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sukunasweetheart · 10 months ago

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im gonna tell you my favorite thing about sukuna right neow because i think youd be the best writer to write this (i jus love you) of yoru uncomfortbale, its ok. But hear this knowledge i know that you may not know or if you do thats GREAT.

sukuna can lactate. CANNONICALLY.

PLEASEEEEE lmfoaksdn i love this... ive read a few fics with trueform sukuna lactating and maybe its my turn to do a little something for it too... this is ur warning lmao it turns very smutty at the end bye

its good for a little sub!sukuna too, he's never let anyone come near his chest except you, so he'd probably be new to all the sensations youd give him ^^ you're overexcited and sukuna is probably grimacing at you, thinking youre a weirdo and a pervert for wanting to suck on his teet so bad, but after a lot of convincing, he lets you try to relieve the ache of his TIDDIES with a big eye roll

and boy, does it feel weird. you suck on his nipple like a newborn, and as your tongue rolls around his sensitive bud, he can't stop the shudders that go down his spine. his growing erection becomes painfully obvious and he's almost horrified about it, why does this feel so good?

you groan at the taste of his sweet milk and he finds it oddly fulfilling-- knowing that you're enjoying the taste of his...milk. you roll your hips around against his boner and sukuna's large hands land on your waist to guide your movements.

you suck on his one nipple until it's puffy and swollen and run dry, before moving on to the other one.

"fuck... slow down. it's not goin' anywhere," sukuna huffs at you, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and red ears. you don't respond, only continuing to squeeze out every drop from him using your mouth. you're also getting wetter and wetter between your legs with every passing second, drunk from his sweet taste, wondering how such a bitter man could produce something like this out of his chest.

sukuna breathes heavier above you, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head as you lap up every drop that comes out. he jerks his hips up every now and then, unable to help himself. he'll need to fuck you dumb after this as a punishment-- or a reward, perhaps?

he gets closer to soiling his hakama pants with his load, but he's doing everything to hold back because it's humiliating enough that the king of curses lactates, and is currently letting someone drink from his pecs. he can't be cumming into his clothes like a virgin on top of that. he grits his teeth and restrains himself.

it was a futile effort however, because you do something unthinkable and brave on your part, suddenly using your teeth into the mix, biting lightly on his sensitive nipple, immediately sending him over the edge.

sukuna jolts and his clothed cock presses up against you as he blows his load into his pants, the shock of the painful pleasure having shot down his spine. you hear him groan deeply and hiss at you, retaliating by grabbing a handful of your hair. but you're unrelenting, and your mouth is still latched onto him. your cheeky grin pisses him off.

once his orgasm subsides, sukuna pries your lips away from his puffy nipples. they're swollen and sensitive. he has tears barely protruding from the corners of his eyes, and there is a brilliant blush on his face.

"fucking hell. you're insatiable. one perverted fucking woman," he tells you with a growl.

"but you liked it. loved it, even. so much that you came in your pants-"

you yelp as you're manhandled onto the bed. sukuna practically tears the clothes off from your body, stripping you bare, down to your dripping wet pussy. he roughly slots his fingers into your soaking cunt, a mean glare in his eyes, having flared up from your provoking.

"you're sopping wet. not much better than me, are you?" sukuna sneers, fingering your most delicate spot. you moan, unable to respond, too preoccupied with the pleasure.

he removes his digits and then shoves them into your own mouth, to shut you up. then, he frees his still aching cock from his pants and shoves it into you all in one go.

"all nice and loose f' me," he groans, feeling your welcoming walls around his dick.

"i wonder if i bred you nice and full- would i get to have a taste of your milk too?"

you suck on his fingers and whimper, full of lust and desire.

"oh? ...you don't seem to hate the idea. i'll fuck a baby into you, then," he says darkly.

...and a blissful night ensues, where you get to enjoy getting pumped full of the milk from his cock, not just his tits.

#sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #poe answers #sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna

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bokutoko · 7 months ago

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hello!! i really enjoyed your writing for kita! i was wondering if i can request one where reader (fem) gets really emotional over little things (ex. smth doesn’t go as planned) and kita comforts her?

smile

character: shinsuke kita (timeskip!kita)

wc: 792

content/warning(s): emotional dysregulation, slight cursing; there's a reason your boyfriend is the farmer and not you...

a/n: hi anon!! thank you so much for the love and the req🫶🏻 this was healing for me to write bc i tend to get emotional over the little things sometimes too. i hope i did our fav rice farmer justice once again <333

Growing up around his grandmother, Kita always had a green thumb. Ever since he was taught that all life was built by small, daily acts, he was always patient with his crops. He made sure to be thorough with maintenance all throughout harvest—up until they reach the consumer’s hands. Because of this, he ensured the highest quality of rice.

You, on the other hand, were not-so secretly known as every plant’s worst nightmare. Of course, you didn’t mean to kill all your plants, they just always somehow died!

But you decided to give it another shot. Watching Kita work so hard outside made you feel confident; if he could manage countless acres of land, you could handle a little garden. You excitedly picked out your favorite fruit and vegetable seeds from the local market, and Kita was happy to build you a little enclosure for your plants.

Now here you were, standing before your little plots of soil with tears in your eyes. You’d tried so hard, but you forgot to water them for one day, and to just your luck, they all died due to an unforeseen heatwave in Hyogo.

“What the actual fuck?” Huffing in frustration, your eyes squeezed shut, letting the first couple tears fall. Despite the extreme heat, a cold, harsh wave of embarrassment washed over you, and you couldn’t help but feel like a complete failure for messing this up. How was it possible that your boyfriend managed the entire farm, having a near-perfect harvest every year, and you couldn’t even take care of a 6x10-ft plot?

—

Out in the fields, Kita removed his cap, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked to the sky. With sunset approaching, he began his trek back home to see you after a long, satisfying day’s work—just a couple more months until harvest.

As he stepped into the clearing behind your home, he was expecting to see you waiting for him with your usual bright smile that still made his heart skip a beat. But instead, you were standing with your back to him and your hands on your hips.

Uh oh. He walked up behind you, calling, “Evenin’, darlin’.”

You shot around, and he took note of the tear stains that you quickly wiped away. “Hi, Shin,” you greeted with the slightest quiver in your voice.

“Everythin’ okay?” He looked down at your little plants that were vaporized from the sun, then back to you, noticing your glistening eyes.

“Why do all plants hate me?”

“Ya know plants can’t hate ya.”

“It sure feels like they do!” you snapped, immediately feeling guilty for your attitude when Kita did nothing wrong. You were well aware, as was Kita, when spurts of overwhelming emotions engulfed you—whether happy, sad, angry, embarrassed—your instinct reactions were to either get snappy or briefly cry. Or both, in this case.

Kita watched as fresh, hot tears rolled down your face as you whispered a soft, genuine “I’m sorry,” and he stepped forward to comfort you. You immediately wrapped your arms around his waist and smushed your face into his chest in defeat, mumbling, “I feel so dumb, Shin. What the hell am I doing wrong?”

Always to your rescue, Kita removed his gloves to gently tip your chin up to look into his pretty brown eyes. “Yer not dumb or doin’ anythin’ wrong. Sometimes, plants don’t sprout, an’ sometimes, the ones that do just die. Ain’t nothin’ else about it,” he assured as a gentle thumb wiped your eyes. “Somethin’ as small as this sure ain’t worth yer tears, though.”

You shut your eyes and released a small sigh, your bottom lip jutting out. “I know.”

Kita leaned forward and pressed three tender kisses against your forehead, signifying three words: I love you. “We can always plant some more. We can go ta the market tomorrow an’ pick out more o’the seeds ya want,” he suggested, “and I can help ya take care of ‘em.”

“But you already do so much for me,” you objected.

“It ain’t a big ask, sweetheart,” he reasoned with a loving gaze, “and ya know I’d do anythin’ ta see ya smile.”

You squished your face into his chest in a tight hug again. “You’re kinda cheesy, Shin,” you teased as you hid your reddening cheeks.

He chuckled, grateful that the slight sun on his face hid his own blush, muttering, “Guess I am.“

From that day on, Kita never forgot to give your garden a little extra love in the mornings before tending to the farm. It was worth seeing your big, proud grin when it was time to pick your first round of thriving produce.

And to Kita, anything was worth doing to keep a smile on your face.

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please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2024.

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ghostchems · 2 months ago

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blood and cookies

written with copia in mind but can be any papa. if you read, let me know which papa you imagined! this idea came to me in the middle of the night. 1.2k words. nothing crazy here except for some bloodsucking :) happy holidays!

Flames crackle in the fireplace, casting shadows on the simple garland draped across the mantel. A single, plain red stocking hangs from one corner - the extent of your Christmas decorations. You zone out in the direction of the display from the kitchen as you remove your oven mitts, placing them on the counter. A chill rolls down your spine despite the warmth of the cookies cooling in front of you, sugar cookies shaped like trees with green and red sprinkles. They're typical Christmas cookies, the only kind you trust yourself to bake.

Recently, you've had a visitor every couple of nights. They aren’t the kind to stick around, showing up because they *needed* something from you. You wonder if your dabbling in the darker arts attracted them— ever since moving here you’ve found yourself attracted to the strange herbs and mushrooms that grow wild in these woods. You've learned to identify them, to harvest them properly, and to learn what they are used for - spells that are meant to give protection and tranquility.

The knowledge feels ancient, like it's been waiting here in the soil for someone like you to discover it. Sometimes you wonder if it was a trap all along but you are enjoying your new hobby. Long winter nights are hard living deep in the forest with your closest neighbor miles away, but you make do with your DIY witchcraft. Sometimes you enjoy the solitude while other times you wished you had someone to share it with. That is, until some of your evenings have been interrupted by a mysterious visitor.

You hear fluttering from the living room and quickly move to scoop some cookies onto a plate. Smoothing out your apron with one hand, you take the plate in the other and head toward the fire.

A figure stands near the fireplace, his one otherworldly white eye glowing in the darkness. Dark wings stretch behind him, their leathery surface creaking as they fold against his back. He is like a living shadow, his form seeming to blur at the edges where the firelight touches him. He's never spoken. You don't even know his name but his visits have become more frequent. At first it was once a month, then every other week, and now he visits at least once a week.

“Good evening,” you say softly, placing the plate of freshly baked cookies on the small table beside your armchair. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafts through the air, mingling with the woodsmoke. His white eye follows your movement, and you notice the slightest tilt of his head — perhaps in curiosity, or appreciation. “Help yourself. I will, uh, get you some warm milk.”

You turn back toward the kitchen, your feet padding quietly across the wooden floor. As you warm the milk on the stovetop, you can't help but wonder if he'll still be there when you return — he sometimes disappears as silently as he arrives. The gentle crackling of the fire and the soft clink of the plate behind you suggest he's staying, at least for now. It doesn’t take long for the milk to warm, and you pour it carefully into your favorite ceramic mug — the one with pale green mushrooms painted all over it, their caps dotting the surface in cheerful reds and purples.

When you return, he's closer to the fireplace and two cookies are missing from the plate with a few crumbs on the table. There’s a sense of relief that he liked them enough to eat more than one. You place the mug of warm milk on the table carefully, having learned he isn’t too fond of sudden movements. That doesn’t stop him from moving with inhuman speed right up to you, causing you to gasp and stumble back a step. His wings unfurl slightly, casting strange shadows on the walls.

"You are hungry," you whisper to him, your eyes scanning his face. You can see more of him now—the white and black paint that clings to his skin. He gives a low rumble in response, coming from deep in his chest. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. His eye narrows slightly, the otherworldly glow intensifying for just a moment. You know what comes next.

He crowds close to you, his wings curling around you like a dark embrace. His gloved hand gently tilts your head to the side, exposing your neck. You feel his impossibly cool breath against your skin, causing you to shiver. His other hand pushes the strap of your apron to the side and leans in, lips against your skin. The touch is gentle but cold, like winter frost against your warm flesh.

He kisses your neck. This is new. Usually, he just bites and drinks, a simple transaction of blood for company. But tonight there's something different in the way his lips linger against your skin, the way his hand cradles your head. The gesture is almost tender. You find yourself leaning into his touch, your hands reaching up to steady yourself against his chest. His fangs graze your neck, almost as if asking permission.

"Yes," you whisper, "you may."

His fangs pierce your skin with practiced precision, and you gasp at the sharp sting. All feeling melts away in moments. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as he drinks deeply, the sound of his satisfied grunts mixed with the crackle of the fire. Through half-lidded eyes, you notice his wing has curled more tightly around you, probably to keep you upright as you grow weak with each deep draw of blood.

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in. He must sense this and withdraws his fangs, his tongue quickly lapping at the wound to stop the bleeding. His wings move away from you as you sway on your feet, and the last thing you feel is his arms guiding you gently into the armchair as consciousness slips away from you.

You awake with a soft groan, your neck tender where his fangs had pierced. Fingertips drift along the wound as your eyes fall to the fireplace. The fire has died down to glowing embers. Then, your eyes drift to the small table beside you, where only scattered crumbs remain on the plate that once held your Christmas cookies. The ceramic mug sits empty, a smudge of black - like paint or lipstick - marking where his lips had touched the rim.

Despite how weak you feel, there's a sense of contentment. He ate all of the treats you made for him. You smile softly, sinking deeper into the armchair. You wonder when he'll visit again. Maybe next time you'll try another treat, perhaps chocolate chips or snicker doodles. The thought makes you feel warm as you sink deeper into the chair, sleep claiming you. You dream of dark wings and winter nights, of sugar cookies and stolen kisses.

Outside, snow begins to fall covering the forest in a blanket of white. Somewhere in that darkness, a shadow moves between the trees, leaving no footprints.

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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 4 days ago

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“A spike of cold iron” and Fate: Thomas Hutter, Roma and Orlok in “Nosferatu” (2024)

This scene has been puzzling me ever since I saw this film in the theater for the first time. But only now after knowing every influence and inspiration behind this story (besides the obvious “Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror” (1922) and the novel “Dracula” by Bram Stoker) and analyzing (Pardon my French) the crap out of this film, I’ve come up with an answer. I’ll use the term “Roma people” instead of Romani, because I’m also going to talk about Romanians, and it might get confusing for folks not familiar with these terms (ethnicity vs. nationality).

Craig Lathrop, the producer designer, said in an interview the pick-axe that’s in the castle crypt is a part of a backstory (which is based on “Dracula” by Bram Stoker): the soil near the sarcophagus has been removed to fill it up, because Orlok is preparing to travel and he, being a strigoi, needs to rest in the earth where he was buried during the day. And we do see, on the left side, the stones of the floor have been removed and the soil dig out. A staple of this film is “show, not tell”.

And indeed there’s a whole backstory here: who filled Orlok’s sarcophagus with dirt? Who packed his sarcophagus to travel? Someone had to put his coffin in a box and take it to the ship, for him to be able to travel to Wisburg. He couldn’t (and wouldn’t) do all of this by himself, obviously.

And the answer can only be in one of the source materials/inspirations for this film: “Dracula” novel by Bram Stoker. It was the Roma people who worked for Orlok (like they did in the novel). And Robert Eggers is really assuming everyone knows this is based on “Dracula”, here.

A bit of historical context; Roma people have been marginalized in Europe for centuries, and in Romania, specifically, they were enslaved for almost 500 years. Boyars had Roma slaves; more info about this topic here (although this article uses the term “Gypsy”, which is culturally offensive). It’s unclear if (human) Orlok had Roma slaves or not, because Transylvania was a particular case, where many Roma people weren’t slaves, and, in the 16th century, a Roma voivodeship was created (an authority led by a noble holding the title of voivode). Still Roma slavery in Transylvania was only abolished in the 17th century.

We really have no information on why the Roma people work for Orlok, and the only visual confirmation of this is the pick-axe in the crypt, so it’s clear Robert Eggers didn’t want to dwell on this fact, either. But, still, we were introduced to these characters, and their actions do have meaning in the plot.

We, the audience, first meet the Roma people of Transylvania in “Nosferatu” (2024) when Thomas arrives at the Carpathians, and there’s a camp outside the Inn. And he’s immediately received by one Roma man, who takes his horse, and signals the others of his arrival. What’s odd about this scene is that everyone has their eyes fixed on Thomas, as they play music and dance.

And then they laugh at Thomas, following the lead of a character who unfortunately doesn’t have a name, he’s only described as “handsome Roma man” in the script or “vampire hunter” on IMBd. In the 2023 script, it says Thomas gets embarrassed because the man is looking at him, but this script is incomplete, filled with incorrect dialogue and several scenes didn’t play on-screen the way they are described there, so I’m taking this script with a grain of salt, actually.

Thomas is as confused as the audience at this point. Why are they laughing at him? Is because he’s a foreigner? Because he’s out of his element? Did he caused offense? What is happening? In the meantime, the owner of the Inn arrives and reluctantly agrees to let Thomas stay the night because he’s willing to play double for the room. Not before he expressed his fear at the mention of Castle Orlok. And racism towards the Roma people.

Once he gets inside, the Innkeeper’s Mother-in-Law is performing a blessing ritual with garlic to protect a man against strigoi. She shows Thomas to his room and warns him against Orlok’s shadow, and gives him a talisman.

During the night, Thomas awakes because of chanting and torch light coming from outside. He decides to follow the Roma people and witnesses a strange ritual with a virgin girl on horseback. This is based on Balkan folklore; it’s a method to find a strigoi grave (it’s usually a black stallion, but Eggers probably went this a white horse to be more visible during the night), and a scene like this is also in another film that inspired this adaptation of “Nosferatu”: “Leptirica” (“The She-Butterfly”) (1973).

They dig out a corpse and the “handsome Roma man” stabs it with a spike of cold iron. The corpse vomits blood and Thomas cries out in horror. As the handsome Roma man locks eyes with him, everything turns to black.

Next, we see Thomas waking up, back at the Inn, but his boots are dirty with mud, which seems to indicate it wasn’t a dream, and he remembers what he saw. But when Thomas goes outside there’s no one there. Not even the Innkeepers appear to be there. It’s deserted. Everyone left. Someone took his horse and Thomas has to walk all the way to the castle.

The question is: are these the same Roma who work for Orlok or an entirely different group of people? It seems kind of a huge coincidence to have two groups of the same ethnicity connected to the same story, at the same location but with different contexts (servants of Orlok vs. vampire hunters).

And if this group of Roma works for Orlok why would they be going around killing strigoi? Was it a really a strigoi the Roma people killed? Yes, the corpse vomited blood, but I don’t think we need to go into details about decomposition, here, to explain why stabbing a regular corpse would do the same.

This ritual is usually done during the day time (like it’s represented in “Leptirica” (1973)), for obvious reasons; that’s when the strigoi is resting on his grave, because it’s active during night time. Even “Nosferatu” acknowledges this with Orlok himself; Thomas finds him resting in his sarcophagus during the day. If this was, indeed, a strigoi he wouldn’t even be in his grave at this time of night, to begin with, and the movie itself acknowledges this. So, there’s something weird going here.

Besides, what happened when Thomas tried to stab Orlok with the pick-axe? He stopped him, and even Knock grabs the spike. The corpse the Roma people stab has no physical reaction other than vomiting blood. So, indeed, Robert Eggers gave us three parallel scenes which play-out differently, for a reason.

We have three options for the Roma people wanting Thomas to witness this ritual:

They are acting on Orlok’s orders;

They are trying to “warn” Thomas and telling him the way to destroy Orlok (and free themselves of him in the process); this would explain why they left the pick-axe behind;

Dream/Hallucination: Fate (which is a major theme in the film, too), foreshadowing Thomas' failure at the end.

The second option explains itself. Although, I find it very unlikely. The pick-axe was there as a visual narrative device, connecting the Roma to Orlok (“show, don’t tell”).

The first is more dubious, because Orlok himself appears angry when Thomas insists on learning more about this ritual. But he also says to Thomas he’s eager to retire to his “city of a modern mind” who doesn’t known nor believes in this of “morbid fairytales”, and says these superstitions surely look backwards to a young man of high learning like Thomas. Orlok is clearly being sarcastic, here, he has no intention of flattering Thomas. He’s there to be killed, and to give him access to Ellen, after all. That’s the reason why Knock, Orlok servant, sent him there, in the first place. However, is Orlok actually surprised when Thomas attacks him on his coffin?

Going back to the third option (Fate), there’s some sort of connection between Thomas and the “handsome Roma man”. The muddy boots might indicate it wasn’t a dream, but sleepwalking and hallucinations are associated with Orlok in this story; and Thomas begins to feel the heaviness of Orlok’s shadow before he actually arrives at the castle, and even after he leaves and gets rescue by the Nuns, they say he’s lost in Orlok’s shadow.

Even the elderly Romanian woman warns Thomas that Orlok’s shadow covers him in nightmares, awake but dreaming, and there’s no escape other than praying. When Thomas wakes in the morning, the talisman is around his neck, even thought it wasn’t when he fell asleep or witnessed the ritual. Did the elderly woman saw Thomas doing something (sleepwalking, for instance), put the talisman on him, and they all left, terrified, because of it?

Robert Eggers has no interest in portraying Thomas Hutter as the hero of his story, but says “he [Thomas] thinks he’s the hero”. To me, this might be the key to unlock the mystery of Thomas witnessing this strigoi killing ritual. Because this is the scene which will make him believe he’s the hero of this story and he’s the one who’ll destroy Orlok. He’ll want to become like the handsome Roma man, a heroic vampire hunter, releasing villages from a strigoi threat.

And now, we have to move forward in the plot, to the scene of so-called “possessed Ellen”, and what she tells him: “He [Orlok] told me about you. He told me how fooling you were. How fearful. How like a child. How you fell into his arms as a swooning lily of a woman.”

Thomas feeling emasculated by the Transylvanians is a theme which was already in the 2016 script, so, to me, it’s clear this is something Eggers wanted to explore in his adaptation of “Nosferatu”. And so, this culminating with Thomas trying to emulate the handsome Roma man makes the story come full circle. And this scene with Ellen is crucial to this plot, because she’s putting his entire Victorian male identity into question. And he vows to destroy Orlok himself to protect her. And Ellen tells Thomas that Orlok will kill him if she doesn’t go to him. Which is what makes Thomas say “I will kill him”.

Thomas is absolutely determined in being the hero of the story, now. Not only that’s his role as a Victorian husband, but there’s even a touch of destiny and fate in this (“Providence like Herr Knock would say”), because his mind will return to the handsome Roma man and to the ritual he witnessed that first night.

Now, this whole plot of “Orlok killing Thomas” is pure bullshit and bluff from his part. Orlok has to be invited in, in order to actually kill his victims indoors. This is a staple of vampire lore, which is confirmed by the narrative with the killing of the Hardings (Ellen granted Orlok entrance into the house) and Dr. Sievers saying they should return to their homes because Orlok has surely risen from his grave. As long as the human characters are inside, they are safe from Orlok. Unless someone invites him into the house, like the Hardings case. And Ellen probably realized this with the killing of Anna and the children, although the “Leptirica” (“The She-Butterfly”) (1973) inspiration on this story might indicate something darker. Either way, she clearly knows this by the time she summons Orlok at the end, because she opens her window for him (giving entrance).

And so Orlok knows he can’t actually kill Thomas, but, like he says to Herr Knock, he “has use in him”; he needs him to act the hero, and believe he can emulate the handsome Roma man vampire hunter hero, in order to get him out of the house. And not only that. When Orlok gives Ellen the three days countdown, he says her husband will perish by his hand. And this sets everything into motion, because Orlok wants Thomas to believe he’s the hero vampire hunter. And he wants Ellen to be confronted with the threat of his own destruction. Which is exactly what happens:

And Ellen is, indeed, confronted with Orlok getting killed by a spike of cold iron, like Thomas saw it done in Transylvania. And this is how a strigoi is destroyed in Romanian folklore, because the Şolomonari codex of secrets Von Franz finds in Herr Knock’s office (a book which, obviously, belongs to Orlok, confirmed Şolomonar by the narrative) speaks of how a Şolomonar can break free from his own Nosferatu curse; which involves a young woman in love with him and her voluntary sacrifice (death).

Which is exactly what Orlok says to Knock: “The compact commands she must willingly re-pledge her vow. She cannot be stolen.” Which also taps into the “Svengali” (1931) inspiration in this story: Svengali could hypnotize Trilby all he wanted, but he couldn’t make her actually love him. Orlok could make Ellen dream only of him, but she wouldn’t give him her heart because of it. What made her reconsider accepting his covenant (“being one with [him] ever-eternally”) was the threat of his demise.

Ellen confronted with the threat of Orlok’s destruction is a reference to another inspiration for this story: “La Belle et la Bête” (Beauty and the Beast) (1946); where the Beast reluctantly allows Belle to leave, but gives her a week countdown, telling her that if she doesn’t return within 7 days time, he’ll die of grief.

And so, Ellen will conspired with Von Franz to keep Thomas out of the house (because Von Franz is aware of all of this), and will even play into Thomas wishful heroism: “You will put an end to all of this?” And Thomas leaves fully prepared to embrace the “heroic vampire hunter” role. And the scene in Grünewald Manor is almost a direct parallel to the ritual Thomas saw in Transylvania. And it’s everything wrong with it, too: it’s night time (which means Orlok isn’t in his sarcophagus, because he only rests there during the day), and he stabs a human, not a strigoi (even though Knock was probably seeking a violent death to become one).

When he realizes Von Franz knew about this, all along, he’s enraged and runs back to his house, in a final desperate attempt to save Ellen. And Von Franz laughs and taunts him: “You run in vain! You cannot out-run your destiny!” Which brings this whole story full circle; Thomas was destined to fail, as Ellen and Orlok were fated to be bound together (“even now, we are fated”).

All of this sounds like Thomas Hutter is being unfairly treated by Robert Eggers, but his character in “Nosferatu” (2024) actually embodies a lot of characteristics from 19th century Romanticism, where fallen, failed and tragic heroes were a major theme in Literature. Thomas failure to create a satisfying role for himself dooms him, but it serves a heroic purpose, in the end. Him attempting to embody the hero and the vampire hunter was destined for failure, but it allowed him to leave the house, for Ellen and Orlok to fulfill their covenant, which broke the curse of Nosferatu, not just for them, but for everyone else, and the plague was lifted.

Thomas is also the Edgar Linton to Ellen's Catherine and Orlok's Heathcliff in the "Wuthering Heights" inspiration of this story, which makes him a far more sympathetic character in the narrative. He also gets caught up in middle of something he doesn’t know nor understands, and his entire life gets wrecked as a result. Like Edgar to Heathcliff, Thomas is the antithesis of Orlok; he’s a model of tenderness and constancy. Where Orlok is untamed and wild passion, Thomas is stable and gentle love. Orlok represents nature, and Thomas represents society. Thomas should be everything Ellen wants, but like Catherine with Edgar, he isn’t. And like Edgar, Thomas becomes a grieving widower, while Ellen/Catherine and Orlok/Heathcliff are together in the spiritual realm.

#Nosferatu 2024 #Thomas Hutter 2024 #count Orlok 2024 #Ellen Hutter 2024 #professor Von Franz #Anna Harding #clara Harding #Louise Harding #Robert Eggers #nicolas hoult #bill skarsgård #lily rose depp #wuthering heights #dracula

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turbofanatic · 10 months ago

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Hyrule's resting bitch face champion for three decades and counting.

@scopophobia-polaris asked for some more details on this silly guy and I needed to post the redesign of his scars so I'm gonna ramble!

General "rules" I am using for the Bad Moon AU:

-You cannot change the future. If you saw the future, it happens. Maybe not to you, but it happens. Time travel either involves splitting timelines, temporal loops (see the song of storms), or two extremely similar timelines that collapse together (a dumb child goes to the past to plant beans). What does this mean for Termina? OH GOD OH GOD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TINY WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!

-If you turn into something, you will never entirely turn back.

-Two opposing wishes on the Tri Force will really fuck things up. Also, it happened. Bad Moon is about dealing with the fallout.

Tiny has a series of magic scars from his various transformations. Most of them are benign or beneficial due to Farore's blessing and the Fierce Deity's Mask's intervention, but not all. Believe it or not, this is me nerfing him, because I'm getting rid of all the Terminian masks except for the FD's mask, which gets broken.

-From the Deku mask he has ivy vines. Most are centered along his spine. He uses them to hold stuff. If he sleeps in fertile soil they will grow into the ground and he leaves weird plants that are sort of beholden to him all over the place. Gross. Anyways, remember how the Hero's Shade is covered in ivy? The "missing" eye is also more or less a Deku scrub's pitlike eye now, granting him low-light but otherwise mediocre vision in that eye.

-From the Goron mask he is disturbingly strong now. Most of Farore's blessed are pretty strong to begin with and now he's got Darmani's strength on top of that. His teeth are continuously growing and need to be worn down by grinding them on each other (because he's missing a tooth from that facial scar those teeth are maloccluded and grow all weird). It's definitely inspired by wrathful deity artwork though. He's also extremely resistant to heat. He got the white hair and scales on his shoulders/knees/elbows from Darmani too. Guess what part of his magic scarring the Hero of Twilight inherits!

-From the Zora mask he has some extremely strong scales on his forearms that can be used to defend himself. He can also make nasty electrical shocks, is very resistant to electrocution, is an extremely good swimmer (nowhere near as good as Mikau though), and can hold his breath for twenty minutes easily. His toes are webbed too.

-From the Giant's mask his height just kinda varies. His "true" height is over seven feet tall but it can vary between about 6"/15cm in either direction. He has some control over this but it's more related to his sense of security. He's at his smallest when he's the most insecure but like, that's still 6'10"/208 cm so he's still way too big. Lucky for him the magic also affects his clothes/armor but it takes some time so he just makes/buys things on the larger end and waits for them to shrink to his current size. The effect goes away when removed from his body. Is this so I don't have to be consistent? Yes.

-He turns into a puppy in the War of Eras when he's ten and Zant uses the twilight as a weapon. Specifically an epicyon puppy! A 100lb/45kg puppy! Medli will ride him! I just want to draw the biggest puppy in the world. He can still turn into the big ancient wolf, and thankfully it doesn't do too much to him (unlike Twilink) but his jaw attaches waaay further back than it ought to and he can open his mouth to a scary degree. It's probably influencing those big fangs too. Combined with the Goron bite strength and... yeah.

I'll probably change things because I'm just playing around with him, so don't be surprised when I do!

#bad moon #the legend of zelda #zelda au #oot link #mm link #hero of time #hero's shade

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merrilinie · 1 year ago

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TW: mentions of torture, talk of scars

Merlin who doesn’t like it when people touch his back. Arthur and Leon notice it first and near instantly when Leon gives him a friendly pat and the boy tenses so hard it’s a surprise his shoulders didn’t pop out of place.

Elyan and Gwen notice it when they invite him over for a late dinner once he and Gwen are finished with their duties and he refuses to press his back to the chair.

Gwaine figures it out on the first day, with it being him who tells Lancelot and Percival about it. Lance tries to ask the other if it has something to do with his magic, but upon Merlin’s face going cold and a shadow of fear crossing his eyes, he promises not to bring it up again.

They all just know not to touch his back or anywhere on his torso or even his upper legs, there’s bo need to question it both because they respect his boy dies and, well… they’re scared of what the answer might be.

It’s when Merlin gets hit in an ambush that the truth of it is revealed.

The gash along his side is not all that deep, but the cowardly bandits who attacked had laced their blades with poison. With no choice, they remove his jacket and shirt to properly clean out the wound as best they can.

There are a few gasps, a lot of purposeful ignored tears, but they all steel their nerves and pretend not to see the vicious scars on his body. None of them could deny the sight, try as they might, not when the scars were big and jagged and so clearly from some kind of whip. They tried not to look at the ladder like lines across his stomach, going up to his lower pecks before turning into vicious swirls that seemed to mock the Druid mark.

It was useless.

Merlin was conscious enough to tell them what to put on his wound, to order them to make him drink as much as he could so wash what they could out of his system. He told them to find a river for him to lay in as the fever broke, which they did.

No one said a thing about the burns littering his legs.

When he awoke with full consciousness, he knew instantly that they had seen even though he had been given clothes. If they weren’t different to what he had been wearing, maybe he wouldn’t have.

Alas, their saddened eyes gave it away.

It’s Arthur who asks, “Merlin… who did this to you?”

Merlin cries openly, always refusing to hide his tears unlike every other man, he spews apologies over and over. Even as Lance and Gwaine hold him close he continues, ignoring their assurances that it’s okay until eventually he answers.

“It was Uther. He found out my father was a dragon lord. He only spared me because he wanted to see a dragon lord become a slave.”

Arthur’s tears join his in the soil.

#bbc merlin #merlin emrys #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin x arthur #merthur #bbc merlin angst #knights of camelot #merlin angst #dragon lord

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spooky-pomegranate · 2 years ago

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Use Your Words:

Captain Price x F Reader (18+) 🔥 Word Count: 3.8K

Summary: Price shows you the scars on his body and reassures you that everything will be alright.

It was hard to see where you were going through the hazy fog of tears, but Price gently guided you into another room and helped you sit on the edge of his bed. You didn’t understand why your emotions had taken over you so quickly. But now that they had bubbled to your surface it felt impossible to dismiss them.

Price’s hand left yours and through the blurry haze, you watched as he knelt down in front of you. Without a word, he gently removed his shirt and laid it on the ground.

“Price I don’t think I can…” Your eyes fell to the floor. As badly as you had wanted him just a moment ago, you couldn’t go there now. Not when your world felt like it was crumbling beneath you. Not when your head and heart were on such different terms.

“I know,” Price's voice soothed. “I know. Just look at me, sweetheart.”

You raised your head and stared at Price. His lips curved upward and he smiled. The edges of his eyes crinkled and his nose scrunched. A warmth spread through your belly. You loved how his face changed when he looked at you like this. Like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Like nothing else mattered but you. Like time was standing still. No one had ever looked at you this way.

The tender reverence in his soft blue eyes pulled you back to earth. You sniffled again and brushed the tears from your eyes feeling slightly more grounded.

“I’m sorry, Price. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Shhh. Shhh. It’s alright. It’s okay to fall apart. I’m here… I’m here to catch you,” Price let a moment of silence pass, allowing you to regain your breath before he spoke again. His tone was soft and gentle. “I know you're scared and I know things seem impossible. But they’re not. I promise you. I’ve faced much worse odds, love. And I’m still standing here aren’t I?”

“You… you have?” Your voice wavered.

Price reached for your hand and brought it to his chest. His skin felt hot underneath your trembling fingers.

“Look.” Price moved your hand just below his left shoulder. He rubbed your thumb over an angry silver and white circular scar the size of a quarter. “You feel this?”

You nodded as you focused on the feeling of your finger gliding over the healed mark. His skin was raised by still soft. Whatever had caused the mark had been violent and cruel.

“Last year a terrorist launched a missile from a rooftop in downtown Chicago. The missile was headed for Washington D.C.” Price paused shaking his head. “Thousands would have been killed. It would have been the worst terrorist attack ever seen on American soil.”

Your jaw fell slack and your eyes left Price’s chest and met his.

“I was shot right here with an automatic rifle.” Price chuckled, “Felt like getting run over by a truck. Knocked me back on my heels and pretty sure my Sergeant thought he’d lost me. But he didn’t and I’m still standing… aren’t I love?”

You looked back at Price’s chest and splayed your palm over the healed bullet wound. You could feel his heartbeat strong and steady. Sure you had noticed his scars before but you never imagined the hell he’d walk through to earn them.

You nodded at him.

“And we stopped the impossible. Rerouted the missile and kept the entire operation under wraps.”

The thought of Price facing death made you hyper-aware of your own heartbeat. It was beating against your ribcage like a rapid drumroll. Your hand felt warm and sticky against Price’s chest.

“Nothing’s impossible, love. Even when it feels like there’s no hope I promise you there is always hope.” Price's voice was low. You wondered if he ever told his men this or if this was a mantra he privately reminded himself of. You wondered how anyone was strong enough to do what he’d done alone.

You slid your hand further down Price’s chest to a long red scar that started near the healed bullet wound and traveled across his chest to his right side.

“And here?” You murmured, sliding forward on the mattress so you were perched on its edge, your fingers gliding back and forth over the long red mark.

“Mmmm…” Price hummed, leaning into your touch. “Knife attack. Russia. We ran out of ammunition and we were cornered. Had to fight our way out hand to hand.”

You two continued like this for hours… Price kneeling before you, you running your hands over every scar on his body, and him telling you stories about how he acquired them. And with each retelling, your heart ached as you realized these were only the scars you could see. It was hard not to imagine how many more he must have that were out of your reach.

But the ache in your heart was also met with a blistering pride. If Price was able to move forward, to fight another day, to keep pushing onward after everything he’d seen and done then surely you could do the same. Surely Price could draw out from you a similar strength he drew from the men he commanded.

You leaned forward and placed a kiss on the small silver scar by Price’s shoulder, your lips lingering on the raised and discolored skin.

“Your so strong.” You said slowly pulling away from his chest.

Price hummed a deep groan that melted straight through you.

“And you make me stronger, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“I… I do?”

“You do.” Your heart lept to your throat at his tender words. “Of course, you do, love. When I left you at the warehouse you stayed in the back of my mind for every single second. I fought to get back to you because I promised you I would. I just want to be with you and I would have done anything to get to you because… I love you.”

Price closed his eyes and shook his head. He sighed before resting the palm of his hand over your cheek.

You felt a surge of emotion fill your chest, and you couldn't help but lean into his touch. His rough thumb brushed back and forth over your cheekbone, and you closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of his palm against your skin. A sense of safety and comfort washed over you.

For so long, you had felt lost and alone, but with Price, you felt like you had found your place in the world. His love was a balm to your broken heart, and you knew that you would do anything to keep it. And now you were starting to realize, that maybe Price felt the same way. Maybe this was a love different from anything you’d both felt before.

You leaned forward again and kissed the red lengthy scar that traveled across Price’s broad and muscular chest. He groaned as your lips made contact with his skin. Price pulled you closer to him, his hands roaming over your back. As your lips moved along the length of his scar, Price's hands eventually found their way to your hair, and he tangled his fingers in your locks.

You could feel the heat emanating from his body, the scent of his cologne filling your senses, mixing with the tobacco and whiskey you’d consumed. It was intoxicating, and you found yourself lost in the moment, the world outside of the room ceasing to exist. It was as if the weight of the world lifted off your shoulders as Price’s love enveloped you.

Your hands slid to Price’s waist and pulled him upright so he was standing between your thighs. You leaned in again and kissed another scar that lingered beneath a dark patch of hair that trailed from his stomach to underneath his pants.

“Fucking hell…” Price growled as your lips grazed his happy trail.

His sultry groan was electrifying. You looked up at him with a mischievous smirk on your lips. His eyes were dark with desire, and you could feel his hardness growing and pressing against your thigh.

You pulled him down by his neck and kissed him deeply. Your tongue teasing his lips before delving into his mouth. His hands were all over you, roaming your body as if he couldn't get enough. You moaned into his mouth as one of his hands found its way to your breast, his thumb rubbing over your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. You pulled away from the kiss, gasping for breath.

"I need you, Price," you whispered, your voice husky with desire.

Price didn't need any more encouragement. He lifted you up and carried you to the center of his bed, laying you down and crawling on top of you. He kissed you again, his hands roaming over your body as he gently removed your shirt and bra. His lips moved down your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin.

“You don’t know the power you have over me, love,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, sending chills down your spine.

You unconsciously arched your back pushing yourself off the mattress and into Price’s firm and tense body. Your body was on fire, and you couldn’t get enough of the heat rising inside you.

Price's mouth trailed down over your breasts, his tongue swirling around your nipple before sucking it gently into his mouth. His teeth lightly nibbled at the sensitive skin, and your hands ran up the length of his arms, fingers digging into his muscle. The scruff of his face felt like sandpaper against your overly sensitive skin, but you revealed in the sensation. The mix of pain and pleasure only made you more wet in between your thighs.

Price’s mouth released from your nipple with a squelching pop and you whined. You arched your back, trying to get another sensation from his mouth as it trailed over your stomach and to your navel. His eyes found yours, and there was a wicked gleam in them. His lips curled into a devilish smirk as he moved his hands to the button of your pants. He quickly undid the button and slowly unzipped your pants, his eyes never leaving yours. You moistened your lips nervously, your eyes glued to his deft hands.

“Please,” you whimpered, your heart rate increasing.

With one strong pull Price yanked your bottoms down past your ankles. You propped yourself up on your elbows you painfully and deliciously slowly spread your legs apart for him. By the way, Price’s pupils darkened you were sure that he could see that your arousal had soaked through the cotton of your underwear. You had no doubt the white fabric was probably translucent from the way you felt drenched with desire.

Price’s lips connected with your underwear, his tongue darting out to taste you through the soaking wet fabric.

“Anything for you,” he growled against your center before giving it a kiss. You whimpered again. His teasing winding you up like a coil tightening into a taut spring.

Price hooked his fingers in the sides of your panties and you eagerly lifted your hips off the mattress so he could slide them down your legs. Price dove back in between your thighs like a man starved and you gasped as his tongue entered you.

He groaned at the taste of you, and you could feel the vibrations through your body. You moaned loudly as his tongue pushed deeper inside of you. Your fingers twisted in his short hair, and you pulled his face deeper against you. You couldn’t control yourself. You rutted against his face. His beard rubbing against your thighs.

The feeling of his tongue delving into you was too much, and your hips bucked again and again into his face. His hands moved from your thighs to your hips, and you could feel his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass in a forceful grip.

The pleasure was quickly building in you, and you could feel your orgasm rising like a tidal wave in the ocean.

"Oh, god, Price, please," you whimpered. His tongue hit a spot inside of you, and you were sure you were about to explode.

“Please what, love? Use your words.” He demanded, giving your ass a gentle squeeze.

“Please… don’t… stop,” you breathed barely able to form the words.

The wicked smile returned to his lips and Price dove back in between your legs. But this time he focused his mouth on your clit, licking and stroking the bundle of nerves in delicious and mesmerizing circles. You felt yourself teetering on the edge and just as you were about to fall Price slid two fingers deep inside you.

You came with a loud whine. Your body thrashed against the mattress as you tried to pry yourself apart from Price. But he held onto you tightly and continued his assault between your legs, licking and sucking and pounding up into you with his large and thick fingers.

You were sure you had lost your mind. The strength of your orgasm was too intense that you could feel your vision blurring. God, no one could make you lose control like this man.

But as your orgasm finally started to subside Price pulled his fingers from inside you and slide them up your body over your thighs, across your stomach, up to your breast. A trail of your own wetness lingered behind shining on your skin as he squeezed your breast and rolled your nipple in between his fingers. You couldn’t help but release a high-pitched whimper as he played with you.

Price eventually kissed his way back up your stomach and over your collarbone until he found your lips. You could taste yourself on his lips as his tongue pushed into your mouth. You traced your hands over his toned torso, feeling every ripple of his taut muscles.

Price’s hand found your wrist and gently, but firmly, moved your hand to the waist of his pants. You smirked into the kiss as you felt his hardness strain against the fabric of his trousers. His breath was ragged as you unbuttoned his pants and slowly slid them down his legs, taking his boxers with them.

Your fingers wrapped around his girth, your thumb flicking over the sensitive tip of his reddening cock. You curled your hand around Price’s shaft and gave it a firm squeeze. He moaned into your mouth as his hands ran up the length of your body. One hand cupping your breast, and the other buried in your hair.

You guided Price’s cock to your opening. And with a small snap of his hips, you felt the tip of Price’s cock slip inside of you, and you moaned.

Price let out a deep groan of his own as your body enveloped him. Your hips rose to meet his, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Ever so slowly Price began to rock his hips back and forth. Rutting into you at a delicious pace.

Price plunged deeper inside of you making your cunt clench around him in a vice grip. The feeling of being so full of him was driving you insane as he began to pick up his pace. His breath was hot against your ear, and you could feel the stubble on his chin scratching against your neck with each thrust.

“Oh, god,” you moaned into his ear.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned back.

You could feel yourself losing control again. The pleasure from before was building in your core and you couldn’t help but thrust your hips up to meet his steadily increasing pace.

“I’m gonna…” you panted, your head dropping onto his shoulder.

“Not yet, love,” he said as he pulled his face away from your neck.

“But I’m--”

“Not yet,” He growled, his eyes dark with lust.

His thrusts deepened, and you could feel him hitting your G-spot. Your body quivered, and your vision started to go spotty. The pleasure was about to take over, and you couldn’t control yourself.

But then Price stopped.

“Not yet,” he repeated.

He pulled his cock from you and you let out a disappointed whine. You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat when you saw Price’s feral gaze. He grabbed your thighs and pulled you toward the edge of the bed. He climbed off the bed and stood quickly yanking your thighs up against his shoulders before slotting himself back in between your legs. He grabbed a pillow and slide it underneath your hips so your torso was raised off the bed.

Then Price pushed into you hard and it didn’t take long for you to see stars with the new angle in which he was fucking you. After a particularly vicious snap of his hips, your eyes rolled back as you moaned loudly.

“Fuckkkkkk,” you cried.

“That’s it, love,” he said as your eyes met his again.

He pushed into you again and again, his balls slapping against your ass and you could feel yourself tightening around his cock. He looked beautiful like this. Taking you so viciously. Standing over you like a powerful god looking down upon a mere mortal. You felt so spread open and vulnerable before him like this. And fuck was it the sexiest thing you had ever seen.

The feeling of him sliding in and out of your wet pussy was maddening. It was too much and not enough all at the same time. And you knew you were about to come again. You could feel your orgasm boiling just underneath your skin.

“Price I can’t… I can’t…” you whimpered desperately.

“It’s alright love. Let go,” he said sliding his hand up your thighs and to your ankles.

With another snap of his hips, he pulled you to him, impaling you on his cock. The pleasure was blinding and your orgasm rocked you to your core. You reached above your head and dug your nails into the sheets, clawing and scratching for anything to ground you as Price continued to fuck you senselessly.

You stared up at Price and he met your eyes.

“One more sweetheart. You can give me one more right?” He asked the deep timbre of his voice making you twitch.

Your voice was lodged in your throat. All you could do was whimper and nod your head. You would give Price anything he asked for at this moment. He was making you feel so good how could you deny him?

“Good girl,” he growled before leaning down, slipping out of you, and lifting you up into his arms.

Without warning you were in the air and Price was moving you across the room. You wrapped your legs around his waist and buried your head into his neck. You kissed and sucked just below his beard leaving small marks behind until suddenly your back made contact with the cool surface of a wall. The cold plaster sent a shiver down your spine.

“God you’re so beautiful,” Price whispered in your ear before pistoning back into your pussy.

You bit your lip hard to keep from screaming as he continued his assault on your cunt. You reached up and wrapped your arms around Price’s neck, your hands scratching at his back, trying to hold on as he pounded into you.

Each thrust of his hips was harder and faster than the last. You could feel the throbbing in your clit as you started to come undone once again. Price gripped your ass tightly. He was holding you as close to him as he could manage. You could feel his breath hot on your neck as he sank his teeth into the crook of your shoulder. The pain of his teeth sent a shockwave through your body. You felt lightheaded. The pain, the pleasure, the heat, the cold… it was all so much.

You dug your nails deeper into Price’s shoulders as you tried to stave off your approaching orgasm. You didn’t want this feeling to end. You wanted to stay here like this with him forever. But the feeling of his teeth on your skin and his cock pounding away inside of you was too much.

You had never felt anything like this before. You had never been fucked like this before. Your vision went white and your whole body bowed into Price as he grabbed your ass hard and pushed into you one last time. You screamed his name.

Your orgasm felt like it was going on forever, and your body shook. You clung to Price as hard as you could. Your fingernails left crescent-shaped marks behind on his back. Your cunt clamped down around Price as you writhed in ecstasy and he growled at the sensation of you tightening around him. His moans quickly drowned out your own cries and you felt Price twitch as he came deep inside you.

You wanted to collapse to the floor, but Price held you pressed against the wall as he pulled out of you. You could feel his cum drip down your legs as he carried you back to his bed. And yet the feeling of being cradled in his strong arms was the most comfortable thing in the world.

“Stay here, love I’ll be right back,” Price said before vanishing behind a door. You stared up at the ceiling as you tried to regain your breath. Your eyes felt heavy. Your limbs were entirely too exhausted to move even a singular muscle.

But the cool feeling of a wet cloth on your thighs made you snap your neck upright. Price smiled his sweet quokka-like smile as he wiped you clean. His touch was gentle and soft.

“You did such a good job, my sweet girl.” He murmured into your thigh before giving it another kiss. His beard scratched against your supple skin.

You hummed in response and Price laughed. He must have known you were entirely too fucked to answer him. He crawled up into the bed next to you and cradle you into his chest.

“Rest now, love. You earned it,” Price said pressing a soft kiss on your cheek.

“Will you stay with me?” You managed to ask craning your neck to look into his blue eyes.

“Of course, beautiful. I won’t go anywhere. I promise.”

It didn’t take long for you to drift off to sleep. Tucked into the safety of Price’s arms, you slept soundly for several hours. And this time, with your protector watching over you, the nightmares stayed at bay.

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This is an excerpt from my much larger work on AO3. If you would like to read the whole story thus far here is the link.

If you are just here for the *spicy bits* I have more fun excerpts here on Tumblr called "Violence and Timing" , "Falling Apart" , and "Testing His Will"

#call of duty #captain price #captain john price #john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain price x reader #john price x reader #call of duty modern warfare ii #call of duty fic #call of duty modern warfare #captain price x you #call of duty mwii #captain price x female reader

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ageofevermore · 2 years ago

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PRACTICED DANCE

SUMMARY — though your first time with wanda isn’t exactly what you expected, you wouldn’t change anything about it

WARNINGS — smut 18+ only, literally just pwp, dom!wanda, fingering, degrading, heavy on the praise kink, teasing, choking, soft toward the end… i think that covers everything

AUTHORS NOTE — i got carried away, and kind of hate everything about it… but enjoy!

“Are you sure?”

The night had simply fallen away from you. The chocolate covered strawberries that coated her kisses in sugarcane had completely dismantled the boundaries you’d set when you agreed to this. You were still early in a relationship, seven months and still her touch was still so foreign to you, so sacred. You had no mind to rush anything physical, and she was respectful of that. You wanted to savor her, and she wanted to cherish you.

“Just touch me. Wands, please.” Breathy whimpers escape you, sweaty hands braced on the silky rounds of your girlfriends muscular shoulders. All that training with Steve and Natasha is beginning to show, and the feel of her triceps and deltoids tensing beneath your needy fingertips is breath-stealing. Your nails create crescents upon her sweaty slick skin, thighs squeezing her impossibly close to where you need her, but you want her closer. “I need you.”

“You need me, huh?” Wanda taunts. Her satin sounding voice sends shivers down your already flushed spine and ignites a deep tension in your belly that’s growing to be unbearable the longer she teases. “I thought you didn’t want this, pretty girl. Thought you could handle waiting?”

Wanda twirls a strand of your hair between her calloused fingers, and then traces a path almost menacingly down the curve of your jaw that began to tremble at her weightless caress. She brushes the pad of her gentle thumb across your bottom lip, whispering a string of delicate praise into the space between you before she pushes the pad of her thumb past your lips to rest heavy on your tongue. Your tongue flicks across the round of her thumb, and its sweet enough to entirely disrupt her original plan to take things slow. Forget cherishing you, she wants to ruin you.

She drops her face into your neck, teeth biting down onto the sensitive skin of your exposed collarbone, taunting you. The whine that falls from your lips is heavenly, a sweet melody that Wanda needs to hear again. Over and over. You're putty in her clutches and she’s trying to sculpt the finest china.

“What was that, detka? Don’t have anything to say for yourself?” Wanda teases, pushing the pad of her thumb heavy against your tongue, cursing into your neck when she feels you resist to gag. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me, yeah? Gonna be a good girl and take me? Right here? Right in this little pussy? God you’re so fucking wet. What's got you so wet, baby? Huh? Go ahead, you can tell me. What’s got my girl so worked up?”

Your panties are soaked through, sticking to your heat near uncomfortably at this point, after so long of her teasing. Wanda takes no pity on your embarrassment either, pulling her thumb from the warmth of your mouth and cynically spreading the weakness across your exposed and vulnerable chest that’s been bruised from her insistent kisses and love bites. Your nipples pebble at the action, your hips searching for friction as they arch further into her.

“Suck a dirty girl.” She clicks her tongue at you, taking a gamble on her actions, though you show no disinterest in her albeit cruel taunting, if anything, it turns you on tenfold and she takes a note to really test your limits. The hot muscle shoots out to soothe the bites that shes left across your body, strands of red hair tickling your skin as she works. Her fingers work at removing the soiled garments from between your legs at the same time, and when she pulls away from you entirely, you’re forced to watch her bring the damp panties to her face and inhale the scent of your arousal. A whine is trapped between your lips as you gnaw at them with lustful impatience. Your body feels like its burning up at the sight of her.

“Wands, please. No more teasing. I just want to f-feel you. P-please.” In time with your begging, like it's a practiced dance between the two of you, your girlfriend makes quick work of finding your heat with her fingers. She’s talented in her methods, collecting the slick from your throbbing pussy and spreading it easily over your button, watching you closely for any sign that she should slow down or give you a minute to breathe. As rough as she is, Wanda is nothing but gentle.

“You wanna feel me, sweet girl?” Wanda's fingers leave your cunt, teasing up your thighs before her sticky fingers wrap around your neck loosely. Your eyes go wide, a gasp falling from your lips that part instinctively, complete submission clouding your mind. Your hand comes up to curl around her wrist, your eyes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly in the breeze as you try to keep a handle on your surroundings, wanting nothing more than to melt into the feeling of her hands on you and the beautiful ache in your center. “You want to feel me in this little pussy? Is that what you want? I need words, petal.”

Tears spring in the corner of your eyes, overwhelming your sight as you try to relieve the ache between your legs but arching up into her. You nod your head, incoherently babbling almost the only audible sound over your panting and whines. “Please, Wands. I need you. I need your fingers.” You whine, gentle eyes searching your girlfriends. The beautiful shade of hunter that sticks out like supernova in dark rooms is now almost completely black with lust. It was almost scary, how beside herself she looked in her domination, but it was beautiful all the less. She was beautiful.

“Get them wet for me, angel.” Wanda relinquishes her hold on your neck to push his fingers ito your mouth. She works your mouth like she would your pussy, her own eyes pinching shut as she tries to keep her own desire at bay. This moment is about you, she can sort herself out later. “Good girl. So fucking good, for me. Just for me, yeah? Go on, spread your legs for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

Wanda pulls her fingers from the hot confines of your mouth, smiling at you so innocently its a harsh contrast to the blackness of her eyes. She removes her own shirt from her body, finally allowing you to see all of her chest and toned ab muscles. Clothes are scattered around your candle-light apartment, the chocolate covered strawberries you made earlier in the afternoon completely forgotten about and feeling like decades ago as they rest on the ottoman.

For the first time since she’s worked you up to this point, Wanda’s lips settle on yours in a delicate embrace that takes your breath away all over again. She’s filled with nothing but complete admiration for you, and the gentle way her tongue swipes across your bottom lip has you falling deeper and deeper into a puddle of lust. Her fingers continue their exploration, down the valley of your breasts and over your belly until they get to where you need her most.

“I love you.” You gasp out just as her fingers enter you again, arching up into her chest as she eases you into this slowly. Two fingers stretch you perfectly, and the gentle pace she’s working on is enough to put static between your ears and nothing else. Your walls flutter around her fingers, silky and hot and perfect to her. You throw your arms around her neck, tangling your fingers into the root of her red locks, pulling at them firmly as she picks up for pace.

Wanda moans against your mouth, the muscles in her biceps flexing and tensing as she keeps gong at a sharp pace. Her chocolatey breath fans across your face as she smiles, and pecks your nose in the softest kiss. “I love you too. I love you so much, Y/N. You’re doing good for me, so fucking good.”

You both lose yourself in the pleasure, kissing and panting, biting and scratching, Wanda helping you reach your long desired high with whispers of passionate affection against your skin. Blood bubbles across her back, your nails ripping into her skin as your walls tighten tellingly around your fingers. Wanda curses, the pain only fueling her as she eases another finger into your sopping wet entrance and curls them against that beautiful spot inside of you. She’s reduced you to screaming whimpers and insatiable begging.

“Let me hear you. That's it, malysh. Such a perfect girl for me, darling.” Wanda continues drilling her fingers inside of you, scissoring your walls apart as they fight to keep her fingers still and inside of you, and her other hand snakes around to soothe the ache in your hips as your legs squeeze her close to you. Her lips are heavy against yours, and as she kisses you deeply, its like your tongues are dancing a ritualistic dance that you’ve practiced before. “Let go for me, angel. cum for me. Let me feel you.”

“Please.” Your walls squeeze her fingers tightly, spasming around the digits that repeatedly hit your favorite spot over and over again with pristine accuracy. Her scent is all around you, and the way her hair tickles your skin and falls around your face to capture only the two of you in this moment is almost entirely out of a fairytale. “Wanda.” You tug at the roots of her hair, attempting to both meet her calculated thrusts and wiffle away from the intense pleasure she’s providing you.

“Don’t run from me, baby.” Her voice is soft, a teasing giggle in her words as she works you closer to your high. “Just like that, baby. You’re doing so well for me. You gonna cum? Gonna let me feel you?” She coos, her hand leaving your hips to brush strands of sweaty hair away form your hair. Her thumb collects the tears that escape your eyes, brushing them away with a gentle smile. Her fingers keep drilling into you, her thumb coming up to swipe at your clit and send you tumbling over the edge before you could warn her. She smiles, pecking your lips over and over again as she mumbles her blessing. “Cum for me, sweet girl. Thats right. Let go. It’s okay.”

Pleasure surrounds you, your orgasm powerful and the best you’ve ever had. Youre seeing white as she rides you through it, your body tightening as you just feel what she’s giving you. Wanda’s bottom lip is caught between her teeth, her eyes gentle as she watches you thoroughly, wanting to remember this in the front of her brain for the rest of her life.

She pulls her fingers out of her, wiping them off on her legs as she shushes your whines at being empty. Her arms circle around your waist, her face buried in your neck and breathing in your scent as your chest rises and falls in the aftermath of your orgasm. Your body is hot, sweaty, but she presses against your impossibly close and smiles lazily. You return the smile, eyes blinking sleepy up at her as she tingles her fingers into your hair and tucks it behind your ears.

“I love you.” She reminds you, kissing you gently.

You giggle, pressing your forehead against hers. “I didn’t think our first time would be on the couch next to an audience of strawberries.” You admit, though nothing in your tone indicates any regrets. Wanda laughs beautifully, nuzzling deeper into you.

“It was perfect.” She enlightens, “But how about we take round two into the bedroom.”

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff x reader #dom!wanda maximoff

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 9 months ago

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Thank you so much @yandere-paramour for commissioning me.

Commission description: It's your first period living with Yves and you're kinda avoiding him in his own house because you're in pain and nauseous and you think he's gonna think you're gross because he's a boy. And it's a bad period, like you won't eat anything and there's a lot of blood and all you can do is lie in bed and be in pain. But eventually you allow Yves to give you a bath and take care of you.

Tw: afab anatomy, period,

(btw I did an ask about period and Yves before this)

(1308 words)

"Dear?"

Laying in a fetal position on your bed and buried under your sheets, you could barely hear Yves's muffled voice calling for you from outside your room. Although you've been dating Yves for a while now, even moving in with him earlier this month, you're uncomfortable with sharing a bedroom with him. So, he allows you to sleep in the guest room until you're ready to sleep in the same bed as your boyfriend.

You felt the world around you spin, spin, spin until you couldn't tell if your feet were facing the end of your bed or the headboard. Unlike your unfortunately soiled sheets and your pants, you were green in the face with nausea.

A couple of knocks reached your ears. "I'm coming in."

Well, that's fair. You have sent him away multiple times today, turned down every meal and refused to open your door in fear of him discovering such a shameful secret: you menstruate every month.

It wasn't a secret to him, though. Before even moving in, he had already told you where he kept his menstrual pads, making you ask him why he owns such things when he is biologically a male. Yves merely replied he had prepared them for you.

He doesn't hold tampons, as he actively discourages you from using them. Yves said it has a higher chance of you going into toxic shock. However, you shied away from the conversation before it could get too detailed, what does he know? He never had to deal with horrible mood swings, severe cramps or bleeding orifices ever in his life, or does he?

Either way, you think that it's embarrassing to be this vulnerable to him. But you're too weak and battered by your own body to keep him out. You just remembered that you had forgotten to lock the door too.

A tall shadow cast upon your cocooned self as Yves towered over you. He sat by the edge of your bed, elegantly crossing his slender legs as he brought a cool hand up to the side of your face. Yves caressed you, massaging your temple. He said nothing and neither did you.

He is sitting quite near to your bloodied stain, but Yves is yet to glance at it. This made your face heat up in humiliation. You squeezed your eyes shut and hid under your comforter again, wanting nothing but to disappear at the moment. You wanted the nausea to end, you wanted the headache to end, you wanted--

You opened your eyes when you suddenly felt the strong urge to vomit all over the floor dramatically lessened. Likewise, with your throbbing headache, there is still a dull pain, but it was such a tremendous improvement compared to a few minutes ago. What changed?

Since the pain has been lifted and you can think much clearly now, you realized Yves is applying a considerable amount of pressure against two specific spots using his thumbs; your right temple and your inner wrist.

You looked up at him and asked him what he did.

"These are acupuncture points to alleviate migraines and nausea." He replied, slowly removing his fingers away from you. They returned to his lap, where they're folded neatly, he's sporting a neutral look on his face. Perhaps you could detect a bit of disappointment and upset in those stunning emerald eyes.

You thanked him, but told him to please leave you alone. Fully expecting him to get up and leave, you flopped back down onto your bed.

However, your headache and sickness began to return. Thinking you could do the acupuncture massage yourself, you dug your finger nails into the areas where you thought he touched. It didn't work and it began flooding back to a maddening degree.

Groaning and whimpering, you desperately tried to make them stop but to no avail. Only when Yves had his hands on you again did it calm down.

He gave you a minute to recuperate before talking.

"You haven't eaten all day." He commented, releasing his hold on you. "You're avoiding me." Yves was aloof, although his last sentence was an observation, you had a strong suspicion that he's actually demanding to know why. He has yet to notice the massive, scarlet stain next to him. Maybe you should tell him, at least he wouldn't get himself dirty.

You meekly pointed out that your blood is seeping through the white sheets.

"Of course, it is. You haven't been to the bathroom for hours." His voice was quiet, but it took on a more scolding tone. Yves didn't care to spare a glance at the growing patch.

"You wouldn't let me take care of you." Yves continued, now sounding more sorrowful.

You became defensive, saying that Yves is going to find you gross. Going on an embarrassment-fueled tangent about how it's horrible to have to go through this every month and he probably wouldn't understand. Yves cut you off by firmly calling your name.

"You are describing a version of me that only exists in your mind." He stared straight into your soul unblinkingly.

You let his words sink in, realizing that you're projecting onto Yves and being an ass. You remembered that he was open to discussing how he could provide the best possible care for you when you're on your period, mentioning that he would gladly hand wash any delicate article of bloodied clothing if he has to. It was you who steered clear away from the topic because it was too awkward for you to bear. But it never was for Yves, it came so naturally to him.

He reminded you of your period cycle, he prepared the hot water bottle that's been sitting on your nightstand stand, he prepared a fresh change of underwear with the pad perfectly placed on it but you shooed him away before you could accept them.

Hell, he even offered to escort you to the bathroom and help you freshen yourself up as if you're paralyzed from the neck down. Obviously you declined and may have lashed out at him for that.

And so, you apologized. With tears in your eyes as your hormones run rampant. You said you're ashamed and unsure what to do.

Yves interrupted your pity fest with a tight hug that lasted for a good while, allowing you to wordlessly sob against his shoulder.

"You shouldn't be ashamed. It is a natural bodily process that billions have to go through on a regular basis." He whispered, stroking your hair as you continued letting your emotions out. "You shouldn't be ashamed to receive my help either. I enjoy taking care of the one I love, very much."

Yves gave you a kiss on the forehead. He wiped your tears away with his thumbs and watched you with softened eyes.

Through your hiccups, you told Yves that your blood is ruining his clothes. You wondered if this is an abnormal amount of viscera to be expelling.

"Then, shall I run the bath for you? It will help with your pain as well." He asked, you're amazed at how gentle he would always be with you.

You nodded, making him smile in satisfaction.

"Good. Stay here, you are not in a condition to move on your own."

You nodded once more, he kissed you on the cheek in gratitude before standing up. You felt guilt pang through your heart when you saw that his clothes are already egregiously stained with red from you.

It's such a shame that you're still too disoriented to realize that this is one of the rare times when he would wear white.

Only if you didn't cover the blanket over your head, you would have seen a glimpse of Yves toggling a remote controller. Switching off his specialized, hidden speakers.

Maybe that was why this was the most nauseating and painful cycle.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #oc yves #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader #thank you so much for your commission

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bludrogue · 10 months ago

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Another Random Headcanon About Jason Todd

This is another weird experience I have had, but this is due to a personal experience. If I slam on my breaks too hard, witness a car accident in front of me, or bash the back of my head against the driver's seat (or any seat in the car for the matter), I tend to have the scent of burning oil fill my nostrils.

I don't know if that's normal, and sure, I'm projecting myself onto the headcanon, but I think it's an interesting experience. With that said, here's headcanon #3:

Headcanon #3: Phantosmia

-- Every time Jason has bashed his head against a hard surface, whether it be a wooden table, a brick wall, a lamp post, the concrete streets, a car door - honestly, the list is so long he can't even remember what he's smashed his head against -- the first sense to kick in was his olfactory.

-- Now he wouldn't care if this was just a physical response in general, but his nose always picks up on a scent that's never there. He's not entirely certain why his nose fills up with nonexistent fumes, this has been the case for as long as he can remember.

-- You'd think the scent of bourbon would remind him of Willis, the man always had one in his hand or in the cup holder of his arm chair. Jason can still recall the scent to this day - oak dipped in smoke, tinted in caramel, and saturated with vanilla. And as much as his mind can recognize the smell like he can recite a Shakespearen play off the back off his hand - that's not the scent his body would use to recall Willis.

-- No matter how many times Willis got close enough to burn his nostrils with his breath, it's never been the whiskey either.

-- Instead, it's fucking drywall.

-- Of all the scents in the world, it's fucking drywall. Because of course it is.

-- When he was a kid, it was this putrid scent of a heavy dose of rotten eggs nearing sulfur with a hint of chalk dust. And maybe those particular remnants are from a memory where Willis probably bashed his head hard enough into their shabby walls that he made a hole. Not that Jason remembers aside from the egregious smell - whether that's a side effect of the pit or straight up trauma, Jason is not would willingly attempt to recall any shared memories with his biological dad by choice.

-- If he could, he'd bury those memories deeper than when his body was trapped in the earth and surrounded by an ocean of soil.

-- But it's not just before being Robin.

-- During his time spent as Robin, if he hit his head hard enough, Scarecrow gave off a musty odor with a tinge of the world's worst garbage dumpster. Peguin, oddly enough, reeked of spoiled milk. And don't get him started on the Riddler -- that one he can't even describe with just words. (He weirdly gives off the scent of nail polish remover, do not ask him why.)

-- But the Joker?

-- The Joker's scent was nothing what he expected.

-- His sense of smell doesn't go toward the crisp and suffocating scent of smoke, the one that clogged his lungs so much that he wondered if that was the final straw to lead him marching towards death's door. Nor was it the smattering metallic smell emitted from the crowbar that bashed him over and over and over and - And his nose does not recall the Joker with the lead heavy scent of blood, no matter how much of his own spilled the day he died.

-- No, instead the monster carries the scent of fucking bubble gum.

-- Sweet, fruity, pink chewing gum.

-- Because of course the universe just has to ruin the little things, those simplicities of enjoyment. Like the birds chirping in the morning become screeching alarm clocks, his coffee mug always being chipped, a hole in his favorite pair of pants, just anything to ruin his day. He wonders whoever the fuck is in charge of mapping out his life is relishing in the misery he endures every fucking day. When he fucking gets his hands on -

-- Did you know it took him a solid year to even so much as spare a glance at a pack of the most basic, minty chewing gum again after his spent training with the League of Assassins? Did you know that it was until two years after his whole war between him and the bats he was finally able to even hold a stick in his palm without gagging? Did you know that only four years after all the bullshit he went through, he could finally place one stick of ice peppermint gum in his mouth for a solid ten minutes without throwing up immediately after?

-- He still can't handle the fruity flavor gum - no sour apple, no watermelon, no strawberry, no cinnamon, and especially no bubble gum flavored shit - without the dreadful urge to vomit lingering after.

-- And before Jason mended his relationship with the bats (or is still trying to, he has plenty of ups and downs with Bruce that he's getting dizzy from the ride.) Bruce's scent was ruined.

-- When he was Robin, Bruce carried the redolence of leather and a warm campfire. There was just something that screamed safety in his scent that he couldn't explain. The every time he woke up in the gurney from a concussion, the smell would hit before he would open his eyes and he knew Bruce was there.

-- But everything changed the night Bruce chose the Joker.

-- Bruce had hit his head hard enough against a porcelain toilet seat that his nose was bashed with the scent of leather instantly. He thought he had picked on his own jacket, but once the campfire wood wafted into the air he knew that was his designated scent for Bruce.

-- The emotional side was then crying for his dad, begging him to keep him safe from the monster in the closet, pleading to just let him come home, to choose him - his son - please - But the logical side was louder, especially when he aimed the gun at the Joker's head and gave Bruce a choice to make.

-- He had a job to complete and Bruce had a choice to make.

-- And Bruce decided and his scent was tainted.

-- Now, when there's a meeting held in the bat cave, or the only company he shares is with Bruce, he has to resist the urge to rub the scar on his neck to reassure himself he's not bleeding. To remind himself that his nose is just playing tricks to get himself to believe his throat is sliced open again.

-- But he never minded his olfactory any attention about these scents. Honestly, it was more subconscious than anything else, so why pay any attention to the matter? Plus, it wasn't like the matter was giving him any issues or disrupting his routine in any sort of way. He was still able to patrol and function to his usual capabilities -- which was not the standard, but still... functional.

-- And that meant had nothing to be concerned about. That these phantom scents had to be normal, right?

-- Maybe this was just another secret human function nobody spoke about. Kind of how the American education system fails to explain safety for sex because of the desire to keep a 'puritan' image.

-- But, as usual, he was proven wrong.

-- According to Tim, phantom smells were not a normal human function. Because, 'No, Jason. People do not have specific scents when you hit your head too hard,' and 'No, Jason. It is not common when you hit your head hard enough to smell a person or smell a nonexistent scent.' And blah, blah, blah.

-- He stopped paying attention after the third no.

-- But how did this conversation come about? Allow Jason to draw the scene for you:

-- Jason 'allowed' himself to be dragged to the manor by Bruce due to the severe concussion he received due to an Arkham breakout, followed by the orders of mandatory bed rest. And so, he was trapped under one roof with his siblings, who were piled into his room to force him to remain awake for the required hours necessary to be deemed safe from a coma.

-- He knew Dick was besides him, and the head massage he was receiving was not helpful in keeping him awake. But the others were somewhere in the room, he didn't need to open his eyes to know. He could tell by their scents.

-- The only person who wasn't in the room was Tim, who claimed he'd come right back without another word. (He's positive Tim went to go refill his coffee mug for the seventh time, and someone needs to get a handle on this kid's caffeine addiction.) But when Tim returned, he heavily smelled of apples - he always did when he was anxious.

-- Not that Jason usually minds if he hits his head, but this time the pounding was an incessant bitch who brought a drill to ram against his skull, so he couldn't handle the heavy scent at the time.

-- Jason immediately scrunched up his nose the moment Tim entered the room the moment he caught a waft of green apples. He rolled onto his side to have his back face the door, followed by a groan of, "Dude, Timbo, you fucking reek."

-- If Jason hits his head, sometimes he can practically smell Tim's potent and eternal state of anxiety. It's just as bad as Bruce's paranoia (but no one can ever beat that man in his levels of anxiety). However, when Tim is anxious, he carries the particular scent of green apples.

-- He hears Tim scoff, and there's a dip of weight at the corner of the bed. Jason lightly kicks Tim to shove him further away, only for the asshole to scoot closer.

-- "Hey, I took a mandatory after-patrol shower," Tim retorts, and he lifts his mug up to his lips and sips his coffee.

-- "No, you smell like fucking green apples," Jason hisses, burrowing his face into the pillow. If Tim gets any closer, his churning stomach might aim at Tim as his puke bucket. "You always do when you're fucking anxious about something, but Jesus fucking Christ, tone down the scent or, fuck, go sit in the arm chair."

-- "Green apples?" Dick mumbles, pausing in the movement of his hand. Jason almost whines at the loss of movement and he taps Dick's wrist. The moment Dick's hand continues those soothing circular movements, he relaxes.

-- What Jason doesn't see - or decides to blatantly ignore -- is the wide - eye stares everyone is glaring into his head. If Jason were to look, he would find a 'what the fuck' expression on each of their faces.

-- "Are you positive you're not smelling one of Tim's scented shampoos, tough guy?" Steph asks with curiosity lacing her tone. Tim has an array of scented shampoos and unscented ones -- the kid may be shit at self-care, but he certainly knows how to tend to his hair -- ranging from pomegranate to coconut to lavendar to oaky to vanilla, etc. (The list could go on.) But he certainly does not have a single apple scented shampoo.

-- "I'm positive," Jason replies. "He has a scent, you have a scent, everyone has a scent. Especially when I hit my head, it's normal."

-- People having individual scents is totally normal. He's positive of it. Plus, he's hit his head a multitude of times that the phantom scents kind of linger.

-- Tim taps the side of his coffee mug with his nails. "Jason... that's not- that's not normal."

-- Jason lifts his head from the pillow, the combination of scents burning his nostrils, but he ignores the hot twinge in favor of glaring at Tim. "It's fucking normal, Tim. I fucking experience it every time I hit my head."

-- "May I implore that none of your human experiences are what is considered 'normal', Todd?" Damian raises an eyebrow. He's settled on the ottoman by the end of the bed.

-- Jason opens his mouth to argue, but quickly clenches his jaw shut. As much as he hates to admit... the demon-brat has a point. Not that he needs to elaborate.

-- 'Is this a side effect from the lazarus pit?' Cas signs, tilting her head at a slight angle. Her eyebrows furrow together and the corner of lips curl - just as she always does when she's curious about a topic she doesn't understand.

-- "No." Jason whispers, keeping his tone gentle and crossing his arms over his chest. These phantom senses have always been around for him, even before the pit.

-- "So," Tim drawls, shifting the weight in the bed as he crosses his legs and holds his coffee mug. "When did this start?"

-- Jason narrows his gaze at Tim. "Fuck you, you're not my therapist."

-- Besides, he'll see his therapist next Wednesday, and he'll snitch on Bruce to his therapist. (And yes, his therapist is Harley.) He's not clinically insane - yet - but if this another 'Jason Todd anomaly', then why does he have phantom scents that hit his nose at random times? Especially when he hits his head?

-- "Wait, Lil' Wing," Dick pipes up, and Jason finds a cheeky grin on his face that warns Jason that Dick is about to ask a question he won't want to answer. "What do I smell like to you?"

-- "Yeah! I want to know too." Steph chimes in, resting her head in her hands as she places her elbows on the bed. There's a doe-eye look in her eyes that screams 'Pretty Please' as she flutters her lashes.

-- Heat crawls across Jason's face and spreads across his cheeks. He should have just kept his mouth shut, but he just had to go and whine about Tim reeking of fucking apples. It's not that he's embarrassed - not that he'd admit the truth out loud - but he's now more nervous than anything to reveal their scents. Especially now that he's more aware that having phantom scents isn't a typical human function.

-- Jason releases a breath, and decides to tell each one of them their identifying scent.

-- He has to admit, there are some positives to this phantom scents.

-- Dick carries the scent of sugar coated, blue cotton candy and mouthwatering salted popcorn. It reminds Jason of the one chance he took to sneak into the circus tent and hide under the bleachers as he watched the performance of the graceful Flying Graysons. He's always transported back to that memory when the scent hits his nose. But there's always a hint of hyacinth, and Jason has no idea where that comes from.

-- Tim may smell like apples when he's anxious, but he always carries a different scent of a different apple depending on his mood. If Tim is anxious or afraid, he reminds Jason of the odious redolence of a green apple. If Tim is mildly annoyed, enraged, or upset, he carries the scent of red apple. If Tim carries the scent of a yellow apple, it's an indicator that Tim is in a good mood.

-- Jason likes the yellow apple the most because A) That means Tim is in a good mood, and B) the smell of a yellow apple is a piquant flavor he has added on to his list of good scents. He doesn't feel has to avoid that apple without a specific reminder which is nice.

-- Steph smells zesty and sweet and reminds him of pop rocks candy, specifically the grape flavored kind. This could be due to her vivacious nature, but he nose tingles every time her scent appears. That could sometimes lead him to sneezing - which he doesn't admit to her.

-- Cas smells like Jasmine and sandal wood with a hint of roses.

-- Damian smells like paprika and cinnamon.

-- Duke smells like honey (and a part of him wonders if that's just because of the suit or the bee meme that his nose decided to join on the bandwagon.)

-- Alfred smells like his homemade chocolate chip cookies and hibiscus tea.

-- "And what about Bruce?" Dick's question is hanging in the air as Jason is drifting off to sleep. And Jason will never speak the truth of how Bruce smells now.

-- But he can always bend the truth.

-- "Used to smell like leather and campfire wood," Jason yawns into his pillow. "Used to smell safe."

-- "Used to?" Tim's question remains unanswered as Jason finally falls asleep.

-- When Jason wakes up, he notes that everyone is asleep except for Tim, who's claimed his spot in the armchair and curled around his laptop. His mug rests on top of the coffee table, his fingers are rapidly yet quietly typing away on the keyboard, and his focus is so honed in on the screen in front of him that he's caught off guard when Tim abruptly states, "Phantosmia."

-- Jason rubs the sleep out of his face. "Phanto-what?"

-- "Phantosmia," Tim repeats, adjusting his body weight on the arm chair and his eyes remain on the computer screen. "Or more known as a phantom smell, meaning you'll smell something that isn't there. Most people typically smell metal, burnt toast, or chemicals. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, just what occurs with either strokes or severe head trauma."

-- "Well, that explains a lot." Jason huffs, a smirk teasing his lips.

-- Even though he has an answer - which is pretty rare considering his medical history puts Santa's naughty list to shame - he doesn't believe having phantom smells is necessarily a horrible thing to have.

-- If the wind blows in just the right direction, he'll have scent of his mom follow him. Not his birth giver, Shelia, but Catherine. His mom carried the luscious scent of marshmallows, lilac flowers, and lit vanilla candles. And in his mind, it's still like his mom is there, still with him. Oddly, that was the last scent he remembers before he died in the warehouse and it's the safest he ever felt in years despite all the surrounding chaos.

-- "Thanks for researching, Timbo." Jason whispers.

-- Tim turns his head to Jason, and his lips lift into a grin. "Sure thing, Jay."

-- Phantosmia, while there are aspects of it he despises, he thinks there's a bit of a blessing buried in it too.

Hey guys! It's been a solid few days (I got super busy this week), but I thought I'd produce another headcanon. I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading! I'll post another head canon soon!

Other headcanons:

Head canon 1

Head canon 2

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