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satoruhour · 11 months ago

Note

Just thought of something FREAKY in class… Single father Satoru looking for a babysitter and you’re looking for a side income during semester break and the tension goes crazy!!!! “We should’t be doing this my son will wake up” I’M GONNA SCREAMMMM

BLISS, PURE BLISS

a/n: happy new year LMFAOOO. thank you for all the asks btw i promise ill answer them asap 🥹 / @shotorus @osaemu @shidouryusm @mysugu @hyomagiri ♱

wc: 6.4k

warnings: ‘onee-san’ used but more of just addressing reader as an older figure because saying babysitter is kinda weird lol (kind of like how chinese people use 姐姐 even if they are not related), fem!reader, dilf!gojo, age gap (gojo in his late 30s, reader in mid-20s), angst if u squint, bit of slow burn n tension, making out, use of ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, praise, oral (f! receiving) / cunnilingus, clit stimulation, unprotected sex, p -> v sex, multiple rounds, consensual filming, creampie / breeding kink, n*sfw under the cut

“no fucking way . .” you mumble mostly to yourself, standing in front of the largest house of the gated community in roppongi, and while you knew the people here were excessively and obnoxiously rich, you’re never quite prepared until you’re getting a key card specifically mailed to your name just so you could enter.

you’re not even shameful when you take a video to send to your best friends, locking your screen almost immediately because you knew you’d never get to the job on time if you replied to them. with calculated steps, you’re walking up the house that’s designed with a modern structure, yet still retaining characteristics of a traditional japanese home. it’s less prominent at the front of the house, though.

“(y/n)-san, was it?” a voice startles you out of your ogling sessions. if the garden was already this nice, what would be in store for you when you went in? you’ll be finding out soon when your employer himself opens the door to you, a man with striking white hair and equally striking blue eyes that seem to look right into you. he’s dressed in a suit, probably no doubt ready to get to work while you’re out here taking your time. you cringe, immediately walking up to the door.

“y-yes! yes, i’m sorry sir, i was just uhm—”

he holds that intimidating stare just for a moment but then he breaks into a smile that mirrors the bright sun that shines down on the porch.

“it’s alright . . it’s not everyday you’re working at some rich guy’s house, right?” he jokes but that strikes a little ick into you — he’s already ticking the boxes of obnoxious and excessively rich, but you hate the effect he’s having on you.

“yeah . . no, i guess,” he hums in reply before sticking a hand out.

“gojo satoru,” he introduces himself, “call me anything but that sir shit, alright, doll?”

you nod obediently, trying not to let the little pet name get to your head because he probably does this to any babysitter who comes through the house, but either way, he’s welcoming you in and it’s like you step into a world unreal. it’s spotless, the floors shining under the sunlight, a large television in the living room, a spacious open concept dining-kitchen area, and this is just the first floor.

gojo takes his time to show you the house — where his kid’s toys were, where the food was, where the bathrooms and bedrooms were, it was never-ending. every step you took made you feel like you were walking the length of the nile, each turn only revealing more rooms and corridors.

and then, finally, his baby boy.

“he’s a cheeky one, takes after his dad,” even with all the cockiness he’s shown to you, you can tell he has a soft spot for his kid. the boy stirs from his father’s voice, gleaming in happiness as he puts out his smaller hands to be picked up. as he settles into his arms, it’s just sinking in how tall your employer is. he makes a toddler look like a baby with how small his son looks wrapped snugly.

“satoshi, hi,” he whispers, bouncing the kid in his arms, “want to say hi to your onee-san?”

you manage a small wave but all he does is turn to hide in his father’s arms, definitely scared from a random stranger suddenly talking to him.

“she’s going to be taking care of you for the next month or so, you know?” he mumbles, brushing a hand through the matching white hair, “be nice to the babysitter, okay?”

all satoshi does is hum into his dad’s neck before he’s giving you a sheepish smile. “he’s like that, don’t worry about him.” and you return the smile, thinking that he wasn’t that obnoxious that you thought and that maybe he’s really a dad trying his hardest for his one kid. you realise he’s taking too much time, though, and so you sought out to remind him.

“oh, uh sir— gojo-san, don’t you have to go to work?”

although he’s mentioned satoshi to be taking after him, the boy goes right back to sleeping when he’s put back into his bed so you follow gojo as he adjusts his cuffs and smoothes out his collar just outside the room and you make the mistake of glancing upon the mirror on the far end of the corridor — it was undeniable that you looked like a high-end couple who’s newly married and raising a kid. you try to shake off the thoughts of adjusting his tie for him.

“it’s not being late if you’re on top.” he smirks and you resist the urge to roll your eyes; at least you weren’t alone in purging the delusional thoughts from your head, he was basically helping you at this point and you struggle between characterising him as conceited and admirable. “but, yeah, i should get going.”

but he stands at the door with backpack slung onto one shoulder while he continues to explain satoshi’s routines to you, his habits and also had to sneak in a few cute photos of the kid while squealing repeatedly and you’re left wondering how this guy could be the CEO of a company.

it’s been like that for as long as you can remember — bidding goodbye to your parents as you tell them that you’re off to your part-time job over the winter break. they’re happy you’re even leaving the house, shoving your lunch into your hands with big smiles that you’re at least doing anything other than sitting in your room. the train ride to the gated residential was nice, too, apart from the very crowded subways for people going to work in roppongi.

gojo greets you every morning when you arrive, reminding you of satoshi’s feeding times and his favourite shows and everything a father should know but don’t have the luxury to experience with aforementioned kid. it’s a little bittersweet, every time you see him kiss satoshi goodbye that turns into remaining in his room, to holding your hand and saying goodbye to daddy from the second floor, to getting carried by you at the front door.

it’s slow but sure progress day after day, from watching his cartoons, feeding him at the kitchen island, playing with his toys, that satoshi feels more and more comfortable with you, learning that while he was a well-behaved boy, he definitely had hints of your employer in him. mannerisms, words, voice, you wonder whether he even got any part of his mother in his genes.

you’d never ask, though, but it was told. unexpectedly.

“i’m home—” the last parts of his word die down into a whisper when he opens the door to see satoshi cuddled up to you, the last bits of home alone playing softly. by now you already know what happens in the movie so you’re texting your friends and laughing softly to yourself, jumping when your boss steps past the doorway. gojo winces when he checks his watch (“fuck. it’s already ten.”), toeing his shoes off and apologising simultaneously.

“oh— man, i’m so sorry, i had a late meeting with the CEO of our neighbouring franchise, i totally forgot about the time—” gojo’s quick to make his way down to the small pit of the house (he likes to call it the conversation pit), settling down on the side where satoshi had his head in your lap as his eyes linger on the movie. instinctively, his hands reach to pat his leg.

“oh, it’s okay, gojo-san, it’s the holidays anyway.”

“yeah?” he turns to you, one arm propped on the back of the sofa, “and why don’t a pretty girl like you have any plans?”

that catches you off-guard, among the many other times he’s called you pretty or sweets like no care in the world. you’re never quite used to it, too, seeking to fluster you. “you shouldn’t say stuff like that to me, gojo-san . .”

“why not?” he’s turned back to the television, now, and you take his place, staring at his side profile as the scenes of the movie move along his face. “i’m a single dad, aren’t i?”

“yeah but . . you could have anyone.”

“what if,” he turns and you chicken out, head snapping back to the front while he watches you and the both of you cannot deny the tiring dance you perform around each other all the time. the clench in his heart when he sees you carry his baby boy at the porch and the small smile he gives you every morning before he leaves for his job. he doesn’t want to go through with it and sighs.

it’s become hard to breathe around you. it’s become hard to hold himself back around you.

“i worked too much.” he suddenly says, facing the TV again. “i was too engrossed and . .”

confusion seeps in at first. yeah, it was no secret he worked his ass off despite being at the very top. your gaze falls to satoshi, curling more into your side like he’s cold and you adjust the blanket. you nod in recognition.

“we fought a lot. i tried— i tried to alter my schedule as much as i could, driving to and fro whenever she needed me, bringing satoshi to work as a baby when we couldn’t come to a compromise, but it was a lot. for her, for satoshi. he could sense whenever we were about to fight, on edge voices, items clattering to the floor . .”

by now, he’s leaned back, back of his hand resting on his forehead, “and he’d cry like he was interrupting us. cheeky, i told you,” and his eyes close, “we hardly reached middle ground. it was either this or that, hire a nanny or we take care of him, my endless job or the joy of life. i’m ashamed that i’ve prioritised my job more, and still do it now.”

“if you didn’t, i wouldn’t be here, would i?”

that draws a chuckle out of him, “correct.”

“she couldn’t take it, not when she was a businesswoman on top of that. she was out doing herself at every aspect in her job, going to greater heights, and while she accused me of putting work first, she isn’t entirely innocent, either. but that’s . .”

“you don’t have to say anything, gojo-san,” you mumble as you watch the reunion of the characters in the movie before the screen cuts the black, no doubt affecting him in some way at the warmth displayed by the movie that contrasts heavily with his situation, “the fact that you even told me is . .”

the heavy atmosphere is disrupted by satoshi gasping, “papa! you’re home.”

you exchange awkward smiles as you watch the boy fight his way out of the blanket to hug gojo, the latter huffing when the boy drops his body weight on him and you take it as a sign to give them a bit of privacy, standing up to clean up the popcorn and cups. laughter and your employer’s voice resonate throughout the place even as they go up the stairs, a rare occasion where gojo is able to get his son ready for bed.

it’s only maybe an hour later when the house falls into silence. mouth burning from the mouthwash, the heater in satoshi’s room turned to a high setting, one bedtime story was read (which, he fell asleep halfway), the boy was out like a light. you felt it inappropriate to leave without at least saying goodbye, but you also didn’t want to cut into their time together; at least, that’s what you told yourself.

so you waited with your things on the kitchen island, getting a risky text just as gojo comes down, still in his suit from work.

[11:02pm, nobara -> you] BITCH GET THAT DICKKKKK!!!!!!!

and you yelp softly, slamming your phone down onto his marble counter. thankfully, he doesn’t notice, eyes close to shutting from fatigue.

“oh, shit, you’re still here?”

“i thought it would be, weird, if i didn’t say goodbye,” you get ready to leave, slinging your tote bag on, “but i also didn’t want to intrude on your time with satoshi, limited as it is.” well, you did also wish something would happen, but you had too much pride to admit it to yourself.

“you got a ride home?” he yawns and you feel guilty for extending your stay already. you didn’t even need to worry about the front door, he lived in a gated community for christ’s sake!

“um, not really, but i can always book an uber home.”

“i’ll drive you home, it’s unsafe,” is all he says like he’s trying to convince himself, “let me just get changed and we can go.”

gojo doesn’t leave you any room to protest before he’s up the stairs again and you’re left with a pounding heart and dizzy head, not sure what might ensue. you know him to be honourable; you’ve seen him with his child, you’ve seen him interact with his neighbours, but a late ride with your boss sounds sketchy as it is.

but it doesn’t feel like it when you feel the tokyo wind blowing through your hair, a slight gap in the window bringing you the chills of the night as he silently drives you back home. sitting in your employer’s car most of all felt weird, but even more so when he’s reaching your home faster than the gps system had predicted. his knuckles are white.

“you—”

your head snaps to him, “yes?”

his car headlights are the brightest in the parking lot where every car is silent, quiet, much like his clammy hands and red cheeks. gojo satoru turns to you, feeling that familiar tug in his heart and lump in his throat for the first time in a while, and he can’t speak.

but you lean forward like your life depends on it and you leap inwardly when you see that he does the same. eyes trained forward, your stares boring into the other, waiting to see who’d close their eyes first. you just stop short of an inch, met with the hypnotising swirls of raging oceans in gojo’s eyes and you swallow when his eyes flit down to your lips and back up like he wouldn’t get caught.

with shaking hands, your fingers trace over his lips and you sigh when you feel just how soft they are, just like his skin, just like his eyes when they look at satoshi. your heart skips a beat when he just lightly kisses the pads of your fingers, and that encourages you to cradle his cheek, up his jaw, up his undercut.

“let’s just kiss, yeah?” he was afraid that if he spoke too loud, he’d shatter the glass, snap the string of tension, voice cracking until you swallow it, you stomach his nervousness with a lively, strong kiss from your lips to his, and he just melts.

gojo hums into the kiss, leaning forward over the stick shift and into the passenger seat before you counter it with your own movements: hand on his shoulders and pushing until you’re on his space of the driver’s seat and playing the game of tug that’s been going on for the past few weeks. you win.

“god, you’re so . .” gojo whines out when you climb onto him, whispering into your mouth while you get comfortable in your straddling position, cutting him off with a second, rougher kiss and you both moan softly, passion taking over in the evident way your arms scramble to wrap around him while he pulls you flush against his front.

the car is filled with sounds of your kissing, something that definitely shouldn’t be done in his home and yet you risk it all in your home’s parking lot. you break the kiss and hide in his neck, already starting the makings of a hickey there while your pelvis selfishly grinds into his front and he kneads your ass. in the mingling of breaths and moans, he’s left to stop the two of you when there’s a muffled ringtone coming from your bag and you swallow at the insanity of the situation.

“i’ll see you, monday, right?” gojo breathlessly says later, bulge still showing through his sweats while you hang outside the driver’s side, not wanting to leave. he takes your hand, planting a peck on it and then brings you in for another harmless kiss.

“yeah, gojo-san . . monday.”

you lose count of how many times you’ve swallowed throughout the night, but he says something to lift the mood just a bit.

“we just made out and you’re still calling me by my last name?”

you laugh lightly, “monday, satoru. i’ll be there, same time, on monday.”

gojo leaves a farewell kiss to the inside of your wrist, “attagirl.”

but if you’re not careful, it might just happen in satoru’s house.

the remainder of your employment at his house is tiring. it’s so hard not to kiss him before he leaves for work, so difficult not to long for him while you take care of satoshi, so entirely harrowing not to claim him as yours as you watch him play after his work. at this point, you’re hoping school will just start soon and the rush of assignments and readings will take your mind off of it, but you cannot deny the excitement every time you leave your house.

“you’ll bring food and cook every monday, wednesday, friday, and i’ll order food for the both of you every tuesday and thursday, how’s that?” gojo thinks it’s time to introduce him to larger pieces of food, but it’s gone past that by now and to your meal arrangements.

“i’m okay with cooking, though!” you assure him, and plus, you loved your parents’ home cooked bentos that they give you everyday, “do we gotta?”

“sorting out meals is tiring, (y/n),” gojo takes the place beside you, leaning against the counter just like you before drinking out of his cup, “i want to at least help at little.”

“you already are.” you smile, “i can see you making the effort.”

“it’s not enough, though, i could be doing better.”

gojo hates how this scene sets up — like two parents just figuring out the best for their kid — it’s a callback to the memory in the same exact kitchen. at least all you do is kiss and make out, because he wouldn’t know what to do if you moan out his name in that same intimate way that threatens his walls to come down again. he loved sex, he loved the bedroom, but he’s riding a thin line the way he’s doing with you.

“you are,” is everything that you say, and you leap forward to kiss him. you do it so hard that he has to put down the glass to fully embrace you, walking you backwards to the conversation pit and he carries you so effortlessly because he doesn’t want you walking backwards down some stairs.

he hates how you bring him into your lips, he hates how gently he lays you down, and he hates how you accept the kisses down your neck and body. you, on the other hand, aren’t doing so well, either — it’s either a hit or miss with a broken man like gojo satoru, and you’re stepping on glass shards hoping you don’t say anything wrong with him because he’s trying his best but he just can’t see it.

“are you okay with this?” he asks halfway down your torso and he gets lightheaded from how well his hands cover your waist. “tell me to stop, and i’ll stop.”

“n-no . . keep going, satoru.”

he exhales shakily at that, fingers tugging your top up and his hands are so cold you resist shivering, but you do anyway from the sheer fucking craziness that gojo drives you into. one pop of your button, and you’re already lifting your hips off the couch for him to remove your pants but movement on the stairs make you halt.

“papa?” satoshi calls out sleepily, rubbing his eyes and pouting. you can see it, almost, with how much time you’ve spent with the kid, and you hope he can’t see you. “i . . i had a nightmare and i just— i wanna sleep with you.”

he’s started sniffling and you feel your heart break that he knows his papa well enough to know he would never sleep in his room. his job always has him sleeping out in the living room.

go. you mouth, kissing your fingers and pressing it to his lips before he puts on a show — yawning, stretching his arms, already making satoshi feel at ease with his theatrics before he’s stopping at the foot of the stairs to look back at you. you already know gojo satoru has redeemed himself a hundred times over. i’ll see you tomorrow.

funnily, satoshi somehow does have some intervention powers, because each time the both of you attempt to go down on each other, he’s either saying he threw up, or he needs to use the toilet, or that he’s hungry. while you both love him to death, it’s also becoming difficult to hold back each time you see each other. his car in your parking lot is all he has and you dare not to go to his workplace where rumours would spark.

so after a tiring night of getting a hyper satoshi to sleep, you’d at least try. at this point, you know not to expect too much out of it, starting always with some talking. it was easy to talk to your boss, and when you phrase it like that, it did come off a little strange, but it was far from that when your boss in his late 30s looked just like he did ten years ago and that he had crazy blue eyes and insane white hair and was hot.

“thank you for taking care of him for the past month and a half,” gojo thanked you, leaning over to give you a peck to the temple, “it means a lot.”

“he’s a sweet boy, plus, i do need the money,” you giggle, nudging him, “and it did let me get to know you . .”

“certainly,” he mumbles. drunk off your scent, he leans in again, kissing you fully on the lips now. you hum softly, going on your tippy toes and wrapping your arms around his shoulder. swiftly, he props you on the kitchen counter and you yelp in surprise, unable to help the throb of your pussy when he slots himself in between your legs.

jokingly, he puts his hand to his ear. “no satoshi interruption tonight?”

you smack his shoulder, “don’t jinx it.”

he laughs, a proper laugh before he sighs shakily, fingers thumbing your sides gently. “you know . . we shouldn’t be doing this,” you feel your heart sink a little, but he quells it with hovering lips over yours, “he could hear and wake up.”

“then why have you been accepting all my kisses, gojo satoru?” your eyes challenge him, but you know one touch from him would have you submitting to him. his breath fans over your lips, and you can feel his pulse speed up when your fingers go over his neck, to his nape, to his undercut. you run your fingertips through it.

“you have too much power over me, simple.” that sentence has your eyes fluttering close. it’s too much for you and yet you welcome it with open arms, “it’s become so bad that you’re all i think about.”

“is that so?” you pull lightly on his hair.

he nods, foreheads touching now and he’s trying to hold himself back, but, “i’ve been holding back, entirely too much, baby, and i don’t think i can, anymore.”

“yeah?” you whisper, bringing him in with your legs, “show me, then.”

gojo satoru decides that maybe taking the leap isn’t so bad, so he fully gives himself to you, tugging your lips to his in a clashing kiss that has you groaning in pain just a bit. he giggles and apologises and tries again, and this time, it’s got your hips moving against him, whimpering into his mouth. gojo’s hard just from kissing, something that he’s desperate to relieve himself off so — he’s whispering for you to hang on while he slots his hands under your ass and lifts you.

satoru knows his house well, walking up with you in tow and lips still on yours, right into his room. you giggle when he plops you down and he’s already looking forward to ravishing you, but —

“let me check on satoshi for a sec.”

you laugh silently, “of course, satoru, go.”

and once your boss’ made sure his son is out cold in slumber, he’s all over you again and definitely showing you how much he’s been holding himself back. you’re the pure focus of the night, making you chase for more when he pulls away and kissing down your body. he worships it, tongue circling a nipple while his hand plays with the other, eyes staring holes into yours from how intense the blue was.

“s-satoru . .”

“yes, sweets, what is it?”

“feels good—” you whine, back arching into his hold once he leaves your tits and continues down your body. each kiss is like hellfire against your cold skin, and he pops a button and listens out again, both of you sighing in relief and giggling to each other when you don’t hear a knock on the door.

“does it? good.” it’s tantalisingly slow, the pace at which gojo peels your clothes off, but when your pants are finally off, he marvels at your beauty as he brings your legs apart. you’re shy, hiding yourself behind your arms and resisting his hands.

“aht, no, c’mon, show yourself, baby.” he only moans when he sees the dark patch at the centre of your underwear, pressing a finger into your clit and you’re ashamed at how intensely you react to it. gojo continues his torture, thumbing your bud just to watch your face contort into pleasure, “so, so pretty.”

you preen at the praise, even more so when he pulls your panties to the side and sucks slowly on your clit. it’s slow, again, and you’re clutching the sheets so tight when he lays his tongue flat against your pussy. satoru takes his time, savouring each bit of your cunt to make up for lost time, filling the room with the lewdest noises of your sopping cunt on his tongue.

“taste so fuckin’ sweet, pussy’s s’good,” he practically moans into your core, arms wrapping around your thighs to bring you closer while you try to keep your noises down to a minimum. little pants and mewls leave your lips, eyes never leaving the head of hair.

but he’s unpredictable, as gojo always is, so when he’s hovering over you just to give you a little innocent kiss, you think nothing of it, until he’s back in front of your pussy and starts eating you out like a starved man. you let out a loud moan, dragging it out until you’re gulping down your next sounds. it doesn’t help much, though, cause gojo’s slurping at your pussy like it’s the end of the world.

“s-satoru—! too much—” you moan but your hips grind into his mouth, your hands now finding purchase in his hair, “t-too loud.”

“mmf— don’t care,” he mumbles into your cunt, making sure he gets every drop of your arousal on his tongue while he abuses your clit, alternating between flicking his tongue and sucking hard and you think it’s the best head you’ve ever gotten.

“not when your cunt’s so perfect,” you only press his head deeper into you like it would stop his muffled sentences, but that only spurs him to suck harder before he just shifts down a little to plunge his tongue into your hole. you choke out a moan as his nose nudges your clit, clenching around his muscle.

“relax— mmhh, you gotta relax, baby,” he’s massaging your thighs but if anything it does the exact opposite, closing your thighs around his head in sensitivity.

“it’s— h-hard to,” you moan out, already feeling the coil in your tummy that’s approaching oh, so quickly when gojo eats you out like this. he shifts his attention back to your puffy clit, eyes flicking up to make contact with yours and you shrivel under his intense stare, “w-when you’re making me feel s’good—!”

you feel him smile into your cunt but he says nothing, taking note of the drop of your jaw, the scrunch of your eyes, the contractions of your stomach. your legs like to straighten out and shake when you’re close, he memorises. when you start to tighten your grip on his hair, he ingrains it in his mind.

“cumming— i’m c-close,” but it’s like satoru doesn’t even need it when his eyes digest the way he sends you over the edge with just his tongue.

“g— god! satoru!” your mouth falls into a silent scream after, head dipping so much into the pillow while you grind your cunt into his face, gushing all over his face with a renewed spirit and regret for all those times that men have rubbed your left lip thinking it was your clit.

“let it go, yeess . . that’s it,” satoru doesn’t hesitate to get sloppy, sucking up all your cum, gasping for air once he’s done with his meal, “pretty girl just came all over my face.”

you struggle to your elbows despite the words he utters, propped up just to catch a glimpse of him and the soaked bottom of his face that stretches into a smile.

“was that better than all the uni boys who’ve never felt the touch of a woman?” you laugh at that, making quick work of grabbing his chin and bringing him back to your lips.

“much, much better.” and you take the opportunity to flip the tables, trembling, shaking legs trying their best to wrap around his torso to straddle him — but once you’re over, you’re not quite sure what to do apart from letting your hands roam all over the expanse of his shoulders and chest.

“and can she do it again all over my cock?” the obscene words sound almost taboo falling from his mouth that your mouth drops open in initial shock, but it subsides into anticipation soon enough.

wordlessly, you take matters into your own hands, fingers making quick work of his trousers while he removes his top impatiently. the scowl on your face is prominent when you struggle to work his belt out and he chuckles with helping hands, the burn on your face deepening.

“there,” gojo giggles and he pulls you in with a peck-filled apology, “don’t worry, we have all the time in the world.”

you hum, “not when your son could knock any time soon.”

that prompts a giggle that fades off into a loud moan once your warm hand wraps around him, something that he’d never tell you how many times he’s fantasised about. slowly, you stroke his cock, excruciatingly slow just like how he’s done to your cunt earlier.

you’re hovering over him, now, dragging his tip along your pussy and whining softly at the pre-cum that mixes together with your juices. you need him into you as soon as possible, and apart from your soon burning thighs, you’ve been wanting this for as long as you’ve stepped foot into his house from the very first day.

inch by inch, you sink down onto gojo’s weeping cock, getting the luxury of feeling his sensitive twitches with the plunge into your cunt. you’re glad at least he had offered to stretch you out just a tad bit earlier, the intrusion of his fingers already having you panting for his dick; and now, when you have the real thing, it drives your mind insane.

“’t-toru— haah . .” your body curls up from the painful stretch, lips muttering the nickname unknowingly as you grasp onto his shoulders for support, and while he helps you on, he never stops saying the most filthy things, grinning each time you clench around him.

“never thought i’d be here, fuckin’ the babysitter, but here we are,” your oh my god is whispered only for the other to hear, body burning up from the words before he grinds his pelvis into yours and you slump forward in pleasure. your words are a bunch of nothingness, a string of incoherence, “and her pussy’s just so fucking— tight!”

giving you one or two breaths of rest, satoru coos in your face, cradling it and littering kisses all over it before he’s moving his hips and you’re breaking the kiss to whine out, moving your hips to meet his as well. you move sooner or later, bouncing on his cock once you’re more used to him in you and the position only hits all your spots just right.

“f-fuck— you’re so big—!” you roll your hips into him, eyes stuck on how there’s just a small bump in your tummy each time you bottom out. your boss from across you is equally ruined, eyes struggling to keep open with wet hair stuck to his forehead. “feel so so g-good . .”

“yeah?” he breathlessly mumbles, hand squeezing and kneading your ass and trying to help you, but the warmth of your cunt around his length just feels too good. “bounce on that dick, baby.”

and you do, planting your feet into the bed and fingers creating bruises along his shoulders as you impale yourself on his fat cock, switching to relaxing in his embrace and letting your hips do the work when your legs start hurting. there, you indulge in gojo’s lips as you hump him, the delicious friction of your clit against his pubes sending you reeling.

“you’re going to be soaking my sheets from how much you’re leaking,” gojo jests, letting your moans take over his mind while his lips trace down your neck, eyes just peeking over to see your ass ripple from the force. “not that i mind. how’s she doin’?”

“she’s getting,” a choked whine interrupts you, “a little tired.”

and that draws a laugh out of gojo who does nothing but tease you, something he likes to do even in makeout sessions, and he doesn’t hesitate to reach over to his bedsie table to grab his phone, leaning back to bask in your glory. here, your body just looks heavenly as you try your best to move on his lap.

“hang on a little more for me, princess,” with one hand, his larger hand leave chills all over your body and the other points his phone at you, not before making sure you were okay with it, “and smile for the camera.”

you try your best even when his hand make his way to your mouth, pulling it open with his fingers to slot it in. you’re sure you look like a whore right now, but the camera pointed your way only turn you on more, like it’s beckoning you to put on a show. and you loved the attention, so you close your lips around his fingers and start sucking, grinding even harsher on his cock that has gojo stuttering.

“y—yeah, attagirl . .” he grins at the video he takes, “show the camera how much of a cockslut you are.”

you whine, bringing the hand to your clit while you shove two hands onto his torso to really work your thighs out, feeling that familiar curl in your stomach once he starts rubbing his saliva-filed fingers along you bundle of nerves.

“r-right there, satoru—!” you swear under your breath, giving hooded eyes to the camera while you chase your high drunkenly, all sort of coherent thought banished from your head. “love your cock, love it, love it—!”

satoru swears he wants to cum from just watching you use him, and even holding himself back is proving difficult when you clamp and tighten around him until his fingers press particularly deep into your clit and you’re cumming with a loud cry of his name, body convulsing all over the video.

“tha’s a good girl . . cream my cock, yeeaaahh . .” gojo watches, hypnotised, as you lose control over your body, but the pleasure-filled whimper that you merge his name with is just too good, that he spills unexpectedly in you. the video is far from stable, so he only slaps the phone down to relish in his orgasm. gojo pushes his hips up and you gasp at the feeling, back arching when you feel his cum seep into you.

you’ve never even given much thought to pregnancy, but the feeling of his cum dribbling into you fogs your mind that you only want more after a mental note to buy the morning after pill tomorrow.

“n-need more,” you beg, fondling at his cheeks and undercut, “w-want more cum in me, satoru . .”

and it’s like a flip switches in him, because he’s flipping you over right after — he has to see his cum leave your pussy first though, taking the still ongoing video and putting it right up to your pussy, using his tip to smear your mixed juices all around.

“who knew i’d hired such a dirty girl?” he addresses the camera more than you, but he catches your flustered glance with a wink and after poorly setting up the camera on his bedside table (he just was too intoxicated on your cunt), he’s pushing back into you with a loud groan, not even caring for the consequences any more. his cum is just so much, too, spilling out the sides.

“only f’r you,” you mumble, grabbing at his forearms needily. your eyes flutter close as he bottoms out, your legs pushed right up to your chest as he folds you whichever way he wants to. at this point, if he wanted to own you, you wouldn’t object one bit, not when gojo satoru’s cock stretches your pretty pussy so nicely. “a cumslut only for you.”

“yeah?” he starts moving his hips and your arch into his hold, “i wonder how i got so — fuck — lucky.” everything is sloppy and wet and disgusting and you love every moment of it, even after he’s cummed in you the second, third, fourth time, you’re happy to be pumped full of his cum, giving him a tired, glistening grin that he returns.

“think i should be transferring over my life savings for a cunt this sweet,” you giggle at the compliment, but don’t protest when he’s pulling up the app to gift you with a hefty amount; both your salary and bonus, all from making gojo satoru fall helplessly just from your touch — something to brag about indeed.

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honeytonedhottie · 1 year ago

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feminine body language⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🧁

90% of communication is body language, the mind is connected to the body. body language is so important to how u perceive urself and how others perceive you <3

DISCLAIMER : everything in this post is things i've noticed, and other girls have too, its little tips and tricks on how to be more feminine with ur body language if u wanna apply then do you but if this doesn't resonate with u then u dont have to take it~

UR WALK :

ur walk is what ppl see when u walk into a room, and when u walk with confidence you literally FEEL confident. the most feminine thing to do when walking is walking with ur hips.

the best way for it to become natural is with practice and repetition ofc. practice walking in front of ur mirror, the point of this is to have open hips. if ur hips r open, then walking with ur hips will be easy peasy.

the more flexible u are, the more naturally and organically walking with ur hips will be, i recommend yoga and hip mobility exercises.

POSTURE :

envision that u have a string attached to the head of ur spine and its pulling u up, kind of like a puppet lol. walk with ur back straight and ur chin parallel to the floor. also, keep ur shoulders back and ur chest out.

some ways to help practice posture is by using back trainers, pilates, and ofc yoga

WHAT NOT TO DO :

dont ever walk into a room with ur head down

HAND GESTURES :

a feminine thing to do is talking with ur hands, using hand or bodily gestures to express urself while communicating, is literally scientifically proven to add emphasis and structure when u talk.

the main thing i've learned about when researching feminine hand gestures is tilting ur head when ur listening or thinking, touching ur arms or neck etc.

movements should always be SLOW, dont be rushed, slow down ur speaking, walking, bodily gestures, etc. take ur time and collect ur thoughts, dont be in a rush and dont let ur thoughts be all over the place. its all about control.

OBVIOUSLY dont over-do it but u get my point right?

EYE CONTACT :

practice eye contact, ik its a bit weird if ur not used to it but genuinely give it a try if u want <3

#becoming that girl #it girl #self care #self love #that girl #it girl energy #girl blog #hyper femininity #divine feminine #femininity #girlblogging #dream girl

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harstyle · 3 months ago

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The Beginning of Something New

Summary: You and Harry Styles could not be more different— so maybe that's the reason you've hated each other from the start. One conversation on a rooftop is all it takes for you to realize that you may have more in common than you've cared to admit.

Word-count: around 3.3k (she's short)

Warnings: they fight a lot lol, mentions of alcohol and drugs

A/N: Hi there! It's been a while. I wrote this short thing on vacation and felt like posting it. It doesn't really follow a time structure or anything, it's just random little snippets of their relationship to the big confessions at the end but I think it's cute, so I hope you enjoy! Both reader and Harry are in uni and Harry is the lead singer of a band that performs in clubs and pubs around the city. I’d say they’re around 20.

credits to the owner of this photo!

You can feel his eyes on you, daring.

You’re trying not to entertain it, to keep your eyes on Luke, to feign interest in his life. But it’s so difficult; it’s so difficult with him standing across the room, this weird hue in the air, this magnetic pull he has on you. And it doesn’t matter that you’re touching Luke’s arm or dragging a finger down his chest— all you care to think about is how hard you’re pushing Harry’s buttons.

And how fucking sweet victory tastes.

Well, aside from… you know, having to actually listen to Luke’s blabbering.

“The hotel’s great but the service is unbelievable. I had to wait fifteen minutes for a guy to bring me an extra towel once and I almost handed in a complaint—“

“Right. Luke, I’m going to get myself a new drink. Do you want anything? No? Wonderful.”

Your rough sigh speaks volumes, wasted air solidifying into something more important as you order at the bar. The bartender smiles at you, almost pitiful, and you writhe in disgust when you think about having to go back in a minute. You suppose it’s worth it to prove your point to Harry that you’re not as undesirable as he thinks, but maybe you should’ve done so with a guy who tells more interesting stories. Or at the very least knows not to speak with his mouth full

“Bored already, princess?”

It does irritate you when Harry sees right through you.

“Were you watching us? How cute.”

He rolls his eyes in your periphery. “You reek of disinterest, is all.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m very interested.”

“Very, you say.”

You lock eyes with him, “very.” Your bartender places the drink in front of you and you’re quick to take a sip. Harry snickers at your side. “What do you want, Harry?”

“Nothing. Are you sure you didn’t pay him to take you out?”

“Are you sure you have nothing else to do with your life? Because it sure is a little pathetic how invested you are in mine.”

“Aw come on, sweetheart,” he pinches your cheek and you recoil in an instant, shoving him back. Harry chuckles like he gets off on it. “Admit that you like the attention.”

“From you? I think I’d rather not.”

His smile never fades. “So this guy, very predictable.”

Your eyebrows pinch together, “what do you mean?”

“Just his look and everything. It makes sense you’d go out with him.” When you don’t reply, simply tilting your head in an even mix of curiosity and disdain, he elaborates. “All of the boys you date, they’re the same. Bet his Porsche’s insurance is under his daddy’s name.”

Your fixated glare could kill.

But he doesn’t mind— in fact, he loves it. He knows he’s struck a cord, that he’s right. “There’s no thrill in it. No excitement.”

“He’s everything you could never be, Harry.”

A beat of silence ensues, you take a sip of your drink.

You probably shouldn’t elaborate, but you do. You find yourself wanting to. “He’s kind, and he cares about me. He opens doors and he holds my hand when we’re walking down the street. So yeah, maybe he doesn’t get drunk tattoos or share a joint with me at three in the morning, but he’s a gentleman. And that’s something you could never understand.”

You don’t even wait for him to interject, because at this point it isn’t fun anymore. It’s true; Harry is exciting, he’s a breath of fresh air. He keeps the chase going— but he doesn’t fucking care enough. So it doesn’t matter how often you’ve caught yourself hoping for him to change and see how good you could be if you didn’t hate each other, he will never be an option for you. He likes the game, teetering on the edge of something more certain and then letting go.

Everything happens at night. By morning time, he couldn’t give less of a shit. You’re not good enough for him. Not exciting enough, not spontaneous enough.

And even though you’re sure you hear him calling your name, you don’t turn back for him. You’re already walking to Luke’s table, and finding yourself happy to do so.

“Everything okay?” He asks when catching wind of your tight expression.

“Yeah. Let’s finish this drink and get the hell out of here.”

—

His eyes are much greener at night, and you hate it.

You hate the rasp in his voice and how smooth it sounds in spite of it. You hate how his eyes close when he’s entranced in the music, when he feels his guitar riff flowing like blood through his veins. And mostly you hate how weak you are, how little convincing it took for you to be here tonight.

By the end of his set, you’re three martinis in and Jessica is poking you in the shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“Im fucking great, Jess.”

You don’t see why your friends are always walking on eggshells when the topic of Harry comes up. You and Harry can’t stand each other, that’s it.

And yet every time they act like you’ll break into tears when you see him.

Mitch and Harry return to the table in your periphery and you try your best to ignore their presence. Sometimes you feel bad that Mitch seems to be at the receiving end of your cold attitude so often because he’s genuinely a cool guy, but he’s also Harry’s bandmate. It’s aversion by association.

“Great set, guys!”

Jessica and Mitch aren’t officially dating, but they’re fucking. Hanging out. Hence the reason for your frequent visits to this club and to their gigs; she forces you to come and you can never say no to her.

Mitch slings an arm around Jess’ shoulders, kind enough to acknowledge you with a welcoming smile. They’re perfect for each other and you can’t help but let a grin tug at your lips when you see yet again how happy he makes her.

You wish you could have that.

The couple leaves to get drinks, leaving you and Harry alone.

“Didn’t bring your boyfriend?”

Your eyes roll. It’s involuntary at this point how often you do it. “Can you get off of my dick?”

“If you hop on mine.”

Disgust molds your features, “you’re fucking gross.”

He laughs. You don’t find him funny at all.

His grin dims. “Trouble in paradise then?”

“No trouble. He’s just not here.”

You’re lying; you haven’t called Luke in weeks and he hasn’t reached out either. You don’t think that’s going to change.

“So you’re still dating him.”

“Yeah. Does that bother you?”

You watch as his jaw constricts and clenches. Then he shakes his head, surprising you with the silence it’s accompanied by.

And for some reason, it causes a twist in your stomach. A guilty twist, like it’s somehow your fault the air has turned uncomfortable.

It takes you seconds to realize that for the first time since you’ve gotten to know him, he’s failed to deliver a snarky remark or a hurtful comment; anything resembling a testament to the hatred the two of you feel for one another.

It’s like he has something he wants to say, something on the tip of his tongue, but he’s a coward when it comes to relationships and vulnerability, so he can’t bring himself to do it. And you have enough self-respect to not pry it out of him.

“I have a thing in an hour so I’ll get going. Do you need a ride home?”

For some reason, his offer doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. You and Harry can hate each other all you want, but at the end of the day he’ll still care enough to make sure you don’t get harassed on the way home. Somewhat comforting, but only somewhat.

You also know exactly what his thing is, and thinking about it makes you nauseous.

Your first instinct is to say no, but then you pause. Your eyes wander to Jess and Mitch kissing by the bathrooms and you find yourself unable to resist the offer of a ride, as much as you’d hate having to sit in a car with him.

“Yeah, okay.”

Harry’s only confirmation is a subtle nod. He probably hates the idea just as much as you do, but having a death or an injury on one’s conscience can’t feel better than having to endure this.

Most of the ride goes swimmingly, but that’s owed to the silence.

And then you get sick of it, and it all goes downhill.

“You’re the most confusing guy I’ve ever met, you know that?”

His jaw clenches again.

But you don’t stop, probably because the alcohol is finally taking its effect. “You’re mean and as emotionally unavailable as a fucking tree.”

In any other setting he’d probably smile at the comparison, but he’s not in the mood today. He says your name and it resembles a warning.

“I just don’t— I don’t fucking get it. Because you’re nice to everyone else and every one of our friends loves you. But with me you have a problem, with everything I do. I can never do anything right, I’m never right—“

“Do you realize that maybe it’s just you? That you never shut up, that you’re so fucking irritating. You walk around like you’re god-chosen, pretending to know everything better than anyone else. You’re so— it’s so fucking irritating.”

Silence.

He shouldn’t have said anything— least of all anything he didn’t think through beforehand.

But it isn’t his words that terrify you; it’s how he says them. He’s so… genuine. It’s not some halfhearted comment delivered out of spite. No, it’s real, something you can tell he’s kept concealed for a long time out of… what, something he considers kindness?

But you don’t want to self-reflect. You don’t want to open up a can of worms. Instead, your hatred for Harry only flares up. It eats you up and leaves your body in strong waves.

“Pull over.”

You can tell Harry regrets his outburst when he sighs, knuckles turning white as his grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Princess—“

“Pull over, Harry. I want to walk.”

“It’s dangerous out—“

You don’t care anymore, though, his pleas becoming background noise as you’re opening the door and getting ready to step out mid drive. Harry finally gives. He’s not worried about the damage you might’ve caused to his door, he’s worried about your state. How angry you seem and how much alcohol is in your system.

You slam the door shut, hug your blazer closer to your body and start walking.

Guilt spreads in Harry’s chest as he watches you walk away from him. He messed up.

He’s sure there’ll be a special place in hell waiting for him when he sees your shoulders tremble. You’re crying. And it’s all his doing.

His forehead hits the steering wheel.

Fuck this.

—

You’ve always loved watching the stars on your own. You suppose it’s how stuffy the room was that makes this particular viewing significantly more enjoyable, though, the air clinging to your skin in a way that makes you feel protected. The rooftop is secluded, offering a view of the city in its twinkling lights. For a minute, you forget that you’re depressed. You forget that you haven’t spoken to Harry in two months and that it’s left a gaping wanting hole in your chest.

The beer in your hand isn’t cold anymore, your phone has died and your heels are long discarded on the floor somewhere. Your arms are resting on the railing.

You’re a reasonably social person, but the idea of talking to a human being right now makes you want to vomit. And you feel bad, truly bad, because it’s Nina’s birthday. Because you’re having a party in the art gallery she opened earlier this year, because you should be down there celebrating her achievements like all of your friends are doing— and you feel so incredibly selfish for not feeling up to the task. For feeling like you want to fucking cry just because Harry’s here too, and you weren’t expecting him to be.

You hear your name being called. You know exactly who it is; you would probably know by the pattern of his breathing, really, and that realization makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come back up.

“Everyone’s worried about you. You just disappeared.”

Your frown deepens. You can’t look at him right now. “Are they?”

He sounds impatient and you don’t blame him. “Yes. Can you come in?”

You sniffle, “in a minute.”

“Princess—“

“I said in a minute, okay? Just— give me a minute.”

He allows you silence for another minute. Two, actually, before walking closer. You can’t see him, but his presence is loud enough for you to know.

“Are you okay?”

You shake your head, “no.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

“No.” You breathe in deep, readying yourself for something you’ll probably regret later. But the sudden rush of courage is overwhelming, so you’ll take your chances. “I, uh… I’m always terrified of being exposed to hurt. And so I think, as a defense mechanism, I close up around people. At least the ones who show signs of disliking me.” His silence allows you to go on. “And I always got the impression that you hated me. I never knew what I had done, but I knew you didn’t like me, and that sent me into a fucking spiral because I hate when that happens.” You interrupt yourself in a chuckle, watching as lights flicker off in the distance. “And so maybe subconsciously, in the beginning, I made it a mission of mine to make you like me, you know? Which is why I used to try to talk, to keep conversation going, never shut my mouth. And when I realized that wasn’t working, I needed to shut myself off. Keep you as far away as possible because I knew you would hurt me one way or another.” One last deep breath helps you bask in this feeling of relief. For once in your life, you’re being honest.

“And so I know that I can be overbearingly rude, that I get on your nerves, but it’s because…” you can’t bring yourself to say the complete truth, so you modify it a little, “it’s because if you knew the real me, the version that everyone else knows, then you would know how to hurt me. And I didn’t want that to happen.”

His breathing changes, you hear it. You almost can’t believe you would open up like you did, but somewhere deep down you’re also proud of yourself.

“And I’ve realized now that… that somewhere along the way I got swept up in the illusion of it. The nights we spent together getting tattoos and drinking until morning, I took them for something they weren’t because I wanted it all to be real. I wanted for us to be real, I guess, for us to stop hating each other so much. I held onto the hope, but you would never communicate the same to me. And that scared me because I felt like I wasn’t enough for you. But instead of accepting it, I got meaner and more defensive because I felt played.”

“And I know it’s so… it’s so fucking weird for me to say this to you now like it’s some kind of confession, but… I just can’t shut up, so.”

You find it comical how it all flows out of you like water. How easy it seems now and how much of a big deal you used to make it.

“I never hated you.“ He says after a beat of quiet.

“You didn’t?” You ask as you turn around, pressing your back to the railing. He sticks his hands into the pockets of his washed out jeans and walks closer. He stops next to you, his arms resting on the railing. It’s his turn to watch the lights.

“No,” he shakes his head, taking a deep breath to brace himself. “I… when I saw you for the first time, I felt drawn. I thought you were sweet and funny, and you definitely had me wrapped around your fucking finger by the second time we met. It terrified me, how someone like you could have that effect on me.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone so caring and deserving of something more than I could offer her. What you said at the bar that night, it was true. It was all true. Because I never had to be a gentleman before, you know? I don’t exactly date. You know that.” You do. “And I knew that you could worm your way in and completely change my life if only you wanted to. You could hurt me a million times over and I would forgive you every time.”

You can feel his eyes on you, studying the curve of your nose like it’s something he wants to memorize. “I was insecure. I didn’t want to get hurt, so I chose to scare you off. But it was real, all of it; the nights we spent together, everything in between. I pretended like it wasn’t, but deep down I knew it would come to kick me in the ass.” You laugh at his choice of words; he smiles in return. “Because you’re… you’re perfect for me, you know? And letting myself be happy was too much to ask, so I resorted to being an arse. I figured if I could control how you felt about me, I could control how I felt about you.”

You always thought you and Harry were complete opposites... you’re talkative, Harry’s quiet. You’re warm, Harry’s cold. You can’t take it when people don’t like you, and Harry couldn’t give less of a shit.

But now you know that it isn’t the complete truth. Beneath that superficial layer you know so well, there are similar fears. At it’s base, you’re both scared of hurt. You’re scared of exploring unknown territory and risking everything in the name of something that could leave you heartbroken. It could all be for nothing.

And yet, could it not still be worth it?

“We’re both stupid.”

Harry chuckles, and you’re convinced it’s the most beautiful sound anyone could make.

He taps his fingers against the metal railing, nodding. “That we are.”

For the first time in a long time, the silence you share is comfortable. It isn’t courtesy of having too much to say and yet saying nothing, instead it’s courtesy of having said everything and agreeing it’s enough. For now, at least.

You smile to yourself.

The door opens, revealing a timid Jess.

“Hey guys, we’re about to cut into the cake.”

“We’re coming,” you say, sharing a short look with Harry. The two of you walk down the stairs, Harry behind you and Jess in front.

Nina embraces you, ushering both you and Harry closer. If she noticed you were gone, she doesn’t mention it and you’re thankful for that. Tonight, you just want to be a good friend.

And although you have more to say, you’re not worried. Because it’ll all be fine— you’ll be fine.

Nina blows out her candles, everyone erupts into cheers. You grin, sharing a look with Harry over the rim of your bottle. It’s longer this time, something worth holding onto. His eyes are daring, they’re sure, and most of all, they’re welcoming.

It’s a guarantee of trust, a confirmation of the beginning of a new chapter. And although you’re eager to explore it, you have no doubt in your mind that the story won’t come to an end for a while.

#harry styles #harry styles angst #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles x you #harry styles one shot #harry styles series #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles fandom #harry styles x y/n #frat boy harry

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spiderpussinc · 1 year ago

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are the 2099 comics THAT bad in terms of racism plus other weird writing choices??? i'm starved for miguel content and would like to read the original comic run but i keep seeing the debate of the original comics being problematic and/or downright just BAD bad (not to mention miguel is supposed to have mexican heritage but he's straight up a white redhead lol)

Some people may disagree but speaking as a latinx writer; it's bad because it is racist, yes! On multiple fronts!! And beyond that, it's also bad as a complete failure of comics structure and compelling narrative.

Longpost, on readmore;

I say this as a long-time capeshit reader, as politely as possible: Miguel's comics are a *paycheck* book. As in; a series a writer does monthly to be paid for it, but with middling aspirations and downright negative characterization depending on where their mood is.

The first few issues of his 1992 run are relatively complete and well-balanced, may even trick you into thinking this story is going somewhere; but that's only because they're the /character pitch./ Ill skip to the end and tell you upfront. That 1992 series ends with the implosion of the whole "2099" line of comics (an universe that included other books, like ghost rider, doom, etc, by other writers) due to dwindling public interest and mass cancellations. The end of that run is basically meaningless, since the whole thing got retconned - and even before that a guest writer had came in and made mistaken character reveals pdavid wasnt happy with and wanted to erase before the finale. The event book that wrapped up that universe was unironically, literally called -- "2099: Manifest Destiny."

Now, I don't like Peter David's writing. I think he's obsessed with the idea of building harems out of his female characters (when he's not fridging them, or making them act ~crazy~ to further alienate them from the protagonist) and it is the kind of grueling, joyless reading experience I can only describe as making you feel Oily Inside. This goes as far as multiple stalking plotlines, the inclusion of a guest appearance from AU s/x slaver Hulk in later years, Miguel's mother being strongly implied to have been forced into conceiving him by his real dad who's the evil CEO of alchemax, general torture painporn. His broader supporting cast is so interchangeable and disposable that they were literally disposed of.

In terms of the racism; I have mentioned how he uses cultures as tokens and does 0 research whatsoever. The way it feels and the way it is deployed is through a lens of Exoticism - tourism. Miguels suit is allegedly "a dia de los muertos costume" b/c pdavid seems to think that holiday is mexican halloween. In the orig book, you'll see plenty of broken japanese and stereotypical orientalist caricatures - after killing his first love interest, pdavid introduces a japanese girl who is unironically, literally named "Xina" (that pretends to be chinese on occasion) to fill in the vacant role. Miguel himself falls right into all the usual latino stereotypes — short tempered, drug addict, sex magnet "latin lover" (this last one also applied to his brother Gabriel, who for the longest time is characterized by just Going Through A Lot Of Girlfriends). And it's kind of insane bc he's still being drawn as a deeply deeply white man, but not even that takes off the burden of the racial microagressions!!! They're the only times pdavid seems to remember that heritage! Then there's the commemorative hanging page. Since you mention the redheadedness; thats another insane thing to me. He has 0% of irish in him. His dad is Blond. Who is this man?

Most of the info in the 2099 run is either revealed to be a lie midway thru (miguel is not mr o'hara's son, nor addicted to rapture) or completely retconned away to be rewritten in new runs. Different writers have tried to come in and do miguel in other team/event books but frankly nothing stands out and most of them get marked as alternate-miguels. Unfortunately, every time marvel decided to give another shot at spider-man 2099 they also brought pdavid back. The newer books were never a success, and theyre just as filled w/ the garbage i mentioned earlier (wow! Steampunk spider-woman is given to pdavid for *ONE* issue and instantly tonguekisses gabriel before leaving, so novel. More fridging ensues. Stalking. Etc.) 2099 as an *universe* has been retconned so many times Nothing is consistent and Nothing is set on stone and frankly i think they should make it an AU separate from main canon and build a whole new world already.

The art in the 2015 + runs consists mostly of tracing, and more of that oily weird feeling applied to fem chars. Perhaps you have noticed in this entire hate review have never once spoken about Miguel's heroic plots and memorable villains --- he has none. At least nothing I can remember or distinguish. (Interchangeable, disposable, etc) There is a vague inkling of "this is an anti-stabilishment spiderman, he fights against The Public Eye, the Corporation Cops!" at the start but much like his cultural illiteracy pdavid has no real insightful politics commentary, so that dissolves into the background in time. Its all buzzwords. All of his plotlines are solved in circuitous or soap operaish extradrama ways; and while some of this is present in other superhero comics, what stands out to me MOST is how utterly fucking joyless Miguel's comics are. It's like going through a slog on obligation. They genuinely gave me a headache every time.

ATSV does a great job of reinventing Miguel and rebuilding the parts of him that showed real promise. Being a different tone-swapped spiderman, futuristic, being more on the tech-science side of crime fighting. Him being a single dad with a daughter is also new. (And he is single! There is no singular mention of marriage or a wife anywhere, he's a geneticist, multiple spider-men we see in this movie were literal clones made in tubes - i am fond of the idea he's a transmasc dad but even if you think he's cis he could have made that baby himself. Adoption is also always there.) I think its very clear ATSV didn't want to bring any of pdavids major weird shit w fem chars to the big screen on the hopes that miguel gets rebooted eventually. I think he's gay. Nobody can prove me wrong.

On that note, Steve Orlando (queer writer, also wrote for DC's midnighter/apollo) did some of the latest 2022/2023 Miguel miniseries. Another reboot! Those were "2099: Exodus" and "Spider-man 2099: Dark Genesis" - i think its campier/trying to tackle superhero plots more head on and trying to do something wide wacky cast focused at Marvel's personal request, but Miguel's future is very up in the air rn. I do really hope they reboot him into something closer to ATSV with latines at the center soon.

What I always reccomend for people curious abt miguel: read his first 3ish 1992 issues, get a general feel and close the book as soon as you feel annoyed. It won't get better. Remember none of it is canon nor has been relevant in over two decades. If you want to know the wider context of his messy chronology, check out some of the 2099 "all comics" type of youtube videos, theres some pretty easy to digest summarizations if u dont wanna waste ur time reading stuff that just got retconned again lol. Most writers now are operating on vibes and that is a freedom you should also allow yourself in your own fanwork.

Putting his panels out of context can be very funny though. (For further curiosity or tangents, there's always my meta tag)

#meta tag #asks #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #atsv #my spider stuff #atsv miguel #miguel atsv #marvel comics #spiderman #itsv #2099

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acertaincritic · 4 months ago

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Episode 9 & the season overall

MEEEEEH

Do I need to say more?

Like yes, fine, overall, it's not as bad as the previous two seasons. Overall, this was the best season since season 2.

But let's be honest, it's not some high benchmark to clear.

Structurally, this episode's problem is that it's the final episode yet it has the structure of an early-in-season episode. It solves a personal issue of Rayla and it deals out Aaravos's backstory, and it even recaps early seasons! If not for Aaravos's return in the end, this could've been the first episode of the last season. It still could've been, just move his return one episode earlier and the rest could stay the same. No reason Aaravos can't explain his backstory to Claudia after she lets him out. The whole "cast spell with love" was a bullshit excuse.

But the most prevalent issue of this whole series is its refusal to put its heroes through any meaningful trials or tribulations. Any time they have any meaningful choice to make, the story ultimately makes it so they don't have to pay the cost. Some examples:

Rayla decides to lose her hand instead of killing Ezran - Zym just breaks her hand-cutting bracelet.

Callum decides to use dark magic and regrets it - he just gets primal magic he can use with clear conscience. He arguably chooses wrong and then he's still given the good magic in reward.

That also entirely nullifies his initial choice of "use dark magic or have no magic." He just gets good magic.

Claudia kills a deer to heal Soren's legs and in the end... Nothing? She gets ugly I guess? Soren is perfectly fine, it doesn't matter that such a powerful dark magic was used on him, at most it's Claudia who bears the cost, and it's not clear what "looking ugly" really does, if anything at all.

The Dragon Mom ignores her injury and pretends she's fine - when she stops being fine she just stumbles across a healer by accident.

Or just this season:

Callum gets healed from using dark magic by a ritual. They say it's dangerous but eh, it seemed pretty easy, half an episode and done, and he's fine and has his primal magic. No cost.

Rayla thinks she'll have to choose who to save, but in the end her parents are at peace and happy to go. She doesn't really have to choose, she just goes with what the other people choose.

The Sun Queen strikes out at her brother's forces and in the end nothing happens to her lol. That whole Z plot line was ultimately a nothingburger. The big sun dragon wasn't even needed to release Aaravos. You could've entirely cut it out and just have Claudia sneak into the castle to get the egg!

And so on and so on. And it's just so tiring, because we're dangled nice stuff in front of us, like a possession arc, but then nothing happens.

Claudia just lets Aaravos out like she's intended for three full seasons. It's just dull. It's boring! It's, well, it's the definition of meh.

Guys tell me, seriously, am I the weird one? Is it weird for me that I expect the heroes to have to deal with complex issues and hard choices, and not the villains? Am I asking for too much?

Because it feels like the creators had some nice epic pictures in their heads, like Katolis burning or a big battle among the Sun Elves, but they just can't or won't commit to them. They don't write a meaningful story to accompany those pictures. All the heaviness is put on the antagonists, while the heroes, if they have any issues, typically resolve them within one episode - like the Sun Queen had a one episode long "arc," but she just had to listen to a story and she's perfect and flawless again! Callum's arc of struggling with dark magic and possession is the only such one, and it still came to an anticlimactic, easy end with the cleansing ritual.

Yes, the show can still do something with it. If I had more trust in this series and its writing, I'd say that sometime in the next season, Callum is going to use dark magic to save Rayla, breaking his promise, and then she'll be unable to kill him, breaking her promise, and they'll need to put themselves back together and come back from that.

But... I don't have any trust in this series at this point. They used false advertising in the trailer! There wasn't any scene with Callum having black eyes this season, yet they even used it as a thumbnail?

So with my zero faith in the writing of TDP, I'm presuming there will come a moment when it'll look like Callum might use dark magic again, but he'll then refuse and instead of suffering any consequences, he and others will be promptly rescued by someone, like maybe the Dragon Mom coming back during the final battle or something like that.

Because the heroes just got to choose right and they'll suffer no consequences for it. I guess the moral of the story is "just be good and things will work out on their own." In other words... "trust in God/Fate."

Amazing. That's exactly the message to teach kids, instead of "sometimes doing good is hard but it's still worthwhile" or "be smart and creative and you'll find a solution" or idk a hundred other messages this show could've had.

Like seriously, the setup where humans don't have inborn magic and elves do is such an amazing one. It could've been a story about humans outsmarting elves, about figuring out other ways to use magic, about not letting their lack of power put them down.

But nooo. Instead it's a story about those born powerful being always good and beautiful, and only a couple of them are bad apples - usually because they're deceived by one particularly bad apple. And if you're born without power (privilege, khy khy) you should just accept it and you'll be rewarded by fate/those with power.

This show is progressive?

#the dragon prince #tdp season 6 #tdp spoilers #live reaction #rant #review #stuff

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fandomstatewrites · 17 days ago

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— IGNITUS (I)

pairing: sauron | annatar x narien (original elven female character)

summary: after the fall of eregion, narien flees with sauron, finding brief repose in a mountainside. they both must decide what to do with the blooming alliance between them.

warnings: mention of nudity, lowkey weird vibes from sauron, angst, wound + wound care

word count: 6.8k

author's note: this has absolutely no plot lol. i wanted to just write whatever came to my head so I gave myself a blank doc and said go crazy. maybe it will eventually turn into something more structured but alas. also narien and her people are my own creation and i did my best to build them within the realms of the canon. if you want to learn more about her check out my art account @nataliabdraws this was not beta read and may contain errors

The Misty Mountains rise before them like jagged teeth, snow caught in the ridges, in the deep furrows of ancient stone. Narien's breath comes short in the thin air, crystalizing in front of her face. Her fingers, though wrapped in wool and leather, have long since gone numb where they grip the wyvern's reins. The creature's wings beat a steady rhythm against the bitter wind, each movement drawing them closer to their destination. Far now from the burning wreckage of Eregion.

The Deceiver is a weight at her back, pressing close enough that she can feel the unnatural heat of him even through her cloak and armor. Close enough that when she chances a glance over her shoulder, she can see how the shadows pool beneath his eyes, how they gather in the hollows of his face. There is something hungry in his expression—something that makes her think of wolves in winter, lean and patient.

"Where are you taking us?"

His mouth is fever-hot against her neck when he speaks, and she can feel the shape of his teeth behind his lips. The urge to bare her throat wars with the instinct to pull away. She does neither.

"Not much farther," she manages, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. Despite how the air seems to thicken around them, pressing down like storm clouds, like the weight of his attention focused solely on her.

The sound he makes is neither human nor beast—a low vibration that she feels more than hears, traveling up her spine. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or anticipation.

When the pillars come into view, Narien's breath catches. They rise from the mountainside like the remains of something once-holy, now desecrated. Rain and wind have left their mark in deep gouges, in twisted shapes. The entrance they frame is black as pitch, a mouth opened wide in the grey stone. Waiting.

The impact of Angruin's landing shudders through stone and bone alike. Narien's dismount is less graceful than intended—her legs lock beneath her, muscles screaming from hours astride.

The cold here bites deeper, settling into her bones, clinging to the marrow like a starving thing. She can’t quite swallow the sound that escapes her—half pain, half exhaustion. The mountain swallows it, unmoved by her weakness.

When Sauron slides down from the wyvern’s back, something is wrong in the way he moves. His limbs shift too smoothly, each motion practiced, precise, almost unnatural. He pauses, his gaze resting on Angruin with an intent that borders on childlike fascination. For just a moment, she glimpses something beneath the mask—a hint of wonder, perhaps joy, before it sinks back into shadow.

His gaze finds her, and the weight of it pulls the air from her lungs.

The wind does not simply blow here—it keens, high and hollow, a sound like grief made manifest. It plucks at their cloaks with greedy fingers, scattering loose stone into the endless dark of the chasm below. The shadows gather thick in the doorway, viscous as old blood, beckoning them closer with promises that taste of ash and defiance.

"What... is this place?"

Inside, the mountain's chill presses against Narien's bones, seeping through wool and leather until her teeth ache with it. Her words emerge as mist in the stale air: "Erair’s Hold." She can feel him listening, the weight of his attention heavy on her neck. "My uncle carved these halls. A monk's devotion made flesh in stone."

The corridors swallow their footsteps, hungry for the sound of life after so much silence. Narien's fingertips brush the wall—rough stone worn smooth by countless hands before hers, each touch a prayer or plea long forgotten.

When the passage opens, the darkness is absolute. Like being swallowed. Guttering torches cast more shadow than light, their flames cowering in their sconces as though they know what manner of creature walks among them. The pillars that rise into the gloom above are twisted things, corrupted by time or something worse—she cannot bear to look at them directly.

"And what gods," he says, inquisitive, "demanded such devoted emptiness?"

The statues watch them pass with blind eyes, their faces worn to nothing by centuries of mountain wind. Once they might have been kings, or saints, or demons. Now they are only stone, bearing silent witness to this new sacrilege.

"I know not," she whispers, though the words catch in her throat like thorns. The air here is thick with age and endings, pressing down until each breath feels like theft. As though the mountain itself rejects their presence, knowing what they bring into this sacred place. What they will take from it.

Each pulse of pain in her side brings memory: blood-slick grass in Eregion, the singing flight of arrows, the moment steel found flesh. The spear has become her crutch, though pride keeps her from admitting how much of her weight it truly bears.

"A refuge," she says, the words thick in her throat. Her uncle's faith seems distant now, fragile as spring ice. Sacred spaces. As if anything could remain untouched by what stalks these halls.

The wound makes each step a fresh torment. Black spots dance at the edges of her vision, and she can feel wetness seeping through her bandages—blood or something worse. Her strength bleeds away like water through cupped hands, impossible to hold. Soon the stone itself will have to catch her.

Better here, she thinks with bitter humor, than tumbling from Angruin's back into the void.

"I need to tend to myself." Her voice sounds hollow. He remains perfectly still in the cavern's mouth, a dark shape cut from darker night. Only his eyes move, following her with an intensity that makes her skin prickle with animal awareness. Like being watched by something ancient and patient. Something that has all the time in the world to wait.

"Stay if you wish." The words catch in her throat when she meets his gaze. "Or find your own refuge."

She turns away before he can answer, but she can still feel the weight of his attention like hands pressed to bare skin. Like ownership. Like hunger.

The darkness swallows her whole.

Smoke knows him. It curls around his form like a devoted pet, seeking the spaces between his fingers, the hollow of his throat. Sauron breathes it in, letting ash coat his tongue, settle in his lungs. Victory tastes like this—bitter and sweet at once, familiar as an old lover's touch. How fitting that destruction drapes itself over him like a second skin, like something earned. Once, he had drawn fire from nothing, bent the world's bones to his will with barely a thought. Now the evidence of ruin clings to him, desperate, as though afraid he might try to wash it clean.

But why would he? Eregion laid broken beneath his feet, ground to dust and scattered like seeds that will grow nothing but grief. Just as it should be.

Blood has dried his robes stiff as armor, crackling with each movement. An inconvenience, nothing more—this flesh is merely borrowed anyway, a vessel to contain what cannot truly be contained. Soot works its way beneath his skin like prophecy, like promise, even as the wind tries uselessly to sweep it away. As if he could be made pure again.

And then there is Narien.

She wears battle's aftermath like a crown, all savage grace and unspent fury. Grime and blood paint her skin in patterns that please him—war-marks that speak of efficiency, of brutality barely leashed. Her eyes catch torchlight like a beast's, reflecting something wild and hungry back at him. Something he recognizes.

Something in him stirs watching her move through her domain—the way she commands both beast and blade with such easy grace. Admiration would be too simple a word for what he feels. Too mortal. No, she is more like a particularly fascinating specimen, the way she cuts through her enemies without hesitation, the way power sits so naturally on her shoulders.

He might keep her, he thinks. For now.

The thought brings a particular satisfaction he chooses not to examine. Like Galadriel had been, all righteous fury and blazing light, believing herself his equal. His mouth curves remembering that defiance, how sweetly it had crumbled in the end. Even stars can be devoured, given time.

The leather pouch finds his fingers like an old lover's touch. Inside, the rings wait with patient hunger—each one a perfect trap, destiny shaped in metal and stone. His touch has already darkened the leather, the way everything he handles eventually stains.

His thoughts turn to Narien despite himself.

Queen of the dragonlords, they name her. Queen. The word tastes unfinished on his tongue, waiting to be remade. She carries authority well enough—that particular way she has of bending others to her will with nothing but a glance. But he wonders what she might become with proper guidance. If she would accept his gifts with grateful hands, or if some trace of older power might make her... resistant.

The possibility pleases him more than it should.

Time enough to shape her properly. After all, corruption is sweetest when it comes slowly, drop by careful drop.

Until even queens learn to yield.

A ring would sit pretty on her finger. He imagines how the corruption would spread—slow at first, sweet as honey in wine, until she belonged to him entirely. Though perhaps—and this thought warms him more—she might resist. His little queen, proving herself worth the effort of breaking properly. If nothing else, she promises better entertainment than the pathetic creatures who call themselves her allies.

She's vanished while his mind wandered, but he can still feel where she's been, like heat lingering on skin. Blood marks her path across stone—bright drops scattered like rubies. His eyes narrow at the sight. She hadn't seemed badly wounded in their flight, but then, Narien hoards her weaknesses close as dragon-gold. Pride makes her foolish that way.

Something dark coils beneath his ribs. If she thinks to run now, when he still has need of her, when her part in his design remains unfinished—well. His plans cannot afford such... rebellion.

The leather pouch burns against his palm, rings pressing sharp through fabric. He tucks them away with careful fingers that betray none of the hunger building in his chest. No. She will not slip from his grasp so easily. She's far too precious for that.

Her defiance kindles something ancient in him. Something that remembers exactly how to teach such lessons.

He follows her blood like thread through shadow. Like tracking some wild thing that hasn't learned it's already his.

After all, everything here belongs to him.

She'll understand soon enough.

The Hold remembers its own antiquity—dust thick as sin coating his tongue, cobwebs trembling at his passing like old prophecies waiting to be fulfilled. He pays little mind to the decay. His attention fixes solely on the blood trail leading him forward, each drop still wet enough to catch what little light remains. How quaint, that she thinks to hide from him here.

The chamber opens before him with an exhale of stale air. A bed drowned in shadow, its linens gray as burial cloth. Her spear watches him pass with its dragon-eyes, abandoned like everything else she's left behind.

For a moment, silence stretches tight as a bowstring.

Then—

Drip.

He follows the sound, each step careful, deliberate, savoring the strange intimacy of the moment. Behind an old oak wardrobe, tucked into the rock itself, he finds it—an alcove with a bath carved straight from the mountain stone. Steam rises in soft, twisting wisps, curling and vanishing into the still, stale air. Her clothes lie in a blood-streaked heap at the foot of the bath, abandoned, half-forgotten, in a state of disarray.

Narien sits curled in water gone pink with her own essence, knees drawn to chest like some half-feral thing. Wine-dark hair spills loose, catching what little light remains until it burns like ember-glow against pale skin.

She doesn't notice him yet. Too lost in whatever fury keeps her spine so straight, her jaw so tight. He finds himself oddly pleased by the sight—this strange, savage creature wearing anger like a crown. There's something almost... endearing about her attempt at dignity, even now.

He stays in the doorway, content to watch. To study how she holds herself together with nothing but spite and will, glaring at stone as if it might crumble under her gaze alone. Such delicious defiance in every line of her body, even as blood seeps steadily from her wounds.

The gash in her arm weeps steady crimson, each drop a small sacrifice to the bathwater below. He follows its path with ancient eyes—the way it winds over her chest, between her breasts, dispersing into pink-tinged water like wine into clear spirit. Her body tells stories in its scars, a history written in flesh. So young, to wear violence like fine jewelry.

He can taste the copper-sweet scent of her blood in the air, mixing with steam until it coats his tongue like memories of older wars, older wounds. The tension in her shoulders speaks volumes—some deeper hurt than mere flesh, some weight that presses against her bones until they threaten to crack beneath it.

"Narien?"

Her name falls from his lips—gentle but unmistakably a command. She takes too long to find his gaze, lost somewhere in that peculiar mortal tendency toward introspection. When she does look, her eyes are dark as wells, pupils blown wide with something that isn't quite pain.

How fascinating, to watch her fragment so quietly.

The war has carved pieces from her, yes, but it's the loss that interests him more—the way it sits beneath her skin like a fever. Eregion's victory carries a price she hasn't finished paying, one that writes itself in the fine lines of her face, in the careful way she holds herself together.

"Narien?"

Drip.

Her blood keeps time between them, steady as a heartbeat. Something old and hungry stirs in him at her continued silence—he is unused to being denied attention, especially by creatures who should know better. He moves forward with careful intent, each step measured until he towers over her bath, close enough to catch the heat rising from her skin.

Still she looks through him, past him, at something he cannot see. Her stillness is almost perfect, save for the steady seep of red that paints the water in spreading rings.

His eyes trace the path of her blood, the vibrant streak against her pale skin. Her lips part slightly, just enough to suggest a whisper waiting to escape, but nothing comes—only the relentless drip, drip, drip echoing in the still air.

Without a word, Sauron reaches for the rag draped over the rim of the tub, his fingers curling around it. He dips it into the water, watching the fabric darken as it soaks up her blood. Slowly, he drags the cloth along her arm, wiping away the crimson with meticulous, deliberate strokes, the heat stinging his fingertips. Narien flinches—a small, involuntary jerk of her elbow—but she doesn’t pull away.

When the blood is finally gone, wiped clean from her skin, he leans in closer, his fingers reaching out to brush lightly against the wound. The contact is delicate—a mere touch, but enough to send a jolt of pain through her, enough to make her eyes snap to his with sudden, startled awareness. For a moment, her dark gaze locks with his, pupils blown wide, her expression caught somewhere between shock and suspicion.

With a faint, almost imperceptible shift of his fingers, the wound begins to close. Shadows stir at the edges of his touch, knitting her flesh together with an unseen thread, pulling the skin tight and whole as if it had never been torn. The injury vanishes, erased by a power older than the mountains that cradle them, a power as subtle as it is terrifying.

He expects relief in her eyes, perhaps even gratitude. For most, the sight of such healing, the sudden absence of pain, would have elicited thanks, or at the very least, a softening of the gaze. But when he looks up, he finds nothing of the sort.

She stares at him with eyes gone dark as wells, terror written in every line of her face. Not the meek fear of mortals faced with power beyond their ken—no, this is older. Primal. The kind of recognition that lives in blood and bone, passed down through generations since the First Age.

"Get away!"

Her voice cracks like ice in spring, high and sharp and desperate. Water surges over the bath's edges as she recoils, the sound of it against stone echoing like broken bells. Each breath comes quick and shallow—not the measured control of elvish grace, but something raw and animal that pleases him despite himself.

He remains still, letting her panic fill the space between them. How fascinating, to see her stripped of that careful pride, that cultivated strength. Here, bare of armor and pretense, she is almost... delicate. He hadn't meant to frighten her quite like this, but the knowledge settles sweet as honey in his chest.

The bloodied cloth drops from his fingers with deliberate care. Such a small thing to break her composure so completely—but she watches it fall as though it carries all the weight of prophecy, all the terrible truth of what he is beneath this borrowed flesh. Her chest heaves with each breath, tears cutting clean tracks down sharp cheekbones.

"Narien."

He shapes her name carefully, lets it carry just enough command to remind her what she is, what she was before terror took root. He has no interest in offering comfort—but there are other ways to gentle wild things when necessary.

Still that haunted look remains, that bone-deep recognition that speaks of memories older than forests. How unexpected, these tears on her proud face. This trembling in limbs made for war. Has he truly reached past her carefully constructed walls so easily?

“Begone! Leave me!” Her voice splinters on the brittle command, high and sharp, cracking like a blade against stone. She throws it at him, but the words scatter, hollow, hanging in the air with no weight behind them. It’s fear speaking—raw and cracked—not the queen of dragonlords.

For one indulgent moment, he considers disobeying, a test to see if any trace remains of the woman who had once fixed him with a glare aflame with fury and pride. Instead, he lets the silence press between them, savoring how her defiance falters, fraying beneath the heat of his gaze.

This—this is not Narien. Narien is fierce, proud, unbreakable; she does not retreat, does not tremble. The sight before him unsettles him, worms beneath his skin in a way he cannot quite name. His mind twists around the image of her—her blood diffusing like ink in water, the tremor in her fingers as she gripped the edge of the tub. She has faced death, she has weathered storms that would break any other. Yet here she stands, shrinking from him, eyes wide with a terror that clings too close to her skin, fragile as frost.

For the briefest moment, he hesitates. Uncertainty coils within him, unwelcome and unfamiliar, stirring something he cannot name. He does not know what to do with this fractured, fearful creature that glares back at him with eyes both desperate and defiant. He does not understand this sudden collapse, this breach in her carefully maintained armor, or why panic blooms from her like smoke. Had he miscalculated so disastrously? What had cracked her open like this, this queen who ought to wear her wounds like a crown, who had spilled blood at his side? Why now does she pull away from the hand that could steady her.

Perhaps it’s the realization of her own fragility—the understanding, finally sinking in, that her pride and strength mean little when the body fractures. Or perhaps it’s the weight of her failures pressing too hard, deep enough to crack that self-made armor she clings to so stubbornly. Or perhaps, he muses with the faintest smirk, it’s the sheer contrast that unnerves her—her blood, her pain laid bare in the steam, while he stands unscathed, untouched, as if nothing in this world could lay a finger on him if it tried.

He rises slowly, unfolding to his full height with a languid, deliberate ease. This moment unsettles him, he admits. Her disorder, the chaos of her brokenness creeping into his presence, feels like an unwanted guest in the carefully ordered halls of his mind. Her fear lingers in the air, thick and tainted, and for the first time in an age, something in this world dares to move just beyond his control. He knows only that it cannot linger.

Whatever this is—this fracture in her—it must end.

Without another word, he steps back, letting the quiet pull her brokenness away like a severed thread.

And he leaves.

The bathwater has gone cold, though Narien barely notices through the tremors wracking her frame.

Strange, how silence can press against skin like a physical thing, how it fills lungs with each breath until even thinking becomes an effort. Her thoughts move thick as sap, dragging themselves through her mind as though weighted with lead.

The water around her has turned to dirt-dark soup, blood and earth painting patterns she doesn't care to interpret. Iron coats her tongue, familiar as home, as victory—but this taste speaks only of defeat.

Her fingers find the place where his power touched her.

The skin lies smooth now, perfect as new-fallen snow. As if the wound had never existed, had never bled her essence into his keeping. But the memory of his touch lingers like frost—precise and gentle in a way that makes her stomach turn. His fingers had been unexpectedly soft against her flesh, like the first kiss of a blade before it bites deep.

She hadn't meant to bare her teeth at him like some wild thing. Hadn't intended for those jagged words to tear themselves from her throat, each one raw as a fresh wound. She can't even remember what she said—only remembers how it felt, like swallowing broken glass, like screaming into void.

The water ripples with her shivers. Or perhaps it's laughter. After all, what is there to do when you realize the monster wearing a friend's face has just shown you its teeth?

But she cannot forget the terror that had flashed through her like lightning, quick and blinding, the moment he touched her. It was irrational—dog-like, as she bitterly thinks now—and yet it had been real, the kind of terror that seizes the body before the mind can make sense of it. That sudden spark of fear, so foreign to her, still burns at the edges of her consciousness, refusing to be snuffed out.

The water runs cold, fingers pressed to the unblemished skin of her forearm. The unmarred flesh mocks her—pristine and perfect where moments ago blood had welled dark and thick from the gash. She presses harder, as if she could conjure back the wound through will alone, restore the honest pain of it. But there is only smooth skin beneath her touch, only the persistent memory of his fingers there, gentle and sure.

She hadn't meant to let him so close. Hadn't meant to give him the satisfaction of seeing her hunched and bleeding, hadn't meant to feed that hungry light in his eyes when he reached for her arm. The wound had sealed beneath his touch like wax melting backwards, flesh knitting whole in a heartbeat. Her gorge had risen at the sight—not at the healing itself, but at the intimacy of it. The presumption.

The room feels too small now, the walls pressing in as her thoughts circle, and she can’t shake the feeling that Sauron, even after leaving, is still here, lingering in the air, watching her unravel.

The bathwater drains with a wet, gasping sound—like something dying, watching the clouded water spiral away. Blood and dirt disappear down the gullet of stone, but the memory of his touch remains, stubborn as a bruise beneath her skin. Narien fills the bath again, hardly waiting for the steam to rise before she's working the soap between her palms, scrubbing at her flesh as if she might scour away more than just the battle's remains. As if she might wash away the crawling sensation of flesh knitting whole beneath his fingers, the way her body had betrayed her by accepting his aid so readily.

It takes three attempts to rise—her body protesting with each movement, her limbs slow, heavy, reluctant to obey. The exhaustion settles in her bones, thick and unyielding, as though each muscle has turned to stone. She towels off quickly, her motions mechanical, almost detached, and wraps herself in a soft pale gown and midnight grey over robe she finds in the wardrobe, the fabric soft and worn, as though it’s been waiting for centuries to be touched again. She runs her fingers over the material absentmindedly, wondering how long it has sat there, forgotten, gathering dust in this decaying fortress. It smells faintly of age, of disuse—of a place that once thrived, now lost to time and neglect.

Pulling her cloak tighter for warmth, she grabs her spear and steps out into the corridor. The hall is empty, dim, the light barely enough to cast shadows, but at least the air is fresher here, not thick with the stagnant dampness of the bath. She pads along the cold stone floor, her footsteps soft, but the silence is so absolute that even the smallest sound seems to echo, bouncing off the walls in a ghostly whisper.

The fortress holds its silence like an old secret, and Narien finds herself counting heartbeats, breaths, the soft whisper of cloth against skin—each sound unnaturally loud in spaces meant for armies. No servants hurry through these halls, no guards stand watch. Even the dust seems to pause in its endless falling, as though waiting for permission to settle.

The walls remember greater days. Now they lean inward like dying things, their strength turned brittle as old bone. She pulls her cloak tighter, though the chill that follows her has little to do with cold.

Since the bath, he has played at shadows—there and gone, like trying to catch smoke between fingers. But his presence fills every corner of this place, thick as incense, patient as stone. The weight of it presses against her skin, against her thoughts, until she can taste it on her tongue.

When she finds him, he's arranged himself with careful precision behind a scarred table—every fold of his robes exactly where it should be, as though even fabric knows better than to defy him. His hair catches torchlight like spun gold, while she still wears battle's grime beneath her skin. The contrast pleases him, she thinks. This evidence of how unlike they are.

A scroll sprawls across the table's surface, its edges curling with age. His fingers drift across ancient words with casual possession, as though everything here exists solely for his touch.

"Have a good bath?"

The question falls sweet as honey from his mouth. He doesn't bother looking up from his staged disinterest. Narien narrows her eyes at him, the irritation flaring hotter now, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak. There is no warmth in his tone, no concern, no acknowledgment of the vulnerability she had shown in the bath—in her panic. Only this mocking, this dismissal, as if her struggles, her pain, were nothing more than a momentary inconvenience to him, a passing amusement.

"I could have done without being interrupted by you." The words come steady despite the water's chill seeping into her bones, despite how her body aches with battle-memory and lost blood.

She shouldn't provoke him. Not when exhaustion makes her limbs feel like lead, not when she can barely hold her head up. But something in her refuses to yield, even now—especially now—with his eyes on her skin.

"It is nothing I have not seen before," he says, voice rich with that particular casualness that makes her teeth ache. As though her nakedness were some quaint thing to be observed and dismissed. As though she were another curiosity in his collection of ancient things.

His indifference burns worse than the wounds. Something hot and dangerous coils in her belly, tasting like copper, like pride.

Heat floods her cheeks, a deep flush that she knows betrays her anger. It rises fast, hot, and sudden, and she is sure she must look as red as her hair now, her temper unraveling in her chest like fire. Without thinking, without hesitation, she leans her spear against the table with a loud, deliberate CLANK, the metal tip of the weapon clinking sharply against the stone floor—a declaration of her distaste.

"You have a curious knack for forging alliances, I do not need your care."

Her gaze holds steady, unwavering, piercing through his composure with a silent demand—as though, if she only stares long enough, she might unearth whatever lies beneath that smooth, practiced mask. Yet the Maia meets her gaze without a flicker, his expression molded into an unsettling calm, observing her with the cool, idle interest of a scientist studying a specimen: something curious, yet ultimately trivial.

"Perhaps not," he murmurs, his voice soft, laced with a shadow of private amusement. "And yet, here you are. Seeking me out once more."

Her lips tighten, a flash of irritation sparking behind her eyes. She reins in the impulse, her voice emerging in a measured, deliberate tone. "Mind yourself. I am the one who offers you shelter and I am the one who can take it away."

He lifts his hands, palms outward in a placating gesture, though the smile that tugs at his mouth is knife-thin, predatory. “Forgive me. A careless choice of words.”

The sound she makes is all spite and steel, bitter enough to cut. She lets quiet fill the space between them, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest expanding until she is forced to expel it. "I have an offer for you."

The deceiver’s lips split, wolfish. “Indulge me,”

She does: “Come the dawn, I will leave. I offer to take you wherever in this middle earth you wish to be delivered and we go our own ways.”

“Or?”

“You return with me to Aldrast—as a guest.”

This pulls his spine straight. “A curious proposal. Might I know the terms of this… offer?”

It seemed nothing in this world came without clauses. Narien knew as much. She drew her own.

“At Aldrast, you are under my rule as Queen. No chaos shall be sewn amongst my people. No bloodshed.”

She watches as the offer turns in his mind, like dark tides shifting behind those eyes. A muscle flickers in his jaw, his expression unreadable until he finally nods, relenting.

"Very well. I will go with you."

Narien tempers her small victory with a curt nod, her fingers closing around the haft of her spear where it rests. The weight of it is reassuring, grounding her. “We will meet at dawn,” she says, her tone clipped, businesslike.

Without another glance, she turns on her heel, the spear tapping softly against the stone floor as she leaves him behind. "Goodnight."

Sleep refuses to find Narien. She lies in the moth-eaten bed, staring up at the weathered canopy above. The faded green fabric has a sickly hue, as though someone had died in these very sheets and, with twisted decency, allowed themselves to be buried beneath the earth. The blankets itch against her skin, the pillows are misshapen, and the mattress beneath her feels more like stone than anything meant for rest. Even the faint, cloying scent of age and disuse unsettles her. How long had this room been abandoned? How many visitors had once laid in this bed?

Narien’s fingers absently pick at the embroidery on the pillow clutched to her chest, the threads unraveling beneath her nails. She rolls the offer she made to Sauron over in her mind, the words heavy, clinging to her thoughts like damp fog. Inviting him into her home—into Aldrast—was not a decision she had ever imagined herself making. But the truth is clear enough: the Elves are untouchable without his help. He now commands an army of Uruks, a force she needs. There’s no point in lying to herself. The alliance between them isn’t born of trust or choice—it’s a necessity.

If Sauron poses a threat to her, to her people, she will handle it. She must. She would keep him contained—at least, she would try. Yet beneath the surface, something hums inside her, not quite fear, not quite anger—something akin to excitement. The thrill of ambitions she had long since buried, the kind she told herself were out of reach. There had always been reasons, hadn’t there? Her husband, her son, the fragile threads of duty that kept her from clawing at the desires festering beneath her skin since exile.

But now, with Sauron’s power so near, she feels it again—that itch—the one that had waited all along. If it was a monster the Elves had seen in her all those years ago, perhaps a monster was what she would become.

—

Morning breaks with a cruelty that feels personal, the sky a brittle blue, as if made to shatter. The cold sinks its teeth into Narien’s skin, sharp as any blade, leaving only the sting behind. Her breath clouds in front of her, thick and fleeting, a ghost in the dawn—a reminder she is still here, still breathing.

The sun rises slowly, hesitant, its light creeping over the horizon as if unwilling to chase away the night. The scent of wet stone lingers, mingling with the dampness of old earth, the memory of last night’s rain refusing to let go. Narien pulls on her war-stained clothes, the fabric stiff with dried blood and grime. The weight of it all presses down on her, but she wears it like regalia.

Her fingers split the tangled waves of her wine-red hair, combing out the knots with methodical care. The heavy mane falls back as she ties it with a worn strip of leather, the braid settling down her spine. She has always worn it long—always—and its weight is a comfort, a small piece of herself she still knows.

Her hand finds the spear, the cool metal grounding her, stilling the faint tremors that linger in her limbs. The sanctuary looms ahead, a dark hollow against the cloud-choked mountains. Far below, shrouded in mist, lies the Gap of Rohan—and beyond that, home. But here, high above the world, there is only the fortress, the wind slicing through the silence, and the weight of what is to come.

Sauron stands in the archway, black and gold robes whipping violently in the wind. His hair, like spun gold, catches the dawn, turning into molten fire under the light. He waits, unmoving, until her footsteps draw near. His gaze finds hers, sharp as the morning chill, already calculating the distance she has traveled, the weight of every step.

“Did you sleep?”

“Well enough.” Narien adjusts the scabbard on her hip. His eyes are on her, reading her, seeing too much. She wonders how much of her restless night he already knows.

“Good.”

“And you?”

He shrugs, the movement lazy, almost indifferent. “It’s not something I require.”

Of course not.

“Your beast will not settle,” Sauron murmurs, his voice roughened by an edge of irritation, the kind that seeps through despite his best attempts to conceal it. His gaze drifts towards the horizon, narrowing, as if the answers he sought lay somewhere beyond the world's edge. For a moment, the calm facade wavers, the ancient patience of a Maia, cracking. Overhead, a bellow rolls through the sky, low and resonant—a defiant challenge that thrums against the quiet dawn.

“It has been restless all night.”

Beast. The word digs beneath Narien's skin, raw and barbed, leaving behind a sting that burns. Her jaw tightens, a cold fire simmering low, kindled by the insult. Her response, when it comes, is sharper than she intends: “She is not a beast.”

Sauron’s gaze shifts back to her, slow, deliberate. Dark eyes hold hers, probing, a hint of something that could be amusement or disdain. He presses, every syllable chosen to push, to test. “What else would you call it?”

“She is family.”

The conviction in her voice allows no room for debate. There is nothing left for him to say. Narien moves before he can think of something to provoke her further, two fingers lifted to her lips. Her whistle slices through the air, keen and commanding, echoing off the rock walls and cutting through the cold like a stone skipping across water. Silence, for a breath, and then—a deep rumble answers, unfurling across the sky like a promise made of thunder. The beat of wings follows, powerful and rhythmic, the sky’s own pulse.

The wyvern bursts through the layer of cloud, her scales a dark silver, shimmering beneath the first touch of sunlight. She is radiant, her roar splitting the air, a sound that shakes the earth beneath Narien’s feet, dislodging stones that tumble down the mountainside.

“Angruin,” Narien calls, her voice steady, a note of command mingled with something softer—something almost like reverence. The wyvern’s beady black eyes meet hers, bright and fierce, and Angruin shakes herself, the great wings folding in as she descends, shedding the sky’s weight as if it were nothing. She is not as large as her dragon kin, not as thorny or colorful, but her presence is every bit as formidable, something out of an old tale, something forged from myth.

Angruin strides forward, her steps deliberate, her movements carrying a grace that belies her size. The air shifts, the scent of rain and stone thickening as her bulk fills the cavern. Sauron’s gaze follows the wyvern, his expression a mask, cold and impassive. There is no awe, no flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, just that same unreadable stillness.

“At ease,” Narien murmurs in Nareni, her voice softer now.

The great wyvern settles onto the stone, her vast wings folding with a rustle of leathery sinew, the sharp talons of her hind feet clicking softly against the rock as she shifts her weight. Her eyes, molten silver, never leave Sauron. Wary and unblinking, the spines along her back ripple as her muscles coil with tension, a living current beneath her gleaming scales. The saddle on her back, crafted from thick leather and reinforced with iron and polished steel, looks both battle-worn and indomitable, fitted for the creature it adorned.

It is her hand that steadies first against Angruin's neck, fingers finding the familiar ridges of scale and bone.

"Behave," whispers Narien and the wyvern's muscles coil beneath her palm like storm clouds gathering.

The beast's growl starts low, trapped and thunderous; but when Narien's eyes find Sauron where he stands among the weathered stones, his form remains edgeless, drawn in shades of shadow and smoke. Angruin's tail—thick as ancient heartwood, twice as merciless—cracks against the mountain face, and suddenly there are pebbles raining down like tears of stone, each one marking the seconds of their shared hesitation.

Something raw trembles in the space between predators. The wyvern watches him as wolves watch their own kind—all leashed violence and barely-contained knowing, silver eyes tracking each minute shift of his form. Her wariness bleeds into Narien's awareness even as muscle memory guides her up, the motion of mounting carved so deep within her bones that her body moves without thought. The leather beneath her thighs whispers its history: here where they first learned trust, there where they earned it, each scar and smoothed patch telling of leagues flown together.

She reaches down to the Maia—just as she had that day above Eregion, when smoke had painted the world in shades of ending—something flickers across his face, quick as summer lightning, gone before she can name it. His hand finds hers, and she pulls.

He settles behind her, and the ancient saddle creaks beneath their combined weight. His presence burns through leather and steel and all her careful distance until she can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing matching hers, beat for treacherous beat.

Angruin turns with a tug of Narien's hand, each step a percussion against stone. When they leap, the earth releases its greedy hold and sky rushes in to claim them, the world softening at its edges until freedom tastes sharp as newly-forged steel on her tongue.

In that space between heartbeats, between ground and clouds, Narien allows herself to forget everything but wind-song and wing-beat.

that's part one! Hope you enjoyed! I have a part two I'm working on where we discover Aldrast.

#the way ive been editing this for days #i am kinda nervous about posting it #rings of power #the rings of power #trop #sauron x oc #the rings of power oc #rings of power oc #trop oc #rop oc #annatar x oc #sauron x reader #x original character #female original character #original character #lotr #lord of the rings

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aestheticaltcow · 10 months ago

Text

Married Life

Steve Harrington x Reader (technically self-insert but like barely lol)

Just a little fluff starring my favorite Hawkins resident.

Stranger Things Masterlist

Meeting you in college was the best accident Steve had ever made. He’d gotten lost in the main building while looking for his actual class. You sat in the front row of the lecture hall, nose in a book, waiting for class to start. You hadn’t noticed Steve until he sat beside you; you shot him a grin and returned to your book. He casually glanced in your direction throughout the specialized sociology elective. He was enthralled and knew you’d be the next Mrs. Harrington from the moment he saw you.

Your relationship started like any classmate dynamic; he’d asked to borrow a pen or if you knew the time. He’d ask to copy your notes or borrow a piece of paper. By mid-terms, he’d worked up the courage to talk to you about anything other than sociology. “Hey, Y/N, do you wanna study together sometime?” Steve suppressed his overwhelming urge to squeal when you'd agreed to it.

The two of you sat in the library, reviewing notes for approximately 10 minutes before diving into more interesting topics. He took mental notes of everything you’d said you enjoyed; he’d causally start bringing you coffee or snacks. There was something about Steve you found intriguing and after months of friendship and a string of bad dates on your end. Steve gathered the courage to ask you on a real date. You agreed Steve was a nice guy and wasn’t ugly- or weird. It was a simple first date; the two of you went to the movie theater on campus, and then he walked you back to your dorm. After that, you were hooked.

The two of you seemed to do everything together. He’d walk you to class and drop you off at work. He was always willing to spend time with you even if it was 'inconvenient' for him.

He challenged your point of view, and you challenged him as well. He didn’t understand why you’d chosen to major in sociology but loved how you lit up when you spoke about it.

Going to Hawkins for the first time was interesting. You hadn’t known about Steve’s high school reputation but were thoroughly amused at Robin’s retelling of embarrassing story after embarrassing story. His parents adored you fresh out of the gate; you saw his Dad pull him aside on your last night. While you hadn’t heard what he told the young man, you noticed how his face had lit up. As you were getting ready to return to school the next day, you had to find out, “He told me to marry you because a woman like you is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.”

After graduation, you and Steve finally rented a small apartment together. You had both landed jobs you loved, and everything was perfect except for one thing. Your last name…

Steve wanted to plan the perfect proposal. He spent months looking for the perfect ring and asked every woman in his life for their opinion. After buying what he hoped would be your engagement ring, he had to figure out how to ask you. A romantic weekend away? A simple but elegant dinner date? At the beach? Or at a park? He thought he had a perfect plan, but one day, you two were walking through a parking structure trying to find his car, and it was the moment. Steve stopped and fished the ring box out of his jacket pocket. You turned around when you realized Steve wasn’t beside you anymore.

“So this wasn’t what I planned on doing, but, Y/N, will you marry me? I know we're in the middle of a fuckin’ parking lot, but this is what I want. I want to be with you forever; this may be the least romantic or special way to propose to the woman of your dreams, but it feels right.” you laughed at first, but as he got down on one knee, you realized he was serious. “Yes, Steve, I would love to be your wife.”

#stranger things #stranger things fan fiction #stranger things one shot #stranger things imagine #steve harrington headcannon #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington one shot

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starmoon-constellation · 2 months ago

Note

How do you keep track of 1,300 ALTERS?? THATS JUST STRAIGHT UP IMMPRESIVE SHSGGD

Sorry if this sounds rude, I know high headcounts exist but as a system with only 4+ alters it still blows my mind whenever there’s more then like 100 SGHSSGH😭

I MEAN WELL BY THIS I SWEAR!!

To be honest, we just log on PluralKit and then sync to Simply Plural. As we learn about alters, we fill out their file on SP, and just leave it at that.

We don’t track front, that’d be way too difficult, but we are somewhat aware of who is fronting about 60% of the time.

A lot of our alters are just Wisps (fragments), and though some are Shades (shaded headmate), and very, very few are considered Souls (fully developed alters).

It's really weird having 1.4k (yeah, we split a lot again) alters, because there's a whole ass community built in the innerworld and, there's, like no way for us in front to interact with it, even though a lot of us are a part of that community that's been built inside. We literally have stores, a currency system, lawyers, jury members, and judges + laws. We have structured hierarchy(s). It's so cool and so overwhelming at the same time lol.

( Rae Lockwood - they/he/she )

#endogenic system #endo friendly #pro endo #endogenic #endo system #endogenic safe #plural #plural community #plural system #plurality #actually plural #inclusive plurality #plural gang #plural stuff #pluralgang #pluralpunk #mixed origin system

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luv4fandoms · 2 years ago

Text

Trust me (Marko x Fem!Reader)

So part of this is based on a dream I had. Pretty much just the really weird location to have sex. But I feel like it is also very Marko and his love of heights lol.

And as always, all Italian is from Google translate so I do apologize if any of it is incorrect.

Also this plays off of my first ever headcanon post about Marko being Italian.

Word count: 3,811

Pairings: Marko x Fem!Reader

Warnings: THIS IS JUST PURE SMUT!!! MINORS DNI!!!

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬, 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

Ko-Fi

"Come on, it'll be fun"

"The last time you said that we ended up almost getting banned from the boardwalk because of trying to climb the Farris wheel"

"Babe I promise, no one will even know we're here" he smiled, that mischievous smile that let you know what he wanted was not legal nor wise…But you also knew he would never put you in harm's way.

"Fine" you sighed

"You won't regret this cutie" he told you, grabbing your hand and pulling you along. The two of you walked towards the outskirts of the boardwalk, the crowd thinning as you went.

'Well at least we're less likely to get caught'

He stopped in front of a tall structure, the entirety of it covered in fabric, cutting it off from the rest of the world.

"After you" he smirked, holding the curtain back to reveal a narrow staircase. Looking at him, then back at the stairs you could only shake your head and laugh, but ascended the stairs nonetheless. It had a few different levels, but only the very bottom had a wooden floor, the others simply held thick beams that would no doubt later support other floors, or perhaps lights.

"Keep going" you heard him speak, though you could tell he was not directly behind you, nor had you heard his footsteps yet. You stopped at another layer of beams, and again.

"Keep going"

Ascending the steps all the way to the top you look out at the large thick metal cross beams wondering just why your crazy boyfriend brought you up here.

"You're not planning on killing me right?" You joked, holding onto the end of the railing.

"No…well" he laughed, his warm breath against the back of your neck.

"Maybe a little bit" he smirked, his lips finding your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"A little bit?" You laughed, tilting your head and reaching back to run your hand through his curls as his lips made their way to the newly exposed skin.

"Piccola morte (Little death)" he spoke, his hands coming to wrap around your waist, pulling you against him, letting you feel exactly what he had in mind.

"Here?" You asked, cutting your eyes towards him, but only being able to see his golden curls as he continued to mark your neck.

"How exactly…you're completely crazy" you laughed, feeling his smile against your neck, his lips leaving your skin to whisper into your ear.

"Do you trust me?"

"You know I do, that's why I'm up here in the first place"

"Then trust me" he spoke, unwrapping his arms and helping you take your first step into the beams.

"This is crazy Marko" you breathed, looking down at the floor far below, your heart rate picking up.

"I'm not going to let you fall, take another step" and you did, because you knew he wouldn't, Marko was quick and could fly, you would be in his arms before you ever hit the ground…But that didn't stop your sudden fear of heights at that moment.

"Couple more steps" he told you, walking you slowly towards where the beams crossed, making a plus sign that would be a stable part to stand.

"There you go" he reassured you once you made it, you let him slowly turn you to face him, his hazel eyes sparkling with that same mischief.

"You're crazy" you once again told him, but the smile that tugged on your lips told him you weren't actually mad.

"You love it" he replied.

"Now, lay down" you looked down at the beams, then back at him for a moment before beginning to slowly sit, his hands never leaving your waist as he lowered himself as well. Once you were sitting he helped you lean back, your arms shooting out to grab him as he lowered you onto the beams that were just a few inches smaller than your body on either side.

"I've got you amore" he spoke, leaning down to kiss you, his lips only leaving yours once he felt you relax a bit. His kisses descended back to your neck, always his favorite spot as he licked and bit at the tender flesh, eliciting soft moans and gasps from your lips. Your hands wandered as he worked, one tangling itself in his curls, gently tugging the locks and pulling a growl from him. Your other wandered under his jacket, your hands running along his toned stomach, the skin cooler than yours but warmer than earlier, the boys had already gone out for their nightly hunt, the adrenaline no doubt being the cause of your current situation. Your hand wandered higher, nails gently scraping along his chest and earning a small thrust as he settled between your legs, the bulge much more prominent now as he began to grind against you.

"Marko" you sighed, lifting your hips to meet him and feeling him grind down harder, a low rumble vibrating against your chest as he tilted your head to the other side, determined to remark all the faded spots. The steady rumble against you grew louder the faster your heart raced, you had only heard Marko purr a few times, and noticed that it was always a different tone depending on the activity. Gently running your hand through his hair while he laid his head in your lap, a soft and gentle purr. The beginning stages of losing himself in ecstasy, a deeper rougher purr, just as he was doing now as his hips began to pick up their speed. His lips quickly attached to yours again, parting them forcefully as he stole your quickened breath, a moan tumbling into your mouth as you snuck your other hand into his shirt, your nails running along his back, just hard enough to sting.

"Cazzo! (Fuck!) " He groaned, breaking the kiss and looking down at you, pupils blown as he panted, and suddenly you felt like prey underneath a predator. You watched him lick his swollen lips, his teeth catching his bottom lip as he looked at you, his hips stilling before he smiled, his body slowly crawling backward along the beam, hands letting go of your waist which had you scrambling to grab a hold of something, your body rocking on the beam.

"Calm down amore, just relax and balance" he told you, hands grasping your ankles before slowly sliding upwards, and suddenly you were thankful for wearing a skirt, because you did not know how you would have taken pants off at the moment. He slowly pushed your skirt up, helping you lift your hips to bunch it around your waist before he lowered his body, balancing perfectly as he kissed along your thighs, tongue reaching out to swipe a path that his teeth soon followed with small nips. You started to squirm as he kissed and nipped everywhere but where you needed him, your heart picking up as you felt yourself become even wetter, you knew he could smell you, knew he could hear your heart, but Marko was known for being a tease.

"Marko" you breathed, not failing to catch the smirk that instantly spread. If there was one thing he loved it was hearing you beg for him, knowing you craved him, craved his touch, craved anything and everything he could give you. He would never admit it, but when you two first met it took him by surprise when you instantly chose to talk to him. Usually it was Paul who girls came to talk to, Paul always being the honeypot to draw in the night's meal. Or Dwayne, even though he doesn't talk much, his looks alone draw girls in. Hell even David tends to get girls drawn to him who have daddy issues, but Marko?.. Marko was fine with that, let the others do the work while he reaps the tasty benefits. But that night they hadn't necessarily been looking for a meal, the hunt a few hours before filling their need, but still Paul wanted to "score some chicks" for other reasons…And he did, a group of girls, all of them flitting to one boy or the other, but none to Marko. Rolling his eyes he looked away from his brothers and the girls, already ready to simply head back to the cave. But instead he came face to face with you as you rounded his bike.

"Sorry about them, they are a little…Eager" you laughed.

"I like your bike, and your jacket, you have a really cool style" and that was how he spent the night simply talking to you, no other motive than just to get to know the girl who actually had the guts to approach him "the ticking time bomb" of the group. It didn't take him long to claim you as his, he didn't care if his brothers wanted your friends or not, he wanted you, and lucky for him, you wanted him as well. Also lucky for him, you trusted him with everything you had.

"Si? (Yes?)" He asked, still pressing gentle kisses against your inner thighs, right next to your pulsing core, he wouldn't admit it, but the smell of your arousal was making it hard to focus on teasing you. Between the adrenaline of the hunt and your dripping heat, all he wanted to do was bury himself balls deep and fuck you until you were screaming his name.

"Marko, please" you whimpered, trying to lift your core to his mouth, but a harsh bite had you mewling.

"Greedy tonight huh?"

"Only for you" you panted

"Only for me?" He laughed, hot breaths fanning over your clothed core and making you groan.

"Should I take pity on you tonight? Let you have what you want?"

"Yes! Please Marko" you pleaded, gripping the beam under you and leaning up to look at him.

"Well…Since you asked nicely" he smiled, pulling your panties to the side and licking a long stripe along your heat.

"Fuck!" You moaned, head falling back to the beam.

"We have to be quiet, or someone might catch us again" he laughed, no doubt referring to not only the ferris wheel, but also the time the two of you had been caught going at it in one of the beach changing tents. You were sure you were a sight for the very pissed security guard, your pants bunched around your ankle, your other wrapped around Marko's waist as he held it up, his own pants around his knees while he didn't even bother to stop, his face buried in your neck as he groaned about how tight you were. Marko wasn't necessarily into exhibitionism, he didn't want anyone to see you that way but him, but God did he love it when he knew you were loud enough for other people to hear what he was doing to you. Even more when you would return to the crowd, being stared at as he just threw his arm around you, a very proud smirk on his face. That being said, he also loved to tease you about how loud you could get at times…like right now as he ate you out like a man starved, his hands holding your legs open as he buried his face in you, tongue going as deep as it could and pulling a moan from you, before circling your clit. His finger replaced his tongue a moment later as he sucked your clit, tongue flicking over it quickly, a move he knew brought you shooting to your peak. His other hand slid up, hand gliding under your shirt and bra to grasp your breast, pinching the hardened bud in just the way he knew that heightened your pleasure. Your hand quickly covered your mouth when his tongue replaced his finger again, throwing your leg over his shoulder as he went to town. If there was one thing that shocked you about Marko (aside from finding out what he was) it was how much he enjoyed going down on you. Most guys avoided it at all cost and yet wanted you to offer it to them, but not Marko. The first time you two ever did anything together he brought you to a blinding finish twice with his mouth and fingers alone, stating that he could eat you forever, a laughable statement now that you know how true it actually is. A harsh suck on your clit brought you back to reality, as you almost screamed into your hand, your eyes darting down to meet almost black, but you could see the gold beginning to seep through, something he no longer hid away as he took his pleasure in you, now that you knew what he was there was no need to hide the fact that doing this to you, with you, always brought his more feral side out.

"Marko" you pleaded, eyes beginning to water at the intense feeling in your gut, meeting his gaze didn't help, you always felt like he was devouring you completely, body, mind, and soul when he looked at you like that.

"Hai intenzione di finire per me amore? (Are you going to finish for me love?)" He all but growled out, hot breaths fanning your core. He knew you didn't understand him, but he also knew you loved it when he spoke his mother tongue. You had let that secret out one night while things were getting hot and heavy and he slipped into the language.

"Shit!" You groaned when he entered two fingers into you, pumping quickly. Truth be told he didn't know how much longer he could wait, tonight he was more wound up than usual.

"Talk to me baby" he cooed, inserting a third finger and watching as you had to grab a hold of the beam to keep your balance, your hips lifting to meet his fingers.

"Sempre così pronto per me (always so ready for me)" he panted, watching your heat swallow his fingers again and again.

"Fuck! Marko please" you begged, unsure of what you were even begging for at this point, all you knew was that the coil in your stomach was winding tighter and only Marko could make it snap. And he did know that, so in an instant his lips had reattached to your mound, tongue movie along it while his fingers worked you open for him and his other hand grasped your breast, claws slightly extending and scratching your skin as he began to lose himself, the scent of you, the taste of you, the sounds of your racing heart and pumping blood mixing with the sweet sounds of your moans was making him dizzy and he knew he needed to get you across your finish line, to see that look of pure ecstasy cross your face. He watched you climb, your hand reaching out to grab his arm that had abandoned your breast, coming to hold your waist as you began to lose your balance on the beam, your head tilted back as silent screams left you, your legs coming up, body winding tight. With one last flick of his tongue he quickly moved forward, sealing his lips against your and swallowing the scream that ripped from your throat as he pushed you over the edge, his fingers now slowing as he held you close,his lips sucking dark spots on your neck as he pushed you through your overstimulation and into another orgasm, this one causing you to gush even more around his fingers and he knew you were ready. He watched you slowly catch your breath as you blinked, your brain fuzzy from the pleasure but aware of the sound of him undoing his pants and shuffling them around his thighs, his hands coming to wrap your legs around his thin waist before he leaned over you, pulling down your shirt enough for him to place kisses along your chest as he slowly pushed in, a groan leaving him immediately.

"Così stretto (so tight)" he panted, hands grabbing your waist as he started moving, and it didn't take long for him to find that perfect speed that had the both of you trying to muffle your moans.

"Così buono, Cazzo! Così fottutamente bene (So good, Fuck! So fucking good)" he whimpered into your neck, his breaths coming out quicker as he started to lose himself.

"Voglio solo restare qui per sempre (I just want to stay here forever)" he moaned, breath fanning against your heated skin.

"S-Shit! Marko" you whined, teeth digging into your lip as you tried to be quiet, though the wet sound of skin on skin was beginning to grow louder.

"amo quando mi chiami, pregami per questo, urla per me…Io e solo io…Solo io (I love when you call me, beg me for this, yell for me…me and only me…Only me)" He panted, voice breaking as he moaned against your skin, nails digging into your thighs where he was now holding like his life depended on it as he drove into you, forehead pressed against your chest as he whimpered, his body winding tighter while yours grew tighter around him.

"Non durerò amore mio (I won't last my love)" he groaned, head lifting to meet your gaze but seeing your head thrown back, hair a mess from gliding back and forth along the beam, neck and chest flushed and on full display, your humming heartbeat tempting him. He watched as your back bowed when he hit that spot inside you, your breasts pressing up to him while he cursed once more at the sight. His hips stilling only for a moment so he could push your shirt up over your breasts, his hands returning to his own shirt and ripping it open. He'd deal with you scolding him for ruining another shirt later, right now he just needed to feel your skin against his. His movement returned just as you began whimpering, your hands reaching out for him and coming in contact with his now bare front. Your eyes opened and looked at him, his own eyes focused on you as his chest heaved, his stomach muscles moving and contacting with every thrust of his hips. You would scold him about ruining another shirt later, but right now all you could focus on was grabbing him and pulling him closer. Both of you sighing as your chests meet, the feeling on his cooler skin helping you cool down, while the feeling of your racing heart against his chest was only heating him up more.

"ho bisogno che tu finisca��perché non so quanto resisterò (I need you to finish..because I don't know how long I'll last)" he moaned against your neck, his hands lifting your legs higher while yours buried themselves in his hair, tugging at the curls and listening as he growled, his hips stuttering as he tried to hold out.

"Finisci con me,fammi sentire il tuo amore (Finish with me, let me feel your love)" he spoke, his hips picking up speed and strength, his sign that he was on the edge.

"Marko! Fuck baby I'm, Fuck!"

"Urla per me! Grido! Voglio che tutti sappiano che sei mio…Solo mio (Yell for me! Scream! I want everyone to know that you are mine…Only mine)"

"Shit! Marko I'm gonna cum! I'm! FUCK!" You yelled as he latched onto your neck, his fangs sinking in as he fed from you, his own hips stuttering as your heat tightened around him, refusing to let him go, so instead his body decided to let go. Lips red from the blood that now dripped down his chin as his head tilted upwards, eyes rolling back as his mouth opened, and a sudden shout left him while his hips slammed forwards repeatedly before stilling, his warmth painting your walls and filling you. After a moment both of you slowly drifted back down to reality while he leaned forward, lips gently kissing the bite mark as he closed it before nuzzling into your neck. More foreign words were softly spoken in your ear as Marko came down from his high, something that you had found out tends to happen every time. When he would lose himself in pleasure he completely forgot how to speak English, and even after it would take him a moment to resort back to it, you told him one day you wanted to learn Italian so that he didn't have to worry about you not understanding him. Though the look on his face was of both joy and embarrassment, and right now you wondered what sort of love stricken words was he softly breathing against your skin that he would normally be too embarrassed by.

"Il mio bellissimo amore (my beautiful love)" he breathed, kissing your cheek before lifting himself up and hovering over you, the feeling of him still inside you had the both of you moaning. You watched as he pulled out, your mixed finished slowly dripping onto the beams, and you watched as a shit eating grin spread across his face before he slipped his fingers inside, causing you to try to move away due to the sensitivity. But he held you with one hand, reassuring you as he pulled your combined spend from your abused hole. When he felt he had gotten enough he released you, sucking his fingers clean while looking down at the floor far beneath.

"What was that for?" You groaned.

"Christening the place" he smirked, popping his now clean fingers out of his mouth.

"There was enough to even drop down to the bottom" he laughed as you covered your face.

"Oh my God you are the worst" you groaned.

"Awe you know you love me" he teased while pulling your hands away.

"You better be glad I do" you smiled at him, watching as he leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss, a kiss that would have gotten heated had it not been for the sound of footsteps entering the area. Within a second Marko had his pants up, and your shirt righted before he picked you up and jumped out of the opposite side of the curtain just as a flashlight showed where you two had been. You listened as the man began to complain loudly about the "Godless couples who will Fuck anywhere" while Marko floated you both safely to the ground before grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the beach.

"That was way too close"

"At least they didn't catch us this time"

"Marko!"

"What?"

"Not funny" you stated, but still couldn't help but laugh.

"Where is the fun if there isn't a little risk" he smiled, still pulling you along.

"Where are we going anyways?"

"A spot I found on the beach yesterday"

"...Marko you're not suggesting"

"The night is still young baby, and I'm far from done with you"

Taglist

@6lostgirl6

@solobagginses

@burnbookarilostgirl16

#the lost boys #tlb #the lost boys 1987 #tlb 1987 #marko tlb #marko the lost boys #the lost boys marko #marko #marko x female reader #tlb marko x reader #marko x reader #vampire smut #vampire x reader #vampire #vampire boyfriend

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