#its not even that necessary for the plot but i just want them to talk

[sceletaflores]

I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!

divider by angel @saradika-graphics!

it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...

The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.

It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.

It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.

He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.

His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.

By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.

He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.

The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.

"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.

Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.

You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.

Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.

You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.

Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.

Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent. 

The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.

“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”

Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.

The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.

You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”

Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”

You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.

“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”

The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.

You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.

Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.

You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.

In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.

He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.

You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.

“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.

“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.

Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts. 

Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.

He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.

Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”

The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.

Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.

Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more. 

He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you. 

It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved. 

The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.

His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.

“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure. 

The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.

Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.

He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.

Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.

Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”

Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.

But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.

He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.

“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.

The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.

“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."

He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.

Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. 

Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.

Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist. 

He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.

You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.

“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.

With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.

“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”

Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”

The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain. 

The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.

With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.

He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.

Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer. 

Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.

Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.

He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.

“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.

Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.

Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.

Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.

His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.

Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow. 

Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.

“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”

Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.

He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.

“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.

The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.

You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.

He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.

“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."

A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest. 

Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.

“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”

Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt. 

Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.

He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.

He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.

Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.

He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.

“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.

“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.

“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.

It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.

Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”

Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.

He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.

And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[pankomako]

dude not me thinking about post-gang war arc gang's bay aughghgh the character design ideas i have are so GOOOODDD

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Telling Truth: When 'Show, Don't Tell' Doesn't Apply (You Don't Always Have To Show, Don't Tell.)

Hey there, fellow writers and beloved members of the writeblr community! 📝✨

Today, I want to talk about something that's been on my mind lately, and I have a feeling it might resonate with many of you too. It's about that age-old writing advice we've all heard a million times: "Show, don't tell." Now, don't get me wrong – it's great advice, and it has its place in our writing toolbox. But here's the thing: it's not the be-all and end-all of good writing. In fact, I'd argue that sometimes, it's perfectly okay – even necessary – to tell rather than show.

First things first, let's address the elephant in the room. The "show, don't tell" rule has been drilled into our heads since we first picked up a pen (or opened a Word document) with the intention of writing creatively. It's been repeated in writing workshops, creative writing classes, and countless craft books. And for good reason! Showing can create vivid, immersive experiences for readers, allowing them to feel like they're right there in the story.

But here's where things get a bit tricky: like any rule in writing (or in life, for that matter), it's not absolute. There are times when telling is not just acceptable, but actually preferable. And that's what you all will explore today in this hopefully understandable blog post.

Let's start by breaking down why "show, don't tell" is so popular. When we show instead of tell, we're engaging the reader's senses and emotions. We're painting a picture with words, allowing the reader to draw their own conclusions based on the details we provide. It's a powerful technique that can make our writing more engaging and memorable.

For example, instead of saying "Sarah was angry," we might write, "Sarah's fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight as she glared at the broken vase." This gives the reader a clearer image and allows them to infer Sarah's emotional state.

But here's the thing: sometimes, we don't need or want that level of detail. Sometimes, efficiency in storytelling is more important than painting an elaborate picture. And that's where telling comes in handy.

Imagine if every single emotion, action, or piece of information in your story was shown rather than told. Your novel would probably be thousands of pages long, and your readers might get lost in the sea of details, losing sight of the main plot or character arcs.

So, when might telling be more appropriate? Let's explore some scenarios:

Summarizing less important events: If you're writing a story that spans a long period, you don't need to show every single day or event. Telling can help you summarize periods of time or less crucial events quickly, allowing you to focus on the more important parts of your story.

For instance: "The next few weeks passed in a blur of exams and late-night study sessions." This sentence tells us what happened without going into unnecessary detail about each day.

Providing necessary background information: Sometimes, you need to give your readers some context or backstory. While you can certainly weave this information into scenes, there are times when a straightforward telling of facts is more efficient.

Example: "The war had been raging for three years before Sarah's village was attacked." This quickly gives us important context without needing to show the entire history of the war.

Establishing pace and rhythm: Alternating between showing and telling can help you control the pace of your story. Showing tends to slow things down, allowing readers to immerse themselves in a moment. Telling can speed things up, moving the story along more quickly when needed.

Clarifying complex ideas or emotions: Some concepts or feelings are abstract or complex enough that showing alone might not suffice. In these cases, a bit of telling can help ensure your readers understand what's happening.

For example: "The quantum entanglement theory had always fascinated John, but explaining it to others often left him feeling frustrated and misunderstood." Here, we're telling the reader about John's relationship with this complex scientific concept, which might be difficult to show effectively.

Maintaining your narrative voice: Sometimes, telling is simply more in line with your narrative voice or the tone of your story. This is especially true if you're writing in a more direct or conversational style.

Now, I can almost hear some of you saying, "But wait! I've always been told that showing is always better!" And I completely get it. I'm a writer myself and prioritize "Show, Don't tell." in my writing all the time. We've been conditioned to believe that showing is superior in all cases. But we can take a moment to challenge that notion.

Think about some of your favorite books. Chances are, they use a mix of showing and telling. Even the most critically acclaimed authors don't adhere strictly to "show, don't tell" all the time. They understand that good writing is about balance and knowing when to use each technique effectively.

Take, for instance, the opening line of George Orwell's "1984": "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." This is a perfect blend of showing and telling. Orwell shows us it's a bright, cold day (we can imagine the crisp air and clear sky), but he tells us about the clocks striking thirteen. This immediate telling gives us crucial information about the world we're entering – it's not quite like our own.

Or consider this passage from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice": "Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character." Here, Austen is clearly telling us about Mr. Bennet's character rather than showing it through his actions. And yet, it works beautifully, giving us a quick, clear insight into both Mr. Bennet and his wife.

The key is to use both techniques strategically. So, how can you decide when to show and when to tell? Here are some tips:

Consider the importance of the information: Is this a crucial moment in your story, a pivotal emotion, or a key piece of character development? If so, it might be worth showing. If it's more of a transitional moment or background information, telling might be more appropriate.

Think about pacing: If you want to slow down and really immerse your reader in a moment, show it. If you need to move things along more quickly, tell it.

Evaluate the complexity: If you're dealing with a complex emotion or concept, consider whether showing alone will be enough to convey it clearly. Sometimes, a combination of showing and telling works best for complex ideas.

Consider your word count: If you're working with strict word count limitations (like in short stories or flash fiction), telling can help you convey necessary information more concisely.

Trust your instincts (Important): As you write more, you'll develop a feel for when showing or telling works better. Trust your gut, and don't be afraid to experiment.

Now, let's talk about how to tell effectively when you do choose to use it. Because here's the thing: telling doesn't have to be boring or flat. It can be just as engaging and stylish as showing when done well. Here are some tips for effective telling:

Use strong, specific language: Instead of using vague or generic words, opt for more specific, evocative language. For example, instead of "She was sad," you might write, "A profound melancholy settled over her."

Incorporate sensory details: Even when telling, you can include sensory information to make it more vivid. "The room was cold" becomes more engaging as "A bone-chilling cold permeated the room."

Use metaphors and similes: These can help make your telling more colorful and memorable. "His anger was like a volcano ready to erupt" paints a vivid picture without showing the anger in action.

Keep it concise: One of the advantages of telling is its efficiency. Don't negate that by being overly wordy. Get to the point, but do it with style.

Vary your sentence structure: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, more flowing ones to create rhythm and maintain interest.

Remember, the goal is to create a seamless narrative that engages your reader. Sometimes that means showing, sometimes it means telling, and often it means a artful blend of both.

It's also worth noting that different genres and styles of writing may lean more heavily on one technique or the other. Literary fiction often employs more showing, delving deep into characters' psyches and painting elaborate scenes. Genre fiction, on the other hand, might use more telling to keep the plot moving at a brisker pace. Neither approach is inherently better – it all depends on what works best for your story and your style.

Now, I want to address something that I think many of us struggle with: the guilt or anxiety we might feel when we catch ourselves telling instead of showing. It's easy to fall into the trap of second-guessing every sentence, wondering if we should be showing more. But here's the truth: that kind of constant self-doubt can be paralyzing and ultimately detrimental to your writing process.

So, I want you to understand and think: It's okay to tell sometimes. You're not a bad writer for using telling in your work. In fact, knowing when and how to use telling effectively is a sign of a skilled writer.

Here's some practical ways to incorporate this mindset into your writing process:

First Draft Freedom: When you're writing your first draft, give yourself permission to write however it comes out. If that means more telling than showing, that's absolutely fine. The important thing is to get the story down. You can always revise and add more "showing" elements later if needed.

Revision with Purpose: When you're revising, don't automatically change every instance of telling to showing. Instead, ask yourself: Does this serve the story better as telling or showing? Consider the pacing, the importance of the information, and how it fits into the overall narrative.

Beta Readers and Feedback: When you're getting feedback on your work, pay attention to how readers respond to different sections. If they're engaged and understanding the story, then your balance of showing and telling is probably working well, regardless of which technique you're using more.

Study Your Favorite Authors: Take some time to analyze how your favorite writers use showing and telling. You might be surprised to find more instances of effective telling than you expected.

Practice Both Techniques (Important): Set aside some time to practice both showing and telling. Write the same scene twice, once focusing on showing and once on telling. This can help you develop a feel for when each technique is most effective.

Now, let's address another important point: the evolution of writing styles and reader preferences. The "show, don't tell" rule gained popularity in the early 20th century with the rise of modernist literature. But writing styles and reader tastes have continued to evolve since then.

In our current fast-paced world, where people are often reading on devices and in shorter bursts, there's sometimes a preference for more direct, efficient storytelling. This doesn't mean that showing is out of style, but it does mean that there's often room for more telling than strict adherence to "show, don't tell" would allow.

Moreover, diverse voices in literature are challenging traditional Western writing norms, including the emphasis on showing over telling. Some cultures have strong storytelling traditions that lean more heavily on telling, and as the literary world becomes more inclusive, we're seeing a beautiful variety of styles that blend showing and telling in new and exciting ways.

This brings me to an important point: your voice matters. Your unique way of telling stories is valuable. Don't let rigid adherence to any writing rule, including "show, don't tell," stifle your natural voice or the story you want to tell.

Remember, rules in writing are more like guidelines. They're tools to help us improve our craft, not unbreakable laws. The most important rule is to engage your reader and tell your story effectively. If that means more telling than the conventional wisdom suggests, then so be it.

As I wrap up this discussion, I want to leave you with a challenge: In your next writing session, consciously use both showing and telling. Pay attention to how each technique feels, how it serves your story, and how it affects the rhythm of your writing. You might discover new ways to blend these techniques that work perfectly for your unique style.

Writing is an art, not a science. There's no perfect formula, no one-size-fits-all approach. It's about finding what works for you, your story, and your readers. So embrace both showing and telling. Use them as the powerful tools they are, and don't be afraid to break the "rules" when your instincts tell you to.

Remember, every great writer started where you are now, learning the rules and then figuring out when and how to break them effectively. You're part of a long, proud tradition of storytellers, each finding their own path through the winding forest of words.

Keep writing, keep growing, and keep believing in yourself. You've got this!

Happy writing! 💖✍️ - Rin T.

Before you go, why not join us at The Write Right Society? We're a supportive Tumblr community where writers lift each other up. Whether you're a newbie or a pro, we'd love to have you! Share your work, get feedback, and connect with fellow wordsmiths, writers and aspiring authors. 

[eccentricallygothic]

|| Triumph Of The Beast ||

Description: Captain Syverson learnt that the only way to have her was to ask her hand in marriage. So he did just that. And she was all his now, both to hold and to possess.

Pairing: Soft-Dark!Captain Syverson | Sheikha!Reader.

Disclaimer: I (sadly) do not own Captain Syverson. This is a mature story with dark undertones so kindly browse at your own discretion. Please note that this piece is only a work of fiction that in no way aims to reinforce or propose any stereotypes to any ethnicity or race. Minors do not interact. 

Warning(s): Soft-Dark!Syverson, he is lowkey messed up, smut with plot (I am sorry), possessive behavior, his obsession with her chastity, naive!reader, size kink, biting (it's Henry and his canines ffs), boob play, manhandling, power imbalance, arranged marriage, fingering, handjob, dirty talk, m!dom, f!sub, he's a man, misogyny, age gap (reader is 20's, Sy is early 40's fight me), he's lowkey intimidating, slight spanking, allusion to bondage, manipulation, slow burn-ish, maybe more dialogue than necessary, p-in-v penetration, corruption kink, no use of 'Y/n'. 

Note: Her father is not the mean Sheikh from the movie lmfao. Reader doesn't even have to be Iraqi, just Eastern that you can TOTALLY imagine yourself as because it's a frickin' story for God's sake! Ps, This blocked me so hard mid-write I nearly abandoned it lmfao, I need a break! 

.

Captain Syverson had always thought the notion of the first touch buzz to be foolish. To quote him in his own words, the electric touch that people claimed their beloved aroused within them was nothing more than a steaming pile of horseshit. 

Until now. 

As his thick and coarse battle hardened hands cupped the side of the tender face of his dear wife, the Captain's thumb darted out to quickly glide across the perfect arch of her cheekbone before it moved down to the bow of her lips, his body combusting into a thousand flames of raw desire. 

Her skin was so tender he feared it may come off if he pressed on it too hard. The structure of her body that adorned her traditional wedding attire seemed so fragile in this moment next to him and in his big old bed that the thought of ever manhandling a thing as delicate as her terrified him. The contrast of her usually confident and intelligent countenance was striking in quality to the humility with which she now offered her submission to him. 

His suspicions against his body and strength increased by the passing minute; he felt petrified to even breathe too easily near her. The fear that it may damage her in some way haunted him and filled his lungs with dread. It was not that she was the most petite thing that he had ever seen or she held resemblance to an adolescent in terms of size or any of that weird shit, no. 

It was instead the way in which her head bowed in just the perfect way so it indicated respect and submission; not so high that it would seem that she was trying to deny him his station but not so low that it became off-putting. It was an acknowledgement to his power in their dynamic; an agreement of a lifetime. 

The man could swear he was going crazy. 

There was simply no way he was going to make it through the night with his sanity intact. 

It was just the effect she had on him. 

If there was anyone to blame it was her. 

Because even though he wanted to hide this girl so safely in his arms for the rest of his days that not even a harsh breeze would be allowed to touch her, the erratic way in which his boiling blood sizzled its way through his veins, The Captain wanted nothing more than to just turn her around, press her breathtaking face into the mattress and take her over and over until she was swell with his litter. 

Or press his bigger body against hers and take her deep and raw until her mind gave up on consciousness  

Perhaps place her between his own legs and feel her mouth around him until his seed spilled from her nose. 

Maybe make her mount him and slap her ass that he just knew would be perfect over and over to keep her going even when she didn't want to. 

The possibilities were endless from where Syverson was standing. 

And he was determined to try his hand at all of them, and more. 

His eyebrows furrowed just a little when she awkwardly pecked his lips for the fifth time in a straight row and refused to give him more, cringing away when he attempted to deepen the kiss. The girl that giggled and covered her mouth on which her red lipstick had already smudged was a dead leaf echo of the confident and liberal sheikha -prized daughter of the sheikh supreme- that critically watched the foreign Captain everytime he was around with her bright and vigilant brown eyes so full of scrutiny that it made him, a grown man, blush. It wasn't his fault, really. Her eyes had the most attractive gleam of intelligence to them and the black khol that lined them only accentuated their beauty more. 

She had always been so elegant Syverson knew he was a goner the first time his eyes had been granted the pleasure of looking at her. Sat aside her father basking in her confidence, silk scarf draped around her head and body in the most perfect way, a form he could only describe as agreeable always clad in decent clothes, fingers adorning rings with colorful stones and modesty dripping off of every single mannerism of hers. 

How could a man not look twice?

And then not consider looking away utterly blasphemous on account of being unappreciative of such godly beauty?

"I- I do not know how to…" Her accent turned his gears just right. "K- Kiss, Captain" oh. 

Of course. 

Blood rushed to his cock that hadn't throbbed like this in a long time. That was, if it ever had. 

And then his sweet, chaste wife just had to call him Captain.

Fuck. 

He was going to tear her apart. 

And she had no idea.

The obedient daughter, who was never afraid to voice her thoughts and outsmart every man who dared stand against her with inadequate knowledge of the debate at hand, had happily bowed down to her father's wish that she marry the charming and noble Captain -to them a warrior who was not afraid to fight for his country; a man truly admirable- after said Captain had asked for her hand in marriage when he had realized that that was the only way to have her. 

Mind, body, soul… heart. 

Sure, it had taken Syverson and his rather daft attempts at impressing her some quick-witted answers and astute responses by a rather critical her to realize it.

But she was his bride now.

And that was all that mattered. 

"Well, ain't that just dandy?" Syverson realizes just how heavy his breathing really is when his words come out gravelly and almost forced. She is unable to hold his eyes for very long so she stares at his chest instead, a most remarkable coy smile across her lips. The fact that she looks every other man with a taught unaffected sternness but has blushed everytime their eyes have met after the wedding just drives him all the more insane. 

Her dark eyebrows furrow as she lightly tilts her head to the side. He has noticed that she has some trouble understanding his dialect. So he caresses her cheek again, this time in a reassuring manner;

"I know you'll figure it out soon. You're a clever lil' thing, ain'tcha?" She looks up just long enough to nod with a meeting of their eyes. 

"Yes, Captain" god, even her way of speaking has softened.

The knowledge that he was the only man in this whole wide world whom she treated like this made him want to worship her with his love and devotion in every way possible. 

Because The Captain was naturally a very possessive man who did not appreciate ran through goods.  

"Alright now, just trust your husband and sit back like a good lil' bride, alright?" It was taking him all of his focus to not just push her back and have his depraved ways with her all night long.

"Y- Yes, Captain." 

"Atta girl," before he leaned back in and brushed his lips against hers just long enough to whisper, "now hush and don'tcha try to keep them pretty lips shut on me" he felt her going breathless against him when his mouth fit against the slot of her parted one perfectly; as though it had been created just for him. 

She did her best to keep up with as much obedience as her modesty would allow her to muster but the sensation of his mouth against hers, the scratch of his coarse beard across her delicate skin, the wetness of his tongue that took its time swiping against her bottom lip and the way that he didn't have to break the kiss to know that she had extended her had in his direction to take a hold of him to deal with the intensity of it all, the sheer desperation with which he reached out his fingers and clutched hers in an affectionate way that also had a territorial tinge to it was all too much for her to handle.

An unfamiliar thrill that she had been a stranger to until this moment began to patter through her bloodstream. Her heart pounded, her sweat glands soaked, her face burnt and her stomach fluttered. 

"Captain" was all she was allowed to whisper in the two second interval the man allowed them to recover their breathing. 

"Well, I'll be damned, darlin'" Syverson husked through rushed kisses as he hurriedly helped her lay down with her attire still intact, both too desperate to strip her and wanting to take her as she was, for tonight she looked the most stunning he had ever seen her. "You're so dang pretty I can't even fathom stayin' off ya now that you're mine" a hush of cold breath rushed past her flush lips as her thick eyebrows drooped upwards in reaction to him dipping his face in the curve of her neck.

"I am all yours to do with whatever you please, my C- Captain" her soft hands flew to grab at his shirt as the foreign sensation of a man's body against her skin sent an electric bolt down her spine. 

His body was heavy above hers as he groaned at her response and grinded his bulge against her covered sex, peppering kisses all over her skin. "God damn, baby. Your mama sure raised you up right, didn't she?" A loud squeak resonated in the air when the new husband simply could not hold back his passion anymore and bit down on the inviting flesh of her shoulder, letting out a stomach churning moan at her taste and squeezing her sides as the smell of her fragrance oils hit his nose. 

"Fuck, baby" it took him all of his willpower and the promise that he could go back for more only easier to part from her. "I can't–" sitting up to kneel over her, Syverson pulled his shirt over his head before tossing it somewhere in the room. "I can't hold back no more" as he leaned back down and placed one hand beside her head to keep himself from suffocating her, the way she looked up at him with wonder, timidity, need, sent a pang of pain to his cock. "Talk to me, darlin'" he gathered her wrists in one hand before placing them above her head, now reaching for the clothed bump on her chest. "You feelin' anything?" A soundless breath left her and she shuddered in such a way that her boobs trembled feverishly. 

"S- Strange… a- and… oh my God!" She had to shut her eyes and turn her head to the side when he suddenly manhandled one of her breasts out of the deep neckline of her wedding night dress. Her hands rushed to cover her chest by instinct but her husband's authoritative swat was much quicker and stronger. 

Syverson chuckled at the defensive gasp she let out, a crazed darkness floating in his eyes as he pinnned her feverish hands out of his way, coarse palm now feeling up her other breast that was freed as he spoke. "Ain't no God 'round these parts tonight, baby. Just me…" His lips enveloped hers in a right and hungry kiss. "'N you" the way she nervously gulped when he pulled back to stare into her eyes only added to the fire in his body. "Say, baby" he trailed gentle kisses down her chin, along her throat and then down to the fluffy cushions of soft flesh dotted with flush, erect nipples in the middle. A surprised cry jutted out of her mouth and her fingernails tried to claw at his hand that confined them above her when he pressed one wet kiss on each nub. "Ain't this just somethin' else?" 

The girl had no idea what possessed her to say what she did, but her hips moved faster than her brain could catch on and her lips worked before reticence could hinder her communication. "I- It is, Captain. T- Thank you" of course she had felt arousal before. Of course she had been wet before. Some of those times she had a certain handsome American Captain to thank for, not that she would ever willingly admit it. But she had never known how to relieve herself of it other than a cold shower. 

Her mother had warned her that not every feeling that transpires in one in times of idleness should be chased and she had listened.

But this was not solitary boredom, this was not a devilish lure, her mother wasn't here and it was her wedding night with a man she was slowly becoming sure she would be able to call her dear husband one day. 

If her husband was kind enough to be considerate about what made her feel what she could only identify as exciting, she deemed it a stupidity to refuse the treatment. 

"Aw, baby" Syverson's hands only part from her breasts so his mouth can greedily latch onto them, his bearded lips pressing all over them before his hand nearly snatches her skirts out of his way since the layers seem to be never ending. "To think that I ain't even begun with ya and you're already thankin' me like a sweet little lady" now his mouth traveled to her stomach and the only word he had for its appearance was perfect. A shudder set in her shoulders when his beard scratched her navel before his teeth softly nibbled away on her skin. 

"W- Would you like me to get up and t- take my clothes off, dear?" God damn.

He really had hit the fucking jackpot. 

"Hold on now, darlin'" he husked as his fingers caressed her nubs, his hot mouth littering its kisses over her skin further down south. "I wanna take you like this first" the readied rise in the middle of her shoulder blades smoothed out and she settled back into the mattress again wordlessly. "Well now, are you gonna be good and keep them arms up high like a good lil' thing or am I gonna have to tie 'em up?" A drawn out moan sounded from deep within her throat when his chin deliberately brushed against her clothed sex, coarse fingers twirling her nipple between them.

Syverson felt an unconscious clench in the muscles of her thighs upon his words finally registering in her clouded mind. "N- No, I- I'll be good, husband. I promise." 

"Atta girl" he praised in a satisfied tone before letting go of her wrists. 

It was after that that his hands roamed free and wild all over her form. The Captain kissed, sucked, nibbled, pinched, groped, licked and bit all to his desire, the growing moans of his bride only encouraging him further. 

"God damn, if these ain't the sweetest damn legs I've ever seen" Syverson licked away the thread of spit that previously connected his mouth to her now bruised hiphone that he had successfully marked as his territory. The fact that no man had ever seen them and the plan that he made to never let anyone do so either was making his ears hot. His sides were becoming sore with need like he was the virgin. 

"And this– fuck, c'mere" he couldn't hold it back anymore. The Captain had always been an ass man and the fact that he was yet to see his wife's backside was making him mad now. Her yelp morphed into a confused giggle when he bundled her ankles in one of his rough hands, having already rid her of her panties, and easily raised both her legs up until her lower half dangling by his hold on her. "Hmmm, I just knew you had a perfect lil' rump stashed in there" his free hand felt her soft cheeks up before he traced his index finger down her crack, cursing at the way they clenched in defense. Then his depravity got the best of him and he wound his hand back and gave a handful of strong blows to her poor behind that started blushing in an instant. 

"Oh– ouch!" Her next nervous giggle made him raise an eyebrow as he divided an ankle between each hand and parted her legs to look down at her. 

"Think this is funny, do you?" The girl quickly stopped herself nervously. "You know who that's for?" He didn't even mind the giggles, if anything they were rather endearing to him. But the timidity in her eyes was way too sweet for him to pass up. She shook her head no. "Bad little girls who make fun of their fellas, that's who." It was the cock hardening way in which her bottom lip wobbled sensitively that dried his throat. 

A young woman once so strong, all commanding and authorative now exposed in such a submissive manner and completely at his mercy. 

"S- Sorry, dear" he hummed, reaching for the mound between her legs to roughly feel her pussy up in blunt gropes. 

"You can consider those as payback for all them times you thought you could get slick with me in front of my boys just 'cause you were the Sheikh's daughter" her eyes widened and she blushed harder than before. 

"I- I–"

"Yes, you" though Syverson's words were crisp, his kiss on her nether lips was tender and perhaps that was the sole reason why she didn't tear up from being reprimanded when she was so vulnerable and hypersensitive like this. "Thought I'd just forget all that brattin' of yours?" 

She had to hurriedly sit up for that one and reach for his hands affectionately. "Oh, no" the pure care in her eyes made his melting heart feel as though it had risen into the sky. "It was only that you were not my husband back then, dear," she tried to make him understand, aware that there were cultural differences that needed overcoming, "mother said good girls owe it to their husbands to treat every other man with a serious attitude and indifference!" 

She was breaking his fucking heart. 

It was officially official. 

Abel Ford Syverson was in love. 

Soul crushing, earth shattering, sky tearing love. 

With a woman who was not only intelligent and gorgeous way past his league but one that respected herself with an unwavering devotion towards her spouse. 

"Well, I'll be damned!" He exclaimed with faux surprise that she did not catch up on, much to his expectation. "So that's what it was all about?" Of course he knew. 

He just liked her to say it.

It boosted his depraved ego just right. 

She apologetically nodded with sincerity. "I swear, my heart." The translation of the endearment caused for his blood to pump through his ears only harder. 

Syverson gave her a small smile before sighing a little. "Well, you see, darlin', it did still hurt my feelings a tad" her eyebrows furrowed in regret so he added just to rub it in that much more; "got me a bit of pride to keep up, y'know?" 

Now she pouted. "I am sorry, love…" Before a bulb went off in her head and she jumped a little to express her excitement, the action causing her naked boobs to jiggle. "Is there a way I can make it up to you?" There. 

"Why, of course!" Fuck, he sounded more eager than a middle schooler. "You gonna have to show that you can make a good little wife" her cheeks flushed as she bit her bottom lip in embarrassment. He continued, aware she was as clueless as a virgin.

Because she was one. 

Syverson loved the thought.

He wished there was a way to preserve it -her- all as it was.  

"Anything you want, my dear" she replied sincerely as she earnestly pressed his hand that she held to her chest. 

The man swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat as his eyes flickered down to where their fingers were intertwined; the valley of her perfect breasts. 

"Good girl" his voice came out much deeper than usual. "Go on 'n' take it out, then" the bride's eyebrows raised to express her confusion as she tilted her head to the side. 

His dick whimpered and spilled a thick drop.

"U- Um…"

Syverson was getting impatient. "That means my pants, darlin'." He chuckled to lighten the effect of the edge that his tone had held. "I mean, can't exactly make love to ya with 'em on, now can I?" Something pulled taught in her chest and she went to avoid his eyes out of embarrassment. 

"Oh… yes" she was breathless as she reached for his fly, face angled downwards. 

"Yeah…?" He drew it out on purpose teasingly, dipping his own head earthwards to try and meet her gaze cockily. "Yeah, yeah?" The man kept going unrelentlessly until she had no choice but to respond. 

"Y- Yes…" Her nervous fingers slipped over the button of his pants many times but she managed to free him at last. 

"Go on ahead now, sugar" he coaxed sweetly, tone in stark contrast to his intentions. "Take it out and let them pretty lil' hands get a feel" her legs instinctively tried to close due to the shame she felt but her husband's huge body hindered her attempt to somehow cover herself. "Well?"

Her eyes darted up to him from where her fingers gingerly rested against the waistband of his boxers and Syverson suspected that she was about to decline because of the way her mouth moved to let out some phantom words. But when he raised a questioning eyebrow in response, she seemed as though it had reminded her of her place against him and she quickly dipped her digits inside the undergarment to reach for his thumping cock. 

The first feel of her fingertips connecting with his hard skin was… indescribable. It was as though time ceased, stilling everything else with it and he was enveloped into a cocoon of pure sensation. She was everywhere and inside. Her heat filled him to the brim. Each brush of her delicate skin against his rougher one felt like the stroke of the flesh of an outworldly nymph. Shivers of ecstacy cascaded down his lower back and he was floating already. 

The girl nearly jumped out of her skin at the unfamiliar feeling, the moan that he let out along a whispered praise pulling her back in the moment and away from her recoil. The bride's mind reminded her of her duty to her husband and she used her other hand to hold his clothes away so she could uncover his impaler. 

"Just like that, darlin'. Just like that" one of his hands went to tangle in her hair. "Go on and rub it for me, baby. You're doin' real good" his free hand reached for her own sex that had secreted its natural moisture in reaction to the sensations she was being subjected to. He groaned at the feeling of her warm pussy and squished his finger through her plump nether lips. "Tell me what you see" her own body was getting feverish by the second, hips and cunt trying to shrink in on themselves due to how violating his sense tingling touch was.

"I- It's…" She raked her mind for an appropriate answer. But it was all too much for her to handle; the pressure to impress her new husband, touching him the way he wanted properly, obeying him, submitting to his handling and then dealing with his intense gaze. "V- Very pretty, husband. Thank you" so she played it the safest she knew. 

And the girl could swear she felt him twitch in her palm at that, a pang of pain rising in her wrist as she awkwardly pumped him in a vertical manner. 

"Pretty, huh?" A cunning grin spread across his handsome features as he slipped one finger deep within her folds and being the retired playboy that he was, the Captain easily found her pure entrance. "'N' what about the size?" He could not help but moan at the feeling of her balmy walls clinging to his finger. "Ever seen anythin' like it?" Her thighs quivered as his thumb glided over her folds. 

"N- No, husband" she answered timidly, afraid to bruise his pride with an inappropriate or unsatisfactory answer that may pose a threat to her chasteness.

"That's right" now he began to speed up his intrusion of her insides. "'Cause you're all mine, ain'tcha?"  She quickly nodded, letting out a whine as her eyebrows furrowed at the ache his twisting of one of her nipples caused. "Now tell me," he leaned forward to reach for one of her nubs with his teeth, "did ya ever think you'd land yourself a fella with a cock this big?" He spoke through a mouthful before sinking down on her tender boobs, the tips of his sharp canines digging into the soft cushions of her flesh. 

"N- No…" The girl was gasping as she struggled to keep up with his leaking and twitching cock. "T- Thank you, dear!" She added for good measure despite how overwhelmed she was becoming. 

"Tell me, baby" the man loved how his naive wife's features scrunched in discomfort but she still sped up her fist that was wrapped around his cock because he prompted her to, hoisting himself further up next to capture her lips against his. "Do you think yourself lucky that you get to have this here cock all to yourself for the rest of your days?" He could not help but fuck into her hand at the sight of the spit string dangling by a corner of her bottom lip as it connected to the wad of spit that she had just released on his cock after being ordered to do so. He felt her cringe at the feeling of her fingers touching her own saliva as she spread it over his cock. But her resolve to obey him did not falter even once regardless of how shy or uneasy she felt.

And that was how Syverson knew he had found himself his perfect little homemaker.

"I- I do, husband" her voice nearly broke. "Thank you so much" the fact that all of this was visibly strange and even uncomfortable to her because she was not familiar with any of this… 

The Captain could swear that alone was enough to finish him off.

She was his sacred lamb; a temple undefiled. 

Nobody's leftovers; whole in every sense for the beast to take. 

What could he say? Colonel Syverson's prized son always won, no matter what. 

There was a brighter way of looking at his promiscuous dating history that was in stark contrast to his wife's nonexistent one; it could easily be considered as his physical sacrifice in order to realize and reach his full potential as a man for his future lady's well being as well as pleasure. 

A lady that he had found at last. 

"Say it" his command was heavy and the rough skin of his finger was like gravel against the buttery tissue of her slick walls. "Say that you're the luckiest lil' bride for landin' yourself the best damn dick you could have ever hoped for" she began to subconsciously move her thumb out of sync with the rest of her digits to swipe it over his tip each time her hand rose to his apex and he couldn't believe just how close he was already. 

The Captain was usually a man of stamina and endurance.

But then again it was impossible for the beast to resist his tempting lamb for very long, wasn't it?

"I- I am the luckiest…" She licked her parched lips needily. "L- Little bride for l- landing myself the best d- dick…" Embarrassment burnt her cheeks but pleasing him was more important a priority to her. "T- That I could've ever hoped for…"

He deeply moaned in satisfaction. "My good girl" a quick peck was given to the tip of her nose. "Now tell me, baby. How ya feelin'?" As if on cue, she clenched around his finger with a moan.  

Fuck, Syverson had never really preferred a clueless woman until now.

He could literally demand whatever he wanted from her and she would believe him out of her naivety. 

His perfect pretzel Princess that he could twist into whatever shape that he pleased. 

Or make her do as he desired, for that matter. 

With no one, not even his wife herself, to question him or his ways.

He loved the thought. 

"... S- Strange… P- Pain… but– hnnn!" Her back arched as she suddenly writhed, nearly going white at the feeling of getting her special spot getting tickled for the first time. It was an ability her husband took a lot of pride in; the  renown that he had held in college for being able to find gspots with his fingers alone. 

"Feels real good too, don't it?" The Captain snickered heavily as he began to rock his hips into her hand, feeling himself nearing the brink. 

"Mmh!" She did her best to respond despite the sensory overload, groaning softly when he forces her band of muscles to expand further by adding another finger to her pussy and repeatedly jabbing her sensitive nerves with their blunt tips, the sound of his skin fucking in and out of her liquids getting louder by the minute. "W- Weird… but…" A drop of sweat trickled down the side of her face as she gasped, eyes widening when her spine jolted at a particular wave of pleasure. "M- More, please." 

In the blink of an eye, Syverson had pushed her on her back before crawling up her body like a predator. Before her body could process his fingers leaving her into an orgasm denial, his eager cock was pushing into her. The pained moan that escaped her as her body twisted under his was muffled by his mouth clamping over hers. The Captain grunted as his cock struggled to push its way inside her virgin entrance despite the preparation that he had done. The girl's bottom lip pulled away from the rest of her mouth due to the way he bit down on it to withstand the overwhelming pleasure that sparked everywhere within him.  

"Your wish is my command, my darlin' sheikha." 

Syverson found himself praying for the first time to any god, deity or entity that may be listening; to freeze time right here in this very moment and never set it free again.

For he could stay like this for eternities and beyond; buried inside his dear wife and protectively enveloped in her loving arms that had never held another like she did him and never would whilst she moaned below him in a pained ecstasy, clenching and nearly knocking out as she experienced her first ever orgasm.

.

Reblogs and feedback are much appreciated <3

[qtkoshi]

Maybe gn!Reader and Hobie adopt a kitten and the other three (Pavitr, Gwen, and Miles) come to see the kitten? Maybe a orange kitten gn!Reader wanted to name Spunk or Spike while Hobie gave them a spike collar? Would be cute lol

i luv ur brain anon

"you got....a kitten?"

- ok ok idk if this is what u meant, but u can feel free to run this with the bubblegum reader + hobie bc i think it fits alright :-) - also get a little deep with describing relationship,, but it’s necessary for the plot ! (...) - also!!! tysm for the requests; i am very excited to get into them, but will prob wait till tmrw to release bc it is my birthday today <3 much love to you all

──★ ˙ ̟ to the stars ！

general headcannons

alright first of all: hobie with a kitten? i’m in tears. 

i love the hc that hobie has a soft spot for cats and the fact that y’all got one together? bye.

NAPS WITH THE KITTEN JUST NESTLED BETWEEN BOTH OF YOU

this cat is gonna be SPOILED in attention i tell u rn

hobie isn’t as obvious ab it as u, but the amount of times u see him chilling with the cat just perched on his shoulder?? (why are u taking the baby swinging across the city hobie; wait a min now–)

how u got him

imagine this: ur walking past an alley and hear this small little meow; after further investigation you find this tuft of orange fur crying outside the dumpster and

now u gotta take it in what r u talking about!!

bringing him home immediately ; hobie's spidey senses prob picked up the cat's presence before you got in the door.

'baby what's that.' 'c'mon spiderman we got saving to do'

man can't even argue with you

hobie not naming the cat himself bc he doesn’t wanna enforce socio-constructed labels on an unsuspecting creature that can’t consent

u can tho.

and while you very much want to, you tell hobie you gotta think on it for a bit – it has to fit just right!! (tbh he rlly doesn’t mind the cat being nameless, but he’s kinda whipped and will kinda go with what u want if it helps give that pretty lil smile to him again)

spider-squad finding out ab him

the besties r wrapping up something with a fight and hobie’s all k gotta leave and check on the cat and the rest are like ????? 

pav absolutely floored bc how dare did u not mention this sooner hobie

'so you lot wanna come see him?' (inter-dimensional travel ensues) – also never gonna complain ab coming to hobie’s house they all think his place is dope

i’m sure we all know orange cats are fucking crazy and that does not exclude the little gremlin jumping off the walls of your flat rn

hobie ofc is smirking bc his son the cat is a little agent of chaos and he couldn’t be more proud 

you, on the other hand, are just a little tired trying to get the fucker to stay still for a second so u can put on the damn flea medicine

everybody loves him are u kidding (miles a little hesitant tho, he still has beef with the last spiderman-variant cat he met :/ ) 

“so whats its name?” miles was watching with wary eyes as the little ball of fur darted around. with a heavy (and definitely not dramatic) sigh, you walk over to the group “still haven’t picked. we just found him yesterday.”

luv the idea of hobie looking at u anytime ur in the room (stay with me now) — can’t help it u just grab all his attention, maybe stop being so lovely idk

speaking of your relationship: he has spent years battering against everything life throws at him that having your love in the palm of his hands? something to protect not in the way he does as a hero, but in the way to cherish as a person?? give the man a break, he deserves to admire you whenever he can.

anyways hobie’s looking at you before going ‘oh yea’, just grunts and pulls out this little collar with little spikes and their matching and oh my that is so cute

says he found it in some garbage, most def made the collar with some scraps like he did his own (gotta keep it cool yk)

you giddy and putting the collar on the little heathen and just all ‘omg wait a min’

promptly lifting the cat up and “THIS IS SPIKE.”

cue golf claps from the squad with some ooo’s and aah’s

more gen headcannons

remember when hobie and the cat were swinging around the city? yea he's taking that mf everywhere. puts him in his pocket like a little surprise

hobie loves to play fight with the cat

spike is the perfect mix; got hobie’s energy and your brightness it’s a win-win

i could write more but i'll stop here for now 🕸️

⊗

[evieelyzabethh]

Sugar and Spike

pairing(s): Spike x fem!reader

summary: after a night of patrol goes wrong, Spike starts noticing some changes in himself, mainly that Buffy's sweetest friend won't leave his mind and that she would never look at him the same if she knew what he wanted to do to her.

warnings: smut!!! a smidge of yandereness, kinda a sex or die fic, possessive spike, handjob, unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (fem receiving), praise kink, biting/marking (mentions of blood), a little bit of spanking, overstimulation, riding, fingering, veryyy little plot, and I think thats about it.

In hindsight, they should've kept a better eye on him. It was an odd night of patrolling, the usual gaggle of vampires being a demon or two this time around. Big tall thing that appeared out of nowhere and left as soon as it came. Spike, always with little regard for the consequences of his actions, ran right in. Ran so hard he went right through the demon as it went into smoke. He breathed it in before going into a coughing fit, as if he could feel it in his nose and lungs, spreading in his chest like a vine that pulled everything impossible tight before releasing him like he was never in its grasp . Red flag one.

It fell on him like rain, some clumping into what looked like pink sparkles in his hair, on his jacket, his worn boots. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling away expecting to see it gunked together, but there was nothing there. It felt like his hair had been hit by my mist, slightly damp and cool. It seeped into his exposed skin, adhering itself into a pink sheen which also disappeared after only a few minutes. He remembered trying to brush it off, expecting it to feel wet but it was just slick. It was admittedly infuriating, especially since the feeling wouldn't go away. Red flag two.

“Buffy!” He shouted, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if it was going to wipe away the phantom feeling, but his complaints were met with apathy. 

“There’s nothing there, Spike.” A groan bubbled in his chest. 

“Astute observation, Slayer, but it feels like something’s there.” You were there beside him, something that would’ve gone unnoticed had he not been hit with your scent as your fingers brushed against his hand. He pulled away quickly out of instinct, not as subtle as he would’ve liked to because you noticed and scampered off in between Buffy and Giles. The distance between you and him got larger and the two of you talked about a mall trip you had planned and Willow was the only one to stick with him. She humored him, allowing him to shower at her place and taking a sample of skin only to find nothing. No residue, nothing abnormal, nothing had changed at all. Red flag three.

But he was sure it was fine. Nothing had really changed. You had been a bit cautious though.

You were prone to worrying, and he couldn't blame you. There was a lot to worry about when your best friends hunted demons and one of them was a literal creature of the night. You worried about Buffy so much he genuinely feared you would collapse from all the stress you put yourself under. Pursuing a nursing degree so they could avoid hospital visits unless absolutely necessary because none of you had the money. Having him train you in basic self-defense because you hated feeling like dead weight. You took up Latin and all of the other dead languages in those old dusty books just so you could be useful. You tied yourself in knots just to be sweet. God, you were so sweet. Even to your own detriment, like pure sugar that was going to rot his teeth eventually.

The more time you spent together, the more the rot seemed to take his brain than his teeth. His mouth never got anywhere near you; Buffy made sure of that. He wished he could say it was because she was babying you too much, that you were also tired of Buffy making Spike seem like the biggest mistake you could ever make. To be fair, he hardly knew you. He knew of you; he knew of the pink wardrobe and the fluffy socks and the pretty shoes. He knew of you as Buffy's cute neighbor who stopped by so often that you might as well live with them. You weren't being a baby, you were being cautious, even more now. He almost wished you didn't believe him as much as you did, maybe you'd keep visiting him. He hadn't seen you in days and it was really starting to take a toll on him. His leg bounced and he got in the bad habit of biting his nails, which was starting to get annoying with how often he had to repaint them.

If you were here, you would repaint them. You would sit your pretty self on his busted couch, and you'd have a little bag with you with all your pins and charms that jingled like the earrings that dangle from your ears. In your bag would be at least three shades of pink, a range of blacks and greys, and a wild card or two, maybe a blue or a green. You'd let him pick his color, despite knowing he always went for black. You asked anyway, just in case he decided to go with pink just to humor you. Had you walked through right now, he would've obliged. He would've done anything you asked him too. It wasn't even that he was lonely, but it was getting to suffocate in here. It was getting hot, like a fire was spreading. Each breath felt smoke filled, his skin was on fire, his skin was getting damp, like the dust had fallen again. His hand was shaky as he put a cigarette between his lips and lit it, surely the smell would break him out of what had to be a daze.

If you were here, you'd make a joke about him needing to air the place out. He'd probably open the door and call that enough air, but he liked his privacy, and he didn't like the idea of anyone just being able to waltz right in. You would want to make a joke about no one wanting to visit him, but you’d bite your tongue at the fear of being too harsh. You always got that look in your eye when you thought something that could be misconstrued as mean. You took your lip into your teeth and your pretty eyelashes flitted and you looked away. He thought about what it would be like to bite your lips, wanting to see what they looked like, all red and even prettier than they were before. Just a taste, that's all he wanted, a taste.

He got up to open up the door only for that phantom feeling to return. All over his body, it felt like he had stepped out into the sun, like every molecule that made up his body was vibrating and mere seconds from combusting. His breathing got ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly and his brain going into overdrive. He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would make it go away, but even from behind his eyelids, you were there. The idea of you, your smile, your laughter, fuck the very way you said his name. It sounded so nice coming from you. 

The way you said it when he got injured in a fight when you would patch up his wounds and have a bag of blood for him to replace what he lost. “Spike.” you would say. Like he should’ve known better than to just throw himself into danger. Not even bothering to consider the possibility that he did it to look heroic, or maybe in your care with your hands over his chest. There’s no reason for him to be this beaten and bruised from some baby vamp; William the Bloody. Spike? He had pride, but not as much as Angelus. It was easily quenched by the fact that he was in no way losing with your delicate hands tracing over faded scars on his chest and feeding him blood while they were just dust. 

“Spike.” Buffy would say, her tone laced with less concern and more disapproval. She knew something was up. After all they had gone through together, vampires should’ve been nothing for him. He had to space out his “fuck ups” just to get her off his back, just to get her voice out of his head. She didn’t say his name like you did. 

There wasn’t much better than how you said his name when it was just the two of you. Being together in his crypt, sometimes in your own bedroom which you had invited him into much to Buffy’s chagrin. “It’s Spike,” you had said, “how many times have we saved the world with him? I think he’s earned it.” It sent shivers down his spine. He would’ve saved the world so much sooner if it meant being able to be in your space. If it meant getting to hear you say his name through fits of laughter, trying to regain your breath while still finding enough to utter his name. “Spike.” you said, your hand over his while you giggled. He felt that heat now, felt the heat of all your touches culminating right now. All over his skin, tensing his muscles, holding his chest as he fought for breath himself. 

While he had the chance, he should’ve raided your underwear drawer. Now he was left to fist his dick with just the memory of you. You wouldn’t notice a pair or two gone, surely you wouldn’t. It was the type of small thing you would overlook because really what is a pair or two. You wouldn’t want him to be in pain, hearing his situation now, you’d feel like it was all your fault. The least you could spare was a pair of your prettiest panties for him to wrap around his cock while he fisted himself to the thought of you and how you would say his name now. 

The closest he’d gotten would be after a big battle. You had taken a beating, by the time you had gotten to a safe space you had lost a dangerous amount of blood, but the sounds that came out of your mouth were so delicious. And you trusted him to carry you to safety, your bloody hand wrapping itself around his bicep to maintain some tether to consciousness. “Spike.” your voice dripping with pain, but even that wasn’t enough to mask how pretty you sounded. He felt bad then for how hard it got him, but there is such a thin line between   pain and pleasure. The only difference now would be circumstance, and he would never hurt you. This would be good for you, the both of you, you just had to let him. You just had to say his name. 

“Spike?” In that moment, he knew there had to be some high power looking out for him when he heard your voice. Dream-like, and soft, like the wind could have blown it out and away from your lips. “Spike?!” you said again. He couldn’t tell if it was his shred of restraint or his body’s unwillingness to listen to his brain that kept him glued to his couch. 

“Now really isn’t a good time, love.” He tried to keep his voice level, he really did, but it was too much. And you weren’t stupid, he heard the heels of your shoes against the hard floor and smelt you before he even saw you. And fuck you smelt heavenly. 

“Are you okay? What happened-” You looked like you had a halo above your head, or maybe he was much further gone than he had thought. You cut yourself off in shock. When you had walked in, you hadn’t expected to catch Spike with his hands down his pants. 

“You know what, I’m just gonna go a-and come back later.” You tried to smile in an attempt to make the situation less awkward than it needed to be, but he grabbed you by your wrist. 

“Wait-I just need-fuck. I just need you to stay for a bit. I don’t feel good.” Your eyes met and you saw the sheen of what you assumed to be sweat covering his chest and face. His pupils blown out, his hair out of place, his labored breathing, like he couldn’t catch his breath. Oddly enough, the sheen had a pink tinge, and despite the fact that his fangs were protruding, his vampire face hadn’t appeared. You reached out to touch his forehead to surprisingly find a temperature. He groaned at the contact, both wanting to melt into your skin and like it physically pained him. 

“What happened?” He declined the answer, instead pushing his head more into the palm of your hand, tipping his head to sniff the inside of your wrist. “What are you doing?” You tried to pull away and put some distance in between the two of you, but he pulled you back, even closer than before. 

“You smell so good.” He nosed his way past your wrist and up your arm till he made it to your collarbone, trying to find where he could hear your blood pump the loudest. “Stop it!” you pushed against him as soon as you felt the tip of his fangs attempting to break skin. To both of your surprise, he let you. It looked like it pained him to do so, his eyes screwed shut and his hand gripping the arm of his couch until the wood snapped. 

“If this is about the demon thing, I’m gonna go get Willow, okay? You just need to stay right here.” The authority you had laced in your voice was cute. 

“Just stay here with me, yeah? There’s no need to get Willow. We don’t need Willow.” His voice had dropped an octave, his pupils blown and his brain damn near empty. Anything went in one ear then out the other as he held your hands in his, staring through you as if daring you to defy him. 

“Spike, you aren’t well.” You had tried to reason, but all he heard was that you weren’t saying no because you didn’t want this. You were concerned for his well being, even when he had you pinned down and his teeth at your neck, each breath moving you closer to him drawing blood, you were saying no because you were concerned he didn’t want this. You somehow thought he didn’t want you. 

“I’ve never felt better, baby.”, he said-practically fucking growled. Hell if he wanted you, he needed you. He pressed himself into you, his hands grabbing at anything he could to ground himself, his left at the base of your scalp and his right bunching the fabric of your skirt in his hands. He breathed into your neck, nipping and nicking at bare skin then soothing it with his tongue and kisses. He worked himself up over you, taking and taking until he was drunk, his tongue lolled out as he put his head on your chest.“Can I fuck you.” 

You had been caught in a daze yourself, his words had barely registered. You had more sense than he did at this point, finding enough resolve to shake your head. “Please.” he begged, groaning it out through clenched teeth. “I need you to make it feel better, please God just make it feel better.” He had pushed his hips into your hand, his weeping cock leaking onto you, pleading with you to touch it. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear, just be my sweet girl, yeah? Just make it better.”

You experimentally rubbed the tip, and he whimpered. His hand grabbing your wrist so fast a look of shock flashed across his face. You took that as a sign to pull away but he put your hand back around him, pushing your hand up and down his base. “Too much too quick, love.” 

Any hesitancy you had was swallowed as he smashed his lips into yours. It was urgent and quick, almost bruising how hard he kissed and held you as if you were going to disappear at any point. He tugged at a handful of hair, catching you in a moan that he used to force tongue into your mouth, sucking it as you pumped his dick at a painfully slow pace. 

His kisses made you breathless, and it was then you realized that he likely forgot in his haze that you actually needed air. He moaned into your lips, the sound spreading throughout your body and shaking you to your core. It wasn’t lost on him how damp your underwear had gotten, had he had the strength to pull away to touch you he would, but the mere seconds his skin would be off yours was enough of a deterrent to keep him in place. 

You tried to move away, but his hand kept you in place. “Don’t move.”, he rushed it out, a tone that otherwise would’ve been more commanding had he not been weak himself. “Keep going.” His hips bucked and stuttered, his movements becoming erratic the more faint your touches became. Like it was a warning; let me up for air and I’ll keep touching you. He whined at the thought of you pulling away. That wasn’t fair. 

His lips parted from yours, settling for the corner of your mouth before moving to your jawline to your neck, then just under your ear. You gasped for breath, you numb with the ecstasy of air and the feeling of his rushed kisses. He was getting close. Your hand was covered in his sticky pre-cum, his cock even more so as your hand moved alone over him, his own hand now grabbing at your shirt at the feeling. You squeezed at the bass, a motion he clearly enjoyed with how his body tensed up. A series of obscenities flowed from his pretty lips as he came, spurts of his cum getting over your pretty pink skirt, an image Spike would get himself off to later. 

You didn’t get long to sit in what just happened when he was on you again, laying you on your back and ripping your skirt clean off. You moaned something that sounded like “My skirt!”, but neither one of you were really worried about it. 

His lithe fingers were quick, rubbing you through the fabric of your panties, while he kissed up to where you wanted him excruciatingly slow. His hands rubbed and teased at the soft skin of your thighs, marking bruises everywhere he went. 

He moaned into you, sniffing you once again, before finding a place he wanted to dig his fangs into. Maybe it was how delicately he stuck in his teeth, maybe it was the lust blown fervor, but it didn’t hurt as much as you anticipated. In fact, you moaned at the intrusion, unable to know what to do with yourself as he sucked and lapped up the blood he had drawn. Your fingers wove into his hair, as if he could be pulled any closer to you than he already was. “You taste so good. So good.” And he let you know as such. The obscene noises that flew from the both of you, the slurping and whines, the pop of his lips as he traveled from one spot to another. But that’s not how he intended to eat you whole.

You were unbelievably wet, soaking through your panties and even Spikes fingers before he took pity on you and decided to pull them aside and plant his fingers into you. Now, you weren’t a virgin, but you had never had sex that felt as good as this. Never had someone in you that had hundreds of years of practice beforehand. 

“You’re doing so good, Sweet Girl. So good, can’t get enough of you.” What was an attempt to calm your nerves, had you keening and over the moon, the praise bringing tears to your eyes as you ground yourself in his hand. That didn’t move him along any quicker, his tongue still collecting anything you would give him like he hadn’t been fed in years. 

“Spike!” You called out, which finally seemed to get his attention. He saw the glass-like look your eyes had taken and the pout on your face. You looked like you were about to cry. Poor thing, so desperate. He said he’d take care of you, make you feel good. No point in denying the inevitable. 

You whined when he pulled out of you just to choke when he began to devour you. His nose at your clit and his tongue plunging into. “Thank you.” he muttered into you, like this was some divine gift to him. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” The combination of his praise and how good he was giving it to you made that coil in your belly tighten and tighten until it threatened to snap. And he just kept going. Completely in his own world, the only thoughts in his mind being about you, how you smelled, how you tasted, god you were so good to him. Letting him eat you out like this, helping him like this. He shouldn’t have expected any less from his girl. His sweet girl. No one else's, you couldn’t be anyone else's after this. His grip tightened around your thighs at the very thought. “Mine.” he said, the vibrations hitting your core deliciously. “Mine.”

“Yours Spike, all yours.” He hummed in approval, inserting two fingers back into you while he kept up his electric pace. He held your hand as it began to be too much, your back arching off the couch and your thighs closing around his head as he just kept going. You called his name as you came, high and higher until it became too heavy on your mouth and you couldn’t say anything at all. The grip you had on his hand had loosened, but he hadn’t let up. He still rambled into you, “Again. Again. Again. Please.”

You didn’t know if your hips were bucking into him or try to wiggle away from him. Either way, both attempts were unsuccessful. With how hard he pulled on your panties they had snapped and had been thrown to the side for the simple crime of being in his way. His forearm lay on your hip keeping you in place. Your hand still laid in his, him squeezing it as if it was any comfort from the inescapable feeling of his tongue licking your thoroughly soaked pussy. 

Your toes curled in your frilly socks as you came again on his tongue, and you foolishly expected that to be enough. You would’ve asked him to stop if you could pant out anything more than whines. You would’ve pushed him away if you could manage anything more than weak taps on his forearm. “No more.” you whispered out. “Can’t.” His fingers rubbed your hand as some form of encouragement. 

“Yes you can, love.” You shook your head weakly, scooting your hips back only for him to swiftly smack your pussy. You preened on the contact, and he drank in the arousal that gushed out just from that. “My sweet girl isn’t gonna disappoint me, is she? She’s gonna make me all better, isn’t that right?” Your brain was so fogged out you couldn’t even produce a response. You just groaned and squirmed, unable to brace for impact when he smacked you again. 

“Spike!” You cried out, but he didn’t care. Heknew you were feeling good from how much you gushed while he tongue fucked your cunt. It was just a bit too much for you right now. You would feel better, you just needed to let go some more. He tried to relax you, tried rubbing mindless shapes on your skin to calm you down as he worked you through your third orgasm, but you just heaved. Your tits bounced with how heavily you breathed, and yet after all of that, he still didn’t feel better. Why didn’t he feel better?

Despite the relief that came from him pausing his abuse, you still whined as he sat up from behind your legs. With your taste still on his tongue, he kissed you. You sighed into him, the feeling of his large hands moving from your hip to under your shirt to touch your tummy and rip your bra in half. You didn’t even notice him moving you into his lap and setting your thighs on either side of him so you straddled him. He thumbed your nipples, pinching and rubbing over them while he relished in the feeling of you cunt so close to his dick. 

You didn’t seem to catch on either as he slid in between your folds, too lost of him finally kissing you again. You moaned into this kiss as his fingers dipped to toy with your clit before he whispered in your ear. “Just one more.”

In one fluid motion, he slipped his dick into his cunt, catching you as your limbs went weak. He was so big you felt your eyes water with the pressure of him being in you. You could tell he was struggling to stay still, but the haze had worn off enough for him to regain some sense. He still waited eagerly for you to adjust, brushing the fallen tears from your eyes and kissing your checks to make it all better.

“Too big. It’s too big.” You stuttered. It was all you could manage to mutter out. He cooed at you, his dick growing harder than he thought possible at the feeling of it all and the praise. 

“I was made for you, Pretty Girl, you can take it.” You yelped as he jerked his hips into yours, but he just couldn’t help it. You were so pretty like this, all fucked out and dumb. Not a thought behind those eyes of yours and the only thoughts he was capable of was you. How warm you were, how wet you were, how tight you were. You were squeezing him and  milking him dry and as much as he tried he just couldn’t stop him self from fucking into you. 

“I’m sorry.” and he meant it. You weren’t ready and he couldn’t even tell if he was ready, his body had a mind of his own and he felt himself just slipping into the feeling of being enveloped by you. “Just too good. You’re too good. My good girl. You’re gonna take all I give you, aren’t you, love? You gonna be my sweet girl and take it?” His voice was breathy and low and impossibly hot. 

All you could manage was a soft ‘mhm’ as you took him in. It wasn’t like you had any other choice as you bounced on his cock, gripping at his chest and taking in each moan you earned as you drew blood from your scratches. 

You felt every inch of him, felt the tip of his dick hit your cervix and kept pounding at it like it was his job;  like he would die if he didn’t. You can’t do anything but take it as you screw your eyes shut and just try to breathe as everything in your body fights to hold on to some feeling. It was impossible to think, not when Spike’s hands were all over you and his touch was so incredibly hot. Even stranger, a pink glow began to emanate from him, that or you were closer to passing out than you originally thought. . 

He kept you close to his chest as you both chased your impending highs together, your lips meeting in the middle as you moaned and sighed into each other's mouths and he was a goner, rambling like a mad man in your ear, thanking you endlessly for something he couldn’t put his hands on. Maybe it was your release, that you felt coming like a truck. He squeezed at the fat of your hips, pulling you even closer until neither one of you could tell where the other started and ended and you came like that, so close that you were almost suffocating, but a different kind from before. 

He came not long after you, his dick still inside spurting his cum inside you and keeping it in there with little intention of coming out any time soon. That pink glow had faded from before, fading away until there was nothing there and the slight pink tinge from before was gone too. His eyes drooped a bit, his blue irises that you hadn’t realized you had missed finally reappeared, his pupils returning to normal and his fangs retracting. 

He hung his head in your neck and you felt his temperature drop a bit, no longer boiling hot. He refused to move his head from his spot though. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was ashamed of what just happened. 

After the both of you had a moment to catch your breaths, he removed himself from inside you, stalking off to find something to wear now that your outfit was completely ruined. He even had the decency to turn around while you changed, granted he had a hard time looking at you anyway. 

“You’re gonna wanna deep clean that couch.” You said to break the silence. You were surprised you got a chuckle out of him. 

“Yeah. I don’t normally do this sort of thing on there.” Another moment of silence passed between the two of you.

“You know, we can go back to my place and I can fix your nails. I can tell you’ve been biting at them.” He didn’t need to be told twice either. The place still stunk of sex and his head was feeling clearer than it had in days, he couldn’t stand to be there right now.

“About all of this…you won’t tell Buffy, right?” You giggled. 

“Not if you don’t.” And that was more than enough for him.

[tightjeansjavi]

worship

A/N: last night..I was hornknee on the main and this was the result

~word count: 1.5k~

Summary: cock worship with Frankie Morales

Pairing | Frankie Morales x f!reader

Warnings: smut with no plot, cock worship, body worship, handjob, mutual masturbation, filthy talk, oral (female receiving) subby!frankie vibes, intimacy, established relationship, fluff, soft!frankie, boyfriend!frankie, no age gap, reader has no physical descriptions such as skin color or body type, translated Spanish from both Frankie and the reader. Pet names: querida, cariño, princesa, hermosa. +18 minors dni!

paciencia - patience

No es necesario mi amor - not necessary, my love

es necesario para mí, Frankie - its necessary to me, frankie

tócame, querida. Por favor - touch me, darling. Please.

“Baby, I want tonight to be all about you, okay?” Your boyfriend, Frankie Morales has always been a people pleaser in every aspect. Even though you have reminded him at least 100 times in the bedroom that his pleasure is also important, he always brushes it off and turns the attention back on you.

Well, tonight is going to be different. You’re going to show him just how much he really means to you.

“Hermosa,” he softly rasps. “I feel good when you feel good. You don’t have to provide me with any special attention, baby.”

You lean over his chest and gently press your pointer finger against the seam of his plush lips. “Shh. Please, Frankie. I want to show you just how much I really love you, and your cock.”

He’s stunned to say the least. His brows raise in unison as he brushes his hand across the apex of your bare thighs, stroking his thumb back and forth in a soothing motion. He visibly swallows hard, eyes flitting upwards to meet your gaze. “Querida, No es necesario, mi amor.”

You replace your finger with your lips, kissing him sweetly as your fingers gently skate across the patches of his beard. “es necesario para mí, Frankie.”

He licks into your mouth at a snail's pace so he can really get a taste of you on his tongue while your hand drifts slowly to his lap where his half-hard cock lay beneath the soft confines of his sweats.

“Hard for you already, querida.” His breath catches in his throat when you delicately trace the outline of his cock with the tip of your nail. His hips shift upwards, already desperate for more contact.

“I know, baby.” You smile into the kiss, letting out a breathy, soft sigh when he gradually presses your thighs open further for easier access. The panties adorning your body are a pair that he picked out himself, and you looked so beautiful in them.

“Can we keep these on, princesa?” He hums, low and deep as his fingers toy with the little pink bow at the hem of your panties. “The lace looks so pretty on you, baby.” He hooks his thumb through the elastic and snaps it back playfully, eliciting giggle to slip past your lips while your own fingers trail upwards, drawing patterns through the dark, coarse hair on his happy trail. His stomach clenches inwards from your feather light touch.

“Cariño.” You coo, “This night is about you, Frankie. If you’d like for me to keep them on, then I’ll keep them on for you.” You lightly gasp into the connected kiss when his fingers slowly glide upwards against the covered seam of your pussy. He breaks the kiss away momentarily, only so he can glance down and see just how wet you’ve grown for him already. He licks his lips, wetting them before he’s drawn back to his own pleasure as you nip playfully at the junction where his neck meets his collarbone. Teeth graze his bronzed skin as you bite down, drawing blood to the surface. His head tilts to the side to allow you better access to his skin. His lashes flutter shut, lips parting as he moans softly.

You trail your lips further, teasing, biting at his collarbones, and slide your hand southwards. His cock twitches in excitement as you make quick work of pushing his sweats down just enough to free his cock.

His hot breath fans your face when one large hand comes to grasp your jaw, pulling your face back upwards to his lips to meet in a bruising kiss.

“tócame, querida. Por favor.” He whimpers through the kiss, hips bucking upwards when he doesn’t immediately feel your soft touch.

There isn’t a minute in the day where Frankie doesn’t yearn for you, and your touch. He thinks about you morning, afternoon, night, and even in his dreams.

“Paciencia.” You tsk playfully under your breath and slowly slide your hand down the underside of his cock, feeling every vein and ridge beneath the soft pads of your fingertips.

He huffs through his nose, a chuckle vibrating up his chest as he shakily inhales your tongue licking into his mouth. “That’s my line, querida.”

“Hush, baby. Let me take care of you, Frankie. Let me take care of you and your pretty cock.” You drop your hand further, gently cupping his balls, squeezing them delicately, earning another breathy moan to escape his lips.

His head slowly falls back against the plush pillows. If his eyes weren’t shut in bliss already, they would be rolling back into his skull. His fingers begin to toy with your covered clit in languid, circular motions. He loves playing with you like this, feeling your slickness begin to build, and your pussy flutter.

“I’m so fucking hard for you, cariño. And your pretty pussy is so wet for me.” He’s already salivating for a taste, to bury his head between your thighs and delve into his favorite meal of the day; you.

“Feels so good, Frankie.” You praise him adoringly. “Does it turn you on when I say that you have such a pretty cock? It’s so beautiful, cariño. You’re so beautiful.” You gush, kissing him deeper as his hand cradling your face pulls you in even closer. If he could, he’d crawl inside of you and stay there forever.

“Fuuck.” He skin flushes from your words, cheeks turning ruby red, heart swelling in his chest as his thumb gently strokes your jawline. “Tell me I have a pretty cock again, please.”

You drag your hand upwards once more, hand wrapping around the base of his cock as you slowly twist your wrist in a corkscrew motion. You can feel him growing harder in your palm as your thumb swipes across the ruddy head, collecting pearls of precum that have begun to leak and dribble down the underside of his shaft.

“You have the prettiest cock I have ever seen, Frankie.”

His hips buck upwards into your hand pathetically as he whimpers your name over, and over again.

His mental state is at the most vulnerable, yet he has never felt more safe than with you. His lips break away from the kiss, a string of saliva keeps you both connected for a moment, like an invisible string. His head tilts down, cheek resting against the crook of your shoulder, hot breath kisses your skin as he lets himself fully indulge in unabashed pleasure.

“I’m so lucky to have you, cariño. Y-you’re so beautiful, and good to me.” He chokes out, teeth grazing your shoulder as he bites down. His fingers on your pussy begin to pick up their pace, wanting you to feel the same level of pleasure that he is experiencing. His attention stays focused on your clit, and between the steady pressure, and the fabric adding friction, you’re close to hitting your own high.

“You’re so pretty, Frankie. Always so pretty, but even more when you’re on the edge of coming.” You whisper as your freehand rests along his bare shoulder, before slowly sliding into his hair, playing with the soft curls at the back of his head, nails scraping at his scalp.

Perspiration has already begun to build and pool along his bronzed skin. Shiny, wet, slick, needy.

He bites down on your shoulder harder, drawing blood to the surface, eyes squeezed shut, whimpers falling against your skin.

“Oh fuck. I’m going to come, querida. I’m—I'm so close, baby.” He groans as you pump your wrist faster, feeling his cock tense and pulse around your palm.

“Good boy, Cariño. Come for me, Frankie.” You breathlessly request, and he obeys, letting himself go, crying out your name as he paints your hand and his bare stomach in his release.

His softened cock laid still against his stomach, chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. You kissed him sweetly, brushing a few stray curls that were stuck to his forehead with sweat.

His eyes were hooded as he watched your lips descend down his body, between his pecs, down his stomach. You dragged your tongue through his release, lapping every drop up from his sweat stained skin before his strong arms were pulling you back up to his face.

Even in his post-orgasm haze, his kisses were desperate as he tasted himself along your tongue.

“My turn.” He whispered and grabbed ahold of the hem of your ruined panties and yanked them down in a haste.

You couldn’t help but giggle when you felt his curls tickle the inside of your thighs, and the light, gentle scrape of his patchy beard against your sensitive skin.

He spelled his name out against your clit, over and over again, till you positively had nothing left to give him.

In the midst of it all, he found himself growing hard again, and eager, very eager, but now he focused on worshiping you, the same way you worshiped him. He came again with his hips rutting into the comforter as you leaked onto his tongue.

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[goldentigerfestival]

I think the BEST way to explain it would be just to watch the scene because it explains itself best (I can message it to you if you're interested in/okay with that!), but basically... the context itself was altered in the dub to make Yuri sound aggressive and more like "I'm right and I know it". He presses Flynn about it as if Flynn is in the wrong and he's right. I feel personally that there are a lot of cases where Yuri just sounds rudely presumptuous toward Flynn when he's not supposed to be, but Nordopolica was the chaotic worst of it.

In JP Yuri is speaking in a more pleading tone that gives off vibes of "please tell me this ISN'T what I think it is", and the whole "cat got your tongue" was actually a desperate, pleading "say something", because Yuri wanted Flynn to say something to let him know he wasn't right or at least be able to defend what he was doing. He didn't want to be right. His voice starts shaking and he reminds Flynn that what Flynn is doing is what they used to hate. The whole thing was Yuri effectively pleading with Flynn and hoping he'd see reason if it turned out that yes, Yuri was right. He wasn't solely angry, just... deeply upset and struggling to understand how Flynn would be doing this.

The dub just kinda... yeeted that out the window because they for some reason have severe cases of Yuri acting like he has a stick up his dubbed ass, so he ends up more angry and aggressive (especially toward Flynn in several cases, when he's either completely relaxed and not at all angry in the original context, he's heartbroken, or he just wants Flynn to take responsibility for his errors and eases up immediately when he does). Their relationship is a lot more nuanced in the original context and Yuri is really not angry at him even half as much as the dub for some reason wants him to be.

What happens during this scene?!

No really its been a decade since I've played the game past the Blade Drifts and I keep meaning to go back but I have a problem with leaving games unfinished - anyway. I don't remember. I can picture the scene in my head and it probably isn't too far off but I've lost context for the story beat.

[shaampoo]

OMG!?!??! I WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS SONG (and AU), RIGHT NOW!!!

(By Lydia the bard

TINKERBELL VILLAIN SONG - Fall Little Wendy Bird Fall | Song by Lydia the Bard and Tony | Animatic

The title^)

First of all the cover art is AMAZING, Tink is SO pretty, the sparkle and lines on the wings, her grin, HER HAIR, HER EARS, HER DRESS,

Also, "Fall Little Wendy Bird Fall" is a great title

Now the video itself and its lyrics, i really REALLY want to just compliment every single frame of this video, its so beautiful, so well done, its like it was blessed by The Muses of greek mythology,

Okay so the lyrics at 0:45

"You dont seem to quite understand what is at stake,

This messed up little family that i had to make"

Not only is this line so beautiful with the way her voice sounds, its pretty much a nod to the fact Tink and her friends kidnapped peter pan and the lost kids to keep her and her friends alive

(0:55) \/

"If i could let them all go home please know that i would

But it'd do more harm than good"

Just Tink expressing her guilt that she and her friends kidnapped the lost boys so that they could keep existing, but like, JWHSEAJKHWED, she ofc doesn't want her or her friends to die, and since people are slowly not believing in fairies anymore, they're slowly going extinct, ALSO, Fawn and Silvermist are DEAD, so yeah, that messes with someones head

AAAALSOOOO, i LOVE their silhouettes, the height and weight differences instead of them all having the same height and weight like in the movies, plus, i LOVE that despite not looking like how they do in the movies, you can probably still tell who is who,

ALSO

Even if it wasnt intentional, i like how in kinda faraway shots, Tink has a more cuter roundish look, while in closer shots shes more edgy and more intimidating(? if that's the right word), kinda showing how others view her (kinda?) as a cute fairy, maybe underestimated, but yknow, close up, shes plotting to kill a child

(1:15)

I love how Tink is gesturing in this scene, cause 1. It conveys to the audience what she wants from the lost boys and 2. Canonically, when fairies talk, people usually just hear jingling of bells, so shes gesturing because shes also conveying what she wants to the lost boys

1:23

"Swear its nothing personal, its a necessary evil"

I just love this line because it is a necessary evil, she needs the lost boys and peter pan in neverland to believe in fairies so that they exist, and Wendy is pretty much a threat, since she makes the lost boys want to grow up with families,

Also, the lost boys look so cute in here, i cant remember their names tho, one is holding a slingshot, aiming at wendy, one is holding rocks , and one has a stick , so Tink just told these children to assassinate Wendy, or at least attack her.

1:35

I love how the kids explain that Tink make them do it, and Peter Pan just glares at Tink, and i love that I'm pretty sure that Peter isn't mad/doesnt blame the lost boys

As seen in this scene where Pete is smiling and stuff at the Lost Boys and/or at Wendy

1:55

I love how Tink refers to Wendy as a "Nasty little spark" because, a spark can turn into a fire, damaging a lot of stuff and people, pretty much saying that Wendy has to be snuffed out before she causes a fire,

"Setting fires inside my house is just not allowed"

Pretty much referring to the fact that Wendy, the spark, is creating a fire, aka, making the lost boys want to grow up and go back to the real world, making them not believe in fairies anymore, thus, making her and her friends die, which is, not allowed.

Also. the fear in Tink's eyes is so fear, her expression is on point, the mix of concern and fear is just, so beautiful, also i love her pointed ears

2:17

First of all, this screenshot does not do justice to the actual design of the mermaid (siren?), cause they are AMAZING, BEAUTIFUL, GORGEUS.

Also, the fact that Tink is persuasive enough to convince someone to kill Wendy in such a short amount of time is impressive, and the fact that the mermaids agreed so quickly is also impressive,

When it failed, the absolute horror and shock on Tink's face? Shes horrified that another plan of hers failed, and shes scared that her friends might die, like, wow

The despair on her face is just so...asdjwoaijdoiwajd

3:38

The fact that Peter Pan (i cant even give him a nickname cause Pete sounds different and P.P. is just wrong and Pan is just A Thing), first at the gust of wind that blows away the pixie dust (which keeps the ship afloat) he covered his eyes, maybe cause the dust or his hair in his eyes, then he looks at Tink in anger and shock and probably some confusion, then looks at Wendy, in concern and fear,

Theory: Pan knows that, since Tink doesnt want the lost boys to leave, and he knows that gust of wind was from the fairies, and Tink's dislike and hatred to WEndy, that Wendy was probably the only one not going to be saved, which is why he only looks at her and tries to save her (that or he's a SIMPPPPPPP /j)

3:50

The fact that you can see Wendy screaming??? Chills,

And the black screen right after, signalling Wendy's death is just amazing

Anyways, overall, what im saying is

THIS SONG IS AMAZING GO CHECK IT OUT, GO CHECK OUT THIS PERSONS CHANNEL, THEY HAVE GOOD VILLAIN SONGS, THEY EVEN HAVE ENCANTO!!!!

[writingquestionsanswered]

Stuck in Planning Stage of Writing

Anonymous asked: Do you have any advice on how to get out of the planning stage and more into the doing stage of writing? I’m up to my ears in notes for scenes and fragments of dialogue between characters. I know where I want to go with the story, I’ve even written a handful of scenes when the ideas come to me, but now that I have this lump of thoughts I need to start organizing and placing them all in their rightful spaces. The one thing I truly know is how much I’d love to see this through. Do you have any advice for a girl who’s unwittingly made herself stuck with a puzzle?

[Ask edited for length]

Planning a novel can sometimes be like digging a really deep hole for a specific purpose, then suddenly realizing you've stranded yourself at the bottom of the hole without a ladder. You've spent so much time digging the hole, you'd like nothing more than to get out of the hole and move forward with whatever project required you to dig the hole in the first place. There's just one problem: you can't teleport yourself out of the hole. You have to climb... or, ideally, build yourself a ladder to climb out with whatever materials are available to you.

That's probably where you are right now with your story. The hole you've dug was necessary, and it's good that you dug it, but as much as you'd like to just magically leap out and write your story, you can't do that. You have to build yourself a ladder to climb out of the hole first. So...

My go-to emergency "get out of the planning hole I've dug myself into" ladders are timelines, scene lists, and outlines.

Timelines: Your story may take place over a single day or several centuries, but either way, time flows in your story. All of those notes and fragments of dialogue and partial scenes are moments or events that happen within the time frame of your story. So, plotting those moments and scenes out on a timeline--according to when they need to happen--is about the easiest way to break your story down into its existing pieces and to see what's missing/where.

There are lots of ways you can format a timeline, such as a table, a list, a horizontal timeline, calendar, or a roadmap timeline. My go-to is a basic two-column document where the left column is date/time and the right column is the moment/event. There are also apps and online tools that will help you build a timeline in various formats.

Horizontal Timeline:

Calendar Timeline:

Table Timeline:

More info: Making a Timeline for Your Story Scene Lists: Stories are made up of scenes, so a list of those scenes is another great way to organize the events of your story. You may even find that creating a scene list is easier after making a timeline, because a timeline may help you see where certain moments or events need to be their own scenes and which can be combined together into a single scene. Just like timelines, scene lists can be as simple or complex as you want to make them. Once again, my go-to is a simple two-column document with the left column for the scene number and the right column for the scene summary, preferably just a sentence or two. Ultimately, once I have my rough timeline and scene list done, I usually combine them into one multi-column document along with my story structure beats.

Table Scene List with Beats:

Complex Scene List/Timeline/Beat Sheet:

More info: Scene Lists

Outlines: Outlines can be really any format you want them to be, and some people count timelines and scene lists as their outlines. My go-to outline is just an exhaustive beginning to end summary of everything that needs to happen. Sometimes, just working through your story from beginning to end can be the best way to make sense of all those disparate pieces you've been piling up.

More info: Guide: How to Outline a Plot Story Structure: Finally, I want to talk a bit about story structure templates like Save the Cat Writes a Novel!, Larry Brooks story structure, seven point story structure, etc. Story structure templates can be a really great way to make sure you're hitting all the right story beats--almost like a road map through your story. It's just important to know you do not by any means have to stick to any particular story structure exactly. Use it as a guide, take what works, leave what doesn't, and don't panic if your beats don't fall exactly where it says they should. As long as your story is working, that's what matters. Some writers even like to frankenplan their stories using a variety of different structure templates.

More info: Creating a Detailed Story Outline (story structure)

Once you finally have a roadmap for moving forward, whether that's a timeline, scene list, outline, or all of the above, you know you're ready to start writing!

Final note: I just want to add that planning isn't for everyone. Some people are discovery writers who let their stories work themselves out as they go. The above is just meant for people who are planners, who have done a lot of planning, but need to pull that planning together into a cohesive, organized document. And... if you have all of the above and still find yourself unable to start, you might find help in the links below. Happy writing! More help:

Beginning a New Story Figuring Out Where to Start a Story Deciding How to Open Your Book How to Move a Story Forward Trouble Getting Started Have Plot, Can’t Write

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[renthony]

The Hays Code didn't end so much as it just got renamed "MPAA." It's not officially following the Code, but its ethos is grounded in the same mentality. It should be thrown in the same garbage can the Code belongs in.

"Oh but how are parents supposed to know if a film is appropriate?!?!?!" By looking up the plot synopsis? By checking sites like Does the Dog Die? By taking some goddamn responsibility if they don't want their kids watching certain things?

The internet has made it easier than ever to look up a plot summary and content warnings in less than five minutes. If you don't have internet access, most libraries offer that for free, and also have youth librarians who would absolutely love to give you recommendations on media--not just books!--that is appropriate for your young kiddos, and for you. Talk to them about what things you're trying to avoid, and what stories you're trying to find, and they're more than happy to help narrow down a list of things for you to take home and enjoy.

Individual librarians have their own biases, but those biases aren't the Law of the Library. I was checking out "adult" books from the library as a tween, and no librarian ever stopped me--even the ones who would always ask, "hey, are you sure you know what you're checking out, here? Does your Mom know what you're reading?" (She did, and encouraged me to read widely in whatever genre interested me.)

The MPAA has too much power. We don't need a biased, highly conservative body of assholes with the power to say "actually, being gay is Adults Only, women's pleasure is more obscene than men's, stories about people of color are automatically treated more harshly, and if you get Too Political in the Wrong Way, we'll slap you with a rating that ensures it won't get seen by the people you're trying to reach."

The MPAA doesn't provide a necessary service, it just spews bullshit grounded in "but think of the children!"

[tevanbegins]

This is a long rant to shoot down mad BoB theories insisting that Tommy is a villain / secret spy in cahoots with Gerrard / plot device / temporary LI. The show's writers are mature adults who surely wouldn't go so out of the way to villainize a queer character? To the extent that he'd fool all the main characters into thinking he was a good guy and great for Buck for an entire season, and then start revealing his true colors in the next season? To make a beautiful storyline about queer joy blow up into flames with such a major negative plot twist? All so that Eddie can suddenly realise he is gay and he and Buck can get together? I seriously don't think a 60 year old showrunner would allow such childish nonsense to happen on his show.

I'm not saying queer characters can't play dark / negative roles — Eva's character is an example from this very show itself. But the writers always told us that she is a bad influence on Hen's life right from the start, never got us attached to her by depicting her as a great person in the beginning and then revealing later that she is bad. If Tommy was meant to be horrible for Buck, the narrative would clearly tell us that from the start the way they did with Eva and Hen. The writers cannot be so insensitive as to give the LGBTQ+ community such significant mlm representation with Buck and Tommy, first making us fall in love with their romance and then humiliating us (as well as Buck) by completely destroying Tommy's character — all to serve the end purpose of making a fanon ship go canon? That might happen in B*ddie fanfics written by teenagers, but it can't happen on a show being written for a sensible, mature audience by grown-ass career TV writers!!!

B*ddie would have happened a long time ago if the writers wanted to make it canon. They are not going to do it now, definitely not by making Tommy the scapegoat in that awful mess, just so the toxic portion of the fandom can be appeased over the rest of the audiences who appreciate the show for its thoughtful and sensitive storytelling.

Why is maligning Tommy even necessary to make B*ddie canon? Like Eddie and Buck have seen each other dating one woman after another through the seasons but only Tommy being the bad guy will suddenly lead to a feelings realisation arc? Why didn't it happen before, or why couldn't it happen without reintroducing Tommy if B*ddie canon was always the end plan? Probably because the writers aren't interested in going there at all, and Tommy is genuinely being written as a long-term LI for Buck?

Backing this argument is the fact that most of the conversations had by the other characters after Buck's coming out have not been explicitly about him now identifying as bisexual, but more about him being involved with Tommy. If Tommy was being written as a plot device or a short-term LI, I don't think the other characters (including Eddie, mind you) would be hyping him up during these conversations. The writers would have probably framed the conversations on the lines of, "Oh wow Buck you realised you're bisexual? Congratulations!" instead of "OMG you and Tommy? Tell us more / We love him for you and approve of you two together!" They wouldn't take the efforts they've been taking to make Tommy a pivotal subject of these conversations if he was just a plot device as the BoBs believe. And if he was supposed to be a villain, the other characters would have told Buck to find someone better if they thought Tommy's vibes were off. Not all of them can be foolish to not see through Tommy if he was truly as bad as BoBs say he is (especially not Bobby.) Yes, Buck's bisexuality is valid regardless of who he dates or even if he doesn't, but the fact the characters talk so positively about both him + Tommy during these convos clearly implies this is an important love story blended into the coming out arc.

If B*ddie canon was in the works, JLH and Kenny Choi wouldn't have said on their IG lives that it's not going to happen, Ryan Guzman wouldn't be referring to Eddie as heterosexual, etc. So, we cannot let the BoB comments get into our heads because they are not the ones writing the show. I think we can expect a lot better from Tim & Co. than them giving in to the delusional fantasies BoBs want to see being manifested. Wanted to say this piece because I am fed up of seeing the BoB conspiracy theories all over and don't want to give them the power to steal our joy. That's all for now!

___

[writeforfandoms]

Vicious

Find my CoD masterlist

Looking to expand your territory, you find a military group in more or less the middle of nowhere, and spend a few days observing them. Of course, things are never easy, and soon you find yourself a permanent guest of one Commander Graves.

Coyote shifter f!reader x Phillip Graves

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, piv sex, teasing, biting, dirty talk, blood, injury, gunshot, emotional slow burn, enemies to lovers, eventual happy ending. PoV does shift.

Everybody thank @sprout-fics for literally plotting this out with me I don't even know how long ago. Thanks for infecting me with the Graves brainrot, love.

Word count: 11.5k (might wanna go grab a drink)

You approached the base with caution. You'd circled around the base for a few days before deciding to approach. You wanted to know what this was since it was in your territory. Well. Sort of. It was kind of right on the edge of your territory, but since there was a very rude pack of wolves pushing on your territory, you were looking to expand. 

Thus, investigating. 

The base was big and mostly flat, several buildings set up. You could vaguely see a hanger in the distance. Hmm. Interesting. 

Trotting along, you lifted your nose to sniff the air. Lots of scents - men and gunpowder and oil. Hmm. Not terrible, but not great. 

Maybe you should look elsewhere to expand.

There was a thunderous crack and a line of fire erupted across your back. You yelped, scrambling away, even as warm wetness seeped into your fur. You bolted, ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood. You needed to get somewhere safe to shift back and get medical attention. Or at least hide until you healed. 

If the wolves found you like this, they'd kill you. 

You made it away from the shooter, getting as far as an abandoned-looking building before you collapsed. Your legs gave out with a wobble and you whined softly to yourself. Your back hurt, a solid line of fire that pulsed steadily with your heart. 

That was probably bad. You must have gotten hurt worse than you thought. 

Jaws parted as you panted, you debated your options. You could try to sleep here, you could try to get somewhere safer, or you could shift back. 

Even the thought of shifting made you hurt, and you laid your head down. 

You needed medical attention. And liquids. And rest. 

But rest would have to come first, because your body refused to cooperate with you otherwise. 

As much as you knew it wasn't safe here, as much as you longed to get back to your own den… you closed your eyes. 

Just a nap. Just enough rest to get you back on your feet to get home. 

–

Graves had had a good day. Drills had gone well. One of his boys had shot at a coyote. All was well. He'd even authorized a couple boys to go find the coyote and put it out of its misery. 

The last thing he expected was to see those two boys come back with a woman bundled between them, passed out cold and wrapped in one of their jackets. Her legs were bare beneath the jacket. 

"What the fuck?" He muttered to himself, standing up straighter. 

"Found her out in the middle o' nowhere," one of them said, flagging Graves down. "She's bleeding." 

Graves frowned. Bleeding, unconscious, left in the middle of nowhere? Sounded like she'd run into some trouble. 

"Bring her to medical," Graves ordered, already striding over to pull the door open for them. "And for fuck's sake find her some clothes." He held the door for the two and his gaze dipped down to what he could see of her. Mmm. Nice legs. Nice ass, too. 

He resisted the urge to follow them to medical, trusting that they'd get her there. Instead he went to start on the necessary paperwork. 

Medical paged him once she was cleaned up and dressed, and he told them to alert him as soon as she woke. Fingerprints hadn't gotten any pings yet, which was a good thing. 

But still. He needed answers. 

Graves huffed softly and leaned back in his chair. Nothing he could do about her for now but wait. 

–

You woke slowly, warm and not sure why that felt wrong. Not at first. Then the smell registered. 

This was not home.

You sat up quickly and then groaned softly, clenching your teeth. Oh, ouch. Your back fucking hurt. 

"Oh good, you're awake." 

You jerked your head to look at the door, eyes wide. A good-looking man stood there, eyes raking over you. He looked military - the way he stood, the cut of his clothes, the subtle bulge of a gun tucked in the back of his waistband. Oh fuck. 

"How you feelin'?" His voice was mild as he grabbed a chair, pulling it over closer to your bed. 

"Back hurts," you answered carefully. "Where am I?" 

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, which remained cool. "Medical. I have a few questions for you." 

You noted he didn't ask if you were up for it. Clearly this man was used to getting his way. You swallowed. His scent wafted to you, warm and a little spicy and far too alluring. "Okay." 

"Do you know where my boys found you?" 

You narrowed your eyes a little, thinking. Right. You'd been shot and ran away, and had collapsed outside that abandoned building. "Sort of?"

"Do you remember how you got there?" His gaze was more intense now and he leaned forward. 

You had two options here that you could see. Make up some lie, or lie and say you didn't remember. 

"I… don't remember." You swallowed hard, shifting your weight. Your back hurt and tugged a little. "What happened to my back?"

"Nice long scratch. Had to put in some stitches to keep your skin together." He didn't even flinch at the description. Not that you did either. You'd spent enough time as a coyote to see your fair share of blood. 

"Thank you." You forced yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes were pretty. Alluring. Dammit. 

"You're welcome." His smile was all arrogance now. "I'd appreciate some information in return." 

"Like what?" Your gaze darted to the door nervously. This was bad. This was very bad. You needed to get out. 

"Where were you before this? How did you get hurt?" 

"I don't remember." You eyed him now carefully. You were injured, but maybe you could get the drop on him…

"Well. That's a damn shame, darlin'." He pushed to his feet, gaze fixed on you. "I'm afraid I need some answers before you can go." 

"You can't keep me," you immediately retorted, twisting to face him. "That's not legal." 

His smile turned condescending. "And who's gonna stop me?" He spread his hands out from his body, still smirking. 

You tensed, gauging, and then lunged at him. You couldn't shift, not here. But maybe you wouldn't need to. You slammed into him, pain lighting up your back, and tried to shove past him. He recovered fast, faster than you expected, grabbing you and hauling you back to him. You growled, low and angry, and bit his shoulder. Hard. 

He shouted, jerking under your teeth. But he didn't let you go. Just yanked your wrists behind your back, securing them with one hand before using his free hand to get a grip on your hair and yank. 

"Feisty, huh?" His grin showed far too many teeth. Even for a human that was a clear threat. "'S alright, sweet pea. I've got time. I'll have you singing before long." 

You whined when he tugged your hair again, forcing your head back, exposing your throat. He held you easily, not even breaking a sweat as he kept you contained. 

You'd miscalculated. Badly. 

The room he escorted you to was plain and not comfortable. Little more than a concrete box with a cot bolted down, the room lacked any warmth. 

"I'll give you some time to think about your answers," he told you before he pushed you into the room. You stumbled, off balance from the shove, and the door slammed shut. 

The lock clicked, loud and ominous in the room. 

You had really, really miscalculated. 

–

Graves walked back to his room before checking the bite, which was already blooming color on his skin. "Fuck," he muttered, half impressed and a little turned on. "Helluva bite." He sucked his teeth, fingers rising to press gently to his skin. The little bloom of pain made him groan softly, arousal rising. Damn but he liked that. 

He wanted to tame this one. 

"Damn, sweet pea," he muttered, pressing down again, ignoring the blood rushing down to his cock. For now. "Damn." 

–

You were brought food regularly, so at least they weren't starving you. That would be bad, on top of your injury. 

And the asshole came back at least once a day to ask you the same questions. What happened to you? Where had you been? How did you end up out here? Who hurt you? 

You, at least, stuck to your line. You didn't know. That was all he was getting out of you. Nothing else. 

You didn't try to bite him again. At least, not for the first few days. 

Then he got mean. 

"Y'know, sweet pea, I could make this so much nicer for you," he murmured. "Or so much worse. I've been generous, you know." 

"You call this generous?" You curled your upper lip, hands curling into loose fists. 

"Coulda left you to my boys." His smirk was downright nasty now, eyes glinting with mean amusement. "I'm sure they'd appreciate you." 

You stiffened, a low growl rumbling in your chest. Excitement sparked through his scent and his lips stretched wider. "Don't you fucking dare." 

"Then gimme what I want," he purred, leaning closer. "Or a good reason not to." 

You lunged. He was prepared this time, though you still got your teeth in his shoulder before he grabbed you and twisted. You yipped, startled, as he manhandled you face-down on the cot, pressed up tight to your back to keep you down. 

The hardness pressing into your ass made you jerk. 

"Told you," he growled into your ear, breath hot against your skin. "Give me a good reason not to." 

"Fuck off," you snarled, trying to buck him off, ignoring the hardness of him. 

"Rather fuck you." His teeth were sharp on your ear. 

You snarled, deep and rumbly, squirming under him. But you couldn't deny the thrill of arousal at how he held you down. He was strong. Very strong. 

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his hips harder into yours. "Better hold still, sweet pea, unless you think you can take me." 

"I dunno, you think you can handle me?" You couldn't resist taunting him, baring your teeth. 

He huffed a little laugh and shoved one knee between your legs, leaning his weight onto you. "Oh I can handle you, sweet pea." He shifted, biting down on the back of your shoulder. You moaned, almost startled at how much you liked that, how good it felt. "Yeah? Pretty girl likes it a bit rough?" 

"You all mouth?" You shot back, managing to free one hand. You reached back to claw at him, not sure if you wanted him closer or wanted him off of you. 

He swore softly when your nails caught skin under the sleeve of his shirt, dragging down. "Feisty pretty girl," he growled. He grabbed your wrist again and shoved it back down to the bed, pushing you harder into the mattress, his chest to your back. One hand let up, but he compensated, keeping you trapped under him. "Guess you don't wanna get fucked tonight." His free hand slid slowly down your side to your hip, and he pulled you back and down onto his thigh. 

You gasped at the feel of his thigh firm between your legs, fanning your arousal. You squirmed, hands twisting, tilting your face to the side. "Mm, feels like you're all teasing and no follow through." 

"Good girls ask nicely." He lifted his hips away from yours, using his grip on you to push you further into the bed, away from the warmth of him. 

You snarled into the bedding, twisting harder. But he didn't budge, didn't give you an inch. He was absolutely infuriating. 

But he was also possibly going to fuck you, and you possibly wanted him to. 

"I don't do nice." You kicked out with one leg, and he grunted as you pushed him off balance enough to have him crashing back into you. You could admit to yourself that though he was an ass, you wanted more. 

"You will, sweet pea," he grunted, fingers tightening around you. "You'll beg me for it." He rocked his hips into yours and you arched, no longer trying to get him away or get him off. No. Now you wanted more. 

When he pulled back again, your lips parted in a snarl, and you almost asked what he was doing. 

Except you felt fingers at your back, pushing the shirt they'd given you up until it bunched under your arms. His fingers were warm and a little rough as they slid along the path of your injury, just to the side so he didn't actually hurt you. The nurse had insisted on leaving the bandages for another day, although you didn't really need them - you healed faster than a human. 

"One day you'll tell me," he murmured, low and promising. "And I'll be here for all your secrets." 

A shudder ran down your spine and you squirmed. "Keep it up and I'll think you're actually interested in me," you quipped. You needed his attention off your back, needed him to leave it alone. 

"Oh but I am," he purred, lowering himself again so you could feel the press of his shirt against your back, the flat plane of his stomach leaving you nowhere to go. "You're just too temptin', sweet pea. I can't resist." 

You sucked in a breath when he bit down on the back of your shoulder again, a little gentler this time. But the feeling of teeth in your skin, even with the shirt in the way, only made you want more. You bucked into him, struggling, a low whine escaping without permission. 

"Sound so sweet like that," he murmured, too pleased with himself. "Let's see what other pretty noises you can make for me." 

"Arrogant," you shot back, wiggling your ass back against the bulge of him. 

"Confident," he corrected, grinding into you. "Now, you gonna be a good girl if I let go?" 

"Define good." You grinned into the sheets, hiking one knee up to get leverage to push back into him. He only pressed you harder into the cot, pulling a groan out of you. 

"Guess that's a no," he huffed, nosing the side of your neck. "Shame. I'd love to take my time with a pretty thing like you." 

"Sure know how to make a girl feel special." You squirmed again, trying again to free your hands. 

"Baby, I'll make you feel so good," he promised, low and crooning. You shuddered hard, twisting one hand free and reaching back to pull his head closer, fingers scratching through his hair. He huffed against your neck, warm and damp. "Still gotta ask for it." 

You gritted your teeth, digging your nails into the back of his neck. "Make me." 

He groaned softly, pressing his bulge harder into you. He was a flurry of movement, pushing your shirt up over your head but leaving it tangled around your arms. "Such a little brat," he growled, teasing. "I can fix that." 

"Such an ass," you gasped as he yanked your sweatpants down, leaving them pooled on one ankle. 

"All you gotta do is ask, baby," he murmured, hand smoothing over your ask. "I'll fuck you real good if you ask." 

"Not on your life." You whined softly when his hand dipped down between your legs, teasing, testing. 

"Oh yeah?" He huffed an amused noise. "We'll see about that, sweet pea." One big finger slid into you and you gasped, legs shifting further apart to give him more room. "Knew you liked this," he muttered victoriously, his finger making a lewd noise as he moved it. "Fuckin' knew it." 

You opened your mouth to snipe back at him and ended up moaning instead at the stretch of a second finger. “Fucking tease,” you managed, tilting your hips to allow him deeper. 

He huffed. “Already told you what you have to do,” he murmured, pumping his fingers faster. The coil of pleasure in your belly grew tighter, and you rocked your hips back into his fingers. Not yet willing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you. But the scent of his arousal, his clear enjoyment of this, was near dizzying. 

You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood as you got close, eyes shuttered, determined not to give him satisfaction while getting your own. 

And his fingers slipped out of you. 

“What–?” You started to demand, pushing hard against him. 

“Told you,” he said, amused now, even as you heard his belt buckle clink. “Gotta ask, baby.” He nipped the shell of your ear and then groaned softly. There was a soft, wet noise. 

Your eyes blew wide and you froze. He was stroking himself, slow and rhythmic, his knuckles just brushing your ass. He was just going to leave you like this. 

Unless you asked. 

You clenched your jaw for a moment before you gave in with a little whimper, tilting your hips and ducking your head down against the cot. “Please,” you murmured. 

“What was that, sweet pea?” He sounded unbearably smug, even as he brushed his knuckles over your skin a little more firmly. 

“Please,” you repeated, pressing your forehead into the cot. The smell of him was intoxicating and a little addicting and utterly ruining your composure. 

He hummed, teasing, and the noise stopped. Still-damp fingers pressed to your ass and then curled around your hip, guiding you into a better position. “Please what?” 

You growled a little, debating kicking him off and taking care of yourself. But damn he’d gotten you riled up, and now you wanted him. “Please fuck me,” you ground out, tone far from pleading. 

But that must have been good enough for him. “Good girl,” he cooed, condescending and overly-sweet. You fought down the urge to bite him again, mostly because you could feel him beginning to press into you. 

He did not go slow, and he was not gentle. Which was fine - you didn’t want gentle. You didn’t want slow. You wanted him to fuck you hard enough that you saw stars. 

He was relentless, searching for your g-spot and then hitting it as often as possible. He released your hands to fist your hair, tugging your head to the side so he could kiss and nip at your neck. His groans vibrated against your skin, making you whimper. 

“Yeah? Feel good?” He nipped sharply at your skin and soothed the spot with his tongue. “Tell me, sweet pea.”

You resisted. For a moment. “Feels good,” you agreed with a gasp, getting one hand behind you to scratch through his hair, keeping him exactly where he was. “More.”

“More what?” The words were growled into your skin, his grip tightening on your hip until you thought you’d have bruises. 

“Need more,” you gasped, bucking your hips back into his. “Please.”

“Knew you could be so good for me,” he crooned, far too pleased. But he did move his hand to rub your clit, not giving you a chance to mouth off to him again. 

“Fuck!” Your fingers scrabbled at the sheets and fisted in them, shaking a little. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear now. “Come on, baby. Come for me. Come on, come on, baby.” 

Later, you’d be humiliated, but you did. You came with a shout, body tensing under his, hand in his hair clawing down the back of his neck. He hissed, shuddering hard against you, and roughly pumped into you a few more times before he spilled in you. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, almost dazed sounding. “Fuck you feel good.” He ground against you, probably just to hear you whine. 

He didn’t quite collapse on you, but it was close. Fortunately, you got to just melt into the cot, breathing hard. 

“Have fun, sweet pea?” He slid out of you smoothly and stood, fixing his clothing. You kind of hated him for that, even as you turned your head to glower at him over your shoulder. 

“Still an asshole,” you grumbled, stretching out. You needed to move, to wipe yourself off. But you couldn’t resist the moment of tormenting him with the sight of you on display. 

He chuckled, undeterred. “Better rest up, sweet pea,” he advised, smirk clear in his tone. “I’ll be back later.” 

The door locked behind him as always. 

Fine. You’d just bide your time. Someone would slip up eventually. 

It took another week. A week of acting more compliant, of not trying anything. Graves didn’t come back for that entire week, either. Why, you didn’t know, but you weren’t going to ask. 

Finally, the soldier that brought you food forgot to lock the door. 

You waited until you couldn’t hear him anymore before you crept to the door, cracking it open just the tiniest bit. Nothing. No sound near you. 

You had to sternly remind yourself not to just go tearing off, you had to do this smart. So you snuck out of your room, shutting the door again. Hopefully that would keep them from looking. 

Getting out of there was perhaps one of the most stressful things you’d ever done. You listened hard for people, and once had to duck into a cleaning closet to avoid a couple chatting soldiers. Your heart pounded against your ribs the entire time, so loud you had to focus to hear past the blood rushing through you. 

But you did it. You made it outside. The sun was setting, the land open around the base. You’d blend better if you shifted, and you’d be faster. 

A quick look around showed you were the only one in sight. Moving fast, you nearly threw your clothes off and shifted, landing on four paws. 

This was so much better. 

You left the clothes where they fell and started trotting off, away from base. You were more careful this time, darting between bushes and generally being stealthy. 

So when something tackled you from the side, you yelped, totally caught off guard. You struggled until a firm hand grabbed your scruff, holding tight and lifting you a little. You whined and went still. 

“Well, well, well,” Graves murmured, smirking down at you. “I’ll be damned.” 

You lifted your upper lip to growl at him, hoping he’d take the hint and back off. Instead, he fearlessly wrapped his free hand around your muzzle. 

“You’ve already bitten me before, sweet pea,” he said, looking over you again, awed and not at all scared. “Not gonna let you with bigger teeth.” 

You stared at him, fear a cold wash down your spine. You realized with perfect clarity in that moment that not only had he put together exactly what you were, but he was never going to let you go. 

Graves carried you back to your room, shutting the door behind the two of you before he released you. You skittered away, putting some distance between the two of you. “Go on, sweet pea. Show me.”

You were momentarily confused, ears twitching as you looked at him. But he didn’t move, didn’t step away. 

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he teased, smirking like the bastard he was. “Already seen all of you before.”

Understanding dawned, and you briefly pinned your ears back. But if there was one thing you knew about Graves, you knew that he was stubborn. 

So you shifted back. 

“There you are.” He grinned, wide and satisfied and distinctly smug. “Quite a trick you got there, sweet pea.” 

You crossed your arms over your chest, glowering at him. “Why did you grab me again?” 

“Can’t let such a fascinating little thing run off now can I?” He finally took a step closer to you, gaze fixed on your face. 

You clenched your jaw. “Sure you can, it’s easy.”

He chuckled, taking another step closer, until he was just outside your space. “Oh sweet pea, told you I’d be here for all your secrets, and I meant it.”

You swallowed, not sure how to react to that. He held all the power here, and you both knew it. But you didn’t want to yield, didn’t want to bare your neck to him. So you bared your teeth instead. 

“Mm, that too,” he purred, not at all deterred. On the contrary, he reached for you with one hand, licking his lips. 

You took a step back, eyeing him. “Do I get any say in this?” 

“I’m not a monster,” he told you amicably, allowing you some space. 

“No. You’ll just keep me here.” 

He shrugged. “You know too much,” he said easily. “And knowing what you are? I’d be a fool not to use all advantages I can get, and I ain’t a fool.” 

You puffed out a breath. “I think you overestimate how much I know.” 

He smirked. “Perhaps.” He took a step back finally. “Tell you what, sweet pea. You behave and I’ll get you a nicer room to stay in.” He didn’t give you a chance to answer (or object), just turned and left, locking the door again. 

You groaned softly and fell back on the cot. Well. Fuck. That had gone the opposite of how you’d wanted. Now not only were you stuck here, but Graves knew what you were. 

Hopefully he wouldn’t try to do anything awful. 

Graves visited you every day for the next several days. He never asked for anything. Just seemed to be enjoying the power he held over you. Sometimes the visits were short, mere minutes, more check ins than anything else. Sometimes he’d stay for longer, chatting, slowly getting to know you.

As you were getting to know him.

You didn’t pretend to understand his interest in you, but you didn’t exactly discourage him, either. You only snapped playfully at him. You didn’t try to kill him. You also didn’t spend more than a day or two feeling sorry for yourself and being sullen and mopey.

Coyotes were adaptable creatures. It’s how they’d become one of the most successful predators in North America.

So you adapted. 

“Brought you a little somethin’.” Graves was in a particularly good mood tonight, eyes bright, smirk firmly in place. 

“Oh?” You didn’t even bother to get up, staying seated with your back to the wall, book still in your lap. (He’d finally caved the fourth time you’d threatened to die of boredom.) 

He crouched in front of you, holding out a bracelet. It was simple metal beads, though just from looking at it you guessed not all of them were so simple. He looked far too smug, putting you a little on edge. 

“This has got a tracker in it,” he told you, letting it dangle from one finger, swinging gently and catching the light. “And a couple little surprises. Gimme your wrist.”

You huffed softly but held out one arm for him, watching him fasten it on you. “And what stops me from just taking it off?” 

“One of the surprises.” He smirked, thumb rubbing the soft underside of your wrist, pressing briefly against your pulse. “You can test it, but I wouldn’t recommend it, sweet pea.”

Curiosity warred with caution, and caution won. You puffed out a breath. “Alright, so you can, presumably, track all the time I spend sitting here reading. Wow. Fascinating.” 

He just grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that was absolutely not endearing. At all. Not even a little. “Well, I was thinking you could come on a walk with me.”

“Seriously? Not yanking my chain?” You raised both eyebrows at him. 

“Seriously.” He stood straight again, using his hold on you to tug you up with him. “C’mon. Lemme show you around properly.” 

Curiosity won out over caution, this time. You followed him. 

The base was larger than you’d initially guessed. Graves kept you close to his side as the two of you walked, which didn’t stop you from looking around. Several of his men saw the two of you, but none of them approached. Hm. Fine with you. 

Graves probably enjoyed showing off the base a little too much, although you realized he was also showing you off with a hand on your lower back. Conniving man.

You could respect that. Especially if he was less of an ass. 

“Wanna go explore?” 

You side-eyed him at the offer, and especially at the grin he shot your way. “Eager to see if your little gift works as promised?” you drawled. 

“Nah. You’re not a fool.” His eyes gleamed as he watched you.

You huffed softly, amused despite yourself. “Well, you’re not wrong.” Not giving him a chance to retort, you walked away. You heard his chuckle behind you, but he didn’t follow. 

Exploring by yourself was… interesting. But not in the way you expected. The men looked at you, yes, but none of them approached you. One or two even stepped out of your way. 

Very interesting. They were not exactly a pack, humans didn’t work that way, but they clearly had their own pecking order. 

You made your way towards the fence, looking up at the guard posts. Considering the way the land stretched out flat before you for miles, the base sticking up like a sore thumb, you were both surprised and not. Only one actual road in and out of this place, and you didn’t bother going towards that gate.

Instead you started towards the nearest guard post, determined to get up the ladder and see the view. 

“Uh, ma’am, you can’t go up there.” 

You looked at the young man in front of you - not as tall as Graves, definitely younger, a little uncertain. Adorable. He looked more like a pup than a man. 

“Graves told me to explore,” you drawled, dry as dust. “I’m exploring.” 

“You still can’t go up there.” He pulled back his shoulders, trying to intimidate you. Aw. Cute. His radio crackled, and very faintly you could hear Graves on the other end. Just his voice, not what he said. But the soldier nodded once and stepped aside. “He said it’s okay.”

“Thanks.” You kept your tone dry and purposefully made noise going up the ladder. The guard on duty glanced at you but didn’t say a word, allowing you to take your fill of the view. 

This area had been your home for a long time. Sure, not here exactly, but, well… You’d been wanting to expand your territory anyway, hadn’t you? This wasn’t a bad expansion. Especially if you could convince Graves to let you go hunting properly. 

You could come to see this as home. In time. 

Coyotes were adaptable. This would not break you. 

Graves’ hand at your back didn’t even startle you this time. You’d heard him coming, after all. 

You’d ask him about hunting some other time. No need to push too fast, after all. 

You had time to win him over. 

–

Graves was pleased - the tracker worked exactly as it should. And you behaved perfectly, exploring, poking your nose places. All without even trying to leave. 

He’d gentle you to him yet. 

Eventually, he’d be able to move you into his room. But not yet. 

For now, he contented himself with dinner with you, watching your barely restrained curiosity. He didn’t quite chuckle to see that curiosity mirrored in his men, but it was a close call. 

"Enjoying, sweet pea?" 

You scoffed softly. "Yes, well, meals in my room were rather dull." Your teeth flashed in a grin. 

He chuckled. “Don’t have to do that anymore,” he offered, watching you. “Long as you behave.”

You tipped your head, and he could see the predatory gleam in your eyes. But you nodded once. 

He’d definitely be keeping an eye on you. Not that he minded - you were a pretty little thing, after all. 

Maybe he’d get his hands on you after dinner. 

–

Days passed faster now that you were no longer confined to your room. Graves let you have free roam of the compound - nothing was off limits to you. 

Which is how you stumbled upon a training exercise. 

Graves beckoned you to join him without looking away, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched two teams with paintball guns attempting to get each other out. 

"Training?" You guessed, stopping next to him, observing the game closely. 

"Mmhm." He didn't look at you but his hand settled just above your ass, thumb stroking gently. "Paintballs only." 

You nodded. "Just trying to tag each other out?"

"Timed game," Graves told you with a flicker of a grin. "Team with most people left standing when the timer goes off wins. My boys are competitive." 

You hummed acknowledgement, watching them dart around. It looked like this entire section of compound was open - the terrain and buildings were all being used in the game. 

When the timer went off, Graves took you with him to see who had won. You only half paid attention, admittedly, busy examining the ones who'd been counted as out. 

"Looks like somethin's on your mind, sweet pea." Graves smirked down at you. 

"Let me play."

He blinked. That was clearly not what he'd expected you to say. "What?"

"Let me play." You bounced a little on your toes. "It looks like fun." 

Graves blinked, giving you a quick once-over over. You were smaller than most of his men, and untrained. But he knew your secret. "Alright, but don't cry when you get out first." 

You grinned, showing far too many teeth. "No tears," you promised, low and silky. 

It took no time to get outfitted with a vest and a paintball gun. Graves even graciously gave you a one minute head start. 

You darted away, finding a good hiding spot. Your aim was not the best, and you usually did your hunting with your teeth, but you'd make do. 

A timer went off, signaling the rest of the teams were being released onto the playing field. Graves hadn't actually told you which team you were on…

Guess that meant everyone was fair game. 

Your teeth showed in a grin as anticipation raced through your veins. Finally. A hunt. 

The first pair you spotted were clearly on the same team and patrolling together. You waited until they passed and got both of them in the back. (One shot went totally wild, but you elected to ignore that.) 

They both looked surprised to see who had shot them but moved off the playing field. 

After that, you slunk away to another good hiding spot. This time you managed to get four - another patrol of two, then a single man a few minutes later, and another single man passing close enough for you to get him. 

Your smaller stature served you well, letting you get into smaller spaces than they could. And you knew how to hunt, to wait, to be still and focused. 

By the time you'd gotten your tenth "kill", your heart was thrumming, easy confidence in your eyes. 

But you paused when a PA system flicked on with a crackle. 

"Change of plans, boys," Graves called. "First man to take her down gets a prize." 

Fuck! That wasn't the game! But you had to admit… the change thrilled you. 

Teeth showing in a grin again, you abandoned your current spot to climb. You needed to get up higher to see what you were up against. 

Roughly ten men remained, some having been knocked out by other teams. You could briefly see them as they split up. 

Good. Make this a real challenge. 

But you had one advantage they didn't. You could hear them coming. 

That was your only saving grace as one tried to corner you. You could hear him coming, and escaped around a corner before climbing to get away. 

He swore extensively when you managed to shoot him. 

Two of them got smart and tried to flush you towards a third. It might have worked, except that you spotted him up ahead, and threw yourself through a bush to get away. 

Unfortunately, that only worked until one of them got physical, tackling you to the ground. Your yelp was more surprise than pain, and you had to resist the urge to bite him. 

Graves would not be pleased if you made his men bleed.

"Caught, sir." The man who'd tackled you hauled you to your feet, and you narrowed your eyes at him. You were no misbehaving pup to scruff! 

Graves sauntered up to the two of you, smirking. "Well, well, well," he hummed. "You did better than I expected." 

You smirked right back at him. "Next time, you will not be so surprised." 

He laughed once, short and amused. "True," he agreed. "Now, for your reward."

The man released you and you turned to see who was left. Only eight. (Either you'd miscounted or there had been a bit of foul play among the remaining players.) You memorized their faces. 

You'd take them out first next time. 

You didn't bother to pay attention until Graves had a hand at your back, guiding you forward again. The training seemed to be over, as most everyone was putting away their gear. 

Graves didn't lead you back to put away your gear, though. He handed off the paintball gun to one of his men and pushed you back towards your room. 

Fully aware of what you were starting, you bit him for being pushy, growling low in your throat. He just swore, hands clenching around you, and bit you back. 

Honestly, you were a little amazed the two of you made it back to your room before the clothes came off. 

–

Graves had never expected you to do so well at paintball, but you did. You were light and fast, hard to hit when you were on the run, and clever. Not trained, but clever. 

He threw you in the paintball games as often as he could, now, just for the joy of watching you. 

And the fun afterwards. 

Finally, though, they got called out. He debated bringing you with, but… there was no easy way to explain your presence, and he wouldn't risk your life. 

You'd just have to stay and be good. 

You took the news better than expected, honestly. Only a little growling and biting. (And Graves really, really didn't mind the biting.) 

But then you did something very unexpected. 

You saw him off. 

You stopped in front of the group, eyeing them all. Graves noted with amusement how they all straightened - you'd gained a lot of respect by joining in training. 

"I expect I'll see you all again soon." The look you leveled at all of them made it clear that was an order, not a suggestion. 

The various noises of assent just made Graves hide his grin. 

You nodded once and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. But you did lower your voice, at least. "Bring me back something sweet." You winked and walked away. 

From this angle, it was easy to see that you were a predator, stalking through his base as confidently as if it were your own. 

Graves tried hard not to think about that too much, because if he did, he'd have to haul you back and fuck you on the plane. 

–

You kept yourself busy while Graves was gone. There were still people on base, so you weren’t alone. You thought briefly about going hunting, but you didn’t want to distract Graves at a potentially vital moment. 

So, you kept yourself entertained by poking your nose into every nook and cranny you could find. 

That lasted you a few days. Watching several movies lasted you a few more. And finally, just when you thought you’d risk giving Graves a heart attack just to go for a proper run, they returned. 

You did not rush them as they all disembarked the plane, standing back with your arms crossed over your chest. Some of them were injured as they got off the plane, but they were all back. You counted. Twice. 

And then there was Graves, directing his men, making sure everything got done. You met his gaze across the distance and couldn’t help but smile, just a little.

There was no sense of challenge in meeting his gaze. No fear. Just the visual confirmation that this asshole hadn’t gotten himself killed. 

He finished up quickly and made his way over to you, swagger uninterrupted, gaze fixed on you. 

He surprised you, though, grabbing your hand instead of your wrist to tow you back to his room. His, not yours. Not that he gave you time to look at much before he was kissing you like he was affirming he was alive. 

It wasn’t until much later, after you both lay sated and warm, that he grunted like he’d just remembered something.

“Brought you back something,” he murmured, moving away from you and ignoring your displeased huff. Not bothering to put any clothes on yet (something you very much agreed with), he stepped over to his duffel bag and bent over to grab a box. He smirked at you over his shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

“What?” You blinked at him, caught off guard.

“You heard me, sweet pea.”

You rolled your eyes pointedly and then closed them. This was silly. But you were willing to play along, for now. 

To your surprise, you heard the box open, heard Graves step closer. “Smell,” he ordered softly. 

You sniffed, head tipping in curiosity. You could smell the sugar, absolutely, and something floral. You huffed softly, amused at the little game. 

“Sugared flowers?” you guessed without opening your eyes, leaning a little closer. 

Graves chuckled softly, and the box rustled as he did something. “Open,” he murmured. 

You briefly made a face but you did as he asked. He put a single piece on your tongue, fingers brushing your skin as he retreated. The flavor was more intense than the smell, and you hummed in satisfaction, eyes fluttering open again. Graves licked his lips, watching you as he pulled another piece of sugared flower from the box. This time, you accepted it and sucked on his fingers, swiping your tongue over the tips to get every last bit of sugar from his skin. The scent of his arousal quickly overpowered the florals, and the box dropped to the pillow next to you. 

Somehow you both missed dinner. 

–

Graves had been considering how to tell his men about his coyote. Oh, sure, they all knew that you were his, but they didn’t know you were a shifter. And that could become dangerous, if he didn’t tell them. In case of emergency.

(The fact that he wanted to tell them had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he wanted to show you off more. Not at all.) 

His timeline got pushed when you let yourself into his office, near bouncing on your toes. 

“I’m going hunting,” you said before he could ask. 

Graves leaned back slowly, giving you a thorough once-over. “Need to borrow some gear?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, clearly exasperated. “No. I’m going hunting.” You showed your teeth to emphasize your point. 

Ah. That kind of hunting. “Alright,” he agreed slowly. He knew you still had the tracking bracelet on, and he had to admit some curiosity to see how well it held up after you shifted. “I’ll make sure nobody shoots at you.”

“Again,” you drawled. 

Graves didn’t feel bad about that, because nobody had known about shifters at that point. Besides, it was hard to feel bad about the thing that had brought you to him. But he would make damn sure you weren’t injured under his watch. “You shifting here or out there?” 

“Here,” you answered after a moment. “Easier to not deal with clothes.” 

Graves nodded again, still watching you. “Good hunting, then, sweet pea.”

Your teeth flashed again as you grinned. “I’ll bring you back something good.” And you were gone, bouncing back out of his office before he had a chance to properly respond to your words. 

You’d promised to bring him something back.

This was something new, and Graves was going to find out what that was about. 

His boys didn’t take the news about you being a shifter quietly, but they took it. He could see they didn’t believe him yet, but they would.

And they all knew he was a man of his word. So they knew he was not exaggerating when he threatened to kill anyone who breathed a word of this to anyone else. 

But Graves trusted his boys. He trusted they wouldn’t betray him. Or you, by extension. 

The day was mostly gone by the time he heard the commotion. The call to open the gate came first, then a chorus of whistling and clapping. That was enough to pull him outside to see what the commotion was all about. 

A coyote was dragging a whole ass white tail deer into the compound, jaw clamped tight around its throat. Graves felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise - the deer was considerably bigger than the coyote, but the coyote didn’t even slow down. 

Until you stopped in front of him, depositing your trophy and looking up at him. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured. Both the deer and you. “Dragged it back by yourself?”

You huffed at him, briefly showing your teeth.

“Course you did,” Graves chuckled, crouching in front of you. He debated for a moment before he held out one hand. It took only a moment before you shoved your head under his hand, and he stroked your fur, silently thrilled. His coyote. “Gonna let one of my guys fix it up?”

You stepped back and lifted your lip in a silent warning. 

Graves chuckled, holding his hands up in a pacifying manner. “Alright, sweet pea. You just let me know what you need, then, and I’ll let you handle it.”

Mollified, you grabbed the deer again and started dragging it away from the buildings, which he appreciated. He watched you maneuver your kill around without assistance, admiring your strength and determination. His men all kept out of the way, though he did hear a few compliment you on your kill. 

This was something he could get used to. 

–

You honestly hadn’t realized how much you missed shifting until you could, anywhere you wanted. The men got used to you quickly, opening the gate for you to come and go as you pleased. An unofficial new game had popped up - try to pet the coyote. You took great joy in evading their hands and occasional playful tackles. Honestly, it was fun. 

You didn’t expect to be approached by one of the men on his own while you were sitting outside. You blinked at him, head tipping to one side. 

“Do you have a moment?” He shuffled his feet a little, scent caught between shame and embarrassment. 

“Have a seat.” You turned a little to face him fully, on high alert now. 

He sat next to you, giving you a moment to find his name patch. Roberts. His sandy hair was nearly the same color as Graves’, though he was shorter and leaner. Roberts sighed softly before he looked at you, meeting your gaze. “I wanted to apologize.”

You blinked, caught totally by surprise. “For?”

“I shot you.” He made a vague motion towards your back. “I mean, I didn’t know it was you, I just shot at a coyote. But still.”

You shook your head with a little smile. “Don’t fuss over it,” you advised. “It’s long in the past now, and I healed.” 

He frowned at you, disapproving. “Anyway, a few of us were out last week, and, well…” He rolled up his sleeve to show off a still healing tattoo. A coyote in front of the Shadows symbol. 

He had simultaneously claimed you as pack, and put himself under you. And he’d sort of spoken for the rest of the Shadows, too. 

At least, your coyote brain was trying to convince you that you now had the biggest pack ever to protect and provide for. 

You grabbed him, pulling him into a hug and rubbing your cheek over the top of his head. He held himself stiff for a few long moments before he awkwardly patted your back, looking absolutely bewildered when you pulled back. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, breathing in deep. “That’s… it means more than you know.” 

He smiled tentatively and nodded. “Sure,” he mumbled. “So, not mad at me?”

You huffed a little laugh. “Not at all.” You shook your head, gaze drifting down to the tattoo again. “May I?”

He held his arm out for inspection, and you looked over the line work and the details of it. That was definitely a coyote, and definitely the insignia of the group. 

Well. Your pack had just grown. Quite a bit.

“I love it.” You sat back and smiled. 

He puffed up a little, clearly proud of himself. “Did the line art myself.”

“Good to know.” You smiled slowly. “I might ask you to do something for me at some point, then.”

“Would be my pleasure.” He puffed up even more, resembling a fluffy rooster. “Anyway. Just wanted to show you that.”

“Appreciated.” You nodded to him and watched him go, still puffed up with pride. You, on the other hand, were wrestling with your instincts to provide for your pack. 

Dammit. Fine. You’d make a couple loaves of bread, that would satisfy the itch for now. 

The bread was a huge success. As were the next four loaves. (Graves grumbled about sending a few men for supplies, because apparently the demand for fresh bread was quite high.) 

You didn’t expect to see more of the tattoos. But you did. 

Over the next two weeks, nearly a dozen of them approached you, usually individually, to show off their own tats. Most of them got the tat on a forearm, but one got his on his back, and one got it on his calf. You couldn’t help it - you hugged every one of them. 

You never would have predicted this would happen when you’d been shot those months ago. 

“You’re not tired of that damn thing yet?” Graves asked, clearly grumbling, after the most recent soldier had jogged off again. 

“The tat?” You grinned, looking back down at your bread dough. “Nah. I like it. Might get one for myself.” 

Graves grumbled wordlessly, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your middle, teeth digging into the back of your shoulder through your shirt. “Won’t find one on me.”

“No?” Your breath hitched at the brief pain of his bite. This had become a habit between the two of you. “Too bad. I was thinking of offering an exchange.” 

“Exchange?” His head peeked up over your shoulder. “Of what?” 

You hid your smile, amused. “Marks,” you said blandly. “Thought you might like the idea of me wearing something of yours on my skin.” 

The quickly-stifled groan against the skin of your neck proved you right, and your smile turned victorious. “Not that,” he mumbled, lips moving against your skin, making you shiver. “Something unique.” 

You hummed softly, poking the dough one more time before tossing a towel over it to let it rise. “Well…” You trailed off, taunting, leaving the bait for him to take or ignore. 

He, of course, took the bait. “Well?” 

“Family tradition is a bite,” you mused, pushing your hips back into his. “But I don’t think that will work here. Don’t think you want a big scar.” You smirked teasingly back at him. 

“Could just get it tattooed,” he pointed out, hands settling on your hips, pulling you back into him. 

“Get a tattoo of your teeth marks?” You could feel the way he responded to that, an involuntary little jerk of his hips. “I could wear that, easy.” 

“Yeah? Wanna show off that you’re mine?” Graves tightened his grip on you, scraping his teeth lightly on the skin behind your ear. 

“More like have a permanent reminder,” you mumbled, tipping your head. “Pack already knows I’m yours, and you’re mine.” 

He bit down on the back of your neck with a groan, hands nearly fumbling as he rucked your clothes up and out of the way to get at your skin. 

It took only a few days to make the arrangements for your corresponding marks.

–

Graves normally didn't mind Shepherd. He was a demanding ass sometimes, but overall not bad.

Until right this very moment. 

"Didn't catch that, sir," Graves ground out, working hard to keep his temper. He didn't want to go flying off the handle, not now. 

"Don't play coy with me, son," Shepherd said, firm and a little condescending. "I know you've got a shifter there." 

"Don't know what you mean." Graves dug the nails on his free hand into his skin, the pain helping ground him and keep him from doing something monumentally stupid. 

"No? Then the coyote shifter isn't yours? She's a pretty thing, figured she's your type." The smirk in the general's voice was clear. 

Graves didn't respond, torn between demanding to know how Shepherd knew about her, and denying her existence. 

"I'll have a couple of my men there in a few days to bring her in."

"Bring her in?" Graves repeated, sharp and serious. 

"I'm taking her. She could be a valuable asset to me." 

Graves hit his limit. That? Was unacceptable. "No, sir."

Shepherd paused for a moment. "No?" 

"No. She stays here." Graves knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he handed you over to Shepherd, you’d never be seen again. The general was a merciless man. He’d break you, or dissect you. Or possibly both. And that was something Graves found he couldn’t live with. 

Shepherd let the silence grow between them before he snorted softly. "You sure you wanna do this?" He asked, soft and threatening. 

“I am.” Graves clenched his jaw. He was willing to let a lot of shit slide, hell, he’d done a lot of shit himself. But this? No. He’d never admit it aloud, but he was too attached to you. 

He’d never hand you over to anyone. But especially not Shepherd. 

“This won’t end well for you,” Shepherd promised. And hung up, not giving Graves a chance to respond.

Graves breathed out slowly, putting his phone down. He knew Shepherd, knew the general wouldn’t give up so easily. 

This would come down to a fight. One he was determined not to lose. 

Graves started planning. 

–

When Graves first insisted you learn how to use a gun, you rolled your eyes. Why did you need a gun? You had teeth. But he didn’t let up, going so far as to ask while balls deep inside of you, holding you still under his weight and refusing to move until you gave in. That earned him a few days of nasty looks.

But you did learn.

The worst part about it for you was the noise. Even with the headset to muffle the sound, it was jarring and took some getting used to. 

You noticed the changes on base slowly. The guards seemed more alert, constantly watching the horizon. One of the Shadows was always nearby, though they always made it seem coincidental. Graves held you tighter at night (he’d moved you into his room shortly after you both got tattooed). 

But any time you tried to ask, Graves evaded. Stricter training. Upcoming op. Refreshing their skills. All were excuses he tried. 

You didn’t quite believe any of them. 

But he clearly didn’t want you to know, so you didn’t push. You just grew restless, often walking the perimeter of base. 

He was keeping something from you and you wanted to know what. 

None of the Shadows would tell you. Apparently Graves had given them orders not to, because when you cornered one younger man he outright panicked, gaze darting all over the place, hands shaking. You left him with a snarl of discontent, stalking away. 

Not that you had to wait long, after all. 

A shout went up from one of the guards that night, well after dark. You could hear radios going off around base too, just caught a few words: vehicles, armed, Shepherd. 

You had very little idea what it meant, but the way the rec room emptied hinted that it was nothing good. 

“Come with me,” Graves demanded, hand fastening around your wrist. 

“What–?” You didn’t get a chance to finish your question as he pulled you along with him. He got a vest on you first, then handed you the rifle you’d been practicing with and ammo. 

“Stay with me, sweet pea,” he ordered. And it was very clearly an order. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” you agreed, confused but rapidly realizing how serious this was. 

Graves got his own gear on with practiced motions, clicking his comm. “How far out?” he asked briskly. You could just hear the voice on the other end, but not the words. “Copy.” Graves started moving, and you stuck close to him. 

Outside the building was nearly unrecognizable. Shadows were running around prepping, putting up barriers and hides. Graves strode through the organized chaos, right up to the gate. 

You could see vehicles approaching, four of them. The rumble of engines grew steadily louder, though the gates remained closed. 

The vehicles stopped, people piling out of them, guns down for the moment. You didn’t recognize any of them. Not that that was truly a surprise - you knew few humans. 

“Graves,” one of them called in the kind of tone of one used to being obeyed. “Last chance to hand her over.” 

Graves clenched his jaw and didn’t look back at you, though you realized with sudden startling clarity that this was all about you. Because somehow that man out there knew you were a shifter. 

And Graves had apparently refused to hand you over.

It was an interesting feeling, warmth suffusing you from Graves’s actions while dread tried to remind you of how very bad this could be. 

“Not a chance, Shepherd,” Graves called back. He nudged you back just a little, hands gripping his gun securely. 

“I’m sorry it came to this. If you hadn’t been such a fool…” Shepherd trailed off. 

You only had a moment to wonder what he meant before the shooting started. You ducked back behind cover, Graves right behind you. 

“I want them all dead,” Graves said into his comm, eyes utterly cold. You realized with a start you hadn’t seen him like this since the very beginning of your stay here. “Let’s get it done.” 

You were not ashamed to admit that you were not much help. You didn’t have the experience of these men, and this was not a fun game of paintballs. Besides, your movements were restricted to keeping with Graves. 

But you did surprise yourself when you spotted one attempting to flank around the barriers, and you shot him. He fell silently. 

For a bare moment, you wondered if you should feel bad. Not that you did - you’d killed your fair share of prey before. But prey had never been human before.

Then again, humans had never attempted to infiltrate your territory nor threatened your pack before. Not like this. 

“Good shot, sweet pea,” Graves said, speaking up over the din around you. 

You had just enough time to see his faint grin before the world exploded around you. 

You blinked at the dirt under you, ears ringing, head aching. Hands grabbed you and you growled, disoriented, at least until you heard the familiar sounds of your pack shouting. Pulling you back, away from danger. Presumably. Your hearing was still fucked, and you couldn’t smell anything through the gunpowder and smoke. 

One of them fell with a shout, something you just barely heard. You stumbled as his support vanished, falling to your knees. The other Shadow tried to haul you to your feet before he was shoved away, much harsher hands grabbing you. You yelped, the sound too canine to come from a human throat, still disoriented enough that you couldn’t properly resist. 

You almost got your feet under you, except a harsh yank from one of the two pulling you along sent you right back off-balance. You swore, clumsily grabbing for something to hold on to. Your hearing was coming back, slower than you liked but enough. 

They were dragging you off base. To Shepherd. 

If they got you that far, Graves wouldn’t be able to get you back. 

You twisted hard, managing to get a hand on one of them. He tried to yank you off balance, muttering curses. 

But you took advantage of the bare skin of his wrist that you could see and lunged, jaw locking and teeth clamping into his skin. The hot taste of blood filled your mouth but you refused to let go, even as one of them hit you in the back, hard. 

It wasn’t until you heard two gunshots, closer than expected, followed by the dead weight of the soldier dragging both of you down that you released your grip. You spat blood out of your mouth, swaying a little. 

“Sweet pea!” Graves hit the ground next to you, one hand immediately going to your cheek. Blood matted down his hair on his right side, and he seemed to be favoring that side in general, right arm kept tight to his side. Shadows surrounded the two of you, keeping Shepherd’s forces back. 

“I’m okay,” you managed, still a little dizzy. But you latched on to Graves’s vest, because he was right there and comforting. 

Graves let out a relieved sigh, giving you a quick visual once-over. His thumb smeared the blood on your chin. 

“Not mine,” you reminded him, paying no mind to the two bodies around you now. 

He nodded, tugging you closer. “Marry me.”

“What?” You blinked at him rapidly, sure you’d misheard him.

But he grinned, bright and a little mischievous, totally disregarding the active battlefield you were on. “Marry me.”

“Let’s finish this first,” you pointed out, lips twitching in response to his humor. “Kill Shepherd first. And then I expect a proper proposal.”

“Anything you want.” He pressed a hard kiss to your lips, uncaring of the blood, before he got to his feet. You followed him, swaying only for a moment before you caught your balance. 

Shepherd’s force had been decimated, only four remaining, huddled behind the protection of the armored vehicles. One tried to put down his weapon and back away from the fight, only for Shepherd to turn on him and shoot him. 

“You can end this,” Graves yelled to Shepherd in open mockery of Shepherd’s earlier offer. “Nobody else has to die.”

Shepherd didn’t respond, gaze flitting between the Shadows and Graves and you. “You really think you can get away with this?” he asked, voice absolutely venomous. “I’m a general!”

“Shouldn’t have tried to take my coyote, then.” Graves backed up, gently pushing you back as well. You were confused for a moment, trying to figure out what the plan was. There was no way he was just letting Shepherd live, was he? 

The Shadows all swarmed back behind cover, still keeping you surrounded. Something rolled under the vehicle Shepherd hid behind, and the whole thing blew up. You ducked a little, reflexively, before popping back up with wide eyes to watch. The other vehicles were also quickly destroyed. 

You followed Graves over to check the bodies. All dead. You tipped your head, looking down at Shepherd, silently wondering if he’d really been willing to die to get his hands on you. 

“Let’s clean up this mess,” Graves ordered, and Shadows immediately jumped to obey. But grief hid in his eyes as he looked at his base. You leaned into him, silently offering support. You’d help count the losses. 

“You still owe me a proper answer,” Graves murmured, his hand settling low on your back. 

“You still owe me a proper proposal.” You smiled, leaning harder into him. “Even though you’re already mine.”

He huffed. “Bold of you,” he mumbled, head dipping closer to yours. “I like it.”

“You always have.” You smirked, tipping your head enough to bare your teeth at him and watch as his pupils dilated. 

“Trouble.” But Graves just grinned at you. 

–

The base was a mess. Graves helped as much as he could, contacted families and next of kin as necessary. 

The general was disposed of quietly, their trail covered. His Shadows wouldn’t face the fallout of this. 

You held up better than Graves had expected, supporting his men when needed, doing whatever you could to help with cleanup and disposal. Honestly, he was impressed. 

He also hadn’t forgotten his promise to you. 

Once he was sure the danger had passed, he made some arrangements. Flight plans, necessary permits, a few phone calls. Everything was set and arranged exactly how he wanted. 

He had basically everything. The last thing was something he needed to pick up himself. He snuck out while you were hunting, knowing you’d more than likely pout but he’d be back soon. 

“How do you feel about goin’ on a little trip, sweet pea?” He asked a few days later, so as not to arouse suspicion. 

You shrugged from your place in his lap, idly watching a few of the younger Shadows playing a video game. “Never done much of it,” you admitted easily. “Never had a chance.”

He hummed, one hand squeezing your hip gently. “You interested?” 

“Sure, if you want.” You shot him a little smile over your shoulder, relaxed still. That told Graves everything he needed to know.

He didn’t quite pick out your clothes for you, but he did insist on a few things. Like something nice to wear. (And if he snuck in a brand new set of lingerie for you, well, he liked seeing you in pretty things.) 

You didn’t like the plane trip, that much was obvious. Tension pulled your shoulders tight, and it took you a long time to get comfortable and settle down. Graves kept one hand on you to help where he could, and was finally rewarded when you fell asleep against his shoulder. 

Watching your awe looking around somewhere new warmed him in unexpected ways. (Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised. He did ask you to marry him, after all.) 

He gave the two of you three days to adjust to the timezone change and do some touristy things. Not that he much cared - he’d been all over the world by now. People were people everywhere. But giving you this experience? So much better. 

You eyed the Eiffel tower with distrust when he led you to it, and he couldn’t help but smirk. 

“Don’t worry, sweet pea,” he drawled, extra sweet. “You’ll be fine.”

You immediately scowled at him (just as he’d hoped) and stalked up to the lifts. He followed a little more leisurely, knowing everything was taken care of. 

He caught your expression as the sun set, the wind whipping against the two of you, the city sounds all but gone. You looked awed again, hands gripping the railing as you looked over the city. Graves smiled, pleased with his timing, and settled next to you for a minute, just letting you look your fill. The softer light on your skin filled him with a kind of warmth he’d never thought he’d experience. 

“Hey, sweet pea. Got a question for you.” 

You turned to him and blinked, totally unsuspecting. Graves took a knee in front of you, pulling the ring box out of his pocket, and your eyes went wide, one hand flying up to your mouth. 

“I promised I’d do this proper,” he murmured, looking up at you, blind to everything else. (There were at least two of his Shadows in the crowd, you were safe, that’s all he cared about.) “Never thought I’d be here, but you’ve been a surprise from the beginning. I want you to keep surprising me, sweet pea. Will you marry me?”

You nodded and then huffed a soft almost-laugh. “Yes,” you managed, hands settling on his cheeks before you kissed him. The crowd around the two of you clapped, a few whistles coming from his boys. Graves grinned at you, honestly ridiculously happy, and slid the ring on your finger. 

Standing there with you in his arms, the stars slowly emerging even as his boys put on a hell of a fireworks show for the two of them, Graves knew one thing for certain. 

He’d gentled his coyote, but you’d gentled him every bit as much. And he was just fine with that. 

[echo-and-dust]

now that my brain has somewhat unscrambled itself i have gotten most of my thoughts in order about season 3.

and the first thing i will say is: i loved it.

while it was gutwrenching and polarizing in some ways and i feel that i am entitled to financial compensation for what its done to my mental health, i loved this season for pretty much almost everything it did.

i cannot fault people for having issues with much of the characterization and plot choices made—that’s been the trend during the entire run of the show after all, and imo it’s a testament to the phenomenal way it generates nuance—but i wanted to share my feelings on the recurring opinions i’ve seen about some of these things.

first, i do not blame simon at all for the things he said in the final scene. he’s a child who has been receiving endless verbal and physical harassment on top of all the trauma he is still trying to heal from. he just watched his boyfriend lash out in anger and hurt—while not at him, but it must’ve been a close resemblance of how he might’ve seen micke act. at least, that's what i thought, though i've seen others say otherwise.

and yes, wille is not micke, but just because wille’s source of outbursts is different from micke’s doesn’t mean simon is wrong in drawing similarities. at least he's finally getting a true glimpse into what wille has had to deal with. i've honestly grown to like that they didn't have simon immediately comfort him though; wille's mental illness is not his fault, but it is his responsibility, and instead of pushing a message of unhealthy co-dependence, the show has simon be honest: "but i see that everything hurts you and that hurts me too." and to me, that's so important.

plus, it doesn't make their love any less genuine. wille is a victim of the circumstances; he is not evil, and he is not undeserving of simon. he just has a lot of growing and healing to do, a lot of unlearning and exposure therapy because he's still blinded by privilege even when he tries not to be.

speaking of, i have so many thoughts about wille that i feel like i need to save for its own separate post, but to sum them up: i'll still defend him with my life, and he needs to get the fuck away from that institution.

also, the fact that the responsibility of controlling simon's media decisions was placed solely on wille confused me at first like—why wouldn't they get a professional to give him proper media training?

then i realized, this could be the royal court's way of sabotaging their relationship. they knew that making wille the one to tell simon what he can and cannot say or post would create distance and animosity between them. despite the ramifications of simon's behavior on social media, it seems they still thought it best to have his boyfriend be the one to try to mold him into the system. because they knew that's how they could get rid of him. in conclusion, fuck the royal court (we been knew but still).

one of the standouts this season was their transparency regarding the show's politics. it not only works well with the show's arc (wilmon is public, everything's out in the open now and there's nothing to hide), but also it felt necessary at a time where censorship has been rapidly gaining momentum. it felt so refreshing for these characters to talk so openly about racial discrimination and queerphobia and class disparities, forcing both character and viewer to acknowledge that they exist and you should feel uncomfortable about it.

i don't think i can add much more to what was already said about it—most of the fandom is more eloquent and observant than i am anyway—i just wanted to reinforce how important this season is to myself and the story even with how controversial it is to fans right now. a lot of people may disagree with me and that's fine.

[zutarasbuff]

I watched the Netflix adaptation of ATLA today and being a hardcore fan of the OG series who knows every nook and cranny of the ATLA world, here’s my unbiased and truly honest review (It contains both the negatives and positives of the series, so dear reader please enter to read at your own risk).

Firstly, let’s talk about the wonderful additions to the already magical world of ATLA.

1. The depth of the genocide

Well, I always wanted to know how the air nomads were suddenly wiped out and how it would have been for them? Why didn’t they resist? I got my answers in the first episode where we explore how the unhinged power of the comet was “actually” used to create a genocide on a massive level. Before that, I had only heard about it in the OG series. Those few scenes were so powerful that they had left me sobbing uncontrollably and Gyatso’s concern regarding Aang had me bawling.

2. Suki’s Characterization

In the OG series, we do find our Suki the fiercest warrior, but here in the live action, she’s an absolute goddess. She is perfect in every sense. She understands the responsibilities she has being a non-bender and is fearless. Her character is what I believe to be was the strongest one of all.

3. Graphics & Music

We never talk about a film by M.Night (that didn’t happen), but this one is really a visual treat for you can readily set yourself up for some mind-blowing bending scenes, plus the fight scenes are quite impressive. It seems that the VFX team had really done their homework this time. Plus, both Momo and Appa are so freaking cute. I loved the fluffy Appa. Good work over there. The revival of the OG theme is also a highlight plus the sun warriors’ chanting in the end is given a new but intriguing twist. The background music especially in scenes where Aang unravels his Avatar powers is mystical in every aspect.

4. Life in motion

I don’t know about others, but I have always been a sucker for animation as well as live-action where characters are operating even in the direst of the circumstances. Life is there and even after they know what happened a hundred years ago, they are still trying to believe and regain their past confidence. This is beautifully portrayed and I was very much impressed by the way people are continuing their day-to-day activities even in the middle of a crisis.

Overall, the series serves the purpose of an adaptation carrying its unique colors (at least better than the previous live-action disaster that didn’t happen).

Now let’s move to the bad side, and when I say it’s honestly what I felt, you need to take my word on it being a hardcore Atla fan.

1. Weak writing & lots of exposition

ATLA remains at a 9.2 IMDB rating even after years because of its writing, strong plot, and very few plot holes. This time, the writers are the real amateur ones. Despite adding more to the already flourishing universe of ATLA, sadly, they killed the quest of the viewer to find answers. There is too much exposition. It seems that every character just wants to see the end of the war and keeps on revealing things after things. Plus, some of the OG moments that were the soul of the series are not even included. The way Aang finds Momo and then decides to keep it with him as a last remnant of their bygone air nomad civilization is nowhere to be found. In fact, the replacement of Roku with Kyoshi is the biggest disappointment. I love Kyoshi like no one else but that was unnecessary as per the cycle.

2. Bland acting

Even the worst writing shots can be digested only if the acting appears real good. Sadly, this is another issue that I found with the NETFLIXED version. No doubt the characters must have done a lot of hard work for this, yet, they lack the expressive power. Gordon as Aang is super cute but the goofiness is not even there. Katara seems a nerd who doesn’t like to talk much even when it’s necessary and Sokka’s jokes are forced. Meanwhile, Dallas seems to save the day at one point, but again his over-the-top angry young man attitude ruins it for me. Maybe the actors will learn from the criticism in the upcoming season (if Netflix plans to go with it).

3. Major changes

Yes, it’s okay to change the narrative while you are working on an adaptation, but targeting the loyal viewers who are OG fans of ATLA means that you have to be very careful when you are trying to implement your changes in scenes that are the real soul of the OG. You can’t change the Omashu myth as if it’s nothing when we actually see even the cute animated version of the folklore. You cannot portray Roku more as a perpetrator of the genocide and Bumi as the evil king when in truth he’s the mad king who’s known for his genius ways of teaching. I hated that. Plus, reducing Zhao’s authority and taking Uncle Iroh’s sarcastic attitude is just meh. Mai again doesn’t even seem perfect as a cast. Jet is good as far as the aesthetics are concerned but Jet being in Omashu doesn’t even sit right with me. The amalgamation of multiple storylines creates so much confusion and this persists till the end.

4. Bending at convenience

We all know how Katara’s bending progressed throughout the first season and it’s little effort each day. However, in series, one day she’s unable to bend even a droplet of water and the next day she is capable of producing ice crystals. This was unacceptable for me because I was anticipating her learning strategies. Besides, Aang doesn’t learn much water bending throughout this season and in the end, it’s him being the savior in Avatar state. Thoughtless bending sucks despite the great VFX and that’s one thing at which you can’t convince me otherwise.

5. Forced friendships

We all know how it took some time for Sokka to embrace Aang as a chum. However, here Sokka keeps on calling him “the kid” and remains mostly alienated from Aang. Talking to Katara, then she also seems more interested in helping Avatar fulfill his goal than being with a friend. I hated the scene where Aang comes into the Avatar state and instead of hugging him just like in the OG series, Katara runs along Sokka and keeps on calling his name. How is that going to build any organic friendship? I think the first mistake began right from the very moment when Aang was taken back to Wolf Cove on a boat in his unconscious state. Upon opening his eyes, the first person he finds near him is neither Katara nor Sokka but a tribesman who’s playing guessing games. Writers were really high when they wrote that.

6. Lack of the four nations’ biodiversity

Maybe in live action, it’s difficult to create all the marvels of the four nations when we talk about their natural biodiversity. In the OG series, it is indicated by Aang that even after 112 years, he has still not forgotten the animals that define different regions in the four kingdoms and that’s exactly why he wants to finish those “important tasks” alongside saving the world. His important tasks included keeping a check on the natural biodiversity of the lands and exploring whether the Hundred Years’ War had not damaged the majestic animals. Actually, his first dialogue right after regaining consciousness is to go for an otter penguin’s ride with Katara. When I thought about that I felt that somewhere in Aang’s mind he was always connected to nature and that’s why he wanted to regain that connection by being an avatar. Sadly we never see much of the biodiversity but I hoped that maybe they will.

Also, how come Aang had that silent whistle for one hundred years when in the series he only discovers that accidentally? I missed the OG Yip Yip for our Appa. There are lots and lots of problems with the Netflix version, and no I am not being a nitpicker. I appreciate how the current creators credited the original ones, but now I know why Bryan and Michael bade farewell to this project. On a scale of 10, it’s a 4 for me or 4.5 if I am being too generous.

If I am asked to review the live action in a single line, I would only say this:

“The Netflixed ATLA makes you go back to the OG series and you end up watching the animation to give your mind a much-needed respite from a carefully crafted artistic disaster aimed at the sensationalized generation.”

[cafeinthemoon]

It's a Fire - Chapter I

Chapter 1

Wordcount 3,5k

Title Retired Hashira

Fandom Kimetsu no Yaiba / Demon Slayer

Symbols ⭕ ➕ 🖤

Warnings: arranged marriage; age gap; mentions of increasing in criminality and poverty; grieving; non diagnosed depression (the condition wasn't properly understood by the time this story is settled)

Tagging ? (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)

N.A.: So Kimetsu no Yaiba returned and I'm taking the opportunity to finally start posting this story that has been in my list of ideas for several months!

A while ago I made a poll where I included the option of writing a fic with the Rengoku family, and it was this one I was talking about. I know there are other stories I need to work on already, but let me tell you that this very fic just saved me from a creative block, which was caused by what I suspect to be the beginning of a burnout (I'm about to go on vacation and I just can't take it anymore, but I don't want to discuss this rn).

A few words about the ff itself: It's a slow burn, arranged marriage story between reader, who's 27/28 yo, which makes her closer to myself who's a bit older than this, and Shinjuro Rengoku, who's struggling with the same problems we see in canon, but somehow accepts her as his wife: she was the daughter of old acquaintances of his, so the marital contract is sealed to allegedly honor the friendship between the families. However, things are way more complicated in reality.

Of course, because of the things we see in the original media, such as violence, alcoholism and etc., I need to make it clear that my personal opinions on these subjects may diverge from what I'm putting in this story (due to personal family experiences), and each chapter will carry the necessary warnings. Also if you notice similarities with Beauty and the Beast, know that it isn't just a coincidence haha Finally, the title is a song by Portishead, which didn't influence my writing but its lyrics somehow fit this plot 🌹

I hope you have a good time reading this ❤

“You walk a lonely road 

Oh, how far you are from home” 

(Enya, May it Be) 

That fate didn’t care about your preferences and desires, you knew well. 

You wished you had your mother with you for long years, and that your relationship grew stronger as you spent your time together, dedicating yourselves to the art of the sword, but most of her time and energy were directed to her work as a member of the Demon Slayer Corps, and it was like this until the day you received a messenger from Ubuyashiki-sama to inform you about her death: she didn’t fall to the Oni, but couldn’t resist the injuries from a battle against a group of them. 

You also wished your father, after losing the woman he claimed to love, stood up to his remaining family, that is, himself and you, and took reasonable measures to protect his territory and the people who lived in it, but he preferred to lock himself in his office and ignore the demands outside it, firing half of the house’s servants for the sake of saving money and willing to leave the property to the dust and the insects, not seeing this happening thanks to you, who took the task of maintaining everything by yourself, even doing some of the physical work. 

There were, in fact, many other things you wished for, but didn’t have the chance to see them coming true. One of those other things were continuing to live in the house you grew up in, and using your education to dedicate your life to a career of your choice, though your options seemed limited by your sex. But even this was taken from you when, on an ordinary day, you saw your father leaving his office in the company of a man you’ve never seen in your life. You wanted to question him about this strange visit, but you didn’t have to: your father came to your chambers later, and without measuring his tone or giving you time to process such news, explained the meeting’s main subject. 

– I’ve recently contacted an old acquaintance of mine, someone who was also known by your mother – he started – And explained our situation here. 

You knew what he was talking about: after your mother passed away, your lands’ protection has been neglected, and appearances of demons have been reported more often by your servants and the people who live in the villages near. No one dared leaving their houses at night, and the local economy were deeply affected by this, since part of the basic work used to be done in this period of the day; this led to an increase in poverty and criminality. You, on your part, weren’t immune to these difficulties despite growing up in a privileged family. 

Your father addressing this situation to you, however, was something new, and you exposed this impression to him. 

– Things are getting harder for everyone here, that’s true – you agreed – But why are you discussing this with me now? 

– Because I asked this acquaintance for help, and he answered me – he took slow steps toward your window, half opened by that time; he closed it with firm hands, but without making much noise – The thing is that, at the same time our lands are now dangerous to people, specially to young women like you, it’s time for you to take the next big step in your personal life, daughter. After all, you’re almost twenty-eight. 

You frowned. 

Next big step? What is he talking about?… 

Your father might have noticed your confusion, because he soon clarified his words… and you wished he never did it. 

– I’m talking about marriage, y/n – he spat – You declined the last two proposals, and I respect your reasons for that, but this time the circumstances aren’t in our favor. This man who visited me earlier is a messenger from the Rengoku House, and he brought me a positive answer from their head: I offered your hand and a good dowry in exchange for your protection, and in respect to your mother, who worked for the same cause as him, Shinjuro Rengoku accepted you as his wife. You’re leaving the house this week. 

You were speechless. You tried to stand up and show a sign of protest, but your legs didn’t obey you; you opened your mouth to say something, but no word left it. You knew your father have been struggling, but you could never suppose he was becoming insane – arranging a marriage for you without your consent? Other men used to do this to their daughters, but the man who married your mother would never… But, apparently, he was no longer this man. 

Maybe he was expecting some disagreement, but seeing your silence made him frown. 

– Don’t you have anything to say about this? 

You finally seemed to wake up. You gave him a dead glare, murmuring your response. 

– And what do you expect a woman to say after being sold and sent away from her own house out of nowhere? – you moved your head to the side, irony leaking from the gesture – Thank you? 

Your father clenched his jaw. 

– I certainly don’t expect your gratitude – his voice was lower now – I know this isn’t the future you wanted for yourself, and I didn’t want things to be like this either, but… 

– Why marriage, father? – your tongue was released, interrupting his thread of thoughts like a storm – I could stay temporarily with them, work for them, anything! But marrying someone I’ve never met?! Don’t you remember that I’ve declined the other proposals after at least seeing the faces of those men? 

– You’ll meet him on the wedding day, and you’ll have all the time of the world to know anything there is to know about him – his tone was louder again, as his patience was running low – Besides, Shinjuro is an old friend of mine. I give you my word that he’s a decent man, besides being a formidable warrior. He was married to a respectable woman once, and built a good family with her. I trust him, and so did your mother. No problems should be expected from his part, so the same must be expected from you. 

Shinjuro. It was only the second time you’ve heard that name from your father’s mouth, and you didn’t know what to think. In fact, you’ve learned from your mother that among the Demon Slayer Corps there was an elite group known as the Hashira, and one of them was Shinjuro, the Hashira of the Flames. He was the current head of the Rengoku family, but personal struggles – including the death of his wife – forced him to a retirement despite his capacity as a warrior, so that his eldest son, Kyojuro, took his place. However, you also heard that this young man was dead, so it was impossible to tell how things were going for his family members now. And that was the environment your father was willing to throw you into, even spending money in the process. 

You sighed. 

– Father, when was the last time you’ve met this man? I don’t remember you talking about him – you crossed your arms – I’m only familiar with his name thanks to mother, but now you’re telling me that he’s an old friend of yours. How old is he, exactly? 

– Not as old as me, of course – his reply came with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation – I can’t believe that, of all the things involved in this arrangement, this is what concerns you more! 

You scoffed. 

– I’m not that futile, but if he’s old enough to have a son capable of replacing him in the battlefield, I think I have the right to be concerned! – you took a step toward him – If I have no choice, I want to know exactly where I’m getting into. Can’t you even make such a small concession to me, father? 

No, he couldn’t, and you soon realized that. 

Your father decided the conversation was over. He returned to the room’s door and opened it. 

– It is decided, already – and, with a sort of sadness in his eyes – I’m doing what I think it’s best for my daughter. I only wanted her to trust me, at least for once. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat. 

– I wanted this too, father. But you’re making it too difficult for your daughter. 

He stared at you for a moment, then left without any word. 

*** 

Things really happened the way you feared, in the path your father stated they would follow. He said that, but until the end he kept acting like he had no control over the flow of events, in a frail attempt to soothe his own conscience that only served to unnerve you, and not even seeing the disappointment in his daughter’s eyes each time he looked at you was enough for him to leave this pretense aside. Had he no shame anymore? 

During that fateful week, you avoided his company, leaving the burden of communication to the remaining servants and only speaking to him when utterly necessary. What was left for you to talk about when, as he said, everything was decided, and when you had nothing but sadness for him — for him, the adversities he’s been through and for the way he chose to behave in face of them? It was useless to argue on this, and whether you liked it or not, you had little time to put everything in order and couldn’t have the luxury of wasting it: would it be worthy to cause a delay in the arrangements under the risk of leaving a bad impression in your future spouse, even when he was someone you’ve never saw before? 

You sighed at the thought. 

And, as if I hadn’t enough things to worry about, I still have to consider this. 

In fact, you didn’t want to take much stuff from that house with you at the same time you didn’t want to cause any difficulties to the servants, who have already seen their load increase the last months, so you were quick to select essential items and packing them with the help of a maid, from your clothes to the gifts brought by your mother, and instruct her about what to do with the other things: some of them you gave to her, knowing that she had a daughter who was younger than you and who’d appreciate your charity, and the others, such as the furniture, should be sent to the villagers, for you wanted your things to be with people who would make good use of them instead of letting them rot in a place to where you’d never come back. 

Among all of this, the last object you packed was the only thing you made a point about carrying by yourself, and the only thing you didn’t trust anyone to pack but yourself: the sword of your mother, which was sent to your house by Ubuyashiki-sama and now belonged to you. Your mother has been teaching you lessons since you were a teenager, but she hasn’t lived long enough to see if you were going to develop your own Breath; well, until that day you haven’t, but you’ve never stopped practicing even under your father’s disapproval. You didn’t know what you would find once you stepped into your husband’s house, but you wouldn’t want to depend on his protection on everything; besides, having a wife who knew how to wield a sword must be an advantage, right? 

The train of thoughts, feelings and concerns was such that you were robbed from sleep the night before the ceremony. You knew women who had their marriages arranged as well, but you never got to talk to them about it; you had no idea of how you were supposed to feel, or how you were supposed to see the whole thing. How one should feel when they saw themselves trapped in a situation from which they couldn’t get out? Without having answers, you just relied on the feeling that seemed reasonable to you, that is, utter fear. 

The next morning came silent and inexorable, just as the ones before it, and you saw yourself leaving your bed and taking care of your duties without putting your thoughts on them. It was only your body working by itself, saving your soul from the burden of being conscious, or perhaps you were just accepting your fate after a night of tears and rage. 

Having dismissed the maid’s help, you bathed and dressed alone, and left the house where the most important moments of your life took place without one last look. To be fair, your eyes were so sore and tired that they barely registered the appearance of the weather while you walked to the carriage, but you guessed it was a warm, sunny day, though not enough for you to get sweaty. Your father was already in the carriage’s interior; you took the seat beside him with no signs of acknowledging his presence. 

The coachman shook the reins and yelled something to the horse, and the crack of the wooden wheels was heard as the vehicle moved along the road. 

*** 

The ceremony took place in a building in the city of (…), near your father’s property, which served as the head office of a group of law professionals, including the man responsible for your marital contract. 

You wouldn’t call it a ceremony, really: it was more of a sequence of bureaucratic procedures than a social event with the purpose of uniting two families; a mere formality to allow you to move to a man’s house without ruining your reputation. It was quick, direct and cold like a financial operation, and the people involved seemed to make sure it looked like this. 

Your father led you to a sequence of stairs and then through a narrow corridor, until he stopped in front of a door and opened it, entering the room and inciting you to follow him. You did it, and found out you weren’t the first to arrive: the officiant was already in his position, behind a table upon which you saw an open book; at its right, there was a small inkwell and a feather; around him, two officers which function you couldn’t guess and couldn’t care about. And, finally, in front of the table and observing your arrival with a stern glare, the man who was about to become your husband. 

Whatever you were expecting to see, Shinjuro was nothing like you might have imagined, except for the fact that he was younger than you supposed – and, indeed, younger than your father – and stole the attentions among all those men despite the quiet, composed manners. Well, he would do it in any place he’d step in, for his appearance was extravagant, to say the least: on his severe face he carried a pair of orange eyes under two thick, black eyebrows, a wild trait that made you think of a lion; framing his expression and matching his eyes, he had thick, blond hair that decreased to red on its edges, spreading over his shoulders. And, as if his looks weren’t enough to draw the whole room’s attention, he was dressed in sober, dark clothing, more like someone attending a western funeral than a wedding. 

As you walked to the center of the room, led by your father, and took the spot beside Shinjuro, you felt your skin burning in discomfort under his merciless eyes. You breathed deep and, when he nodded to acknowledge you two, you made an effort to greet him, as well as the other men. 

I knew he wasn’t the same person my father claimed to know. He stated that he was good and trustful, but everything in this man screams danger. What kind of hell I’m getting into… 

The officiant announced the beginning of the ceremony, and you turned to him in silence. After a few, composed words to the new couple, he gave you both clear instructions on where to sign your names, and you did as he said, Shinjuro first, then you; you glanced at his hand offering you the feather and took it in a second, taking care your hand didn’t touch his. You tried not to think of your gestures as you wetted its tip on the ink, but a tremble reached your wrist the instant you approached the feather from the paper. 

So… That’s it. I write my name in a book and enter a path from where I can’t go back. 

The realization was too much to bear and time was passing, so you bit your inner cheek to prevent your mind to entertain the thought and scribbled your name at once. When you moved the feather away and put it back on the inkwell, your hand acted by itself, and your arm gone numb once you recoiled it to your side. 

Your mouth was dry, and a hole seemed to have taken the place of your heart. You barely noticed when the officiant and the other witnesses analyzed your signatures and approved them, bringing the ceremony to an end. You refused to believe all of that was real until the man announced you were free to go, and both Shinjuro and you turned away, preparing to leave. He didn’t bat an eye at you while doing so. 

The head of the Rengoku family stopped to exchange some words with your father. You were close enough to hear the conversation, but didn’t want to pay attention; you just wanted to leave this place, even though you weren’t going to a familiar one after it. 

You only understood their conversation was over when you heard your father’s voice calling your name. You turned to him and your stomach curled in disgust when you saw the pleading smile on his face, the only thing that reminded you of home and now a sign of everything you lost. You’ve never felt so alone. 

Later, you’d try to remember his exact words for you at that moment, but you’d find yourself unable to do it. Maybe it was a formal wish of good luck or something. The only thing you remembered was your reaction: you stared at him for a few seconds, then, without a word, you turned your face away, walking toward the door. You knew your husband was observing, but his approval was the least of your preoccupations now. 

*** 

Little was recalled by you from the travel to the Rengoku house, except that it was silent, even calm period. The only abnormality was caused by you: unlike your other belongings, who were sent in another vehicle ahead under the supervision of a servant, you decided you were going to carried your sword with you in the carriage, to everyone’s surprise and your father’s discontentment. 

That occasion was also when Shinjuro spoke to you for the first time. 

— Why are you doing this? 

The question, made when you were already in the carriage, was direct but not devoid of politeness, so you granted him an honest answer. 

— This sword once belonged to my mother, and now it is mine. If my father had his way, I’d never carry it with me, but I refuse to leave it behind — and, glancing at him, — I couldn’t risk him checking my things and subtracting it from them without my consent. 

Shinjuro only murmured an “I see” in response, and the conversation died there. 

You were beside the carriage’s window and might have slept to the warmth of the sun and the constant noise of the wheels in movement, but you weren’t sure if you did. As your body was now avoiding visible reactions, your spirit was suppressing the emotional rush for your own good, since no advantage would come from a breakdown in the middle of the road, right in front of your new spouse who, just like you, didn’t seem all pleased with the whole thing: sure, he didn’t show visible discontentment whether with your appearance or your manners, but you’ve been dealing with middle aged men for too long to sense when they were seeing something they didn’t find appropriate; and, in the present case, it was clear to you that Shinjuro already formed his opinion: to him, you were a stubborn, spoiled brat who didn’t have her way and was decided to make it everyone else’s problem. Yes, the idea of acting like that wandered through your mind for a while, but you thought you were better than this, and opted for a balance between bitterness and decency, not wearing plain clothing and displaying rude manners, but also not being extravagant in anything; still, you couldn’t convince the man of your good nature, and he let it clear with the inquiring about the sword, so now you completely gave up on seeking his favor. 

You were just waiting for the travel to end. 

Chapter 2