#pointedness

[sysig]

Smol made me this absolutely wonderful Pokefusion for my birthday this year, look at how beautiful:

We named it together - it’s a Sableep ♥

[chronomally]

It's been interesting to read how Clytemnestra's love for Helen slowly becomes warped as her grief and rage start to take over during the 10 years of the Trojan War and now, as Cassandra is about to be taken to Mycenae, Helen tries to reassure her that Clytemnestra is kind, but both Cassandra and the audience know that the person Helen knew no longer exists

[livingwellnessblog]

The ego, and divine consciousness as told by the Ramayana. (How to work with the ego in manifesting and spirituality)

The ego, and divine consciousness as told by the Ramayana. (How to work with the ego in manifesting and spirituality) A thread ⬇️

HANUMAN CHALISA & the ego “People don’t know,  every line of the Hanuman Chalisa is a mahamantra. “ – Sri Neem Karoli Baba In the Ramayana, the exiled Lord Rama and his wife, Sita, take refuge in the forest. They are living happily as hermits when the demon king of Lanka, Ravana, discovers them and abducts Sita, beginning a great war. As with all great parables, the surface level of the story…

[nouearth]

let me in.

peter parker x male reader.

summary: peter struggles to balance between life and work, and it's ruining his relationship with you.

wc: 6.6k. genre: smut. warnings: andrew!peter, college au, established relationship, brief fighting, brief injury and blood mention (nosebleed), misunderstandings, peter reveals his identity, dry-humping, over the pants (or suit) handjob, body worshipping, lots of sweat, fingering, frotting, riding, spandex fetish, reader has a thing for peter in his spider-man suit!

You were starting to feel antsy. You could feel it—the nerves kicking in again. Anticipation—a suspension of doubt—made your hands clammy at first, but it was the time that made your hands clutch nothing but air. You rubbed the sweat off your hands onto your pants, your knees not so comforting with their pointedness.

Acceptance—when it was evident that Peter was late, again.

Birthdays have never been a big deal in your family. Sure, it was great that you had the privilege to live another year. To witness yourself grow older, to stand a few inches taller, to live a little more knowledgeable than yesterday. But growing up with parents who had to constantly work, well-late into the depths of night, it had never been more than a birthday wish that had greeted you in the mornings, and bid you slumber in the evenings. Since then, you knew not to expect anything.

If only Peter hadn’t made such a big deal out of it this year.

“Excuse me?” The familiar timbre of a voice speared your thoughts; deep and tunneling as you were transfixed on the glasses of water before you. Yours had been refilled, though a little sparse compared to Peter’s full cup.

Your eyes widened with feigned curiosity, a small smile plastered alongside to hopefully negate any annoyance from the waiter—because you expected what he was about to follow up with.

“Hey… uh,” he shifted on his feet awkwardly, eye bags weighing heavier than the last time he had checked up on you. You looked around, surprised by the amount of patrons who had filled the space around you while you were daydreaming. Laughter and smiles completely lit up the room. The dim lights were practically stationed in the restaurant for decoration, and seemingly to spotlight your ‘dinner for one’ status. “I’m sorry, but… we have no more tables to fill, and if you aren’t ordering soon, then we’ll have to give your table up for the next party...”

It was obvious that you weren’t, you hadn’t even torn into the buttery bread rolls that were piping hot forty-five minutes ago. Now, the fat had solidified into spotty, yellow clumps, though you doubt that would’ve been enough to detract from the quality of the rolls.

“Oh, I—“ You pulled out your phone to check your messages again. Nothing. Swiped down to refresh your conversation with Peter. The loading icon felt like it took forever, you half-expected that your phone was updating the thread with Peter’s messages that somehow got lost in the void of the restaurant’s spotty signal. 

And nothing.

“I—yeah… uh. I-I’ll head out.” It was embarrassing. Even if the waiter had given you a sympathetic smile, you hated knowing that you wasted his time. You hated that you selfishly occupied a seat when someone else would’ve been done with dinner by the time you exited. 

“Thanks—” 

You hated that you had your hopes up for things to be different.

Again.

The night was dreary. Not even the wind had greeted you like the others when you stepped out. Soft and fluttering against your skin, but scolding enough to make you put your coat back on. Luckily, your apartment wasn’t too far from the restaurant, a fifteen minute walk at most if you speed-walked. Shoving your hands in your coat pockets, you then ambled along the sidewalks, wallowing in your feelings with a playlist that belted in your ears once you plugged your earbuds in. 

You didn’t have the energy left to hurry home.

Once you crossed the last intersection, you felt a little bit more at ease. Seeing the familiar apartment complex at the end of the block picked your pace up a step more. You paused your music once you neared the entrance, just a turn away before you could finally bury yourself in your bed. 

You reached into your pocket to grab your wallet. The weight in your palms instantly reminding you to deposit the cash tips sometime soon before the stretch of the leather had become unbearable to fit in your pocket. 

Your walk slowed as your attention was fixated on your wallet, fumbling it open clumsily to retrieve your keycard. In midst, you caught a glimpse of a photo print of you and Peter, standing shoulder to shoulder with the biggest grins as Peter had a peace sign above your head, doubling as bunny ears. Honeymoon phase, they’d call it. Where you were beginning to discover more about Peter, and Peter was beginning to discover more about you. Likes. Dislikes. Hobbies. Memories. It felt like yesterday when you two were spending every second of your day with each other. 

Now, it would be a miracle if Peter returned a call.

With the keycard in your hand, you turned the corner, and towards the entrance, the smiles from the photo print reflecting onto yours as you could vividly hear Peter’s pleas to retake them again. The flash of the cameras always made him blink.

If only you had been focusing on where you were going instead of the still image of the first memory between you and Peter, maybe you could have avoided the collision altogether when you approached the door. You suddenly found yourself on your back, facing the night sky as clusters of stars twinkled in laughter. There was a slight throbbing to your forehead, a mark you’d reckon would appear as purple within the next 12 hours despite the painless… pain.

“Oh god— I’m so, so, so, sorry! Let me—“ If the beating your face took to the door hadn’t snapped you back to reality already, the familiar face before you certainly pulled you out of your thoughts like whiplash once he helped you back onto your feet. Your vision instantly cleared of haze, as if his simple presence was your remedy.

“(M/N)?” Peter interrupted himself, his eyes widening. You could see the wheels turning in his head when the dim light spotlighted your features: eyes, nose, lips; flesh and bone that he was well-acquainted with.

“Peter—“ You took a moment to scan him. It was like all the other times he had been late. His fringe; stuck to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and water, the latter being a last resort to clean himself up. His knuckles; bruised and torn with minuscule cuts barely able to conceal the truth behind his scars. His necktie; clumsily done with the knots coming loose. Though, whether the silk unfurled by Peter’s own sloppiness, or by the increasing frailty of his fingers that had become susceptible by even the most delicate material of neckties; it was futile to mention it to him. You knew he’d shut you down with another excuse.

“W-what are you doing here? Are you okay? I-I’m so sorry—I was on my way to you and��Oh god, you’re bleeding!“ Breathless, panting, not only because he was panicking from running late. 

But because of adrenaline. You could see it in his eyes. The alertness. The high.

“What—“ You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, only to see a smear of blood blotted across your skin. “Shit.” 

Another thick drop splattered in greeting.

“Peter, it’s a nosebleed. You’re acting like I had my arm chopped off or something.” You’ve been applying pressure to your nasal bridge, pinching it tightly to barricade the stream of blood. All while you had your head tilted over Peter’s sink, in case of the blood leaking past your hold. “And how long does it take to find a cotton ball?”

“I’m trying—“ His one-sided game of hide and seek with the bag of cotton balls was leaning in favor of the latter. Medicine cabinet: empty. Bedside drawer: foreign coins and bills. You were watching him from the corner of your eye, a small limp to his step when the lightbulb seemingly lit up overhead and had him dashing towards the kitchen. 

“Found it!”

Peter’s touch was delicate. Tender, like the forming bruise on your forehead. He was adamant on taking care of you, even if frankly—you would’ve done it much faster had it been a solo endeavor. Cotton balls were plugged up into your nose, and a warm face towel was laid across your forehead. If an intruder had the audacity to rob Peter’s apartment, you’d imagine you would find yourself lucking out. Peter joked that you looked like patient zero.

“All done. See? Nothing to cry about.” He was joking again, the smug smile across his face a clear indication of it—and the laugh that he couldn’t help but contain.

“Ha. Ha. Thanks, Dr. Parker. Now, how much do I owe you? I’m paying outta pocket.” For a brief moment, you forgot that you were upset earlier. All because of how nice it was to actually see him again. He pressed a kiss to your lips, a comforting gesture if his constant apologies weren’t enough. Stay focus. 

“So, about dinner…”

“Oh,” Disappointment softened Peter’s smile. You could see it tightening, even as he was organizing his room. Though, it was really a matter of tossing his clothes on the floor back into the laundry basket. “Listen, my… bike got stolen and—“

“Peter…” You sighed, pinching your nose bridge because you feared another avalanche of a nosebleed incoming. That, and because it helped you maintained your composure. “You said that the last time. Three times, actually.”

“Third time’s… the charm?” He was joking. Again. But even he wasn’t laughing at it because he’d been cornered. Called out. Embarrassed that he thought that would even work on you. Embarrassed that he thought he could get away with it. 

Again.

“Peter.” You called out, straightening your posture against the headboard of the bed when he sat at the end of the mattress. Shit, it’s happening.

“I… I don’t know how to…” The veins in his hands, they lined perfectly to the cuts, scrapes, and bruises on his knuckles. Clear as day now that he wasn’t hidden under a dim light. “I just…”

He had his hands around his face, rubbing his temples, his cheeks, his nose, anything that could alleviate the accelerating drill of his heartbeat. 

You were hopeful to get an answer out of him. A proper explanation. But it pained you, knowing that in a few seconds—what he would tell you would only confirm your yearning suspicions of his strange behavior.

He doesn’t love you anymore. He’s cheating. You’ve become a nuisance, an absolute bore in his life. Actually, you’re a bad influence on him. You’re holding him back. He needs to let go of you to accomplish better things. He never loved you.

It’s happening. It’s fucking happening. All he has to do is say those words. The dreaded five words you’ve heard once from him in a nightmare.

I want to break up.

“If you want to break up, just say it.” 

It sounded softer in your head, but the tears that had welled in your eyes finally bursted into droplets. They ran down your cheeks, and your voice broke during its pursuit. 

Something commanded you to let those words slip out. 

Maybe it was the ghost that you and him had been theorizing about since the night you’ve helped him move into the apartment floor above you. Carrie; you nicknamed her, and Peter would scold you for doing so because he had the suspicions that giving her a backstory would ultimately reassess his home as a possessing ground. To this day, he swore he saw a shadow looming in the corner of his room on a perfectly stormy night.

Or maybe it was the months of frustration that you had accumulated, snowballed because of your own selfish reasons to continue being with Peter for as long as you could, even if you saw the signs, because you couldn’t bear to see yourself without him. Live, when you two had promised so many futures together.

“What? No, (M/N), that’s not—“ He jolted up at the mere mention of separating from you. There was a chill. The room suddenly felt colder, and then warmer—scorching hot, when the glossiness of your gaze reflected into his. He began joining you by your side. “Hey, hey, I would never—“

He broke into a cold sweat. He’d never seen you like this. And to think that he was the root of this—of your pain—it was all overwhelming.

“Peter, there’s always something going on with you. Y-you don’t text me for days. You ignore my calls. You disappear without telling me. You’re always late. And… you’re always hurt? And you think that I’m dumb enough to not notice that you aren’t? How you’re limping? How you’re always bruised and—For god’s sake, Peter, I’m just as smart as you, we have the same GPA and—“ You took a breather, a gulp because you were rambling now. Your cheeks felt hot, from your sudden outburst and from embarrassment, because the latter half of your rant immediately negated the idea of some kind of affair.

“Okay, maybe you aren’t cheating, but—“ You felt him tug you into his arms, but you wouldn’t budge. Instead, you pushed away, edging to the other side of the bed to face him.

“I would never.” He sighed, his arms dropping as soon as you removed yourself from his embrace. 

“Then what is it? You’re leaving me in the dark here. I barely see you anymore, you know that?”

“I know.” He was biting his lips. Chewing, as if he was internally debating something. A decision that could either ruin you, ruin him, or both.

“Then?”

You waited. Watched his fingers fiddle with one another as he continued turning the screws in his head. Your heart would jump whenever he would open his mouth, anticipating whatever had caused so much turmoil in his life, but there was a last minute decision that kept him silent.

Crickets.

Nothing.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re doing. But you’re getting hurt and I’m just… worried.” Your gaze dropped to his hands again. Pale, veiny, and full of life yet they’ve looked like they’ve been worn out. Torn. “At least tell me it’s not gambling.”

“Well—in a way with my life, it kind of is like gambling—“ He thinly smiled, hoping it would at least make you crack a smile.

“Peter!” You scoffed, nudged his side with your elbow out of frustration, then surrendered when you brought your knees up to your chest, and buried your head in between your knees. “Not funny.”

“Okay, okay, just… you can’t tell anyone.” His voice softened.

“We all know that between you and I, you’re the one with the running mouth.” Your voice muffled in the space between your legs, hands tucked around your nape.

“I’m serious, (M/N)” Pleading now, he held your hand in hopes to get ahold of your attention again, squeezing so you’d look at him. You do.

“I won’t tell.” It was a promise. Peter didn’t need you to clarify because he could see it in your eyes, honest and sincere. Determined, as if you were willing to protect him.

“Okay… and also, don’t… freak out.” Peter was off the bed now, wandering in the middle of his room as he rolled his shoulders back, relaxing the muscles in his back like a wrestler preparing for his next fight. He gestured for you to follow him out to the stairway, out into the cold. 

“Why would I freak—“ There was something around his wrist. No, wrists. You thought they were watches, but there were two devices around him. They were strapped with a similar black leather to your wallet, to Peter’s, and a red button protruded in the middle of it. “Peter, what are you—“

You stopped a few feet before Peter, watching him closely, yet afar. Afraid, yet intrigued. Concerned, because he was on the ledge of the staircase now, perched like an animal. Yet there was a grin on his face. Not crazed like a madman considering he was acting like one, but foolish. Goofy, giddy like the times he’d hide stuff from you, and wait until you’d notice it was gone.

“Like I said, don’t freak out.” 

“Peter, what are you even—“

With that, he opened his arms like wings that spanned across his back and flipped into the air as if the wind would carry him across city to city. As if he was recruited as a sponsor to the heavenly gods with the incredible height he’d taken off in, pursuing the clouds, the wind, the stars, and the night simultaneously all in multiple slings.

Into. The. Air.

Into the fucking air.

You raced forward with a yelp, as if you would’ve made it in time to catch him. To catch his hand before he fell. To hold him one last time before he’d land on the ground and shatter every bone in his body.

If he had landed. 

No, you blinked once—twice—no, at least in the double digits because this was all a dream. It was all a dream, right? That you caught a glimpse of Peter somehow slingshotting himself from window to window, from rooftop to satellite, like it was a mundane day job one had to endure to put food on the table, to pay the bills.

Right?

You paced around the stairs, raced towards one floor to another, bending over the railings because—Peter disappeared. He was gone. If he had smashed into something, you would’ve heard him. You would’ve heard him in yelp in pain. You would’ve heard the metal railings shake. You would’ve heard him cry for help. 

Instead, you heard the sound of wind. Whistling as it sailed leaves to the west of you. 

As if it carried a hint along the way.

“Peter?! Peter—Fuck, fuck!” You followed the sound of the whistle. The source of the pitchy sound. Fluttering when your head spun closer to the note, wavering when you were getting colder, then peaking when your gaze lifted, higher, and higher, until it landed on him.

Peter.

Peter, perched over the rooftop of the apartment complex like a bug. The moonlight framed his silhouette, emphasized the texture of his suit; protruding grids that encased him like a nest; and you’ve never been more intimidated. 

Red and blue spandex tightly-fitted over the muscles and body of the man you have been more than well-acquainted with. You’ve seen it before. It was familiar. On the news, on the papers, on the internet.

“You’re freaking out!” He yelled out, clearly amused in your frozen state of shock.

He peered over at you with a smug grin, aimed directly at your bafflement before pulling a mask over his head. It was the icing on top in rendering you utterly incapable of stringing up any words. The lens of his mask reflected off of you, mirrored your astonishment in clear display, and you sensed that would be a memory Peter would be carrying to his death bed.

“What. The. Fuck.”

“Okay, so, just to clarify,” You were winded, still recovering from the heart attack Peter had nearly given you after he took you on for a stroll in the night. Into the sky.

Luckily his bed was right beside you. As soon as your legs gave out, you fell back into his mattress, and stared into the ceiling, speechless. Peter joined you after, bringing you into his arms. He’d always been aware that touching you in any way or form brought you back to reality. “You are… not a cosplayer?”

“Honestly? That would make me way more money than what I’m making right now.” You couldn’t keep your hands or eyes off of him. Peter was still in his suit, and that gave you the perfect opportunity to run your hands over the webbed texture of the spandex.

“Just a few more months until my lease is up. I can move in, and that’ll help with the rent. For both of us.” It felt like silicone, or rubber. Whatever it was, it was durable considering how thin it felt in your fingers when you rubbed it in between them.

“Just like that? You’re not mad?” Your hands came to a halt when Peter suddenly took them, and rested your palm on his cheek, coincidentally on the cut that you’ve never noticed. 

“Why would I be mad?” Quieter. Your voice mellowed into a whisper as you catalogued the amount of beatings his skin had taken. Caressed the marks you were too selfish to notice. Exhaustion wore on his face, and yet he never looked so peaceful as he gazed into your eyes. 

Pretty eyes, Peter thought. Ones that could motivate him to get back up after falling. That feels nice, when you pressed a kiss to his damaged skin. A touch that made him believe there was a reason to suffer, to be great, to be all of this.

“Well, for starters, it’s your birthday and… I completely blew it.” Peter closed his eyes when you began brushing his hair back, knotted in cold sweats, but you fanned your fingers out to undo them until they felt somewhat tidy in your strokes. Smooth and soft. He sighed, “Again.”

“Can’t entirely blame you. How would I look if I were to complain about missing you, when you’re out there risking your life for everyone?” It wasn’t a question, but you wanted him to look at you. To respond. And he does, when you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, and he returned it with a silken one, a following grin. “All I wish for was that you told me sooner, I guess.”

“Yeah,” He figured he’d save the details of the ‘friends’ he had made along the way some other time. For now, it was all about you. “Wow, you’re not even going to wish for me to be safe?”

“Hey, you know what I mean! That’s a given.” You rubbed at his chest, finding yourself quickly accustomed to the scales of his costume. The red was striking against your palms, comforting almost. 

“Still. I want to hear you say it.” Peter rolled onto his side and slipped an arm under your back, scooting closer to you. His signature goofy grin never failed to knock a similar one out of you. And unwillingly drawn out, when he began pinching at your sides in quick snips.

“Stop—“ You laughed, your hands occupying themselves to defend your body from his quick attacks. But Peter was fast, avoiding your arms and hands to find another opening that you’d abandon. “Stop, stop! Stay safe! Happy?!”

Closer and closer, you found yourself beneath him, framed by his body as he took your arms above your head and pinned them secured with his tight grasps.“Incredibly.”

Your legs spread open to make room for his body, only for Peter to wrap them around his waist, to press his body into you, kissing you like he was driven to steal your breath.

“This your way of making it up to me?” You broke apart from the kiss, only briefly, before the taste of Peter, the softness of his lips reeled you back in for another kiss. Languidly paced until one’s accelerating lust for one another had taken ahold of the wheel and shifted gears, into a weightiness that kept your mouth parted open while Peter’s impulse to explore you had become evidently clear.

“Problem with that?” He’d been driving his hips into you, grinding his front with your own. Both clothed, infuriatingly covered, but the pressure in between your bulge and Peter’s was too pleasing to ignore. Too satisfying to make him stop. “I should take this off—“

“No, wait—“ You grabbed his forearm when he reached back to unzip his suit. To be honest, you never thought about how he even got in or out of the suit in the first place, but that was beside the point. Something about this suit, this costume, whatever you wanted to call it; it was a turn-on. 

The way it fit snug against Peter’s body; how every fiber of muscle was stretching the material to its limit. Maybe you were just turned on because you associated it with him being a hero. For god’s sake, that was as much of an aphrodisiac one could be if you happened to be saved from a falling tower. 

Or maybe, it was simply how Peter looked in it. Unabashedly handsome, yet himself, seemingly courting you further into his webs, as if he hadn’t already from day one.

“Keep it on. I like it.” You muttered, fiddling with the collar of his suit. It was snapped on tight, but you managed to slip a finger or two past, to pull at it with a stretch.

“Then how are we going to…” He abandoned the few inches he had unzipped, providing a small relief to the squeeze around his body while his broad back was bare and tense towards the ceiling. 

“Then, you’ll take it off. But for now, I just want to…” One hand was on his nape, pulling him down for another heated kiss, while the other traveled south between your body and his. Further, lower, until you cupped him at his crotch. Rubbing, squeezing, and palming at the thick, growing center. “Want to try something…”

You could feel him smiling, a crooked one flattened against your own grin when he whispered, “I should’ve told you sooner, shouldn’t I.”

“You think?”

You were getting harder, your pants beginning to tighten around the center as you palmed him. It was a heavy handful in the beginning, but Peter’s bulge began to unfurl. It didn’t take long, didn’t take much of a stroke for him to unravel from his tuck and thicken into a full-blown erection towards the left side of his thigh. It pointed downwards, the plump head evident through his suit, and you were beginning to drool in Peter’s mouth at the haziest image of it.

“Come on, I need to get out of this… It’s killing me.” It wasn’t like Peter to beg. It was charming, cute, sexy, all the synonyms that could describe how you felt all day and every day about him, and you squeezed, because he wasn’t being patient with you.

“Birthday boy gets what he wants, don’t you think?” He winched into your mouth, and you swallowed him. Swallowed every ounce of breath, and breathed it back out with a kiss. Sloppy, heavy, your tongue weighing on his because you wanted to keep his lips apart, mouth open to hear his moans.

Peter grunted again once you began stroking his cock, touching him like it was a delicate plate of chin. Fingertips only, dusting him off with little pressure so he wouldn’t shatter.

“What are you going to do about it, hm?” You continued your short, limp strokes. “Just going to take it? Hm?” Your wrist was weak, lazy as it became limp to tease him even more. Peter sucked in a breath, doing his best to maintain his composure, but it was all futile, all those attempts of sucking in his lip to chew, to hold back his moans, because you’d slap his clothed cock, grasp it tight in your hand, and massage as much as you could gather.

“Fuck, baby—“ You had him under your control. Even if his hands were free, you knew he wouldn’t lay a finger on you. He knew that if he did, you’d stop touching him, stop stimulating the blood running down every vein of his cock, fueling his erection. His desires. 

He couldn’t let that happen. Not after the day, the week, the months that he’d been having. 

You and Peter eventually switched places: Peter resting on his back while you sat in between his legs, marveling at the stretch of his suit. Somehow, his cock looked bigger than you’d remember. Squished and pressed flush against his thigh like this. The suit was like a magnet, inviting your hand back to his cock and refusing to let you go.

“Just relax.” You commanded him. He was watching you slouched up against the headboard, gravity weighing his eyelids lower. With his legs spread apart, he provided you excess space as you began massaging his right thigh with your free hand. “Is this okay?”

“Mm-hm...” He knew you were talking about the pressure on his thigh, but the strokes over his cock remained supreme in his mind. Championed through as you pressed harder into the shaft, massaging tenderly from vein to vein. The protruding webbed texture of his suit pressed into him, rolled against cock like the inside of a fleshlight, ultimately adding onto the already gratifying pleasure. 

It was glorious.

“More…” Peter gritted through his teeth, a selfish need for more escaping from his lips in huffs. Grunts, when you’d fulfill his wish with two hands now, kneading his cock like dough. 

Thick, stiff, throbbing dough.

Before the complaints could come pouring in, you shimmied your pants off in a hurry, tossing it in the corner before greedily climbing onto Peter’s lap. It was like he read your mind, perhaps another secret that he’d been hiding, because he immediately took you into his arms. An embrace, a tight one that grounded you against his bulge, pressing your body weight until it restricted the blood flowing into his erection, as well as preventing an escape.

“You’re so hard…” You marveled at how rigid he’d gotten under you, grinding your ass against the large mass, beating and throbbing with every rut.

“I’m so hard.” He confirmed, complained, and bragged all in one smile. He then took you by the nape to kiss you again. Hard on the mouth, slow with his tongue to taste you and your desires, his desires. His other hand rested on the small of your back, guiding your grinds at first before his fingers looped into your waistband, tugging once before stuffing the strap under your ass cheeks. Your hard-on was the only thing keeping the cotton material from slipping off while you continued grating your hips. “Just like that…”

To make it easier for you, Peter repositioned his erection so it was facing north, towards his navel, in its sublime mass. Your briefs had been tossed to the side now, completely bare bottomed against him while you mounted over him, and rode in needy strides. It was a sight to behold, something that Peter reckoned he should savor. He folded his arms behind his head, providing a self-made cushion for the weight of it, and watched you. It was entrancing, like a dance. You swiveled your hips to a ghosting rhythm, one that could only be heard between two hearts, two parties, between the two of you, man to man.

“Like this…?” Breathless, you unbuttoned your shirt open, but left it present on your body. Sweat formed over your neck, dribbled down to your bare and exposed chest;  it was practically an open-invitation for Peter to ravish you. And so he did, with a haunting groan as he held you, contained you in the warmth of his arms as he simultaneously pulled you forward, and pushed himself off the headboard to meet you in the middle.

He kissed you on the neck, achingly hard when he sucked, and then enthralling, sweat-inducing when he bit into your skin. He couldn’t contain himself. You tasted too good, and it’d been too long since he had you just like this. “Just like that. Your cock against my cock, fuck. I love it so fucking much.” He muttered hot against your neck, panting because he was sweating too. The spandex felt tighter on his skin, constricting against him with every drop of sweat.

“Oh, fuck…” His lips had latched onto your nipples now. Peter’s tongue worked magic on your two nubs, flicking and swirling over their perkiness until you felt swollen. Raw, when he bit, pulled, bit, and bit again. You buried your face into his hair, rocking yourself back and forth with your arms holding him close to your chest, gliding your cock against his print as if a gun was pointed to your head, like your life depended on making Peter come.

You were delirious, humping Peter without a single thought other than to get him off, and you’d reckon that was the goal lingering in Peter’s head as he began rocking back into you. It took a while for him to find your rhythm, chasing after it in slower, sluggish beats, but eventually he caught up to you, snapping his hips against your own, grinding his cock against yours like two crescent moons caressing the other’s curvature.

“Close…” He muttered into your shoulder. Your shirt was hanging off, exposing more of your skin, but Peter made sure you didn’t feel a single chill with the marks he had followed up with soon after. It was like he had done it on purpose. Made you feel safe in his arms, comfortable in the warmth of his body, worshiped with the amount of care he had given your body. Frozen, when you felt something prod at your pucker. Then enraptured, when Peter pushed a wet finger inside of you. 

Tremors, chilling tremors ran down your spine as you took the single digit Inside of you with one determined push. “Fuck—“ Your back arched, chest pushed forward towards him, and your hips jolted forward in one strong, and delicious swipe against Peter’s cock. “Peter…”

It was a mouthwatering display of food before him. The perky nubs on your chest, the veins in your neck, the mole on your body, the strain of your thighs on overdrive, the swollen head of your cock; Peter didn’t know what to lay his finger on first, what to mouth on, what to kiss, and suck, and latch onto until you’d scream. Whichever it was, he knew you were desperate for him. Begging, sweating, whimpering, for Peter to lay a finger on you. Another finger inside of you now, and you rolled your eyes at the stretch he was providing you with, a fulfilling wish that startled your hips once more.

“You’re so good, so good for me…” Peter was staring up at you, marveling at the layer of sweat on your body. It glistened with every movement, dripped heavily with every thrust of Peter’s fingers, and tasted just like how he remembered. Salty when he licked up your neck, up your chest, against your nipples, and repeated. Your body was his, and Peter was determined to let the world know. Determined to remind you in case that you’d forgotten.

Your hands were wandering. Grabbing and touching at anything and everything that could linger in between your fingers. Peter’s hair, his head, shoulders, chest, your cock and his, his back. Everything. You couldn’t keep your hands off of him. Even if he was covered from head to toe, you were touching him. Because he was yours.

“Gonna come—“ You cupped Peter’s jaw to straighten his posture, to kiss him sloppily on the mouth, and he pulled his fingers out of you, resting them on either side of your hips as he joined you once again in grinding hips. The pleasure was overbearing, drilling into each individual brain until the smallest movement would render you both speechless. Panting in slurred moans of each other’s names, of profanities that you two had rarely used in your lifetime on earth.

“Me too…” Peter pushed himself on top of you now. Your arms were tied around his neck, tighter than the necktie he had on prior, and your legs; they wrapped around his waist equally secured, if not even tighter, as he thrusted against you. 

You were too distracted, unable to respond to Peter’s constant licks in your mouth. He was desperate for you, suckling on your tongue and chasing after it once it slipped out because of your moans. They were rattling, each breath immediately vaulted in the back of Peter’s throat because he couldn’t part from you. Couldn’t imagine a life where he would. And if he had to, at least he’d have a part of you inside of him. Even if it was a whisper. 

He thrusted harder, panting into your mouth, his nose practically smushed flat against yours. He wondered if you could imagine that life, a life without him.

“P-Pete—Shit, I’m—“ Your fingers dug into his nape, grounding him impossibly closer to you when that feeling had suddenly come to stun you in place. 

It simmered hard in your stomach, then to a rolling boil as it traveled lower to your pelvis. You squeezed your stomach, clenched your toes, and your eyes widened when Peter’s hips showed no signs of faltering. Your cock swelled and your balls jolted, tightened, until you finally saw stars bursting into flames and let gravity have it come crashing down on you. Shivers had you enclose your arms around Peter, holding onto him tight as you felt yourself crumble and spill all over your chest and his suit. You came with a gritted grunt of his name, sinking your nails into his nape because you had nowhere else to channel your spasms as Peter kept rocking against you, drunkenly astonished by how you came for him. By how much you needed him.

It didn’t take long before Peter came right after. He buried his head into your neck, stifling moans into the heat of your neck, clammy with sweat, yet comforting as he filled the inside of his suit with thick, large loads. You felt his cock throb against you when you reached down to help, to ride out his orgasm to the fullest. His cock pulsed as you’d imagine several thick pumps of his load would gush out and uncomfortably layer his navel. If only his suit hadn’t been waterproof, because there was no doubt that he would’ve been leaking out of it by now.

You’ve never been so jealous of spandex.

He was hot in your ear, panting, breathing you in, then breathing you out as you slowed the strokes on his softening cock. Then a sudden inhale, a jolt of his body, when you squeezed hard, to seal the deal in covering the entirety of his cock in his own cum. It was filthy. It was shameless. It was Peter.

“Driving me crazy here…” Peter sluggishly lifted himself off of you to face you, a sleepy smile plastered across his face as you kept kneading at his cock, increasingly sensitive with every second.

“Not enough to drive you away, right?” You smiled, drowsy yourself as you quickly found your high coming to a crash. Though, you mustered enough strength to hold Peter’s cheek in your palm, tenderly caressing, to which he immediately kissed as soon as it reintroduced itself. 

Peter sighed, holding your gaze for what felt like minutes, and yet you wished it could be for longer. 

It was different this time, the way he looked at you. The same amount of love and warmth, yes. But they no longer wavered, no longer tried to find something else to look at in case you were prying about. 

“Never.” 

Instead, they stilled, relaxed the longer you stared into him, into those brown eyes of his, because you were in now. 

You were finally in his life.

How much you needed him?  His question had been answered.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[httpsleclerc]

under the monaco moonlight☾ part 2

summary: Charles and Arthur try to deal with the fallout after Charles turns you into a vampire and kills your boyfriend.

warnings: mentions of violence, death, blood, swearing, yelling

word count: 2k

a/n: I lowkey love this im for sure making it a series !!

read part one here!

Charles looked back as he drove, you, pale and unconscious laid across his back seat with your head laying on Arthurs lap. He knew he had fucked up, Pierre was going to kill him for turning you - Especially since he had promised to keep you safe that night, but had ended up inadvertently ended up taking the rest of your life from you.

"Is she still asleep?" Charles' eyes flicked up to his rearview mirror, looking at Arthur, hoping that  you were unaware of the pain that transformation caused. Arthur looked down, noting the slow and steady rising and falling of your chest as you were out cold.

"Yes, she appears to be," Arthur confirmed, running his fingers through your hair. You and Arthur had grown up together, being the same age everyone had speculated it would be Arthur you would end up with, not Charles. You knew that Pierre would have preferred that, Charles was his best friend, he couldn't bear the thought of Charles breaking your heart and leaving him to put the pieces back together as he so often did when your boyfriends messed you around. "He is going to kill you, Charles." His brother looked away shamefully, but he knew for true that he loved you, and that was why he did this, because he loved you.

Parking in the garage of the apartment building, Charles picked you up from where you lay on Arthurs lap, stopping dead in his tracks when you whimpered, then groaning as you started to wake. Quickly, Charles scooped you up into his arms, swiftly making his way up to his apartment and laying you on the couch, trying to make you as comfortable as possible.

You were lucky to have slept through the pain, but you didn't know what had happened. The last thing that you remembered was being in the bathroom at the club with your boyfriend, knowing that Charles and Arthur had been watching you the entire time thinking that they were being slick - But you had known them your entire life, they stuck out to you like sore thumbs and you knew that Pierre had sent them to be your body guards. 

But right now, you knew that something was wrong. You didn't feel right, you didn't feel like you - Like something in you had changed, and you didn't know what yet, but you knew it happened. You knew by the way that Charles was looking at you that something had changed, and you could see the concern in his eyes as he studied your now red ones.

"Charles, what is going on?" Your throat was hoarse as you spoke, your voice coming out raspy and broken. You squinted at the harsh lights that you recognised as being in Charles apartment, and you shot up in a panic, with no recollection of how you got home and where your boyfriend was. "Where is (Name)? What's going on, why is Arthur here?" You started to feel alarmed as you would have normally felt your heart racing, but you were met with the dull and faint thudding of nothing in your chest.

Charles and Arthur sat at either side of you, unsure of how to break the news to you that;

1. Your boyfriend was laying, bloodied and dead, in an alleyway in central Monte Carlo

2. That Charles had turned you into a blood sucking demon

It was no easy task, especially since the brothers, Lorenzo included, had all promised that they would never turn or feed from another human due to the risk of anyone finding out - Coming up with excuses for a lack of aging was a task in of itself, never mind having to explain a sudden spot of blood around the mouth.

"Arthur. You tell me what is going on, please." You begged your best friend, Arthur was almost unsettled by the red colour that now replaced your normal eye colour, the paleness of your skin and the now ever pointedness of your canine teeth. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he looked behind you and at Charles, who could not begin to try and hide the guilt on his face.

How could he hide the enormous and all consuming guilt bubbling inside of him. He had stolen the rest of your life from you, confined you to a life of secrecy, a life of immortality, bonded to him for eternity - There would come a time where you would have to live without your brother, your best friend. How could he have done this to you?

Taking both of your hands in his own, Arthur tried his best to settle you with a smile, but could tell that nothing would settle you from the hard look on your face. You knew that you were now fundamentally different, that you knew a switch had been flicked and you needed someone to tell you what was going on with you - And you had a sneaking suspicion that these two had something to do with your newfound change.

"Y/N, I need you to understand that Charles did what he did to protect you. He was just doing what Pierre asked him to," Arthur started, trying to soften the very, very brutal blow that he was about to deliver to you. "(Name)...he was going to hurt you, and Pierre made us promise that we wouldn't let anything bad happen to you. Charles did what he had to, he had put something into your drink and you were begging him to stop and-"

"Arthur. Just fucking tell me what Charles did." You were short with Arthur, you just wanted a straight explanation at this point instead of being treated like you were made of glass by everyone in your life.

Arthur just didn't want to witness when your newly heightened emotions took over you and you would react one way or another - You'd either completely break down, or you would get violent. He hoped for the former and not the latter, not for his own sake, but for Charles'. It was no secret to anyone around you that the middle Leclerc brother was truly madly deeply in love with you, so Arthur wasn't sure how you would be with Charles after this.

"Charles...he...hurt, (Name), bad," Arthur studied your face for any semblance of a reaction, and his heart clenched as he saw tears fill your eyes - Despite how awfully he treated you, it was clear that you loved him, even if the feeling wasn't mutual. 

"Is he okay?" Your voice was thick with tears, your now red eyes bleary with tears as you silently begged your best friend for an answer. Arthur looked away from you shamefully, he should have told Charles to stop, told him just to spook him so he would leave you alone. "Arthur, please." Your bottom lip quivered as you realised that Arthur's silence answered your question.

"Y/N, Charles did what he did to protect you, (Name), he was going to hurt you," Arthur tried to justify it to you, but also perhaps himself - He wanted to make you feel better, to try and soften the blow about your boyfriend. 

Then it dawned on him.

You didn't know that you were now a vampire.

"Charles also...so..um...you know how Charles, Lorenzo and I joke about not tanning because we try and not go in the sun..so..we um..."

"Spit it out, Arthur." He could tell your patience was wearing thin, your tears no longer clouding your vision, your vibrant red eyes a clear sign of your anger and impatience. Arthur swallowed his fear, making eye contact with you for what felt like the first time ever.

But he supposed it was, this was a new you. The old you had died in the alleyway in Charles' arms as he drained the life from you.

Meanwhile, Charles paced around his bedroom, wondering how on earth he was going to explain to Pierre that he had killed your boyfriend in a fit of rage before he physically assaulted you, and turned you into a vampire, bonded to him for eternity. Your phone sat on his bedside table, charging just in case your brother called you.

Charles' thoughts were interrupted by your phone ringing, an incoming call from your older brother almost causing his still heart to resume a beat after years of being still. Slowly, he made his way over to your phone, observing the photo you had for Pierre's contact, a picture of you and him at his first F1 race, where you had only been 16 at the time, but had always been his biggest fan. With shaking hands, Charles picked up your phone, sliding the answer button and raising it to his ear.

"Y/N?! Where the fuck are you?!" Pierre sounded panicked. Had they found your boyfriend's body, and seen your blood on the ground beside him. Charles couldn't find the words to answer Pierre, so just gulped. "Y/N answer me. Your boyfriend is dead, please let me know that you're okay."

"Pierre, you're going to kill me," Charles blurted out, ready to accept whatever Pierre did to him. He knew that he wouldn't be able to stay strong in the face of your brother, but he had to be honest and upfront, especially for your sake. 

"There's something I haven't ever told you and I never told you because it was never meant to impact you, but now it does. So..We are all vampires. But I never wanted to hurt Y/N, her boyfriend had slipped something into her drink and before Arthur and I could do anything he had her outside down the alleyway, you told me to help her and so I did but I didn't mean to kill him. Y/N was panicking and I tried to calm her down  but she told me she loved me and..Pierre I turned her."

Charles felt like the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders, but it then came collapsing back down on him, 100x heavier than before as the line remained silent, only shutting off as he heard a car door slam and then Pierre hanging up. He placed your phone back on his nightstand, murmuring curses under his breath, knowing how badly he had fucked up this time. His head flicked up upon hearing a thud from the living room, and then yelling.

"You bastard, why didn't you stop him?!" 

Oh. You were awake.

And you knew.

Charles ran out into the living room to see you sitting on Arthur's chest, hands around his neck as to choke him out. Running to his younger brother, Charles grabbed you under the arms and lifted you off of Arthur, watching as he scrambled back in shock.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you Charles!" You screamed, thrashing in the older man's arms to try and get him to let go of you. "I can't believe you did this to me! I fucking hate you!" Charles tried to ignore what you were saying, but he understood why you were saying - How could he not? He had only taken the rest of your human life from you. Then he remembered, that you were bonded to him and that he could have some sort of element of control over you - Not that he would ever use it to take advantage of you.

"Y/N. Calm down." Charles said assertively, feeling some relief when you stopped struggling against him. "There, just relax, okay?" Thinking he had gotten you calmed down, he put you down, until the door to his apartment swung open, revealing your older brother in the doorway.

"Where is he?!"

To be continued....

[bucksboobs]

The pointedness that Tommy showed up to wait on news about Denny’s emergency surgery and talked about having a team behind you when things go wrong… yeah I think he’s gonna get hurt and yeah I think the 118 will be the ones to pull him out and be there for him afterwards.

[akuma-coffee]

Allow me to ask soft sukuna?? Just a short drabble with some body appreciation for chubby girls please🥺

order for anon! sukuna x (chubby) reader request menu

cw: reader is a little insecure but all comfort here!

“sukuna.” his name leaves your lips before you think twice, and he peers up from beside you. you’re laying on his right, twiddling your fingers with your bottom lip between your teeth. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re nervous, though you can’t quite find the confidence to ask him what you’re thinking.

“what?” he sounds a little short but you know that’s just sukuna, unrelenting in his cold tone and pointedness.

“it’s nothing.” you shift, uncomfortably wriggling on your back as you try and find yourself comfortable, but you can’t. you roll onto your side to face away from him, heart twisting. sukuna isn’t the most affectionate of men, not that you’d expect him to be.

“tell me.” his words are always straight to the point, he spares no time for niceties.

“it’s just…” you trail off as you mentally cringe, swallowing. “it’s nothing, really. just go to sleep, okay?��

sukuna sighs, and in the silence following, you feel a little breathless. have you pissed him off with your mood? but just as you close your eyes, mustering up some form of confidence to apologise, he rolls onto his side too, an arm lazily slinging around your front. his hand moves upward, scaling the skin under your shirt, gliding over the roundness of your belly and setting over the little curve on your abdomen.

“you’re shaped like a queen.” his words catch you a little off guard and your eyes open, head turning slightly as you watch him through your peripheral. he squeezes the skin a little, as if to be endearing.

“that’s what’s bothering you, is it not?”

you stop watching him, turning your head to face the other way again.

“was just wondering if it bothered you.” the admission is said quietly. he lets out a breath before selling his chin in the nook between your shoulder and neck.

“stop thinking of yourself so lowly. you’re divine.”

there’s a prickling heat at your cheeks when he speaks, a small smile breaking over warm skin.

[simplygojo]

Silent Moments II

Authors Note: A highly requested (not that highly, but enough lol) part 2 to “Silent Moments”! I hope you all enjoy it :)

Pairing: AgedUp/Megumi Fushiguro x f/reader

Word Count : 2.1K

Warnings : just a light makeout sesh, nothing wild.

Read the first part here: Silent Moments I

Taglist: @chexzavamarie @adoresia @simplyyyuji

It had been a week since that night outside your apartment, and the distance between you and Megumi had only grown. Each day felt heavier than the last, the silence between you becoming more deafening as the hours dragged on.

No words had been exchanged since that moment—the one where his fingers curled around your wrist, holding you in place, but not in anger. There was a tenderness in the way his grip had lingered, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. And yet, that same tenderness was what tore at you now.

How could everything feel so right in that moment, yet lead to this endless silence? Every time you thought back to it, your heart twisted painfully. The memory of his warmth, the gentle weight of his forehead against yours—those fleeting seconds felt like a promise, and yet, now it seemed like they were a wall keeping the two of you apart.

You’d catch him in the hallways sometimes, just a glimpse of his dark hair or his quiet form retreating into another room, and your chest would tighten. He wasn’t the type to be openly expressive, you knew that. But even he couldn’t hide the fact that he was avoiding you.

The way he moved so deliberately away from you during training, how he kept his eyes firmly on anything but your face. Each action felt like a silent rejection, one that gnawed at your insecurities.

Had you misread everything? Had he regretted almost kissing you that night?

You tried to convince yourself that maybe he was just giving you space, that maybe this was his way of processing what had happened. But that didn’t stop the ache that settled deep in your chest every time he chose to walk away instead of toward you. And each day, the gnawing uncertainty only grew, eating away at the fragile hope you had been holding onto since that night.

The worst part was, it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

One afternoon, during a break in training, Nobara sidled up to you. The two of you had been sitting outside, and while she was animatedly chatting away about something that had happened during her last mission, you found your mind drifting once again—back to Megumi.

You hadn’t even realized how obvious you were being until Nobara’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharper and more focused than before.

“Okay, seriously. What’s going on with you and Megumi?”

Her tone was casual, but there was a pointedness to her question that made your heart skip a beat. You blinked, startled, turning to face her fully. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” she said, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at you. “Something’s definitely up. You two have been acting weird for days now.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words caught in your throat. Nobara wasn’t the type to back down once she’d caught on to something, and lying to her would be pointless. Instead, you shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze.

“There’s nothing going on,” you muttered, though even you could hear how unconvincing you sounded.

Nobara wasn’t buying it. “Oh, please. I’ve known Megumi long enough to know when something’s bothering him. And you—” She paused, giving you a pointed look. “You’ve been spaced out all week. So, spill it. What happened?”

You hesitated, torn between wanting to keep things to yourself and the overwhelming urge to confide in someone—anyone—about the mess of emotions swirling inside you. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you ran a hand through your hair, your shoulders slumping in defeat.

“It’s complicated,” you admitted softly.

Nobara raised an eyebrow. “Of course it is. It’s Megumi we’re talking about. He practically invented ‘complicated.’” She leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “But seriously, what happened? You two didn’t fight or anything, right?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, we didn’t fight. It’s just… after our last mission, things got… intense. And we haven’t really talked since.”

Nobara’s eyes widened slightly, a glint of amusement sparking in them. “Intense, huh? You mean like… emotionally intense?”

You felt your face heat up, and you looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “Something like that.”

Nobara’s grin widened, clearly enjoying this new piece of information. “So, what? You two had a moment, and now he’s doing that thing where he overthinks everything and avoids it?”

“Pretty much,” you muttered, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment well up inside you.

Nobara hummed thoughtfully, tapping her chin. “Classic Megumi. He’s probably off in his head, freaking out over nothing.” She nudged you playfully, though her tone was more reassuring than teasing. “Give him time. He’ll come around.”

You nodded absently, though her words didn’t do much to ease the turmoil churning inside you. Time. That was all you had been doing—waiting. But how much longer could you stand it? How much longer before you couldn’t bear the silence anymore?

A few days passed, and nothing changed. Megumi was still avoiding you, and you were still haunted by the lingering memory of that night. It became harder to focus on your training, harder to ignore the hollow ache in your chest.

—

And so, one evening, long after the sun had set, you found yourself in the training hall alone. The quietness of the space felt comforting, the rhythmic sounds of your movements against the mats grounding you. Punch. Kick. Dodge. Repeat.

You threw yourself into the routine, hoping that physical exertion would somehow clear your mind. But no matter how hard you tried to focus, your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

The way he had looked at you that night, the way his voice had trembled just slightly when he said he didn’t want your first kiss to happen like that. It was maddening—this constant loop of emotions and unanswered questions.

You paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from your brow, breathing heavily. Maybe you were overthinking everything. Maybe you should just confront him. Ask him what was really going on.

But the idea of doing that scared you. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if you’d imagined everything? The possibility of rejection lingered like a dark cloud, casting doubt over everything.

The sound of the training hall door sliding open snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned, your heart leaping into your throat as you saw Megumi standing in the doorway. His usual calm demeanor was gone, replaced by something far more vulnerable, more uncertain.

Your pulse quickened. You hadn’t expected to see him here, not tonight, not like this.

“Megumi,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your heart race. He seemed conflicted, like he wasn’t sure if he should have come at all. But then, with a deep breath, he stepped into the room, letting the door slide shut behind him.

“I needed to talk to you,” he said, his voice low but steady. There was a weight to his words that made your stomach flip.

“About what?” you asked, though you already had a feeling you knew what this was about.

Megumi’s eyes flickered to the floor, his jaw clenching. He looked like he was struggling to find the right words, and the silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer, more hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten. “For avoiding you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the apology, your mind racing to catch up with his words. “You don’t have to apologize,” you said quickly, but even as you said it, you knew that wasn’t entirely true. You had been hurt by his distance, by the silence.

“Yes, I do,” Megumi interrupted, his eyes finally meeting yours again. There was a determination in his gaze now, a resolve that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve been avoiding you because… because I didn’t know how to handle this.”

“Handle what?” you asked, though your voice was barely steady. Your heart raced, and the air between you felt charged with something unspoken.

He hesitated, his hands clenching at his sides before he finally let out a frustrated sigh. “The way I feel about you,” he said, his words rushed but sincere. “It’s confusing, and it’s complicated, and I thought… I thought it would be easier if I just stayed away. But it’s not. It’s harder.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his confession. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your mind racing.

“I don’t want to avoid you anymore,” he continued, slowly walking closer to you. His voice was steady, but his eyes—those deep, stormy blue eyes—were filled with uncertainty. “I don’t want to pretend that this isn’t happening.”

You felt your pulse quicken as he closed the distance between you; the air between you charged with something intense, something electric. And then, before you could fully process what was happening, his hands gently reached up to hold your beautiful face, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

For a heartbeat, you stood frozen, your breath caught in your throat. But then, instinctively, you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension between you seemed to snap.

You felt a lump form in your throat, your chest tightening with emotion. “Megumi…”

“I tried to stay away because I thought it would be easier. But it wasn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His voice was nothing above a low whisper—you felt his breath on your skin with every word he spoke.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you felt your breath hitch as he leaned in closer, his forehead resting gently against yours—just like that night outside your apartment. But this time, it was different. This time, there was no hesitation, no holding back. “I care about you,” Megumi whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours.

The kiss began softly, almost hesitant, as if Megumi was still unsure, testing the boundaries of what was allowed. His lips brushed against yours with a gentleness that made your heart race, each movement filled with a quiet intensity.

But then, as though something inside him finally broke free, the kiss deepened. The change was swift and undeniable—his hands slid down to your waist, gripping you firmly but with a kind of reverence, pulling you closer until not a single inch of space remained between your bodies.

It wasn’t just a kiss anymore—it was a release of everything unsaid, every glance and stolen moment, every frustration and desire that had simmered between you for weeks. His lips moved against yours with a new urgency, a passion that set your skin ablaze. It was raw, desperate, and achingly filled with all the emotions he had kept bottled up.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers threading through his soft, dark hair as you tried to convey everything you couldn’t find the words for. There was no holding back now—this kiss was a confession in itself, an admission of all the feelings you’d both been too afraid to voice.

The intensity of it was overwhelming, a dizzying rush of sensation that made your knees weak. But it felt right—like this was where you were always meant to be, pressed against him, lost in the heat of the moment. His hands roamed up your sides, his fingertips grazing the bare skin near your waistband, sending a shiver down your spine.

A low but soft moan escaped his lips, vibrating against your mouth as he deepened the kiss even further, drawing you impossibly closer. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together as you tried to catch your breath. Your hands lay around his neck and his on your hips.

“I didn’t want our first kiss to be out of anger,” Megumi whispered, his thumb gently brushing against your your flushed cheek. “But this… this feels right.”

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. It did feel right. More than anything else, this was what you’d both been afraid of—the depth of your feelings for each other.

But now that it was out in the open, there was no going back.

And honestly, you didn’t want to.

[waltricia]

Ok but the pointedness of the narration playing over this shot of Colin is incredible.

There were times in season 2 when Whistledown would be speaking about the diamond, but it would play over shots of Kate, implying that the narration was also about her.

That’s what’s happening here. And it’s soooo good because Whistledown is speaking about herself. Meaning the implication is that Colin is also Whistledown.

Lord Whistledown, I see you. Come home, honey.

💛🩵💚

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

🦂 Rapunzel 🦂

Dr. Florence Seward x fem!reader

tags: Hurt/Comfort, Su!cide Attempt, Bruises, not specified whether romantic or platonic, psychologist/patient, Comfort, Selective Mutism, Dissociation, Asylum, Pet Names, author thinks this is boring

wc: ~ 3.6 k

summary: It's December 27th. Late at night, Dr. Seward gets a call from Bethlam Royal Hospital about a patient she's been seeing.

A/N: Big trigger warning! It's non-graphic but thematically quite heavy. Read at your own risk. I made an OC just because of the topic so that the reader maintains some distance.

*************************************

Spending Christmas alone was a pointless endeavour, as far as Florence was concerned, and so she’d spent the holidays in her office, catching up on patient files by candlelight, since daylight was scarce in the depths of winter. In the corner of a new page of her notebook, she wrote down Dec. 27th with her fountain pen.

“Dr. Seward?” the new secretary—Mr. Fletcher—knocked on the wooden frame after having already opened the door to her office—as if it would annul the unseemly breach of decorum. For all of Renfield’s eventual descent into vampirism, his manners had been flawless from the day he started working for her. She set the pen down on the paper with a sharp pointedness, raising her eyebrows at him.

He shrank and gathered his hands close to his chest as if blocking a bullet to his heart, tapping from one foot to the other in this unbearable habit before speaking.

“It is way past my office hours, Fletcher. And yours, might I add. What is it?”

“A call came in. From Bethlam.”

She let go of the pen entirely and leaned back in her chair, keeping the heels of her hands against the edge of the table. “Bethlam?” she said, puzzled. “At this hour?”

After what Vanessa had told her about her treatment, she’d begun looking into the place under the guise of a private research project on institutionalised patients that aimed to promote successful releases accompanied by outpatient care and had taken up a few hours there.

“Yes. It concerns a Miss Harcourt in your care?”

Florence pushed up from her chair, drawing in a sharp breath through her nose. Elizabeth Harcourt; eighteen years old. Little Lizzy—she’d come to think of her as even though she knew she shouldn’t. “What about her?”

“They wouldn’t disclose it to me.” He pressed his thin lips shut right after speaking, making them almost disappear. She never understood what it was that made her so fearsome, but after her late husband, she preferred it this way. Perhaps she’d gained an aura after that night that she wore like a military badge.

“Get them on the phone again, Fletcher!” she demanded and went straight to the liquor cabinet for a glass of whisky and a cigarette. She’d given up on quitting after Vanessa’s death. Bethlam calling at this hour couldn’t mean anything good, and after how the last session had unfolded, her insides twisted.

-> continue

[lewisinho]

quite absurd but perhaps entirely explainable that the media overtly and directly (which i find the most insidious of all) engages in such bad faith when it comes to lewis. you shamelessly ask him directly whether his answer about young rookies coming into f1 refers to the 'adverse criticism' he has received from you this year, that has been written in your very own publications and also manage to completely miss the pointedness of his tone and language when he specifically references the hostility of the media environment in that very same answer. wow.

[teal-fiend]

an observer who has perfected the craft of pushing people into predator mode.

word count: 2600

You were hanging out with this guy all day. You hadn't known each other for that long, a few months. and you still didn't know; were you just going to be friends? Or was it going to be romantic? You didn't mind either way, really. Although you would have liked clarification. But he seemed genuinely interested in you; you had shared interests, and it was just easy being with him - not in a bad way. it was just effortless in a way that was refreshing.

You spent the day out and about; walking around, you got lunch together earlier, but a few hours passed and now you were going back to his house

you expected a kiss, but instead he puts a hand on your stomach. Strange, but not entirely unwanted.

"Are you hungry?" he asked

"Um, yeah, I suppose."

You were starting to get hungry; it was time for afternoon tea, or an early dinner.

"Do you mind?" He asked softly. You muttered a no, you didn't mind. He petted your stomach gently, scoping it out, it seemed like. You felt him gently poke at your soft middle, moving briefly to feel either side of your hips, before returning to the belly area.

You looked to his face and he was concentrated, almost with a medical focus. You felt your face flush with the precise attention you were getting. But you also wanted to ask him what the hell he was up to.

Soon he looked up at you, your eyes met, his expression was neutral, like this was a normal thing for him. He asked you if you wanted a belly rub. You though that was what he just did. But you had no reason to refuse, and now you were curious - you wanted to see where this was going. So you agreed.

He led you over to a kind of couch-chair, that he encouraged you to seat yourself in. He guided you to lie back, making sure you were comfortable. Then he went back to what he was doing, pressing lightly on your stomach.

He worked in on your belly, kneading down on it with some force, but not a painful amount. When he got lower down, on your intestines, you felt some pressure.

"This is your lunch," he pointed out, poking at a firm spot under your skin. It was, you remembered the time the two of your spent at the cafe earlier. You didn't think that he'd be massaging your stomach later

you blushed, unsure of his motivations still. He began working on that spot, and you did feel some release of pressure, accompanied by a gurgle as the food moved down your digestive tract.

"What are you doing?" You asked, on the verge of mild annoyance from his lack of an explanation.

"I'm making room," he said simply.

...

You could piece things together. He probably had figured out that you were a pred. And he probably wanted to feed you. prey.

But how did he know? Was it really that obvious? You felt your face heat with embarrassment. How many people knew just by seeing you? How many people knew but never brought it up out of courtesy?

Anyway, You should have probably told him that you don't really eat prey. Not that often anyway; you definitely weren't hungry enough right now.

"Do you mind if I...?" He touched the corner of my mouth. You told him again, no, go ahead. He parted your lips carefully with his fingers, with the confidence and expertise of a dentist, he inspected your teeth. He pressed down on their points; you heard him hum, as if in confirmation. A practiced eye could tell a predator by the teeth. The canines tended to be longer, yours weren't, but your other teeth were of a certain thickness and sharpness that was indicative of a predator; your molars had a pointedness, similar to a dog's. Supposedly, this would help in holding down on prey as it was eaten.

You felt his fingers graze overtop of them, and you salivated at the taste. When he removed his hands, you closed your mouth and swallowed.

"Look," you said, "I'm not all that hungry. Well, not that kind of hungry"

"Your body is ready for prey" He explained, "You haven't eaten in a couple weeks at least."

"I just had lunch a few hours ago."

"I mean, you haven't eaten prey. I've been with you almost every day this year, and although you might be able to hide it well, I know it's been a while."

You can still taste his flesh on your teeth, you lick your teeth and swallow again.

"Sorry," he said, sounding genuine, "you're probably going to feel pretty hungry in a minute. but if you don't want prey, I have regular food in my fridge - or I can uber something if you want-"

"Why would I be hungry?" You did feel a little hungry now. But not... not that hungry...

"I mean," He started sheepishly, "the belly rub; your stomach is awake now, and your small intestine is empty too."

"Okay-"

"- and the hands in your mouth thing; you've had a taste of prey now, so your body's going to start preparing to consume that."

hmm.

"And talking about eating - specifically talking about eating prey, it can kind of help with releasing those predator hormones that come out before you consume prey."

He continues, "not to mention, we were walking around the park all day, that amount of exercise will also, um, stimulate appetite."

"You've got this down to a science," you say.

He smiles, but tries to hide it, "yeah, sorry. Yeah, I guess I do. But it's not like that-"

"You said you have food?"

He shows you to the kitchen

You go into his fridge, and take out a stick of celery. you crunch on it aggressively, like you're biting apart someone's arm. It falls into your stomach sadly, and you feel an angry clench in your middle. It doesn't want that kind of food anymore.

You feel a little light-headed, a little dizzy, your gaze snaps back to this guy. He caused this, it's his fault.

he looks a little scared as you glare at him. Good. You feel a swell of pride or righteous justice, but then you feel sad. You like him, you don't want to scare him. You don't want to mess this up. but he's the one that messed it up

"What made you so sure that I wouldn't eat you?" You ask

He opens his mouth, but seems lost for words. He whispers "please don't...?"

There's a reason you don't often engage with your predatory side; it's very hard for you to control.

He didn't know that, but should this be a mistake that costs his life? Your stomach is growling now, you put a hand over it, to silence it or comfort it.

"Do you have prey?" You ask through gritted teeth, "Besides yourself?"

"Yes! Yes," He says, "I'll be right back." He rushes off, almost quick enough for you to want to chase after him. But you stay where you are, your hand now gripping the countertop because it's the only thing keeping you in place

three people enter the room, it's him and someone you know to be his friend. The third person you do not know

your predator brain immediately feels excitement. three entire prey! all for you to eat up. You could run to the front door and lock it, then you could chase down each one of them - it would be so much food.

You remind yourself that you aren't even capable of eating that much. You try to be more present in the moment, you realise that someone had asked you something, but you weren't paying attention.

One of the prey speaks, "Never mind, I'll see you later," they say to each other. Then one prey walks out of the front door. You feel disappointed - you should have locked it. Now there are only two of them. Still, you've never eaten two at once.

One of them approaches you. you feel adrenaline building as they get closer - it's not even running away.

But no, no, this is not the one you're supposed to eat. "Are you alright?" He asks.

You can't even begin to broach the question. "I'm hungry," you respond, which is true. More true than the words can express.

He nods. With more confidence than he should have, he takes your arm, and guides you into the living room.

Soon, the prey's hands are in your mouth. You're gulping them down ravenously, animalistically. You haven't consumed prey in a long while; it's good to be back.

"good, eat, eat up" he says gently

As you swallow, you feel a relief from the mania of hunger. Your anger dissipates too, somewhat.

Him encouraging you feels good; in the past, people have ran away in fear. But he stays by you, even helping push the prey down your throat when you get stuck.

It's a lot, eating prey. it's a big mission. You feel your unaccustomed stomach stretch many times past it's usual capacity, it's shocking to your mind, but it happens. You feel your whole being sigh and melt as the prey sinks into your tummy. Your observer isn't quick enough to help you as you fall to the ground, unused to the new weight

He kneels beside you, saying some kind of affirmation

Do you still want to eat him? You feel the exploding fullness of your stomach. You have to breathe shallowly, because the prey is squashed against your lungs. No, this is quite enough.

He helps you up onto the couch chair that you were seated on before all this started. Now the lunch you had earlier has been completely pushed aside by this new, finer meal.

Each breath you take is difficult. Inhaling causes your stomach to just feel even tighter. You give yourself a moment to try to adjust. You will, eventually.

He's watching you lying there, apprehension still fidgeting in his eyebrows. You reach out for his hand, and you put it on top of your stomach. He smooths his hand over your skin and you can't help but wheeze.

A belly massage feels much different now. Every bit of pressure causes electricity that courses through the entire shape of your stomach, and that flows into your whole body, flushing into your limbs, and sedating you.

It's relaxing, he knows what he's doing, you can tell, with the way he dances with the contours of your abdomen. You hear him sigh with relief as you relax, as he says, "there's a good pred, just relax and digest now."

Right, you forgot. You blink your eyes open and place your hands on each side of your middle. You do have a unique ability, which is that your stomach is happy to hold the prey inside it without digesting, for a few hours at least, until it gets restless, then it will start on it's own unless you specifically resist. It's kind of lucky for you, because although you aren't great at stopping yourself from consuming prey once you get it into your head that you should, you do at least have a window of opportunity where you can reverse the decision, which is not something everyone can say for themselves.

But anyway, since you want to get this prey digested sooner rather than later, you think you should get started now. You watch the gentle movements of the prey inside your stomach. You stroke back and forth gently, and then you sigh and give your stomach permission.

Nothing happens. You frown. You look up at the observer. He doesn't seem to be aware of the situation. He notices you looking at him and tilts his head.

"My stomach doesn't want to digest," you explain

"Oh! interesting," he says. "I guess you don't have to?"

"No," you say, "I want to."

He gives you a confused look. You sigh.

"I don't know, it's being stubborn. It might take a while."

"So your stomach can like, purposefully delay digesting?"

"Yeah, I mean, look, the prey isn't really moving around at all; if I was digesting them, there'd be a lot more wriggling - you know."

"yeah, you're right." he says inquisitively, "I've never heard of this happening before."

"It's fine, it'll happen eventually."

"Alright, you can just relax then, no need to digest," he pats your stomach supportively.

He goes back to massaging your stomach, which does feel good. Your eyelids become heavy, and you yawn. He asks you if you want to go to bed; he has a spare bedroom now, you can sleep in a proper bed if you need. No, you assure him, it's alright for now. You do ask him to dim the lights though, which he does.

He presses into your belly again, kneading into the solid form inside in a uniquely pleasing manner. You can't help but grin slightly. Your predator brain is chuffed. a good belly rub is something it enjoys very much. It likes to be fed, and it likes to be attended to. You scrunch your toes. You feel warm and fuzzy. He's treating you very well.

You put your attention on the specific place where his hand glides over your skin, you follow the movements and patterns, it's like listening to music. you feel his hand on your skin, the warmth, you feel the prey pressed against the taut walls of your stomach. you think about how he is in a way, really rubbing against the prey, and your skin is just the thing between. But the idea of him rubbing on the prey, to help encourage the stomach to digest - he's rubbing against the prey to help break it down, really. He's trying to get you to digest it. He's probably using techniques that he knows will be the most effective for digestion.

For some reason, this thought is what convinces your stomach. A glowing feeling of heat starts under your skin. You groan softly. You melt deeper into the chair. A few moments later and your prey starts to get agitated. you smile as you imagine your stomach acids being released with each desperate kick against the walls of your tummy. It's ironic really. You feel a funny tickle inside, and a bit pressure that turns into a careless belch.

You had a long road ahead of you, though, suddenly you were exhausted by the task ahead.

"Oh, good for you," your observer notes, "you've started digesting haven't you?"

You grunt an mhmm.

"I think I'll get you into bed if you don't mind, to get you more comfortable."

That sounds good now, so you agree. Carefully, he guides you to your feet. You lean on him heavily, but he does alright. You feel your belly sag against your legs, and it swags gently as you walk, gurgling as the liquids are now swished around. You get to the bed, and lie down like it's the first time you've ever known the comfort of a mattress.

The observer helps put the blankets over you. "I think you could use a nap," he noticed, "but I'll be here when you wake up."

He brings you a glass of water, and turns the lights off, leaving you with your prey, which you curl up around deviously, eager to break them down for nutrients.

A part of you wants to think about the implications of this situation, and what your relationship with the observer has now become. But your predator brain hushes you and urges you into sleep. Your stomach needs it's moment to digest. You'll deal with the rest later

[atlantic-riona]

Though I Walk Through the Valley

Written for @inklings-challenge 2024. A Catholic college student and a vampire take a trip to the Underworld. Shenanigans ensue. There are four parts.

I. A Visitor of the Vampiric Variety

I opened the door to find Malachy standing on the steps, one hand raised to knock. He looked about as surprised to see me as I was him, and after a few moments spent staring blankly at each other—vague remnants of thoughts regarding grocery lists and the possibility of afternoon naps still floating about my mind, Lord only knows what was circling his—he pulled himself together to give me a strained imitation of his usual annoying smirk. “Fancy a trip to Hell?”

I slammed the door in his face.

Honestly, upon later reflection, I should have left it like that. I still had no intention of getting mixed up in his world, even if Isa—well. My best friend and I were cautiously on speaking terms now, but the argument we’d had loomed forbiddingly in the background of every interaction, even though by silent, mutual agreement we didn’t acknowledge it.

But curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door again, just a crack. “What.”

In the twilight shadows of evening, his slightly ominous expression would have sent shivers down any onlooker’s spine. Here in the warm afternoon sun, it merely looked out of place. “There’s a problem.”

“Yes, it’s called an irritating vampire refusing to get off my doorstep,” I retorted. “Was there something new, or…?”

“The Circle,” he said simply, and my blood ran cold.

“Goodbye,” I said, and shut the door firmly. I could hear him calling me through the door about needing my help, but I ignored this. And when I heard the windows rattling, I picked up my spray bottle, helpfully labeled “HOLY WATER,” and pointed it meaningfully (label side facing the window) in his general direction. He got the hint. At least I assumed he did, because the windows stopped rattling soon after.

Still, just in case, I went around the house, double-checking that all the windows and doors had crosses nailed above them, or rosaries wrapped around their handles. Call me paranoid, but I’d seen a lot of movies, and I was taking no chances.

I didn’t see Malachy for three days. And good riddance, said I. So when he showed up at my doorstep, looking inordinately pleased with himself, I certainly was not pleased myself.

I leaned against the door, which was open just a crack, and said clearly, “Go away.”

“Lili, you’ll want to hear this,” he said, grinning. Somehow he’d recovered his equanimity in the past three days, and I didn’t think it was for any reason I’d like.

The grin annoyed me. I pointed at the miniscule amount of space between the door and its frame, and said, “You see this? It’s about how much interest I have in whatever you’re about to say. And it’s only open so you can hear me tell you to go away, which means realistically my interest is much lower.” I had briefly considered shouting at him through the closed door, but regretfully had set that plan aside. I didn’t want him trying to crawl through the windows again.

“It’s about Isa,” he said. 

Through the opening, I gave him the old stinkeye.

He laughed. “Charming as ever, I see.”

“Did Isa send you?” I asked coldly, and not without a little pointedness.

His composure slipped a fraction. “No,” he admitted after a long minute. “I’m here without her knowing.”

I knew I’d regret this, but I still unhooked the chain and pulled it all the way open. “What is it, then?”

I had forgotten the secondary reason for keeping the door mostly closed, but it quickly sprang to mind when Theresa’s excited shriek from the living room deafened me. “Is that Malachy?”

“No,” I yelled back. “Go do your homework!”

But it was a fruitless endeavor to tell your little sister to do something as dull as solving for x when there was a live, breathing—well, dead and unbreathing—vampire at the front door, and it was doubly fruitless when said little sister had been obsessed with all things supernatural (especially the fanged variety) for years. Theresa came sprinting out of the living room, vaulting an armchair in her enthusiasm and skidding to a stop in her pink-and-white polka-dotted socks. “Malachy!” she cried happily. “Come in, come in, I have so many questions!” She’d already nabbed a clipboard from somewhere and was now squinting through her glasses to locate a pen.

As the point I wanted to make was already moot—namely, that inviting vampires into your house traditionally never ended well—I settled for giving Malachy a stare of loathing as I removed the cross hanging over the door, before stepping out of his way. He, in turn, gave me a brilliant smile, one that prominently displayed his sharp white teeth, before stepping inside.

He clearly thought Theresa was cute, but easily brushed aside, since immediately after greeting her with amusement, he turned to me, as if to continue our earlier conversation. How quickly he’d forgotten! I didn’t feel motivated to disabuse him of his misunderstanding, so I merely settled back, arms crossed, to watch the show.

“You remember how we found out that Isa’s condition is because she’s a descendant of—” he began, but broke off with a startled look when Theresa briskly pinched his arm through the leather jacket he was wearing. “What the hell?”

“Language!” I hissed.

Theresa ignored the both of us, scribbling something down on her clipboard. “So you’ve got pain receptors,” she said, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. “Which means your brain is capable of receiving and translating signals, even though it’s technically not alive, according to my research. Or is it alive? Does the blood you consume reanimate your life systems? Is that why you need to constantly replenish it?” She looked up inquiringly through the bright pink frames of her glasses at Malachy, who stared at her.

“Er—yes. I do need blood to…operate, as it were.” For the first time in my memory, he seemed discomfited.

Theresa nodded. “Right, blood’s very important to staying alive and operational, but it’s not really the only thing you need. How about oxygen? Do you need to breathe?”

He blinked at her, and then at me. Like I was going to rescue him from his flailing. I was enjoying myself too much. “To speak, mostly. And habit. I don’t actually require it.”

“Interesting.” Theresa scribbled something furiously on the clipboard, elbowing me when I tried to peer over her shoulder at what she’d written. “Then I wonder how you’re accomplishing cellular respiration. Of course, blood transports oxygen, so I thought that might be why vampires needed it, but if you don’t need to breathe, then how are you getting that oxygen? And how are your organs functioning? Or are they functioning? Are they rotting inside you right now?” She took a step forward, as if to start looking, and Malachy actually backed up a step.

“There will be no autopsies in this house,” I said loudly, “especially if you’ll be finding rotting organs. I just cleaned the carpets.”

“My organs are not rotting!”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, they probably are, but that’s your problem, not mine.”

“They are not—”

“I have a scalpel, we could check,” Theresa piped up, beaming. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your regeneration and healing capabilities, anyway.”

We both looked at her.

“How old is she?” Malachy asked me in an undertone.

“She’s turning twelve on Friday,” I said, not bothering to keep my voice down. “And speaking of, Theresa, if you want a party Friday afternoon, you’d better finish your homework ahead of time. You can bother Malachy afterwards.” I’d probably pay her to do it, if he was overstaying his welcome.

She gave me a pleading look. “Just a couple more questions?”

Behind her, Malachy was shaking his head no. I bestowed a beautiful smile on him, and told her, “Of course! You can have three.”

Theresa was physically incapable of sticking to three pre-planned questions. I let her herd him into the living room, talking at the speed that only middle-schoolers could achieve, and went into the kitchen to grab some supplies.

I came back out to find Malachy eyeing Theresa warily as she industriously wrote out calculations on her clipboard. He was sitting on one of the armchairs—the one that happened to be farthest from any doors or windows, I noticed. Coincidentally, these were all covered in crosses.

“Homework,” I said firmly, and she sent me a pleading look, but I shook my head at her, and she sighed. Collecting all of her things, she dragged herself out of the living room. As I set the vase down on the end table. I could hear her sadly thumping her way upstairs and into her room.

Malachy nodded at me, which was probably the closest I’d ever get to a “thank you” from him. Then he sniffed the air, and frowned over at the end table by the couch. “Is that…?”

I arranged the garlic flowers in the vase to display their purple petals a little more prominently. “Just testing out some questions of my own. Say, if I spilled some beans just now”—I had, there were a few on the floor by the couch—“would you feel compelled to clean them up?”

He had been regarding the garlic flowers with narrowed eyes, but turned away from his contemplation long enough to give me a scornful look. “I’m not a jiāngshī, am I?”

That piqued my curiosity. “There are different types of vampires?”

Malachy laughed. “As many as there are legends about them. Hollywood doesn’t have a copyright on the supernatural world, you know.”

“Great,” I muttered. So not everything I knew about vampires would apply to every one. Lovely. Guess I’d better start stocking beans in my purse alongside garlic and rosaries.

“That’s not really important right now,” he said, and I stared at the carpet. Normally Malachy never passed up the chance to mock my understanding of the supernatural world—if he was doing so now, the world must be ending soon. And I didn’t want any part in the trouble he’d probably brought with him, but on the other hand—Isa.

Just because my best friend had started dating a vampire—and been drawn further and further into a world that seemed bent on killing her—didn’t mean I wouldn’t do everything in my power to help her.

And right now, she wasn’t doing too well. Apparently, one of her direct ancestors had been attacked by a very powerful vampire, one who’d been thought to have perished ages ago. But now he’d resurfaced, and Isa was experiencing side effects from it. Odd dreams and lethargy being the least of them.

That was my understanding of the issue. The Circle had other ideas. 

“What’s the problem?”

“You remember the Circle,” he said, and I grimaced. Yeah, I remembered them—the organization of witches that basically wanted to run the supernatural world, and the ones who’d taken issue with some of my critiques of said world. It was kind of hard to forget, since Isa and I had fought over her decision to work with them, among other things. The fight had culminated in some fairly harsh things being said on both sides—but I didn’t like to think about that.

Suffice to say, I disliked the Circle and the feeling was mutual.

“What about them?” I said, as neutrally as I could manage.

“They have a lead on Isa’s condition,” he said, “but it involves a trip to the Underworld.”

After a polite pause, in which I gave him ample time to crack a smile at his joke, I reluctantly concluded that he was being serious. “Underworld? As in Hades and the three Fates? Hercules?” I’d really only ever seen the Disney movie.

“Hades, Annwn, Hel, Yomi, Elysium—whatever name you call it by, yes. There’s a key there that might help in a ritual, apparently. Something about using a key from the land of the dead to break the connection between her blood and the vampire’s. Sometime in the next week, the Circle—and Isa—are going to try to summon this key. I’d really rather avoid the risks of Isa attracting the kinds of beings that populate the Underworld, and so I’m proposing to nip in and retrieve it before this becomes a mess of drastic proportions.”

I crossed my arms and resisted the urge to curl up on the couch. It wasn’t that cold, even for October. “Okay. So what do you need me for?”

He gave me a long look. “You’ve heard of Orpheus?”

I shook my head. 

“The state of education is shameful, these days,” he muttered. “To cut a long story short—Orpheus was a musician whose wife died. He traveled to the Underworld to ask for her life back. He got it, but at a price. On the way up, if he turned to look back at her, she’d be lost to him forever. Three guesses as to how the story ends.”

“With the redemptive power of love and faith leading to a happy ending?” I said defiantly.

“Wrong. He looks back just once, and no more wife. She was sent back to the underworld forever. Then he died.”

“Of grief?”

“No, actually, he got ripped apart by a group of madwomen later in his life. For disrespecting the gods, I believe. But I digress.”

I slouched back, the soft cushion of the couch dipping under my weight. “That’s a terrible story.”

“The point is, that you must have heard of any number of stories where human champions descend underground to a supernatural world. Alice in Wonderland? Labyrinth?” He caught my surprised look at the casual references to modern fiction and arched an eyebrow. “I’ve lived a long while. You fill up the time somehow, and television’s everywhere now.”

I tried to imagine Malachy sitting in front of the TV, watching as the cartoon Alice in her poofy blue dress spoke to Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and couldn’t quite manage it. For one, where’d he get the TV from? It’s not like he had a house—would the cable guys set one up in a crypt?

Did he even live in a crypt? When he wasn’t crashing on Isa’s couch, I mean.

“The point is that getting to the Underworld’s not so bad, dangers and guardians notwithstanding. In some cases, it’s disturbingly easy to do so. It’s getting out that’s the problem. See, you need someone who…well. Can withstand temptation. Strong moral character, and all that.”

“…” said I, staring at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Some people would take that as a compliment.”

“Wow, the undead creature of the night that makes it a habit to drain people of all their blood thinks I have strong moral character because I—tell him that what he does is wrong? Amazing. I’m truly astounded you managed to find one person to fit your criteria with that level of moral understanding.”

Then again, it was a world that apparently thought vampires were sexy precisely because of the undead blood-drinking thing, so maybe he had something there. Case in point: every time I went to the internet to research supernatural creatures, I had to wade through pages of supernatural romance shows, books, art, what-have-you, before I ever got to what might be considered even slightly academic. If not practical—somehow I doubted that the researchers at Harvard had ever had to deal with the problem of a vampire inviting himself over to tea once a week. I declined to share this thought with him, however.

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Well? Will you do it?”

“What kind of temptation are we talking about here?” I was reluctant to commit, even though I knew in the end I’d do it.

“Any and all.”

Helpful.

Actually, I’d share that thought with him. “Helpful,” I said. “Elaborate?”

Malachy gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Death’s more attractive than you might think. And if not that, then fear.”

“Of…?”

“The unknown? Being left behind? Of it all being a trick? Remember, Orpheus turned around.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And the chances of getting out?”

He gave me his most charming smile. “I have every confidence in your talents, Lili.”

I arched an eyebrow of my own.

“Being the most stubborn, uptight, Miss-Morally-Righteous woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet in death,” he said, still smiling. “Also, you know, very strong belief. And you know how important that is, when it comes to my world.”

I did. Crosses, as far as I understood, hurt vampires—at least the kind I was familiar with—because (depending on what belief one subscribed to) they symbolized the resurrection of the dead, which vampires couldn’t partake in due to their unnatural state, or the power of God, or Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross. Explanations varied. 

While crosses and other holy objects (Christian, so far as I had experienced—jury was still out on other religions, though with Malachy’s reveal of different kinds of vampires, now I wondered) all had the ability to make vampires flinch back, it was the item holder’s faith that gave it real power. And it wasn’t just faith in the item, but what it represented.

Months ago, Malachy had seen me keep back a vampire with nothing more than the Sign of the Cross and two popsicle sticks held in a cross shape. So I suppose to him, that was a sign—no pun intended—of my strong faith.

I wasn’t so sure about that. Somehow, I didn’t think that being able to hold back creatures of the night was more faith-filled than, say, volunteering my time at a soup kitchen, or helping old ladies cross the street, or any number of good works that I could be doing instead of coming home at the end of a day filled with classes and multiple shifts, collapsing on my bed, and promptly passing out, repeat ad nauseam.

But there wasn’t really any point to having a theological debate with this particular vampire about anything, much less Matthew 7:21-23.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

That really should have been the end of it. I told him I didn’t have a day off until Saturday, two days from then (and conveniently for me, the day after Theresa’s birthday party, because there was no way I was planning, hosting, and then cleaning up a party for middle-schoolers after literally going to Hades). We set a time, he told me what to bring, and that was that.

Only it wasn’t.

Because Friday afternoon was when the school called to tell me Theresa went missing.

The first thing I did was—well. Panic, to be frank. This wasn’t the first time Theresa had gotten in trouble, and since the last time it had happened, it had involved a vampire of the non-Malachy variety—that is to say, not reasonable in any way and really rather bloodthirsty—I felt I was a little justified in doing so. Then, of course, I searched the house, called the school back, did all the normal things to check if her disappearance was due to something, well, normal.

Then, and only then, I called Isa.

The phone rang, and rang, and then—click!

My hopes were dashed when the voice I heard was the pre-recorded kind. I left a message, and then for good measure, texted her—though Isa had a flip phone, so I didn’t have real hopes of her texting back. And then I immediately called again. And again.

The other line connected, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Isa. I know it’s not a great time, but—”

“She walks through the long dread valley of night,

hand-in-hand with the hunter and his queen.

She sleeps under snow, she sleeps under ice—

and she fades away from the springtime green.”

The voice on the other end was soft—almost mechanical in its recitation. Yet there was something mesmerizing in the quiet rhythm of the words, hardly discernable through the crackling of the poor connection. As soon as the last word was spoken, the voice started over from the beginning. I don’t know how long I stood there, listening to the strange voice.

In fact, I was still listening, transfixed, when I sensed something behind me.

I whipped around, one of the kitchen knives in hand, to find Malachy regarding me with a raised eyebrow. Without lowering the knife, I lifted the phone away from my ear. I could still hear the voice tinnily in the background. “What was the last thing I said to you when you were over here on Monday?”

“It was Thursday, and I believe it was the equivalent of, ‘go back to whatever hell you spawned from,’ only the politer equivalent due to attentive young ears,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in the banter. “Have you heard from Isa?”

Damn. So it was really him. With trembling fingers, I put the knife back in the block. “No. I’ve been calling. Listen to this.”

Without the usual malicious pleasure I would have taken in doing so, I shoved the phone up next to his ear. 

He listened to it a few times, ended the call, and scrubbed at his face, which was looking a little paler than usual. For a corpse, at any rate. “She’s missing.”

“So’s Theresa,” I said, feeling cold. I put the phone away, reluctant to even look at it. It was strange to have something so obviously supernatural happen over such a modern device as the phone. “What do you think is going on?”

“I found out that the Circle was ahead of schedule and carried out their ritual at midnight. Apparently, they lost track of Isa at noon today.” He said this in a way that indicated to me that someone in the Circle had been left very unhappy when he discovered this. “When did your sister go missing?”

“I don’t know the exact time, but the school called me around one.”

“Not promising.”

“Do you think—”

“—it’s related? Probably. At least, you’d better hope, because I only know a potential method to track Isa, not your little tagalong.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Where do you think—?”

“Better grab your jacket,” he said. “Looks like we’re making an early start on our road trip to Hell.”

[livingwellnessblog]

The ego, and divine consciousness as told by the Ramayana. (How to work with the ego in manifesting and spirituality)

HANUMAN CHALISA & the ego “People don’t know,  every line of the Hanuman Chalisa is a mahamantra. “ – Sri Neem Karoli Baba In the Ramayana, the exiled Lord Rama and his wife, Sita, take refuge in the forest. They are living happily as hermits when the demon king of Lanka, Ravana, discovers them and abducts Sita, beginning a great war. As with all great parables, the surface level of the story…

[talonabraxas]

Moksha Talon Abraxas

Moksha is the summum bonum of life. Moksha is the fulfilment of life's purpose. Life ends on this earth plane when you attain Moksha or liberation from birth and death. The realisation of your real object in life is freedom or Moksha. Moksha bestows on you eternal life of undecaying bliss and perennial joy. Moksha is not annihilation. Moksha is the annihilation of this little self-arrogating ego only. Moksha is realisation of the identity of the individual soul with the Supreme Soul. By annihilating this little self you possess the whole of true universality, you attain an eternal life.

Mukti is obtained through the knowledge of the Self. To attain Jnana, you must have one-pointedness of mind (Ekagrata). Ekagrata comes through Upasana. Upasana comes through purity of heart (Chitta Suddhi). Chitta Suddhi comes through Nishkamya Karma Yoga. To do Nishkamya Karma, you must have controlled the Indriyas. The Indriyas can be controlled through Viveka and Vairagya.

Moksha is not to be regarded as a becoming into something which previously had no existence. Moksha is not something to be achieved. It is already achieved. Everything is one with Absolute or Para Brahman. What is to be achieved is annihilation of the sense of separateness. Moksha is the direct perception of that which has existed from eternity, but has hitherto been concealed from us on account of the veil of ignorance. Moksha is attainment of the Supreme Bliss or Immortality and removal of all kinds of pain. Moksha is freedom from birth and death.

Freedom or Mukti is your only real nature. You will have to know this truth only through direct intuitive experience. You will have to cut asunder the veil of ignorance by meditation on the Self. Then you will shine in your original pristine purity and divine glory.

Brahman, Self, Purusha, Chaitanya, Consciousness, God, Atman, Immortality, Freedom, Perfection, Bliss, Bhuma or the unconditioned are synonymous terms. If you attain Self-realisation alone, will you be freed from the round of births and deaths and its concomitant evils. The goal of life is the attainment of the final beatitude or Moksha. Moksha can be attained by constant meditation with a heart that is rendered pure and steady by selfless service and Japa.

Moksha is the highest benefit, Parama Prayojana. Jnana is the benefit which one gets in the internal (Avantara Prayojana). Just as plantain fruit is the highest benefit which one gets, and the leaves, etc., are the Avantara Prayojana in the interval before one gets the fruit, so also Moksha is the highest benefit and Jnana is Avantara Prayojana. Jnana is only the means to attain the highest bliss.

The Jiva falsely superimposes the body and others which are not Self upon himself and identifies himself with them. This identification constitutes bondage. The freedom from this identification is Moksha. That which causes this identification is Avidya or nescience. That which removes the identification is Vidya. Attainment of knowledge of the Self eradicates this Avidya and its effects. The Svaroopa of Moksha is the attainment of Supreme Bliss and removal of all kinds of sufferings.

The right knowledge of Brahman consists in knowing that He is one with one's own self. The difference between the Jiva and the Brahman lies only in the Upadhi or limiting adjunct. The Jiva, though he is Brahman in reality or essence is subject to the miseries of worldly existence as caused by his connection with the Upadhi of Antahkarana or the fourfold mind (the inner instrument). As there is no real distinction between them, it should be known that Brahman is identical with the Self. Hence it is said that those who know the real truth understand Brahman to be identical with the Self as declared in the great sentences of the Upanishads or Mahavakyas: "I am Brahman"-"This Self is Brahman." They even teach the same thing to their disciple in the words: "Tat Tvam Asi-Thou art That." Therefore it should be known that Brahman is identical with the Self.

The knower of Brahman becomes Brahman itself. Having become Brahman while yet alive, he is freed from the round of birth and death. Knowledge of Brahman alone is the means of emancipation or Moksha. by Swami Sivananda

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

“I went to the gym, so I will be able to hold you up even longer” 🙌🏾🙌🏾🙌🏾

“I went to the gym, so I will be able to hold you up even longer” additional tags: (wrongly) assumed infidelity, miscommunication that gets resolved, this must be an au bc mickey would obv never interrupt his own sleep to leave the apartment

Mickey steps carefully into their apartment, taking great care to shut the door without being too loud. He closes it with barely a click. But nothing can prepare him for what happens next.

When Mickey turns, it’s like he’s stepped right into a 90s romantic drama, the single floor lamp clicking on to shine in a perfect spotlight, revealing where his husband is very much awake, and very much waiting for his return.

He’s sitting on the couch. Tucked up in his bathrobe and the most unimpressed frown.

“Fuck.”

“Who is he?”

Mickey glances from left to right. Behind himself. Looks at Ian again, his heart still pounding in his chest from the startle. “Who’s who?”

“Don’t gimme that.” And now Ian’s standing up, gathering his robe around himself as he prepares to fire off The Chin. “You disappear every night - yes, I noticed,” he states before Mickey can interrupt. “Bring a bag with you… Come home sweaty… I know you think you’re sneaky, but you’re fucking bad at hiding this, Mickey.”

It takes a second for everything to sink in. For the endorphins from the last couple hours to start pumping upward into his brain this time. 

And… Damn.

Ian caught him.

To be perfectly honest, Mickey thought he was getting away with this shit - was being real cagey and everything too - even getting a shower in before sliding back into bed with him.

“Two hours. That enough to meet up with him and do what you gotta do?”

Meet up with who? Yeah right. “You think I can get somebody out at this hour?” Mickey asks, his confusion starting to put him on edge. “Been doing this shit all on my own. Well-... I mean ‘cept for the other handful of guys who show up sometimes…”

And the way Ian’s eyebrows rise is almost as startling as how he stops in his tracks, repeating the words back to him with dragged out intensity. “‘Handful of guys’...?”

It’s got Mickey slugging his bag off his shoulder, the dramatics of it all really killing his high. “Christ, Ian. What’re you bein’ so bitchy for-”

“What am I being bitchy for.” There he goes again, repeating shit. Like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Mickey are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah - what - I was doin’ this shit for you, anyway. Thought you’d at least be excited about it.”

Oh. Fuck. Ian does not like that. “Excited?” Off comes the robe, in a flurry of angry movements. He’s running hot, and not in a good way. “Why the fuck would I be excited about my husband cheating on me!”

And it’s-...

He’s-...

Wait a second.

“What?”

“You thought you could go out every night and meet up with a ‘handful of guys’ and I’d be jumping for joy?” He sure is using air quotes like he’s having a good time with it, but no no no-

“What the-...” Mickey shakes his head, trying to clear the air because holy fuck, “I ain’t fuckin’ cheating on you, Ian - the hell?”

“You just said-” 

“Christ, you think I’m out bangin’ other dudes?”

“Wuh-...! You-...!”

Mickey rubs a hand over his mouth, everything suddenly making a whole lot of sense. The dramatics. The theater of it all. Ian was catching him coming home from the act, but ‘the act’ ended up being two very different things in their respective heads.

“Holy shit,” Mickey breathes out, going for his bag so he can put that thought immediately out of Ian’s head. “Look.”

He tugs the zipper open. Starts dumping out its contents on the floor right between them - his gym shoes - his old-ass iPod - a workout shirt - socks that stink so bad that they’re all he really needed to avoid all this. One whiff would’ve immediately made things clear.

But it’s enough now. Ian is slowly putting all the pieces together, the worry in his brow evening out and his chin returning to normal pointedness. Finally.

“You…” you says, hope returning. “You’ve been…going to the gym…?”

Mickey gestures to the pile of clothes in between them, his tone evening into something honest. “Yeah, man. Thought you wouldn’t notice once you knocked out…”

Ian eyes over everything one more time. Then slowly, his lips pull into a small pout, those eyes flicking away. “I notice every time you’re not in bed.” ‘Bitch.’ He wants to add it so bad. Mickey can practically see it trying to break through.

But he doesn’t. And there’s something so sheepish and honest and vulnerable about it, that Mickey can’t help but smile, peace returning as he stuffs his clothes and shoes back into his bag. “Fuck would I ever cheat on you for, ya dummy?”

A beat passes. Thoughts lingering. “I dunno… I just thought-...” 

“Well stop.” It sure makes a lot of sense, though. Now that he sees it through that lens. Fuck, he’d probably think the same thing if their roles were switched. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to getchya all riled up…”

“S’okay…” Ian watches as Mickey gets himself sorted. Still has a lot of questions trying to get out - he can tell. And it starts with this one. “What do you mean you were doing this for me?”

It’s the correct one - right away. And Mickey’s glad he asked, actually. Because if he must know…

The floorboards creak beneath his shoes as he steps up into Ian’s space, his muscles warmed up and ready enough to finally show off his skills. 

And when he does it - when he wrangles his giant-ass husband in and hauls him up until he's got those thick thighs straddling his waist, Ian’s startle and wide eyes say it all as Mickey slots him up against the wall - all two hundred pounds - keeping him held up in his arms.

“Been goin’ to the gym so I can lift ya,” he preens, impressed with his own strength.

Because he’s been working for this moment. For the look of sheer shock in Ian’s eyes from the rush of it - how it simmers into delight and pride and something much, much steamier the longer he holds him up.

And damn, that little breathy, impressed laugh that huffs out between them. “Fuck, Mick…”

Oh yeah. This is what all that 2am weightlifting has been for.

“You like that, huh?” Mickey grins, the atmosphere shifting familiar and fun - heavy in a good way. “This do it for ya?”

From his arms, Ian nods, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he takes a second to eat Mickey up with his eyes, those big arms wrapping around the back of his neck. 

He probably thought he was doing a decent job at hiding how hot he gets with this - when Mickey can make him feel small and moveable. 

They’re both absolute dogshit at keeping secrets, it turns out.

[ send me a smutty one-liner ]