over him like this forever, mapping out every new delight he laid bare for you.

Something like sanity was beginning to make itself known to the both of you now, the awareness of where you were, of the rules of propriety, and Kento removed his mouth from yours with a twist of his neck, looking away from you, breathing hard. He was now murmuring a soft apology, but you weren't having it. You covered his mouth with your hand and tugged slightly, making him look at you again, forcing him to take in your appearance, as he'd left you. He was none the better.

You removed your hand and took him in, the flushed cheeks, the blonde strands coming down around his ears, the glazed molten honey of his eyes and moistened lips. This man was so beautiful, he'd be the death of you. You told him so, and he gave a small, slightly disbelieving chuckle. But you let him read the truth in your regard of him all the same, the way you were drinking in the sight of him.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say Kento was overcome with a little shyness then. He lowered his face and his nose found purchase on your collarbone. You closed your eyes and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly, but gently. After a few moments of him basking in your embrace, he pulled away and cleared his throat, smoothing out his shirt. You took in a steadying breath and did the same to your own rumpled appearance.

He spent the remainder of your shift seated at a safe distance behind the other desk in the room, using the desktop PC to order up a replacement for his leather blade holster that was showing signs of wear. At times, your eyes would catch his, regarding you with a certain kind of tenderness in the dim glow of the office lamps. That expression was new. You delighted in it, as you did in every new aspect of himself he revealed to you.

When your shift ended, he insisted on walking you to the train.

Of course, he apologizes for his behaviour later. Even though the thought has long since ceased to bother you, he has been going over it in his mind, as you expected. He was the one who initiated the kiss in your office, after all. When you arrive home, warm up the food you'd pre-prepared in the fridge and finish with your bath, your phone is lit up with a small, insistent reminder.

Unable to help the small laugh that escapes you, you read his message.

"I don't know what came over me earlier. Please pardon my behaviour. I'm not offering excuses, but I did miss your presence."

The infinite sweetness that wells up inside you threatens to have you type something that you might want to take back. Like inviting him over so that he can fall asleep in your lap while your fingers card through his soft hair.

"Please don't apologize. I enjoyed that as much as you did, and you know it."

"You did?"

"Absolutely."

There is a pause before his next message.

"I did miss you."

"I missed you terribly, Kento. Was it a tough week?"

"Not difficult. Just draining. On surveillance."

"Please go to sleep soon."

"Are you already tired of me?"

"Are you already being melodramatic?"

"Nobody has ever called me melodramatic before."

"You just hide it well."

"As well as my desire to hold you?"

Your fingers still for a moment. How brazen.

"Not as much as my desire to kiss you all over your handsome face."

"You find me handsome?"

You can clearly picture that subtly pleased expression of his and almost roll your eyes. Of course Kento wouldn't take much note of his own appearance.

"Can you think of anyone who wouldn't find you handsome?"

"That's a matter of perspective."

"Name one. Go on."

"Gojo."

"Now you're playing dangerous games."

"How so?"

"If he were to receive an anonymous email asking him to sing praises to your beauty all week ... "

"All right. I take it back."

"Too late. Now go to sleep."

"Have mercy on me."

There is a small pause before his next reply comes.

"Goodnight, my darling."

For a long time, before you go to sleep, your heart hums a pleasant, warm rhythm to that word.

@tsukimefuku @kentocalls @actuallysaiyan @g-kleran

[crag-dreams]

It’s the Saturday before Election Day 2024 here in the US, and stress/anxiety/fear/etc… is pretty high for a lot of people. That’s warranted, because another 4 years of Trump/GOP rule will harm so many people. You should do whatever you need to manage the next few days (including voting if you haven’t already), but I really want to encourage you to stop giving polls and “close race” media coverage much / any of your time or consideration.

Polling processes are wildly obsolete for how Millennial and Gen Z voters act compared to Gen X and Boomers (this is not a dig at these generations, just a factual observation). Polls are also easily manipulated to return a desired result, and the people running polls have a vested interest in getting your engagement. Keeping the results tight keeps eyeballs on them.

Similarly, the 24/7 media environment needs you constantly on edge and worried so you keep checking in and listening. They have no interest in a boring election or landslide victory. The majority of journalists have not risen to address this moment with the deliberate, in-depth reporting that we need. It’s far easier to throw together click-bait headlines to pump their numbers. It’s why they spend days covering the tiniest slip by Harris/Walz (and previously, Biden) while giving Trump/Vance a pass on every insane thing they say. Trump is *incredible* for news companies. He is so outrageous that their headlines write themselves, and as long as they don’t follow-up to truly report on him in a way that would end any other politician, they have unlimited content. Whatever you think about Biden, just remember: a single debate performance that wasn’t great was seized upon by the media (because it made for great engagement) and ended his candidacy. Trump can say the most batshit things (they’re eating the dogs!), and they minimize it at every opportunity, because he is good for them. They are sacrificing their journalistic integrity and responsibility at the expense of real people’s lives and rights.

So, what do we do if polls and most news coverage isn’t useful? Remember:

Trump lost the 2020 election. The Electoral College is the only reason it was even close. People were fed up then, and they are even more fed up now.

Roe was overturned by an activist Supreme Court that Trump is responsible for. In virtually every state-level election since then, the results have been outstandingly positive for Democrats, including in the Deep South™. This is why so many GOP politicians have stopped talking about abortion, even going so far as to remove their position from their websites, or directly contradicting themselves when asked about it. The only person making a decision about a woman’s body should be that woman, and these predominantly white dudes still don’t realize how badly they fucked up.

The majority of Trump’s former Cabinet and senior leadership have very publicly turned on him. While it would have been nice for them to do this earlier, it’s unprecedented to see so many prominent Republicans declare they will not vote for him. This doesn’t impact the hardcore MAGA crowd, but it absolutely speaks to more centrist Republican voters.

Trump has been convicted of sexual assault, and he is an adjudicated rapist. He’s been convicted of 34 felony indictments, with more to potentially come. Even though it seems like he never suffers consequences for these legal issues, it costs him voters. People who could justify supporting him before are finally reaching a limit, even if they don’t publicly admit it. (Some do!)

Also, more and more people who voted for Trump in 2016 and 2020 are willing to publicly admit they are tired of him and can’t do it again. His rallies are smaller and smaller, the crowds are less engaged, and, yes, people leave during his rambling rants more and more often.

Gen Z is getting to vote for the first time at any real scale. Say what you will about TikTok and other platforms, but they are more informed and showing up and caring about issues that didn’t move the needle for Gen X or Boomers. Remember the Access Hollywood, grab ‘em by the pussy, tape? That should have ended his original campaign, but it didn’t. Gen Z has found out about that, and it’s just one of so many things driving them to get out and vote. The turnout is going to be incredible.

Because we still use the stupid Electoral College, this election largely comes down to swing states. The Trump campaign has done almost everything imaginable to lose those voters. Whether it’s bashing unions (Trump said a child could do the same job as automotive workers building cars, he bragged about not paying overtime, etc…), immigrants (they’re eating the dogs, GOP-led states demonizing them), Puerto Ricans (calling their home a floating pile of garbage, Trump denying hurricane relief for almost two years), or women (abortion, telling women they should vote how their husband wants them to, Vance thinking their purpose is nothing more than baby-making, stay-home, wait-on-a-man’s every need), they are losing the swing states.

Elections are *incredibly secure and trustworthy.* The Trump/GOP camp has attacked this at every opportunity with virtually no success. The few instances of voter fraud we’ve seen in the last few years are almost entirely from Republicans. They have already started the narrative that the election is rigged if Trump loses. This narrative will only increase as results start to roll in on Tuesday. Don’t even worry about it. They will lose every / almost every single lawsuit they try to bring. It will have no impact on the eventual outcome.

Early voting, including absentee and mail-in ballots, turnout is incredibly encouraging. The higher the turnout, the better, and people are showing up. There’s fatigue and embarrassment on the GOP side (you’re gonna eventually hear from those voters that they stayed home, voted for Harris, etc…), and there’s excitement and motivation on the Dem side.

Are there reasons to be worried? Of course. The Trump campaign is going to try and obstruct the voting process in every way they can. They’re blocking poll monitors in Texas and Florida. Drop boxes in some states have been attacked. Voter rolls have been illegally purged. They’re bringing lawsuits (most of which they’ve already lost) even before Election Day. They’re going to claim fraud. They’ll probably incite violence again.

These are the actions of a desperate campaign that isn’t trying to actually win, because they know they’ve already lost.

So, we can acknowledge our stress, anxiety, and fear, but we don’t have to let it ruin the next few days. Get outside and enjoy (hopefully) beautiful Fall weather. Snuggle your pets. Listen to your favorite albums. Read a great book. Hang out with your people. Vote.

We’re a few days away from a massive weight being lifted from our shoulders. Don’t let it weigh you down until then.

[upsidedownmvnson]

reader is insecure about big boobs | eddie munson

warnings: reader is insecure about big boobies :(

requested by anon <3

"What's left on the list, my love?"

Eddie Munson was a powerhouse of a boyfriend, always. Not in sheer strength, but just in general boyfriendiness. Today you guys were out and about in town, just running errands for you. So far today you'd gotten your haircut, went to the dentist, did the groceries for your house, dropped something off to your friend, and now you guys were at the mall, eating french fries and taking a little break.

Not once did Eddie get annoyed, bored, or impatient. He just followed along, performing finger drum songs in various waiting rooms while you were busy. In fact, you'd told him it would be boring but he insisted that he be your private chariot for the day.

You unfold the weak paper. It's been folded and unfolded this sheet so many times that it was just begging to fall apart. The blue pen was fading as if you hadn't written this last night.

You sigh, "just bra shopping."

"Best for last," Eddie grinned, rubbing his hands together.

Obviously, he'd never been bra shopping before. You had. You would spend the next hour trying on bras that don't fit and will end up paying forty bucks for a bra you don't even like, and barely fit into, like one weight flux and it would start gathering dust in your drawer.

But what are you supposed to do? They never have your size, and when they do they're neon pink, or have the same effect as a sports bra, and you already wore a sports bra enough. You wanted something sexy, something to push up the girls and say, "hey look at me! I probably don't have stretch marks from being pulled down to her belly button all the time!"

But you do...

You felt the tears welling up in your eyes before you could even say anything else. Bra shopping is the worst and you'd already had a long day.

"Hey, hey," Eddie said softly, recognizing the overwhelmed look in your eye. He stood up and shimmied around so he could sit beside you in the booth. "What happened? What's wrong, Petal?"

"Maybe we should just call it," you said, wiping at a tear that managed to sneak out. "And I can do this tomorrow."

"Wouldn't you like to just get it out of the way? I can help you real quick and then I can take you home, we can set up a movie night and just relax the rest of the day? How's that sound?"

It sounded really good. And the way he spoke softly and kindly reassured you that he's got your back, and he probably wouldn't even laugh at you if you told him the truth, which you were considering. Maybe he could even help?

"What if I can't find anything?"

"Then I'll take you somewhere else."

"What is they laugh at me?"

"Then I'll burn the store down."

You laughed, and he smiled, putting an arm around you and pulling you into his side. He kissed the top of your head a few times before resting his chin on your head.

"C'mon Petal, tell me what's bothering you."

"Eddie, have you ever been bra shopping? I have watermelons strapped to my chest, nothing fits! And when it does it gives me uniboob. And uniboob even costs like a thousand dollars - and even then, I'm- I'm..." you sniffle, trying not to cry in the middle of the food court.

"Baby..." he cooed, holding you tightly. He didn't care if people saw the pda, he would comfort you when and where you needed it. You couldn't see his face, but where you imagined him cringing, he was just smiling sadly. He hated that you felt like this. "I wish you saw what I saw."

"I wish you felt what I felt," you said. "They're literally weighing me down."

"I have a solution."

"That's not you just holding them up all day?"

"I do not have a solution."

"It's just frustrating."

"I know baby," he said, "Can I just... I don't want to make it worse but baby, you are so gorgeous. Top to bottom, just perfection. I know you might hate them, but personally..." Eddie sighed, you were still smushed into his chest, but pulled away to see his face. He pushed his own chin into his neck to look down at you, but somehow still looked ridiculously beautiful. He grinned. "Personally I like when they spill through my fingers."

"Eddie!"

"What!? It's so true, there's so much to grab. To kiss. Ugh, just suffocate me with them so I can die happy."

You giggled, "Okay you win for now. Let's go do this - but if I need to talk to an employee I'm making you do it."

"Deal."

As you gathered your stuff, Eddie watched you. Honestly shocked that someone as beautiful as you even found time to bother with insecurities. He would do literally anything to make you see yourself the way that he sees you.

He takes your bags, holding the girly shopping bags with no hesitation or problem.

And he says, "but I can help you hold them up later, right?"

[lady-in-the-lair]

Happy Anniversary, Buddy

One year after the disaster at Area 51, Eddie finally makes it to New York.

Time for the fandom's thousandth fix-it fic!

Read on Ao3 or below

-----

It takes him a year to make it to New York.

It’s not the cost. Eddie has a new job now, not particularly exciting, but it pays the bills and keeps him busy.

It’s important to keep busy.

Necessary. 

He spends the flight writing up his latest exposé, spends hours pruning and polishing in an effort to forget the last time he’d been on a plane.

Literally on a plane. 

Venom would have liked that joke. 

“We should have driven,” he says aloud. Even without the plane trauma, he would have loved taking a long, meandering cross-country road trip, showing Venom the national parks. The wonder in Venom's voice at the sight of the Nevada desert from above keeps echoing in his ears, and he keeps imagining Venom's awe had Eddie taken him to the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Big Bend, the Smoky Mountains...

"Should have taken you when we had the chance," he says, closing his eyes. "I knew you wanted to see the world, but I..."

“Sir?” It’s the flight attendant. Again. “If you want a fourth beer, that'll have to be your last one. Airline policy.”

Eddie mumbles something, he himself isn’t sure what, and turns back to his laptop. It’s the hundredth time he’s been given the stinkeye by the flight attendant for talking to himself. 

He still hasn’t gotten used to it. Himself. Just himself. 

Knows, deep down, that he’ll never get used to it.

He’d spent most of his life on his own. He would have been fine now if he’d never had Venom. Fine. Completely fine. He'd been fine after losing Anne, more or less; sad, but fine. Logically he should be fine now that he's lost the symbiote. 

Then why—

You know why, though you only realized it when it was too late—

Nerika. 

Or whatever that word was, that mental door Martin had told him about that opens upon one’s death, leading to revelations.

He hadn’t believed in the hippie-dippy nonsense it at the time. And even if he had, he would have never imagined that the door would open upon Venom’s death.

Fine time to realize Venom’s feelings are real—

—were real—

—after a year of telling yourself they weren’t even though you could feel them. Fine time to realize you reciprocated them, fine time to realize it was real, it was all real, and now he’s gone. 

He realizes he’s been typing gibberish and presses the delete button, then stops at the memory that conjures up, of Venom poking at his computer, of how poorly he’d treated Venom during that period— not just during that period—

Guilt triggered by the memory breaks through the numbing armor he’s formed around himself, floods the hollow in his chest that used to be filled by Venom. He rubs his temples, regrets opening his eyes when they fall on the date at the corner of his computer screen.

Two years to the day from when they first met. Bonded. Bonded like—

He orders another drink. 

He buys the M&Ms at the massive M&M flagship store near Radio City (Venom would have loved it) but he doesn’t eat the candy until he’s sitting on one of the too-small chairs set up for tourists in Times Square, a place he would have gone out of his way to avoid if he didn’t know Venom would have reveled in the bright lights and neon and crowds of people just like the symbiote, people from all over the world, aliens.

It’s the first time he’s eaten chocolate since that day in the desert.

He finishes the bag. 

All but the red ones.

It’s just a faint flicker at first, a half-formed thought, the occasional will-o'-the-wisp floating through the mists of what should have been oblivion but somehow isn’t.

Little scraps of consciousness, like someone switching between stations as they tune a radio. Fleeting feelings at first, familiar but not his, or are they…?...he can't tell, can't even identify the scattered specks of disembodied emotion illuminating the darkness.

He has no concept of time, no way of knowing how long it is before his mind forms a single faint but coherent word:

Eddie.

He tries to focus on the Eddie, use it as an anchor, bind the will-o'-the-wisps to it with slippery tentacles of hazy self-awareness like someone tying a lifeboat to a buoy in an ocean of blackness, but they feelings grief, regret, sorrow?—dissipate like mist at his touch.

He swims through the numbing black sea towards the Eddie, struggling to claw his way back to—to what?—he doesn’t know—he’s driven by something outside himself, or perhaps buried deep within himself—a desperation to return to something—someone—

That need is what keeps him from slipping beneath the inky waves of oblivion. Someone is waiting for him—

Then he fades again, resurfacing amidst sharp spikes of grief and regret, fading again, another burst of pain, over and over until he's hit by a blast of anger and melancholy so potent he suddenly remembers who he is, what he’s lost, before he sinks back into sticky blackness.

Time goes on, his fractured moments of semi-awareness faint and brief, but through it all he holds one thought up like a beacon:

Eddie. He has to get back to Eddie. 

A whiff of hamburger, a bark of a dog.

Eddie’s voice. 

Eddie. Hamburger. Dog. 

(Dogs are not for eating.)

Other words come slowly. 

Beer. Coffee. More beer.

The incessant clattering of computer keys is soothing, a log to cling to amidst the sea of mist. 

He tries to hold on to the clatter, cling to passive scents, but this must be how humans feel when coming in and out of anesthesia and he has no way of knowing long it’s been before a roar sends a shudder through their body, through the lifeboat cradling the fragile tendrils of his consciousness, shocking him back to a fragment of himself.

It's the first physical sensation he’s felt since…

Since?

For the first time, he doesn't fade immediately after achieving consciousness. His mind is foggy, thoughts impossible to string together, but he's awake.

He can’t be sure, but he thinks it’s soon after that the roar that he first smells chocolate, feels a familiar crunch, tastes it, the second and third physical sensation he’s felt since…?

Since…?

Since something bad, he knows with growing certainty as the crunching continues, his thoughts growing stronger, more cohesive. Something that made Eddie sad…

Eddie. 

He feels a surge of an emotion that does not belong to Eddie, the first emotion of his own that he’s felt since (since??) a rush of concern, anger at whatever made Eddie sad, a need to make that sadness go away.

A crinkling sound, another crunch, more chocolate. More sounds, growing louder, sharper: honking, a helicopter, music, a siren, a whistle. 

Eddie’s voice again: “They didn’t have tater tots, buddy,” he’s saying to himself, voice sending a familiar rumble in his throat. “I thought McDonald’s would have them…I’ll grab a Hershey bar instead…you always liked those.” 

Who is Eddie talking to? Somehow Venom knows Eddie thinks he's dead, though he can't remember how or why. Has Eddie gotten a new friend, a new partner, a new…Other….?

Has Venom been replaced—?

The sound of music, a cash register beeping, a crinkling wrapper, and the sweet rush of phenylalanine. 

I’m here! he tries to scream. I’m still here, Eddie! Eddie, I’m here!

Then he stops, tries to think, something getting easier and easier, the thick sludgy blackness starting to thin as if getting washed away by rain—chocolate rain, ha, he can’t remember why that’s funny, but he knows he’s made a joke. Memories have started to return but the most recent ones are blurred by a haze of burning agony, with Eddie's face behind glass (a window??) the only thing coming through clearly.

Another bite of chocolate. Eddie is eating the whole chocolate bar; he can feel it, taste it, and so: Eddie did not share the chocolate, and so: Eddie must be alone. 

Eddie is alone. Eddie has no new Other…?

He can feel them walking now, feel the impact of each footfall on the sidewalk, feel the pebble in Eddie’s shoe (not shoes—cowboy boots?? Is he wearing cowboy boots?? Why does that remind Venom of something?)—can feel Eddie’s toe catch on the curb, feel the wetness as he stumbles into a puddle.

What a loser.

His loser.

He still can’t see but he can hear a street vendor yelling “Chekkitout! Chekkitout!” and realizes they’re in New York City.

A wave of hurt.

We were supposed to come here together. 

(We are together.)

Together like we were…

Eddie’s forgotten him. It’s the only explanation. Why else would he come here…?

He feels Eddie’s heart start to race in response to his distress, feels Eddie’s confusion at what’s causing the sudden surge of pain, and tries to calm them down, reminds himself that all that matters is that Eddie is happy. That’s all that’s ever mattered: if Eddie is happy Venom is happy. He was willing to get him back with Anne, after all, and Eddie forgetting him couldn’t be worse than that…

Right? 

It’s only when he hears the “Road to Hell” that he starts to wonder if he’s wrong. He had played Hadestown on a loop till Eddie snapped the CD in half, after which Venom spent $50 on mp3 downloads before Eddie canceled the credit card. Eddie isn’t one for stories of doomed love, of star-crossed lovers fated to spend eternity searching for each other. He likes classic rock and oldies, hates musicals and theater.

So why is he here?

Can it be…?

Eddie must not have paid attention to the countless times Venom played the show’s soundtrack because he feels Eddie’s distress as it becomes obvious that Orpheus is going to lose Euridyce forever. 

Venom he still can’t see but he can move, just a little. He curls a tendril around Eddie’s heart as it beats faster, tastes his dismay as Orpheus turns around and dooms Eurydices to oblivion and himself to eternal solitude, senses his bitterness at Hades and Persephone's happy ending.

Feels Eddie’s confusion as they leave the theater, confusion at the jubilation burgeoning in his chest, elbowing the grief unleashed by the show.

Venom doesn’t even try to tamp his joy down.

Eddie remembers. Eddie remembers!

He wishes he had full mobility, wishes he could wrap his tentacles around Eddie’s fingers, let Eddie know I’m back, I’m back, I’m alive, I’ve been here the whole time!

It’s an odd sensation, mistily hearing the sounds of the city as they walk and walk—Eddie speaks—“Maybe in here?”—buys something—food? Venom smells something familiar—walking, walking.

The air grows cooler and Venom wants to wrap Eddie in warm black goo. There’s a salt tang in the air, unnoticeable to most humans, growing stronger.

A blast of a foghorn. 

At the water. And in the water is…?

A crushing wave of hurt that Eddie would come here alone. Venom was wrong at the show, wrong about Eddie…

A rustle of paper, the taste of tater tots, Eddie’s voice, too low for anyone else to hear:

“Happy anniversary, buddy. Sorry you couldn’t see this...”

Or maybe…?

“I miss you, V.” There’s a catch in Eddie's voice. “Miss…us.”

Venom is so excited that Eddie almost chokes on a tater tot, his throat constricting with Venom’s surge of delight.  

Misses us. Misses us!

Eddie looks up at the Statue of Liberty, eyes filling with tears not entirely caused by the choking, and Venom feels him wondering again why exhilaration he hasn’t felt in over a year is fighting with his usual depression, now of all times, here of all places.

Venom deserves better, Venom hears him think, and Venom gives a shiver of joy, thin black tendrils curling around Eddie’s ribs, forming a warm cocoon around his heart.

Eddie finishes the tater tots and must be gazing back up at Lady Liberty because there’s a blurry light visible, the first thing Venom’s seen since the explosion at Area 51, a green smudge solidifying, forming a woman draped in a sheet, wearing a pointy hat and holding a torch.

It blurs again, but their vision clears as something hot and wet rolls down their cheek.

“Happy anniversary, Eddie,” says Venom. 

[glubsurleseuil]

Don't be scared - Chapter 1

This is the first chapter - Next

A Pennywise X F!Reader fanfic 'cause I need to get these ideas out of my head before they eat me up. I'll post this thing on AO3 when I'm not so lazy to create an account. If I go ahead with it, it'll be NSFW, sexually disturbing, gory, violent, reader is an autistic drepressed suicidal girl… In short, skip it if you're a sensitive soul. For the rest of you, enjoy (I hope).

(Note: It was translated by Deepl, English is not my mother tongue, so I apologise for any mistakes. If you want to correct me, don't hesitate!)

(Note 2: The image is by @fandomscreenshots but you should already know that because what she does is amazing)

You've always lived in Derry, Maine. Well, actually you were born in Derry, went to school in Derry and, like any good citizen, you now work in Derry. You don't like it, you never have, and you know that no matter what you do, you'll never like it.

Firstly, because no matter how hard you try since childhood, you just can't seem to make any friends. Worse, people seem to have agreed to shut you out and hate you. At best, they ignore you, at worst… well, let's just say there are certain people you've learned to avoid at all costs, so you don't have to spend the evening licking your wounds…

Secondly, because there's something unhealthy about the general atmosphere of this town, as if it were being devoured by a cancer that affected not only the surrounding greenery, but also the buildings and even the people. A cancer that could be called suffering, melancholy or despair. And although no one knows where these feelings come from, everyone seems to accept them as an inevitable burden.

Tonight, like most evenings, you're working at the Canal Rouge, a rather quiet bar where people can drink and listen to local artists perform on a small stage. You're a waitress, and it's not the most pleasant of jobs, especially when you're a woman. Fortunately, your boss is a woman too, and she's very strict about the respect customers show her staff, so things could be a lot worse.

But tonight, you're in a particularly bad mood. Fatigue has always been a difficult thing for you to deal with, and lately your nights have been… tormented. You've been having a dream, always the same with little difference, on and off for over a week. It's a hazy, dark, incoherent dream that's hard to remember. What you remember most is anguish, fear… and an unbearable feeling of being watched by something dangerous, making you feel like prey waiting to be devoured. When your therapist asked you to describe this dream, even with random words, you said 'fear', 'red' and… 'clown'. You laughed after saying that last word, a nervous, uncontrolled laugh, like a continuation of the one you always hear in this dream before waking up.

But tonight, the worst is yet to come, because you have to serve Jenny's gang as consumers, young people your own age who, like you, are stuck in Derry and like to pass the time by annoying other people. Especially you, since you met them in kindergarten. You know you won't be able to get home safely tonight…

And your fears are confirmed as you finish your shift. As you emerge into the alley to which the service door leads, you see them laughing at the end of it, looking in your direction. This is the way home. You quickly think of another option, but you know that even if you take a longer route, they'll be able to corner you sooner or later, and that's what they'll do. Unless… you go through the forest…

You don't hesitate, knowing that your pursuers won't follow. Their parents have given them the same instructions as you: never go into the forest at night. Ever. Your father had made it clear that he meant business by emphasizing his order with the back of his hand. But tonight, you're a grown-up, and between your dead father's old superstitions and Jenny and her gang's guaranteed beating, the choice was quickly made.

You head into the forest, at first more worried about your pursuers who, as expected, quickly abandon their target. Then you decide to turn on the torch on your phone, as it quickly becomes very dark between the tightly packed trees in the middle of the night. You recognize the path you're on and follow it to the ancient oak tree where you used to climb as a child to escape the bullies. But even this place, reassuring by day, gives off a menacing aura by night…

All is quiet, too quiet for a forest where animals should be going about their nocturnal lives. You get the impression that a kind of fog is floating around, light but unnatural, and as you look at the thick branches of the oak tree, you get a strange feeling… Like a memory from another life… Like a dream…

Suddenly, there's a sound. A sound you know well, having heard it every night for over a week. A laugh. A clown's laugh… You turn in all directions, shining your phone in every nook and cranny around the oak. And just as you realize that there's nothing there, that maybe it's your imagination playing tricks on you, the laughter starts up again. You jump back against the tree, light pointed ahead, anticipating the appearance of someone, something… The laughter becomes more distinct, closer… But it's not coming from in front of you, nor from the sides… It comes… from above?

With a quick gesture, you point the light towards the branches of the oak tree and there, hidden in the shadows of the leaves, you see it: a clown. No, THE clown. The one who has haunted your dreams, distressed your nights, devoured your sanity. This present moment has repeated itself endlessly in your nightmare and now it's all happening for real, clear as day and just as terrifying.

With a muffled scream, you drop your phone, the lamp face down and your legs buckling beneath you. The little light that escapes from beneath your phone only faintly illuminates the bottom of the tree, but you know IT's there.

And it's not long before he leaps down from the tree. You can only make out a silhouette in the darkness, and as you hear him coming closer, you try to remember the end of the dream. It's all a blur, and all that comes back is a vague memory of a hunt in which you are the prey… Back on the grassy ground, you pull yourself back as best you can with your hands, never taking your eyes off the presence. Is this how you're going to die?

He moves slowly closer, slipping into the shadows. You can make out that he's leaning forward, then addressing you in a childlike voice.

"Hiya Y/N! I'm Pennywise, the dancing clown!"

He suddenly picks up your phone from the floor, pulling it up slowly, light downwards, gradually revealing his appearance as he continues.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you, you know? Don't be scared, I'm not going to kill you…"

As he utters these words, light finally shines on his face, reflected in his abnormally large and sharp teeth, piercing yellow eyes focused on you, and horror fills you.

"… yet."

The instinct to survive gives you new energy. You leap to your feet and flee the way you came, briefly illuminated by your phone in the clown's hands. You run at full speed, ignoring the noises behind you that make you think he's chasing you. If you've got a chance of getting away, you're going to take it. In fact, the forest exit isn't far off. One last push! You close your eyes and accelerate again… when hands often clutch your collar, brutally stopping your momentum.

"There you are, you bastard!"

"I told you she'd come back! She's such a pussy!"

"No way out now, you bitch!"

Jenny and her gang… It was Tim, the big muscular guy who caught you. They were waiting for you just outside the forest…

"Why are you running so fast? Are you afraid of the big bad wolf?"

They burst out laughing, but the sound reaches you distorted. The adrenalin from your run is wearing off too slowly and you can still hear your heart pounding in your eardrums. You struggle on, your brain unable to make sense of what has just happened. Suddenly, you hear a foul noise. A kind of hoarse, inhuman growl, coming out of the depths of the woods like an echo to their pitiful mocking laughter. You feel Tim's hands trembling with uncontrollable fear on your collar and watch their faces disintegrate before your eyes. Tim lets go and they all flee in a single scream of terror, leaving you behind.

You turn around, your body still tired from your frantic run, and you quickly understand what made them flee: golden eyes, shining menacingly in the darkness, perched on a huge, muscular, fur-covered figure, its multiple sharp teeth accentuating the evil growl rolling down its throat. A werewolf.

You barely have time to realize that it's the clown from earlier before he disappears between the trees with a hoot that sends shivers down your spine. Just as you regain your strength to flee, something falls near you. You examine it carefully: it's your phone, and as you turn the screen towards you, you see a message written in a torn red font:

DON'T BE SCARED

You don't wait any longer and run towards town without looking back.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for refusing to buy peanut butter and honey for everyone when I'm already buying it for myself when I'm in charge of buying groceries?

Names: my name is Nichole 19 f, Jake 20 m, Tams mtf.

A basic run down of the situation, we all live together and we have figured out that because rent is a bit cheeper where we live and I have the most money out of all of us, Jake and Tams split the rent and I cover our groceries which to feed all three of us, is a little over the total cost rent, meaning I am spending the most money out of all us. Rent is about $600 so they are both spending only $300 dollars each.

I have two lists that everyone writes down groceries items on. One list, the priority list is for meals and the secondary list is for wants such as snacks foods. I set a budget of $800 and as long as I can cover all the priority items for the month, I will get what I can on the secondary list.

The reason why I don't buy everyone peanut butter and honey is rather petty sounding, but it is that neither of them ever add those items to either list, and I will buy small jars of both and mix them together to eat by myself because neither Jack or Tams likes the mixture and I only buy enough to last me about 10 days so I don't like to share the unmixed peanut butter and honey since it's all I'll I have of it for the month.

They don't even think about peanut butter or honey until they see my mixture in the back of fridge a day and will then team up to berate me for not getting everyone peanut butter and honey and being selfish and a bad roommate. I always tell them they didn't put it on any of the lists and this is just a treat for myself but they argue back that I should have just gotten it anyways. And this agreement has been going on for a few months now.

But the reason why I am so incessant on the lists, and why I even made them in the first place, is because I use to keep buying myself snacks and then they would ask me to buy everyone snacks and I didn't think about it until I realized I was spending pretty much all my money on food. We had a talk when I realized this, and while they grumbled about it they agreed to the budget and the lists so I wasn't stuck paying an unfair amount of my paycheck on us compared to them.

I know that maybe it's just my anxiety, but I can't help but feel like they are disrespecting this boundary I set with my money every time they insult me for not buying peanut butter and honey for everyone when if they wanted it so badly, and I even tell them this, they write it down right then and there for next months grocery trip or they could even just hand me the cash and have me go pick it up for them rather then expecting me to buy it for them when it wasn't and never is on the lists they agreed to. I also just don't understand why when I tell them to just add it to list for next month or to hand me the money to get it for them they storm off and do neither of those things, but I am rather social stunted from a rather isolated childhood so maybe this behavior has a very easy to see reason I'm just not getting

I know it sounds really petty, I really do, but I just really don't want to relent on this boundary and then for them to later use it as excuse to begin asking for more and more again until I can't afford it. But maybe I'm just being unreasonable and a petty asshole, but maybe I'm not, I honestly have no idea

What are these acronyms?

[atopvisenyashill]

If Jaehaerys was all about minimizing the power of Targaryen daughters but marrying them off to less-than-ideal suitors (love that idea), how do you think that applies to the match of Rhaenys and Corlys? Does it, even? Or does it need to, given expected Rhaenys's station at the time? He says she couldn't have picked a better man.

And, also, do you think this can be applied to Daemon's match with Rhea?

LETS DIG INNNN okay this got so longgggg but i was trying to be fair while also discussing like, so much sex crime-

So like the post said re: Alyssa & Baelon’s marriage, I think there's some interference from Alysanne here. Especially early on in their marriage, before she's made it clear that she can in fact live without his ass, I think we have several cases where he's ~indulging~ Alysanne's more romantic ideas about what ruling should look like and what being a targaryen should be about. Giving her wins that ultimately don’t cost him much (before she starts asking for things he doesn’t approve of).

I think by the time Rhaenys marries Corlys, Jaehaerys has already written her off as a potential heir, but if he denies her marriage to Corlys, that risks not only pissing off Corlys - who imo already has A Whole Thing about being Just As Valyrian As The Targaryens, so he will take offense - but also tips Alysanne off to the fact that he has no intention of letting the crown pass to Rhaenys or her sons. He knows this is a sore spot for her because she insisted that little Daenerys be considered crown princess and heir over Aemon, and Jaehaerys already brushed her off about that. So if he tries to marry Rhaenys off to like, a Tully who already has three heirs or some random Darry, Alysanne is going to argue that Rhaenys deserves a much loftier match given her status, and get really paranoid about why Rhaenys is getting a shitty match. I think he's trying to put off naming Baelon as his/Aemon’s heir for as long as possible because he knows it's going to be a fight, especially given that Alysanne is usually the one in charge of marriages, and this has precedent (that marriages are the Queen's domain - Visenya and Rhaenys made marriage matches as well).

But also. I think (and I can't believe I'm gonna do my man Ned dirty like this) that like Ned (bleh), Jaehaerys learns the "wrong lesson" from his sister. Rhaena married extremely beneath her and that caused major problems for her, so Jaehaerys is making sure that Rhaenys doesn't marry far beneath her as well. Because see, Rhaena spends much of her life miserable, without a direction in life, without even a castle to her name that she can hide out in. Everything that is hers is actually Jaehaerys' and it eats away at her until the day she dies. Beyond that, keeping Rhaena on as a guest is expensive because people want to see her, because she comes with her own household, and because she has a whole ass dragon that needs to be fed. So even if she wanted to live off the goodwill of others, that goodwill runs out quick due to logistics. She only gets Harrenhal because Maegor Towers is sickly and the last of his line, and even then, it's not really hers - it belongs to the crown.

I think Jaehaerys looked at how unhappy she was and what a huge pain in the ass it was, and figures he needs to give Rhaenys a consolation prize in a way he doesn’t need to give to the younger daughters, bc they never had a chance to inherit. Rhaenys has assumed the crown will pass if not to her then to her son, as has Alysanne, and I think its likely Aemon and Jocelyn also assumed that the crown would pass to Rhaenys' eventual son. Jaehaerys can’t just deny her all the trappings of being crown princess/mother to a king and expect her to take it lying down. And to be clear, I do think there’s some emotional aspect to this - I think he did feel guilty over stealing Rhaena’s crown and throne even if he felt he was doing it ~for the good of the realm bc Aegon had died. When Rhaena makes her “you are rhaenys i am visenya i have always known this” comment, she nails the dynamic, but I think Rhaena being the ~rejected bride~ does hurt Jaehaerys - she deserved, in his eyes, to grow old with their brother and have the power of a queen consort. BUT. At the same time, he’s a raging violent misogynist who believes Alysanne is the only exception to her gender, that it is simply right and natural that a woman only derives power from her husband. It’s why Baelon gets to claim Balerion when he’s young, but Alyssa is barred until her wedding. A dragon is a responsibility, a realm is a burden, and in his eyes Alyssa Velaryon, Rhaena, and Visenya all failed to live up to the challenge. So yes, he wants something good for Rhaenys - he wants her to have a happier life than Rhaena did, and he’s willing to gamble just like he did with the Baelon/Alyssa marriage, and indulge Rhaenys and Alysanne in giving her a dragon and a husband who could back her claim because she needs something to keep her calm when he inevitably usurps her, in contrast to the way Rhaena had absolutely nothing to distract her from her misery. And his gamble pays off is the thing - he neutralizes her dragon and her husband bc Corlys is off fighting still when the announcement is made, and Rhaenys is heavily pregnant and probably not really riding Meleys. He figured - bc of his love for Alyssa, Alysanne, and Rhaenys, however goddamn deranged and ultimately meaningless that love is - that he could move the pieces enough to get the outcome he thought was best and he was right!

For Daemon's part, I do think this is part of why Alysanne ships him off to the Vale yes. Notable to me that every marriage match does have a seat of their own, even if it's not an important one, unlike second son Androw Farman - Daella would have gotten the Eyrie, Viserra would have gotten White Harbor, and while none of Saera's matches were lofty they were all heirs with nice enough seats. But Daemon would run into a similar problem where it would be too expensive to keep him around if he marries some random noble lady living with her dad, but if he marries too high up that’s just as bad, so giving him an heiress and then kicking him the fuck out is a good way to deal with him.

BUT. I actually do have a conspiracy theory here that something happened at KL that caused a huge stir within the family and Alysanne dealt with it by shipping Daemon off. What happened? Well...obviously I think Viserys and Daemon got caught fucking lmao, I call myself a Visaemon truther for a reason. I do also think there's a chance that Alysanne suspected Daemon was fucking around with Gael as well - they're only a year apart, they grew up in King’s Landing together, Gael & Alysanne have been back at court a few years, Targaryens love to do that stuff, etc. I’m not saying he IS the father, the timeline is close enough that they could have fucked around but not close enough to have gotten her pregnant - he marries Rhea in 97 and Gael disappears from court in 99. But my other conspiracy about Jaehaerys being the father does kinda fit this too - that Alysanne noticed something was up but suspected the wrong man. I don't think Alysanne would ever want to even entertain the thought that Jaehaerys was raping one of her daughters, even if she realized what he had done to Alysanne herself was rape. Much easier to blame it on/suspect eternal Problem Child Daemon, especially if he's also being groomed by fucking Viserys; he's already an oversexed lecher who seduced gentle, married Viserys away from sweet Aemma, what else isn't he capable of? (and the double tap there of like, hypersexualization of bisexuality + Alysanne’s complete refusal to deal with how unhappy she is with Jaehaerys equals, to me, her constantly punishing her children and grandchildren because she can’t punish Jaehaerys, and proving this point to herself that she couldn’t have been manipulated into marrying him because look, her daughters are marrying the same way as well. And if she suspects even subconsciously that Jaehaerys is raping Gael? And punishes Daemon for ~seducing~ her poor sweet innocent Gael and stealing away Viserys from his sweet innocent wife Aemma? yeah that tracks with how she treats Saera and Viserra).

um tldr i think jaehaerys simply gambled that he could still control the situation when it came to defanging rhaenys, but also knew he couldn’t just give her nothing, if not for sentiment sake, then at least for logistics sake and to avoid a small rebellion, so when rhaenys & alysanne float the match, he can’t say no to it, so he just controls it. and i do think alysanne sent daemon off to the vale in part to defang him as well, yes, in addition to my not insane i’m right conspiracies about exactly what was cookin in king’s landing circa 97-99 ac (it was a lot of sex crimes, that’s what was cookin).

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook:

𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝 Part 1: I hate you

You hate how he acts, how he talks, how he treats you- like some dumb girl that's stupid enough to fall into his claws. But you're not that stupid. Or are you?

Tags/Warnings: mc hates kook, Angst, enemies to ???, past regrets, miscommunication, Fluff?, slow burn, sugar daddy Jungkook vibes, minor age gap, sexual thoughts, there's tension baby

Length: ~2k.

-> Masterlist

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

If Jungkook wasn't 5'10" and basically spending half his time awake at the gym, you'd definitely fight him. Slap him at least- but again, only if he wasn't tall enough for you to need a chair to reach him.

He just gets onto your nerves.

His attitude, the way he carries himself, the way he acts as if he's in control of the entire room, even if there's people in it that are twice his age. Nothing seems to ever bother him, nothing makes him angry, or upset, or anything- he always has that shit-eating smirk on his face, making him oh-so punchable in your opinion. He's so aware of his own charming nature and ability to sweet-talk anyone into doing what he wants them to, that it just feels utterly unfair to you. Sure, he's attractive- but only visually so, on the surface level. As soon as he opens his filthy mouth to talk and brag about all the different adventures he's already been on (inside the bedroom and in general), you just want to vomit.

He's a fuckboy, deserving to get his penis bitten off.

Okay, maybe that's a bit drastic- but he's just incredibly irritating to you. Mostly because you just don't know where you both stand; He tends to belittle you in an odd manner that makes you confused if he's being nice or teasing you, whether he's offering an insult or a compliment. And the worst of all is that whenever he does outright give you praise of any kind, which mostly happens very fleetingly so you almost don't notice it, you can't get it out of your head for days.

It sticks to you like gum.

You remember, for example, when he had simply called you a 'good girl' after you had caught his credit card as it had slipped out of his hands and tumbled underneath his car- a place he would've had a lot more trouble with reaching than you, considering the height difference between the two of you. This moment, the tone of his voice, the slight chuckle he'd given you, the brush of his fingers against yours - it had stayed with you for almost an entire week after it had happened.

You hate this. It's ridiculous.

Jungkook is the brother of your former best friend - the two of you back in school - inseparable, but with her moving out of the country to pursue her studies, you simply lost touch. Jungkook, however, stayed behind, obtaining a large share in a pretty successful company, smart decisions, and hard work having brought him into the position he is in today. He doesn't need to worry about money any longer, and he won't ever have to again if he plays things smart, It led to him deciding to invest into things he knows will retain value overtime, making him buy a high-end apartment in Seoul's prettiest neighborhood- which is why when a waterpipe had broken in your old apartment, he'd been your last hope of finding somewhere to stay for the time it would take to fix and renovate the damage, your own flimsy savings not enough to cover weeks of hotel costs. It had surprised him, you know that - but you also remember how surprisingly kind he'd been, always making sure that you were comfortable. But with that also came frustration - because sometimes he acts as if he's older by a lot more than is actually the case between you both. Sure, he's already almost thirty, putting almost six years between you both, but still. You're not a stupid girl, and he should stop treating you like one.

For some reason, that's why your hatred really keeps burning.

Maybe because he just belittles you at any chance he gets. He seemingly refuses to see you as a woman, always describes you as a little girl, never takes you seriously. That, combined with your not so small crush you've had on him ever since your school days, just simply doesn't mix well. You hate this.

You hate him.

And unbeknownst to you, it's mutual.

Jungkook fucking hates you too.

He hates how you flaunt your figure any chance you get, just like now, as you're sitting on his friend's couch next to himself, naked thighs on full display for everyone in the room to see, black shorts living up to their name by being disgustingly short in his opinion. He's also sure you've skipped a bra for the movie night this time- your slightly perked nipples pushing against the fabric of your baggy shirt, freely moving tits underneath the black item of clothing just begging for his touch it seems. You're always like this, as if to mock him with what he can never have for himself, completely immune to any of his advances that it just made him stop trying at this point. What's the use for his charms if they just make you laugh at him at the end of the day?

He hates you so fucking much.

Especially now, with you so comfortable next to him. It's like your dynamic has shifted over the past six months- mutual friends making you hang out more often than not, and while you'd been so deliciously shy and easily flustered around him before, nowadays, it feels like you've kicked him right into the friendzone, no joke of his getting under your skin any longer. He knows you think Jimin is kind of cute- but he didn't think that it was enough to make you move on from him this fast. Or maybe he had hoped it wouldn't.

He's aware of your crush on himself after all. He's been relishing in it for a long time, his career and the falling out of touch with his sister and you after she'd started her studies abroad the main cause of him never making his move. He'd been waiting, pushing it further and further and further in front of him instead of doing something.

And now? It feels like he's lost his chance.

"Gimme that-" You whine so cutely, leaning over his lap to grab the bag of peach snacks from Taehyung sitting on the floor, and yes, now Jungkook can be one hundred percent sure- you're definitely braless, softness of your chest flush against his thigh for a moment, warmth seeping through the fabric of his sweatpants and making him internally rip his hair out. He's glad he's got some good self-control under his belt, otherwise he'd surely pop a boner right here and now, embarrassing himself in front of his best friends and you as well. Or maybe you'd be impressed. Who knows. How much could you even take in terms of.. size?

But oh, it gets so much worse, because it has become your life's mission to just make him suffer it seems.

You now decide to simply lay over his lap now- body warm over his thighs while you swing your legs back and forth behind you, fluffy socks on your feet hitting your butt every now and then while you're talking to Taehyung about some mistakes in the movie's plot- though Jungkook himself is not listening, the rhythmic rocking of your body over his legs from your own movements too much to handle for a simple mortal like himself. All he can think about is how much he just wants to spank the living hell out of you right in this position- hand itching to just place itself palm flat over one cheek and just, squeeze until you yelp.

You'd make such cute noises, he just knows. He'd been getting those little teasers of them all the time, after all. How much would it take for him to make you scream? And how much further could he push you until you're just fucked too stupid to form any sounds at all?

That thought alone spirals out of control in his head as he's suddenly getting visions of you underneath him, hands bound to the bedpost and body flushed and wet with sweat while he pounds into you until you're bruised. He hopes you like it rough- because he's sure if he ever got his hands on you, he'd push you to your limits and maybe even beyond, his hand grabbing your hair while he'd make you gag on his cock until you cry.

"Move a little, I gotta use the bathroom." Jungkook grunts, careful but strong in his actions as he maneuvers you off his lap so he can escape for a second, or two, or maybe he just needs to leave entirely because fuck.

He hates this.

Every time he's got someone over to try and somehow fuck it out of his system, all he can see is you, and it's becoming a problem. It makes him suffer continuously, unable to cum if he doesn't think of you in any way- and it's embarrassing to admit to himself, no pleasure enough for him if his brain isn't allowed to connect you to it.

He doesn't know how long he can take this. He has to get out of here right fucking now- he can't just jerk off now because he knows how flushed he gets afterwards, there's simply no way he could ever hide that from anybody. Why do you have to even look like that tonight? Why can't you just leave him alone?

Well, that one's easy.

He wont let you.

It's like he's turning from the sadist into the masochist every time you're with him like this, the pain and torture he has to endure completely his own choice at the end of the day. He knows you're like this, it's nothing new to him- you feel comfortable and relaxed around him, and he likes that, he feels honored by it in a way, really. But it's also a terrible curse, when in times like these, he can't even slightly hope for some divine intervention to give him that k-drama worthy experience of mind-blowing emotional sex after a heartfelt confession of love. He won't get that, because those fucking idiots always seem to be there to ruin it for him.

And whenever he's alone with you, he pretty much forgets about it, as stupid as it sounds.

He likes taking you along to trips and travels he's got to go on; not only for the sake of company, but also because you deserve to see the world and experience those luxuries as well. He likes spoiling you, he enjoys taking care of you in any way you allow him to- and yet, it again bites his ass like an untrained dog because it makes him loose his initial goal completely. It falls out of sight every time, and looking back at it, maybe it's just karma. It's a higher power punishing him for being so goddamn stupid every time.

He slept in the same hotel room with you for fuck's sake. He helped you tie your hair one time, routinely takes off your jewelry whenever he takes you along to expensive dinners. All of those perfect moments to make a move- and yet he never does.

Probably never will.

"You heading out already?" Jimin asks as everyone now turns to look at him as he grabs his jacket and car keys, walking over to where you're stills prawled out on the couch before he grabs his phone.

"Yeah, forgot I have a meeting tomorrow early, sorry." He simply apologizes, before he makes a goodbye gesture and heads out, door closing behind him.

"Bullshit." You mumble more or less to yourself. "Fucking liar. He's got the day off." You complain, and Taehyung laughs.

"Why so mad about it?" He wonders, poking at your stomach. "Little baby already miss her dad-"

"Don't you fucking finish that sentence kim taehyung!" You instantly argue, tackling him on the floor to playfight him-

all while Jungkook questions his life choices s he reaches home himself. There's no way his fucking boner is still present even after the entire drive home- and it makes him have to come up with a plan. Maybe this really is just simply sexual frustration and nothing else. Maybe just screwing you will help him become able to move on with his life.

The only question now is; how does he get you under his spell?

[friend-shaped-but]

Dhṛṣṭadyumna

I wrote this fun thing as a gift for @chucklingmaniacally AND as a writing excercise to get this character down.

tw for the usual mahabharat stuff of war and death+self-loathing and mild dissociation

They were born with a sword in their hand. They arise out of the fire, with no goal except vengeance. They are told they are a prince, the crown prince, even. Shikhandi stares at the ceremony from the gallery above, making no secret of his bitterness. Satyajit stands beside the throne, resigned. So, he was regent of Panchal, but now, he has gone back to being the spare. For a second, they feel good. They were chosen over others like Satyajit, who handled the kingdom and his father’s absence and his brothers’ hurts. Over Shikhandi, who brought many victories to Panchal, and was pushed aside because of one loss, or even Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas. But father seems to forget about them half the time, so they do not pay the twins any mind either. Draupadi is the only one smiling encouragingly at them as they are crowned the yuvaraj, everyone else looking at them with either doubt, resignation, or even outright hatred. Dhṛṣṭadyumna feels that everyone is justified in hating him. It’s okay, they hate themself too. 

They are proud. Too proud, in fact, to ask for help. They secretly feel relieved when Satyajit catches an error in the budget that could have cost an already bankrupt Panchal even more. For the first time, they see that calm visage cracking as he berates father for it. Berates father for making them crown prince, tells him off about how they are inexperienced and naive and should not be in the position they are in. Should they have asked father to hold off, give them time, time to adjust to this new world, time to learn all the skills a prince should have? They shake off that thought. They need to carry out father’s desires, they are only there to kill Drona, nothing else. A weapon does not question the hand that wields it. They do not feel like a prince, they never have. They are only a prince by virtue of being the child of a king who looks vaguely male because a man makes a better weapon than a woman. They’ve always felt like a weapon. 

“Why was I spawned, why did you need me if you already had so many sons?” They ask the king. 

“They weren’t you” The king says, but Dhṛṣṭadyumna hears, ‘they were not weapon enough’. They hope they can be weapon enough. 

They’re not human, so sometimes they forget to breathe.

When none of their brothers talk to them at first, it makes them feel something strange in their chest. So they spend their time in the armoury of the Eastern wing of the palace, barely remembering to eat and sleeping on a bench there, training all day, sometimes into the night. Forgetting to blink, sometimes even to breathe. They need to be good. They need to make the king proud. That is what they were born for, right? Dhṛṣṭadyumna, the blade of Panchal, and Agn-Draupadi, it’s Soubhagya. Even now, the name agnija seems closer to them than Draupadi. She’s effervescent, effulgent, blazing like the fire of a yajna. She gets along with everyone, with her innocence and enthusiasm and good nature and self respect and smile. He loves her smile. They both diverge after emerging from the fire, him going after his father, his king, while she is taken away by the attendants who rush to make her presentable.  Yajnaseni. That’s what shikhandi calls her, whenever they get a chance to talk. Panchali, Satyajit calls her, after their homeland. The thing dearest to him. After all, for what do they exist but to be figurines the humans can project their desires onto? So, in public, they call her Draupadi, the daughter of Drupad, and she calls them Dhṛṣṭadyumna, his avenger. In private, however, the word agnija slips as easily from their tongue as Ushna slips from hers. 

And then, the palace feels too suffocating and thoughtlessly, they take a horse and wander off into the woods. The horse runs really fast, until it can’t. But the itch on their skin, the feeling like they’re trapped and trapped and about to explode- that hasn’t faded yet, so they dismount and walk ahead on foot. They’ve been a fool. The clouds were already greying when they set out, sunny afternoon quickly turning into a stormy evening and wrecking havoc all across the forest.  They slip and fall and steady themself and bump into trees and- They don’t know when the world goes black. 

The ground is still muddy when they feel someone shaking them awake. 

“You-” They look at Shikhandi, confused. Didn’t he hate them? “How-” 

“I’m your brother, what was I to do, leave you to die?” He laughs. “Get up!”  

“Come on, I’ll show you the way out,” he says again when they hesitate. 

They take the hand offered to them, and get up, shaking. The forest directly at the back of the castle was allowed to grow wild as a defence. Contrary to what people might believe, Kampilya was not a capital fashioned out of nothing when they had to pack up and move south, it was the winter capital of Panchal, a palace built more for leisure than work. Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas had painstakingly made it a place worthy of ruling a kingdom from, while Satyajit ruled the kingdom and Shikhandi- Shikhandi was still reeling from the defeat. They don’t come out of the forest the way they went in, instead, coming out at a plateau at the northwestern edge of the city. A ramshackle bridge that clearly hasn’t been used in years is suspended across the valley, and on the other end of it, they see a bright flash of  the signature orangey red that Agnijaa wears. She’s waving excitedly, and all they can do is look down at the gorge between them. Gingerly, carefully, Shikhandi leads them across, their hand on his arm, still not recovered from the shock of being actually acknowledged by the others. They’re barely on solid ground when the orangey red blur hugs them tight. 

“I was worried sick!” she wails, tears in her eyes. “If anything is bothering you, tell me, please! I promise I will try to understand! Don’t go away like this!”

With dirt in their nails, they place a hand on her cheek for a moment before nodding. It was okay if they lied to others, right? They lied to themself all the time. 

Their brothers are kinder to them, after that. Shikhandi trains with them, sometimes nagging, sometimes ruthless, sometimes easily bent, but always punctual. He checks whether they have slept in an actual bedroom rather than the bench on the armoury. He pays attention to every clench of their jaw, to every curl of their fist. And asks questions. Sometimes they serve to irk, sometimes to soothe. Soon, they pick up what he’s putting down and begin doing the same for him. It’s fun to get under his skin. Except for topics they know not to touch. 

Satyajit is more patient, now, teaching them everything he knows. Telling them stories, telling them about the family. It is at that moment they realise that Kampilya is only a capital for the others, but for them? It is the only home they have known. They decide to make the big empty house into a home. Maybe their brothers will be happy. 

They do not know if they are a man, but they’ll always be a brother. 

Out of all of them, Draupadi is the first to get married. Shikhandi  places a gentle hand on their shoulder and tells them that that feeling in their chest is called sadness. It’s okay, their twin, half of their soul is going away. It is natural that they would feel sad, he says. Can weapons feel sad, they wonder. ‘No, but twins can. Brothers can.’ another part answers. In the silence of the night, they weep. When they forget to breathe a few days later, they actually feel out of breath. 

The next to get married is Shikhandi, with an epic love story. A warrior princess, a murder attempt, almost a war- Father trusts them to make decisions on the matter. Shikhandi trusts them to make decisions that make sure everyone escapes with minimal damage. So they place the princess under house arrest, and stand guard day and night. 

And then it’s their own turn, with no flashy alliances, no grand love stories, just a nobleman’s daughter and twins on the way. 

“I do not think I can give you love,” they say. 

“Being Yuvarajni is enough, I think,” She smiles. “Power can compensate for many things,” she says. 

Krishna. They sigh every time the name is mentioned. He is annoying, he drapes himself across the sofa, they cannot find words to describe him, and he trash talks them, and they give as good as they get. He teases them, attempts to make them ‘lighten up,’ attempts to get under their skin. The tricks do not work on them, for they have already been annoyed in all the ways possible by a variety of brothers. What’s one more? What really gets under their skin, though, is the fact that he can read Agnijaa like they can’t. They know there is no one else to blame for the ever-growing chasm between them, and they have resigned themself to it. It’s like everything else, it has to be thought about in parts. A part of them is happy she has someone. She deserves it. She deserves the world. Another part of them, a much deeper, much more hidden one, is bitter that they couldn’t be that person, and they know there is no one else to blame but themself. 

Years pass, the children grow up. She is Samrajni, and they are just the crown prince. It makes them smile. Sometimes, they almost believe they fit into their role. Every day brings a new surprise, what with father giving the three of them more and more responsibilities. Panchal expands south, with Jarasandha gone. They find a friend in their brother-in-law, and a sister in Shikhandi’s wife Shalaka. They can almost forget why they were born. They can almost forget why Kampilya is the only home they have ever known, and the rest yearn for the old capital. They can almost forget. Like a prisoner in a cell that is way too small, stretching their hand toward a skylight too high up on the ceiling, they can dream of happiness. A weapon is burnt and shaped and sharpened and polished when it grows dull. How could they forget who they were, they ask themself. Destiny pushed the sword into the furnace, and then it was never the same again.  

Oh, but they forgot, they are a weapon, they ruin everything they touch.

The news from Hastinapur is horrific. And to their dying day, they will keep it a secret that they have felt everything she did. The twins of Drupad’s family had a special connection. Emotions experienced by one twin were felt by the other, and, in some extreme cases, manifested physically. Burning with fever, they lie in bed, waiting for news. When the hot waves of fever wracking their body recede, they wrap themself up, and head to the bathroom. The water would be scalding to anyone else, but the steam and temperature welcome them with open arms as they step into the bathtub, clothes still on. They lean against the back of the tub, arms snaking around the sides to hold them. Sitting in the hot water, they finally feel like they can breathe. The first breath is shaky. It’s all salty cheeks and quivering lips, and they want to get rid of the tear tracks. They hold water in their cupped hands, splash it onto their face, and scrub it with their hands until the layer of grime has finally passed and the throbbing in their forehead has numbed. The tears that come then aren’t loud sobs or quiet sniffles. They just are. They flow from their eyes until they lose track of time and stop only when they realise they need to breathe. They sit there, unblinking, zoning in and out. They do not have it in them to be anxious. 

They think they have failed, and maybe they have. Agnijaa does not look them in the eye at first when they go to visit her with father. They grit their teeth, make oaths to decimate all who hurt her, and with dirt in her nails, she places a hand on their cheek and gently shakes her head. They turn her head this way and that, inspect the now-bandaged injuries. They are, again, and again, and again, reminded of the extremely frustrating fact that weapons don’t feel, but brothers do, and those two aspects of their person are always in conflict, will always be, and- and it is becoming harder and harder to survive without breathing, these days. They still keep forgetting, though. One day, they hope they can be human enough. 

They play with their children, train them. Drishtaketu looks exactly like them, and his fraternal twin Dhoomaketu takes after Shashikala. They are the strong hand on Prativindhya’s shoulder, pushing him out of the darkness that clouds his life, they are the voice that reminds him, “You are not your father.” They are the shoulders Sutasoma leans on as he regains his strength after his illness. They are the shoulders Shrutakarma rides on, and the armoured chest Shatanik practises sword strokes on. They are the chest Shrutasen runs into when he sees them after a long, long spy mission. Maybe weapons don’t love, but fathers and uncles certainly do. So they love the children. 

Oh, but they forgot, they are a weapon, they ruin everything they touch.

Soon enough, the conches and war drums sound. Their hackles are raised back up, and their back straightens as they are made the commander-in-chief of the Pandava forces. They are not fighting for him, they are fighting for her. They have nothing to lose. Except their brothers, and their father, and their sons, and- Those thoughts are pushed away as they become weapon again. Pure weapon. But it all comes to a head, one day, when Krishna says something they cannot abide by. They have to remind him that they are the commander, not him. They walk out of the meeting, they refuse to go out on the battlefield.  They do not know who it is that cries “Attack!” on the fifteenth day. It is a man in their armour. His voice matches theirs. Drishtaketu.  That is the first and last time they feel fear. A messenger tells them that their son has been skewered like a piece of meat. 

“Who did it?”  They ask. 

“Commander Drona,” The messenger says. 

And the noise in their head recedes as they ride out to battle. It seems that they cannot, after all, fight their destiny. That man has killed their son. He has to die. When they reach, though, Father is locked in a battle with him. They know how this will end. It ends with a poisoned arrow in his king’s chest. The weapon is now guided by a ghost. Drona rides ahead, decimating the army. Cutting down their other son who stands in his way. The panchal troops are on the frontline today, and the emperor has to be protected. 

Divyaketu.

Kshatranjaya.

Drishtaketu. 

Drupada.

And the weapon remembers. Dhṛṣṭadyumna couldn’t believe that father was having children at the same time as them. Kumara and Panchalya had always been more his sons than brothers. The Emperor’s guards are dead. 

Kumara. 

Panchalya. 

Shatrunjaya.

They are a father. He killed their sons.

They are a child. He killed their father.

They are a big brother. He killed their little brothers. 

He shall not live. 

They nod at Krishna. 

“Ashwatthama is dead!” Bheem roars, as an elephant falls on the ground. The target sits down to meditate, and the weapon stands there, poised. The target takes a deep breath.

Ice fills their veins. 

The beheading is clean.

The beheading of the one who killed their brothers is too pristine, they feel. They should've been crueller, it was in their name.

Shalaka dislodges the sword from their white-knucled grip and sets it aside. She undoes the straps on their armour, and places a ghost of a gentle hand on their head when they confess that yes, they miss Shashikala so very much. Can the weapon finally be human now? They want to say no, but destiny says yes, when, three days later, they're struggling to breathe, begging the assailant to treat them honourably and kill them quickly. 

They’re human now. Humans cannot survive without air.

[writingforatwistedworld]

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, imprisonment, stalking, unhealthy relationship

Entering their world

So Ramshackle is once more a place people (or rather an individual) live in, right?

Kalim in typical Kalim Al-Asim fashion of course wanted to celebrate this joyous event, especially since the world had been so glum since the Overseer hadn’t graced them with their all-knowing gaze for two entire days

Two entire days, I tell you! Two entire days in which no riches of the world could buy him something to make this time less bleak

So fifty five flamingos and exactly seven elephants later there he is, knocking on the door of Ramshackle to invite you to the festivities

Only for you, his beloved Overseer to open

Mhm, he isnt inviting you

For the first time in the history of “character is always sunshiny”-plot armor Kalim is lost for words, gawking at your figure in the doorframe who is worriedly asking him if he is alright

So, sunny boy over here is at the brink of passing out, probably because his adrenaline levels have breached the realms of possibility, making his heart miss a few heartbeats too much but this is a world with magic so let's not question too many things

Jamil actually had to get the not-so-made-out-of-stone petrified Kalim, nearly getting a heart attack himself by seeing that it was you

Yeah... that planned celebration also didn't happen

This led to fifty four flamingos and exactly seven elephants being sent back home, one of the flamingos seeing that one of their cousins was used to play cricket, deciding to stay after reuniting after five years of separation

But before we get sidetracked by Heartslabyul students tearing up after witnessing the reunion of two pink birds we have to talk about our most favorite future sultan, then we can talk about tearing up Heartslabyul students

So Kalim was a cause of concern for Jamil, and not in the usual way

No, whilst Jamil wanted to bow to you as well Kalim was too silent. So silent in fact that Jamil got so worried that he put his plans of betrayal on the back burner for a while and looked after his childhood... friend? Employer? Friemployer!

Also, whilst it was usually a bit hard to get Kalim into his calm enough self to sleep, Kalm (ok this one is bad, I know), it was creepily easy to get the young man to relax now, almost as if he wanted to be in his room all alone without anyone at his back and call

“Why?” the confused reader said. “Why should this be important to the story?” They continued

Well because soon there also turns up a photo album filled with pictures of you sleeping, eating and much, much more

I think you finally know what our equivalent to a sunflower in the human version has done during the time he wasn't supervised

Give him a week as well and he returns to normal... more or less

I just hope you don't mind company that won't leave you 24/7 because you will spend a lot of time with your new stalker friend

No matter where you go, no matter where you hide, there is no escape

Soon items disappear as well, replaced with a much more expensive version of it

And whilst I have never seen a rubber costing more than a few bucks I am sure that Kalim over there can find and give you one that costs so much that it could cover the renovation of Ramshackle

Jewelry. The Al-Asim heir might not be a Fae but that doesn't mean seeing you wearing something he gifted you won't make him feel good, no, downright euphoric

It's almost like you favor him

And thank goodness for the plot armor of a “sunny side” character because you are only wearing them because that dead look in his eyes scares you whenever he sees you without something of his, him not even noticing that

Kalim has imagined a future with you, of course, he did, we are talking about a yandere setting after all and what would be a yandere setting without the classical trope of the Yandere having imagined their future with the unfortunate soul who is adored by them

He can see you two having a family, adopted or not does not matter, you living in his palace, you being always by his side, smiling...

Oh the outside world? Ha! No

There is no outside world. Only you two and if he has to shackle you to him then so be it!