#or like- keep it in since men can like men too

[saymio]

Dae-ho headcanons | (NSFW)

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho (player 388) x Fem!reader

Genre: headcanons, smut

Warning: uhh daehho is rlly needy, kinda sub dae ho, idk TBH he's too normal for warnings LOL,

A/N: not proof read. I tried my best:( I'm used to writing darker stories with elements of dub/noncon, manipulation, etc..so hopefully I did his good personality justice.

kang dae ho, the man couldn't keep his eyes away from you the second he caught a glance of you. his eyes following your every move inside the room that everyone had just woken up in.

kang dae ho, the man that blushes like he had just been caught doing the dirtiest thing on earth (staring at you). getting somehow redder when you giggle at his 'confidence' crumble like a failed sand castle.

kang dae ho, the man that cant believe his eyes when you stand up from yourself and your group against men that were clearly bigger than you. showing immense confidence even when you could easily be overpowered.

kang dae ho, the man that always finds his gazes linger a little longer than they should. watching you closely when you stretch, feeling himself get hard at the sight of your stomach peeking past the shirt and soft noise you make when you stretch.

kang dae ho, the man that invites you to his team after the second round. finding you all alone after your teammates left you to die to form their group and getting fatally shot during it.

kang dae ho, the man that offers his milk to you. telling you that its "no big deal" with a shrug. even if he goes a little more hungry than usual.

kang dae ho, the man that will look at you for approval of something he just did. giving himself an internal fist bump when you tell him he did great.

kang dae ho, the man that will slip his hands into his pants and get himself off while he watches your sleeping form. he just thinks you look too gorgeous while the lights of the x and o illuminate off your face and rest of your body.

kang dae ho, the man that feels so bad for imagining what your delicate body looks under your clothes .. but cant help it when you just look so hot

kang dae ho, the man that will sneak into your bed at the middle of the night and cuddle you... feeling himself get a hard on at the feeling of your soft skin under his arms

kang dae ho, the man that will slowly start rutting into you in the middle of the night. waking you up surprised but not upset.. his moans and whines filling your ears to the brim

kand dae ho, the man that will fondle your tits n make out with you like a feral dog. as if you were his first girlfriend since 8th grade.

kang dae ho, the man that will cover his whines and moans with his hands while your jerk him off under the thin covers. trying his best not to make too much noise and wake anyone up..but there was probably that heard him either way.

kang dae ho, the man that will lick his fingers after you came all over them like a starving animal. savoring every drop of it that he can pick up with his digits.

kang dae ho, the man that decided to join the shoot out with the other guards in hopes it could get you out of this mess. even if you begged him not to go.

kang dae ho, the man that felt nothing but relief and warmth when you hugged him and held him in your gentle arms when he had a panic attack and couldn't get himself to go back

kang dae ho, the man that want nothing more but to spend the rest of his life with you.

A/N: this was rlly rushed n lazily made, I'm sorry :( I was out all day so I didn't find time to finish/continue my long fic but I still wanted to make something T T I think I might just stick to writing for characters that would more likely do darker things, I felt this was too boring :// sorry...

TAGLIST: @pollys-doublelife @gongyoosgf

[ceeceekayblog]

Very interesting. I’ve have noticed in the 16-ish years since I was applying to college that conservative rhetoric in particular has shifted from “college is necessary and we need to beat the Chinese in worldwide education metrics” to “college is an unnecessary waste of money and if you send your daughter there she’s going to become a blue-haired feminist lesbian liberal.” There’s been a definite shift towards undervaluing of education.

I think there’s also a strong effect of the Trump administration’s anti-education biases. Trump is particularly angry about higher education because his Trump University scheme didn’t ever get taken seriously. And rightfully so; it was a money-grabbing scam that didn’t offer any real useful education. But he wants things his way and, even though he knew Trump University wasn’t legitimate, he wanted people to respect the education he offered. The way his campaign and first presidency treated education definitely sped up the conservative bias against higher education. I believe that this bias also drives young men to shy away from pursuing college education. Men are more likely than women to hold conservative values, and I’ve definitely noticed an increase in young men espousing far right views on the internet. If these young men are internalizing Ben Shapiro and Andrew Tate telling them they can be superior, traditional men by putting down women, I’m pretty sure they’re also listening to conservative influencers and politicians telling them college is a stupid decision.

I’m biased in favor of higher education; I’m currently one semester away from finishing coursework on my second doctorate degree. I love school. I hope to find a career in higher education so I can keep learning while passing on what I know to the next generation so that they can improve and build on my contributions. I hope we can convince young men to continue to pursue higher education because if half the population decides education isn’t worth their time it becomes a lot harder to remove the barriers in academia. We can’t possibly hope to further subsidize public universities if the people who are overwhelmingly represented in government don’t think it’s worthwhile.

If you want to be particularly concerned for the future of higher education, look up the Trump administration’s plans to cut accreditation and start a national online education program called American Academy.

Anyway, this is too long, so I’ll stop. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

Why aren't we talking about the real reason male college enrollment is dropping? (Celeste Davis, Oct 6 2024)

"White flight is a term that describes how white people move out of neighborhoods when more people of color move in.

White flight is especially common when minority populations become the majority. That neighborhood then declines in value.

Male flight describes a similar phenomenon when large numbers of females enter a profession, group, hobby or industry—the men leave. That industry is then devalued.

Take veterinary school for example:

In 1969 almost all veterinary students were male at 89%.

By 1987, male enrollment was equal to female at 50%.

By 2009, male enrollment in veterinary schools had plummeted to 22.4%

A sociologist studying gender in veterinary schools, Dr. Anne Lincoln says that in an attempt to describe this drastic drop in male enrollment, many keep pointing to financial reasons like the debt-to-income ratio or the high cost of schooling.

But Lincoln’s research found that “men and women are equally affected by tuition and salaries.”

Her research shows that the reason fewer men are enrolling in veterinary school boils down to one factor: the number of women in the classroom.

For every 1% increase in the proportion of women in the student body, 1.7 fewer men applied.

One more woman applying was a greater deterrent than $1000 in extra tuition! (…)

Since males had dominated these professions for centuries, you would think they would leave slowly, hesitantly or maybe linger at 40%, 35%, 30%, but that’s not what happens.

Once the tipping point reaches majority female- the men flee. And boy do they flee!

It’s a slippery slope. When the number of women hits 60% the men who are there make a swift exit and other men stop joining.

Morty Schapiro, economist and former president of Northwestern University has noticed this trend when studying college enrollment numbers across universities:

“There’s a cliff you fall off once you become 60/40 female/male. It then becomes exponentially more difficult to recruit men.”

Now we’ve reached that 60% point of no return for colleges.

As we’ve seen with teachers, nurses and interior design, once an institution is majority female, the public perception of its value plummets.

Scanning through Reddit and Quora threads, many men seem to be in agreement - college is stupid and unnecessary.

A waste of time and money. You’re much better off going into the trades, a tech boot camp or becoming an entrepreneur. No need for college. (…)

When mostly men went to college? Prestigious. Aspirational. Important.

Now that mostly women go to college? Unnecessary. De-valued. A bad choice. (…)

School is now feminine. College is feminine. And rule #1 if you want to safely navigate this world as a man? Avoid the feminine.

But we don’t seem to want to talk about that."

[ryescapades]

hello rye! <3 congratulations on reaching 1k followers, you deserve all of them & so much more // i've read all your works, and i can't express in words how amazing of a writer you are ☘︎

for your milestone event can i request:

rin itoshi + sfw + "hey, look at me"

thank you & i wish you the best of lucks on midterms + finals :3c

→ EVENT OVERVIEW

prompt: 17 - “hey, look at me.” characters: itoshi rin (bllk) x f!reader contents: comfort/fluff, reader gets bothered by some sleazy guys erm wc ~ 1k

a/n: ruruuu my beloved i uhh dunno what to think of this personally but i hope it’s better for u than it is for me shsdfdfk and thankyou sm for participating and the kind words ilyy !! <3 (not proofread!)

your date has been going so well today.

you had planned this so long ago, wanting to go to the aquarium with rin. it’s been quite a while since you’ve had some alone time with him, considering how busy he is with soccer so it’s only right that he’d wanted to spend the whole day and more with the one he treasures the most.

the aquarium itself was a blast; you had fun learning about and looking at all the beautiful sea creatures, though rin would argue that there’s entirely something— or someone— else that was worthy of being labeled as the embodiment of beauty itself.

he would never say that out loud, of course.

the aquarium aside, the rest of the day went by pretty leisurely. after getting yourselves some matching trinkets (you think that the faint blush brushing his cheeks when he holds the dainty ornament in his hands is the loveliest, most incredible sight you’ve ever seen), the two of you decided to check out the new ramen place downtown, catch up a little bit over lunch (you did all the talking, unsurprisingly) before ending up taking a stroll in the park nearby.

everything’s turning out wonderful, until it was not.

while the two of you were preoccupied in your own little bubble, a few wandering tourists had interrupted you to ask for some help. the both of you knew that giving some mere instructions would be too vague, so you had convinced him that you didn’t mind waiting as he showed them the way instead as he was more versed in their language. rin wanted to dispute, not wanting to leave you alone even just for a second, let alone 3 minutes, though he begrudgingly obliged after one look of assurance from you.

the world would’ve been a better place if some people knew how to keep their hands to themselves and mind their own business, really.

all the while you’re waiting for rin to come back, you catch sight of a couple guys standing just a few feet away, their leering eyes hooked on you as their faces spell nothing but trouble. you try not to visibly grimace, turning away from them as you start chanting in your head for your boyfriend to return quickly and wish that by some miracle he could feel your (hopefully) telepathic distress.

you’d wanted to walk away but unfortunately for you, you don’t get far as a few seconds later, a bold finger taps on your shoulder to gain your attention. turning around, you feel your body tense at the men suddenly looming over you with a grin looking oh so sweetly on each of their faces.

“hey, you alone here, sweetheart?” you resist the urge to visibly roll your eyes at the petname. with a reluctant smile, you shake your head at them before starting to walk off. “i’m heading somewhere else, sorry.”

persistent like a parasite with the intent to make your life worse, they fall into steps behind you. you’re feeling the urge to curse at the inconvenience of the part of the city you’re currently at, reprimanding yourself for waiting at such an isolated place. “your friends? or family?” one of them presses, and your heartbeat rises as they begin to get closer.

“boyfriend, excuse you,” you huff quietly under your breath, wanting to lose yourself in the incoming crowd as you anxiously walk faster. you would’ve been fine with tolerating them until they’d eventually get bored of your lack of enthusiasm, if not for the slimy hand that suddenly extends out to harshly grasp yours from behind, triggering your fight or flight response as your heart goes plummeting down to your stomach in dread.

“oh, come on! we just wanted to–” the scream that has bubbled up in your throat doesn’t get to escape, however, when another figure comes barreling towards the man, a raged hand reaching up to fist at the latter’s collar. your wrist is then freed, and you gingerly rub at the skin as if to wipe away the foreign touch.

“she’s clearly not interested, you bastard.” your boyfriend’s gravely tone enters your ears, and you’d almost cried out in relief at his appearance. there was a dangerous and deathly lilt to his voice, and something about it makes you shiver for some unknown reason.

you initially don’t have any clue as to how badly affected rin is by the situation with how he has his back towards you but the way rin’s grip on the stranger’s shirt tightens, proven by the flexing and slight quivering of his arm. not to mention you can hear the man’s audible gulp, so you know it’s not a pretty sight.

“w-whoa, sorry, man. we were just…” the other guy trails off, and you had almost sympathized with how genuinely terrified they look but it’s really not worth the effort to cause such a commotion here so you try to get him to calm down. “rin,” you call out, tugging slightly at the hem of his shirt.

you can see him tensing at your voice for a few moments, then with as much reluctance as he can muster, the striker roughly shoves the man away before backing up slightly to hide you behind him, and they both immediately scurry off into the distance. rin doesn’t take his eyes away from the two, fists clenching and teal orbs sharpening like daggers as if to make sure those jerks are undoubtedly not coming back.

your heart squeezes at this whole ordeal. soothingly sliding your hand down the length of rin’s arm, you languidly take his hand to unfurl the whitening knuckles by weaving your fingers with his. “rin,” you press, reaching up to turn the side of his face towards you. “hey, look at me.”

your boyfriend snaps his head towards you then, tension leaving his body when his eyes land on you. he doesn’t protest when you pull him down by the back of his neck, bumping your forehead against his with a gentle thump, a silly method you’d picked up whenever there is a need to ‘knock’ some sense into him.

because the only way for itoshi rin to simmer down and regain his control is exactly that; having you close to him in whatever way possible.

“i’m here, baby. i’m okay,” you mumble against the shared space between your mouths, and rin doesn’t resist the magnetic pull as he pecks your lips once before planting another one on your forehead. “should’ve brought you along,” he mumbles, exhaling warmly against your skin.

you let out a chuckle, “hm, you’re right…” you feignedly ponder, pulling your intertwined hands together as the two of you start walking again, “though as much as i am thankful, you do look quite hot there getting all mad. and cute too, i guess. like an angry kitty, you know?” you quip, glancing at him with a small teasing smile.

a tinge of pink dusts the apple of his cheeks, his eyebrows furrowing in slight offense. “am not,” rin grumbles.

“are so,” you counter, lightly bumping your shoulder against his side.

“... am not,” he bumps back.

“angry rinnie.”

“shut up.”

taglist open !

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[cursedyuri]

will you shuffle me, spread me apart?

summary: in the slums of zaun, you’ve carved out a life for yourself which not many would envy. you spend your nights in the arms of strangers, trading coin for hasty touches and labored breaths. and since such a line of work isn’t always enough to keep yourself fed and clothed, you have a second service to offer: fortune telling. 

or... two times vi comes knocking, and a third time you let her in.

18+ only! smut below. cw for fingering (r! receiving), cunnilingus, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of blood. 7k words.

The heels of your boots click against damp cobblestone, wet thumps echoing through the dingy alleyway leading to Babette’s brothel. It’s a particularly humid night, even despite the chill in the air - the humidity makes it worse, you think. It feels like the cold is seeping into the very marrow of your bones. 

You pull your cloth coat tighter over your torso, thankful when you rap on the brothel’s wooden door and are allowed in almost instantly. One step through the threshold, and the biting cold melts like early-spring snow. The air is thick here, too, but warm and smoky. Tobacco stings sweet in your nose, a cocktail of too-strong perfumes mixing with ribbons of incense that linger suspended midair. It’s an intoxicating kind of smell, one that makes weak women and weaker men feel more inclined to spend their hard-earned coin on a night with a stranger. 

Part of you is hoping none will choose you tonight. It’s not that you’re opposed to it - gods know you’d be in the wrong line of work if you were. Rather, you’ve got plans to eat the meager dinner you’ve purchased for yourself, sip some red wine, and rifle through your cards for answers about what’s been going on topside lately. You’ve heard murmurs of an attack, rebellion… You’re not exactly sure what to believe, so as you often do, you look to the cards for clarity. 

The deck sits idly by a thicket of half-burnt herbs on your desk, stacked precariously where you’d last used them. You shed your coat and hang it on a brass hook by the desk, then slide into the seat in front of it. Still thawing, you sink into the velvet cushion and reach into your knapsack for the paper-wrapped sandwich inside, also procuring an unmarked bottle of wine from beside it. You’re wiping an iron goblet clean with the fabric of your tiered skirt when a familiar voice calls your name from the doorway. It’s one of the other workers here, Nina. She’s been here just about as long as you.

“You might hate me,” she says, a preface that makes your lips turn downward in a frown. 

You grunt, uncorking your wine and pouring a hearty serving into your goblet. By the sounds of it, you’ll need the liquid courage. “I just sat down, you know.”

Nina’s delicate brows pull together; maybe she’s feeling apologetic, or maybe she’s just laying it on thick so you’ll take a job before you’ve even had dinner. 

“I thought so, but… I think you’ll like her, peach.” She pauses for a beat. “And if you take her, I may have some chocolate I’d consider parting with.”

“Bribery,” you say, a grin pulling at your lips as you roll your eyes at Nina’s offer. “But fine. Send her in.”

“Will do, peach,” Nina practically squeals, disappearing from your doorway just as quickly as she’d come. 

Cursing under your breath, you take a swig of wine and turn to the tarnished mirror behind your desk, examining yourself. By some stroke of luck, you’d had the sense to put on a layer of makeup before you’d gone out earlier. Blemishes are covered, your eyes are rimmed with kohl, and a smear of rouge emphasizes the pouty shape of your lips. That’s all you ever need, paired with the eye-catching swell of your breasts against the low-cut linen of your blouse. This will be easy enough.

You’ve drained half the wine in your cup by the time your client knocks at the open door. You turn your head to greet her and, before you can get a word out, the door slams closed with a heavy thud. At first, you gawk at the client because of her notable entrance - but then, you gawk because Nina was right. You like her.

This girl looks like the undercity chewed her up, spit her out, then chewed her up again. She’s all sharp edges and leather and lipstick, black makeup smeared from her eyes to her cheeks. Her hair’s black, too, though you can see patches of red exposed from an uneven dye job and a few heavy-handed washes. She’s certainly achieved the menacing look she’s sought out, and though it’s a mighty contrast to her pale complexion and piercing blue eyes, it somehow works for her - she’s the kind of girl you wouldn’t mind getting dirty for. 

“Good evening,” you say, because it’s all you can seem to think of to break the silence. “Would you like a drink?��

The client surveys you up and down with those icy blue eyes, working her jaw. She nods. “What do you have?”

“Wine, whiskey, gin,” you tell her, gesturing to the makeshift bar cart beside a loveseat at the entrance of your suite. Different colored liquors fill antique, mismatched bottles at different levels. The client glances over at them, steps up to the cart and surveys that, too. Then she turns to you, gestures to your goblet.

“I’ll have what you’re having.” 

You nod. “Wine it is, then. Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.” 

She obliges, lowering herself onto the plum fabric of the loveseat. Her legs are spread just so - enough to make it obvious that this woman is used to taking up space, and unafraid of what that kind of confidence might imply. Your eyes linger on her parted knees, but not long enough to get caught. After you fill up a goblet for her and refill your own, you glide across the room to hand her the drink. She accepts it with a nod of thanks, her fingertips brushing against yours in the process. You take a seat beside her.

“What’s your name?” You regard her behind fluttering lashes, sipping from your freshly filled goblet. The wine is sweet on your tongue, bitter around the edges. You can already feel it loosening your muscles, relaxing your inhibitions. Piquing your curiosity, even. 

The client takes a swig from her own drink and says, “Vi.” 

Vi. Her name is tattooed on her cheekbone, you muse, gaze sweeping over her face once again. There’s a silver hoop pierced through her nose, a scar etched into her upper lip. A healing bruise on her left jaw catches your eye, blooming faint shades of purple, yellow, and green. You’re afflicted with an urge to reach out and touch it - to touch her. But when she catches your gaze with those steely eyes of hers, you’re frozen. Like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar, your cheeks flush hot. Vi seems amused by your appraisal, cracks a smile that looks somehow natural on her war-torn face. 

She cuts through the tension like a spearhead, one hand reaching forward to readjust the sleeve of your blouse, which had fallen down your shoulder. Her fingertips are cold and calloused, but the touch fills you with uncharacteristic warmth. “What’s your name?” 

You tell her and she repeats it, that sultry voice curling around every syllable of your name as if she were tasting it. 

However intoxicating Vi’s voice might be, it dawns on you again what she’s doing here. She’d paid for your time, paid to sip your wine and touch you with those split-knuckled hands of hers. You have the sense to wonder why - a woman like Vi should have no trouble warming her bed for free, yet here she is.

“Well, Vi,” you say, pausing briefly for another sip of wine, “how do you want me?”

If your straightforwardness bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She brushes dark locks of her out of her eye-line, seemingly considering your answer. Then: “I heard you tell fortunes.”

You quirk a brow at her. “I—yes. Is that what you want?”

Something flashes in her eyes. “Among other things.”

“It’s extra for that,” you clarify. “The fortune-telling, I mean.”

“I have enough.”

And that settles it. You uncross your legs, stand up and move to retrieve your deck of cards from the desk. There’s a table in front of the loveseat where Vi still sits, and that’s where you lay out an ornate silk cloth to spread the cards upon. You gather the thicket of herbs from your desk, too, along with a match. Vi watches you set fire to the sprigs, a stream of smoke billowing upwards and filling the air with a sweet, earthy scent. 

“What questions do you have?” You ask, settling down upon a floor pillow on the opposite side of the table from Vi. After you set down your goblet of wine, you pick up the deck and begin to shuffle; the fluttering sounds of cards fills the silence before Vi can answer.

“Do I need to ask questions?”

“No, I guess not,” you respond, shoulders shrugging. “I can just see what the cards say about you.”

Vi nods her assent, tossing her head back to finish what’s left of her wine. One by one, cards fly out from the deck as you shuffle, some upright, some inverted. When you’ve circulated through the deck once or twice with no other cards presenting themselves, you stop. 

“Five of cups,” you read aloud. The card’s illustration depicts a figure in a black cloak, turned away, three emptied cups at her feet. Behind her are two upright cups, unnoticed. “Loss. Mourning.”

Vi inhales sharply through her nose, and when you look up at her, she’s white-knuckled with her hand around the stem of her now-empty goblet. You lift your brows in a wordless question - should you continue? 

She nods.

“Something didn’t work out as you’d planned it, and you’re too stubborn to let go. Instead, you lament the loss and let it hold you hostage.” 

There’s a sound like Vi humming, a quiet acknowledgement of your words as you move to the next card. 

“Four of wands, reversed - this tells me you’ve been separated from loved ones. This is what didn’t work out as planned, maybe?” 

When you look at Vi this time, she’s leaning forward in her seat, forearms braced against her strong thighs. 

“Maybe,” she echoes. “What else is there?”

You show her the next card, another inverted one. The illustration depicts a man in ornate clothing, a flower plucked between his fingers as he prances confidently towards the edge of a cliff. “The fool, reversed.” 

“That’s me?” Vi asks. “The fool?” 

“Hm, not always. But with the other cards… You are the fool, Vi, I’m sorry to say it.” You hope she catches the tinge of playfulness in your tone, serious as the reading feels. Heavy as the tension feels.

“Well,” she starts, “the cards don’t lie, I guess.”

You hum in agreement. “The fool, reversed this way, tells me that you’re reckless. Lacking caution, you’ve opened yourself up to betrayal.” 

“Fuck’s sake.” Vi laughs without humor, tries to drink the last crimson drops of the wine in her goblet. “Can I get some more?”

You move to get up and fetch her the bottle, but she waves a hand to dismiss you. She’s up and across the room in a flash, refilling her cup and taking a swig before she’s even made it back to the loveseat. 

“But…” You hold up her final card - judgement. The art depicts an angel blaring into a trumpet from the heavens, the humans below rejoicing. Her eyes assessing the card, Vi looks to you for an explanation.

“Judgement tells us that renewal and transformation is possible,” you finish

“Renewal, transformation... Right. What’s the catch?”

Smart woman, you think. There’s always a catch. 

“You have to be willing to let go of what’s held you stagnant. Accept what’s behind you and focus on what’s ahead, because wallowing in misfortune does you no good.”

That seems to resonate, because Vi’s expression turns shadowy, thoughtful. She drinks again, her lips nearly purple from the wine. You take a moment to drink from your own cup, ready to ask Vi if she wants you to undress yourself, or if she’s the kind of client who wants to do it for you. 

Instead, you’re stunned into silence when she polishes off her drink, slams the cup down onto the table, and stands. Her jaw is locked again, tense. 

“Vi?” Your brows lift in question. 

“Thank you,” she says. She moves towards the door, then stops when she seems to remember something. One bandaged hand digs into her jacket pocket, emerging with a handful of coin. She places it on the nearest surface, a small table with a lamp glowing atop it, and only glances back towards you before she vanishes out the door. 

There’s a draft in the room, suddenly. You curl into bed, pull the covers over your goosebump-afflicted skin, and think.

The days following Vi’s visit dawn bleak and cold as ever. Nina asks about your client the following morning, and you let her bask in the satisfaction that you had liked her, but you politely break the news that she’d been nothing particularly special - a white lie to keep the questions at bay. You’re not one to run your mouth; besides, rumors spread through Babette’s brothel like wildfire. 

Some of the latest rumors? There’s a man with magical abilities lurking in the shadows of Zaun, with a touch that heals the sick. There’s a blue-haired revolutionary forming a significant following in the undercity, those of whom claim she’ll free them from Piltover’s brutality. You’re not sure what to believe, but there must be some truth to the rumors, because your cards sense something afoot: the tower, ten of swords, ace of cups. 

Still, business continues as usual. Degenerates and saints alike seek your company, and you need the money to survive, so your bed is always warm. 

Because you’ve had dozens of clients over the years who visit and never return, you don’t expect to see Vi again. Still, your mind keeps returning to her - you wonder why she’d stormed out so suddenly, why she’d paid you for sex without laying a finger on you. The curiosity lingers in the back of your mind, but you counter it with reality: she’d probably chickened out. Heard something too striking in her reading and couldn’t follow through, but decided to pay for your time anyway. At most, it was a kind gesture. 

So why can’t you stop thinking about her? 

Weeks pass, and your routine continues. Tonight’s another late night, and you’re relaxing after several clients in a row. You’d bathed in water treated with salts and oils, the scents still clinging to your skin as you rub salve into your aching muscles. The last few clients had been rough - twisting your limbs, working you into positions that tested your flexibility and endurance as they used their tongues, fingers, and other appendages to chase their pleasure through your body. None of them had made you come, though, so in the momentary solitude of the bath, you’d slipped your hand between your legs until your release pulsated through your tired frame. Now, you’re feeling pleasantly warm and at ease, perfumed and ready if there may be a late-night visitor. You’d be grateful for the extra money, if you’re being honest.

When there’s a steady knock at the door, you saunter over to answer it in nothing but your lingerie, lacy black and surprisingly comfortable. Who knows? They might pay extra for such ease of access - and a nice presentation. 

The flirty smile on your lips disappears when you realize who’s on the other side of the door. 

“Gods—Vi?” You try not to express your shock, schooling your features to the best of your ability. Vi, however, turns a pretty shade of pink when she takes in the sight of you: tits pushed together and decorated in delicate lace, the soft hair over your sex barely obscured with thin fabric. Your thighs are plush and glowy with moisture, hips hugged beautifully by the high-waisted panties that match your elaborate bra. 

Vi’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. “I’m… Sorry to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting,” you assure her, opening the door all the way to allow her entry. You try to ignore the way her gaze first moves to the empty bed, something like relief washing over her features before she turns back to you. The door shuts with a soft click. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I thought you were a client.”

After wrapping yourself in the first robe you find by your bedside, you move to the bar cart to pour Vi a drink. She scoffs, an almost-laugh that’s low and soft. “Well, I am a client.”

As the wine sloshes into her goblet, you fix her with an admonishing look. “A client looking for sex, Vi.” 

That shuts her up. Her cheeks are still pink, you notice, as you take in her appearance: most of the dye has faded out of her hair, leaving it a patchy canvas of black, maroon, and fuschia. She’s still sporting a cut and a bruise here and there, but more wounds are covered with bandages than last time. Notably, she’s not drenched in black paint, though there is a ring of liner around her eyes. 

“Thanks,” Vi says when you hand her a cup of wine. She shoots back a mouthful and moves to the loveseat, lowering herself into the same spot as last time.

“So?” You arch a brow at her. “Here for another reading, I take it?”

She nods. “Yeah, sweetheart. If that’s okay.”

“I thought I scared you away last time,” you reply with a smirk. There’s a hint of truth to the statement, though, teasing as you might be - you hadn’t expected to see her back so soon, if at all. 

“Oh, you did,” she admits. “But things have changed, and now… I’m curious what you have to say. I could use some advice.”

“Your wish is my command.” 

Just as it was last time, Vi’s attention is honed in on you. You shuffle the cards with expert precision, and she watches the way your hands dance over the deck, fingers grazing the careful illustrations of each card with easy familiarity. This time, five cards leap from the deck: seven of cups, the chariot, eight of wands, four of wands, eight of pentacles. It’s a story unfolding beneath your fingertips, all the more interesting when you think back to Vi’s last reading.

“You’ve made progress,” you tell her. “But the hard work isn’t over. You’re prone to wishful thinking, which is a good thing, sometimes, because your determination is a powerful force.” 

Glancing up at Vi, you offer her an encouraging smile. “When you fight, I get the sense that you almost always win.”

Vi snorts, wiping a burgundy smear of wine from her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s what the cards say?”

“Not exactly, but, well… I’ve gathered some things for myself.” You hold up the chariot card. “This one tells me you need an ironclad will to move forward. One I don’t doubt you have.”

Is it just your imagination, or does Vi turn pink again?

“And these,” you say, holding up the two cards from the wand suit, “show me fire. Creation, destruction, volatility. You’re dealing with something that can be useful or detrimental, depending on how you proceed.”

Vi’s eyes are alight, not unlike the fire you’ve just discussed. What you wouldn’t give to know how her life aligns with these cards - what fire is she playing with? What challenges is she facing?

“And the last one?” Vi’s voice cuts through your internal musings as she gestures to the final card on the table. You pick it up and show it to her - the eight of pentacles, depicting a man hard at work, hammer in hand.

“It’s very much in line with the others,” you explain. “Diligence, focus, hard work.”

She hums, nodding. “Got it. So, any chance there's a card that’ll tell me what I should do?”

Her tone drips with sarcasm, but you can tell there’s a glimmer of sincerity in the question - and in those pale blue eyes, swirling with emotion. 

You press your lips into a firm line, setting the eight of pentacles card down. “I wish I could tell you exactly what you want to hear, Vi,” you say honestly. “But that’s not how the cards work.”

“Yeah,” Vi responds, voice bitter around the edges; somber. “I figured as much. Thank you, uh, for the reading.”

In the silence that follows, you imagine a braver version of yourself: one that isn’t too hesitant to ask questions. One that would feel comfortable offering a listening ear to this riot of a woman, whose scars and bruises tell you just as much as the cards you’ve splayed out for her. You wonder where she goes after she leaves here, if that home holds a family, friends, a lover. But all you can do is wonder. You don’t go sniffing for information - like the brothel dweller you are, information finds you. And if it doesn’t, perhaps it’s better to wonder.

Vi rises from the loveseat, readjusting one of the tattered blankets strewn across its surface. She finishes the remainder of her wine and, gently, sets it on the table. 

She says, “I’ve gotta go.”

Her hand dips into her jacket pocket and emerges with far too much coin, which she sets out on the table for you.

“That’s too much,” you counter with a furrowed brow. “We didn’t—you only had your cards read.”

You reach forward to collect the extra cash, ready to push it back into Vi’s palm, but she backs away with her hands in her pockets. 

“Nah, sweetheart,” she replies, ambling towards the door and prying it open. “Keep the change.”

The next time you see Vi, her knuckles are bleeding. 

It’s been weeks, maybe even months, and you’re surprised to find her at your door again, much less in her current state: battered and bruised, her knuckles raw and red. Her shoulders sag, that proud, confident air about her entirely deflated. She’s a shell of the woman you’d first met months ago; all that brazen confidence she’d once had has burnt down to dying embers. 

When she looks at you, her eyes are forlorn, watery. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Vi…” You open the door further, ushering her in with a gentle hand at the small of her back. 

Inside, you pour her a drink - water, this time - and instruct her to lie down on the bed, draping a thin blanket over her frame. 

“You’re hurt,” you say pointedly, gesturing to her bleeding knuckles. “Can I help?”

Vi’s expression doesn’t change; her eyes are distant, her skin so pale it’s almost grey. But she nods her assent, so you get to work - you swipe a wet cloth over her knuckles to clear away the blood, then cautiously apply a salve to her wounds. Through it all, Vi hardly even winces, a fact that doesn’t exactly surprise you. Even now, with her brazen confidence stripped away to the bone, she’s tougher than most. It’s an attribute that runs through her to the core. 

“Don’t you want to ask what happened?” Vi asks, suddenly. Her voice is raw, and to avoid looking her in the eye, you focus on wrapping her knuckles with layers of soft gauze. “Wanna know how I fucked up this time?”

You frown. “I’m not one to pry.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause before Vi speaks again. “That’s what’s different about you,” she says. “Everyone else just… Wants something from me.”

Brows knitting together, you fix Vi with a look that you hope reads less as pitying and more as understanding. You’re certainly familiar with catering to other’s desires over your own; it’s been this way for longer than you can remember. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, genuinely. Finished dressing her wounds, you let go of her hands, still kneeling at the side of the bed. You stand up with the intention of refilling Vi’s water, but as you reach for the cup, she catches your wrist in one bandaged hand. 

“All those times I saw you,” she starts, “when I had you read my cards… You never asked about my life.”

You nod, wrist burning from her touch. 

“Why? You never wondered?”

“It’s not my job to wonder.” You swallow. “Just to give people what they want.”

Vi’s gaze is intense, holding you in a trance. You’re frozen there, standing at the side of the bed, entirely in her grasp. “But do you ever get what you want?”

Do you?

You’d been working for Babette for years, longer than most - and before that, even as a child, you’d always understood that bending to the will of others is the easiest way to move through life. You can slip through the cracks that way, get enough coin or food or clothing to live another day. You wanted that, you suppose. To live. 

But you’re not sure that’s what Vi’s talking about.

“I have enough,” you say. “There’s not much I want.”

Vi nods. “But there’s something.” 

You smooth your free hand over hers, and she lets go of your wrist. “I’ll get you some water.”

As you refill her cup, you feel her eyes on you, and your mind races. Why does she care about what you want? You’re a stranger to her, a fortune teller living on scraps in an undercity brothel. First, she’d paid you for sex she’d never had, and now she’s in your bed, asking you questions you barely had the wherewithal to ask yourself. Gods, this woman is something else. You wish you could read her mind - crack open that beautiful skull of hers, sift through her thoughts, learn what had led her to you not once, not twice, but three times. You wish you could know everything about her, read her like your favorite book with its pages dog-eared, its cover well-worn.

Maybe that’s what you want, after all.

Returning to the bedside, you hand Vi her cup and stand by as she takes a long drink, then sets it on the nightstand. Her hair has grown a few inches since the first time you’d met her, you muse, and you like it this way - long locks of pink-crimson fall in jagged layers just past her shoulders, her bangs framing her face nicely. You wonder what it would feel like to reach out and run your fingers through that hair, to brush it free of knots, to hold the back of her head in your palm. 

“It’s late,” Vi says, interrupting your train of thought. “I should go - you should get some rest.”

She peels back the blanket you’d settled over her, sitting up. You hesitate, then reach forward to touch her forearm. “You can stay, I don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you up,” Vi says, “or… Keep away any business.”

Something in your chest tightens. “You won’t.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“I want you to stay,” you interrupt. “You need rest, too.”

Vi’s mouth hangs open for a moment, stormy blue eyes assessing you. Then, she settles back into bed, pulling the blanket up over her chest again. There’s a long pause, only the muffled sounds of laughter and salacious moans from other rooms filling the silence. You’re debating setting yourself up on the loveseat when Vi murmurs a quiet hey to capture your attention, then pats the space beside her in bed.

There are candles still burning on desks and tables and dressers throughout the room, lamps shining in shades of yellow and orange. You’ll lie down for only a moment, you tell yourself, long enough for Vi to doze off. Then you’d turn off the lights, blow out the candles, maybe sneak off to find a client looking for a fortune teller. You sense that Vi needs someone beside her for now, though, so you climb into bed, wrapping your frame in a velvety purple blanket. 

Once you’ve settled in next to her, Vi turns on her side to face you. Her lips, rosebud pink, are chapped, and you watch her moisten them with a swipe of her tongue.

“Thank you,” she says, voice hushed. “For letting me stay here.”

I didn’t know where else to go.

You turn over to face her, too, the corners of your lips pulling upwards. “Of course. I’m glad you’re okay, Vi.”

There’s a softness in Vi’s expression, now - one that you hadn’t seen before. The tough facade has melted away, as has the hurt, the pain. All that’s left is her rounded, wide eyes, her relaxed jaw, the curve of her lips. You catch yourself staring too long, and when you look up again, Vi’s already watching you.

She raises a bandaged hand to your face, where it hovers an inch away. Her expression asks for permission, and when you lean into her touch, Vi’s hand cups your cheek with a gentleness you’d never think her capable of. Not with those scars, not with the cuts and bruises that have become a permanent fixture on her skin. Her thumb skates over your cheekbone, and the touch feels electric.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

Your breath hitches; you hope she doesn’t notice.

“I’m sure you hear that a lot,” Vi adds. And it’s true, you do. 

You hesitate. Then: “Not from anyone who matters.” 

Vi smiles - it’s a soft kind of smile, one that you wish you could take a photo of, frame it and hang it on the wall to return to when you need a reminder of the warmth in this moment. Her hand leaves your cheek and travels down to your arm, then finding your hand beneath the blankets. Your eyes feel heavy, suddenly - so must hers, because she doesn’t speak again. You fall asleep next to her, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, her hand warm and heavy in yours.

When you wake up again, the room is a dark, inky blue. 

You sit upright, back straight, memories of the night before slowly filtering into your mind. Half-expecting an empty space where Vi had once been, you glance to the side, finding her sleeping figure curled under the blankets. Chest tightening, you look down at her in the black dark, eyes straining. 

Her eyes open, lashes fluttering, and you gasp.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Did I wake you up?”

“I’m a light sleeper,” she murmurs back to you. One of her arms snakes around your waist, encouraging you to lie back, and you oblige. You’re closer than you were when you fell asleep, Vi’s steady breaths tickling at your shoulder. 

You’re suddenly very aware of her skin on yours; your shirt has ridden up your stomach in your sleep, and Vi’s arm, wrapped around you, burns against you. Your stomach is warm with something delicious, something dangerous.

It doesn’t help when Vi pulls you closer, palm opening against the flesh of your hip. You’re frozen for a moment, wondering if she’s still sleeping, somehow. 

“Vi?”

“Hm?” You feel her draw back, as if waiting for you to turn over, so you do. Eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, you peer up at her. 

“I think I know what I want.” 

Vi’s quiet, her gaze steady on you. You’re about to take it back, whisper never mind and turn to sleep again, when she brings her hand back up to your cheek, cupping it in her hand the same way she had the night before. 

“Tell me,” she whispers in the dark.

“I…” You hesitate. “I want you to touch me.”

There’s a long pause, Vi’s eyes flickering over your face, analyzing your expression. Your body is tense with anticipation, and when she finally, finally leans in to press her lips to yours, the tension seeps out of every muscle.

Like everything about her, Vi’s kiss is different - her touch is different. She holds your face as her lips move against yours, soft and wet and sweet, thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek as her tongue traces the part of your lips. You open your mouth for her, let her lick into you to deepen the kiss. 

It’s been a long, long time since you’ve been kissed like this. You’ve grown accustomed to hasty, messy kisses, foul breath and rough touches, far too many clients eager to skip past the kissing and get to the fucking. But Vi tastes like heaven as she takes her time with you, tongue soft as it pushes against yours. Every kiss leaves you aching for more, the warmth in your lower belly growing hotter with each smack of your lips against Vi’s. You pull back, catching your breath, and Vi peers at you with bleary eyes. 

“You okay?” She asks, thumb still stroking at your cheek. You nod and pull her in for another kiss, drawing a soft moan from the bottom of her throat - one that goes straight to your cunt. 

You’re not sure how long you continue like that, trapped in a heated kiss, bodies moving closer with every languid sigh and pleading moan. But eventually, the layers of clothing between you is a burden you can no longer bear. You pull back to work your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor before Vi tugs you close for another searing kiss. Your hands slip beneath the thin fabric of her tank, and she shivers, a full-body chill that makes you flush impossibly hotter. Once her shirt is discarded, too, Vi gently pushes you to lie flat on your back, climbing over you in nothing but a thin pair of shorts. You realize through the haze of lust clouding your mind that she must’ve woken up before you - she’d turned the lights off, taken off the stiff pair of pants she’d arrived in the night before. 

Hovering over you in the dark, Vi’s an absolute dream. Tattoos decorate her pale complexion, inked into her arms, her shoulders, her neck - you’d already noticed that she’s heavily inked, but it’s more striking when she’s half-naked like this. You don’t have much time to look, though, because Vi leans over to tuck her face into your neck, warm lips latching to the sensitive skin and littering kisses in an imprecise path. You keen high in your throat, leaning the opposite way to grant her more access, your hands finding purchase on her narrow hips. When you dig your nails into her skin, hissing as she parts her lips over your neck and sucks, her hips buck forward, grinding her thinly-clothed heat over your pelvis. You nearly see stars.

There’s always been a cold draft in your room, in the brothel, and in Zaun as a whole. But here, now, you’re on fire. You lift your hips and push Vi down against your pelvis again, encouraging her to find that friction again, and she emits a muffled moan against your neck when she does. It’s heavenly, that sound - you want to hear it again and again and again, until it’s forever etched into your memory. 

“Gods, Vi,” you gasp, her teeth scraping against your neck. She works her way further south, leaving kisses and bites in her wake, until she reaches the peaks of your breasts.

“You’re so pretty, fuck,” she murmurs, dazed. Both hands cup your tits and squeeze, her thumbs playing with the buds of your nipples until they’ve hardened from her touch. She then leans over to take one nipple into her mouth, moaning around the flesh as if she’d been dying for this. Her tongue draws wet circles over the sensitive bud, her cheeks hollowing out when she sucks at it until you’re gasping and writhing. You need her further down, where your cunt throbs and gushes in anticipation, but she takes her time with your other tit before she even considers undressing you further. 

Still straddling your waist, Vi sits up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She flashes you a wicked smile, eyes twinkling, and lifts her hips to reach for the waistband of your shorts.

“This okay, pretty girl?” 

You nod, biting your lip. Pretty girl.

Vi rolls your shorts down your thighs, pulls them off with ease and sets them to the side. Your panties are next - a simple, cotton pair that wasn’t anything flashy - and she tosses those to the edge of the bed, too distracted by the sight of your naked body to care much about where they landed. 

Typically, you weren’t shy about your body. In your line of work, you couldn’t be shy - you had to know your features and work them to your benefit. But with Vi eyeing you like you’re a meal and she’s a woman starved, your stomach flutters with excitement and, somewhere, a glimmer of insecurity. The need to impress her. 

And gods, does she seem impressed. She curses under her breath, her rough hands smoothing over the curves of your body, squeezing your hips and your thighs and your ass, licking her lips like she’s parched. You realize, as she settles her hands on your knees and works them apart for you, that she’d taken off her bandages, too. The thought evaporates as quickly as it had come, though, because now Vi’s settling between your spread legs, peppering kisses along the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” she tells you between kisses. “You gonna let me eat you out, sweetheart?”

The question sends another cascade of butterflies through your stomach. You take in a deep breath, enjoying the sight of Vi between your legs, looking up at you with pleading eyes. You might die if she doesn’t make you come soon.

A whispered “please” from your lips is all Vi needs - her mouth is on you in a moment, tongue splitting through your folds, warm and firm and wet. She licks at you languidly, takes her time spreading your arousal from your hole up to your clit. You’re drenched, you just know it, and Vi moans as if to confirm your suspicions, lapping up your wetness with every flick of her tongue. Just like she’d taken her time with her mouth on your tits, she takes her time with your cunt, sucking on the swollen bead of your clit until you’re whining her name between sharp breaths. It’s all you can manage to say, your hand tangled in her scarlet locks of hair, tugging at her scalp each time she circles your clit with her tongue. After she’s worked you up enough, you’re suddenly so empty - you need more, and you tell her as much, chest heaving.

“Vi, I need—fuck, I need your fingers,” you cry out.

She answers with a gratified hum, and the vibrations have your eyes rolling back into your skull.

Just as you’d asked, though, Vi swipes a finger through your wetness; there’s hardly any resistance when she sinks the digit into your entrance, groaning again at the feeling of your walls around her. 

“So wet for me,” she comments, grinning. “This what you needed?”

You nod, face twisting with pleasure. Vi just chuckles under her breath, working her fingers up to a steady pace. Once she has you moaning again, all high-pitched and needy, she latches her mouth back onto your clit, and you’re gone. You come hard, clamping down on Vi’s fingers and tossing your head back, eyes squeezed shut through every wave of pleasure - it’s only once you’ve come to that you finally open your eyes again, gazing down at Vi starry-eyed.

“Can I be honest, sweetheart?” She sits up on her heels, licking her lips. “That was hot.”

“You think so?” You ask, reaching out for her. She moves closer and kisses you, lets you taste yourself on her lips. 

You pull back only to murmur, under your breath, “I’m not done with you, Vi.”

You’ve had sex with plenty of women in your lifetime, but few have made a real effort to make you come - and none have done it so fast. You’re determined to return the favor. So, with a pointed glance, you instruct Vi to lie back on the pillows, plucking one from behind her to set under her hips.

Vi had called you beautiful, but she’s utterly divine. All sharp edges and lean muscle, she’s a vision, and you’re almost convinced you’re dreaming as your hands smooth over the tattoos inked into her arms. You imagine yourself tracing each of those tattoos with your mouth, sucking bruises into the dark ink - but you’d do that later. Right now, all you want is to bury your face in the patch of red hair between her legs, lose yourself in the taste of her arousal.

Vi’s vocal, you conclude, because as you prod your tongue inside of her, nose bumping against her clit, she won’t shut up. 

“That’s it, fuck, you’re so good,” Vi moans, sitting up enough to allow her to watch as you lap at her pink cunt. An endless chorus of praises and curses leave her lips, punctuated with wanton moans. She’s needy, too - before long, she’s gripping a fistful of your hair and directing you with it, tugging you closer, to the side, to the other side, as she grinds her cunt down against your mouth. You revel in the way she’s using you, pleased when her stomach tenses and your name spills from her lips, warning you of her impending orgasm. She rides it out on your face, and when you finally pull back, you’re wet with her from nose to chin. 

“You’re way too good at that,” Vi tells you when you crawl up beside her, rubbing the wetness off your nose. 

“You’re just as good,” you respond. You move to lie down beside Vi, but when you see her frown, you arch a brow at her.

“Hm?”

“Sweetheart,” she coos, “I’m not done with you.”

She pulls you into her lap, lets you straddle the toned muscle of her pelvis. And after you’ve ground your pussy against her until you’re shaking with another release, she’s still not done. 

It’s a long night. At the table in the corner of your bedroom, your deck of tarot cards lies spread face-down. There’s one card upright, though: two of cups.

[darknessisafriend]

Commodus x reader NSFW Headcanons

Since some of you request it, here's some nsfw hc for our favorite emperor. I tried to write it so you could imagine both female or male reader <3

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Commodus would get extra cuddly, snuggled against your chest, all soft and quiet. He would remain in the blissful state for a while, simply enjoying feeling your skin against his, your heartbeat slowing down just like your breathing. Often, he would fall asleep almost immediately, he was so sleep deprived that with you he was relaxed enough to finally recover some. If he didn’t fall asleep, he would call for a maid to bring a few snacks and ask for the baths to be ready. Sometimes even carrying you there, so you two could relax your sore muscles/spots; but that would be rare, he was too sleep deprived.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partners)

Commodus is a man who, for a long time didn’t really have a favorite body part, it was rather the opposite. He wasn’t that tall for a roman, he had a slight deformity of a shoulder blade, hale lip…that would be until you showed him that these traits made him who he is and was part of his charm. He would grow fond of his hair, thick and curly, soft under your touch, the way you grabbed them when he was between your thighs or the way you caressed them while cuddling. As the body part he prefers with you, it would be your lips, the way you smiled, called his name oh so needily, your tender kisses on his skin.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

Commodus would love to make you taste him, watch you lick his fingers covered in his seed, your delighted expression. He would be able to moan from the sight itself, then kiss your lips, tasting how bad you were imprinted by him.

He would also enjoy to cum on your belly, he kinda has a breeding kink, anyway he loves the idea of having an heir, children, a family of his own. He would also feel rather blessed that you want this from him, his babies, his blood, whatever woman or man, that wouldn’t stop him from dreaming.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I’ll give you two! He loves to bottom with men, to be handled, pleasured mercilessly. He likes to keep your undergarments, in a pocket, when he is missing your presence romantically or sexually, he would take it out and close his eyes as he inhaled your scent, burying his nose in your panties.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

I don’t think Commodus would be thatexperienced actually. He is the kind of boy to brag about past sexual experiences to feel like he belongs, to blend in with people. But in truth, he is speaking about things he heard or read of. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what he is doing, the matter interests him a lot; from the starts he wants to be able to please you the best he can.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Commodus would love it when you ride his face, he would ask it of you almost every time.  He would look at you from below, the way you bit your lower lip as you face fucked him, almost choking him between your thighs, his hands kneading your butt cheeks, humming at your taste, the way your legs trembled as you reached climax.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

The first times of your relationship Commodus would be rather serious, you are the first to give him true attention, he takes that as seriously as the Empire. But he has that boyish spirit; with time he would get more relaxed, loving to tease you throughout the day, edging you during sex, giggling at your whimpers, your helplessness, loving that sweet torture, he only could give you.  Afterwards he would often joke, loving to tickle you as you cuddled.

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Commodus would be very well groomed, first, because he is a roman, they had a thing about body hair. So, he would wax his entire body hair when he is not on the field. His hair can be a bit messy though, but it’s usually because he struggles to fall asleep, so he keeps that sleepy look often, disheveled hair and sleepy eyes.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? Romantic or rough/dirty.)

Depends on the mood. I believe he would be very sweet, desperate; he would be the kind of man able to cry after sex. Of course, when things in his life don’t go so smoothly, he would totally go for angry sex, a way to vent, to let go of boundaries, of the mask he wears all day along. He wouldn’t be patient like he is with the Senate, he would take what he wants, without restraints and make a mess out of you.

J = Jack off (Do they masturbate and how often)

Commodus would not masturbate that often, but it does help him to fall asleep after a tense day. Except when he’s been accumulating lack of sleep, he would lose his libido and stay away from anything sexual and would rather require comfort.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Commodus has a huge praise kink, he is craving approval and being told how good he is doing, what a good boy he is. It would greatly participate in his arousal during love making. Sometimes you would praise his sexual skills, but he would also love when you rewarded him for the good things he did during the day, the way he talked to a politician, or a good decision he took.

Also, he rather loves to be dominated because he lives it like guidance, a way to let go of all his responsibilities, all the pressure and just let someone handle it at his place. He would obey your every request and gladly receive a pat on the head after, or the right to bury between your legs.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Commodus loves taking baths, so naturally he would love to enjoy intimacy with you there. Whenever during the day, he could invite you to join him for a warm or refreshing bath. Servants knew he should remain unbothered when you joined him, they didn’t need to see, your moans would be enough of a proof.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

When you voice your desires for him, what you like about him, what arouses you about him, the way you look at him. He gets very excited by the pleasure you feel during sex, when you call his name, your soft whimpers, when you tell him that when he does this or that it feels so good.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He wouldn’t be into humiliation, any reductive play wouldn’t turn him on; it would trigger his insecurities, remind him of the way his family treated him. Commodus needs to be pampered, feel protected and have his safe bubble where he can be vulnerable.

He wouldn’t enjoy hurting you during BDSM play, even if it makes you feel pleasure he would struggle to find pleasure in it, he is the kind to treat you like fragile porcelain, even if dominant and rough sometimes, he wouldn’t like to flog/spank you and such.  

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

For oral sex, Commodus would love to give, he is the generous type but most of all he is a taster, he couldn’t get enough of your taste, he never wanted to forget it. The Emperor would be very hungry at that, every time you had sex, he would want to give you oral. Naturally, he wouldn’t be shy about it, his tongue licking your slit, burying in your hole while his nose teased your clit. He would be a quick learner, sensing when one thing pleased you more than another.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Both; depends on his mood, though he wouldn’t stay long on slow pace, passion would take over and so the pace would increase, getting passionate, bestial almost. With time of course he would learn to control himself a little so he could please you better. He would find a liking into being slower, taking his time, memorizing your every breaths, moans, your eyes growing watery and your body more desperate.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Commodus would quite enjoy quickies. First, because he was a very busy man and often got caught up in his projects without seeing time pass. Having quickies would be a good compromise to have a break and dedicate time to you. It wouldn’t be just about that of course, since marrying you, Commodus would find himself needing you more and more, to part from the harshness of his position and dive back into your tender arms, even if for just a few minutes, it would save his sanity.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? Like to try new things etc.)

Commodus is a man of great curiosity, he would naturally be up to experimenting in bed, and he was very open minded at that so you could suggest pretty much anything, and he would be up to give it a try. He wouldn’t often take the risk though; he finds comfort he things he knows but from times to times he would get excited about an idea enough to want to try it.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

His stamina isn’t big, he is so touch starved that he doesn’t need much to reach climax but with small breaks he would be up for a few rounds, in fact he would never grow tired of you, he would be so afraid to lose you someday, afraid to forget you in old age…

T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Commodus wouldn’t mind integrating toys into your sexual life, once again he would be curious to try them on you or himself, see how it feels, how different it is from a human body. That is also how he would end up asking you to peg him and that would really be a fun extra, to see him beg for you to thrust deeper as he arched his back. On the opposite, if you were a male lover he would ask to try what a female felt like, with some self-made toy or with a third female sexual partner.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

A LOT. When he would discover how a hand brushing on your lower back or your shoulders could give you goosebumps, he would keep testing. Pushing your boundaries more and more by making you sit on his lap to feel his hardened crotch, his hand slithering under your toga to tease your thighs, whispering lustful words in you ear until you begged him to go in his quarters and give you satisfaction. Of course, he would be into edging as well so getting in the bedroom wouldn’t especially mean instant relief, not until you begged him to be merciful.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Commodus would actually be pretty loud; he would whimper a lot as if he was suffering but in fact he would be under pure bliss. When he was more desperate it would turn into groans that would be slightly high pitched at the end. His noises would be truly addictive.

W = Wild Card (A random headcanon for the character)

He is bisexual and enjoys experimenting, sometimes he would ask you to peg him, loving when you stimulated his prostate, giving him immense pleasure. He would love also that by doing so, he was completely at your mercy, his pleasure was yours, the pace, the intensity of your thrusts, your hand around his cock, his deliverance. He would be a controversial emperor but he wouldn’t give a damn, his sexual experimentations wouldn’t define the politician he was.

X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Rome doesn’t have great lingerie fashion; it is pretty much simple undergarments or nothing. Now, under those undergarments Commodus is rather normal, waxed, not too big or small according to roman standards. However, he has a great butt like marble ass of David Statue.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Rather high, he is very needy of you, for reassurance, to make sure you still desire him, that it is not his imagination tricking him. But it would be also to vent; Commodus has a stressful life, and making love would be the healthiest way for him to get rid of the pressure. You would pretty much make love everyday with, unless he was excessively tired from the day and training.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterward)

tag list:

Commodus would instantly fall asleep; he is just exhausted all day along. It would actually prevent him from overthinking at night, he would just collapse from pure pleasure, nuzzled in your arms.

Thank you for reading and please don't hesitate to leave a comment ❤️

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[cappuccinoandglitter]

[I restarted this this morning and the muse actually did latch on so this will be a full-length thing now and I'll post it when it's done. But here's the intro, per the prompt above. I think this is all because I missed out on the Ren Faire last year and I miss it.]

Tommy Kinard grins broadly at the gold dollar coins the patron deposits in his hand. While most of the 'tourists' coming to the Renaissance Faire pay with dollar bills or even 'Master Card or Lady Visa', a few of the old timers and die-hards come prepared from the bank with actual dollar coins. These days you have to order them special, so he admires the commitment to the bit. He bounces the coins a little in his hand, enjoying the clinking metal sound, the weight of them, and then puts them in the register. "Howie, one Seafoam for the gentleman," he calls over his shoulder.

His business partner, Howie Han, already with a pint glass in hand, starts pouring from the tap. "Aye, m'lord! Comin' right up!" he replies in an exaggerated Irish brogue, which sounds all the more surprising coming from a Korean man.

Tommy chuckles. The tavern at the heart of the Faire has been doing really well since he took over five years ago. Back then, he wasn't sure the gamble would pay off, but so far, it has. He never saw himself as a front-of-the-house guy before, preferring to focus on the brewing process and the business side of it. But putting on his 'innkeeper' garb every Saturday and Sunday morning works like any uniform, putting him in a mindset he wouldn't normally be in. In his brown breeches and dark green shirt with the lace-up collar he leaves untied, he kind of feels in character, even if he doesn't actually have a character to play.

He pulls a washcloth from the pocket of his apron and starts wiping down the counter between customers. The current crowd is an even mixture of 'rennies', the regulars who dress up in period-accurate garb and usually purchase season passes so they can spend every weekend here, and the tourists in their street clothes.

And someone he recognizes. "Hey, Miss May," he says, smiling at the young woman. She's in what some call 'closet garb', a long skirt and peasant blouse that straddle the gap between modern clothes and costuming. "What can I get for you?"

"Scotch eggs are coming out of the frier in a minute," Howie tells her.

Tommy winces. He hates those things.

"Oh, no thanks," May Grant says. "Can I have an apple cider?"

"Absolutely!" Tommy says. While Howie is busy retrieving the Scotch eggs from the frier, Tommy pours May's drink and charges her only half the regular cost.

"Thanks, Tommy!" She takes her drink and wanders to an unoccupied table.

"Who's here for the Scotch eggs!" Howie crows.

"All right!" "Me!" come the various responses. A pair of tourists buy two eggs a piece and mill around for a moment, before zeroing in on May's table.

Tommy frowns, but just watches. Maybe she knows them. But the line for the eggs keeps growing, demanding his full attention, distracting him from what's happening at May's table until he hears her voice, raised slightly above the din. "I'm sorry, but you're invading my personal space!" Her table sits by the wall, and it looks like they're blocking her escape.

"Hey!" Tommy shouts, coming around the bar to intercept.

"We're just making conversation," one of the men say. He's clearly been trolling the festival grounds buying alcoholic beverages at every available opportunity, because he's well past the point Tommy would have served him anything.

"Yeah, my guy, we're jus' bein' fren-frenly," his companion slurs, and puts a hand on Tommy's shoulder.

Tommy reacts before thinking, knocking the hand off his shoulder and twisting it behind the man's back. "There's such a thing as too friendly."

"Ow! Ow! You're hurting me!" the man whines. Not such a big guy now.

The other guy seems to decide this is a bar fight now, but before he can get a blow in, a gauntlet grabs on to his forearm and holds him back. "My lords!" the knight booms theatrically. "Do you have any idea who the lady's mother is? If ye do not wish to face the wrath of Pirate Queen Athena herself, you will leave this establishment now."

Tommy looks at the knight, and his entire body freezes in place. There's no shortage of good looking actors on the cast, and Tommy is sure this guy is part of the cast, even if he hasn't seen him before. No mere rennie would have this kind of stage presence. Or know who May's mom is.

"Now, apologize to the lady," the knight says. His hair is a slightly sweaty mess of brown curls, and his eyes are a piercing sky blue, but Tommy's gaze keeps getting drawn to the lips that are on the redder side of pink and look like they would feel so soft against his own.

"Ow?" says the guy in Tommy's grasp that Tommy somehow managed to completely forget he was still holding onto.

Tommy tears his gaze away from the knight and lets the tourist go. "Yes, apologies are in order," he says. He can't do an accent to save his life, so he doesn't try.

The two men give May meek 'sorrys', and Tommy shoves the one against the other on the way out the door.

May looks fine, if a little shaken. "Thanks, Tommy," she says. "Thank you, Sir Evan." She says the last with a little smile and curtsy.

'Sir Evan' gives a small bow. "If you'll excuse me, I must escort these villains out of the shire." So he's going to make sure they get booted out of the faire entirely, good.

Tommy watches the knight walk away, briefly admiring the curve of his ass in his breeches.

Renaissance faire meet cute between tavern owner Tommy ("I brewed this ale myself") and a knight ("Sir Evan" he introduces himself as; only later does Tommy hear "Buck" but it's too late, he's registered that cute knight with the bisexual color flag as Evan in his head)

A couple of drunk faire attendants try to harass Tommy's friend's teen daughter and he steps in, and Buck steps in too. Two big strapping guys tend to convince people to back off, especially when one is built like a tank and the other is literally armored

Tommy gives Buck a free mug of ale, and they talk, and throughout the day Buck keeps coming back to the tavern and Tommy watches Buck at the joust

And instead of a girl's handkerchief as a favor, Buck takes the checkered handkerchief in Tommy's apron as his favor and ties it around his wrist

Buck wins the joust and canters over, hopping down to wink at Tommy, then kissing the piece of cloth around his wrist. Tommy can't help leaning over the fence to kiss Sir Evan for real.

[justmeinadaze]

I Have Nothing (If I Don't Have You) Part 10 (Steddie X You)

Warning: Soft Dom Security Steddie & Sub Singer Fem Y/N, SMUT, dirty talk, semi-public (in an office at a party), light choking, FLUFF, they love each other, Steve makes a declaration to his father involving Y/N, Y/N gives them a present <3

ANGST *throws a baton in the air and catches it in angst!*

There is a shooting that's referenced throughout that Steddie protect her from, blood is mentioned, slight cliffhanger ending, Steves Dad is a dick (of course), calls Y/N demeaning names (trash, mentions her past), mentions of loss of a loved one.

Like most chapters of this series, this deals with some heavy themes but it's not too bad. Enjoy my friends <3!

Word Count: 4033

Series Here/Donate to Me :)

Sarah pants as she all but sprints into Hawkin’s General, growling as she finally makes it through all the paparazzi flashing pictures outside while the police department keeps them at bay. 

“Where is Y/N?! I’m her agent!”, she practically screams to one of the officers as her eyes search for a face she could recognize.

“Hey, hey. Let her through.”, an older gentlemen instructed as he ushered her forward into a waiting room. 

“What happened?! Where is Y/N?!”

“I don’t know. All they’ll tell me is there was a shooting. I’ve tried to get a goddamn doctor to tell me something but… I’m Wayne by the way. I’m Eddie Munson’s uncle.”

“Where are they? Eddie and Steve? Are they ok?!”

“I-I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

***

Steve heavily sighs as the elevator doors slowly open to the party on the third floor of. His parent’s building. 

Even though your arm was clinging to both of theirs, his hand over yours seem to be grasping for dear life. 

“We don’t have to do this, Steve.”, you whisper causing Eddie’s gaze to shift that way. 

“No, no. I’m ok. I can do this. What about you? D-Do you need anything or—”

Both men had shown fear before when they were trying to find you when you ODed but they still had that aggressive, protective demeanor behind it like the big protector men they were. As Steve stuttered over his words, he seemed like a frightened child about to tell his parents he failed a test and your heart broke. 

Not caring about any eyes in the room or what people would think, your palm cupped his cheek as you brought your lips to his. 

“No, baby. I’m ok. We’re right here.”

The metalhead softly smiled as he comfortingly patted his friend’s shoulder.

“I can kiss you to if you want. I mean—”

“No. No, thank you.”, Steve laughs as you giggle at Eddie’s antics. 

As the three of you walk further into the room, you take in the high class setting around you. Whatever Steve’s dad sold or did, he was definitely doing it well because everything seemed exceptionally expensive with nothing out of place. The stuffy air was slightly suffocating but you were used to that when it came to events like this but normally you had something in your system to calm your nerves. 

“Champagne?”, a waiter asked as he held out the tray, startling you slightly.

“No, thank you, and don’t ask again.”

The boy just nodded before swishing away to the next person surprising you as you watched him nonchalantly smile and ask someone else.

“You two can drink if you want.”

“No, honey, we’re ok. Plus, even if this is a party, we still need to be on alert for you.”

“He means his dad and his bullshit.”, Eddie whispers, winking your way when you smile.

The sound of a woman’s laugh and high pitch squeal caught your attention as she made a beeline towards Steve. Since neither man jumped in front of you, you assumed this was someone they knew. 

“Baby! Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re home. Hello, Edward! And oh my gosh who is this you brought with you?”

“This is our client. Y/N Y/L/N, meet my mom. Mom; Y/N.”

“Oh, hi. It’s very nice to meet you.”, you grin as you extend your hand out to hers before she grabs it and pulls you into a hug while Eddie snickers behind you. 

“Mom…mom…come on, now.”

“I’m just so happy to meet you. Plus, I want you to have a good image of me in your mind before my asshole husband ruins it.”

With that she turns around and motions for your three to follow her. 

“Is she high?”, you whisper with wide amused eyes. 

“Um, no, but I think she’s definitely had a champagne bottle…or two.”, Steve sighs as he places his hand on his lower back and guides you forward. 

***

“Steven! Good to see you, son.”

“Hey, dad.”, the man replies with a tight smile as he awkwardly embraces his father. “You remember Eddie.” The man slightly grimaces at the metalhead even as he nods in his direction before his disgust settles on you. “And this is Y/N. She’s the client we look after.”

“Hm. You brought a client to our event? I’m sure she has better things to do unless you just wanted to show off your wealth.”, his dad sassed causing your head to tilt.

“I have no wealth to show off. Plus, she’s my friend—”

“Oh, your friends with someone you do business with? Because that won’t end badly.”

“Bill.”, Steve’s mother hisses as your grip around his hand tightens. 

“May I have a moment alone with my son?” 

As Steve starts to pull away, your palm tugs him back eliciting a soft smile from him as he turns to face you. 

“Don’t go in there. I don’t like the way he talks to you.”

“It’s ok, baby. I’m used to it.”

“Steve…”

Cupping your face in his palms, he kisses your forehead and a heavy sigh leaves you when you finally let him go. 

“He’ll be alright, sweetheart.”, Eddie tries to calm you as he rubs your back. 

################

“Look, I don’t know how many times I can tell you people I didn’t see anything!”, a man growls, grabbing Sarah’s attention as she heads that way with Wayne in tow pausing when she finds him yelling at an officer. 

He seemed incredibly irate with his suit half undone and his face redder than a tomato as sweat dripped down his features. 

“Bill…can you please…stop…yelling.”, a woman sighs from her seat near him with a can of Ginger Ale against her forehead. 

“Mr. Harrington, this was your event and my understanding is it’s pretty guarded so how did the perpetrator get in?”

“Mr. Harrington? You’re Steven’s dad? Is he ok?!”

“Goddamn it! Am I speaking Spanish or something? I. DON’T. KNOW! All I know is my son shows up after so much time and brings this trash singer he claims to be in love with—”

“What?”, Sarah asks, cutting him off. As she shifts her gaze towards Eddie’s uncle, his own gravitates towards the floor and she knows it’s true. “Well, that explains some things.”

***

Eddie chuckles lightly as he scans your worried features, grabbing your hand and placing his own on your lower back as you both gently sway to the violin music from the floor below. 

“He’ll be fine, sweetheart. Trust me.”

“I just…I remember what it was like hearing my parents talk to me like that. It stays with you…”

“Yeah…definitely longer than any bruises.”

Your gaze shifts to his as his jaw unhinges and he gently smiles your way. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, your highness. You didn’t do anything wrong.”, he comforts as he twirls you and playfully dips you, making you laugh before pulling you back up into his embrace. “My dad definitely had a bite to his words. I think what’s weird is… I could always anticipate when a fist was coming but his words…they seemed to come out of nowhere sometimes…”

Wrapping your arms around him, you rested your head on his chest as you squeezed him tightly to you.

“I love you, Eddie Munson.”

“I’ll never get tired of hearing you say that.”, he whispers.

The door to Mr. Harrington’s office door bangs open as an angry Steve stomps out before his dad grabs his arm. 

“Don’t do this, son. You’re throwing your entire future away.”

“No, I’m not. I’m good at what I do, dad, and I’m not giving up my business for yours.”

“Oh, yeah? And what part of fucking your client is good for business?!”

The man stood up straighter and on impulse Eddie pushed you behind him, keeping a hand on your arm to make sure you were safe.

“Lower your fucking voice. She’s been through enough.”

“I know, Steven. I can fucking read. Arrests, alcohol, drugs, parties. Hell, didn’t she just overdose a few months ago!?”

“She’s been sober and doing better—What the fuck am I doing? I don’t need to explain anything to you. I love her, dad, and I love my job. Come on, guys.”, he ushers, grabbing your arm as he pulls you both down the hall to head for the stairs. 

“Wait, wait.”, you insist as you pull him into an empty office. “What happened there? Talk to me, baby.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I know we wanted to keep this a secret. I just…he was talking about you and it was pissing me off and I just blurted it out. I love you so much and I’m not going to let ANY asshole talk to you or about you like your trash—”

Grasping his collar, you yanked him to you and smashed your lips to his. It took him a moment but after a few seconds, Steve finally exhaled as his shoulders deflated and he lifted you into his arms to carry you to the desk behind you. 

“If you’re going to get riled up about every asshole who calls me trash, we’ll need to hire some more security guys.” The man laughed as he kissed you again, cupping your face in his palms. “We can tell people…if you want…maybe talk to Sarah first but…”

“You don’t have to do that for us, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to hide you guys. I love you…both of you… I just don’t want to ruin your business. You said it could look bad if—”

Eddie’s fingers gripping your cheeks interrupted you as he turned you to face him so he could kiss your lips. 

“Let’s not worry about that right now, pretty girl.”

Steve’s lips sucked on your neck as he rolled his hips between your legs eliciting a heavy pant from you both. 

“U-Use me, baby. It’s ok. I want you to. I’m yours.”

Leaning back, his eyes search yours as his palm caresses your face and his thumb grazes your lips. 

“What if we get caught?”, he teases, making you giggle as you circle one of your legs around his waist and pull him closer to you. 

“We’ll just have to be quick and quiet, Mr. Harrington.”

A loud groan of approval leaves him as your own hand slides under his button up shirt near his neck and he hastily fumbles with his belt, pulling down his pants enough to free his cock. Steve lifts you slightly to help you take off your panties that you promptly toss as Eddie who rolls his eyes as he winks your way. 

After tugging you closer to the edge of the desk, he tilts down to lick a long stripe through your folds before tapping your clit with his length and guiding himself inside you as you fell back against the wood underneath you. 

“Oh my God—”

“Shhhh…”, the metalhead scolded as he quickly came around covered your mouth. 

“Fuck…so deep…”, you whine as Eddie removes his hand to pet your head. 

“Yeah? Feels good, your highness? Jesus, I can’t wait for the world to find out you’re ours. This beautiful girl deserves the world.”

Grabbing your throat, Steve pulled you up right and rested his forehead against yours as he thrust his hips at a rapid pace knowing your time may be short. 

“That’s it, baby. Right there. Mmph…”

“Right there, honey? Fuck you feel so good. We’re going to take such good care of you. Mmm—you’ll never have to worry about anyone hurting you ever again.” His last sentence came out as a bit of growl and you wrapped your arms around his neck as he did the same holding you to his chest. “You’re safe with me, Y/N. I promise.”

“I know, Steve. I know. Make me cum, baby, please.”

Honoring your request, you clung to each other as he slammed his cock into you, muffling your moans in his shoulder as the ball dropped in your belly with him following close behind. 

“I love you, Y/N.”, Steve panted.

“I love you to.”

As he ran his fingers through his hair, he backed away from you and you smiled as Eddie came around, lifting you into his arms to carry you to a nearby armchair where he took a seat with your straddling his waist.

The metalhead watched you with admiration as you unbuckled his belt and removed his cock from his slacks. After spitting into your hand, he mewled as you stroked it along his shaft and slowly descended onto him.

“Fuck me.”, Eddie groans as he cups your face in his palm and brings your lips to his. “Good girl, your highness. Bounce on my cock just like that.”

His fingers tangle in your hair as your head falls into his shoulder to muffle your moans as your hips grind and roll against him. 

“I-I love you, Eddie. Oh my God.” Lightly tugging you back, you groan against his lips as you whisper against them. “You’re safe with me to, baby. I promise. I-I’ll be good. I p-promise I won’t embarrass you.”

“You never have, sweetheart.” Planting his feet, he thrust upwards, slamming the tip of his length against that spongy spot deep inside you roughly as your eyes roll closed. “I k-know people pretended to care about you, baby, but we genuinely do—Jesus—we just want y-you to be happy and—and healthy so…”

“So what, Eddie? Tell me, please.”

Pulling you back down against his shoulder, he hugs you to him just as Steve had as he fully takes over pumping his length while murmuring into your ear. 

“So we can spend our lives with you—fuck—have a family with you…grow old together…we’d marry you, princess, if we could…put a ring on your finger…show the world you’re ours and—fuck I’m gonna cum—you’re safe.”

Your lips crash to his as your body trembles and pussy quivers around him as you cum. Eddie grunts at the feeling, his fingers digging into your flesh as his rhythm faulters and you feel him warm your insides. 

#################

A door slowly opens and Sarah gasps as Steve steps through with blood still clinging to his what was once pristine shirt. 

“Steve! Oh my God. Are—Are you alright? What happened?!”

“I…we…I promised myself I would do everything…to make sure she never saw hospital again…”, he mumbled before falling to his knees as Wayne caught him halfway down and held him to his chest as the boy sobbed. “This is my fault. I never should have…brought her there…my dad…I can’t focus…”

“Steven…I know you’re hurting but…I need you to tell me if Eddie is alright.” 

As he continued to cry, your agent and the metalhead’s uncle kept hearing the same thing over and over. 

“This is my fault…”

***

You grin in the mirror at the reflection of both boys straightening up their attire as you finish quickly restyling your hair. 

“Hey Steve, can you hand me my clutch, please?”

“Oh manners. I love it.”, he smiles as he reaches for what you asked and bows as he presents it to you. “Your highness.”

“Thank you.”, you giggle. “It’s funny…you mentioned rings because…I got you guys a present before we flew out here and I was waiting for the right time to give them to you…”

After digging in your bag, you produce a box that Eddie giddily takes causing the other boy to playfully roll his eyes. Inside were two silver bands with an engraving etched along the inside. 

“’ Je suis à toi et tu es à moi.’”, the pretty boy reads aloud in choppy French that has you beaming wide. “Something about you and me. I know that much.”

“I am yours and you are mine?” Your jaw drops as the metalhead chuckles your way before he shrugs. “I’ve, um, I may have been trying to learn some French since it’s your safe place. That way whenever we go back I can actually understand what people are saying. Was I right?”

You nod as you wrap your arms around him and kiss his lips before doing the same with Steve. 

“We’ll get you something too, honey. I promise—”

“You don’t have to. I just…I saw them and I thought of you…how much I love you.”

“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we get out of here, go to the diner, and fill up on some greasy burgers?”

“Oh my God. I’m starving.”, you jokingly whine as you follow them out the door and down the stairs. “I have to run to the restroom first if that’s ok?”

“Oh yeah, now she’s asking. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you to hold your dress up?”

Smiling, you smack Eddie’s chest as you scurry to the restroom to do what you needed. 

Everything seemed completely normal and you were the happiest you had been in what felt like your entire life. You shouldn’t have been surprised when you opened the bathroom door and were met with a face you hadn’t seen in person in a very long time. 

“Natalie?”, you ask as your eyes promptly search for the boys.. “What, um, what are you doing here in Hawkins?”

“I saw the interview… saw some sightings online of you on a plane to Indiana…did some research on your entourage now…put two and two together.”

Something was off in her tone as she spoke and you noticed immediately that her hands were shaking. 

“Natalie why are you here?”, you ask her as calmly as possible.

“You didn’t go to Simon’s funeral.”

“I didn’t think it was appropriate.”

“For my brother’s girlfriend to be at his funeral?!” 

You jumped at her outburst and held out your hand hoping to calm her.

“Natalie…Simon and I broke up months ago…”

“Then why was he with you that night?”, she asked as tears began to leave her eyes. “I have…so many questions and every answer I do find…leads back to you, Y/N.”

“Honey, I—”

“Don’t do that! Don’t you dare talk down to me!” Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out a handgun making you gasp as she pointed it your way. 

“Y/N, honey is everything—” As Steve walked down the hallway, she turned on him and his eyes widen as he holds up his palms to show he’s unarmed.

“NO! No, Natalie! Keep talking to me! You said you had questions about your brother. Ask me! Ask me anything!”

Her wild eyes kept flicking between you both as she back away and kept the weapon pointed at you. 

“Answer…me. If you two…broke up…why were you with him?”

“I…I had a relapse…and I knew he’d…he’d give me a fix.”

“So you used him?”, she growled.

“Yes.”, you whisper as your own tears begin to fall.  “I’m not perfect, Nat, but—”

“But you’re still here and my brother is gone! Do you know what my mom and I have been through?!”

“I would give anything to bring him back. I really would—”

“Fucking liar!”

Right as she cocks the gun, Steve rushes forward to lift her arm in the air as Eddie comes out of nowhere and tackles you from the side out of harms way. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”, he panics as he takes off his suit jacket. “You’re bleeding, b-baby. Where…where did you get hit?”

Your hands fly down your body, feeling the dampness of blood but not finding a wound.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel—Eddie?”

The metalhead’s eyes flutter as he collapses in your arms and you realize the blood that was on your dress was sticking to his torso. Tearing open his shirt, you found a wound on his abs and quickly grab his jacket to press against it. 

“STEVE!”

While Eddie had been attending to you, the other man was able to subdue Simon’s sister and get the gun away from her as security appeared to cuff her. Sliding to your side, he moved the jacket back to assess his injury. Silently, he pulls out his phone as you continue to hold the long-haired boy in your grasp. 

“Yeah, we need ambulance and police at the Harrington Company building. Shooter is subdued by security and my-uh-my partner was hit in the abdomen…No…I don’t think anyone else was-was injured.” As his voice cracks, you move some Steve’s hair back with your fingers and his teary eyes immediately turn to you. “Are you ok? Were you hit?”

“No…No, I’m ok. I think…”

“Yes ma’am. I’m Steven Harrington and my partner is Edward Munson. We are security for Y/N Y/L/N…Yes ma’am…No, she says she’s fine but…” You wince as Steve delicately touches your arm and you see the slight bruising beginning to appear on your wrist. “…She may have a sprained arm from him pushing her out of the way…Yes…please…please hurry.”

“Eddie, you need to open your eyes, baby, please.”, you beg. 

His lips began to move and you leaned down to hear what he was mumbling. 

“I love you.”

##################

“Wayne Munson and Sarah Dash?”, the nurse called, guiding them and Steve to the hospital room. 

“Y/N!”, your agent sighed in relief as she quickly scurried to your side of the room and pulled you into her arms. “Everything is going to be alright, sweetie.”

“Y/N has a small fracture at the wrist so she’ll need to wear that cast for about a month. As for Mr. Munson, he was extremely lucky. The bullet went straight through and missed anything vital. We gave him some meds to help him sleep and he’ll definitely need to rest. He’s going to be in a lot of pain these next few weeks.”

“He’ll be ok?”, Wayne asked as he placed his palm on his nephew’s chest. “We shouldn’t be worried?”

“Not from what I see… Of course, we’ll keep him for the next few days to make sure everything is alright before we let him go.”

“H-Have you heard anything about Natalie? Where is she?”, you murmur as Sarah tenderly pets your head. 

“Um, that’s the young lady who…? My understanding is she’s in a cell but—”

“I can find all that out for you, honey.”, your agent relays and you nod. 

After the doctor leaves, Steve’s eyes harden as he enters his professional mode you had seen many times before. 

“I’m going to talk to the officers and security here at the hospital to make sure their privacy is respected and no one can sneak in.”

“Steven.”, Eddie’s uncle says with a deep authoritative tone as he grabs the boy’s arm, surprising you when he yanks it away. “Son…you’re going to want to be one of the first people he sees when he wakes up.”

As he stomps out of the room, he doesn’t even hear your socked feet slide across the linoleum. When your palm touches his shoulder, in one swift motion he grabs your forearm and shoves you hard against the wall, breathing heavily as he holds you still, raising his fist in the air defensively. 

“It’s me, Steve! It’s me. It’s ok—”

“It’s NOT ok! You both got hurt! I failed!”

“You didn’t fail. You both saved me and the doctor says Eddie will be ok—”

“He shouldn’t be in there to begin with!! I should have clocked her at the party. We should have seen her. I should have noticed how agitated she was before I said anything…I-I-I…It should be me in there.”

“No, baby, no. Neither of you should be in there b-but you told me…it was part of the job…that’s why I couldn’t take that bullet for you…a bullet that was meant for ME.”

His eyes soften at your words as if finally realizing it was you he was holding and promptly let you go as he placed his hands on his hips. 

“That’s my best friend, Y/N.”

As he begins to cry, you immediately tackle your arms around him and he promptly does the same, nuzzling his face into your neck as you hold him tightly to you. 

####################

@rckstrbee @melodymishahiddlestan @myherometalhead

@siriuslysmoking @micheledawn1975 @cositaslua

@munsonmoonshine86 @unfocused81 @paleidiot

@dad-steddie @aol19 @strngrlytn @mrsjellymunson

@needylilgal022 @dashingdeb16 @hardladyheart

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (2)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: Bucky is a dick; Bucky has issues; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, dead parents, sexism; prejudices; attitude

Author’s Note: Here is the second part already. Thank you for all those lovely comments!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Once again, you follow Barnes through the woods, wondering if this is what you are destined to do now for the rest of your life.

You’ve been walking the whole day. Through the same forest. With the same mountain of a man in front of you. It’s almost about to get dark again.

Leaves whisper around you, birds cry in the distance and you try - you try so hard - to find some sense of peace in those sounds since it really is the first time you get to listen to this so near, but it still doesn’t match the dreams you have imagined for so long.

The hem of your gown is tattered, stained with mud, and torn by thorns. The embroidery that once shimmered in candlelight is dulled. The fabric used to be so soft against your skin, but it feels abrasive now, like sandpaper scraping against a wound.

You want nothing more than to rip it off.

But you can’t.

This gown, as ruined as it is, is all you have left of who you were. A princess. A daughter of a king and Queen. A girl who once walked polished marble floors, who dined beneath chandeliers that glimmered brightly.

This gown is your last tether to that life, and you hate it for it as much as you need it.

Your feet are still aching and you stumble a few times in trying to keep up with Barnes's fast pace again.

The soles are raw and blistered.

But your senses seemed to have dulled enough to not care about that at the moment.

Your stomach growls.

It might be the fourth time now in however many minutes.

Barnes hears it. You know he does, because he sighs - an exhale so sharp and pointed, he might have used his whetstone to sharpen more than his blade.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around, doesn’t offer a single word.

His broad shoulders remain squared and rigid.

The last meal you had was at the banquet - if you can even call it a meal. You barely ate, too consumed by the intensity of the watchful eyes of men who saw you as anything but a person. Your skin still crawls at the memory of those gazes.

You try and stretch your limbs out a little. They are still sore and weak from the night before, from the contorted position you were forced to sleep in because of the cold wind.

The ground had been unkind, its hard surface pressing against your ribs and hips, you might believe you have bruises.

When you woke up this morning, the fire was burning. It had been cold when you fell asleep.

You don’t know when Barnes lit it. You don’t know why. He didn’t say a word to you when you stirred, didn’t even look at you beyond a cursory glance.

He simply tossed you a get ready to move before turning his back and tending to his blade. Did he sharpen this stupid thing the whole night?

Part of you wanted to thank him for the fire. But the larger part bristled at the thought. And who is to say he put it on for you? So, you said nothing, stood, and got ready to move on.

You glance at Barnes’s back. The muscles beneath his worn brown armor shift with each step. You find yourself looking at his back quite often.

The trees grow denser. The air is damp and earthy and you are sure the scent of moss and decaying leaves won’t leave your hair any time soon.

Barnes stops suddenly. His head tilts to the side faintly as if listening to something beyond your comprehension.

As before, you nearly collide with him, too lost in your thoughts to notice his abrupt halt.

He turns to look at you then. His blue eyes piercing and assessing. There is something in his gaze you don’t know what to make of. Not kindness, not really. But it is not the coldness or indifference you’ve come to expect either.

With his eyes on you, he jerks his chin to a fallen log nearby.

“Sit,” he says gruffly, his voice low but carrying something that makes you do just that.

Obeying, you sink down onto the rough surface with a gratitude you don’t voice.

He unslings his pack and begins rummaging through it, pulling out a small pouch of dried meat and another of what looks like nuts.

He tosses them to you without ceremony, then pulls out a flask and takes a long swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Eat,” he orders, his tone as brusque as you came to know.

The food is unappealing as it is necessary, but you don’t complain. The dried meat is tough, each bite requiring an effort that makes your jaw ache, but the saltiness is oddly satisfying.

The nuts are bland, their texture chalky, but they fill the emptiness in your stomach, if only temporarily.

You chew slowly, hoping to maintain the grace you’ve been taught your whole life despite living a different now all of a sudden.

Barnes is watching you. You are aware of his gaze but choose to ignore it. Perhaps there is something critical in his eyes and he is asking himself why the hell he agreed to take you with him. Or perhaps he is simply keeping track of your pace, ensuring you eat enough to keep up.

But something doesn’t sit right.

You glance at his pack, then back at him.

He is perched on the edge of a moss-covered stone, arms resting on his knees, and he is no longer looking at you, head tilted slightly downward, lost in thought as it looks like.

The flask rests by his side, but he makes no move toward the food he just handed you, or gets himself something from his pack.

You haven’t seen him eat anything since you met him. Maybe he ate something this morning when you were still asleep but that too is many hours ago now.

The food sits heavily in your stomach and you swallow hard. You prepare yourself to break the silence. Or, rather, you build up some courage to talk to him.

“Why don’t you eat?”

His head lifts, piercing blue eyes snapping to yours with an intensity that makes you flinch. There is irritation there, the faintest flicker of exasperation, but no answer.

He looks away just as quickly, his jaw tight. “I’m fine,” he says curtly, as if the matter is settled.

Your fingers curl around the pouch of nuts, frown tugging down your brows.

You are tired. Tired of all this. Tired of the silence, of the questions you don’t get answers to, feeling so unwelcome in the presence of this man you didn’t even want to have anything to do with. Tired of you being brushed off all the time.

“You have been walking all day, same as me. You need to eat.”

He exhales a vexed breath, shoulders rising and falling tensely with the effort of keeping himself calm. “I said I’m fine. Eat your food.”

But you don’t let it go. You reach into the pouch, pull out a handful of nuts, and hold them out to him. “Here,” you say softly, hoping your hand stays steady enough so he won’t notice your nerves playing with you.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His gaze falls to the offering in your hand, then back to your face. Something unreadable passes through his expression, too fleeting to make out. Then his lips press into a hard line. “Keep it,” he bites out, roughly. “You’ll need it more.”

You don’t lower your hand. “Why won’t you just take it?”

His patience snaps like a brittle branch.

He lets out a frustrated groan that might have been a growl, raking a hand through his dark hair. “Because I’ve got nothing else,” he snaps, his voice louder than you’ve heard it before. He looks away after his little outburst, his jaw working almost painfully hard.

It hits you harder than you expect. You glance at his pack, at the threadbare state of his clothes, the patches on his jacket that tell of years and tear.

He’s been rationing - not just food, but everything. He doesn’t have more. But he gave you the rest of the food he had, and he has been doing so without a word, without complaint. The thought makes your throat tighten.

You are silent for a moment, but an idea sparks in your mind.

Slowly, you reach for the clasp at your neck. You had almost forgotten it was still there. Your necklace. The delicate thing of gold with a single, small ruby at its center. One of the few remnants of your old life. The one you had been living just yesterday.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo it and hold it out to him. “Take this,” you say quietly.

His head jerks towards you, his expression shifting to confusion. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You can sell it,” you explain, trying to push down your nerves. “Get food. Supplies. Something.”

His brows draw together, gaze moving from the necklace to your face and back again. “Spare me your pity.” His words are gruff, almost angry. But there is a hint of something else. He is genuinely bewildered by your gesture.

“It is not pity,” you insist, trying to hold his gaze. “You… You’re keeping me alive. It is the least I can do,” you add a little hesitantly.

The muscles in his face tighten and loosen as he stares at the chain in your hand with an expression you haven’t seen before. It might be the softest he has looked since you met him.

He doesn’t move to take it, but he doesn’t refuse outright either. You seem to have gotten him off guard for a moment. He looks away for a while, gaze fixed on some distant point in the forest. For a long moment, the only sound is the rustling of leaves in the wind.

His voice, when it comes, is somewhat thick, quieter, and low, almost grudging. “Keep it. For now.”

You hesitate. But with a small sigh, you lower your hand, grasping the necklace tighter again so it won’t slip through your hands to the forest floor.

There is a tension in the air. It seems to bend it. Making you hold your breath as you avoid looking at him again.

He won’t look at you either but there is something in his posture that has changed. It is a shift in the way he holds himself. As if he is no longer preparing for the next hit.

You tuck the necklace safely into the folds of your gown since you sure as the devil won’t ask the man to put it back on you.

The silence stretches on. But it feels lighter somehow. Unspoken words easing just enough to let you breathe.

Yet the food in front of you feels uncomfortable now. Each bite you have taken feels like a theft - from him, from his dwindling resources.

You glance back at him, still perched on the moss-covered stone, his expression unreadable as he stares at the forest floor.

He’s been silent before, more so than not, but something about his stillness now makes your heart feel heavy.

Without thinking, you nudge the remaining food toward him, standing up swiftly, needing the act to be completed before doubt can settle. “Here,” you say, voice as resolute as it would go. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

His eyes are fixed on you in an instant again, narrowing warningly. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, his voice low but biting, like the crack of a branch beneath too much weight. “You’re still hungry. Eat.”

“I’m fine,” you counter, echoing his earlier words with a stubbornness that surprises even you. Your heart is pounding. Your hands are getting clammy at the way he looks at you, but you force yourself not to back down.

You have never been good at pushing back against people, not like this, but something about your new situation makes you dive in your heels. After all, you’ve also never been without your parents to this extent, or without a home, a ceiling atop your head.

You feel like, you can allow yourself a little attitude. And when you have to find out that he has been sharpening his knives in that almost passive-aggressive manner just to kill you, well, then you will go down as the princess you are.

He sits there stiffly, clearly aggravated, but you turn away before he can argue further, deciding to continue your trek, following the narrow path that winds deeper into the trees.

Behind you, you hear him exhale, though it sounds more annoyed than angry. A muttered curse follows you and you almost can’t suppress the smile that tried to make its way onto your face.

His heavier footsteps follow, quickly closing in and he strides in front of you again, sighing once more. There still lingers a little displeasure at the whole situation but it sounds softer. And you might have heard it turn into a suppressed and breathless laugh for a second.

Amusement.

The path is uneven, strewn with roots that twist gnarled across the ground of the earth. You keep your eyes on the ground, not wanting to snap your ankle and become an even bigger burden.

Walking this path is tiring you out, considering the fact that you have been on your feet the whole day without getting a good night's sleep.

You don’t know how long you keep going, but it is completely dark again and Barnes's back is only illuminated by the moonlight barely sinking through the trees.

Your mind has been on edge ever since yesterday, so full of questions about yourself and the mystery surrounding this man.

They churn ceaselessly, those questions, clawing at the walls of your mind, making you almost wince. Each question is a stone dropped into a bottomless well, the echo spiraling down, down, down - never reaching an answer, only silence.

Your mind is as twisted as the tunnels you had escaped from and it only makes your head hurt so much more.

You are exhausted beyond belief.

Even your usually straight spine is turned into a question mark.

The part of the forest you are walking on is relatively straight but you feel like you are walking uphill. Through air turned to syrup.

The longer you walk, the more the world in your mind slows - not with peace, but with the sluggish drag of overuse.

Ahead of you, Barnes moves with the same annoying purpose as always, his tall, dark frame cutting a path through the thick forest.

You wonder if he is as unaffected as he seems, if his endurance is as unshakable as the armor he wears.

“Barnes.”

Oh, no.

You didn’t know your mind is that far gone already to let your mouth have a mind on its own.

The man in front of you freezes for a fraction of a second.

You should not have used his name. Not so directly. So you keep on talking, pressing the words out quickly but with a hesitation you are sure he hears.

“Perhaps we should find somewhere to rest soon.”

Barnes continues to walk in front of you, but you see the slight shift. His shoulders are still tense but in a slightly different way. He seems to contemplate something.

It takes a while for him to answer and when he does, his voice sounds almost hoarse. Rough. “It’s Bucky,”he mutters.

“What?”

A pause. A sigh. Another pause. “My name. Call me Bucky.” There is no warmth in his tone, but there’s something else - a reluctant offering, perhaps, or the faintest dent in his hard armor.

You blink, surprised. That is not what you had expected. And you are unsure whether to acknowledge it or stay silent. Your fingers fidget with the fabric of your gown as you search for the right response. You nod, more than for yourself than for him, and steady your voice. “Okay. Bucky.”

He doesn’t respond. His gaze is firmly fixed ahead, but now there definitely is a change in his posture. It’s not quite softness, not an invitation, but it is something - subtle and fleeting. His fingers twitch at his sides.

You barely manage to suppress a yawn when you notice his stride falter.

He glances back.

That’s the first time he’s done that. He never looked back at you while wandering through the woods, never even hinted that he needed to confirm your presence.

You have grown accustomed to the idea that he just knew you were there, trailing behind like a load he can’t shake.

But now, his head turns slightly and those deep eyes find yours.

The moment is so startling, that you almost trip, your foot catching on a root.

His gaze rakes over you, studying, but giving nothing away. There’s no gentleness there, no sympathy, but neither is there judgment.

His attention makes your skin prickle and your neck heat up.

He seems to focus on your trembling limbs, the way your shoulders sag.

He sees all of it, and for a brief second, you think you catch a glimmer of something. Again, it is gone so fast but you know it was there.

As quickly as it began, it’s over. He briskly turns around, the glance seemingly nothing more than an instinctual check.

“We’ll settle down soon,” he announces. His voice gives nothing away. There is no acknowledgment of the toll the journey has taken on you, but it’s enough.

Relief floods your chest, filling your lungs with something sweeter than oxygen, intertwining with the residual tension his gaze had created.

****

“Where are you taking me?”

Sitting a few inches away from you, Bucky lets out a sigh. It’s long and drawn out, but surprisingly not as sharp as you had expected. It sounds tired.

“What did I tell you about askin’ me questions?” He doesn’t say it like a question. His tone is dismissive. He sounds annoyed.

Your chest tightens. Your breaths are shallow.

Each exhale aches with want - wanting resolution, wanting action, wanting answers, wanting something to crack.

He didn’t say anything to you since announcing that you would settle down soon. True to his word, he actually stopped not long after.

But he basically ignored you. He didn’t even order you to go to sleep.

He just shrugged off his pack and sat by the base of a large tree - one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. You watched him as he pulled out his dagger and began to clean his nails with the casualness of someone who doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.

And again, you hated him for it.

In fact, something starts to burn inside of you. A fire, burning low and smoldering, its smoke wafting into every corner of your mind and clouding your senses.

Each thought is a spark, feeding the flame.

It burns like your home has. Like your parents have. Like your old life has.

And the only remains left will be the ash, piling high, darkening everything, dirtying your title.

Your fingers tighten on your legs, having wrapped them around you in your seated position to try and make yourself warmer.

Nails dig into your gown, hurting your skin through the fabric.

“I deserve to know.”

That makes him pause. He looks up then. His blue eyes look dark in the dead of night. He fixes you with the kind of stare that makes you want to take a step back, though you don’t move. “Do you?” he asks with a low voice. Dangerous. “Do you deserve to know? You think this is a negotiation, princess?”

The title sounds like acrid on his tongue.

Like it burned in his throat on its way up and he needed to spit it out.

You crack.

“Yes!” you spit it out the same way he did your title. “I do deserve to know. Because in case you have not noticed, I’ve lost everything. My home is gone, my parents are gone, and I am here, in the middle of a forest, with you! I know you did not ask for this but neither did I. People have been making decisions for me my whole life. They don’t ask me what I think, what I need, or what I want. And believe me, this-”your hands point at your surroundings and him “-is not what I want. So, yes, I think I deserve to know where you are taking me.”

Each sentence feels heavy. It’s like carrying a stone all the way up a hill to the edge of a cliff, only to see it tumble soundlessly into a void.

Silence follows.

Blood pounds in your ears. It pounds like a ticking clock. The clock that might count the remaining seconds of your life.

Bucky stares at you with an unreadable expression.

His dagger is still in his hand. The blade catches the light of the moon for a second and you almost flinch as he lowers it.

The smirk you have seen before - the one that twists at the corners of his mouth in a taunt - is absent now. His expression makes you uneasy.

“You’re right,” he finally says, his voice quieter than usual but no less hard. “You didn’t ask for this.”

His words are a concession, but his tone doesn’t make them feel like one. There is no apology in his tone, no softening in his gaze. He tucks the dagger back into his belt and leans closer. Even with the distance and your sitting positions, he towers over you. His shadow falls long against the forest floor.

“But here’s the thing,” he continues, voice colder than the night air. “Nobody will ever care for what you ask for. Nobody will ever care if you deserve better, or fairer, or easier. Life takes what it takes, and it leaves you with what’s left. Right now, that’s me.”

The space between you seems to shrink with every word he basically throws at you. Or maybe that’s just the force of them, pressing against your ribs, your shoulders, your head, your legs. Until you feel trapped.

“You want to know where I’m taking you? Fine. I’m taking you somewhere safe. That’s it. That’s all you need to know. Because if you start askin’ for more, you’re going to be disappointed.”

You push against the walls of your own limit, only to feel them close tighter. The space shrinks. Tighter. Tighter. Until you can no longer remember the purpose of breathing.

He takes his time to watch you. His gaze is like the steel of his blade - sharpened to perfection.

His eyes burn through you but without warmth.

Frost creeps across your skin, freezing you in place, though you refrain from tightening your arms around yourself.

Your pulse is in chaos, each beat shaking your composure, thudding loud, and reverberating in your ears.

You feel exposed. In your entirety. He might as well see through your skin, through your bones that seem to shrink under his stare, right to the tender places inside you, that you’ve worked so hard to protect.

“You think you’ve got it bad, huh?” Bucky sneers. “You lost your palace, your shiny crown, the cushy life of being waited on hand and foot? Poor little princess. Maybe that’ll teach you how to be thankful for simply being alive.”

Your hands tighten around your legs.

“So you think you can just shove me through the mud without a single explanation, without even the slightest bit of humanity-”

“Humanity?” His laugh is short, cruel, and humorless. “You think humanity is what’s gonna keep you breathin’ out here? You think I’ve got the time or the patience to coddle a girl who’s never had to survive a day in her life? Save the sob story, princess. It doesn’t change a bloody thing.”

He stands up then. His tall frame looks menacing in the way he stands above you. His gaze is so blank. So uncaring.

“You see, your Highness - your palace is ash, your parents are dead, your title means nothin’, and the only reason you’re here right now, instead of lying face down in a ditch with a blade in your back, is because of me.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you ground out, voice shaking but resolute. You rise to your feet yourself but still have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. “Do you believe being born in a palace means living a perfect life? Do you believe you are the only one who suffers? That I’ve never felt trapped, or powerless, or suffocated because of the decisions all the others are making for me my whole life? I did not choose this life. I did not choose to have every moment of it dictated by someone else. To be looked at like I’m nothing more than a symbol. A prize. A pawn.”

It’s like speaking into a canyon. Your words echo back to you, hollow and distorted. Meaningless. Because they never reach anything. They only repeat themselves to you.

“You think your crown made you a pawn?” Bucky scoffs. “Your crown was the only thing keeping you alive-”

“I thought that was you-”

“-Out here, you’re nothing,” he continues firmly as if you never even talked, but his eyes flash. “Just another girl who doesn’t know how to survive. And if you keep wastin’ time whining about what you’ve lost, you’re gonna lose a hell of a lot more.”

“I’ve already lost everything!” you cry, your voice breaking, your hands trembling. The words just barrel out of your throat, rushing and violent, without pause for precision. “All that’s left for me is a man who treats me like I’m worth less than the dirt under his boots. I did not ask for you. I did not ask for any of this. So stop acting like I am the one who is supposed to be thankful. You are here because you were ordered to be. Don’t act like you’re my hero.”

He steps closer to you. His shadow falls darker than the night around you, covering you in its entirety. His eyes blaze with an intensity that borders on feral. He doesn’t take them off you for a second.

The tension he radiates crackles against your skin. Your instincts scream at you to move away from him, to cower and hide, to shield yourself, to run into the woods, and never look back. But you are rooted into place.

“Oh, but you should be grateful.” His voice burns itself into the air. “You think bandits in these woods are gonna stop and bow because you’re wearing a filthy gown and calling yourself royalty? You think anyone out here gives a damn about who you are or what you’ve lost? Or whatever dreams you have about what you deserve? No one’s coming to save you, your Highness. They’re all too busy tearin’ apart what’s left of your kingdom. All that matters now is keepin’ that pretty head atop your shoulders. And the only person able to keep it that way is me. So, yeah, you’re damn right you owe me. Every. Single. Breath.”

Your lips part but no words come out.

You don’t know if the ground gives way beneath you. But it feels like it might have. It crumbles and tumbles and falls into itself. You reach and you reach and you reach and there is nothing but air to meet you. But even as you fall, you will still be grasping, will still be fighting, until the very end.

Beneath the fury in his words, there is something else - a bitterness, a weariness that feels older than you can fathom.

It carries a weight. A gravity that demands not just your attention, but your surrender.

“You think you can survive without me? You think you’d last a day?”

Your skin flushes with color, cheeks burning crimson at the fire of fury that scorches your throat, making it feel raw and blistering. Making your next words sound rough as they come out.

“Maybe I wouldn’t. But at least I would die knowing I wasn’t at the mercy of a man who looks at me like I am already dead.”

Something shifts in his eyes for a second. His lips press into a line so thin, it might be a boundary you seemingly are about to cross. His eyes turn cold again. So cold. And yet, they feel alive. Piercing. Penetrating you with his unrelenting focus.

“I didn’t grow up in a palace,” he spits out. “And you know what that taught me? That the world doesn’t care about your sob stories. It doesn’t care if you’re a princess or a pauper. The only thing that matters is who’s still standin’ at the end of the day. And the only reason you are is because I’ve decided to keep you that way.”

You grit your teeth. Your body is holding a scream too big to let out.

“Oh so now I am supposed to grovel at your feet, is that it? Thank you, great and noble Barnes, for dragging me through hell without caring a damn bit if I even live or die. Should I kiss your boots while I’m at it?”

“Watch your tone,” he warns, his voice low and taut. “You’ve got no idea what it takes to survive out here, and you’ve got no idea how close you’ve come to being just another body on the road.”

“Then maybe you should have just left me,” you try to yell, but it sounds fractured, snapping and curling back on itself. “Maybe you should have left me to burn just like my parents did. Why didn’t you leave me behind? Why did you agree to this and drag me out here like some burden you can barely stand to deal with?”

His eyes flash with something dangerous, but you don’t stop.

“What did my mother-”

“Don’t,” he seethes lowly.

“You swore to her-”

“Shut up,” he shouts, voice rising for the first time. “That has nothing to do with you.”

“Nothing to do with me? She was my mother!”

His chest is heaving with heavy breaths, his hands are gripping and releasing nothing, just the air that holds all the tension - akin to a hunter assessing its talons before plunging them into its victim.

You try not to shrink but your space feels diminished.

His shoulders are stone, drawn up and braced. He seems to thrum with energy. His eyes draw into a narrow, tightening at the corners.

“All you need to know,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, almost growling tone, “is that I’ll take you somewhere safe and make sure your head stays in place. So unless you want to lose it, you’ll keep your mouth shut about things you don’t understand.”

You stare at him. The heat of all that’s been said burns in the air between you but you still feel colder than ever. A shiver creeps up your spine, muscles releasing with a shudder.

The breaths that fall from your lips are too shallow, as if the atmosphere is being pulled away, claimed by his intensity.

A thousand retorts claw at your throat, but none of them make it out.

You feel it draining out of you. The energy. The fire that burned hot, but now leaks away. Leaving your limbs heavy and unresponsive.

Your chest feels hollow.

Your heartbeat slows, not peacefully, but with a kind of aching fatigue.

Your hands fall open, fingers slackening.

Your jaw loosens, leaving your mouth slightly open. Making room for the words you were ready to speak to flee, leaving only silence for you to stand in.

But even standing in front of him feels precarious. The earth beneath your feet might tilt at any moment and your body would lack the will to catch itself. And you know Bucky wouldn’t dare to even lift a single finger for you.

It is a surrender not of choice but of inevitability.

Because he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t try to. He doesn’t care to.

“Now go to sleep,” he says so flatly as if nothing even happened. “We move tomorrow at dawn.”

“Silence just feeds the rage, a calm that screams with hurt, and there I was, trapped in the quiet, my mind a chaotic storm of pain. Every word I swallowed felt like a match, lighting up the ashes of my frustration, until the heat inside me became too much to hold back.”

- Jaelyn Young

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv

[thehelltingvilleclub]

Matt Montgomery - Closet Geek & Closet Freak

An Adult in Eltingville that actually acts like an adult???? WHAT???

Matthieu "Matt" / "Mattie" Thomas Montgomery [02/16/1978] Not Affiliated with TEC - Known Tournament winner amongst Jerry's MTG players. Cosplayer and College student in Manhattan. AOL / Online Users: [MTM_cosplay] | [GoblinHoarder] Theme Songs: Talk talk - Charli xcx | Move Along - All American Rejects | Somebody Told Me - The Killers

Favorite Shit: Trading Cards, Puzzles, Sports cards, Cosplays, X-Men, Monsters, Kaiju, Robots/Mecha, Dr. Who, Rubicks Cubes, Hard Cover books, YAPPERS, Movie Marathons, Beast, Wolverine, MTG, D&D, Cosplay Contests

I don't know how tf to describe this man other than tired and done with everybody's shit and he hasn't been awake more than an hour. He's three years into his bachelor's degree, essentially has 3 full time jobs between cosplay, tournaments, and all of his school work PLUS TUTORING, homie barely has enough time to breathe let alone deal with the TEC. However, that doesn't mean he won't find a way to weasel himself in-- even if its.... by unconventional or rather... *unexpected* means.

Guys I have like no art of him SORRY

Mattie generally only gets introduced very sparingly during 1999-2005, essentially in passing by Jerry or Josh, but he's still present and alive during this time, obviously. Him being friends with Jerry is what gets him to recognize Josh later.

Matt is studying for a Bachelors in English Comp, specializing in Journalism.

Speaking of, Josh and Matt work together at the editors office for the Comic Book News site in the epilogue. It's how they find each other again after Matt graduates and moves back home.

Matt is from northern Vermont, around the Canadian border, and has a bit of a Canadian accent because of it.

Everyone picks on him about it except for May and Jerry, (yes, even Josh, but it eventually becomes endearing to Matt.)

MATT. LIKES. YAPPERS. He doesn't talk much, he doesn't have much to talk about. Books and papers and trying to explain gymnastics routines isn't exactly the most interesting thing in the world, y'know.

He also doesn't have the time to really subject himself to the extreme absorption that Josh and Bill can get with their comics and shows, so.. Tell him about them!

He didn't get access to a lot of the more nerdy, pop culture side of things because of his parents. They had a significantly stronger iron grip on what he and his sister were exposed to, so he never really...

well, he didn't get to express his love for the more geek-y side of life until he moved to NY for college.

He became a professional cosplayer via his roommate forcing him to post, invited to events and photoshoots for his live floor routines he'll do in character, though he almost always wears a full-face mask or enough make up that you can barely tell who he is.

he can't have his sister finding out he dresses up as a blue demon freak in his spare time, yknow? (god she'd bully the shit out of him if she did--)

He's been in gymnastics since he was in middle school, and he's actually quite good; he's on a scholarship at his university, for pete's sake.

unfortunately a bad fall broke his clavicle and made it so he can't do vault anymore, but he enjoys his time doing floor routines and fucking around on the pommel horse from time to time.

Matt also.. is weirdly envious of TEC's... closeness? The fact they barely get along and yet they're all still together, they all still try and see each other or keep in touch..

He's never had that, and it makes him horrifically jealous, but he keeps it to himself-- smile and wave, swallow it down like normal, hm?

please subject him to a movie marathon. Infodump on him everything about whatever you're fixated on. He likes listening to people's voices, so please, just do it. It doesn't bother him at all.

This man has a TEMPER. His mother and his sister have this too, and it is BAD. Matt, however, learned ways to keep his temper at bay and calm down. to an extent. Bill, however, always manages to get his blood to boil by just the mention of him, so maybe... don't

Also, Matt and Pete absolutely bicker. A lot. Matt is constantly showing off that even though he's only an inch taller, he's able to do soOOSOooo much more! and Pete is convinced that Matt isn't actually gay and is trying to steal May away (guys Pete is such a fucking jealous goober I hate him)

Meanwhile literally the only person Matt wants is Josh. Pete should open his eyes maybe but like it's fine.

HOLY SHIT GYUSY

Okay UHM Hi Matt probably won't be talked about much but if you see me Vermont Honey posting it's because I need my comfort ship back okay THanks Also the NSFW cut is coming guys It's gonna have em all And I'll draw Jane and Matt's little sister soon, as they go to school together (Jane absolutely hates her guts OOPS unfortunately she's a bitchy cheerleader so you bet Jane has a voodoo doll of her somewhere in her room).

[fangbanger3000]

*✧･ 2024 blorbo awards *✧･

my love and light @forget-me-maybe tagged me in this and it's so fun and who doesn't want to talk about the blorbos? + my own categories, just for fun.

i'd like to invite @lizziemajestic and @faetouchedfool and @kimberbohwrites to the ball! if you want to, of course. i could sit in a circle with all of you and scream about these characters all day.

blorbo of the year (+ villain of the year)

solas, dragon age: inquisition/veilguard. i know, i know. we're all shocked. my moots and irls all pray for the day i get over him so i can talk about literally anything else, send them art of anyone else, and act deranged about anyone else. since i picked up dragon age for the first time this summer, he has been on my mind to the point of psychotic obsession. love u pookie also he was right sorry world

bastard of the year

aradin beno jr., baldur's gate 3. oh brother this guy STINKS. he is perhaps my favourite wet, angry dog and he has been my first ever 5-minutes-of-screentime-and-never-left-my-mind. there is so much potential hiding behind those sad brown eyes in that angry pretty face. i especially enjoy him when he's being fucked by older men who don't give a shit about him (or do they?), kudos to @graysparrowao3.

aradin also brought me the beno babes, the sweetest group of equally feral people i have ever met and with whom @lizziemajestic and i have created a wonderful online space with. and of course he has brought me lizzie, who truly is the brightest star in my sky.

tear jerk(er) of the year

astarion ancunín, baldur's gate 3. yeah, yeah. fork found in kitchen. if i think about him too much or look at him for too long i start gagging on nothing and tearing up. solas may have won the battle this year, but astarion has won the war forever. he was the first fictional character i ever experienced this level of obsession with, and he singlehandedly caused me to pursue fandom spaces and got me back into writing fan fiction. my one true love i fear.

kiss of the year

solas' fade kiss, dragon age: inquisition. i actually screamed and almost threw up when i saw this. i think about it several times a day every single day. the head turn, the immediate open mouth, the shaking of the head like he just cannot help himself, the fact that they didn't bother to animate his hands correctly and yet still made sure to animate him making her grind on his thigh. i will never be over this or normal about it.

sex scene of the year

lucanis dellamorte, dragon age: veilguard. RAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH lucanis was my first da:v romance and i've made several attempts at romancing the others, but i keep coming back. this scene was so beautiful and so sexy and full of so many delightful implications oh my GODDDDDDDAAAAAAMMMMMNNNNNNNN RAAAAAAAAAAH I'LL NEVER BE OKAY AGAIN

oc(s) of the year

inquisitor lavellan, dragon age: inquisition/veilguard. and theus. my moots know better than to ask me about theus bc i genuinely cannot stop once i start, so i won't. just know that he is my son and i love him. my inky will probably one of my favourite player characters of all time and i draw/think/write about her every fucking day bro.

[starsonablackboard]

again about anger management

remember how i said that the next post will be "tomorrow"? yeah each time i mention any deadline you can double (or better quadrouple) that. so

continuing with local banished god – ofelia

with this one i'll go into the design process first because it has more behind it by nature of goat's "narinder" not having any official design or anything

about more obvious things: narinder is a black cat with red eyes. black cats are associated with devil (sometimes), narinder is the devil of the narrative (first achievement being deal with the devil) and his vessel is the lamb – the holy sacrificial animal. the goat is associated with satan so their "narinder" should be associated with god, right? lion is one of the animals associated with god, narinder is black, so ofelia is a white lioness with purple eyes (bc the purple crown)

about symbolic stuff aka extra arms: narinder's third eye is a symbol of enlightenment (the ritual of enlightenment is literally red with a single eye as its icon) and also death as transgression to the other side does give enlightenment. i made the "twisted" version of enlightenment to be empowerment, and i think two extra arms symbolise empowerment (capability skill etc) quite nicely

oh and just for me i made her bigger and softer cause my narinder is a scrawny annoyed man. he has stripes on his face so ofelia has ??sircles?? and narinder has tussles so ofelia gets lil beads. also her scarf thing kinda sorta mimics the folds of narinder's hood

ofelia is the bishop of balance. i didn't want to make her a bishop of life because it's too simple and i like to be different and obnoxious, so my thought process went: death -> change -> TwiStiNG -> stasis -> stasis but pretty -> balance. also balance can give empowerment since it's a stable safe foundation

narinder's name means "king of all men" (or along the lines of) and death is kind of like that cause we all will die in the end. ofelia (ophelia) is a greek name meaning "help" and balance is, indeed, helpful. also it hints at her "others before self" personality. i chose greek because, like sanskrit where the name narinder is from, it's one of the oldest languages

and now ~the story section~ (pre belial's first death)

i TRICKED YOU there was more to that chart (please ignore the different spelling it's nothing im just inconsistent)

before her confinement ofelia was the most influential of her siblings. lands of old faith were in balance (stasis) since the dawn of time (aka since the only five siblings were left). the balance in question meaning circle of rebirth and reincarnation, never changing pattern of climate, etc. this was the direct result of ofelia forcing her and her crown's influence onto the lands, it wasn't natural state for the realms, so after thousands of years ofelia was beginning to wain and wilt. it wasn't noticeable at first, and for the longest time she hid any signs both from her siblings (to not make them worry) and her cultists (to not lose their faith which kept her afloat)

but at some point she finally came to terms with the truth she couldn't ignore any longer – this is unnatural, this is bad and will have devastating consequences in the long run. she shared her worried with her siblings, and they panicked – balance inflicted by ofelia was beneficial and safe, and losing it would be a very hard and demanding change. in the result her siblings blinded her (symbolic retribution for her finally "seeing the matter clearly") and chained her in the beyond which is timeless and neverchanging

her crown is still in this world, tho, and it's still keeping the balance intact – since ofelia isn't dead the crown haven't lost it's power. it is kept in the depths of ofelia's main temple, guarded by four barriers, each one kept intact by one bishop (like with nari's chains)

that's all for today, thanks for coming to my yapping session

[thomaslittlegirl]

Hi love!

you could write something about Tommy where they are a bit possessive of the reader but a non-toxic sweet possessive type that is all the time saying 'my wife' every time he says her name he makes sure to say that she is his wife🥹 If you could put a little bit of jealousy where maybe someone sees her too much and he makes sure to move his hand down a little further than her back so they know she's definitely his wife🙂‍↕️

And the reader is SO proud to be his wife! She even leaves him a kiss on the tip of his nose and he turns red and tight because well it's Tommy '😤'

Sorry I have cramps these days and I just want something sweet🥺🥺♥️♥️Please take it only if you are comfortable, I send you love!🫂

ps. I love your work, you are amazing at this!🫶🏻

i hope your cramps go away! also hope you like this. sending you love back 🫶🏻🩷

his wife. thomas shelby

warnings; jealous thomas, michael wants u lol

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

everyone who knew you, knew that you were thomas's wife, because that's how he introduced you: "y/n, my wife."

on your finger lays a beautiful golden ring, a promise that you would soon become his property forever… it's not like you weren't already; you belong to shelby from the moment he laid his eyes on you and worked hard to conquer you. the ring was simply a promise to make it official.

you two were engaged, but he already presented you to everyone as his beautiful wife.

sometimes you even thought you might forget your own name since everyone called you "shelby's girl."

the gypsy was proud that everyone knew their place well. no man who wanted to keep his eyes spent more than five seconds looking at you, not if they truly valued their lives.

there were many bad men outside, many dangerous people who would not hesitate to hurt you to get to him... that's why he was always watching you, keeping you close where his eyes could see you.

everyone knew their places, except for someone: his damn cousin.

michael was centimeters from your body, making some jokes that he couldn't hear due to the distance in which he was from the two of you, but jokes that made you laugh out loud.

his hand clenched tightly around his glass of whiskey, watching the exchange of laughter between the two of you.

no one at the party had noticed his anger, except arthur. his brother looked at him seriously, giving him a nod, showing him that he also understood what was happening.

he thought it was enough.

thomas slammed the glass hard on the table and seriously addressed you, the music ringing in his ears with annoyance.

as soon as he reached you, his hand went to your hip. "doll." he said, squeezing the skin that your dress hid. "michael." he greeted his cousin too.

"cousin." gray greeted, making a grimace with his mouth that imitated a smile.

"is something wrong, love?" your sweet and naive voice reaches his ears and made his serious gaze finally detach from his relative and address you.

"no. just wanted to be close to my wife." he responded, smiling at you for a second before turning completely serious again and looking back at michael.

the youngest noticed how thomas's hand on your hip went down to your ass and stayed there, holding his palm firmly against you.

"you should go, michael." shelby spoke again. "gina was looking for you." his eyes and hard expression told gray everything he needed to understand, and the boy looked into his eyes for a moment before nodding.

"see you, mrs shelby." he murmured in a tone of voice that you couldn't understand but thomas did. he fucking did understand.

when you were both finally alone, you turned to look at thomas with a smile, totally naive and oblivious to everything that was happening.

his blue eyes looked at you fondly, with desire. you couldn't help but leave a small kiss on his nose, watching him smirk.

"my wife." your fiancé uttered, giving you a squeeze. "i can't wait for everyone to leave so i can have my doll all to myself."

[le-trash-prince]

I know this website has been shared in BL fandom before, but I just want to pull some information from fujoshi.info that I think can be really enlightening in regards to how TERF rhetoric is used against BL fans, namely the idea that BL fans are straight women or that BL is made for the consumption of straight women.

I grew up having things like this said to my face as a young queer by people who knew I read BL, and it made it that much harder to accept both my gender and my sexuality, which, ironically, BL helped me to process. So I have little patience for these kinds of statements regarding BL. They are invalidating of many people's queer experiences.

Here is my stance: BL is made for BL fans. It's not made "for the hets" or "for people who aren't queer." It's made for BL fans. That includes us queers. We are and have always been part of the audience that BL is made for.

BL authors and fans come in all different shapes and sizes. Trans men and cisgender men both read and produce BL media. Based on multiple surveys of queer BL fans the majority of fans, male or female, fall on the bisexual spectrum. (source)

There is more, in the link above, about BL demographics, under the "Misconception 2" tab, that I think is well worth the read.

Second of all, I think the idea that "some BL is made for queers and some BL isn't" is just a repackaged TERF talking point that BL is made for straight women. Let me be clear: I am not implying that people who say things like this are TERFs. But you are parroting TERF talking points and propogating their ideology by implying that the people for whom these shows are made must not be queer.

Under gender critical ideology, trans men in fandom are treated as ‘hetero sexual female fujoshi’ who consume too much ‘sexual gay male content’ only to later ‘come out as “gay trans men”’ (Anti-fujoshi 2023). Gender criticals refer to trans men (and by extension fujoshi) as ‘homophobic’ due to their belief that trans men are heterosexual women forcing their way into authentic (i.e. cisgender) gay male spaces (Anti-fujoshi 2023). (link)

Unfortunately, this concept has long since been picked up by people in the queer community who think they're fighting homophobia... and TERFs love it.

I hate fujoshi but we’re even more astounded how [social justice warriors] [took] our statements as some pro-LGBT agenda […] [and] swallowed our thinly veiled gender critical statements […]. We’re ‘transphobic’. (link)

Here are examples from fujoshi.info of TERF talking points regarding BL fans being cishet women. These are quotes from actual TERFs, and I am placing them under a cut because they can be triggering, even though this is only just a sampling. But statements like these are the roots of the idea that BL is made for straight women, and I want people to understand the implications of what they are saying.

To keep my conclusion above the cut, I just want to say that it is dangerous to play into this agenda by making claims about who BL is made for. KinnPorsche was made for me. Pit Babe was made for me. Kidnap was made for me. Queer people have always been part of the BL audience, whether the series reflects what any given person considers to be "an authentic queer experience" or not.

"Yaoi is made only for women by women and seeks to commodify MLM identities and love while oppressing them and denying them their rights. “Fujoshis” are not friends of queer liberation."

"the idea that we should just let cishet women have a fetish for gay men at the off chance they might be gay or trans is fucking insanity"

"No fujoshi is a proper LGBT advocate. They are all straight women pretending to be bi."

"Fujoshis just started calling themselves non binary and gay trans men and most of you just fell for it huh?

"[fujoshis] refers to specifically cishet women who only consume and create m/m content because they view it as something sexual because it is taboo and don't care about actual gay men, along with blatantly hating gay women [...] We cannot dilute what the term fujoshi means and the severe homophobia that mindset is rooted in."

[chaldeamage-neo]

I know the topic is beating a dead horse but every day I get more and more tired of the clear favoritism to Gudao in official works

[mabaris]

no youre completely right - im a gay (trans)man and i legit wanna see so much more about the women bc There Is So Little. I wanna make a lesbian oc who gets bent in half by taash. im very normal.

i’m just tired man!!!! it feels so obvious how disproportionate it is when you’ve got. a cast of characters that we know almost equally little about. and a few of them explode in popularity and it’s like spongebob sticking his hand out the curtain. literally all a character needs to do numbers is to be a light-skinned man

[constantvariations]

Watching RWBY Chibi for the first time for this essay and I'm in absolute agony. Do people actually find this funny?