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anto-pops · 15 days ago

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Crimson Dominion - Sylus x Female!Reader

Summary: You and Sylus have a routine. It’s one borne of months spent coexisting with one another, and one that you’ve easily grown accustomed to. Even though your life with him in the chapel is all a means to an end— an end that involves him devouring your soul— you would be lying if you said you weren’t comfortable and complacent with the dynamic. That’s why when you find him behaving abnormally in the bowels of your shared home, you can’t help but draw closer to the peculiar sight… and upon discovering the truth, there’s no stopping yourself from selfishly caving to the desires of your lust-drunk dragon.

Alternatively summarized as Sylus goes into his dragon rut and has freaky, animalistic sex with you.

Word Count: 9.3k

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, dragon!Sylus, dragon ruts/heat cycles, biting/scratching, knotting, possessive behavior, rough sex, size difference

Full fic is now up on Ao3 (with more diverse tags, as per usual)

Something was off.

It was hard to put your finger on what exactly it was, though. Everything within the chapel looked the same; the candelabras flickered dimly and cast dancing shadows against the walls, piles of treasures covered the ground, and the damp, wooden scent of the church pews filled the air. It was humid inside– more so than usual– and the stillness inside the chamber both unnerved and soothed you.

Your dragon was nowhere to be found.

His usual place atop the chancel at the front of the chapel was empty. You had grown accustomed to walking into the room to find him floating there listlessly– twirling a gold coin or some other bit of loot between his fingers while he hummed to himself and daydreamed. But this time, Sylus was absent as you glanced around the room, and you rubbed the sleep from your eyes as though that might help you to better locate him.

“Sylus?”

Your voice echoed throughout the cavernous room, and your call went unanswered. Strange. He was always relatively quick to come when you summoned him… where could he be?

The heels of your boots clicked softly against the marble floor as you strode to the front of the chapel. Sylus wasn’t hiding within the rows of pews, and he wasn’t behind the podium either. Maybe it was arrogant for you to assume as much, but he wouldn’t have gone out without telling you. He had been here earlier before you’d fallen asleep.

The cracked, stained glass windows behind the stage came into full view as you neared the back of the room, and you huffed in annoyance when your dragon still failed to reveal himself to you. “Sylus?” you called again, straining in your attempts to pick up on any sign of life within the church.

You couldn’t hear a thing, but suddenly a unique, heady scent flooded your nostrils.

The smell was somewhere between musky and smokey. It was too organic to be deemed soot-based, but also too bizarre to be something that was simply carried on the wind. Riding on the coattails of the fragrance was a spicy yet subtly sweet aroma that made a shiver course down your spine, and you found that as you breathed in deeply to take in more of the smell, your entire body seemed to respond to it. The hair on your arms stood straight, your stomach flipped over on itself, and one particular spot against your neck throbbed to life.

The nearly faded bite mark Sylus had bestowed upon you all those months ago felt as fresh as it had the day he’d given it to you, and you absentmindedly rubbed at it to ease the aching sensation.

Again, something was off.

“Sylus, quit ignoring me and come out,” you snapped with frustration. Agitation that hadn’t existed five minutes ago ran rampant through your veins– a sudden restlessness coming to life and prompting you to search for the silver haired dragon with newfound verve. There were only so many places he could hide within the chapel. Despite evidence to the contrary, you had a feeling he was still here. It wasn’t like him to up and vanish without a word to you, and strangely enough, that smell…

He was here. You knew it deep in your bones.

A handful of tiny rooms lined the far side of the church, so you started throwing open the doors one after another in the hopes of finding him inside of one. Four vacant closets were all you were met with, however, and you sighed loudly when the weirdly appealing scent got fainter and fainter the farther you moved away from the stage. You weren’t a dog. Following your nose seemed like the stupidest idea– especially when there was no guarantee that it was even coming from Sylus in the first place. But some inherent part of you assumed as much– no, knew as much. Whatever the fragrance was, it belonged to him.

You made your way back to the stage, reassured by the growing potency of the unique scent. There were no other doors behind the stage, nor was there any likelihood of your dragon being outside this time of night. There wasn’t a chance that you were smelling him through the windows– the very thought of it was balmy and ridiculous. But after scouring every corner, every wall, and even glancing up at the ceiling at the support beams running parallel to the floor, you found nothing.

Where the hell was he? More importantly, why were you so desperate to find him? That smell was driving you berserk.

Shaking your head to yourself, you glanced down at the floor dejectedly, on the brink of accepting defeat and returning to the curtained off alcove you called your bedchamber. But then something caught your eye– something you had failed to notice in the past due to the mountains of loot that normally covered the floors behind the chancel.

A trapdoor.

The consolidated pile of treasure that had sat on top of it before now was spread thin off to the side of the hatch. It was as if Sylus had clawed all of it aside to gain access to the lower levels of the church, the messy state of everything leaving you to believe that he had moved in a rushed, frantic manner. Odd.

The peculiarity of the situation was overlooked entirely by the sense of calm that washed over you. You had found him. The tantalizing, bewitching aroma that had called to you like a siren’s song was strongest above the trapdoor, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that when you made your way inside, you would find your dragon.

You had expected to be met with a ladder or a narrow staircase upon opening the hatch, but instead you discovered nothing. It was a straight drop down into a dark, musty abyss, but the minimal light that poured into the opening revealed that it was only about an eight foot plummet. Ripping your boots off, you set them beside the scattered pile of gold next to you, then swung your legs over the edge. The muscles in your arms screamed in protest as you slowly, carefully, eased yourself into the hole until you were dangling completely from the edge, and you suppressed the urge to scream when you let go.

To say you landed gracefully would be a lie, but there were no witnesses to counteract the claim.

It was dark down here– much darker than you had been expecting– but the skinny corridor you found yourself now standing in only led in one direction, and the enticing scent you had been chasing after for so long was stronger. You kept one hand on the side of the wall as you padded forward quietly, narrowing your eyes as you trudged deeper and farther into the unknown area of the chapel.

Before long, there was light. Flickering, shifting firelight that emanated from torches you could see at the end of the passage. As you neared the end of the dark hallway, a muffled, disembodied sound reached your ears and prompted you to halt in your tracks.

Someone was groaning. Sylus.

Your eagerness to see him couldn’t outweigh your caution, though. Silent as a wraith, you peered around the corner of the corridor and scanned the interior of the basement. At least, you figured it was a basement. A strange one with no ladder or staircase to easily access. The underground chamber was starkly different from upstairs, primarily because there were no glittering piles of gold loot or gems. It made the space look rather dull, in your opinion.

There were lots of soft things, however. Velveteen pillows, cotton throw blankets, and colorful tapestries that had been laid out to maximize the comfort one could derive from residing in such a dreary place.

In the center of the makeshift nest was Sylus.

He was sprawled out on his side with his back to you, and his long, powerful tail was curled around himself protectively. The pants he usually wore were hanging low on his hips, revealing parts of his body that you had never once glimpsed before. Your cheeks flushed in an instant at the sight, and in that moment, you considered that maybe you had made a mistake in seeking him out.

Was he ill? He was still groaning– albeit rather softly. His skin looked damp as well, as though a thin sheen of sweat covered the entirety of his figure, and– was he twitching? His arm was moving a little.

It was the thought of your dragon being sick that spurred you into motion. You stepped out of the corridor and silently made your way towards him, taking care not to make a sound so you wouldn’t startle him. Not that the chances of that happening were very high– you could never sneak up on Sylus. He had a sixth sense dedicated solely to thwarting your attempts at getting the jump on him.

Once you were roughly five feet away from him, you stopped in your tracks again. He was still letting loose choked groans and writhing slightly against the floor, but there was also something else. A wet, squelching sound that made your eyes go wide and your breathing hitch in your throat. From your vantage point over him, you were made aware startlingly fast what was contributing to the new noises.

Sylus… he had his cock clenched tight in his fist. His wrist moved furiously as he worked his hand up and down the painfully hard shaft, and from over his shoulder, you could see opaque wet stains that adorned the dark blanket beneath him.

What… what had you just walked in on?

You weren’t as careful when you stepped back as you had been while approaching. Your heel connected roughly with the ground, prompting Sylus to go rigid as his hand stilled against his cock. Then, almost in slow motion, his neck craned backwards so he could fix his narrowed, red eyes on your frozen form.

For a few heated seconds, the two of you just stared at one another. Your face was undoubtedly beet red– your lips parted as you scrambled to find the right words to speak. Did you apologize? Did you ask if he was alright? What was the correct thing to do in this situation?

Sylus, on the other hand, looked strangely impassive. Apart from the heady flush that covered his cheeks and stretched down to his chest, he seemed relatively calm. His crimson eyes– while usually sharp and piercing– were presently hooded and tired looking. They seemed to brighten when they landed on you though, and at the same time you managed to weakly croak, “I-I’m sorry–”, Sylus growled.

Shit.

Your previous assumption that he was tired went right out the fucking window in the next second. With inhuman speed, Sylus shot up from the collection of blankets to coil his arms around your waist, then hauled you down so you were half-draped, half-kneeling over him. You remedied the half-draped part of your position remarkably quickly, because for a few blood-chilling seconds, the lower part of your body had been flush to his arched cock– so much so that you had felt it pulse against you through the fabric of your dress.

Another animalistic sound reverberated through his chest as you pushed yourself up so you were no longer pressed against his sternum, but that was as far as you made it before the dragon’s arms tightened around you. “Sylus– what’s wrong with you?”

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” His voice was low and sultry, laced with unmistakable arousal that had heat pooling in your gut. That, in addition to the inescapable scent wafting from him, was quickly making your mind feel hazy. This wasn’t normal… something was making you feel like this. Something unnatural. “I came all the way down here to keep you away from me, but you’ve ruined all my hard work.”

One of his hands skirted up your back and pressed down against your spine, forcing you to arch into him as he leaned up to bury his nose in your neck. His next intake of breath was deep, shaking both him and yourself to your very cores, and you felt his nails dig into your hips through your dress as he exhaled gruffly. “I shouldn’t have intruded,” you mumbled, bracing one of your hands against his chest to push him back. It didn’t escape your notice that the only reason you succeeded in shoving him away was because he let you. “I-I’ll leave. I’m sorry for–”

“Don’t go.”

You blinked down at him in wonder. You had never seen your dragon so… out of sorts. It was an understatement, certainly, but there was no other way to describe his demeanor. Prone atop the floor, Sylus looked up at you through his long lashes, his cheeks still violently flushed and his chest rising and falling rapidly. His arms were no longer crushing you to him, but his hands remained stubbornly planted on your waist in his attempts to hold you in place. Nevermind the fact that his cock was still out– literally a hairs-width away from your core beneath the folds of your dress.

Aside from your undergarments, there was next to nothing separating your most intimate place from his.

“I…” you trailed off, averting your stare to the corridor you had come through earlier. “I don’t think I should stay. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re not yourself.”

“I’m more myself than I’ve ever been,” he countered smoothly, intensifying his grip on your hips as he dug his heels into the blankets. “It’s in my nature to be driven mad with lust every few months. It’s what you might call an unfortunate side effect for my kind.”

Almost testingly, you shifted your hips back to try climbing off of him. His fingers may as well have been barbed shackles for all the good your attempt was. Puzzled, you murmured, “Side effect? Of what? Being a dragon?”

“In a vague sense, yes…” Sylus swallowed thickly as a shudder wracked his body– so fierce that you had to plant your other palm against his chest to keep yourself from toppling over. God, it was like he was drunk. He gritted his teeth together and cracked open his bleary eyes to stare at you again, and the next wave of his scent washed over you with the force of a tidal wave. “More specifically, it’s a side effect of a dragon’s rut.”

Oh.

You had read about such things once. At the time, you had naturally assumed it was fiction– a made up aspect of equally made up fairy tales told to children before they went to bed. But considering that dragons were very much real creatures that had once rivaled mankind’s population, of course the rest of the stories would be true as well.

A dragon’s rut. A period of time when the creatures in question were inhabited by one, prudent thought above all others.

Reproduce.

“All the more reason for me to go,” you forced the words from your throat with the last bit of resolve you could muster up. Between Sylus’ branding touch against your hips and the way his scent was akin to an airborne aphrodisiac, you knew your willpower wouldn’t last long. Your affection for your dragon was a very real thing, but time after time, he had rebuffed your inquiries about his thoughts on love. Companionship to him was a foreign concept– something that went hand in hand with his solitary nature. You had made your peace with that months ago and resigned yourself to a short lifetime of simply being in his company before he inevitably devoured your soul.

Or at least, you thought you had.

It was hard to think about much of anything right now.

Sylus sighed heavily, and the sound seemed to banish a degree of his self-control. Without giving you a moment to process his moves, he sat up and flipped the two of you over, caging you against the floor between his trembling arms and sliding one of his knees between your legs. You could only gasp when he burrowed his face in the crook of your shoulder, the warm, wet feeling of his tongue laving over your pulse making your mind go blank.

“Can’t you feel it?” His husky voice was muffled against the spit-slick skin of your neck. “Can’t you feel how desperately I need you? Can you smell it?”

S-Smell it…?

You made a small sound of confirmation at the back of your throat, at which point one of Sylus’ hands began trailing up your thigh, pushing more and more of your dress up your legs. “That smell… is my pheromones. Under normal circumstances, it would attract another dragon to my side. But instead…” he nipped at your throat lightly, making you jolt underneath him as your arousal began to saturate your undergarments. “It attracted you.”

Words failed to form on your tongue as Sylus brazenly sank his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. A cry that was equal parts pained and surprised burst from your lips, and a low, rumbling growl was the dragon’s only sound of acknowledgment. Sharp, deadly claws trailed against your thigh, the tips of his nails catching on the fabric of your dress as it was hoisted high up your legs, and the material pooled below your navel before Sylus hooked a finger under the flimsy band of your underwear.

His breath was hot against your skin when he whispered against your neck, “You’ll let me have you, right? Your soul is already promised to me, but what about your body?”

Fuck– you were positive you would agree to just about anything if it meant the ache between your legs could be sated. Every fiber of Sylus’ being oozed seduction; his handsome face, his ardent touch, his mind numbing scent. You wanted to throw caution to the wind and let him indulge in his thirst for you, because you selfishly wanted to experience everything he had to offer.

What you had witnessed upon walking into the room had shocked you, but it had also piqued your curiosity immeasurably.

You must have taken too long to respond, because Sylus pulled away from your throat with a winded sigh. The finger coiled around your underwear tugged imploringly, and when the dragon finally deigned to look at you again, his eyes were narrowed with barely there restraint. His tongue darted out to wet his plush, red lips, and it was at that moment you were able to see his hunger with startling clarity.

Against your better judgement, you picked your head up to peer down at the leaking, solid length of him. It was evident that his efforts at relieving himself earlier hadn’t done much good. One would think that the spend covering the blankets meant that he had quelled his urges, but with how hard he clearly still was, his attempts had more than likely only staved off a persistent ache.

Without thinking, you lifted a shaky hand to wrap your fingers around his cock, the entirety of it pulsing fervently in your grip. A strangled hiss slipped through Sylus’ teeth as his eyes squeezed shut at the minor stimulation your touch granted him, and you decided to take things a step further by cautiously swiping your thumb over the slick, swollen head.

Sylus let loose an animalistic snarl that tore through the room and made you jolt. Then he was moving– pulling away from your touch and settling back on his haunches so he could rip your underwear down your legs with the lone finger he gripped them with.

“God,” you gasped. You instinctively covered your exposed center with your hands and pressed your knees together, “You don’t have to be so rough.”

With feline grace, Sylus drew back farther before lowering his face so it was directly above your knees. Clawed fingers spread over the tops before gripping them firmly, and then he was pulling your thighs apart to reveal your already soaked core to himself. “Do you have any idea how delicious you smell right now?”

“I– what?” You couldn't help but stammer brainlessly, blood rushing into your cheeks in response to the sinful line of questioning. “You’re insane.”

Sylus flashed you a wicked smirk, opting to silently prove your point by descending lower, lower, until his nose was nearly touching your wet folds. Then he breathed in deeply and shuddered. “It’s like the divine essence of the gods themselves. I wonder– does it taste as good as it smells?”

Your eyes went wider than saucers. No… there was no way he was going to–

Sylus’ lips parted for his tongue, the flat muscle laving a hard, pointed stripe right up your center, and the pressure he inflicted against your clit made you keen breathlessly. “Sy– wait, what are you–”

The dragon ignored you in favor of repeating the motion again, only this time he dipped the tip of his tongue inside of you to collect as much moisture as he possibly could. The feeling was surreal; it was hot and silky all at once, the sting of Sylus’ nails digging into your thighs harmonizing magically with the pleasure of his nose rubbing against your bundle of nerves. You gasped wantonly, your mind caving to the arousal that had been dogging at your heels since setting foot in the chamber. When your back bowed off of the floor to dimly press more of yourself onto his tongue, Sylus chuckled darkly and began feasting with uninhibited restraint.

Wet, sloppy sounds came from between your legs, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by it. Sylus certainly wasn’t. The way his mouth moved against your cunt was somewhere between calculated and arbitrary, but it was all entirely instinctual. The attention he bestowed against your clit synced perfectly with the hard, probing depths he reached with his tongue, and your head fell back against the blankets as you gasped in wonder.

“S-Sylus,” you moaned shakily. “Sylus, it feels so good.”

The dragon hummed his approval, withdrawing his tongue from your core so he could briefly suck your sensitive nub into his mouth before releasing it with an audible pop. The fleeting rush of pleasure disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, and directly against your folds, Sylus murmured, “Tastes just as good, too. Heavenly.”

His mouth was back on you before you could think to say something stupid. With newfound gusto, Sylus shamelessly licked, sucked, and kissed whatever parts of you he could get his lips on. It was maddening– so much so that your hands blindly shot away from the floor to land in his hair. The soft strands curled around your fingers as you gathered fistfuls of the silvery locs in your grip, pressing him harder against you in some feeble attempt to steer him deeper.

Another wave of that tantalizing scent of his came over you, and you swore up and down you saw stars. It truly was heavenly, and you wanted more.

You weakly tugged at his hair to get his attention, but Sylus was too distracted to pay you any mind. He groaned eagerly and let his jaw go slack, swiping his tongue over every inch of your wet skin to collect every last drop of slick that coated it. He was positively ravenous, and you tried yanking his hair again, only harder this time. “Sylus,” came your whiny plea. “Please.”

The needy timbre to your voice prompted his crimson eyes to fly open, and he looked up at you through his long, thick lashes with unparalleled lust.

The heat of his gaze set your blood alight in your veins, and you had to swallow around a growing lump in your throat. “Please,” you repeated shyly. “I want… I want to kiss you.”

For the first time since seeing him down here, Sylus looked perplexed. It was as though the concept of kissing hadn’t even crossed his mind, which made a little bit of sense considering he was a dragon… maybe he didn’t know how? But then he licked the remnants of your pleasure from his lips and let go of your legs, pushing himself up to seductively crawl over your prone form. He braced his arms on either side of your head, staring down at you with his piercing eyes almost appraisingly.

“You want to kiss me?” he asked in that deep, sultry voice of his. “Why?”

Despite the fact that he had just been lip-locked with your most private place, the thought of having to explain your request to him seemed largely more embarrassing. “…Do dragons not kiss each other when they do this?”

He cocked his head to the side, the move so primal and subhuman that you were reminded once again that even though he looked human, he was the farthest thing from it. “How would I know?”

“Do you know how to kiss?”

His lips pressed together to form a straight line that cut across his sharp features. Was that frustration of self-consciousness you detected? You couldn’t be sure. “I don’t make a habit of bedding people, so I can’t say I’m all that familiar with the concept.”

Ah, so it was awkwardness he was subtly displaying. For some reason, the realization made you smile– but Sylus didn’t seem thrilled with your sudden amusement. He tsk’d softly and looked towards the far wall with his brows furrowed, his sharp nails catching on the fibers of the blanket as they dug into the soft material. “I don’t see what’s so funny about me not knowing your silly, human customs. They’re irrelevant to me–”

“It’s not funny,” you interjected quickly, reaching up to cup his cheeks and turn his face back towards you. This time, your smile was of the reassuring variety, but doubt still twinkled in those gemstone-like eyes of his. “You were just making a cute face, that’s all. I can show you how… if you want to, that is.”

For a moment, it genuinely looked like the dragon was going to outright refuse. His jaw hardened beneath your palms, and the unyielding, stubborn glint in his irises made you believe that he would dismiss your offer entirely. But then he moved; slowly, Sylus lowered himself down onto his elbows so his face was mere inches away from yours, his nose crinkling with a quaint sort of bashfulness that you had never seen from him before.

Was this really the same being that had shamelessly hauled you down on top of him earlier? This version of your dragon was… softer. More uncertain. You couldn’t help but find it incredibly endearing.

Still smiling, you searched his eyes for any signs of discomfort or hesitation and found none. If anything, Sylus just looked expectant. He was waiting for you to make your next move, so you squashed your fears about upsetting him and pulled his face towards yours.

The kiss was… stiff. You could feel the tension radiating throughout Sylus’ body as he processed what you were doing, and in an attempt to get him to loosen up, you trailed one of your hands away from his cheek to cup the back of his neck. Your nails scratched lightly against the base of his skull and pulled a barely there groan from him– at which point you decided to be bolder.

Opening your mouth, you traced Sylus’ bottom lip with your tongue before probing cautiously at the seam– silently asking for him to grant you access. He took his time catering to your request, eventually relenting once he pieced together what it was you wanted, and the wet muscle swept through his mouth greedily. The dragon tasted of something smokey and sweet all at once– the flavor not all that different from the scent he’d been steadily giving off. It danced on your tastebuds marvelously, a tiny moan slithering free from your throat, and the minuscule sound seemed to spark something within Sylus, because he was kissing you back in the next instant.

His own tongue wrapped around yours as the pressure from his lips increased. Each of his movements was colored with a tinge of uncertainty, but it seemed to be mostly fueled by his desire to experiment. He wanted to get it right. He wanted to learn.

Pleased by his vigor, your hand on the back of his neck curled into a loose fist around his hair. Sylus made a sound– something halfway between a moan and a sigh– and you stole your opportunity to playfully bite at his bottom lip. You felt his back tense abruptly, his mouth halting its movements against yours, and you opened your eyes in a panic to see if you had accidentally done something wrong.

Sylus’ face was a blur as he quickly pulled away to knock your arm to the floor, pinning your wrist beside your head in one quick motion before he was back on you. Suddenly it was like he had known how to kiss all along; his mouth was everywhere. He sucked wetly on your bottom lip, then peppered hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, and finally surprised you by tugging at your earlobe with his sharp canines.

Maybe biting held a similar meaning to kissing for dragons, because you were quickly realizing that Sylus enjoyed having his teeth on you.

“S-So?” you stammered softly, tilting your head to the side to give him easier access to your neck. Sylus latched his lips over your pulse point to bite and suck at the skin there, your lashes fluttering in response to the sting, and it took a herculean effort for you to voice the rest of your question without groaning. “Did you like it?”

“It’s strange,” he muttered hotly against your throat. “But then again, so are humans. I could get used to it.”

It was as close to approval as you were going to get with him, so you hummed in acknowledgment and let your eyes drift shut. Sylus’ nails bit into your wrist with alarming strength– his full weight settling against you more and more as he dropped his hips so they were flush with yours– and you felt the wet, heavy length of his cock rest tellingly against your pelvis. Its mass should have scared you, especially considering you had already seen how big it was when you’d walked in on him earlier, but instead of apprehension taking root in your gut, you only felt the exhilaration of arousal.

The arm at your side slid coyly between your bodies so you could delicately stroke his shaft. Sylus’ breathing hitched in his throat, and when you teasingly ghosted the tip of your finger over the leaking head, he jolted. His gruff voice vibrated directly against your jaw when he lifted his head and growled, “I don’t think those priests were wrong for accusing you of being a sorceress.”

“Oh?” Your brow quirked up questioningly, your finger dexterously tracing featherlight shapes over the tip of Sylus’ cock. “Why is that?”

“Because you’re wicked.” His crimson eyes narrowed as he released your wrist to trap your hand to his shaft with blind precision, forcing the entirety of your palm to press against his member, and the sound he made at the stimulation was nothing short of perfection. The corner of his mouth curled as he purred, “What sinful little spells are you casting on me, hm? I can’t seem to get enough. You make me greedy.”

“Bold of you to talk about spells when you’re the one reeking of those phero-whatevers.”

“I can’t help that. You, on the other hand…” He buried his nose in the junction of your neck and shoulder, laving his tongue over the fading bite scar he had left there a lifetime ago before whispering against it, “For how insistent you were about leaving, you’re enjoying this quite a bit.”

To say your mind was swimming in lustful thoughts would be a monumental understatement. Even though Sylus wasn’t looking at you, you were positive he could hear your innermost desires. Over and over again in your head were iterations of “More” and “Take me”. How many times since meeting the dragon had you fantasized about exactly this happening? Not the rut part– that had taken you by surprise– but the rest of it?

You were a fool to believe that you had dealt with your unrequited feelings for Sylus. Maybe he would come to regret this moment later on when his rut was over, but that would be a problem for future-you to deal with. Right now, you wanted nothing more than to cave to your baser instincts and for Sylus to cave to his. You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and finally help scratch the itch that had been hounding you for months.

Emboldened by your internal acceptance, you laughed airily and did the only thing you could think of in that moment; you squeezed his cock imploringly, turning your head towards the sound of his guttural moan so you could murmur directly in his ear. “I’ll give my body to you, Sylus. So hurry up and do something with it.”

The next sequence of events happened so fast that you could barely comprehend them. Sylus growled and yanked you upright, his clawed fingers raking down the back of your dress and tearing the fabric open so he could free you from it. There was a muted stinging sensation against your spine where his nails had broken your skin, but that hardly seemed important when you caught sight of the ravenous, insatiable hunger on the dragon’s handsome face. Your breasts spilled out in full view as the attire pooled in a messy heap around your waist– though it didn’t stay there for long. It was soon ripped away and haphazardly tossed to the side of the room without a second glance, and then Sylus was pushing you back against the blankets.

Heavy, panted breaths sounded from him at an almost concerning pace. You blearily watched as he shoved his pants lower– evidently too impatient to take them off all the way– before one of his hands appeared against the underside of your jaw and forced you to look him square in the eyes.

“Don’t look away,” he instructed sternly. His hand remained where it was until you nodded, and only then did he release your face and plant his arms on either side of your waist to support himself.

The first bump of his cock against your entrance made you jump, but you followed his directions to the letter and kept your stare trained evenly on him. His right eye began to glow softly– the vibrant red stark against the flickering torchlight that illuminated the room– and he smirked to himself as he languidly slid his shaft tauntingly between your folds. “I knew it,” he growled. “You do like this.”

Patience was a forgotten thing as Sylus abruptly pressed into your cunt, your mouth falling open around a long, drawn out moan that shook the walls of the chamber. He was huge. It was unreal how thick he felt breaching you– the very air in your lungs stolen from you as your body instinctively tensed. Sylus bared his teeth as his eyes formed into thin slits, the heady flush decorating his skin deepening into the same shade as the gem centered on his chest as he stilled his hips. Something told you that it wasn’t for your benefit, though.

He looked like he was on the verge of losing control completely.

“Relax,” his head dipped between his shoulders to creep closer to yours, and a glimmer of something new in his eyes caught your attention.

Affection.

You stood corrected… maybe he was waiting for you.

“S-Sorry. You’re…” you swallowed thickly and planted your palms down on the blankets. “It’s really big…”

“It’s only going to get bigger, so don’t hold your breath like that.”

It was going to what? Your eyes went comically large, and his guideline to keep your gaze on his was momentarily forgotten as you looked down to where the two of you were connected. He wasn’t even all the way in yet! “You’re not serious, are you?”

Annoyance flashed across his face, his arms trembling with restraint as he held himself back from moving any further. “I don’t joke. Now breathe.”

You did as he asked, sucking in a shaky breath through your nose that rewarded you with a dizzying rush of his delectable pheromones. The aroma shot through you like a bolt of lightning, striking you deep in your loins and prompting your body to practically melt against the floor, and Sylus sighed above you as he felt your walls flutter around his cock. There had to be some sort of magic attributed to your reaction to the scent, because any discomfort you had felt previously was now nonexistent.

“Good,” Sylus rumbled proudly. One of his clawed hands lifted away from the floor to tilt your chin up, directing your eyes back to his as he shifted his hips forward ever so slightly. Inch after inch of his member slid home within your cunt, and even though your brain wanted to remain hung up on how mind-boggling the stretch was, you forced yourself to keep breathing. Whatever innate magic his pheromones performed on your body was working perfectly.

It didn’t take long for you to feel the hot, sweat-slick skin of his pelvis go flush against the backs of your thighs. Fully sheathed within your walls, Sylus groaned roughly and planted the hand under your chin beside your head. It was no secret that your dragon was strong; his large, toned body was littered with scars and lined with bulging veins that spoke volumes of his physical prowess. But being wholly beneath him like this– staring up at his broad shoulders, his thick neck, and watching the muscles in his arms shift beneath his skin– it made you feel incredibly small.

He was giant.

The realization also amplified your arousal tenfold, for some strange reason. Or maybe it was just his smokey scent diluting your mind with such corrupt thoughts. Either way, you allowed yourself to enjoy the sight of his powerful body moving over you as he grabbed your waist and reared his hips back again. Then without a moment of hesitation, Sylus slammed his cock into you, and your vision flashed white as a cry tore from your lips.

“F-Fuck, Sylus–”

He didn’t relent. Low, guttural sounds emanated from deep in his diaphragm as he pounded into you again, and again, and again. Sylus set a brutal pace right from the get-go, thrusting deep inside of your cunt with animalistic ferocity that reminded you how desperate he actually was. Having succeeded in his efforts to relax you, he had completely surrendered to the throes of his rut– grunting and snarling and digging his nails into your flesh as he practically pulled your body against his with every plunge of his cock.

It was an iniquitous display, but you relished in it all the same.

You were completely beside yourself. Your hands fisted in the stained blankets beneath you to hold on for dear life, your mouth falling open to let out loud, stuttering moans. You wanted to rock your hips back into Sylus’ movements, but at some point during the split second his cock withdrew all the way to the tip again, he’d manhandled your bottom half off of the floor. With your shoulder blades digging into the ground and your ass elevated in his bruising grip, the most you could do was writhe fitfully against the makeshift nest.

“Sylus, Sylus–” you gasped, your eyes rolling back when the head of his shaft struck something deep. Whatever it was, it had you seeing stars, and you desperately needed for him to do it again. “Sylus!”

You were met with a feral growl from him, his back hunching over as his hips snapped forward and punched another grating cry from your hoarse throat. Your spine arched more and your legs tensed on either side of his hips, and you heard your dragon huff brutishly before he was lowering your rear back to the floor. With quick, pointed movements, Sylus’ nails dragged along your thigh as he slung one of your legs over his shoulder, then pressed the other one against the blankets to spread you open obscenely wide. Then he was fucking into you again– so hard and so fast that it seemed like it shouldn’t be possible. The slap of his hips against your flushed, marked ass was loud, but it was completely overpowered by how shrill your screams were.

It was everything you’d wanted. Probably more so, because Sylus was ramming into you with insane stamina– moaning and growling and savagely marking your legs with his nails. You didn’t even have the brain power to beg for more. Every time he pulled back and left you nearly empty, he was fucking you open again not long after, the force of his thrusts jolting you along the floor and making a crumpled mess of the blankets beneath you. To further indulge your debauchery, you threw your hands over your head to try to find something– anything– to push against so you could rut back into Sylus’ cock, but all you managed to do was shove pillows and covers farther away.

Sylus chuckled darkly above you– a sound that made your stomach flip over on itself with how suggestive it was. His eyes were narrowed with pleasure, a half-smirk pulling at the corners of his cheshire-like lips, and he had the audacity to fucking hum, “If you want more, little sorceress, you’re going to have to beg me for it.”

God, did you ever. You wanted everything Sylus had to offer. In the time you had known your dragon, you had become an insatiable, greedy woman– shameless in your pursuit to fulfill your neverending desires. Seeing as you had already given him your body and your soul, there was no point in considering the cost. No price was too high to pay for pleasure like this.

“P-Please,” you croaked dryly, your voice garbled and raspy from shouting so much. “I want more. Please, give me more, Sylus.”

To your horror, Sylus slammed into you and stilled his hips completely, holding himself annoyingly still as he leaned forward so his face was a hairs-width away from yours. The angle practically bent you in half, but you weren’t given any time to dwell on it before he was murmuring, “You can do better than that. I know you can.”

The burning ache in your loins started to transform into a dull, unsatisfied throb, and you keened needily at the lack of stimulation. It was torture. You were certain you looked crestfallen, because Sylus grinned wickedly at whatever expression spread across your face and continued to hold his hips still.

Fine. You would give the conniving bastard exactly what he wanted, but you would make him pay for making you wait. In an act of complete submission, you licked your lips and bared your throat to him, then used your lower muscles to tighten your innermost walls around his pulsing cock.

Sylus’ reaction was instantaneous; his mouth fell open around a stuttering groan, a violent shudder rolling over him and prompting his nails to dig into your skin harder, and his half-lidded eyes seemed to bore deep into your very soul when he fixed them on you. “You…”

“Come on, Stayrus. My dragon, please– I want more. I want you to give me everything,” you pleaded brazenly, reaching down to wrap your fingers around his thick wrist where it was still planted against your pinned knee. You knew you would get what you wanted just from using his real name alone, but you still decided to add fuel to the fire. “It hurts, doesn’t it? So don’t wait anymore– just take what you want. I’m yours, Sylus, all yours.”

Sylus’ crimson eyes went dark as his pupils dilated, only a thin ring of red showing before a ferocious sound came from deep in his chest. You were moderately surprised when he chose to close the gap between the two of you to kiss you again, although it was far from a gentle affair. Sharp canines clamped down on your bottom lip as Sylus bit and sucked at the soft bit of skin until you tasted iron, and then his own tongue darted out to lave over the tiny wound.

“Mine,” he growled, his mouth descending lower to plant one lone bite against the same spot he had months earlier. “All mine.”

The potency of his declaration was overshadowed by how fast he reared his hips back before slamming them forward again. More of Sylus’ weight pressed down on the leg he held against the floor, but only for a moment. Just as the pressure started to border on painful, he snatched the limb up and tucked it against his side, pinning it there with his arm so your lower half was completely restrained at his mercy. When he deigned to start pounding into you again, you were almost tempted to start praying.

Sylus held you securely in his grip in an act of complete possession, fucking into you harder and faster as his long, firm thrusts transformed into deeper ones accompanied by grinding rutting. The new position drove the swollen head of his cock against that same spot from before– so fast and so intense that it almost knocked you out. Your throat felt raw as you threw your head back and cried out his name, the sheer ecstasy overtaking you comparable to nothing on this Earth. Your brain was melting as you burned hotter, the knot of pleasure in the pit of your stomach constricting more and more, and Sylus let loose a loud, rumbling groan when your cunt started to clamp down on his cock.

Wait, no. It wasn’t that you were tightening around him… he was getting bigger.

You could feel your walls stretching wider with every toe-curling thrust Sylus bestowed upon you, and your startled gasp was muted by the sordid sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin. “Sy– I– Sylus, w-wait–”

“I can’t wait anymore,” he snarled viciously, his head falling back between his shoulders and sending strands of silvery hair across his forehead. “Fuck, you’re intoxicating.”

There was no way you were imagining it; the base of his cock was swelling. Your body was left with no choice but to conform to the new shape entering it at a rapid, mind-numbing pace, and your next breath was cut short when he struck that sensitive, spongy spot deep inside of you again. “Sylu– ah!”

“Breathe,” he commanded sharply, his lust-dark eyes boring down on you as his grip on your legs turned bruising. You could see the litany of scratches that covered your thighs and your hips now that he was holding you up, but the only thing you could wholly focus on was how full you were quickly becoming. If he had been big before, now he was massive. His eyes pinched shut, and it seemed like he had to force the rest of his sentence out through sheer force of will. “Just breathe– you can handle it.”

You begged to differ. It felt insane– like his cock was swiftly taking up any remaining space inside your body and making it impossible for oxygen to reach your lungs. You still tried, though. Through your nose and your mouth, you inhaled as deep as you were able, the air tinged with Sylus’ familiar smokey-sweet scent. His pheromones. The aroma somehow helped your body to relax, and your abdominal muscles untensed enough that the stinging stretch of your cunt shifted into something more enjoyable.

It was a dizzying sensation, and Sylus stared down at you unblinkingly as your expression went from alarmed to serene. “That’s it… good girl,” he groaned, punctuating the praise with a harsh buck of his hips. “You fit me so well, little sorceress. It’s like you were made for me.”

If you could form words at all anymore, you would have wholeheartedly agreed. You were made for him. You were his, and he was yours– your dragon. A cacophony of sinful noises spilled from Sylus’ open mouth as he spread his knees to give himself better leverage, fucking into you so fiercely that you knew he was close. The swollen base of his cock steadily grew larger, the stretch so absurd that you blearily wondered if your body would be able to revert back to its natural state when all was said and done. The thought was fleeting and irrelevant, however, as you were reduced to a drooling, boneless wreck in response to his blunt head assaulting your sweet spot over and over and over.

It was pure rapture– absolute euphoria– and the tight coil in your gut that had been on the verge of snapping for far too long finally came undone.

You wailed as you came, though there was a fairly good chance that any words you tried to speak were unintelligible. It was like your entire being– body, mind, and soul– ascended to some higher plane as your climax crashed over you. Between Sylus’ scent flooding your head and his brutal pace growing faster, it felt like you came and then kept coming. Your legs shook in his arms, and Sylus swore viciously as he held you through all of it.

After a few strained thrusts, Sylus followed you right over the edge. He fully sheathed himself within your trembling walls and roared, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous room so loudly that you knew if anyone were upstairs inside the chapel, they would have heard him. Through the waves of pleasure that rolled over you, you became keenly aware of the base of his cock swelling within you, and the uneven thrusts that had followed his animalistic cry transformed into shallow grinding.

He was locked in place. You could feel your body enveloping his girth– stretched so tight around him that the tiniest movements made you whimper and twitch beneath him. You could never have anticipated something like this happening when you’d walked in on him earlier, but you were having a difficult time regretting your impulsive decision to seek him out.

Sylus pressed his hips against you harder, a telling warmth spreading deep within you, and suddenly there were no thoughts you could formulate. Your voice was barely more than a choked whisper when you stuttered, “G-God…”

Sylus had to take a moment to gather his bearings, his eyes clamping shut firmly before cracking open to reveal his crimson irises in their entirety. Then with the utmost care, he slid your legs off of his shoulders and lowered them to the floor. It was almost embarrassing how aggressively they trembled, but he didn’t pay any mind to your shaking. His muscular arm was like a steel band as it coiled under your back to lift you from the blankets, and then he tipped himself sideways against the mountain of pillows before situating you comfortably on top of his chest. You were dead weight against him with your face hidden in the crook of his neck, your arms and legs completely boneless, but you were well aware of his cock still pulsing inside you.

With how swollen it had become, you knew it wouldn’t be leaving you any time soon.

Sylus’ heavy breathing eventually became softer and more controlled, at which point he lifted an arm to lightly trail his nails up and down your spine. It was soothing, and you shivered and sighed against him while your brain gradually started working again.

“I told you it would get bigger,” Sylus remarked dryly, his deep timbre reverberating through your spent body.

Unable to stop yourself, you huffed out a short laugh. Your lips brushed against the skin of his throat as you muttered, “You could have been more specific. I didn’t realize you meant it would grow like that.”

His fingers against your back halted for a split second, and silence filled the room for a few beats. Then softly, Sylus murmured, “Does it hurt?”

The genuine concern in his voice prompted you to crack your eyes open. Beyond the broad expanse of his chest you found yourself lying on, you couldn’t see anything… namely his face. You wondered what sort of expression he was making as he asked about your wellbeing, but you were still so limp that you couldn’t be bothered to sit up to check for yourself. “No. It was a little uncomfortable at first, but breathing helped.”

“Remember that the next time you think about not listening to me.”

Now you were really glad you weren’t looking at him, because you were positive he wouldn’t appreciate the way you rolled your eyes. “Whatever…” you sighed softly and shifted your hips a little, trying to gauge how much movement you were allowed with Sylus’ cock still stuffing you to the brim. Flushing red at the feeling, you asked, “How long do we have to stay like this?”

He hummed thoughtfully, the tips of his fingers trailing higher and higher up your spine until they reached your hair. He carded through the strands lightly and shrugged, “Don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Am I supposed to stay like this all night?”

Sylus shrugged again, and you had to fight the urge to use what minimal strength you had left to smack him upside his horned head. “It varies from dragon to dragon. I’ve never knotted before– much less a mortal. You may as well get comfortable and try to sleep. You’ll need your energy for later.”

Later? Your heart skipped a beat, and you finally lifted your head from its resting place to stare down at Sylus with wide, questioning eyes. “Why? What’s happening later?”

The smirk he flashed you was nothing short of sacrilegious. His otherworldly eyes crinkled at their corners, and the wicked edge of his sharp incisors glinted against the flickering torchlight within the chamber. “Don’t tell me you thought this would end so soon? How naive of you.”

Your pitiful squeak was enough of an answer; you had absolutely assumed he would be sated after going at it like a ravenous beast the one time.

Sylus wrapped his arms around you to haul you back down against his chest, a rumbling sort of purr vibrating through you at the same time his trademark scent graced your nose again. You were hardly of a mind to protest– not that you wanted to, by any means– so you let him soothe your nerves and calm your mind in that unique, atypical way of his. Turning his head so his lips brushed against your ear, Sylus said, “Allow me to remind you that it was your idea to seek me out down here. It’s only the first day of my rut, and you’ve already gone and promised me your body.”

You swallowed thickly, your lashes fluttering against the warm skin you were pressed against. “I did…”

The throaty chuckle that sounded from him had heat pooling in your veins all over again. Sylus playfully nipped at your ear, his fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck as he whispered, “Rest well, little sorceress. It’s your turn to fulfill my desires, and I have no intention of letting you go until I’ve been completely satisfied.”

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newrochellechallenger2019 · 6 months ago

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spitroasting with art and patrick...

drunkenly stumbling into their hotel room after a night of celebrating a tennis win. kissing patrick hungrily while art unzips your dress. the three of you tumbling onto the pushed together single beds. patrick unzips his trousers, pulling out his half hard dick and slapping it across your cheeks before pushing it into your desperate mouth, so sudden you almost gag on it and he groans in delight. art's spreading your legs open, sliding two fingers into your dripping cunt, pressing them to the hilt, prepping you for his own cock. 'yeah- fucking take it-' moans patrick, your cheeks hollow and your drool coating his dick as you suck it fervently. art's fingering you faster now, hitting the spot inside you that makes your vision go white, and suddenly you're squirting on his fingers, coating them in your juices. 'good girl', the praise falls all too easily from art's mouth as he uses your squirt to lube up his dick, erection prominent from just the sight of patrick's cock filling your mouth. art's pushing into you before you even realise, his balls slapping against your ass as he bottoms out in you. 'so fucking tight' they moan in unison, you've never felt so full. your eyes glaze over as your fucked relentlessly by them both, going dumb from overstimulation. it isn't long before patrick's movements in your mouth are becoming more jerky and you feel his hot white sperm coat your throat as he lets out a shuddering moan, 'yes- yes- yes-' and you nod along dumbly, tongue swirling his tip to make sure you coax every last drop out of him before he pulls out. you swallow patrick's seed and that action alone causes you to clench around art's cock, whimpering as a second orgasm washes over you, 'yeah that's it-' art grunts, 'dumb on our cocks, want my cum too? want to be filled up?' and you nod, hardly able to form words as your juices soak the bed. art grunts, bottoming out in your for the last time as he shakes, spurting seed into your pussy and you let out a burbled moan at the feeling, art pulling out of you gently. 'good girl' they croon all evening as the two of them clean you up.

#merry writes 𓋼𓍊 #i'm so sick right now so have this #barely proofread idc #does this need a tw/cw? idk #you're on birth control ig?#art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #art x patrick x reader #art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers #challengers 2024

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ymechi · 2 years ago

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The hidden creator

I had a plot bunny idea

TW: usual cult stuff, hints of yandere

-gn reader (I tried making it gender-neutral if there is a comment that is off please tell me and I will fix it)

EDIT: 14/11/2023 (changed some wording and other stuff nothing major)

Creator Reader Pov:

-You were just a regular person who one day woke up in Teyvat out of all places

-You realized you still had all your game features and figured it was one of the perks of being isekaied like in other isekai stories

-The whole thing is weird and why you were here, you had no idea

-After the novelty wears off you take some time mourning the loss of your previous life and the people you knew

-After that you try to get a semblance of a normal life like getting a job and trying to be independent

-Despite having a game system you do not want to be an adventurer or learn how to fight it's not for you

-You were previously an average civilian and raised as one it would be hard to become a fighter now

-Instead you gravitated towards creating things, you found an apprentice position in a clockwork shop in Fontaine

-It is fun and you get to tinker with gears and clocks, learning how various machines work and how to create your own items

-overall you are content

-Except weird people occasionally come by the shop you work at including the Iudex of Fontaine which had both you and the shopkeeper sweating the first few times

-Yet the man who insisted you call him by his name Neuvilette is really polite and nice to talk to, soon you warmed up to him

-You could not help the feeling as if you knew him from before, as if you forgot something, you were unusually fond of him.

-Your other "clients" if you could call them that were more intimidating, you had no idea what they were doing in this shop and it scared you

-The Fatui Harbringers occasionally stopped by the shop to buy a trinket or two before leaving, it honestly scared you and the thaught of running away to another nation had crossed your mind once or twice yet you liked your job and your boss and you made some good friends here so it was hard to leave

-Overall you were doing okay

-Except it seems the people here almost in a cult-like manner worship a creator that was never in the game lore

-It is said they resided in Celestia and not many people actually got to see them, not that it mattered for a nobody like you

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tsaritsa Pov:

-The Tsaritsa knew their so called creator was fake

-She knew she had to get rid of the fake creator as they and Celestia had caused irreparable damage

-Even if she had to stain her hands

-One day it happened something shifted in the earth, air, water- no the whole of Teyvat

-It happened so softly like a small snowflake landing on the ground

-She was hypnotized as if a siren was beckoning her she found you.

-You were their true creator

-You were wearing apprenticeship clothes tinkering with something in your hands and deeply concentrated

-She wondered if that is how you created the universe with careful and steady hands guiding and shaping it to your will.

-She wanted to take you away from this. . . small shop, yet she knew begrudgingly you were safe here, if anyone were to find out a sliver of your existence. . .

-You were safer hidden among mortals

-It left a bitter taste in her mouth

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Neuvilette Pov

-It just happened one day, out of the blue, he could feel it in the shift of the waters

-The way Furina shifted and turned her head unable to sit still confirmed he was not the only one feeling this

-Something happened and he had no idea what exactly happened

-There was this familiar presence this comforting feeling, ancient old instincts waking up

-He followed it without thought until he came upon an in inconspicuous clockwork shop

-He was confused but did not hesitate to step inside

-Then he saw you and everything clicked

-It was you his creator his universe his everything

-You were back

-It seems in this incarnation you were just a human

-That was fine he was oaky with that as long as you were here

-His heart ached seeing you

-He wanted to hug and ask you to never leave again to always stay by his side, for you to comfort him after what had happened and console him

-He should take you way somewhere safer somewhere better not here-

-But weren't you safer hiding among mortals, a part of his mind whispered, no one would suspect you being here even the fake (he cursed them) would not think of finding you here, if he brought you back with him it would create more attention on you

-Attention that would cause you trouble

-He left with defeat on his steps

-It was later he would met the Tsaritsa and a deal was struck

-All for your sake

#genshin impact #sagau #self aware au #self aware genshin #neuvillette #the tsaritsa #fatui harbringers #fatui #cult au #slight yandere #I am too lazy to proofread it right now sorry for any mistakes #this was just some random idea tbh #the creator reader has no idea they are the creator they just wana tinker with clockworks #neuvilette genshin #when will we get more Tsaritsa lore mihoyo plz-#would you guys think that Pantalone would buy out the whole stock whenever it is his turn to visit?

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catbolt · 7 months ago

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— Merry Christmas, Dr. Zayne

[SOUNDTRACK] Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence - Ryuichi Sakamoto || ▶︎

[TAGS] zayne x mc, fluff

[WC] 1.3k

songfic 4/?

Snow crystallizes on tree branches outside in the light of the falling winter sun, each ray refracting through the icicles that frame the window and splitting into thin beams that run like streams onto the wooden floor inside. She sighs, staring out the window, mug of cocoa clenched between cold hands.

She anticipates him coming home late again. "You know, emergency room visits spike during the holiday season," Zayne had told her with a smile in the morning as he prepared to leave.

"You're not even an ER doctor," she grumbled, arms crossed. He'd laughed softly. "When people need help, I help, my dear. It's non-negotiable."

Times like this she begrudges his unrelentingly chivalrous spirit and sense of justice, although it's usually one of the qualities she likes the most about him. She waits on the couch, feeling more than a little restless. She had hoped to spend at least some part of Christmas Day with him, but as the hours ticked by on the clock, the chances of that grew slimmer and slimmer.

She doesn't text Zayne, not wanting to bother him, knowing he's likely stressed at work. She gets up from the couch with a sigh, deciding to at least busy herself with some cleaning. Her presents for him sit below the tree, untouched.

The sun sinks lower, quickly, and she grimaces, its descent through the clouds a constant reminder of the fact that the hours in this special day is running out, and so far she's spent it nearly all alone. She tidies up the dinner table, mindlessly searching through the cabinets for what to make for dinner. If Zayne won't be joining her to chastise her for her poor diet, a box (or two) of mac n cheese should do the trick to soothe her feelings.

She sighs, bending down in the pantry to grab the boxes in question, when suddenly she hears a click of the door unlocking. She shoots up in surprise, promptly banging her head into the top of the pantry cabinet. "Fuck!" she cries out, eyes screwed up in pain as she massages the back of her head.

"Hm. That wasn't the reaction I was expecting to me coming home like this."

Zayne's soft, chuckling voice filters in from the foyer, getting louder with each word. When she opens her eyes, still rubbing at the back of her head, she sees him standing in the kitchen entryway, a lush bouquet of white roses and jasmine tucked under his arm. She splutters a little, watching as he presents it to her, a small smile on his face.

"What's this about?" she says softly, taking the bouquet from him, a gentle pink flush rising on her cheeks.

"What, I can't give my girlfriend flowers?" He steps closer, closing the space between them. He's still in his white coat and scrubs underneath, and she can see the slight tiredness in his eyes. "Besides, they're an apology."

"For what?" she mutters, setting the bouquet down on the dining room table.

"For not being able to spend more of Christmas with you," he murmurs, capturing one of her hands in his, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "I know you weren't happy that I had to work. I'm sorry. It wasn't ideal."

She feels a mild pang of guilt. He hadn't seemed bothered by her pouting and whining about it all of Christmas Eve, brushing it off at every turn with his signature even-keeled demeanor. But she'd misjudged him, it seems, as she searches his gaze, seeing his brow furrow slightly. "I really am sorry," he says quietly. "We couldn't open presents in the morning because I had to go to work."

"Oh..." she shakes her head. "Don't... worry about that."

"I do worry," he says softly, lowering her hand from his lips, but keeping his hold on it, thumb skating soothingly over the back of her hand. "I know it's important to you."

"It's not a big deal," she says hastily. "You didn't have to come today if--" "I wanted to come back," he says, voice carrying a bit of a harder edge now, an authoritative quality signaling it's not up for debate. "I wanted to see you. And to give you my gift."

She sighs a little, still feeling guilty. "The flowers are beautiful, Z. But you didn't have to rush back--"

His brow furrows. "That's not the gift," he says gently.

He guides her over to the couch, gesturing for her to sit down. "Just a moment," he says softly, walking off to retrieve his bag, which he begins to rummage through.

The sun has set quickly, the room now enveloped in darkness, the only light source now being the Christmas tree. The soft white lights send pinpricks of light dancing across the room. She hears a match flick, and turns around to see Zayne lighting a candle behind her, setting it down on the coffee table. A small smirk plays at her lips. "Getting romantic, are we?" He lights another candle, placing it nearby. "No," he says matter-of-factly. "Just a moment. You'll see."

She almost rolls his eyes at his inability to go with the joke, the grin lingering on her lips. He sits down on the couch opposite her, and then produces an unassuming box, flat and rectangular, tied with a dark gray ribbon. It fits in both of his hands, and he hands it over to her. "Your gift."

She looks down, fingers working through the ribbon and gently untying it. She hesitates for a moment, and then opens the box.

Inside lies a stunning, thin silver necklace, adorned with what looks like hundreds of soft blue gemstones that twinkle alluringly as soon as the candlelight hits them. Each gemstone is tear shaped, like a shimmering droplet of rain.

"Zayne..." her breath catches in her throat.

"Do you like it?" he says softly, with a hint of hesitation in her voice anyone but her would miss. She nods, and he lets out a soft hum of relief, gently lifting the necklace from the box and moving closer to fasten it around her neck.

"I lit the candles because I wanted to see how it looked in their light," he mutters softly, his breath ghosting over her ear as he attaches the necklace around her. He pulls away, his eyes watching how the glittering stones seem to dance and shift in the light.

"Beautiful," he says, voice a little hoarser than usual. She swallows softly, the space between them nearly pulsing, reverberating with unsaid words. She knows Zayne isn't much of a talker, but she's learned to be attuned to his face and body enough that she can read his emotions like a book, a consequence of the past year they've spent dating. She sees him fidget slightly, the pulse thrum slightly faster in his neck, the way his eyes flick between the jewelry and her eyes, as if watching to see how the candlelight dances there too.

"Thank you," she says, her voice thick with emotion as she takes one of his hands in her own. It's cold, as his hands always are, and she scoots a little closer to him on the couch. "It is beautiful."

He clears his throat. "I was talking about you," he says.

It's like the world falls blissfully quiet-- even the weight of all the things that they can't find the words to say say feels lighter suddenly. The feeling of his hand in hers, slowly warming between her palms, grounds her in this moment.

The tree glows softly, the lights flickering like thousands of little fireflies, casting a golden glow across the room. Under the mask of the dim light, it's like the exhaustion is erased somehow from Zayne's features, and all she can see is the warmth in his deep, forest green stare, desperately trying to push forth. She squeezes his hand. "Merry Christmas," she says softly.

"Merry Christmas," he replies, in a whisper, squeezing back.

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thesunisatangerine · 2 years ago

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against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part six

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit descriptions of violence, blood, and death

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 3.3k

You had to get out of there.

Tremors shook the ground as another shell made impact somewhere far to your right but it was close enough that the explosion left your ears ringing. You flattened your back further against the fallen wall behind you when you heard the unmistakeable sound of gunfire, the rubble that cut into your skin barely registered in your mind from the adrenaline that rushed through you. But the cacophony of noise amalgamated into something continuous, something malevolent and cruel; something that promised death in its wake.

Bullets embedded themselves in a column, a wall, a body–everywhere–and fine pieces of debris flew and pelted against the exposed skin of your cheeks and against your helmet. Your eyes watered from the fine powder of pulverised cement and the oppressive heat, while your lungs were smothered by smoke and a choking stench–something like freshly-laid asphalt mixed with the distinct, rancid smell of burnt human flesh, sulphuric and sharp.

Through lidded eyes you witnessed the depravity; the extent of humanity’s appetite for senseless destruction and anarchy. It was total chaos–no, it was worse than that: it was butchery and brutality at its finest; a type of hell on earth.

All around you were bodies upon bodies, men and women alike–children. Their faces, frozen and pallid, permanently bore imprints of terror and agony; their crooked fingers and still eyes fixated to the sky imploring in violent judgment–resentful and anguished in their silence–the unspoken question:

Why?

Everything overwhelmed you all at once: the sight and the smell made your stomach churn to no end. Even when you heaved the remnants of your stomach to the ground, the nausea remained, pulsing and gnawing.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you brought your camera to your eye and you willed the shaking in your bones to still.

You took a shot.

Another round of bullets splattered to a nearby wall and this time, you threw yourself front-first to the ground and you felt the rhythm of your heart reverberating against the mud. And a sinking feeling hit you. You’d bore witness to many conflicts, faced mortal peril, and was familiar to death like it was an old friend. Each time you were in such a situation, hopelessness never got the better of you–it was like you’d always known you were going to make it out each time.

This time it was different, you could feel it in your bones. You were going to die here and it wasn’t a matter of if, just when and how.

But you had a job. If you were going to die, you would die being the mouthpiece for the ones who’d already been silenced–from their premature deaths or from the hand of the power meant to protect them or both–to show the world what they’d suffered, what they’d sacrificed.

With that in mind, you steeled yourself. You loaded your camera with another ring of film, fingers stiff from the cold and marred by blood and mud, and you captured the scene.

Repeat.

There were people screaming, running, clamouring for survival. As you moved with them, you kept an eye out for other survivors who needed help to get out of there. You scanned the faces for the familiar ones of Jones and Gilda but they were nowhere to be seen. You’d lost track of them after the initial explosion and the chaos that followed so the only thing you could do now was to look for them as you went and hope for their safety.

Meter by meter, inch by inch, you moved slowly away from the direction of gunfire. You were farther ahead now but the gunners were still dangerously close, still close enough to be able to catch up to where you were if they continued their pursuit, so you remained crouched and cautious for any sound that could indicate danger.

When you came across the rubble of a fallen building–freshly destroyed by artillery from the smoke that came from it–you heard a whimper. It startled you; the softness of the sound barely pierced through the ringing in your ear but when you peered under a slab of concrete braced by a rugged beam, you caught sight of a scene that shattered what was left of your heart.

In the shadows, big eyes that you could not mistaken belonged to a child shone with terror, a little girl that looked no more than ten years of age, her mouth partly open in fear. You could discern another person next to the child but they weren’t moving at all and from the blood smeared on the girl’s cheek, you had a sinking feeling that the other person was dead.

Gunfire echoed somewhere behind you and you flinched at its closeness. How did they get so close so fast? You needed to get the both of you out of there. If you could save this child’s life then maybe, just maybe, your life was worth something after all.

You raised both of your hands up and spoke gently, hoping the little girl would be able to understand that you were there to help as you stooped to fit through the gap. The child hesitated and receded further back into the rubble so you tried again as you inched closer to where the other person laid unresponsive, patient despite the ever-closing sound of shots being fired.

You reached the other person–a woman–and when you placed two fingers against her pulsepoint and found no rhythm, you bit your quivering lip and looked at the child, chest heavy. And as if the little girl finally understood that you meant no harm, she inched towards you and placed her small hand in your open one. With a firm yet gentle grip on the girl, you guided the both of you out of the rubble.

Once outside, you carried the little girl behind a wall, heart breaking when you felt her shiver and at the fact that it took little effort carry to her for she weighed so little. And now with light and cover, you inspected the little girl.

To your relief, other than the trail of flaking blood that originated from the crown of her head and on her cheeks, the little girl looked like she didn’t sustain any other physical injuries. Satisfied for the time being you began to tend to her, gave her water and what little food you had on you, and then wiped away the blood.

After she finished, you detached the velcro of your bulletproof vest and unbuckled your helmet before you put them on the little girl. Then you hoisted the girl up on your back, leaving your camera dangling heavily on your chest.

You managed to sneak across the district without being noticed but you knew the danger was never far away. A little farther on, you began to recognise key landmarks that let you know you were close to the base you came from. So even when the muscles in your legs protested for you to rest, you pushed on.

Not a moment later though did loud shots fill the air and immediately, you fell to the ground, feeling fine rubble and shrapnels cut into the side you landed on as you manoeuvred your body so that the child wouldn’t get hurt. The little girl cried out and adrenaline coursed through your veins, instinct driving you to keep the child safe so you pushed the two of you against a nearby wall, your back to the open space while you shielded the child with your body, her head safely caged between your arms and chest.

You craned your head over your shoulders to figure out where the shots were fired but then a feeling of lightness passed through you followed by a growing thickness at the back of your throat. You coughed, the force of it made you keel forward, and as you looked down you saw fresh blood splattered on the face of the girl, her eyes wide with horror as she looked up at you.

Then you felt it, a burning sensation that enveloped the entirety of your right side which left you cold. When you looked to your side your shirt clung to your skin, soaked with blood.

No.

You sputtered again and you tried to breathe but the pain only intensified and instead of feeling relief, the act smothered you–it felt like you were drowning. Then everything began to blend together: the shapes lost their edges and some images doubled, but the light seemed to intensify on its own, swallowing all in its wake. Then you sagged forward and the ringing in you ears, too, blared unceasingly.

No.

You must…

The child…

Wait.

Alexia–

“–are you okay?”

You started as Derek’s voice brought you from your reverie, your mind someplace else that you’d already forgotten but the feeling that you were missing something important lingered behind in the back of your mind.

“Huh?”

“Honey, your brother’s been trying to get your attention for the past minute. Are you alright?” The familiar voice of your mom brought your focus to her. She sat at the head of the long table while Derek opposite you, and you found twin pairs of blue eyes looking at you with concern. Your mom stood, chair scraping against the tiled floor as she did and she made her way towards you. She put a palm over your forehead once she was close enough before she asked, “do you have a fever?”

“Mom, I’m fine. I’m just–” You began but suddenly, a wave of exhaustion came over you which left you cold. It was as if a sheet of ice was put over you and you felt the coldness cling to your bones, weighing you down as your body slowly began to freeze over. “I’m–I’m just tired. I think I’ll rest up now.”

When you moved to stand, staggering slightly due to the weakness in your knees, Derek snatched your hands and clung to them, and you looked at him in alarm, eyes wide.

“Please, don’t. Don’t.” He said through gritted teeth, the corners of his mouth drooped low in a pained grimace, blue eyes glazed over and brows furrowed in a silent plea.

His obsecration confused you and you were about to ask him why you shouldn’t rest if you felt tired when your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip gentle yet firm. You turned to her and when you found her gaze, she wore the same expression as your brother.

“You’re brother’s right, honey. Just–please, just stay with us for a bit more.”

What was going on? Why weren’t they letting you go?

Another wave of fatigue doused over you but this time, pain erupted from your chest. So intense was it that it nearly made you keel over the table, nails digging into its hard surface as you tried to catch your breath but with each inhale the more it felt like you were running out of air.

“I’ll–I’ll join you in a bit. I just… I just need a nap.” You staggered to your feet, pulling your hands away from Derek’s grip with the remaining strength you had and brushed off your mom’s protest.

As you passed the full-body mirror just beside your bedroom door, you saw your reflection, haggard and pale, and with her were the familiar silhouettes of the people that haunted you… your mother and father. They stood there behind you–your mother to your right and your father to the left–but you only found an empty space where they stood when you whipped your head back to look for them.

So there you stood, rooted in front of the mirror as you soaked their images in but for some reason, your couldn’t quite discern their faces. They were blurred; it was as if someone had swiped their thumb over the freshly laid ink of their image and made their features indecipherable.

Longing prompted you to reach out a hand to try and trace the lost edges of their faces but instead of meeting the mirror’s smooth surface like you expected, your fingers sank into the mirror like it was made of water. Quickly, in fear that it would hurt you, you retracted your hand and you watched in awe as the mirror image went still again, back to the reflection of yourself and your parents.

Then out of curiosity you plunged your hand again into the mirror and instead of feeling pain, you felt… nothing. The sensations in your hand in the mirror stopped as if it had ceased to exist completely.

Would it soothe then the pain in your body if you stepped into it?

The thought tempted you and you stepped forward, ready to sink into this silver miracle, but something stopped you–a weight on your shoulder pulled you back from the mirror. You staggered backwards, caught off guard from the force of it, but when you looked back you found nobody however this time, when you returned your attention to the mirror, the reflection of your parents was gone.

Emotions bubbled in your throat, bitter grief and burning confusion a familiar taste on your tongue. Where did they go? Why did they leave you? And as these questions filtered through your mind, another wave of exhaustion doused over you, its weight was unbearable. You needed relief, and soon.

You were ready to step into the mirror–into oblivion–but it wasn’t there anymore. In fact, everywhere you looked there was nothing, just negative space as if the light had dissolved all existence but you. You looked down and you saw your reflection on the still water you were apparently standing on.

It was so still, so peaceful, and you feel so heavy. It would be easy to just sink into this blissful nothingness–this silence–after… that’s right, after having witnessed the revolting boil of humanity’s thirst for blood. Yes, that was it, the reason you were here: you were here to forget.

The longer you stared into the water, the more your will to remain standing frayed.

Not a moment later, you let yourself be plunged downwards into the cold water. Into nothingness.

You woke with a start, breathing sharply as you did, the sensation of falling still with you and the memory of the dream you just had lingered. It was about… what was it?

When you opened your eyes, you found golden light and you squinted at the stream of the early sun that found its way through the gap between the heavy curtains. Your cheek was warm against Alexia’s bare back and you relished the way her muscles shifted beneath her skin as she breathed, still deep asleep.

With her so close like this a sense of peace and calm washed over you, the kind that only Alexia’s presence could provide. You turned your head slightly and shifted closer to her, pressing a soft kiss on one of her shoulder blades before you nuzzled the nape of her neck where her scent was most prominent.

You sighed as you breathed her in.

“What are you up to back there?” Alexia’s voice, rough and heavy from slumber, met your ears and the question elicited a small laugh from you.

“Nothing. Just getting comfortable.”

Alexia hummed then she murmured, “come here.”

You moved as she began to turn and disappointment filled you from the separation but when she pulled you into her embrace after she settled on her back, the disappointment quickly faded away. And when she kissed you, soft and languid, everything melted away except for the tender warmth of Alexia’s lips.

You were content.

Suddenly, a gnawing feeling seeped into the edges of your mind and, little by little by little, apprehension filled you. There was something you’d forgotten, somewhere you needed to be.

You pulled away from Alexia’s lips. “What time is it?”

“Don’t go.”

Her answer jarred you. You lifted yourself up on your elbow and considered Alexia, confused as to why she would say such a thing. She knew you had to go. How could you not go? Where else could you possibly be? So you asked her as much.

“No, you don’t have to. Please.” Alexia placed a hand on your cheek, her eyes glassy. You sighed, turned your cheek away from her touch, and extricated yourself from her warm embrace. You stood at the foot of the bed and regarded Alexia again who was now sitting up, the sheets pooled around her waist, her chest bare, shoulders hunched forward as she looked at you. You only shook your head before you went into the en suite bathroom to get ready.

Once you got in the shower you, unsurprisingly, thought of Alexia and your confusion returned twofold. Why was she making this difficult? She knew you had to go. You already told her…

At that thought, you frowned as you tried to remember. When did you tell her? Why did you need to leave? The questions were beginning to make your head hurt so you left the shower, wrapped yourself in a towel and headed to the closet. In there, you found your stack of simple white clothes. You picked a white shirt and a matching pair of jeans and you made your way to the bedroom door.

As you passed by the bed, you saw Alexia just as you left her and from where you stood, you saw how small she looked. And those eyes… they shone with something you could only name as plea, the tears in them now in danger of falling.

Your chest ached and so did your head.

You shook your head and made your way to Alexia, pressed an apologetic kiss against her temples, then you moved to the door.

You opened it and an abyss greeted you, a world of no outlines, shape nor colour, just a brilliant white that called to you. Its pull was magnetic, like a tide that wanted to sweep you away, but there was something keeping you in place, an invisible tether and it was anchored to the woman sitting in your bed.

“Please, don’t go.”

You had one foot out of the door when Alexia spoke with such gentleness you couldn’t do anything but look over your shoulder. The sight of her crying made the pounding in your temples unbearable and the pain in your chest blazed anew, excruciating and cruel. The world blurred and warmth slipped down your cheeks.

Why were you crying? Why was this difficult? You had to leave, you were about to miss something important.

“Alexia, why?” You sobbed, clutching your chest. It hurt.

She was out of the bed now, right beside you, and she reached out and cupped your face with one hand, the other went to your hand on the door handle. Her touch that used to soothe you, that used to bring you peace and clam, sent pain to every nerve in your body. You gasped, your chest was in danger of bursting and your knees lost their strength. And then you remembered why you needed to leave: you needed this pain to disappear; you had to get better.

Finally, your knees buckled under your weight but Alexia was there to catch you, her body strong and firm, and oh, so warm.

“Alexia, please let me go,” you sobbed into her arms.

Everything hurt. But she held you, unyielding.

“Stay. Please, stay with me,” she whispered in your ear and the words were followed by another wave of pain. This time, you screamed in agony and clawed at Alexia’s shoulders to get yourself away but still, she didn’t budge.

“I got you. I got you. I got you,” she repeated as every nerve in your body screamed at you. Everything coalesced into a singular, never-ending noise but Alexia’s voice pierced through the veil like a silver lining, a life line that you held onto as you were washed away into an ocean of light.

#ap11 #not proofread #mine #my writing #a/n: sometimes it just hits you: the magnitude of man's madness. where does it stop? when? who will pay? why?#cant think anymore right now but let me know what you think about the story so far #apologies for the mistakes i wrote this in sleep deprived mode ill fix them later #woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader

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specific-dreamer · 6 months ago

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my baby, my baby (you’re my baby)

Summary: darry visits his dad and rants. he also cries. </3

Darrel loves each of his kids (and stray kids) equally. No matter how hard Steve tries to pry it out of him, he does not have a favorite.

He loved when Johnny came over for dinner and he’s able to convince the kid to spend the night, he loves when Soda and Steve came home with new stories about their day at the rodeo, he loved when he came home from work and Ponyboy would rush to tell him about the book he’d just finished, he loved attending Ace’s recitals, and he loved when Dally comes over just to sit in their company when he could’ve been causing a ruckus around town instead.

He is, however, a little more partial to his first born than the others. No hard feelings, he still loves his other kids, but Darrel Junior was his first child; the reason he’s the father he was a father, so he’s always going to have a soft spot for him no matter what he does.

Besides, it doesn’t hurt that Junior is the only one who visits him and Karen on a normal basis. Darrel huffs to himself has he sits on top of his grave. Since dying, he’s somehow gained an internal watch, so he knows it’s 3:47pm exactly; when Junior visits it’s usually around 4pm.

Junior’s early today though, Darrel thinks to himself hearing footsteps approaching. There’s not much else he can do but wait for Darry who bends in front of Karen’s grave and leaves her a flower first. If he were alive, Darrel’s heart might’ve clenched. Karen’ll be sorry he missed Darry, but she’s watching over the other boys right now; it’s alright though, Darrel will fill her in when she gets back.

Darry’s head was bent too low for him to get a good look at first, but now that he’s turned towards Darrel’s grave he can see the tears streaming down his face. If he still needed oxygen, he’s sure his breath would’ve caught.

“Hi, Dad,” Darry’s says taking a seat on the ground. Darrel can’t help but notice he’s got his knees pulled to him like he’s trying to protect himself.

He frowns and pulls himself to join Darry on the ground. Hey, kiddo. What’s the matter? He knows Darry can’t hear him, he learnt that the hard way a while ago now, it still brings him a little bit of comfort though.

Darry sniffs. “I don’t know how you and Mama did it.”

Did what?

Darry gestures in the air, “This parenting shit- stuff, I meant stuff, sorry.” Darrel laughs a little; his baby’s twenty years old and still apologizing for cussing.

If he’s honest, Darrel isn’t even sure how he did it. It was in large part thanks to Karen, of course, she kept him steady whenever he floundered. Junior also helped too, though. He doesn’t like to throw the word around, but for all intent and purposes, Darry was a perfect first child.

“The other night,” Darry continues. “I guess Ponyboy had a nightmare or something, I don’t know, but I heard him asking Soda why I hated him.” His voice breaks at the end and Darrel is forced to watch as Junior sobs into his arms.

It’s futile he knows, but after a moment of watching he hugs Darry anyway. Almost as if he could actually feel the hug, Darry stiffens before looking up and staring straight through Darrel. Spooky, he thinks.

“I don’t hate him, I promise.”

I know you don’t.

“I love him a lot, but it’s like he purposely grates my nerves. He knows I’m stretched thin and it’s like he’s trying to see how long until I snap. And that’s not fair! I don’t know how to be a parent, I don’t how to raise a fourteen year old!”

Darrel isn’t sure when it happened, but a flip was switched as Junior started to rant angrily. He doesn’t leave the cemetery too often, but when he did he noticed the two often riled each other up; it was never one sided. He can’t exactly correct Darry though so he hums instead.

“Daddy, you know when you first, um,” he winces. “left, Pony didn’t talk for a week. Okay, that’s fine, I can handle that, but he stopped eating too. I tell him, ‘Pony you have to eat something, you can only go so long without eating before you die from starvation.’ And I kid you not the only thing he says to me that entire week was ‘You’re not dad, Darrel, you can’t tell me what to do’. I never said I was! I just didn’t want him to die too, is that so bad?”

Darrel blinks. That was a lot, and he’s not really sure where to start processing it. He sighs airlessly, It’s not bad. You were worried about him and had his best interests at heart I get it. Is he eating now at least?

Just as fast as it came, the anger seems to leave Darry all once as he lies back on the grass with his hands over his face. “I don’t even know if he eating for real, yet. I’m not home enough to know; I eat my breakfast in the dark, go to work, come home when everyone’s asleep, eat dinner in the dark, go to bed, rinse and repeat.”

Darrel winces. Even he didn’t work those kind of hours and could’ve handled them. Darrel liked his solitude every now and then, but not Darry. No, not his Junior; his Junior is a people’s person through and through, there’s a reason he won boy of his year.

Rubbing Darry’s ankle he says, I know you’re working your ass off, but I’m real proud of you, baby. I know it don’t look it now, but it will all pay off.

There’s a pause, and if he wants he could trick himself into believing his boy heard him, before Darry says something so quietly Darrel has to strain to hear. “I know it’s wrong, and I try not to, but sometimes I wish I let them get taken. I love them, really I do! But Soda wants to drop out of school and Pony hates me and he thinks I hate him back, and don’t even get me started on Dallas— I don’t think there’s a been a weekend where we haven’t haven’t argued or he hasn’t been in jail. I’m trying my best, but I keep screwing up and that’s not fair on them.”

He breaks into sobs again, this time so strong his whole body shakes. Darrel can’t even do anything to comfort him, his stupid ghost body isn’t corporeal. The best thing he can do is stroke Darry’s hair and hope he knows his daddy is here for him. He hates seeing his kids cry and he’s never been more angry that he’s dead.

Between sobs Darry says, “I wanna leave. So I can’t mess anything else up.”

No, sir. You’ll get the hang of things soon enough, it’s a new adjustment and y’all’ve just gotta find your footing. I know it’s hard, but y’all will find it.

“I’m not gonna,” Darry protests. His baby is red in the face and breathing real hard, but Darrel is thankful is eyes are finally starting to dry. “I want to leave but I don’t want to leave them.”

So, what are you gonna do, Junior?

“I don’t know,” he answers. “I wish you were here, you’d know what to do.”

Darrel winces. Actually now-

“Well, never mind. You wouldn’t be dumb enough to get in this situation to begin with.”

Harsh, but he’s probably right. Darrel watches as the gears turn in Junior’s head. He loves all his kids equally, yes. But Darry’s always been his favorite to watch because when he isn’t focused he wears every emotion on his face. He can see exactly when Darrys made his mind up long before he stands up and dusts off his pants.

“You drive a hard bargain, but fine I’ll stay.” Darrel barks out a laugh as Darry checks his watch. It’s 6:29pm, he’s been here for nearly three hours. “Shit, I said I’d make dinner.” Somehow, when Darry looks up he’s staring Darrel in the eyes. “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you later.”

Alright, stay tough out there. I love you, kiddo.

Darry’s eyes widen a minuscule amount and he grins as he ducks his head. “Yeah, I love you too, daddy.”

#should probably post at a more reasonable hour #but we up #it’s 3am i’m not proofreading #i thought writing darrel sr would be a lot easier #dear god was i wrong #the outsiders #darry curtis #darrel curtis sr #soda and the other are mentioned #but they aren’t real big yk #idk how long this is but it’ll be on ao3 tmr #i’m going to bed now #outsiders musical #the outsiders fanfiction #specific dreamer’s fics #right so it’s not on ao3 #um me thinks it’s too short but wtv #spec’s ghost au

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royalelusts · 2 years ago

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collegestudent!choso who gets paired with you for a project

collegestudent!choso who absolutely hates the class the project is for and finds the whole ordeal tedious but then you come in with two cups of coffee and make everything a little better

collegestudent!choso who notices the dark circles and bags that form under your eyes from the noisy dorm next to yours

collegestudent!choso who offers for you to sleep over at his apartment in his guest room

“I don’t have a roommate so it’s fine.”

collegestudent!choso who lets you borrow a shirt when you finally decide to come over. the shirt that absolutely consumes you because of his bigger frame

collegestudent!choso whose apartment is just cool enough for you to nap comfortably without freezing

collegestudent!choso who slowly grows used to your presence in his apartment

collegestudent!choso who starts missing when you aren’t there

collegestudent!choso who gives you a spare key just in case you need a nap and he isn’t there

collegestudent!choso who slowly starts to join your naps. his surprisingly muscular arms wrapping around you while your head rests on his chest.

collegestudent!choso who hates his class just a little less now because of this

#✰—writes!!!#choso x reader #choso x black!reader #choso drabbles #choso fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x black!reader #jjk drabbles #jjk fluff #choso’s sleepy ass is on the brain right now #this is not proofread at all

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morgana-ren · 2 years ago

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On the subject of cheating…. How do you think Astarion would react to a dark urges Tav who doesn’t show any disapproval towards him for infidelity but does try to brutally murder all of his other flings

I can’t reconcile if he would be upset about them having too much agency in this situation and stop it or just into Tav being possessive of him in the way he’s possessive of them

He wakes to the pleasant and unmistakable tang of blood.

It's not uncommon for Astarion to greet the morning steeped in the sweet, saccharine scent of blood. Not at all. In fact, it's most welcome upon first waking, ranking among a deep, rich brandy and defiled silk sheets for his favorites. A metallic bouquet of a lovely, robust breakfast just begging to be supped on, just for him. If you were to ask him, there's truly nothing finer in the world.

An indulgent inhale has him sitting up, slipping a lazy hand through his hair and tongue running over his fangs as his mouth waters. The pit of hunger gnawing at his gut isn't quite so terrible as it used to be when he was but a filthy spawn, but he wouldn't ever deny himself the decadence of breakfast served up to him in bed.

The source of the delectable scent lies flopped over on the opposite side of the mattress, and he glances over with sleepy, hazy eyes to admire the sight. Her long, silky hair splays raggedly over her face, one of her arms limply hanging off the edge in what cannot be a comfortable position. The sheet haphazardly wrapped around her only scantly covers her rear, and by proxy, the sloppy mess he'd made between her thighs a few hours prior.

Clearly, he'd worn her clean out.

He chuckles; he can't help it. He's almost proud of himself-- if it wasn't so commonplace, that is. It's so terribly difficult for these weak and paltry little things to keep up with his kingly stamina, and he cannot begrudge the delicate humans that end up beneath him for losing consciousness.

Still! It's time to wake up, as he's remarkably hungry and he will not go another second without sinking his fangs into her swan-like neck.

"Darling, you sucked me dry and left me ravenous," He reaches for her, tracing a teasing claw up the dotted curve of her spine. "It would be positively unacceptable to leave me in such a state before you go."

She doesn't respond to his sentiment, and so after several seconds of testing his patience, he prods at her upper arm, eventually resorting to jostling her lightly with his hand, pinching her flesh between his clawed fingers--

--and it's only then that he realizes that her skin is ice to the touch, and he cannot feel her chest move with her breath in his palm. While that is entirely normal for him, it's not normal for small human women.

The sharp aroma of blood is far too palpable, even for his palace.

His red eyes truly focus on the girl contorted in his sheets for the first time: Her skin far too pallid, her stench far more enticing than it had been hours ago. His hand goes to brush the hair from her face, and there's a slick, wet feeling between his fingers as he does.

He is hit with the subtle yet bitter scent of freshly dying blood. Something that is usually sequestered only to beings beginning a state of decay. Something that should not be in his bed.

Unsettling, he thinks, but mostly irritating. Dead, hmm? He's almost certain he didn't kill this one on accident. Fairly certain. He callously rolls the woman's dead weight onto her back, frowning as he's met with a scene that he's quite certain he couldn't have done accidentally.

What was her throat is now a gaping maw of blood and bone-shine, scraps of gore clearly ripped out from inside. Her mouth-- or what is barely left of it-- is twisted in an eternal wordless scream, her face eternally contorted in some unseen horror. Her lovely eyes are wide and frozen in terror, unblinking and milky. Upon further inspection of her body, there is a hole where he assumes her still-beating heart had once been, clawed savagely free from her ribs by some brutal, unrelenting force.

He scowls, needling his lower lip with his teeth. It's a shame, he thinks with an exasperated sigh. He's sure was a beauty before all of this.

Another vicious, deadly beauty clearly demands his attention now, and he pushes the dead whore off the bed with an annoyed huff, snatching his long silk robe from the bedpost before affixing it around his body.

"Such a pity," He fastens the tie around his narrow waist, stepping carefully around the bedframe to stand in front of the newly made corpse with a grimace. "You were so vivacious last night, dear girl. But you're making the wrong kind of mess of my sheets, and I cannot abide that."

With a careless tug, he rips the remains of the young woman off his mattress, her mutilated body landing on the floor with an uncomfortable, wet thud. He steps over her, striding towards the door, feeling decidedly irritated. He was planning to spend a lazy afternoon in bed, but it appears something more urgent demands his immediate attention.

"Good morning, my lord--" A servant greets him just outside of his door with a sweeping bow and an expertly balanced tray. Astarion doesn't bother to look at him, instead grabbing a morning glass of wine, taking several deep swigs before finally sneering unpleasantly down at the man.

"Where is my wife?"

Another scraping bow, but Astarion doesn't stay to witness it. Rather, he takes off down the hall in search of someone more important. Someone that, he imagines, was rather busy last night after he fucked-- Hells, what was her name? He doesn't remember. Did he ever know?

"In her garden, sire."

"Right," Astarion carelessly tosses the glass back onto the floor, where it shatters to pieces. "There's a rather putrid corpse on the floor in there. Have it taken care of. I want it spotless before I return."

"Yes, my lord."

He tries to recall as he makes his way through his palace and towards the garden, and ultimately decides he doesn't care.

He finds his lovely wife right where he expects to, taking a leisurely stroll in her strangely fruitful garden. The scent of damp, rich soil permeates the air, mingling with odd, exotic flowers he has brought her and lush, fertile plants that she has coaxed into life with her hands. Blossoming organic life from nothing is not something that he imagined was in the wheelhouse of a favored child of Bhaal-- quite the opposite, really-- and yet, she seems to have nurtured a niche talent for it of late.

It irks him that she's grown somehow cold to his affections. She no longer stares at him with owlish eyes and flushing cheeks and a rapidly beating heart; rather she seems to shrug off even his most endeavored attempts at seduction with an ease that, if he didn't know for a fact that he was the most powerful and attractive man in a country mile, might hurt his pride.

She seems entirely at peace and unbothered, gently cradling a small rose between her fingertips, admiring it as it slowly blooms into a lovely, blood-red bud. The placid expression of someone either entirely unacquainted with the art of murder, or a masterful artist with it, and he knows all too well which one. As he approaches, she doesn't acknowledge him with anything other than a brief turn of her head and flick of her eyes.

"Your garden is looking lovely as always," He saddles up behind her despite her aloof silence, gingerly sliding his arms around her waist and leaning to scent along the side of her neck. "As are you, my sweet girl."

She only hums her acknowledgement, her ever-present sly semi-smile unfaltering as he speaks, still clearly far more taken with her flowers rather than his company and flatteries.

A deadly mistake for everyone other than her.

"Been busy this morning, little love?"

"Oh, only as much as usual," She gives him nothing--no guilt, no anxiety, just the hints of a mischievous, murderous smile-- as she releases the flower from between her fingers, turning instead to continue sauntering through the row. "I try to keep busy."

A quick sniff reveals all he needs to know. He doesn't need to get any closer to the freshly filled hole to smell the rancid stench rising from it. Underneath the sopping wet dirt, mingling with fertilizer and fallen leaves is the unmistakable stench of dead flesh; A muscle steeped in still blood, to be specific. Buried beneath soil alongside the foreign seeds lies what is left of the mangled heart of the woman he'd taken to bed last night, now planted in his wife's garden in some macabre ritual to sustain yet another carnivorous horror she's gotten her hands on and is now coddling into growth.

"I can see that," He croons, eying a fresh mound in the dirt, clearly freshly dug. "Is this one new?"

"Just this morning, dear," She lulls softly, a barely discernible playful edge to her voice. "Newly planted."

Dozens more peculiar vines twist up from the ground in various states of growth in nice, even spaces carefully organized into rows. Under the lively essence of plants and sticky-sweet flowers is the painfully apparent stench of decay and rot; Months and months of the still-lingering scent of blood of all the lovers he'd taken, turning spoiled and foul in putrefaction in her grisly little garden. All of their lives ended preemptively by his wife with the same feral glee that a rabid mongrel must feel upon sinking its fangs into a terrified, defenseless creature.

All for daring to indulge in him.

What a senseless thing. Died so futilely and no doubt miserably at the hands of his wife, alone and panicked only feet from their powerful king, and for what? Finding their way into his bed? How absurd. Who could resist him? Who would dare? He almost pities the funeral procession of poor creatures whose hearts have become fodder for the dirt, no honoring of their lives save his consort's nursery, fed and weaned on their innards. Their final moments belong to his insatiable wife's ruthless bloodlust through no fault of their own, and yet--

--Something about her vicious possessiveness over him smolders in his core, igniting a twisted arousal that coils the length of his spine and constricts like a serpent until he simply cannot stop himself. Deadly, precise, perfect little wife of his, so vicious and yet so precious to him. He swears her bloodlust only serves to stoke the flame, and how he longs to devour her.

(How long has she denied him? How long has she teased and tested him, tantalizing him with memories of burying himself inside of her sweet, tight heat with merciless drive, supping from the delectable blood of her soft body, her voice crying his name like a chant to some dark God until she rips what is left of his soul clean from him to take it into herself. She would yield for no one, a primal and ferocious creature beneath the veneer of illustrious, undead beauty, and yet she would heel to only him, letting him lose himself in her warmth, her fire until he burned--)

He reaches around and whirls her to face him so that she cannot feign indifference under his scrutinizing gaze. She knows better than to fight his manhandling and allows him to spin her towards him, though she refuses to wilt under his sultry glower. Her expression remains entirely passive as his hand reaches up to take her chin between two fingers, squeezing hard enough to have her wincing.

"Another one, darling?"

"You dislike the roses?" She blinks big eyes at him, the perfect picture of innocence. She hasn't been innocent a day in her life, and today certainly isn't a start.

A part of him wishes he could remain angry-- or at least a little indignant-- about the fact that she believes she has some overarching and indisputable claim on him, but deep down, he knows that she's right; she does have a staked claim in his heart in a way no one else ever possibly could. Even as his eyes and body might stray from her, he is forced to admit time and time again that nothing compares to his wrathful little lover. The strays he shepherds into his bed don't fill the gaping hole she leaves within him in her absence, her wretched denial of him. It is only silently that he acknowledges his wayward lust is just his spiteful response to her cruel neglect.

"Don't play the fool for me, my dearest girl, you're a terrible actress. Another concubine. Another corpse in your grim little graveyard. Is calling it a well-tended monument to your jealousy perhaps too romantic?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, my love," She smiles gently, lifting a hand between their chests and up to her face, slipping a finger between her plush lips. He smells the lingering blood on it and yet he cannot take his eyes off her tongue as it curls sensually around the length of her knuckles and how immaculate it might feel on him. He cannot help himself but think just how graciously daddy Bhaal has blessed him with his beautiful daughter; How fiercely alluring it is to watch his undomesticated little monster clean up her homicidal mess.

It started as all things do: With a seed. A bladed joke bloomed into irritation and resentment. His endless libido and her cresting bloodlust come to blows over priorities. The only woman who dared to gainsay him, her lovely little hands covered in blood and the power of Bhaal coursing through her veins keeping her too wild to be truly tamed by his vampiric blessing. His appetite for domination was insatiable, as was hers.

A child of Bhaal would not be tamed-- even by him.

He craved obedience and reticence-- he craved raw reverence and worship. To be viewed with wide eyes and admiration and blind devotion from some poor, pitiful creature too weak and foolish to resist him; To be seen as a God before a miserable little mortal; For his subject to offer willingly for a chance to taste of his splendor.

It is the only thing his beloved would never give him: acknowledgement of his superiority; submitting before him, allowing him to enforce his will upon her willingly. She is a fanged and clawed creature, wild by nature, and she would not purr her praises chained at his feet. She commands respect-- even from him.

She could never play the fool for him, encouraging him to believe that she was helpless against him, or weak, or pitiful, or foolish. It would insult her pride and her lineage. She is a force of nature in her own right, and he could never truly own her without her consent-- consent she has withheld.

And so, he would tell you that he simply retaliated.

She never spared him a sour word when he teased the waters about bringing other people into their marital bed. She only smiled that damn smile of hers and told him that he can do as he wishes as the king. Hells, she hardly seemed to notice when he first took some pathetic creature into their sheets for some harmless fun. The reaction he yearned for from her, some measly sign of her devotion to him, she wickedly denied him, seemingly knowing full well the impact it had upon him.

It drove him to madness, a spiraling misery fueled by his pride. He refused to beg for her, and she would refuse to kneel before him. He came to believe that truly she did not crave him with the same veracity that he longed for her. He no longer sought her out, and she did not come seeking. Surely, if she loved him, she would show some sign, some indication of caring that his fingers caressed a pale pastiche of her rather than where they desperately longed to be: Tracing her lovely mouth, coaxing her clever tongue, circled around her neck, between her warm thighs--

--And then corpses began popping up like flowers, and his beloved suddenly took up gardening.

She grinds his patience to a fine powder, and something about that gets his fires burning hotter than it ought to. Her insouciant dismissal of him, the absurdly casual slaughter of insignificant sex partners and then having the audacity to seem almost bored of his presence. She clearly cares enough to rip the bleeding hearts out of his inconsequential conquests, and yet, here she stands, utterly unfazed by him, having the audacity to feign indifference.

"If you're jealous, my love, you only need say so," He hushes to her, batting her cheek softly as he forces her to look up at him. "You needn't kill everyone who finds their way into my bed. I would cease if you simply said the words."

"Jealous?" Her brow furrows, head cocking, her lips jutting into a little pout. "I don't know what you mean."

What he asks is simple, so dreadfully simple. So easy, so, so easy--

Acquiesce to me.

And yet, she dares to deny him even as there is blood on her hands from strangling and wringing his full attention from his lover's corpses.

The wall of the greenhouse he built for her isn't particularly comfortable, but he couldn't care less as he shoves her against it, bullying his body against hers with brutal force, slamming her head against the glass with a lightning-fast palm encircling her throat.

"Why do you insist on being such an obstinate little brat?"

She opens her mouth to reply, and he squeezes tighter in response, choking the air from her little neck and stoppering the words on her tongue. There is a flash of something in her eyes once they open again, but he isn't entirely certain which sin it's indicative of: wrath or lust, or some degenerate mix of both.

It had to be her.

"I don't know what you mean, my lord," She croaks as he allows it, her hand clasped on his wrist as he clenches the rounds of her neck. He swears he sees her lip twitch in the ghost of a smirk even as he suffocates her. He holds all the power over life and death over her, and yet she is insufferably calm.

"I warned you not to play stupid, darling. You know very well what I mean." He growls against her ear, frustration and arousal building to impossible levels. Of all the women in Toril, it had to be her-- it had to be--

"Admit it," He hisses, sharp fang nipping at her ear. "Just admit it, and ask-- beg me, and I'll stop."

He feels the chuckle bubble in her throat even as he cannot hear it through the pressure he applies to her windpipe. "Beg what, my lord?" Her eyes narrow, her amusement apparent even as she has a practiced expression of apathy, whispering back to him with a strained voice still somehow full of unmitigated audacity. "Do you think I suffer?"

His lip curls downwards, and he realizes that he has no leverage here other than her violent jealousy, which she will happily unleash upon his unfortunate bedfellows rather than swallow her pride and cling to him as she should. She has no qualms with murder, and he might as well hand-deliver her victims. It has become an inevitable truth that whoever finds themselves romping beneath the sheets with their king won't be leaving alive because the queen would rather die than admit she cares that he spends his affections elsewhere.

"You can't hold out forever," He knees her legs apart and wedges himself between them, grinding his lust into the clothed heat of her core. "You will beg for me. You will acquiesce. You know your place is at my side."

He pushes forward again, lips brushing against her cheek, his warm breath on her neck sending shivers spiraling down her spine. The way she rhythmically gyrates her hips deliberately against where he wants her most has his hands flexing, kneading deeper into her flesh. His nails dig into her deceptively soft skin, sliding one hand up her body to grope gratuitously at her curves before crawling up to thread his pale fingers through her hair. With the silky strands weaved between his knuckles, he yanks, exposing her throat to the mercy of his razor-sharp fangs like a wolf perched over carrion. He'd die before admitting the overwhelming, frantic need she inspires within him, but he swears if he doesn't have her now, he will perish.

She exhales ragged and husky, squirming against him in apparent need, but still manages to stand her ground. "I am at your side, my lord. Your front, to be more specific."

"On your knees, on your back, whatever I demand. Give in to me. Heed my command, my love," He releases his fingers from her neck, both his arms snaking behind her to scoop her ass in his palms and hike her up against his waist, bidding her wordlessly to lock her legs around him. She does it instinctively, throwing her arms around his neck, tugging playfully at his silver hair as she does. He keeps her up with easy purchase against the wall, keeping her prisoner between a wiry cage of eager limbs and foggy glass panes. "Submit to me of your own free will. Kneel to me, your husband and king, and submit to me fully."

His voice is low and husky as he exhales against the shell of her ear, doing his best to swallow down the desire to rip her pretty dress to shreds with his bare hands and ravage her on the filthy ground of her greenhouse.

"All you need do is say the words," He mutters, barely audible even to her, the scent of her driving him to the precipice of insanity. "Say you belong to me, body and soul. Submit to me, girl, and I'll never have need of another."

He feels the derisive chuckle in her throat reverberate against his own mouth and pulls away to observe. Her eyes are glassy and low as they meet his, moist lips parted in a little 'o', trying so hard not to do that hateful little smile of hers. His hand tightens in her hair, jerking his hips ruthlessly against her once again. So close now, he can feel it, he's going to destroy her, ruin her, tear her to pieces only to put her back together and do it again--

She dares to deny him, dares to have the raw audacity to mock him-- he's going to hurt her so badly, sink his fangs into her neck and drain her fucking dry, force himself inside of her until she has to beg him through hiccupping sobs to stop, unable to fend him off in his full power. He will show her who is the master--

"No."

She cranes her head forward just a little and gives him a mockingly gentle peck on the mouth. It's deceptively gentle and cruel in its intention, entirely meant to taunt him. In his shock at her gall, he is stalled, almost paralyzed and entirely unresponsive and numb to the tidal wave of rage and lust that collides in a nuclear cocktail deep in his gut. It's but a brief moment before he regains control over his senses, and when he does--

"Maybe," She flicks her tongue out, licking a small, red stripe up his cupid's bow. "But not yours-- and you can try, my love."

He releases his grip on her hair only to grab her cheeks, digging his fingers into her jaw so hard that he can feel her gums scrape against the ivory ridges of her fangs. Her wince of pain doesn't escape him, fueling the inferno inside of him as he snarls, baring teeth down on her as a predator might.

"You dare to play games with me? You are a miserable, stubborn little whore and I'd see you put back in your proper place!"

It's more animalistic growl than spoken sentence, and even as he squeezes her face, he can see the twitches of a smile on her crumpled mouth. He can smell the blood on her tongue, the utter defiance in her expression, and despite his frenzy of anger, he throbs between her thighs.

--and yet it's him on the cusp of inescapable frenzy, the taste of her now blasting away the dull, gray months and the now; this one fiery moment where she is wholly his, reminding him of the untamable bonfire of desire she stokes within. His beloved consort, his wife, until death take them both or not at all--

It should drive him into a blind, red rage, but it just makes him harder, pulsing against her insistently, his body demanding entrance to what is rightfully his--

"You will always belong to me."

He crushes his mouth to hers so hard it pains the both of them, more devouring gnashes and fierce, hungry greed for her than passionate kiss. His fangs break the skin of her lip, his tongue thrusting between her teeth, determined to taste every inch she offers up to him. She mewls weakly into his mouth, trying to break the kiss to breathe, but he won't allow it; she only breathes by his will and he'd see her reminded of that--

A battle he will win.

"Mine-- only mine--"

He pants it sloppily into her open mouth, still desperately trying to swallow her essence into himself. She manages to tug away from his unhinged fervor, though only briefly, just to heave and whoop air into her lungs, desperate to catch her breath before she speaks:

"Not if you're not only mine."

It's a fool's facade, this game they play. Around and around and around once more, each demanding prostration of the other only to burn themselves on their own encompassing greed for the other. A toxic whirlwind of emerald-green jealousy and blood-red rage, enveloped entirely by hazy, punch-drunk lust. Two titans locked in a battle for dominance, chasing the vulnerability of the other one.

He hard-swallows, using every ounce of strained willpower he has in his willowy body to retreat away from her, casting his savage need into an abyssal pit inside of him and sealing it before it swallows him. instead. Slowly, he manages to peel away, slowly setting her feet back on the ground, doing his best to compose himself despite the very blatantly obvious signs of arousal and his apparent state of both mental and physical dishevelment.

"I won't humor you forever, darling," He purrs, giving her one last squeeze before stepping back away from her, distancing himself from her control over his body that he loathes. "I always get what I want. You should know that."

She blinks up at him again, her lips puffy and skin smeared with swatches of blood that he has to bite his tongue to keep from tasting. "Not this time."

His lips quirk in a condescending grin at her adorable little show of defiance, resituating himself within his linen pants without shame. "We'll see, my dear."

With that, he abandons the 'conversation,' turning to walk out of the greenhouse, only sparing one last glance at her garden of flesh-- and then once back at her. It breaks his willpower in a way he is miserable to admit, but his need for her overwhelms his pride.

One last snarl in her direction, and he turns to stalk out, itching to backhand the smugness from her pretty face. If he does, he knows well enough that he will not be able to walk away from her. He will take her here and now in a maelstrom of blood, violence, and ruthless sex, and he will lose this little game of control, and he cannot have that.

Still, that doesn't mean she is allowed to believe she has any choice in the matter.

"It's been long enough. I am expecting you in my bed tonight. Do not make me come searching for you. You won't like what happens if I must seek you out."

She seems surprised and almost pleased with his minor acquiescence. It comes in the form of a demand, but she knows full well that it's the best she's going to get. She offers him a sweet smile, smoothing her skirts back down her legs from where he'd hiked them up around her still-quaking legs. He can still smell her, the wet between her thighs, the rich, royal blood flowing through her veins, her body that sings to him a siren song luring him to his fall. If he doesn't break something in soon, he is going to combust--

"We'll see."

He traipses back into the palace, body shuddering and shivering in its effort to control the raging hormones. He is ravenous, needing to drain someone dry and be drained dry-- and soon. Another well-trained servant greets in the halls, cautiously approaching upon seeing his dour expression, bowing from some distance away in case his master decides to lash out.

"My lord--"

"A concubine. Now. Sent directly to my chambers. We are not to be disturbed, no matter what you hear. Do not keep me waiting."

#morgana and friends #ascended astarion x tav #ascended astarion x reader #astarion x dark urge #nasty boy stuff and there's a body count in this #don't read if sensitive #lots of tension and a ping pong game of idiots trying to get the one-up on each other #just as toxic as you'd imagine #sorry this is not edited or proofread I was far too lazy #im proud of myself for just getting it out #It ain't great but hey it's what I got in me right now

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perpetualcynicism · 7 months ago

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…𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜: In which replying to a mysterious letter leads you back to the one place (and person) you could never quite forget. …𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: Childhood friends to lovers. …𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: None. …𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑: 2,255 words. …𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Gender-neutral reader; renga is a collaborative form of Japanese poetry which consists of a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable scheme; Heizou Hasegawa is a character from the novel series Onihei Hankachō by Shōtarō Ikenami, who acted as possible inspiration for Shikanoin Heizou, who was inspired by a real figure—an interesting and more comprehensive explanation of this can be found here. Reblogs and comments are appreciated.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

𝙰 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚛𝚊.

It is a letter which appears under your door, written in an elegant hand on a plain slip of paper, left unsigned. You are addressed by your pen-name at the top; the rest reads as follows:

I have heard countless tales of your famed verse, and read many of your novels on my travels—no, I will be honest; I confess that I’ve read all of them. I cannot help myself. Such wit and mastery of words as you possess is simply astounding. In particular your most recent tale, A Thousand Boughs of Sakura, was exceptionally engaging in how you utilised the text itself to hint towards the true identity of the culprit; and I must say that you almost fooled me with the shocking conclusion!

In the spirit of your skill, and my current being in town—entertain a poor soul with a game of renga, will you? I’ll start:

—Secrets tossed on wind

The rest of the paper is blank, as if the author has already anticipated your compliance to the proposal with complete confidence.

The letter’s arrival itself is nothing out of the ordinary: you often receive such messages from fans, offering praise, questions and comments regarding your publications. It is, however, one of the rare occasions where the subject of interest has been yourself, rather than your work, and the first where a request has so specifically, not to mention so directly, been made of you.

Indeed, from the request to the manner of writing, the letter initially strikes you as terribly entitled, and you have the mind to toss it away and forget about it—but, skimming your eyes over the message again, you hesitate.

Despite the novel being released a few weeks ago, this is the only letter you have received to pick up your writing technique: using differences in the pronunciation of kanji to suggest alternative meanings to the phrase; implying hidden messages through synonyms which, though identical in meaning, contain different radicals to the alternative word. Whoever the sender of the message is, they must have an acute eye for detail—a quality you can respect. Perhaps this mystery reader of yours is worth a moment or two.

You walk to your desk and unthinkingly pen another verse:

—All one must do is listen

You hardly know where to leave the reply—it is not as if your messenger has indicated their whereabouts, beyond ‘currently being in town’—yet somehow you trust that it will find its intended recipient. You pin it in a corner of the local noticeboard, and think no more of it for the rest of the day.

——————

—To hear the rustle.

Penned in the same elegant handwriting, this is the new line which has joined the previous verse when you pass by the noticeboard on the following day. You remove the letter and take it back to your home, where you spend a few moments considering how to respond.

Your reply, as you pin it back up, reads thus:

—Verses penned by unknown hand

The next day, another line:

—Anonymity’s respite.

And so is your first complete stanza concluded. You thumb the edge of the translucent paper, considering how next to proceed.

Of course, the first thought to arise is that there is no need to ‘proceed’ with this game whatsoever: you have fulfilled this reader’s request at no great benefit to yourself, and there is no obligation compelling you to elaborate upon it further. You could end this playful exchange now and feel hardly the worse for it.

And yet, that peculiar hook, on which your career and passions are founded—that irresistible inclination named ‘curiosity’—has taken hold somewhere within you, is tugging you gently in the direction of the mystery. You wish to know more of this enigmatic admirer of yours; you wish to know why something about him (you feel, somehow, that it is a ‘him’) feels almost familiar. If nothing else, you enjoy the creative interplay.

You raise your brush to the page, and continue the poem.

—Where is respite found?

—Asks the cowering sinner

You read over the line once, twice. Something, a niggling feeling in the deeper recesses of your mind, is beckoning to you, inviting you to wonder at this choice of words.

It feels like your partner is hinting at you, playing with you much in the same way you do with your own audience. You wonder what the clue may be, return to the previous lines you have composed together, come to a tentative hypothesis.

You think you know the direction in which to guide this inquiry.

—Shed of virtue’s mask

—Like young blossoms in summer

—Trembling in fear of cyclones.

You return the letter to the noticeboard. Over a week has passed already; what began as a favour on a whim has grown into a routine, even a commitment.

There is room yet remaining on the paper for one more stanza; one final chance to crack the code, to solve the puzzle laid out for you. This method itself, you acknowledge, is a clue.

You feel much like Hasegawa, the protagonist of A Thousand Boughs of Sakura; reading between the lines and hunting down scant hints to identify the criminal before it is too late. (In your novel, the criminal turns out to be an old acquaintance.)

The difference is that you are no detective; merely an author, a poet. Your skills reside in capturing the immaterial, not assimilating the real.

Even so, the opening line of the final stanza gives you confidence that you are on the right track.

—What is a cyclone?

—But that which intuits vice

—Wielding intellect

—Catching arrows with bare hands

—Leaving no buds to fester.

My, what a beautiful poem we have composed! Our hearts must truly beat in harmony with one another. Your intellect is as sharp as I remember.

Midnight, tonight. I will see you at the usual spot.

——————

The letter does not specify where you are to meet, nor does it need to. Since childhood, there has only been one location you frequented enough for its significance to become instinctual. You head toward the coastline, where there grows a certain sakura tree overlooking the shore, identified by its gnarled trunk which is twisted with age.

There is a reclining silhouette already outlined against the tree when you arrive. Perhaps the details have changed here and there—the height, the clothing—but the figure itself, you could not mistake for the world.

In unmarked silence, you join Shikanoin Heizou beneath the sakura tree.

For a time, neither of you speak. What is there to say? You have not seen each other in years. Circumstances, not to mention your own selves, have altered within the rift of time you have spent apart. The last time you met was in the early moments of adulthood, when he took on the mantle of a detective and your aptitude for writing began to raise you into company higher than anticipated.

Thinking back on it now, you never said a proper goodbye; he simply had to leave one day, and subsequently you drifted out of each other’s lives through no devices of your own, as a cloud disperses into smaller fragments and is scattered on the wind. You never received any letters from him, either; it did not occur to you to send one of your own (and if you had, how were you to know where to send it?). But you never forgot him—Archons, never.

The fact that he is here now gives you hope that he did not forget about you, either.

The silence grows, deepens, becomes uncomfortable. Somebody will have to take the first step; and this time, it is your turn. You run your tongue over dry lips.

“What a surprise it is to see you here, Heizou.”

For all of your usual eloquence, any skill with words has abandoned you now. You feel exposed and frightfully inexperienced, like you are sitting at an empty page in your father’s study, wondering how to compose your first haiku.

He smiles, and the world is stable again. “Not much of a surprise, I’m afraid. You figured me out.”

“You wanted me to,” you reply, and you find yourself falling into a rhythm of effortless exchange similar to the renga game—except this time, you are not separated by ink and paper, but face to face. The interaction feels easy, like the rift of time between you is nothing at all.

You ask, “What were your reasons for approaching me through letters, rather than directly? Diverting as your puzzles were, surely it should have been far simpler to greet me in person, not wait until now.”

“I couldn’t risk speaking with you any earlier, for both of our sakes. Until recently I was part of an undercover investigation, and had I been recognised, the confidentiality of the case may be compromised. And on your end, I figured it would be embarrassing for somebody of such high standing as yourself to be seen hanging around somebody like me.”

Something is off. His explanation is sound, but there’s a matter he hasn’t addressed. “A letter signed with one’s name alone ought to be privacy enough—yet it was your choice to remain anonymous,” you point out.

Another smile lifts the corner of his mouth, this time a touch meek. His eyelashes lower as he glances downwards. “Would you rather the honest answer, or the one which will flatter me?”

“Offer me first the flattery,” you propose, “and only the honesty if I fail to decipher the truth myself.”

“My intention was to test your discernment. I remember our childhood battles of wits fondly, but after such a long time, I wasn’t sure how your character held up. So much time spent in high society can change somebody; I wanted to know whether you were still the same person I knew before taking any action to introduce myself.”

“Am I still the same person?” you ask out of interest.

“Of course you are.” The reply is so quick, comes so naturally, that it warms you.

So, that is the flattery.

You scrutinise the man in front of you; his posture (the way he leans against the tree trunk, yet drums his fingers on the wood), his expression (how his eyes glance between you and the floor, like he’s just as shy and skittish as you are, perhaps even more so), his explanation (which is obviously false—he read your works, meaning he must have been aware at least to an extent of your personal development).

“And the truth,” you conclude after a careful period of reflection, “is that you were afraid. Afraid that, after all this time, I would hold towards you feelings of contempt for leaving so abruptly. You did not sign your name in fear that my knowing your identity would provoke me to be hostile, or to rebuke your advances.”

“And would you have done so?”

“I never thought ill of you, Heizou,” you say. When you say his name, his eyes widen by a touch, brighten a little. “Not once, even if I tried to. And…” You sigh, leaning back against the tree beside him. “You may comfort yourself with the fact that I was afraid, too.”

Heizou looks away, in thought. Silence settles upon you once more. This time, you are comfortable in it. Yes; there is comfort in having Heizou standing beside you once again, close enough that, should you wish, you could…

(He flexes his hand, and you know you are thinking of the same thing. Neither of you act. It’s still too soon, too hasty, to go there yet. You want to get to know him again, from the beginning, before going there.)

“Is it really true, that you read all of my novels?” you blurt.

“Every single one,” he replies in earnest.

You scratch your neck. “Was it… ahem, was it obvious that Hasegawa was based on you?”

“I did notice some similarities, yes,” Heizou admits with a chuckle. “In fact,” he continues, a smirk beginning to creep onto his face, “if my memory serves me correctly, you describe him as handsome no less than seven times.”

Heat rushes to your face. You cough into your first, and Heizou laughs again, the sound full and bright and everything you’ve missed in the last few years of your life.

“Don’t worry—you were subtle in every other part of the story. I wasn’t exaggerating in my initial praise, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such attention to detail in the narration as well as the plot itself. It really is extraordinary.”

You’re accustomed to receiving praise from fan letters and colleagues, but getting it from Heizou feels different, somehow; it feels more valuable, more real. “Thank you,” you smile, suddenly all bashful and self-conscious again. He smiles back. You have to look away.

“What do you plan to do now, then?” you ask, changing the subject to something less involved with yourself. “I assume your incredibly-confidential, undercover-agent case is over.”

“I’ve been considering staying here for a while—until another case comes up, at least.” Now he’s the one to look away. A slight hint of red dusts his cheeks, a shyness reveals itself in the upturned corners of his lips, and his voice takes on a softer, more self-conscious note. “This might be a little presumptuous of me, but… I was thinking that I could stay with you. If you’d have me.”

Your reply is so quick, comes so naturally, that it warms you.

#i wrote the better chunk of this in like an hour and a half right now #it is currently past 2am #but i missed heizou so sleep just has to wait #genshin impact x reader #shikanoin heizou x reader #heizou x reader #shikanoin heizou #heizou #r.fics #this is also not proofread so apologies if it sounds clunky or anything

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starrycassi · 8 months ago

Text

Snippet of my jayvik works for silco au.

This is sevika mildly trying to give Viktor relationship advice. In her own way.

"He's… decent looking. Tan. Got some bulk. Tall. I could see it, I guess. Probably. If I squint.” Sevika tells him, which is crazy, because they sort of look alike. Viktor, however, isn't actually that eager for the embrace of death, and will not be telling her that.

Jayce, in the middle of the room, laughs at something someone said. The music is loud enough that Viktor does not have to worry about his lab partner overhearing their conversation, they're far enough for him to hear Sevika’s words without her having to raise her voice too much.

The corner table they're in is his favorite table in the place for that very reason. The sound reverberates off the top of the walls, sound waves bouncing back and forth. There's a speaker over their heads, facing the middle of the room. Its sound doesn't reach them with the same intensity, not if they both sit as close to the wall as possible. He can almost feel the thumping drums right over his head. Sevika appreciates being able to watched the rest of the room without having to worry about her back.

“You're insane.” He tells her, hand shaking slightly. Jayce picks up a shot from a passing waiter, skin glistening under the neon lights. He throws his head back with another cackle, shiny, almost canine teeth showing in a cocky smile. The stretch leaves his neck bare for everyone to witness, and witness they do. Viktor feels the lust that fills some of the faces in the crowd, feels the way some eyes linger far longer that they should.

The shot goes down smoothly, except for the one droplet that escapes his lips. It slides down from the corner of his mouth to his beard, where his partner finally wipes it away with the back of his hand in a quick motion. Jayce's hair is long enough to brush against his cheekbones, and Viktor feels like tugging on it for the rest of the night. Oh, what a glorious night it could be.

A pair of fingers snaps in front of his eyes. He frowns, angry at the interruption. “Staring makes you look pathetic. Makes me look pathetic, by association.”

“It’s not my fault you've no taste, woman.”

Sevika groans, rolling her eyes. Jayce is dancing with an unknown girl. She's got pink skin and cheeks that gets pinker every passing second. Jayce spins her around. She giggles the whole time, batting blue eyelashes at him.

“You're making your own life way more difficult than it needs to be, boy. Fucking women isn't this complicated.”

"You only say that because you pay for the women you fuck. The brothel will get you a special room, at this rate."

"I'm sure there's no woman that would touch you with a teen foot pole. Not for all the money in the world."

Jayce leans down. Pink Girl smiles, leaning in. Jayce, who is an idiot in anything that doesn't concern equations, fixes her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. He goes back to dancing. She follows.

“I don't get you. He's just another loud dog. You've been successfully bringing men like him around for years, and you're getting cold feet now? Don't give me that look. The walls are not that thick and you always get the vocal ones. Do whatever it is you do usually, flash him a nipple or something, and get it over with. Can't be that hard.”

Pink Girl is very clearly trying to be brave. Jayce is very clearly trying to fix her bra. It keeps slipping down.

“He's a piltie.” She continues, spitting the word with all the vitriol a person can manage while slightly inebriated. She glances over at the duo, narrowing her eyes. “And fucking clueless. Glenda right there is practically throwing herself at him. With that combo of attributes? I bet he's never even give his first kiss.”

“How do you know her name?”

“Well, how do you think, eh?” Sevika lifts up an eyebrow, faint smirk growing in her lips. Viktor decides that he's heard enough.

“Whatever. And he has kissed someone.”

“And how do you know that?”

Turns out, Sevika doesn't quite like it when one imitates her answers.

She gets up with a disgusted look on her already unwelcoming features, goes to Jayce and physically shoves him away, elbowing him in the ribs. Glenda seems to forget about Jayce's existence, and let's Sevika take her by the waist. They grind against each other for less than five minute before disappearing into one of the rented rooms.

Jayce, apparently, decides that it is an amazing moment to come over and talk. Viktor makes sure to remember that they do have a job to do. Work. Science. Together. They're coworkers. Colleagues. Co-creators. Partners in the lab.

Jayce's half-open shirt doesn't really help his cause.

“This is ridiculous.”

Sevika seems to think that this is Viktor's and hers crush on Jayce. When they met, Viktor never took her for the noisy type. Then he turned sixteen and she decided that he was ‘adult enough’ to complain to.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Greatest genius of Zaun. Can't even think of one decent comeback when the mutt is near. And you're telling me you two spend the whole day alone, in a laboratory, building weapons for our people to use? The very same weapons I have to trust my life to? Amazing.”

Offended, Viktor huffs, burying himself deeper onto the couch.

“Our inventions are absolutely flawless, I will have you know. You arm is one of them. Haven't had any complains, now, have you?”

“The color is ugly.”

He flips her off.

They're in Jinx's… room. Lair. Playground. Whatever this gigantic fan is for her. Jayce, Silco and the kid are having a Very Serious Tea Party. Viktor isn't quite sure what part of his contract covers for this as company time. He doesn't actually have a contract, but, still.

Jayce is wearing a bright-blue, hastily applied lipstick. He's got sloppily applied pink, glittery eyeshadow. His hair is up in the two most asymmetrical pigtails ever. It's long enough to do that, now.

He's crouched down, ass barely fitting into the chairs. He'll probably complain about back pain tomorrow. He chuckles lowly, covering his lips with his hand. The teacup is a miniscule thing on his hands. Calmly, he grabs a sugar cookie and bites in. Silco also got the kid real cookies and tea to play with. For some strange reason.

“- so just fuck him, get it out of your system. Trying to tame your dick will just leave you with a desperate dick and a lot of frustration. As soon as you stop denying it and actually- are you even fucking listening to me?”

Jinx must say something actually funny, for once, because Jayce's laugh reaches all the way to where Sevika and him are retreated, Viktor arguing for pain in his leg and Sevika offering oh so kindly to take care of him.

Jayce rarely actually laughs, these days. He's a great pretender, but Viktor is an even better skeptic. The dry chuckles and pretentious giggles don't sway him, neither do the over-the-top roars of noise he lets out in public. This time, the corners of his eyes shrink, his shoulders shake, his face lights up, he laughs. A million sparks are born and die on Viktor's chest. There's something even worse than butterflies gnawing at his heart. It's not lust. He wishes it was lust. It's a horrible, sickening thing. One that makes Viktor want to hear him do that for the rest of their lives. Oh, what a wonderful life that would be.

Sevika is glaring at him. He should look at her. Say something. Anything.

Whatever expression he's making must be tremendously obvious, because Sevika freezes, a slow, horrified look creeps in her face. There is, also, a smile. It would be funny, if that look didn't reflect Viktor's exact feelings on the matter.

“Oh. Oh. Ohhhh, fuck.” She says, very eloquently.

“Oh, fuck, indeed.” He answers back, suddenly feeling nauseous. "So, Glenda?"

"She's good at what she does. Don't change the topic. Oh, you're fucked. This is so funny. You're absolutely fucked. I know there's at least three boys out there being avenged with this whole situation."

He can't even disagree with her.

#jayvik #jayce talis #jayce x viktor #viktor arcane #i need to name this au #Silco arcane #arcane au #is this anything #why do I always write right before going to sleep it's 1:28 am #mind you this whole thing is going on and jayce is kinda sure they're already dating #they are so funny to me #if u catch a mistake tell me I'm so sleepy actually #no beta read. not proofread. not even reread #shimmering progress au #IT HAS A NAME NOW

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 2 years ago

Note

no please bc just once I wanna make hobie nervous flustered.. like why can’t he can’t be intimated by me why I always gotta be intimidated by him 🙄🙄

TRULLLYY The opportunities are endless!! Let's talk about it!!!!!!!!!!!

Hobie Brown Loves Feminists and Defying the Patriarchy aka Hobie Brown and Writing write Non-Conventional Romantic Relationships in 'x-readers'

[this is an analysis where I analyze Hobie Brown, non-conventional relationships, and how feminism factors in to it all. Basically a critique/dive/rant into the narrow 'x-reader culture' in the Hobie Fandom

I touch on issues in Smut, labels, and how we can write 'Y/N's that challenge that status quo and fit Hobie better. I also break down how I personally use feminist themes to write a non-conventional relationship for Hobie.] [Also there's now a PART 2 HERE]

Despite the man from the 1970's - the era of bra-burning second-wave feminism - I don't ever think I've seen anyone talk about it, him, and how it influences him.

We all know Hobie isn't down with labels, but it seems like in X-Fem!Reader, the only two options out there are play-boy guitarist and traditional out-of-the-box boyfriend.

Hobie. The man he follows no social quo. Don't expect flowers from him.

Hobie diverges from the norm in nearly every way, and he does it purposefully and intentionally. And I think that'd extend to his romantic relationships too.

So why do we only see him in heteronormative, traditional gender-role based relationships?

Would Hobie be into this? And does the way we write him and his relationships in x-writers serve Hobie emotionally, allowing him to be a full character? (No, they don't.)

How can begin to acknowledge that, just like Hobie cares about race, and class, and housing and queer rights - he'd care about feminism too.

And how would that influence him in romance? How can we start writing healthier x-reader's?

We have enough insecure, blushing 'Y/N's being woo'd by [insert tumblr sexy man]'. Hobie can have so much more - in the words of Beyonce "Where the ladies up in here who like to talk back?!"

Hobie Brown, Romance, and Gender Roles

Why can I be the one calling him 'love', and 'darling', and 'sweetheart'?

Where's the fic where I'm the one comforting and taking care of him when he's sick/down?

Why can't Hobie be the one asked to be held?

There's something lacking here!!!!!!!

I honestly think Hobie would be into it, and find it very attractive - having a feminine partner who defies gender roles in their relationship purposefully and proudly.

Hobie loves subverting expectations and challenging society. So, and seeing many people unthinkingly assume he'd have a completely normal, routine heterosexual relationship without question -- uhhh I don't like that!!!

Like, Hobie is very clearly attractive. He's like 6'5", a guitarist, and punk. Let's be real, people of any gender are gonna be flirting with him, whether he's into it or not. He without a doubt gets flirted at all the time.

I think he'd love someone who cuts the bullshit and is like "You're really cute. I've got the biggest crush on you."

Not in a pushy way, but a relaxed way.

But I hardly ever see the x-reader advances being initiated by the reader. Why? It can be really nice to take the confidence to ask someone out and they say yes.

In fact, a lot of x-readers are written demure, passive, and down-right unhealthy in their ability to defend themselves and stand alone. So many are based off the x reader needing Hobie for some reason, whether it be confidence, or protection, or for him to teach them something.

Never Hobie needing the reader for something. Never Hobie being the one to express emotion and need comfort.

Which is funny, because Hobie can show emotions like anger, which he does in the comics. That's NEVER brought up in fics. In no fic do we have the reader witness Hobie hitting someone with a guitar or kicking them in the face. Which Hobie does do.

No, that's too violent for the romanticized fandom of Hobie. He has to be the good boyfriend to the shy girlfriend.

And I feel like there's a reason many of these x-readers are written this way - is heteronormativity and a dash of misogyny-flavored sexism involved??? maybe.

Especially with x fem readers, feminine people are always expected to be passive and submissive. Women in the real world are expected to mute their advances and 'be coy' for the sake of sexist 'respectability'.

We're taught that 'giving them the eyes' is (somehow??) an 'advance'. Or that you have to wait to be asked out or else you're 'too forward'.

[Insert Barbie Movie Monologue here]

Personally, I think Hobie would be SO refreshed by a girl who comes up to him and is like "Hey, are you busy on Friday? Do you wanna meet me then? I wanna go on a date with you."

Because, realistically 95% of the people in the Hobie fandom - including me - would probably be too nervous to even speak a sentence to Hobie.

So for someone to approach him directly, state their intentions, and be so open to potential rejection, that's impressive - I think he'd LOVE that shit!!!

I think it's a nice juxtaposition to have him with someone who diverges from the 'demure ideal of a girlfriend'.

A girl who walks around like Jessica Drew. Walks in the room like "My man is SEXY AF and he about to walk in so LOOK. BE JEALOUS."

I imagine so many people around him try to act like they DON'T like Hobie when they clearly do - and he can tell. So to have someone who isn't hiding it is a kind of candidness that differs from it all.

So often are women forced into the passive role of waiting to be 'chosen'. Fuck that, you want him, go get him.

Hobie, Romance, and Labels

I also think Hobie would REALLY like a partner who knows what they want.

I always see people be like 'Hobie doesn't like labels!! He wants to keep it casual!' or 'Nooo he was kidding about the labels thing - he'd love a committe-'

WHO SAYS HE'D BE THE ONE DEFINING THE SITUATION????????? WHO SAID HE GETS THE LAST SAY???!!!!!

I feel like Hobie would go fucking NUTS for a girl who is straight up like "yeah I'm just trying to fuck. Are you okay with that?" or "I like what we've got going on. I'm not looking for anything serious, but let's keep going."

Or a partner that is very clear about their labels. A person who's like "I like you but if you're not trying to be exclusive I'm gonna get a move on." Because he's not gonna have you out here looking DUMB, people better know you're in the mfing picture.

That's some grown ass shit! It shows she knows what she wants and that she's not wavering on it, even for him. He's with it. I don't think Hobie would be down to be like "I'm ur boyfriend now" OR "I'm ONLY down for fucking lol srry'.

She gets a say too. And she should be clear on what she wants.

If she's the one to take the initiative and name the game - that's great for him. He's down for whatever, what is it that YOU wanna do??

Hobie, Romance, and Intimacy (like for the grown folks 18+) __________________________________

🔞

In a LOT of fic and especially SMUT, it's always Hobie making the advances, or at least initiating them. In society, women are taught that's how is, that being sexually 'aggressive' and proactive - not just SUGGESTIVE - is inappropriate.

Wait till Hobie slaps your ass, then the smut could start. Wait till Hobie kisses you, then there's romance.

Nah, I'm the one smacking his ass. I'm the one pulling his belt loop saying Come 'ere. What if I'm the one who wants to pull him down for a first kiss, huh??? I gotta wait??

Even in dialogue-

In a lot of fics Hobie can talk as raunchy as ever, but the woman can't say 'pussy'? Hobie can say three sentences straight about how my coochie feel but the reader only gets to moan submissive requests back??

Can the dirty talk be two-sided? Because women should be allowed to be vocal in their pleasure.

Hobie can tell you he wants you to suck his dick, but when's the reader gonna say "Come eat this pussy like you mean it." HM??????

In fics the reader can only be suggestive - in order to bait him into initiating, like sending him a suggestive picture or throwing a bra on stage. But it's hardly ever the other way around. With the reader being the one to say 'Enough of the teasing, we fucking NEOW.'

Because in our society, a guy slipping a girl's shirt off to get the scene going is hot. But a woman going for a guys belt before he begins to undress her - nooo, that's too forward.

Maybe Hobie wants to feel like the sexy, desired, sought after one.

_______________________________________________

Hobie, Romance and Feminism

Let it be known: Hobie loves people who are socially educated!!!!

If you can look at him and explain what anarchism actually is - like in a politcal theory sense - I think he'd be impressed, because you're seeing through the 'pseudo-rockstar' persona he puts on.

Most if not all of his actions are choice are driven by political action, so having a partner educated in things like anarchy or communism just makes sense with him. Hobie cares about stuff like that, and actually goes out of his way to study and live in line with those ideals.

That includes feminism!!!

I think Hobie would love a girlfriend who is invested in feminism, cares about it, and thinks about it in her decision making.

A woman that is educated about her oppression and how to combat it, and purposefully goes against the strict stereotype labeled on women - especially feminine women - as an act of protest.

A girl who can and will defend herself, go off on, or put a sexist pig in their place. You can't tell me he wouldn't be into that.

Social movements of the oppressed are super important to Hobie, and I think feminism is the same, but I never see it mentioned.

I definitely think that Hobie would have a clear understanding of his privilege as a man and how that effects relationships.

I can see him being like "I'd never propose." Not because he hates labels, but because he acknowledges that for centuries marriage was used as a financial and social transaction to oppress and control women and their bodies, and he doesn't want to be involved in that.

Hit him with that "Same - the gold and diamond rings are trash anyway. Both materials being mined and pillaged in African nations for centuries at the expense of the indigenous populations really puts me off it."

He'd wanna somehow find a way to marry you without marrying you you know what i mean

Hobie loves feminism and feminists. Give him a 70's bra-burning feminism so help me god. He was alive for Roe v. Wade passing (1973), he KNOWS about feminism and probably knows many outspoken feminists.

Hobie, Romance and Individuality

You know what I don't like?

Headcanons or fics that be like "You and Hobie NEVER disagree or argue. Never ever, you always talk it out."

Like...Bullshit. I'm sorry but I don't think it's very realistic.

Hobie is a very opinionated too. He's very outspoken and when it comes to topics, and he usually knows exactly where he stands. I think, without a doubt he'd care what his partner thinks too.

Asking them about a record that's playing, or what they think of a movie they saw in the past, or a new political issue going on. He'd absolutely ask, because he cares. He's interested.

If if ya'll are never disagreeing that means:

Either you agree with his opinion all the time without fail or exception OR

You're biting your tongue around him

I don't think one is very realistic in terms of things. You can't like every song your boyfriend likes. You can't like every movie he shows you, or agree on EVERY political issue. That's not how people are.

And for two - if you're biting your tongue around him, he'll notice.

Yes, Hobie is a very emotionally intelligent person and extremely compassionate. But he's also very strong in his morals, thoughts, and beliefs. He doesn't budge.

If you're biting your tongue, I'd imagine he'd be like "You wanna say something." or "Whatever you're thinking just say it." cause he can see it in your face.

He's not trying to put you on the spot, he just wants to know what you're thinking.

When you explain what you're thinking, he's probably gonna wanna hear why, and respond, etc etc.

Hobie is a very individualistic person, and I think he'd be drawn to someone who is as well. Someone who is solid in their opinions and personhood enough to express them.

It leads to interesting conversation and knowing each other deeper -It's a form of intimacy.

If you watch a film with him and don't like it, he's gonna ask why. Did you not like the theme? Was the dialogue bad? What part did you think sucked the most, he thought x, y, z. What do you think about the part he disliked, did you notice a,b,c?

I feel like Hobie would want to know his partner deeply, and he'd care and love the things that make them different from each other.

Including differing opinions.

Discussions and debates aren't bad. Discussing something and getting heated defending your point can be really fun and stimulating, if it's with someone you care about and the two parties are mature and not assholes.

Tell him why you think he's wrong about something - he wants an excuse to talk more about his opinion. INTELLECTUALLY CHALLENGE HIM DONT JUST AGREE.

Along with being very individualistic, Hobie is very independent. He refused to rely on the Society for their watches - he made his own. So I think the next important thing to him is:

Hobie, Romance and Independence

I like the idea of Hobie having a partner that has their own place and is committed to that, and their space.

Or a partner that emotionally supports him!!

95% of the time, he's the one asking what's wrong, or holding reader, or comforting them.

Can we get hectic bf and organized girlfriend energy?? A gf where he says plans during missions and she's like "What are you thinking? You're gonna get us killed."

A gf that soothes HIM when he gets angry - cause comic Hobie GETS angry, especially after a fight.

Give me ONE, ONE fic where he's drunk coming from a pub and READER has to deal with drunk Hobie and put him to bed.

Hobie is ALWAYS expected to take care of himself, and the people around him. He takes pride in this and he's good at it. But why should he have to do it all the time?

_____________________________________________

In general,

Hobie is a confident person. He knows what he wants, and how to handle himself, and how to approach people and get respect just by being himself. He's assured, and outspoken, and VERY independent. He does what he wants, when he wants and lets you know when it happens

I think pairing him with a confident, assured, outspoked, independent person is only natural. I think him having a relationship with a personality like his would be a ROCK SOLID one.

There's be no fics like 'Groupies were bullying you' because his she would be like "Sis, if I swing on you he isn't gonna hold me back so be careful."

I want a reader that when they do that trope of 'A girl was flirting in front of him making you insecure and uncomfortable' - The reader squashes it right there. Like "Girl, I know you see me standing here. You know we're together. Cut the cute shit!!"

I'm tired of fics taking me for an insecure, submissive, demure, sexually innocent, wimp of a babydoll girlfriend that needs to be babied at every turn. There's nothing wrong with being shy and demure, but when it's all you're offering it's not gonna cut it.

Especially not for Hobie Brown.

Let the tall, dark, actively oppressed black man be the one to vent, or be held, or romanced, and spoken sweetly too. There's so many comfort fics, but not many of them consider Hobie's own trauma - and how a relationship could include that.

Hobie Brown deserves more.

_______________________________________________

If you wanna know how I use this to write a non-conventional relationship for Hobie, that's below this break.

Okay so I'mma leave it here but if you read this far, thank you!!!! I be SO pissed when fics be talking me (Y/N) as a punk (in the wimpy sense not the Hobie sense). Like...nah I wouldve said something in a lot of situations. Irk my last nerve. Like the one where the girl PINCHES you??? Like?? Nah I we would've been fighting, I'm sorry this is unrealistic

Alsooo the section below is about my Spidersona Disco-Spider and how I encorporated all of this into her creation- because I wanted to write a sona who subtly defied gender roles while still being feminine. So if you wanna read there thank you so much, and if not, thanks for reading this far! He's a pic of Hobie in thanks!

[If you wanna check out Part 2 for direct examples, how to write NCRs, and a more in depth look into Disco and Hobie - check it out here]

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DiscoSpider Diane and The Great Groupie Act [How I use all of this to a write a feminist Spidersona and a non-conventional relationship]

Diane is a HUGE Hobie Groupie - and that's kinda of her main thing.

She runs the Hobie Brown Fanclub on campus, attends all his shows, and wears his guitar pick. She's into him and she's not afraid to show it.

I wanted to write Diane as a purposeful groupie, one who is fine with the title, and even leans into it. Because a lot of the time - and in a lot of fics including guitarists - 'groupie' is seen as a negative thing.

Like K-pop stans, being a 'groupie' - and openly expressing your romantic interest in a hot guy is seen as desperation.

But I wanted to write her as one in spite of this. To swap 'desperation' for unwavering boldness. A girl with the motto 'Closed mouths don't get fed'.

And much like Hobie uses the 'typical punk' label to disarm others, I wanted Diane to mirror that - in the opposite direction.

Diane is a self-proclaimed groupie. And because of that, many (mainly misogynists) assume that she can't think for herself - or at all. And Diane can use that to her advantage.

If Miguel and Jess really believe she only cares about conversations involving Hobie, then they'll talk like she isn't there. And she can listen. If it looks like she's hanging all over him, no one realizes if she's slipping him information.

And it also helps in their relationship.

They both enjoy their privacy.

HQ prohibits relationships between Spidey-people. It's an anomaly waiting to happen - and they make sure to keep a close eye out for it. Plus with Jess breathing down her neck, it's much easier for Diane and Hobie to just keep it underwraps.

In comes the Groupie persona.

No one actually expects the groupie to get the guy. She's desperate, and he's the player guitarist. Plus, if they were dating she couldn't be a 'groupie' right? They wouldn't make sense, would it?

They let people make their own assumptions. By calling herself a groupie, suddenly people think there's no possible way there's something going on, and they don't look closer.

This also allows them the freedom of no labels. Are they boyfriend and girlfriend? Nah she's his groupie. Quit asking questions.

All of this allows me to write Disco in a way that connects back to everything in this post.

By calling herself a 'Groupie' suddenly Diane can subvert expectations of affection, avoid the pressures of labels, and control her image and the amount of information she lets on to people

That in turn helps me write their relationship in a nonconventional way - a way that challenges misogyny around affection and reclaims a sexist fan trope for something more empowering.

Sure, the concept seems silly at first. The ditsy, bubbly, party girl on campus, but I wanted there to be a reason and drive behind it.

Disco-Spider Diane is exactly who she wants to be, an unapologetic, outspoken disco-girl. One that's highly educated and knows her shit.

And also a huge groupie.

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If you've read this far, thank you so much. It genuinely means a lot to me! This is reaaaaaallly long.

[Part 2 here]

Now how about you take this photo of Hobie and we both pretend like me writing this is normal well-adjusted behavior okay? okay

Bye.

#im back and I got something to say!!!!!!#these are just my opinions and Headcanons #but also they're correct I know because I'm with Hobie right now in my mind palace and he told me all this #no proofread ever lolllll #spiderman #atsv #hobie brown #marvel #spider man #spider punk #spiderpunk #across the spiderverse #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x oc #hobie brown x you #hobie brown x y/n #atsv anaylsis

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