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arvandus · 1 day ago

Text

The Beauty of Broken Things

Barbatos x GN!Reader

Content warnings: SFW; reader with (vague) mental health issues; Reader has self-deprecating thoughts and low self-esteem; hurt/comfort; lots of dialogue; romance; first kiss (cuz I'm a sap 💚)

Author's Note: Not me coming out of hiatus to drop this at 1:20am on a weekday. ANYWAY.... I was going through it a month or so ago and this was very therapeutic and self-indulgent to write. Hopefully you'll find some comfort in it as well. 💚

You creep into the RAD greenhouse under the cover of the Devildom darkness. The warm yellow lights, usually on to allow students to observe and take notes, are turned off for the evening, causing the devildom flora to transform from something familiar to something alien, branches reaching like arms and long, pointed leaves stretched out like grasping fingers.

But despite the sinister threat of danger that is interlaced in the native plant life, it still feels comforting. The gnarled limbs and black leaves feel more protective than threatening, arching over your head to provide a canopy of privacy in the quiet, uninhabited space.

Usually the greenhouse is a bustle of student activity, with botany classes often perusing the aisles with their notebooks and art students lingering with their sketchbooks. But classes had long since ended, the busy chaos of academia ushered away by the sinking of the large Devildom moon, bringing with it night within night.

You need this. You need the silence, the privacy, the darkness. The House of Lamentation doesn’t offer it. The Demon Lord’s castle is also not an option as you don’t want to impose purely for the sake of self-isolation.

No, this is perfect. It is safe, safer than losing yourself in the real forests that press against the outskirts of the Devildom. It is a place for hiding, a place for becoming invisible. It is a place that makes you feel small, from the tightly clustered plants around you to the vast starry sky that slowly rotates high beyond the confines of the glass ceiling. You could almost pretend you’re a bug, an insect, or some other small life form who’s only purpose is to exist in the here and now, moment to moment.

Maybe then you could find peace in your mind; maybe that voice of sickness and lies that whispered louder than any demon would fall silent.

Not all days were this bad. But the added stress, the fatigue.... you knew it was only a matter of time before you found yourself dangerously close to that pitch black rock bottom. You felt it encroaching, a shadow teasing the edges of your mind, and you knew... you knew you had to find somewhere to gather yourself, to work through it without interruption or curious eyes.

This helps. A place of quiet, of privacy, of nature, even if the nature isn’t your own. In its own alien way, it’s perfect.

Perfect, but also lonely. You both love and hate it, glad to be unnoticed for once but vulnerable against the rare isolation. Rare, but not unfamiliar. You sit with it; let it soak into your bones. Like putting on old shoes that still fit, worn soles perfectly conformed to your feet, your mind eases into accepting that familiar ache, a feeling not often experienced anymore, but still deeply rooted in old memories and dreams. The old loneliness hollows you out, slows the blood rushing through your veins as your mind eventually quiets to a low hum of white noise. It brings its own twisted kind of peace; not the healthy kind that heals and rejuvenates, but the broken kind that separates you from yourself, an act of cutting rather than mending.

If you could turn to stone in this moment, you would.

But not even this will last forever, your quiet reverie interrupted by the sound of the door to the greenhouse opening and closing. The sound of the click and the creak of the hinge is startling against the endless quiet, and it makes you jolt. You fight the irrational urge to hide within the surrounding shrubbery, as if such an act would truly hide you at all, and instead curl in on yourself with arms and legs crossed on the stone bench where you sit.

Whoever it is, is as silent as a ghost; you hear no footsteps, nor sounds of breath. Whoever it is does not speak, so you know instantly it is not any of the brothers or even Diavolo. But you feel their presence, and you know they feel yours. There is an awareness in the air that wasn’t present before, the atmosphere going from one of empty quiet, to buzzing consciousness.

A moment later, a familiar pair of polished black shoes come into your field of view, attached to a familiar set of legs that stand formally in a way that only a royal butler could accomplish.

You look up and your eyes meet Barbatos, who stares down at you with a calm, curious expression and a slight tilt of his head. He’s still dressed in his RAD uniform, but his white gloves are removed, likely tucked into the interior chest pocket of his tailcoat.

“MC,” he says gently. “I did not expect you to be here. You do know that the RAD campus is closed, yes?”

“I know,” you reply.

Even so, you make no motion to move, your body still curled within itself protectively. It isn’t so much to protect against him, but to hold onto that feeling of smallness that helps to separate you from the ache in your chest and the cacophony of your mind.

“Why are you here?” you ask.

“Some of the flora require care after school hours, so I tend to them prior to locking up for the evening.”

“Ah.” Your sour mood strips you of your warmth, your words fading away as you retreat back into yourself.

Barbatos stares at you for a moment longer, before gesturing to the bench. “May I?”

You return his stare with your own before moving over just enough to make room for him. The bench is small, comfortable for one, a slight squeeze for two, but he sits nonetheless, seemingly unbothered. The proximity of him is a brand and a blessing, the heat of him surprisingly comforting while your heart thuds harder in your chest. You’re rarely ever this close to him, any prior instances of physical contact occurring out of necessity rather than choice.

You both sit in silence for a long time. You aren’t sure if he is expecting an explanation from you, but you couldn’t give one even if you wanted to, the struggles within yourself too tangled to fully unravel, especially with how weathered you feel.

Finally, after a few minutes, he is the one to break the silence, the smooth richness of his voice breaking the quiet that sits like a bridge between you.

“I often find the Devildom flora more beautiful in the dark.”

It is an olive branch, and you take it, a small smile curling the corners of your lips.

“Me too,” you reply. “It feels more natural this way. When the lights are on, it feels like we’re trying to force the plants and flowers to be something they’re not.”

Barbatos stares at you for a long, quiet moment before returning his gaze ahead of him. “Indeed. Things are more beautiful when they are allowed to be themselves.”

A sentiment you share, and yet it isn’t one you can extend to yourself, and it cuts you.

“I wish that were always true...” you mutter.

It’s a thought whispered past private lips, and you regret them instantly when his keen, green eyes, nearly black in the darkness, flick back to you.

“Why would it not be?” he asks.

You shift uncomfortably and swallow the lump that suddenly manifests where your voice is supposed to be.

“I don’t know...” you finally mutter evasively.

You feel his eyes lingering on you, and it feels as if he can read the dark thoughts that live there, shadow where sunlight should be. But if he can read your mind, he doesn’t say so, and he doesn’t pry further.

Instead, Barbatos does something that you do not expect. His hand covers yours, untangling your fingers from your tightly clasped palms that sit in your lap. His touch is warm, warmer than you thought it’d be, and you can’t help but wonder how different his body really is from yours when it feels so human.

You watch as Barbatos twines his fingers with yours, a simple but shockingly intimate action. It’s surprisingly comforting, fulfilling a longing within you that you didn’t even realize you carried so heavily until just now; an anchor of companionship, unwavering in its simplicity, gentle in its unassuming nature. There’s a lack of expectation in Barbatos’s touch, a quiet acceptance of the here and now, of the you of this moment, rather than the ‘you’ that you always present to others, or the ‘you’ that others expect of you.

It makes something within you surrender. It forces the dissociation from your mind, pulling you instantly back into reality, into your body. Barbatos’s tenderness, given freely without price, carves a space for itself within your chest, and it hurts, the sudden sharpness of vulnerability an open wound. That vulnerability is unfamiliar, raw, terrifying. It calls forth your fears, makes the voices of wrongness sing louder than ever, listing all of the ways you are undeserving of this moment. And you’re angry, angry at their presence, and their ability to ruin even this for you, to taint something peaceful and beautiful with something so ugly.

The tears finally come, blurring your vision and spilling over silently onto your cheeks. More come immediately after, and you sniff, your nose starting to run as you wipe at your face. A handkerchief appears within your view, and you take it, your heart too shy and embarrassed to look at Barbatos properly or even offer him a mumbled thank you. But he shows no discomfort or disdain for your tears or lack of manners. Instead, he sits quietly with you, waiting patiently as he holds your hand securely within his own, his thumb rubbing soothing strokes on the soft skin between your thumb and index finger.

Quietly you cry, and quietly he waits. Each second longer that you cry is a confession of your imperfection, your brokenness, and each second longer that Barbatos stays by your side is an acceptance, a forgiveness. And so, without even speaking to one another, the very act of this shared moment provides a cleansing of your heart that you’d never felt before. Each drop of salty water is a purge, a release. There’s an amusing irony to it; an exorcism of sorts in a place where God isn’t welcome, supported by a creature who’s existence came from darkness.

The catharsis brings release, and the release brings fatigue. The rigidness of your spine gives way to something more pliable, and you lean your head against his shoulder as you continue to weep, albeit gentler now that the worst of it has passed. Barbatos lets you, his thumb barely missing a beat in its strokes against your hand. He makes no effort to increase his physical reassurance; no arm around your shoulder, no leaning of his head against the crown of yours. You’re grateful for it, not quite ready to be touched so completely. Maybe soon... after all, the thought does entice you... but not yet. Not when your heart is still raw and tender.

No, this is perfect. It’s just enough.

Finally, the floodwaters of your heart recede, and you wipe away the last traces of wetness from your cheeks with his silk handkerchief. It’s damp with tears and snot now, and you know you’ll have to wash it before returning it to him. You fiddle with it with your free hand, your thumb tracing along the cursive B that is sewn into its corner with dark thread, the color muted to black in the dark.

Your hands are still intertwined with each other, your head still resting against his shoulder, and you’re grateful for it as you find the courage to finally speak, your eyes still trained on that cursive B.

Your voice is quiet, hushed by hesitancy. “Barbatos...I have a question...”

“Hm?”

“When I die, and my soul leaves my body.... does.... does that mean that the mental illness won’t be there anymore? Does that part get left behind?”

“Ah,” Barbatos says softly, his voice rich with understanding. “I see.”

You sit up, although his hand still holds yours; after all, you haven’t pulled away yet. But your eyes... your eyes are downcast, the shame of your breakdown too heavy regardless of Barbatos’s tenderness.

Now that you’ve finally confessed your fear it becomes easier to speak, and the words come more freely. “I’m just... I’m tired of being this way. Feeling this way, thinking this way. It’s always there, like this big, lurking monster that I can’t escape from. Except it’s a part of me. I don’t know who I am without it. And I’m—” tears choke your words, but you force yourself to continue even as your eyes once again brim and sting. “I’m just so afraid that it’ll never go away. Even when I die, and my soul is separated from this broken fucking body—”

A long, slender finger covers your lips, halting your impending tirade of self-loathing. It forces you to finally look at him, and you’re surprised to see how deep the concern goes within his dark gaze.

“Shh,” he says. “Don’t say such things. It does the richness of all that you are a disservice.”

His words stun you into silence, and you stare at him wide-eyed. He holds your gaze for a moment longer before taking the handkerchief from your clenched fist. You start to protest, embarrassed at the state of it, but he ignores your concerns and uses a relatively clean spot to wipe away your new tears.

You fall silent as he cares for you, and in that silence, he begins to speak.

“You humans so often like to label and categorize things, an attempt at making sense of the world around you when you’re forever doomed to know so little. Lines of comparison drawn on a beach, not realizing that in the end, it’s all made of sand.”

You frown. “I don’t understand.”

“What you’re speaking of is a sickness of the mind, correct?”

“Yes, that’s one way to put it...”

Barbatos takes your palm in his hand and turns it face up. “I’ve heard you humans often use the term ‘mind, body, and soul’ as if they are all separate. Back when I spent time in the human realm, humans treated the soul as synonymous with the heart and the mind as synonymous with the brain, both housed within the body.” With his finger, he draws one large circle, and within it, places two dots vertically spaced from each other.

You stare at your palm as you ponder his words. “Yes,” you say, “that idea still lingers... sort of...”

You take his hand in yours, and draw your own circles – a small, a medium, and a large, all inset within each other like a target.

“I think... I see the soul and mind as synonymous of each other, in way, that they depend on each other. Or...”

You hesitate, your fears surfacing again as you stare at Barbatos’s open palm.

“I think...” you continue slowly, “I think I’m afraid that they’re the same thing. That the soul only exists because of the mind. If that’s true, then if my mind is broken, then so is my soul, and I’ll be carrying that brokenness with me forever. It’s like... trying to forge something using a metal riddled with impurities. The integrity will always be compromised, no matter how beautiful the shape in the end.”

Barbatos’s open hand closes around yours, cradling your fingertips that still rest against his skin. He turns your hand over palm up again.

“Imagine this” – he draws a large circle – “is your body. And this” – he draws a smaller circle within it – “is your mind.”

You wait for the third circle, but it never comes. You frown.

“Where is the soul?”

“Everywhere,” he says.

Your gaze lifts from your open hand to his eyes. He smiles back at you in quiet mirth, then drops his gaze back to your hand. His fingers retrace over the larger circle he’d first drawn into your palm.

“Your soul,” he repeats, “is everywhere.”

Confusion once again surfaces in the contours of your face. Barbatos stares at you for a moment as he searches for the words in a way that you can understand. His eyes sink deep beneath the surface of you, and it makes you shift beneath his gaze. After a moment he blinks, his amusement returning.

“Perhaps it is my choice of words that is unclear,” he says. “Allow me to try again.”

He pokes your forehead with his index finger. “Your mind is not the same as your soul the way you fear. It is simply consciousness, self-awareness provided you by your biology,” he explains.

“You mean my brain.”

“Yes.”

“So my mind is just another part of my body.”

“Precisely. Your body is merely the medium through which you experience this life, whether it’s through your senses, such as sight and touch, or through your consciousness.”

He returns to your hand, his fingers tracing the invisible large circle for a third time.

“Your soul, on the other hand, is a different thing entirely. It isn’t something that can be contained to one organ within you. Not your heart, not your brain. It’s deeper than that, richer,” he says quietly, as if sharing a secret.

His touch travels, his fingertips gliding feather-light across your palm, up your wrist, following the tendons and veins to your forearm where goosebumps begin to awaken across your sensitive skin.

“It’s energy. It’s life,” he continues. “It’s eternal, and it’s woven into every fiber of your being, a golden thread holding you together like the universe’s most exquisite tapestry.”

Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers curve around your forearm until he holds it within his hand, his thumb rubbing gently against the soft skin where your veins rest beneath. His words enrapture you, his touch enthralls you. If there was ever a moment in your life you could stay trapped in forever, it would be this one.

But the moment is short-lived. Barbatos’s soothing touch halts mid-motion, his expression turning blank, as if he suddenly remembers himself and realizes the growing intimacy of the exchange. He withdraws his hand, and it leaves a cold emptiness where his warmth had been.

You ponder his words, but it only leads to more questions.

“My soul is everywhere...” you mutter. “But Barbatos... if it’s woven into my body, then how...?”

“How does your soul pass on after you die?”

You nod.

Barbatos holds his chin in his fingers thoughtfully. “You are thinking too literally. Perhaps it is my own failure to find the right words. Human speech doesn’t offer enough nuance to fully describe something your kind still struggles to understand.”

He ponders a moment longer, his brow knit together in concentration. Finally his head lifts and his gaze meets yours. “Ah. Perhaps we can describe it as such. Your body is made of matter, correct? And if you look deep enough, you know that all matter is made up of atoms. But not even atoms ever completely touch.” He takes your hand in one of his and holds it up, your palm facing him, as he brings his other hand within a hair’s breadth; close enough to feel the heat emanating off of him, but not actually touching. “There’s a negative space, ever present yet so infinitesimal that you’d never know it’s there.” His hand finally touches yours, his fingers aligned with yours as he splays them out. “It is this space that your soul exists, interwoven, encapsulating every atom of what you are.”

You’re staring at your touching hands, wide-eyed now, as you take in what he’s told you. The scope of it feels nearly too vast to properly comprehend, despite how hard you try.

“It’s all very... complicated...” you mutter as you finally lower your hand back to your lap.

“Hm, is it?” Barbatos replies with a curious tilt of his head. “Here then, another example, but simpler. If you were to lose a limb, would it damage your soul?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re separate.”

And finally, it clicks for you.

Barbatos smiles. “Precisely. So, if a lost limb will not damage your soul, then why should a damaged mind?”

The weightlessness of relief begins to spread from the center of your chest, and you release a long, deep breath.

“I see,” you say. “So when I die...”

“When you die, your soul continues on, transformed, as your body decays.”

The balloon of relief breaks and you do a doubletake. “...transformed?”

Barbatos nods. “Yes, by your experiences and choices in this life.”

Once again that despair rears, the dark void opening beneath your feet as you cling to your dwindling hope. You once again wrap your arms around yourself protectively, as if you are the only one who can keep yourself from falling, despite the presence of the demon directly in front of you.

“But... Barbatos,” you protest, “sometimes mental illnesses can cause people to make bad choices. Wrong choices. Hurtful choices. If those can impact the soul, then wouldn’t that mean the soul does get damaged? Or tainted?”

Barbatos falls silent for a long moment, and you avoid looking into his eyes, your gaze downcast. His hand reaches out and covers your forearm reassuringly, but your arms remain crossed.

“As a demon, I cannot attest to how just the Celestial Realm’s rules are. I, for one, find them to be rather suffocating and arbitrary, lacking in nuance. But even I would be shocked if such things weren’t taken into consideration when it is time for a soul to be set upon the scales of judgment.”

Scales of judgment... the idea makes you nauseous.

Barbatos’s touch to your forearm is replaced by both of his hands on your arms just below the shoulders. You can tell from the way he moves that he is ducking his head lower in an attempt to catch your avoiding eyes, but you keep yourself hidden lest your tears return.

“MC....” he says softly, “are you worried that you will be judged unfairly when your time comes?”

It takes a moment for you to find your voice, and when you do it’s thicker, heavy under the weight of emotions. “Maybe... or maybe I’m worried I’ll be judged fairly.”

“If you do not go to heaven when your time comes, then the Celestial Realm truly is run by fools.”

His words surprise you, and you finally catch his gaze, amusement beneath a raised, sarcastic brow. Your skin grows hot and you avert your eyes for a different reason, your shoulders lifting slightly in subtle retreat.

“Well,” you continue, “you said yourself that the soul gets transformed during this life. I’ve made some not-so-great choices, so far. I’ve done things I regret; hurt people I’ve loved and even people I didn’t. What if my soul is not as good as I hope?”

Barbatos gives a soft scoff of amusement, his brows pinching up in the center as he stares at you in wry amusement. “My dear, the very idea that your soul is anything but good is quite literally an impossibility.”

Your tension loosens slightly. “How do you know?”

The corner of one side of his mouth quirks up slightly. “Well, to start, I am a demon. And as one of the oldest demons, I have devoured countless souls across my lifetime. If anyone is to be an expert on the quality of a soul it would be me.”

Something about the way he talks so simply about his violence, combined with his intimate kindness, makes you feel lightheaded.

It takes an extra heartbeat for you to find enough air in your lungs to speak. “And, uh...what does a demon such as yourself consider high quality?”

Barbatos stares distantly, and for a moment he feels ancient. When he speaks, his voice seems almost otherworldly, holding a resonance to it that wasn’t there before. “It varies from demon to demon. Some enjoy the flavor of corruption upon a soul, some prefer the sweet, crisp freshness of innocence and purity... but all human souls possess something that ours lack, something that makes us crave. We’re drawn to it, in the way your human realm plants are drawn to sunlight.” He pauses and shakes his head. “No, perhaps that analogy is too mild. It is more how the Devildom’s Succubus’s Kiss lures its victims into its choking vines with the sweet promise of fruit.”

You swallow for a moment, your throat suddenly dry as you stare at your now empty palms where your longing for him sits abandoned.

“You make it sound as if humans are the dangerous ones,” you chide.

A half-hearted attempt at a joke, but Barbatos chuckles nonetheless.

“Yes; perhaps you are.”

You can’t tell in this moment if he’s referring to ‘you’ as in humanity, or ‘you’ as in something far more personal. It only makes the curiosity sharper, honed on the whetstone of your pining.

“And my soul...” you continue, “what do you sense, Barbatos?”

Dread immediately follows your bold and vulnerable question, fearing what he must inevitably see in you. Is Barbatos the type to enjoy the flavor of corruption, to find value in broken things? Or is he more of a purist, always a keen eye for perfection? You fear you already know the answer as you take in his crisp RAD uniform, his perfectly smooth features. Your gaze falls downward, an attempt to hide what you’re sure he already knows.

One heartbeat, two. Then your chin is being tilted up by his thumb and forefinger until your eyes are forced to meet his. There’s a hint of luminescence in them, the green noticeable now where it wasn’t before, pushing against the dark monotone of night that previously washed his irises in near-black. His eyes are searching, seeking, finding, and you can feel the magic, the power that unravels every defense, every barrier. Finally, his gaze settles, the green quiets to a deep, sleeping forest of pine in winter. It’s peaceful; soothing.

If Barbatos’s earlier release of your arm was to provide distance from the growing intimacy between you, then the attempt was in vain. Because now the affection in his gaze is unmistakable, the deep shadowy green cradling you the way his fingers cradle your chin. It weakens you, makes you feel like putty in his touch.

“You glow,” Barbatos whispers, “like sunlight trapped in ripples. It’s blinding, and yet so beautiful I find it impossible to look away. I can feel it in you, emanating like heat from a hearth, and it makes me long for a home I’ve never had.”

The hum of his voice makes you shiver, goosebumps forming across your skin. The adoration in his eyes falters briefly, the lingering green fading to black, giving way to a dark, ancient sorrow.

“I think,” he continues, “it’s a glimpse of what heaven must feel like. A small piece of divinity passed down to you from your ancestor.”

His fingers release your chin, but the vulnerability remains, if not slightly muted due to the distance imposed by the lack of physical contact.

“I am different from Lucifer and his brothers in that I was never an angel. I came into existence exactly as I am, and as such I’ve never known divinity. And yet... despite never knowing it, there is still a strange... hunger for it. It is a peculiar thing to miss something you’ve never known.”

“You... long for Heaven?” you ask him.

Barbatos tilts his head thoughtfully, his gaze absent somewhere past your shoulder. “Not so much Heaven the place. It’s more so the purity, the grace, to feel that sense of wholeness that the divine offers. It’s why we are drawn to human souls. Angels, you see, are far too potent. Too much divinity hurts a demon; it can even kill them. But you... you humans have just enough of both worlds within you to allow us a taste. It can be rather addictive, especially for younger demons who have not yet had enough millennia to control their hunger.”

His pupils dilate in the dark as he refocuses his gaze. His eyes meet yours and linger for a moment before slowly drawing down to your parted lips. “You are a rare case indeed. More potent in your divinity than the average human, but not enough to hurt.”

You quirk a smile at him. “Barbatos, are you saying I’m irresistible?”

It is a joke, one you feel comfortable making because of its ridiculousness. But then he gives you a smile you’ve never seen before that makes your stomach drop and your body awash with heat. There’s a directness in it, a challenge presented in a wry upward turn of the lips and the glint of teeth in the faint starlight.

“Perhaps,” he says.

You try to brush him off with a scoff and break eye contact, feigning interest in the shape of the black leaves that arch over the both of you in the darkness.

“Now you’re just teasing me,” you mutter.

“Oh? You don’t believe me,” he comments. “Perhaps there is more I can do to convince you then.”

Your heartbeat falters, tripped by hope, and you keep your eyes above and around lest you combust right in front of him.

“Convince me?” you question.

You’re attempting to feign indifference, to protect yourself from the inevitable rejection you know is coming, because surely he’s not... he doesn’t mean.... he wouldn’t... that look in his eyes earlier... affection yes, but that can mean anything...

Barbatos takes your chin in his fingers and pulls gently until you have nowhere else to look but directly at him. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, into him. There’s a flicker there, a glow of swirling green, like nebulae trapped within his vastness.

“Indeed,” he whispers, the warmth of his breath upon your parted lips. You realize he’s closer than you anticipated, closer than ever before.

Your lightheadedness is returning, and your genuinely afraid you’ll faint, so you force yourself to keep speaking.

“What kind of convincing?” you ask.

He smiles that smile again, the one that turns your insides molten. “The kind that doesn’t require words, since you seem to doubt them so fervently.”

His thumb draws gently across your lower lip, his half-lidded gaze transfixed. “Would you like to be convinced?” he mutters.

You swallow and answer honestly.

“Yes.”

Barbatos’s eyes return to yours and his lips curl into a soft, genuine smile. He closes what’s left of the distance, his warm lips capturing yours as his fingers release your chin in favor of gently cupping your jawline.

You close your eyes and reciprocate, your hand resting against his chest.

It’s gentle, soft, and for all of his heavy flirting just a moment ago, it is as unassuming as when he’d first held your hand. It washes away the last dredges of worry, calms the ever-present unease that always lingers. The clouds of your mind finally part, even if just for this moment, and for the first time in a long while, you feel feather-light as a peaceful warmth spreads from head to toe to the tips of your fingers.

When your lips part, Barbatos keeps his hand on your cheek and plants a gentle peck to your forehead.

“Now, believe me when I say you are beautiful. Believe me when I say that you are good. And most importantly, believe me when I say that I am always here for you.”

Your choked by emotion, your eyes once again burning, but this time for a different reason entirely.

“Even when I’m being sad and pathetic?” you ask, your voice cracking slightly.

Barbatos puts his forehead against yours as his lips curve into a tender smile.

“Especially then.”

#om barbatos #obey me barbatos #obey me #obey me fanfiction #barbatos fanfiction #barbatos x mc #barbatos x reader #tw: mental health

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urhoneycombwitch · 7 months ago

Text

you oughta know: part I

Spring Break

series masterlist

foreword: since Eddie Munson is our collective Ken doll to dress up as we please I present to you my new and improved: dirtbag!college!Eddie. now with 50% more tattoos and a splash of 90s grunge college academia aesthetic.

cw: drinking, intoxication, R has breasts, R and Eddie are slut4slut in this

___

The bass on this houseparty’s stereo pumps through the floorboards, rattling every wall of the building. Hiding out in the less-stimulating kitchen seems like a good option for tonight.

Apparently, this other guy thinks so, too, ‘cuz soon it’s just you and him across the counter from another. He’s handsome, actually. Moonlight from a window above the sink highlights strong cheekbones and a sharp cupid’s bow as he helps himself to a glass from the cupboard.

Slinking out from elbow-rolled shirtsleeves are thick, dark vine tattoos; they wind around his forearms, smattered with hair and freckles, the ink trailing to end at his wrists.

You lean forward onto the counter separating you two (well aware that you’re spilling out of your top), then tip the neck of your beer bottle at him- “Eddie?”

He spins to face you, raises a pretty brow, long lashes sweeping over auburn eyes- “Uh- maybe? Who wants to know, dollface.”

A scrunch of distaste with your nose at the nickname, you barrel through the discomfort- “Oh, I thought it might be you. I’m Robin’s roommate. She said her weed guy had cool tattoos.”

The guy’s face lights up with a lopsided smile, dimples peeking out as he preens, “So you think they’re cool?”

You roll your eyes, take an unamused sip of beer, press a bit further into your hands on the counter. A little thrill at your small victory- his eyes flicking down once, twice, to your cleavage- you ride the alcohol-gifted looseness and adrenaline. “Psst. Hey. My eyes are up here, perv.”

It’s a tease. A goad masked as chiding. Eddie sets his glass of water down, doe eyes fixed on yours, not falling for the trap of your quick inhale- “You seriously sayin’ that to me, when you’re the one with your tits out?”

He tsks, walks those big boots over, leanin’ in to your counter space, close enough to smell the spice of his cologne- “Would almost think you like the attention.”

You swallow hard. Hold your ground, looking up at him through your lashes, bust still on display- “Yeah, and you’d probably like to be the one to give it to me. In your dreams, pal.”

It’s getting harder to play hard-to-get as Eddie bumps his hip against yours. The whites of his eyes are slightly bloodshot (you can smell the heady undercurrent of weed wafting from his clothes), while the black of his pupils are already blown out with feverish lust. “C’mon, have a heart, angel. Can’t fault a boy for dreamin’.”

And goddammit if you don’t melt for that line. (He really is a rather great lyricist, as you’ll come to find out this upcoming semester.)

In retrospect, you’ll never admit it, but you did make the first move- pressed him right up against Linda Satler’s kitchen counter and kissed him, with tongue. Robin walked in on the two of you and got in a full shriek before either of you realized someone else had come in, jumping apart like two children caught arms-deep in a cookie jar.

“God, gross,” she gags, louder than the wave of sound flooding in from the open door. She crosses the room in a few swift strides and plucks at your elbow, a reproachful whisper- “I sent you to get weed, not to make out with the dealer!”

“I am getting weed, Robin,” you insist, patient but firm, pulling from her grasp to turn back to Eddie, teeth worrying at your bottom lip that shimmers with mixed saliva as you ask, sweet and simply- “Can I please have some weed?”

It wasn’t actually your plan to butter Eddie up for a better price (another fact you’d remain stoically opposed to, later), but he gave it to you, all the same- a laughably low amount for a bundle of pre-rolls.

Robin’s eyes bug out at the amount he hands it over- then she smoothly pockets the goods and pats you on the shoulder. “Okay. My mistake. I actually love that you’re both getting acquainted in this manner. You have my blessing to do it a bunch more, just- not when I’m in the room. M’kay?”

She grins cheekily at Eddie before looping her arm in yours, pulling you with her towards the door- you call out before it closes behind you both, “Robin’s number is our landline! You can call me there, if you want!”

Eddie stands still for a few moments after you’re swallowed up by the noise of the party, palm flat to the twinge in his chest. Cupid’s arrow, he can feel it sinking in.

He’s an RA, this semester. Really can’t afford to be seeing cute girls and selling them weed- at least, not at the same time. Gotta straighten up a bit over Spring Break, he thinks.

Then he cracks the window open. Lights up a joint. Smokes out into the fresh night air and tries really hard to think of anything other than your tits. (A game of mostly losses.)

#upcoming fic #dirtbag!Eddie #college au #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson smut

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thebeesareback · 8 months ago

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I just finished the audio book for Donna Tartt's novel The Secret History, so naturally I had to have a lil scroll to see what everyone thought on Tumblr. To add to the discourse: (spoilers, obviously)

Also trigger warning: incest, abuse, murder, alcoholism

Why is Tumblr so in love with Henry Winter?! He murders the farmer, Bunny, and possibly tries to kill Charles. He's manipulative and may well try to make Richard take the fall (har har) for Bunny's death. In the garden scene, he admits to being a psychopath/sociopath. Oh, and he's unbelievably pretentious

Also, why are there so many cute pictures of the twins hanging out? Their relationship was strained, incestuous, co-dependent, abusive. The whole uwu thing baffles me

Richard has a very obvious foot fetish and nobody is talking about it

The novel is quite funny, and I wish more people picked up on that. Most of the humour comes from Francis - the pinz nez stays ON during sex; no, Bunny's parents weren't very upset when one of their grandchildren ruined Francis' scarf, they were preoccupied by their missing son; and there's a throwaway line where the art students eat sushi with paintbrushes instead of chopsticks. I also liked when the twins panicked after Bunny's murder and decided to start repotting tulips

The farmer is referred to by name twice. Once in a newspaper, once by Bunny. Strange to think that he's the person in the squad who might actually have a conscience. Incidentally, Milo, the golden retriever who finds Bunny's body, has his name mentioned more frequently.

Richard is a smelly, badly dressed misanthrope. As is Henry, and Charles towards the end. Francis, Camilla and Hampden itself provide the (admittedly gorgeous) dark academia aesthetic, but if you want to end that dream, remember how terrible everything would have smelled. I guess the difference between appearance and reality is a pretty big theme

Julian is very creepy, obviously, but I was surprised that he wasn't more involved in the plot. He seems like exactly the sort of person to start a cult. I'd also like to know if he and Henry were in a sexual relationship, because we see them kiss once and then it's never mentioned again

Foreshadowing is done EXCELLENTLY through the book. There were a few characters who were described as ghostly at the start, and I THINK they're the ones who survive. Also, Tartt loves her pathetic fallacy (not phallusy).

Time is very strange. If you bothered to plot out all of the events, I don't think it quite makes sense. Term starts in September, say Richard joins Julian's classes in early October? That means all the picnics, the Sunday walks with Bunny, the trips to Francis' house, all happen over about five weeks, leading to the 12th November when Charles, Henry and Francis kill the farmer. Unreliable narrator, I guess

A lot of things about Richard's character make more sense when you realise the abuse he grew up experiencing and witnessing. Poor Ms Papen. Odd that Richard's parents don't visit him when he's in hospital

Funny that everyone is surprised when the twins' incest comes out. Like, they had an orgy at the start of the baccanal. Call me a prude, but I wouldn't attend an orgy with a family member

I would go for girls' night with Judy Poovey

Also, the book was published in 1992. Does anyone know when Prince Charles and Camila Parker Bowles went public with their relationship? Seems like an unbelievable coincidence otherwise

If anyone has an actual criteria for identifying alcohol abuse/alcoholism, please lmk if any of the main six characters AREN'T alcoholics. I'm pretty sure I got liver cirrhosis and lung cancer just from reading this book

#donna tartt #the secret history #richard papen #henry winter #charles macaulay #camila macaulay #francis abernathy #julian morrow #dark literature #dark academia #the macaulay twins

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charmedreincarnation · 1 year ago

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TW: SA, possibly death??

Hey there fellow witches and warlocks, it's spooky season and I am loving it! I recently discovered the void state through yoga nidra and your reverse psychology method charm, and I was ready to manifest my dream life. October is my birth month and my favorite season, so I was excited to see what the universe had in store for me and whoa did it come through.

It's unfortunate to see that SA victims like me and others are still getting death and rape threats. I was inspired by a blog who shared her experience with yoga nidra, but then deactivated due to trolls sending her horrible messages. It's sad to see people hating on others' success, but we won't let them bring us down.

I manifested everything I desired of course my mind came through!! - from my desired face, body, aura, zodiac, personality, voice, talents, friends, family, and so much more. A few things I've manifested include a dark academia mansion, billionaire parents who aren't known, a witchy and Halloween-themed small business, and an eco-friendly private jet.

I know some of you may be concerned about the "death note" I've manifested, but it's just for fun - I'm a huge fan of Light Yagami from Death Note. I won't actually use it, but it's a cool spook factor to have.

Here’s a tiny list anyways ⬇️

🎃Desired face, body, aura zodiac, personality, voice, talents, friends, family and so much more. I had this long wattpadd story ass list that I obviously won’t share here but trust me my mind came through .

🎃open minded witchy family, dark academia ass mansion, Pinterest dark academia wardrobe in my massive closet that’s the size of a room, billionaire parents who aren’t known (I love my privacy and I love being mysterious), wattpadd billionaire love story to happen in the future. Yes not now…. I’ve been ugly all my life so I want to be a slut right for a bit not sorry, everyone loves and falls in love with me, Idgaf personality, Scorpio sun moon and rising, bold attitude that is adored, but a kind heart for the people I love and so much more. Again like most people I had a very long list on my google documents

🎃I own a witchy candy and Halloween small business!!! but I’m going to be making 100 million dollars a year so I will be a billionaire in the future. I like working and having a craft and it’s just so me, ugh I love my life !!! But I’m going to hire my two best friends that I manifested so we can all be successful rich witch bitches who travel the world and have too much money to spend

🎃an environment friendly private jet. It won’t affect the environment as I love the environment but I also hate flying commercial! I’m also vegan now, I couldn’t be one before due to health issues, but I love animals 🥹🥹🥹 and now I’m rich enough to have healthy tasty cruelty free food.

🎃anyone who sends death threats, rape threats, or engages in a bitter manner on that tea page including the owner will never get into the void until they grow up and acknowledge that they’re weirdos. I’m not as forgiving as these other big blogs. Bye ✌️

🎃anytime I say “you’ll die alone” when im arguing with a man 🤮🤮 (incels, misgyonists, racists not men who aren’t insufferable ofc love y’all) they actually will, and no one will ever love them, until they grow up and once again acklowege their faults. As you can see I’m very into vigilante justice and I’m petty 👻 I’m a witch anyways so now my craft will be perfect.

🎃all my spells and curses work! And any harm attempted to be done to me always backfires On the person 10x worse ! Yea this is my world everyone’s just living in it.

🎃psychokenis, my eyes being able to turn red, divine protection for me and my loved ones, the ability to speak to animals, and never aging. The last thing I manifested a way to benefit all !!!! research age regression and see how we will all be eternal youthful witch bitches in the future ;) I got inspired by my grandma who retired but us too old to enjoy her life. Now she can and we call be 150 and still sexy with 0 bodily pain. I also always hated how we slowly decompose and lose bodily function until we die.. like why can’t we be sexy and bodily abled forever!! This will also help with health issues and diseases like cancer! Just one way to give back for my blessings. And the rest is just to spook bitches tbh I don’t plan on actually doing anything but speaking to animals.

🎃I manifested a death note. Now before y’all start I just really love light yagami I don’t think I will actually use it or maybe I will just to spook bitches but whatever

🎃so much more that I don’t want to share because it’s too long!

So, fellow hot bitches and witches , keep manifesting your dreams and never let anyone bring you down. Remember, we were born to be happy, rich, and loved. It is in your DNA and my word is final !!!!! I’m gonna leave my dream life and be a whore now lova yaaaa 🖤🖤🖤

Lmfao slay 😭😭 idk if it’s too early or what but this sending me for some reason! Anyways I wish you all the best in your life and dreams. Have a great spooky season! I love witches and Halloween too 🧞‍♀️🧞‍♀️

#law of assumption #manifesation #manifesting #void state #void success

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saranilssonbooks · 1 month ago

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100 Moby-Dick covers ranked by your's truly. Thank you so much to all those of you who sent in contributions and helped make this completely out of proportion project a thing. Jars of angelic spermaceti for everyone! 🤍

As for the ranking, it is purely the result of my own personal taste in aesthetics and heavily influenced by my perception of the story. Add to that a generous amount of sentimentality, as shall be apparent.

What I have been mainly looking at in judging the designs is as follows...

- General appearance; is it attractive? 💕

- Does it help sufficiantly communicate the nature of the story (theme, genre, mood, plot)? ⚰️

- Is it canon? (Meaningful creative licence perfectly allowed!) ✅️

As for the tiers themselves, we have...

Topmost Greatness: this is something out of the ordinary, possibly genius and also I neeeeed it for my collection!

A: Good, good stuff, but might lack that very extra special something

B: Gets the job done, agreeable, totally okay.

C: It's not exactly bad and I'll let that oopsie over there slide, but I probably wouldn't pay much for this one.

You Had One Job: Yeah, you did.

Should Never Have Surfaced: Makes the Pequod tragedy look like a merry holiday.

Art thou ready?

TOPMOST GREATNESS

1. The most beautiful Moby-Dick cover I've ever seen. I was almost tempted to create a tier higher than Topmost Greatness only so that I could place it there.

2. Brilliant composition and color choice, despite its simplicity it hits me straight in the soul.

3. I remember drooling over this in the book store back in the day and considered reading it only because it was so gorgeous. Manages to be both crowded and clean at the same time. Story instantly recognizable.

4. The classiest of all time? Forever a winner!

5. I show the image of this one to people to make them understand the creative brilliancy that thrives within the Moby-Dick community.

6. Captures the mood in a fittingly crooked, awkward way that makes my heart beat faster. (Also reminds me of my copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest for some reason.)

7. Another sort of awkward one, but I love the style, I love the surreal combination of drama and stiffness, pretty fitting the story itself. Makes 'Hab look a bit like the Grim Reaper.

8. The erratic painting technique gives me the perfect kind of crazy vibes.

9. Moby-Dick, a bibliophile's dream, topmost mood nailing, superior dark academia accessory... what more could anyone wish for in a book?

10. So well thought out and the claustrophobic feel helps to create an unsettling mood despite the otherwise quite cheery colors. Sorry, Madagascar.

11. Look, my two main areas of Moby-Dick interest is Ahab and rhe psychology, so... y'know.

12. Mood certainly set.

13. Guess I have a thing for harpoon/eye symbolism. Again that claustrophobic feel by leaving only a sliver of crowded surface.

14. First physical Moby-Dick copy I ever bought. All the books in this Penguin series are gorgeous, but to me this is one of the design winners regardless of the contents.

15. Unsettled in all this tropical serenity yet?

16. The boldness in color choice and to focus on the fire theme is as unusual as it is exciting, and the very modern touch makes it even more interesting!

17. Not normally a style I'm drawn to, but somehow this manages to capture my interest. A successful nod to the painting at the Spouter Inn, lovely line work. My sibling got me this one as a locket for my last b-day.

18. My beloved companion, by now containing almost as much tape as paper. The 19th century poster design is irresistable to me. A white tail would've been even cooler though.

19. It's not that unique looking, yet the worn feel and harpooned Moby Dick simply gets to me somehow.

20. All the crucial elements skillfully and effectivly forged (no pun intended) together.

21. The way the psychology has been captured and the missing leg detail is yum!

22. Kind of busy but so unique and interesting! Yes plz.

23. Another classic! How could Kent's iconic whale ever fail?

24. Aiming for the adventure theme, it appears, and successfully so. Unusual color choice which I happen to be all about. Total vintage feel!

25. Again, not that much is happening, but the ropes, the character design, the inking... I love you, cover, and I need you in my life!

26. An often used scene, but the style gets to me so, so bad.

27. I'm not that much about the washed out color, but the rest is love.

28. Very basic, but also very nice and display friendly and I enjoy the vibe so much.

29. Almost made it to Topmost, but the positioning of the illustration gives off a cheap feel to me. Why couldn't you have used that gorgeous theme depiction to better advantage? Can one order a remake? Or a cropped poster?

30. Love the composition so much but the technique simply doesn't do it quite enough for me to move up one full notch. Still want it so bad for the collection though.

31. Runny ink on pure white is something I associate with Moby-Dick, don't know why. The blotchiness is a really great touch.

32. The design doesn't say much concerning the content, but nevertheless it is so pretty and am I correct when I say there's harpoon vibes?

33. Had that been a white whale, it would've ended up under Topmost!

34. My first reaction to this was that it's a really interesting piece of art, but I wasn't so sure I liked it as much in book cover form. The more I look at it, the more intrigued and enamoured I get. I want more of this.

35. Ahab and Moby Dick from Ahab's POV? Love the distorted psychedelic atmosphere, but another one with missed full illustration use potential.

36. Brings back the menory of cigarettes and fear. Granny the Gregory Peck fan owned one of these and it freaked me out where she kept it on display ever after I'd been forced to watch the movie at age 6. Now I want one just for the hell of it.

37. Okay, so hear me out. I know it's a children's book, but the illustrator obviously knew the story. Love the tangling rope and that Ahab's prosthetic leg seems made out of whale bone rather than wood for once.

38. Nice modern touch, but that's straight up the New Bedford whaler statue, which kinda ruins it for me.

39. Lovely, lovely design, but I simply don't associate it with a story about suicidal tendencies, gore, and mass death.

40. A somewhat unusual character choice to pose on a cover, but hey, I'll take it! :D

41. Doesn't pop, but I do like me some traditional Japanese art vibes!

42. Elegant, but the huge M obscures the title text and the harpoon looks as if crossed with a sewing needle.

43. Basic, but the feel is there and I like the color combination for this story.

44. Love the art and it's impossible not to identify which story this is, but I have several Ahab design choice questions which won't leave me.

45. This whole thing is odd and busy, but I also really like it!

46. Speaking of Japanese traditional art. The lines and the moodiness is much to my liking.

47. Simple, spot on, nothing that extra.

48. If only he hadn't looked so damn happy about it as if Ahab was about to throw that harpoon like a stick for him to fetch. Untold plot line??

49. There is this whole sub genre of Moby Dick balancing the Pequod, a concept that certainly works, but by now it has to have that little extra something to seem truly special.

50. We have a less erroneous whale, folks! It may be a stock image, but Ishmael gave this one thumbs up, and so how could I possibly do differently? Nicely done!

51. First, I get strong The Old Man and the Sea impressions. Second, what kind of whale do you intend to kill with that thing, my dude? Points for canonical end game beard though.

52. I assume this is meant as a traditional Polynesian art style nod in honor of our dear Queequeg. The sports wear lining texture in the title letters confuses me though.

53. There certainly are plenty of canon here, but also, this is some odd mayhem and where are you aiming, Captain? Yay, ivory leg again!

54. Basic, works perfectly fine.

55. This is a really odd scene choice to pick for a cover, but I love this edition and its illustrations to bits. In fact, I'm planning on posting a review of it soon.

56. I haven't peeked into Melville's mind, but I'm pretty sure the Pequod looked quite different. The story is unmistakable though.

57. Nothing wrong with it, I guess, but way too messy for me to be comfortable with.

58. Not much to say here, but a perfectly nice-looking cover for any book.

59. Gets the job done, but not that inspiring.

60. Despite seemingly little effort behind it, this design based on a 19th century (erroneous) whale drawing could have gone straight up to A. You see, in the original image the (erroneous) whale has his penis (erroneous?) in full view, but on this cover it has been erased. How could I not have given a Moby-Dick book cover depicting dozens of (erroneous) whale dicks A? Alas.

61. Good, professional-looking cover, but judging by the illustration only, I would have guessed this was a children's book about the adventures of a jolly porpoise named Toni.

62. No spoilers to see here or anything. Is that a gold prosthetics??

63. This looks so much like a academic book on psychology. Not too far off, I suppose, but I wouldn't be able to figure out which famous story it is.

64. The Temple toggle harpoon was invented in 1848. Do with this information what you will.

65. Hey! That other cover from before! Have to say that the color alterations and helm sihouette wasn't an improvement.

66. A bit extreme for me.

67. I call this excessive simplicity. If you need a copy of Moby-Dick, you will recognize it at once, but it might not attract new readers merely in itself.

68. Just because it's a children's book doesn't mean the vibe has to be off, but I think it is in this case. Recently posted an example of this illustrator's adorable Ishmael here.

69. Where's the title? Confusing for a cover, but I would love this for a poster of mug! Also, the biggest words are Ahab, Queequeg, and Pequod, which I find mildly insulting towards a certain someone. What was he called again?

70. Cool whale picture which I really like, but the accuracy for Moby-Dick isn't really there.

71. It's blue.

72. I understand the idea and the illustration is awesome, but for me, the vibe is strangely all off and I get almost a comedic feel. Again, that's just me.

73. I often feel like an Ahab apologist and can often be somewhat harsh on the whale, but holy shit! A sort of red herring situation meant to make the reader think Ahab will be the winner?

74. It looks full of action and Scrooge's Ahab cosplay look is really neat, but I have... concerns.

75. I don't remember the scene playing out like this and Ahab is clearly not having it.

YOU HAD ONE JOB

76. The exact face I made the first time I saw this kind of cover.

77. After all the people I've heard at the museum mistaking the sperm whale skeleton for an orca, I'm honestly surprised these fails aren't more common. The snowy setting is a nice touch.

78. Hast seen the white beluga?!

79. First shark Moby-Dick I ever saw and during my first week on Tumblr even. The nostalgia is real, shipmates.

80. Cool scene. Where is it from?

81. Come on! This is a fucking Wordsworth's edition!

82. My sentiments exactly.

83. No, it isn't.

84. At first I seriously thought this was some interesting modern sci-fi/fantasy take on Moby-Dick. Nope.

85. At least the person who did this one bothered to give it a traditional nautical flair.

86. The ocean is canon.

87. *screaming shark mode*

SHOULD NEVER HAVE SURFACED

88. Someone's dad is balancing on top of a fire breathing eel whilst ravens are flying around and a poor guy has dark thoughts in the bottom right corner and... I dunno, man. "Whaling voyage turns fatal obsession" apparently. Moby-Dick the Prequel?

89. Whoa, dude!! I know you're angry, but holy shit!

90. "Captain Ahab? He went that way. Me? Just your average cliché 18th century pirate. If you don't mind me asking, sir, what sort of creature are you?"

91. By "annotated" they mean the truth about Wild Bill Hickok's one time side gig as a whaler. There's a fan fiction idea for ya.

92. What in the everloving AI fuck is happening here?

93. Friends, your guesses are as good as mine.

94. In the early 2020s, the ghost of Melville Herman set out to find the ghost of Moby Dick.

95. I guess we never learned what Ahab's dad died from back in the 18th century. Runs in the family and all that.

96. ?????????

97. If you download a public domain work to sell on Amazon for a possible extra buck, taking one minute to check the basic plot before slapping a stock image on it for a cover will be an actual long term investment.

98. "Lol! U overbite!"

99. Well, he is clearly a zombie whale, so maybe this is the sequel then?

100. And thus endeth MOBY D CK.

#moby dick #herman melville #literature #classic literature #ishmael #captain ahab #queequeg #moby dick spoilers #whale weekly #book tier list #tier list #moby dick tier list #moby dick projects #for fun #ranking #i'm dead

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cosmos-coma · 9 months ago

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Cuddling Eskel HCs

While Eskel is the kindest and most polite Witcher, I think he’s also the loneliest. Unfortunately his scars don’t exactly bring in the admirers like his white haired brother’s does and his mild nature doesn’t really put him out there much.

That’s not to say he’d let it get the best of him though. Early on, before you guys have a true and defined relationship, he’d steal a couple touches. A grazing of his fingers as he reaches for something, an “accidental” knocking of each others knees under tavern tables, or a quick brushing away of dirt from your cheek.

The best though were sharing a saddle during long rides. Where- depending on how much sleep you got- you’d either ride behind him, your arms wrapped around his chest and staying there. Or, if you had been tossing and turning the whole night before he’d have you sit in front of him. This way he can have his arms most of the way around you, keeping you from falling off the side. If he was lucky you’d fall asleep to Scorpion’s rhythmic movements and lean back against his soft chest as you snoozed.

However when you got closer he became a little more confidence in reaching out for you, though he still likes the little surge of confidence and love he feels when he sees you reach out for him first.

But once your place in each other’s lives is more established he’s much more apt to slip his hand into yours as your walking or hold open the blanket in an invitation for you to join him under the covers.

In winter it’s 10 times worse. Eskel handles the cold perfectly fine, he’s learned how in his years growing up at the keep. But he also knows it’s the perfect excuse to pull you in closer to him, to spend those 10 extra minutes in bed just holding you that much closer.

Speaking of- the classic question: Big spoon or little spoon? Eskel is s big spoon man, his whole purpose in life his to protect and with you it’s only amplified, especially if you two are out on the path.

However, Eskel has discovered a great fondness for laying his head on your chest/stomach. Specifically when he can lay between your legs, his chest and head laying peacefully on top of you. Soft hums emanate from the mountain of a Witcher as your hands run through his hair, fingers massaging his scalp idly and picking out twigs and leaves. He loves listening to your heart beat in this position, Loves knowing that you’re here, you’re his, as if you’re a dream he’s still not sure if he’ll wake up from.

———-

Witcher Taglist: @writingmysanity @novigrad--dreaming @madamemelancholysstuff @dark-academia-slut @beardedladyqueen

Wanna be added to the Witcher taglist? DM/Ask me to let me know!!

#eskel #eskel x reader #eskel x you #eskel x y/n #eskel imagine #Eskel headcannons #Witcher headcannons #game!eskel

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pictureofdoriaaaaaangay · 1 year ago

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chaotic book ramble so I can stop spiraling into the abyss: dark academia books you've heard of and probably already read edition

I need to talk about books I love to stay sane please stand by <3

Bunny by Mona Awad. I love this book SO MUCH. it's beautifully written, the characters are all unhinged women, there's murder, there's creation, there's a creative writing class. it drips with insanity and eroticism. reading it is like living a fever dream. you can picture the events of the book perfectly, but could never hope to explain it to anyone.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. this book is the entire world to me. I love the characters [they're all terrible and irredeemable people], I love the story [they kill a man then they kill their friend and also worship Dionysus], and I absolutely want a friend group just like the Greek class [to reiterate: they are all walking red flags]. it's a book you have to read once, then again, and again, just to notice more and more so you can analyze it and make deductions. at the end of the day, it goes beyond the age-old "moral implications of murder" and delves into "moral implications of love". don't ask me how many times I've read it. that's my red flag.

If We Were Villains by ML Rio. it was only recently that I read this over the course of twenty four hours, and I honesty have yet to recover. I'm not a Shakespeare girlie, but I still loved the way his work was so inherently and intricately woven into the story of the iwwv characters. it was transcendent. it was a tragedy, it was a love story, it was a comedy. it depends on your perception of it, I suppose. but I digress - it's a really good bloody book. expect the ending to make you cry.

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by our lord and savior Oscar Wilde. this, technically, can't really be classified under the textbook definition of "dark academia" since there's not exactly any academia (can Harry even read let's be honest here), but it goes in this list because VIBES. this is one of my favorite novels of all time, and another one I've read one too many times for it to not be a red flag. I mean, the name of my damn blog is my red flag. I love it so much. it's got everything, from art to obsession to murder to gay people to the most heartachingly profound lines you've ever read. I mean, why wouldn't you read it if you haven't already?

These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever. this one snuck up on me. towards the beginning, I wasn't sure if I'd like it, but by the middle, I was hooked. by the ending, I was shooketh. reading the author note, I was sitting silently in abject horror. more gay people, more obsession, more murder - what else do I have to say?

this has been a chaotic book ramble. thank you for being here <3

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dee-writes-angst · 5 months ago

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What Once Was Crumbled, Will Be Rebuilt Ten Times Stronger (Prologue)

SUMMARY Tenko Shimera was your best friend, the fire in his eyes fueling your days, until he was gone.

CONTENT WARNINGS death, depictions of homeless children, mentions of abuse, loss, and grief. For the sake of the series (and my conscience), all characters are aged up while still following the plot of MHA. In other words, think of UA as a college rather a high school.

AUTHORS NOTE my love for My Hero Academia is something that I have kept carefully hidden from this platform considering the amount of toxicity surrounding the fandom, but this story idea has swept me up and I really want to share it with you guys. So, I have decided to say fuck it and post it. Happy new series, my darlings! I hope you’ll stick around and get swept up with me.

SERIES MASTERLIST

You had known Tenko Shimura since you were a child, a bond that had grown unbreakable over the years. He was your childhood best friend, the quiet and reserved boy who seemed out of place among the more boisterous children. Yet, beneath that calm exterior, you saw a fire in him, a burning intensity that mirrored your own. His fire was one of hate and anger, a raging storm that contrasted sharply with the deep, unsettling fear that fueled your own ambitions.

Despite his quiet demeanor, Tenko had a unique ability to reassure you. In his presence, you found a strange sense of comfort, as if his anger could temporarily quell your fears. Those moments, fleeting as they were, provided a brief respite from the anxieties that plagued you. Yet, no matter how comforting those moments were, they always ended the same way: Tenko being dragged back home, leaving you to face your fears alone.

Your memories of those warm summer days are vivid, filled with dreams and schemes of a brighter future. You and Tenko would sit for hours, plotting and fantasizing about the day you both might become heroes. You envisioned yourselves changing the world, making a real impact. Those dreams were your escape, a shared vision that kept you both going through the challenges of your childhood.

In those days, the world was a place of infinite possibilities. The future was a canvas, and you and Tenko were determined to paint it with your dreams. You believed that together, you could overcome anything, that your combined strength and resolve would be enough to conquer any obstacle. The bond you shared was more than just friendship; it was a partnership forged in the fires of ambition and fueled by the desire to make a difference.

As you both grew older, Tenko’s fire only grew brighter and harsher. He renounced the world that caused him so much torment and pain, his dreams slowly shifting from idealistic visions of change to fantasies of destruction. Tenko wanted to burn everything down and revel in the screams of suffering, his anger turning into a desire for vengeance against a world that had wronged him.

Your path, however, took a different turn. Despite the hardships you faced, you clung to your dreams, even on those cold nights spent sleeping on benches in parks or hidden behind disgusting dumpsters in alleyways. In the shadows of the city, you found strength in your vulnerability. Every harsh experience, every cold night, and every moment of loneliness forged you into someone determined to make a difference. You saw the world’s cruelty firsthand and vowed to fight against it, not by destroying it, but by changing it from within.

Comfort was a foreign concept to you. You had never felt the gentle caress of a mother or heard the deep belly laughter from playing with a father. Your life began in an alleyway that looked like any other dark alleyway in the city—cold, ruthless, and haunting.

You had met Tenko when he dared to run away from home one fateful day. He found you on a playground bench, shaking you awake with a mixture of curiosity and concern, asking if you were dead. When you confirmed that you were alive, he smiled at you—genuinely smiled—a rare warmth that you hadn’t experienced before. He tugged you off the bench and into the playground, where the bark chips bit into your bare feet. You had outgrown your only shoes years ago, and each step left small streaks of blood behind, but you ignored the pain.

Tenko was animated, talking excitedly about a game he wanted to play. His energy and enthusiasm were infectious, a stark contrast to the indifference you were used to from others. No one had ever noticed you before; they simply went about their day, oblivious to the child shivering on a park bench. But Tenko saw you. He acknowledged you, pulled you into his world, and gave you a taste of what it felt like to be seen and valued.

It was that day, amid the bark chips and bleeding feet, that Tenko Shimura became more than just a boy who ran away from home. He became your best friend and your hero. His smile, his warmth, and his willingness to reach out to you forged a bond that would shape your life in ways you couldn't yet comprehend. From that moment on, Tenko was a beacon of hope and companionship in your otherwise harsh and lonely existence.

Everything had changed one cold night in October. By this time, you and Tenko were inseparable. His itching had worsened over the months, but what truly bothered him wasn’t the itching itself. It was his mother smothering him in cream and offering false sincerities. He had tried many times to get his mother to let you stay after he was found and forced home, but once bruises started appearing on his skin, he refused to ask again. The dark marks marring his soft skin grew more frequent, a silent testament to his hidden suffering. You tried to ask him about it once, but he became very quiet, and his itching grew so intense that he started to bleed. Since then, you assumed he wasn’t ready to share and let it drop.

It was a particularly harsh night when you lost your best friend. You stayed close to his house, having set up your makeshift home in an alleyway about two blocks away, curled tightly under a thin sleeping bag to ward off the cold. In the middle of the night, a loud crash was quickly followed by the ground shaking beneath you. Despite the maturity you had been forced to develop in your time alone, you were still a child, so you ran to Tenko’s home seeking comfort. But all you found was rubble. The ear-splitting crash and the shaking ground were caused by his home collapsing. Your small hands pushed and pulled at the debris, desperately trying to save your friend, sobbing and heaving as you searched all night long. You were too weak, too young to make any impact on the devastating collapse.

That night, amidst the tears and cries of agony as you cut your small hands and knees on the rubble, you vowed to become a hero. No matter what it took, you would not allow another person to lose a best friend the way you had. The memory of Tenko, the boy who had seen you, acknowledged you, and become your hero, fueled your determination. His smile, his warmth, and the bond you shared would forever be the driving force behind your quest to make a difference in a world that had taken so much from you.

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always-andromeda · 1 year ago

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·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Professor!Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 3268

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + dark academia + “I can see how badly you want this, so I'm going to make sure you get it.”

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ I’ve loved this man literally since I was thirteen…so it’s inevitable that I’d be writing something absolutely fucking filthy for him in my twenties…

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), gaps in age and power, mutual masturbation, little bit of panty sniffing, a singular use of Y/N (I'm sorry, I hate it too but it was necessary), usage of pet names (sweetheart), general manipulation, slight praise kink, obvious disclaimer: the dynamic in this fic is just that, fictional, and should not be practiced in real life!! let me know if any other warnings are needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

You’d rarely had luck receiving any sort of grace from your professors. Sure, there were a select few that only wanted to see you succeed. However, more often than not you seemed to encounter sadists who decided to take their kinks out on exhausted college students. But you were convinced that Professor Winchester wouldn’t be like that.

For starters, he’d always been challenging but never malicious. Despite the fact that you’d registered for his Norse Mythology course with the assumption that it would be easy college credits, you quickly learned that his assignments were difficult. Every week there seemed to be about a hundred pages worth of reading, frequent essays, and an emphasis on class discussion.

Oh, did he love those class discussions. While most were less than enthusiastic to contribute to lengthy examinations of Eddic poetry at eight in the morning, Professor Winchester seemed to be none the wiser of this.

He was always squinting over his thin wire framed glasses, surveying the class. He’d stand at his desk, brushing his long hair behind his ear while looking over papers. When he’d listen he’d purse his lips and tilt his head, expression rife with genuine interest. In all of these moments, he was the most gorgeous. But more than that, you were fascinated with his mind.

Professor Winchester knew this material like the back of his hand; was able to pull references and quotes from various pieces of literature at the drop of a hat. He was the only professor who could ever give notes that were actually helpful on essays and he’d always been generous with handing out extra credit assignments. Which is what you aimed to obtain on this visit to his office.

You looked through the glass of his office door and saw him inside, working diligently at a dark oak wood desk. Taking a deep breath, you turned the doorknob and entered.

The hinges squeezed but Winchester seemed so fixated on whatever was before him that he only raised a finger, indicating for you to wait. So you did. Awkwardly. You rocked slightly on your heels, your stomach starting to twist in time with the movement. God, he looked like a dream lit by the stained glass banker's lamp as he graded papers.

In another world you could see him coming home from a long day, his body warm behind you as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Smelling like black coffee and pencil shavings, you'd adoringly close your eyes, taking in his scent and ask him how his day went. He'd hum in contentment when resting his chin on your head; you're his rock, his soulmate, the reason he stays sane despite dealing with probably hundreds of students and the frustrating dance of academic bureaucracy.

It's a fantasy that broke the second Winchester glanced up and said with a hint of surprise, "Miss L/N! Come in, have a seat," he nodded towards the chair on the other side of his desk.

Relieved that he can pick you out among the sea of students from his classroom, you move forward until you reach the chair. You set your bag down on the floor and settle into the worn leather of the seat as Winchester eyes you expectantly.

"What can I do for you this afternoon?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek. "Actually, I was hoping that you could help me out with something."

"Oh, what might that be?" he furrowed his brow.

"Um..." you started. "I'm sure you noticed that I didn't do too hot on the last exam."

"Ah, I did," he said simply.

"You did?"

"Yeah, I was surprised, actually." Winchester opened up one of his desk drawers and sorted through some files before pulling out a packet you recognized as the exam you'd taken the week before. "You seem so engaged in class discussion and you've been doing well on everything else. This...this felt rushed. What happened?"

The soft expression of concern on his face only increased your shame. In all honesty, you'd wasted half the exam time away staring at him. He'd worn a red sweater over a cream colored button up that day. Then he'd rolled up the sleeves before handing out the exam papers. It felt stupid to admit that you'd been distracted by his goddamn forearms.

But you had been. You couldn't resist watching him as he'd circled the room, keeping an eye out for cheating. With his arms folded behind his back, you got the best look at the back of him. His long legs clad in khaki. Strong, tanned forearms corded with prominent veins. Shoulder blades pushed back confidently as he walked. Everything about his solid stature had your mind far, far away.

You'd been good at making sure your daydreams wouldn't get the better of you. But this time, before you knew it, Winchester was glancing down at his watch and announcing that you had fifteen minutes left for exam time. You had no choice but to rush through the rest of it, writing down answers that hardly even made sense just to fill in blanks.

Now those answers laid before you, condemning you to a low D– that dragged down your entire grade.

"I honestly couldn't tell you, Professor. I thought I studied enough but I guess not."

Though you'd attempted to laugh off his concern, Winchester obviously wasn't budging. "But these are rookie mistakes. Number fifteen for example. Where do the gods live?"

"Easy. Asgard."

"Right, but here you marked down the answer for Valhalla," he slid the paper around so you could look at the question.

Sure enough, there it was, your frantic pencil marks filling in the bubble for the incorrect answer. Damn.

"And that's just on the multiple choice questions," Winchester continued, flipping through the pages. "You barely followed any of the directions for the long answer questions. Your response to the short essay portion was a paragraph too short. And it was too unfocused."

Unfocused is right, Professor Winchester.

"I hate to say it...but I was a little disappointed."

The sting of tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. So you cleared your throat and blinked them back quickly. Voice trembling, you answered quickly, "I'm sorry, Professor. I wasn't on my game and I thought I'd pay you a visit so I could plead my case. I'm willing to do any kind of extra credit assignment. I don't care how much work it is. I'll do anything to fix my grade because I really want to do well in your class and–"

Winchester raised a hand, urging you to stop. Then he spoke, "Listen, I can see how badly you want this. So I'm going to make sure you get it. Just...let me think."

With that, Winchester rose from his seat and began to gather the papers that littered the surface of his desk. He stacked them neatly before opening a different drawer and laying them inside. After he closed the drawer, he made his way around the desk. You tried not to look at him as he made his way around the room, especially not when you felt his hand brush against the back of your chair. But you couldn't not notice when he drew the shade on his door's window and closed the blinds to his window, leaving the room dim save for the yellow light of his desk lamp.

Once he'd made his round, he returned to his chair and rolled back, leaving a massive gap between himself and the edge of his desk.

Then he did something else you didn't expect.

He patted the wood and said, "Come. Sit on my desk. Let me look at you."

You almost wavered on the direction when he cleared his throat expectantly. That brought you to your feet and compelled you to settle waveringly before him.

With his lips in a tight line, Winchester studied you. He tilted his head every few seconds, letting his eye flicker from your uncertain expression to your body. You sat up a little straighter in an attempt to satisfy his observation of you.

You weren't quite sure what he was doing, but it made you nervous; made you vulnerable in a way you weren't used to.

"I may have one extra credit opportunity that I can offer. Special. Just for you."

"Yeah? What do you want me to do?"

"Well, you can start by spreading your legs."

Your eyes went wide. "Professor Winchester, you're not–"

He cut you off quickly, "First, after office hours, you may call me Sam. Second, I'm not going to touch you. I'm simply asking you to give me a– a presentation," he decided.

"What kind of presentation?" you asked.

Your feigned innocence made the man chuckle softly. "The kind of presentation I'm sure you give in your dormitory bedroom every night."

There wasn't an ounce of jesting on his face, but still you played dumb. "I have no idea what you're referring to, Sam." His name felt foreign yet familiar on your tongue. Probably because you'd whispered it many times before in the exact scenario he'd described.

"I'd hoped you'd tell me the truth about why you were so distracted during your exam. But since you haven't been forthcoming, I guess I have to spell it out for you, haven't I?"

You swallowed hard and blinked nervously.

"You thought I wouldn't notice, did you?" he chuckles again. "It's hard not to notice when one of your students, especially one so beautiful, is practically drooling all over their table."

The scraps of flattery were evidently working on you as Sam smiled when you fiddled with your fingers in your lap as your skin got all warm and tingly. So he kept going.

"Besides, you're too intelligent to do this terribly on something you should've aced. Maybe you wanted to fail it. You wanted to get my attention, didn't you?"

"Oh, no, I wasn't trying to waste your time, I was just–"

"You weren't wasting my time. Wasting your time is continuing this pointless back and forth when you could instead be proving yourself."

"Proving myself?"

"Yes. Spread those legs...and earn your grade," he ordered.

Breathing in and out slowly, you did what you were asked. The knots in your stomach told you this was wrong. But the smile of approval that slowly grew on Sam's lips said that this was exactly what you both needed.

You'd never been more embarrassed to be wearing a skirt. One the fabric pooled around your hips, it only framed the damp patch on your underwear. Perhaps part of you had wanted something like this to happen. Because your pussy was already pulsing after simply being observed behind the cotton curtain that soaked up her anticipation.

"Very good," Sam breathed out.

"What do I do now?" you asked.

"Just...play with her. Show me what you like to do to make her happy."

You nodded, then pursed your lips as you thought. If you were going to present to him...you might as well go all out. So you shifted each of your thighs around, pulling down your underwear until your bare ass was planted on the desk and the garment was caught on one of your ankles. You lifted your left and held it out gently, the panty hanging in the air a little below Sam's face.

"Take them," you said. "Visual aid."

He smirked lazily at the offering before pulling them over your shoe, being careful not to actually touch you. Sam balled them up before bringing them to his nose and slowly breathing in the scent. You could tell he enjoyed it thoroughly as he let out a deep sigh from within his chest.

"With how wet these are...it's good to know you were prepared even for a surprise presentation. I knew there was a reason you're my favorite."

His words went straight to your cunt as a few drops of slick leaked from your hole and landed on the dark wood beneath you.

"Go on," Sam urged, gaze flickering to the drops of you on his desk. "She's waiting. And so am I."

You began to treat yourself with the same level of care as you did when you were alone. One of your hands reached up your shirt and you cupped one of your tits. You kneaded the flesh for a few seconds before focusing on the nipple, pinching it until it pebbled and poked through your shirt. The action made your breathing turn ragged.

You finally let your other hand travel south, bringing warmth to the soft skin of your thighs. Wanting better access to yourself, you pulled your leg up, resting a foot on the desk itself. Then you reclined back and let your fingers roam where they wanted.

Using two fingers, you spread your outer lips, only exposing yourself to Sam’s scrutiny even further. The cool air hitting your most vulnerable part, you shivered as goosebumps erupted across your skin. You looked up at him, gauging his approval of your performance.

“You’re doing so well already, keep going,” he encouraged, hardly concealing the arousal that clung thickly to his tone.

You took the praise with pride. It emboldened you enough to slip your two fingers between your folds to gather up some of the slick. You couldn’t help but feel mortified as you involuntarily gasped when your digits brushed slightly against your clit.

Sam let a quick puff of air out his nose. “Sensitive?”

“Mhmmm,” you whined.

“Bet you can’t even touch that pretty clit directly without crying, huh?”

You nodded.

“Then be gentle. I want you to last for me.”

You took that to mean that he didn’t want you touching yourself there yet. So instead you switched to focusing on your entrance. It wasn’t often that you went straight for penetration. Rarely did it bring the kind of relief you craved.

But you had the feeling that Sam would want to see it; to see your fingers filling yourself up and stretching you out.

With your fingers practically pruning already, you pushed one in ever so slowly. It took a second to adjust to the slight pressure, but still you began to carefully pump. The slick squelch only intensified when you slipped another one in and sped up your movements.

Though the pressure increased and built up tension in your belly, you could already tell it wasn’t going to go anywhere. You bucked your hips pathetically against your own hand, trying to get deep enough to hit your g-spot. But no matter how far you tried to probe, it was useless. Your fingers simply weren’t long enough.

Your eyes went wind, catching sight of something that most likely could reach that spot inside you. While you’d been fucking yourself, your professor had undone the button and the zipper on his pants and slipped himself out. There he sat, your panties in his hand and wrapped around the thick length of his cock. The angry red tip poked up and out of the fabric with each slow thrust. And you could already tell based on how long his strokes were that you’d most likely be able to feel him poking against your belly from inside you. The idea made you moan and throw your head back.

Sam swiftly reprimanded you, “Ah, remember your eye contact. I want you to look at me.”

Shame spread over your body. What the fuck was going on? Were you really fingering yourself on his desk right next to papers that he was surely going to return to students? Was Sam really fisting his own cock with your underwear? And were you actually enjoying this?

“Sweetheart,” Sam’s self control faltered slightly with the name. But it grabbed your attention nonetheless. “I need you to look at me. Let me look into your eyes when you make yourself come on my desk, alright?”

This was about more than fixing your grade. This was about pleasing him…by pleasing yourself. And as you returned his look, you were all in.

Under his watchful, half lidded, hazel eye you allowed yourself to focus on your aching clit which laid in wait like a pearl beneath the hood of skin covering it. Carefully, you pulled that hood back before lightly spreading some of your slick with a finger. You let the skin settle back in place over the sensitive nub before going straight to work.

You began to rub slow circles on the hood and finally properly moaned. It took only a few seconds for the muscle memory of your nightly ritual to kick in as the pleasure started to mount. Finally, all of that pressure in your core had some actual weight to it; a weight that was already beginning to roll in shallow waves over your whole being.

"There you go, sweetheart. Let me hear you loud and clear. Don't wanna miss a single sound from you," Sam groaned and you caught how the grip he had on himself tightened, how his pace quickened.

While rolling your hips against your hand, you pulled up a side of your shirt, exposing even more of yourself to him. Now he could easily see one of your tits rise and fall with your staggered breaths. He could see how the ball of fat dimpled under your fingertips as you squeezed and pulled at your hardened nipple.

Both sources of simulation had you whimpering breathlessly, "Sam, I-I'm so close– Let me come, please?"

Sam glared and asked through gritted teeth, "That's not my name. What do you call me in class?"

"Professor?"

Sam nodded darkly.

You took the cue quickly and begged helplessly, "Please, professor, please let me come–" you were cut off by the sound of your pleasure starting to push you over the edge.

Sam left you teetering, staring right over the border of this boundary. That boundary being an ethical nightmare that you had no clue how you'd navigate. But you wanted to be good for him; you craved his approval.

And thankfully, Sam gave it as he groaned, "There you go, good girl. You can come, you've got permission."

With that, you arched off the desk and burst with glorious clarity. A thin stream of your arousal drooled from your entrance as you rubbed yourself through the enormous implosions and the small aftershocks that followed. Your head was heavy with the fog of pleasure and you wanted to hang it back, give it a break.

But still, you were determined to keep your eyes on him, even as you pulled your fingers away from your trembling cunt and stuck them in your mouth. Your tongue swirled around the wrinkled digits, soaking up every bit of yourself that you could.

Any sort of professionalism Sam had been trying to maintain up until that point shattered completely when he rolled his chair forwards. Closer to you now, you looked down into his soft eyes and watched how his normally objective stare went personal; emotional. He looked at you with the kind of admiration that made your heart flutter with pride.

He took his hand, placed it on your knee, and spread your legs further. His touch was so light, so soft that you could help feeling electricity dance along your spine.

"I thought you said you wouldn't touch me?" you whispered, only a hint of a smug smile tugging at your lips.

Choosing his words as carefully as ever, he explained, "That was before I decided that you needed some of my...guidance."

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown #supernatural #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fic

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pooks · 2 months ago

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been working on this for a couple of days now (sleep and meal hours was necessary). i thought that Ichiji, as a straw hat, needed a proper art dump

clear translations;

Scarlet Ichiji (aka straw hat!Ichiji AU)

resting bitch face

gluten intolerant

can cook, but rather eat it

shitty eyesight after a fever nearly boiled him alive

takes his big brother duties super seriuously

escaped Germa with Sanji

always had emotions, he's just too good at hiding them Role; Archivist

writes & archives the Straw Hats' adventues

he really loves writing stories other information;

starburst scar on his covered eye (Judge did it)

(why does he look like Nighteye from "My Hero Academia"?)

fancy sword, most likely stole it

uses swordfighting, but fencing style

dresses with an actual pirate "Sparking Red"

a multi-purpose, light-based power

since unethical human experiments is the cause, sea stone doesn't work

is often mistaken for Devil Fruit powers

enhances all abilities, like speed, strength, etc.

1st image: a full color of Ichiji. he has shoulder length hair and keeps it tied up. without Germa's continuation of unethical experiments, it has turned dark red and is his natural hair color. he has the same eyes as Sanji and he has a pair of glasses. as stated in the art dump, he got shitty eyesight after a fever that almost boiled him alive (he got seriously ill during the five last days he, Sanji and Zeff were on the rock and nearly starved to death). he also have scars across his nose, implying that he has a starburst scar on his covered eye (caused by Judge, when Ichiji rebelled against him)

2nd image: lineart of Ichiji staying up late and writing down the Straw Hats' latest adventures in their chronicles. if it wasn't for Chopper, then Ichiji would stay up all night and write.

3rd image: a fullbody lineart of Ichiji in fighting pose. in battles, be it pirates or marines, he uses both Sparking Red and swordfighting. his swordfighting is more fencing style (his Germa lessons never left him and he's using that to his advantage). Sparking Red has evolved like a power of his own and he can use his sword as a tool to focus his power. and what happens if he doesn't have his sword? easy, he uses kicking just like Zeff taught him and Sanji.

bonus:

this poor lad is one of the few rational ones on the ship and everyday, he asks "why me". he just wants to nap, write his stories and dream.

dw, he's very loyal to Luffy, but he'd like to ask his captain to please go one day without almost drowning and pissing off marines or other pirates

#pooks rambles #pooks draws #one piece #one piece au #straw hat ichiji au #ichiji runs away with sanji au #vinsmoke ichiji #scarlet ichiji #pirate vinsmoke ichiji

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yanderewritingdump · 1 year ago

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Something keeps visiting you in your dreams.

MDNI, AFAB/fem reader, pet names, non-human partner, dub-con, threats of kidnapping

As always, I'm flying by the seat of my pants, but I think this one might turn into one that has more than one LI if I keep on with it. It's more high fantasy based than modern day. Tell me what you think!

You were aware of the grip he has on your hips, fingertips digging in to drag you back into him. In the pitch black, it’s hard to tell if you’ve been blindfolded or if all the light in the room is gone. The first few times, you had brushed it off as a strange dream from too much time on your own, but you knew that it was something more than that now.

His body gave off no heat as it curled against your back, firm in a way that human skin just isn’t against yours. It felt like pressing against your desk or the walls instead of another living being. Your hands reached out -you don’t know if you mean to push him away or just to touch him-, but he grabbed your wrists, holding them firmly against your chest.

“I thought I told you couldn’t touch after that stunt you pulled last time,” he sighed, cool breath puffing on the back of your neck. His voice was different this time, no longer the gruff, low voice he had presented you with previously, but something smoother with an accent that made you think of academia.

You pushed against his hold, at least trying to keep his hand away from your breast. Logically, you knew that it would do you no good with how much stronger he was than you. “I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you hissed back, kicking at the leg that that was tucked against yours. Argos took the opportunity to worm his leg between yours instead of at least feigning injury.

He really did your pride no favors.

His face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “I can’t stay away from you. You know that, songbird,” he cooed. You tried to squirm away as he inhaled deeply despite knowing it was futile. You had to put up at least a token fight now that you knew he was more than something your mind conjured up. With your wrist pressed against your chest, his leg between yours, and one of his hands still free, you were effectively pinned against him. “I know you didn’t mean it anyway.” His free hand wrapped around your hip, urging you to rock against his thigh as his blunt nails dug into your skin. You tried to remain stiff against him, but Argos would not be denied.

“Do you know what people would do to me if someone found out you’ve been visiting me?” you hissed, trying to ignore the insistent press of his firm, slender thigh between your own.

His grip tightened to something just shy of painful as he pulled you tightly against him, and you could feel him bare his teeth against your shoulder. “I would destroy anyone who was a threat to you.” His normally soft, even voice was a low, deadly growl that sent shivers down your spine. There was a moment of disorientation in the dark as you found yourself flat on your back, wrists pinned above your head and legs draped over his thigh as he hovered above you. “You know I would do anything for you. I’d give you the king’s head on a silver platter. I’d destroy armies. I’d burn the world down. Just don’t ask me to leave you alone.”

His mouth was on yours before you could make a proper retort, as demanding as the man himself as his tongue wormed its way into your mouth. You bit it, trying to ignore the way it made him groan and the strangely sweet taste of his saliva. His body weight pressed down on you, and you could feel every inch of his skin pressed against yours. Even with such intimate contact, his body still stayed cool. Argos smeared kisses down your cheek and jaw to your throat, nudging your head up with his to get a better angle.

You worried he would leave a mark on your throat like he had on your thighs and hips before. “Argos,” you started in an angry, warning tone, but he cut you off.

“Don’t tell me to stop, songbird,” he panted. “Let me taste you, let me hear you sing for me. It’s been so long.” He sounded desperate in a way that you had never heard, boarding on whiny as the hand not holding your wrists kneaded your thigh. “Wrap your pretty legs around my head, and let me hear you,” Argos begged. He was still panting against your throat when his tongue stretched and stretched and stretched until it was wrapping around your nipple.

Against your will, you were arching into the touch, letting his grip on your thigh urge your legs open. “Argos,” you tried again, but your voice betrayed you as his fingertips rubbed softly high on the inside of your thigh and his textured tongue played with your nipple. Both of you knew that you would give into him. He knew your body too well, knew how lonely you could get in this remote place with only the company stationed and the maintenance staff who limited their interactions with you for various reasons. He knew that you craved these interactions even if you couldn’t see him or touch him back.

Argos seemed even more desperate than you for these moments. Especially with how he groaned when his finger dipped further down between your thighs, almost shy and hesitant in a way he never was before. His teeth scraped lightly against you, sending a shiver up your spine as you bit back a noise.

You were angry with him. Upset that he was endangering you. Your life depended on keeping a low profile and staying on people's good sides, and here he was using forbidden magic to show up in your dreams to what? Feed on you? Use you?

But he sounded so scared of your rejection. Desperate for you in a way you hadn't seen him before as his fingertips stroked soft circles on to your clit and his tongue worked against your skin. It was either him or the way his low groan vibrated against you that made you arch into his touch against your better judgement.

You might have already been damned. It was pointless not to enjoy it then.

Taking that as a sign, he sighed in relief, fingers working against you with just the right pressure and speed. He panted against your skin, whispering your name softly as he seemed to work himself into a frenzy with you, and you almost didn't notice when his hand let go of yours. You wouldn't have if his breath was still puffing against you.

He seemed to be holding himself up above you. It was like he was watching you in the pitch black, even with his tongue still on you. You clenched at the bedding to keep yourself from reaching up to find out, and he rewarded you by sinking two long fingers into you, a rough noise leaving him as you clenched around him.

"I want to really feel you. This isn't enough," he muttered as your thighs moved restlessly against his. His fingers seemed much longer than a human man's as they curled to press against something delicious in you. "You feel so good against me. You taste so good. This isn’t enough anymore."

You were too focused on chasing his fingers and your orgasm to really pay attention to what he was saying. Your eyes were scrunched shut as you rocked into him as best as you could on your side with one of his thighs pressed against the inside of your knees. Meaningless words and pleas were starting to flow out of you as you lost yourself to the feeling, and he rewarded you by giving you what you wanted and moving his fingers faster and firmer against you and inside you. "Fuck, you sound so pretty, songbird. I want to make you sound like this all the time. Think you could sing for me like this in the pretty cage I'm making for you?" His mouth was on your neck, pressing soft, sucking kissed into your skin as he whispered to you. "I'll take such good care of you. You'll never have to worry about anything."

Your stomach clenched, thighs quivering as you threw back your head. Memories of how he'd already had you mixed with buried fantasies, your thighs over his slim shoulders as you rode his textured tongue or tied to the bed as he worshiped every inch of your body with his lips and fingers flashed through your mind. Just you and him intertwined forever. A noise you'd never heard yourself make left you as you let the orgasm roll through you, crashing over you in seemingly never-ending waves as he kept his pace even and unaffected despite how the thigh your legs were wrapped around trembled.

#yandere x reader #afab reader #yandere oc x reader #yandere male #yandere oc #yandere smut

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hardly-an-escape · 25 days ago

Text

Square: B2 - FREE SPACE

Title: "would you go along with someone like me?" (ch. 2)

Rating: T

Ship: Dream/Hob

Warnings: No archive warnings apply

Additional Tags: college AU, non-traditional college students, don’t worry they’re actual grownups, poet Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, history student Hob Gadling, referenced character death, rating will go up in later chapters, more tags to be added

Summary: Hob is a freshman history major and a first generation college student, while Morpheus is completing a graduate degree poetry. When they're crammed into a small room together due to a shortage of on-campus housing, it seems like an odd couple situation at best and a recipe for disaster at worst. But as the months go by, mutual respect turns into real friendship. And then... something happens that Hob never expected.

Link to AO3.

another @dreamlingbingo fill! I know it's been over a year since I posted the first chapter of this fic. I know. I'm sorry. I will try to make sure it takes less than a year to post chapter three.

October blew in, blustery and bright. The campus glowed with autumnal light. In the long, cool afternoons it would bounce between windows and gild granite columns. It even illuminated the study carrels in the fourth floor stacks of the undergraduate library, turning dim and dusty rooms into little pockets of brightness and learning and hope.

There were rainy days, too, but even they seemed apt and atmospheric; it wasn’t cold or dark enough yet for the grey days to be truly dismal, so the inclement weather was still more a novelty than anything else. A good excuse to spend the extra dollar on a hot mocha and wear one’s favorite cozy sweater.

Hob was either hugely elated or fantastically depressed, depending on – well, it could be anything. The weather, the grade on his latest paper, the relative freshness or staleness of the bagels in the history department, the phase of the bloody moon. On some level he knew it was just emotional whiplash from throwing himself into the deep end of academia after so many years spent in unacademic pursuits, but on his harder days he was beginning to think the hormonal soup of his young undergraduate classmates was rubbing off on him somehow.

On one such day, Hob returned to their tiny dorm room, dropped his bag on the floor, and faceplanted on his narrow bed with a heartfelt groan.

Morpheus was in his usual spot – perched on his desk chair and curled into a position that should not have been possible for his thirty-something spine and hips – and did not look up from his notebooks at Hob’s flop.

Hob groaned again.

“I imagine you want me to ask you what’s wrong,” Morpheus said, still not looking up.

“I am a fool,” Hob said dismally. “A fool and a buffoon. A nincompoop, even.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Sometimes I wonder what I’m even doing here, mate, I really do. I mean who am I kidding? I’m almost thirty two years old and I’m sitting in these fresher history lectures and fucking Stephanie is running rings around me. Have I told you about Stephanie? She’s nineteen. Nineteen, Morpheus. We have, like, three classes together, and she’s kicking my arse, she has her entire career planned out, all the way to a Ph-bloody-D, and I can’t remember whether ‘Ottoman’ has one T or two.”

“Two.”

“I know that, you insufferable git, I’m trying to have an existential crisis here.”

“Ah. And is that happening concurrently with your one-sided competition with a child? Or does one precede the other?”

Hob raised his head enough to stick his tongue out at Morpheus. Something he’d learned about his roommate over the past few weeks – something their dorm neighbors and many (if not most) of Morpheus’s classmates didn’t quite seem to understand – was that Morpheus could actually be screamingly funny at times. The problem was that his humor was so bone dry, his delivery so absolutely deadpan, that it was difficult to tell the difference between the times he was being funny by accident, the times he was being funny on purpose, and the times he was actually being deadly serious and would be incredibly offended if people misinterpreted his words as some kind of joke.

Hob had already been on the receiving end of his irritation more than once, usually through pure misunderstanding. He knew he had a puppylike tendency to assume that everyone was his best friend until proven otherwise; Morpheus clearly had a tendency to assume exactly the opposite. The very first time Hob, barely a week into their shared existence, had asked if the other man wanted to get lunch together some time and help each other study, Morpheus had bristled so severely that he looked like a porcupine and claimed that he had no interest in either food or company.

He’d never apologized, per se. But later than night, the sandwich Hob had smuggled back from the dining hall in his jacket pocket and left in their dorm-sized fridge, labeled with Morpheus’s name on a sticky note, had mysteriously disappeared.

Much worse had been the time Hob, in one of his occasional fits of organization and cleanliness, had dared to tidy Morpheus’s desk.

He’d been on a roll – had done his laundry (and put it away!), and changed his sheets, and swept, and tidied up the shoes and jackets in the tiny shared alcove that passed for their hall closet, and then he’d turned his attention to the built-in desk that spanned one full wall of their little room. Hob’s half was always a bit messy, with some piles of notes and one or two books left haphazardly open to key pages he was certain to return to at the right moment. But Morpheus’s side looked like a bomb had gone off. He always had at least four or five notebooks on the go, plus what might be described as a small mountain of poetry anthologies, chapbooks, and photocopied coursepacks. The corner where the desk met the wall contained a veritable snowdrift of various ephemera: scraps of paper, receipts, dried flowers, bottle caps inexplicably labeled with dates and locations, labels carefully peeled off of beer bottles, a scant handful of beads and other shiny bits and pieces, and a single earring that looked like some bright young thing had lost it on her way to the club.

And Hob wasn’t stupid. He knew Morpheus could be a little prickly about his space and his things. Protective might be a better word. He supposed it was a side effect of growing up with a bunch of siblings; though he was an only child himself, Eleanor had had an older sister, and had told many tales of epic battles over favorite shirts and library books and other such treasures. So hadn’t thrown anything away. He’d moved it all aside and dusted and wiped, and then shuffled the papers into a neat stack, set the books against the windowsill in a semblance of order, and collected the ephemera in a little plastic basket that had been in the share box in the common room. He thought, when he was done, that it had still looked pleasantly cluttered – just less like a tornado had gone through their little room.

He hadn’t been expecting praise. He already knew better than that. But he also hadn’t been expecting Morpheus to project a wall of furious silence for the several days.

It got so bad that he’d spent half an hour hunting through the “ethnic” aisle of the grocery store to see if he could find any English sweets with which to mollify his roommate. The closest he’d gotten was a Ritter Sport with whole hazelnuts and a packet of Canadian potato chips, both of which sat, unacknowledged and uneaten, on Morpheus’s side of the desk for nearly a full day before being shoved unceremoniously back over to Hob’s side while he was in a lecture.

Hob started to consider emailing Teleute (who had given him her business card before she’d flown back to London) on the fourth day, just to ask exactly what level of unforgivable sin he’d committed, and whether any penance could possibly absolve him of it.

He was, luckily, saved from the indignity of asking his roommate’s sister how to circumvent his little temper tantrum, and by none other than Morpheus himself.

He got home after a lecture one day to find Morpheus perched nervously on the edge of his bed, a bottle of Bass beer clutched nervously between his knees.

Hob shucked off his shoes and tossed his bag on his own bed before flopping down, legs akimbo. The room was so small that if he and Morpheus both stretched their legs out, their ankles would probably touch in the space between their narrow beds.

“Hello, Hob,” Morpheus said formally.

“Morpheus,” Hob said. “Talking to me again, then, are you?”

Morpheus, to his credit, flushed slightly. “I would. That is. I have… I would like to apologize.”

Hob made an expansive sort of go ahead gesture and leaned back, waiting.

“I was talking last night with my sister – not Tel, whom you met, but my youngest sister. I was…” He ducked his head. “To be frank, I was complaining about you. About how you had tidied my desk and how much it upset me. She pointed out, quite rightfully, that it sounded like you were trying to help; trying to do something kind. She also pointed out that there have been several occasions when she herself has made an awkward or unwelcome choice in an effort to do the right thing. I… cannot argue with her logic.”

“I really was just trying to help,” Hob said. “If I promise never to touch your side of the desk again, will you stop ignoring me?”

Morpheus flushed again. “Yes. And I would extract no such promise from you. It was. Thoughtful.” That seemed to be a hair too much genuine emotion for the man, who stood abruptly and shoved the bottle of beer at Hob. “I have brought you this. A peace offering.”

“Thanks, mate. I –” Hob began, but Morpheus was already throwing on his peacoat and out the door in a whirl of black. “Okay. What a fucking weirdo.”

The beer was good, though. A taste of home. Hob picked the label off and left it on Morpheus’s side of the desk.

read on AO3 >>>

#dreamling bingo 2024 #my writing #dreamling #the sandman #feeling some type of way about how long a 1500-word chapter took me #I actually wanted this one to be longer but perfect is the enemy of done #future chapters are still coming and they will definitely be more in depth

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