#something possessed me and had to post them

[tallymali]

i didnt expect this post to get notes but i wanted to expand on my thoughts on all this a little bit.

in recent years ive seen a huge rise in purity culture disguised as feminism. and it fundamentally misunderstands what the patriarchal standard of sexuality for women actually is. the patriarchy does not just want women to have sex with men. it wants women to be sexually malleable. the patriarchal standard is not to be sexy, its to be passive. you may only be sexy if instructed to by a man. you will not be sexual of your own accord.

a woman who knows herself as a sexual being, who has the agency to explore her own desires and boundaries, is actively repulsive the patriarchy. theres a reason every misogynistic man is obsessed with body counts and very very young women. they cannot bear the thought of having sex with a woman who has experience or standards or expectations. the most desirable thing in the world to them is a woman with no knowledge and no agency.

this is why many men will see an attractive woman, desire her, and become angry when she still exists in public as an attractive woman once they are in a relationship. he assumed without a single doubt that her attractiveness was FOR HIM. she was a product advertising her features, he bought her, and now that he owns her, he doesnt want anyone else to share his possession.

all this is to say, women who acknowledge themselves as the sole owners of their sexuality, are not a product of the patriarchy. they are not catering to misogynistic men, they are not trad wife propaganda. in my experience, they are actively good for women. bear with me.

from my personal experience, i think a lot of women who call any female sexuality degrading are not really having in depth conversations with women who have sex with men. they are not talking to their friends and mothers and grandmothers or any of the regular-private-citizen women around them about what their experiences with sex actually are. but im a neurodivergent woman with a special interest in sex, and i will absolutely talk about it.

i wanna clarify that im a feminine woman who has been in a relationship with a masculine man for 12 years. we are “school sweethearts”, we own a house together. we are both bisexual..but we’re not stupid, we know full well that most people see us as some kind of heterosexual goal. this combined with my willingness to talk openly about sex has made me somewhat of a safe space for other women who have relationships with men.

i cannot fucking believe i am doing a “let women be straight” here but in discussions of patriarchy, we do have to acknowledge that many women are going to be horny, and they’re going to be horny over men. we cannot responsibly say that women having sex with men is degrading and just draw a line under that. we know full well that the abstinence-only approach does fuck all for anyone. education and open discussion is a powerful tool against oppression. people are going to fuck, so we NEED to give them the tools to do so in a way that is healthy and positive for them.

to be quite honest i dont think people who have issues with candid discussion of sex are really understanding..the situation. girl, so many women are scared of their own desires and vaginas. some of them have never considered the fact that they can derive their own pleasure from sex, that there is more to be had than just the satisfaction of doing someone a favour. thats how a lot of them are having sex by the way. it is something men are doing TO them, not something they are active participants in. the enjoyment they have been socialised to believe is the only acceptable form of desire, is not sexual or physical, its in the act of allowing a man to get his own pleasure. we’re taught that the best thing we can be is selfless.

the women i have spoken to have such an ingrained puritanical belief that to be a woman and to engage with any kind of sexual content is to be tainted. im not talking about overtly erotic media here, im talking about educational resources. there is shame about learning their own anatomy. one of my best friends will not go to the gynaecologist because she cannot get over the idea that it is an inherently sexual and therefore dirty act for someone to see her vulva. her shame is preventing her from accessing medical care. it fucking breaks my heart to see a woman i love so much struggle like this.

and this is the main emotion i feel when having these conversations. straight up despair. women who dont know that sex isnt supposed to hurt, women who dont know they are supposed to feel safe with the person they’re having sex with, women who have never experienced an orgasm, women who didnt know there exists sex other than penetration, sex that acknowledges a woman’s body, not just a mans penis. what the fuck are we doing? as a culture we do need to make space for women’s desire. yes, women having sex with men has always been normalised, but women exercising sexual agency with men has almost never been accepted. marital rape is a very new concept in our culture. despair.

i have spoken to women who are shocked that my male partner cares about me in any way. shocked that my experience of the sex we have is a priority for him. shocked that we will have long serious discussions about sex that are not erotic in themselves (i.e. not dirty talk). shocked that in 12 years he has never treated my body as an object that exists for his pleasure. shocked that he fully respects and actively seeks out the agency i have over my body and sexuality. he doesnt WANT to do something unless he knows i genuinely desire it.

he and i both know that he doesnt get props for this. he knows he’s not doing some incredible act me here. he’s just treating me like a person. he has said that being complimented for treating me with respect feels like being complimented for not deliberately running down pedestrians with his car. “wow its so cool that you didnt do something horrifying!” what would be the alternative?

to some of these women, im the first person to communicate any of this. was it not for my exercising my own agency to have healthy sex and subsequently discuss said healthy sex, these women would perhaps have continued to think that the only form of female sexuality is the passivity that we are socialised into. im teaching these women about informed consent, about vaginismus, about STI testing, about vaginal arousal, about clitoral stimulation, about personal satisfaction, about safety, about FUN. if i believed, through “progressive” neopuritanism or regular old conservative repression, that my desires were dirty, that the sex i had was degrading, that its good for women to hide the fact that we can be sexual, who would have talked to my friends about these things?

and this is where i loop back to the the struggle people have with the difference between objectification and sexual agency. i dont think as a society we really have much of a reference for what female sexual satisfaction actually IS. if every time an adult woman in the spotlight expresses her sexuality we say she’s setting women back 100 years, if we can only see sexual women as degraded, then have we not normalised the idea that sex inherently leads to feelings of degradation? normalised sexual shame and guilt? by doing this we rob women of any reference to healthy sexuality that they can aspire to. we teach them that their sexual desire is essentially synonymous with the feelings one might feel after actually being exploited/abused/assaulted by a man. how then, will she know the difference?

i have a post sitting in my drafts about how i find the concept of sexual repression to be genuinely eerie, because if you feel guilt and disgust for having healthy consensual sex, how can you differentiate between that and unhealthy/harmful sex? when i have sex with my partner, i feel so positive. i feel joy. its fun and beautiful and wonderful. if we had sex and i started to feel shame or guilt, i would immediately know that something was off. i would stop what is happening, i would check in with myself and with my partner, we would have a good hard look at what happened. this ability for emotional discernment keeps us safe.

we should not be desensitising anyone to the genuine objectification and degradation of women by crying wolf every time a woman openly loves her body and her sexuality. if you see a woman in a skimpy outfit and decide she is objectifying herself, i beg you to question what part of her personhood she had to remove to wear her outfit. question whether place that her personhood was removed, was in your own head.

truly, women are not responsible for the abuse we face at the hands of men. if all women became perfectly chaste and dressed conservatively tomorrow, people would still be exploited and raped and abused. if a man takes one woman’s consent as all women’s consent, you will never make him a safe person by policing the women around him. you cannot enforce any standard of sexuality that all women will be happy with. people need to learn that women are not a monolith, we are whole human beings who need agency over our own lives. we need to give women the education and tools to set their own standards, and the safety to come forward, without the deterrent of societal shame, in the event that they are exploited. passivity is dangerous.

i dont really know how to eloquently end all this. i am typing with tears in my eyes. god, i just want people to know how to keep themselves safe. im not fucking speaking in hypotheticals, these women i love have looked in my eyes and told me all sorts of trauma that they were hesitant to even call trauma. how can we solve any of these problems when we live in a culture that cannot for 5 minutes drop the repression and purity that nurtures abuse and exploitation? pushed by people who claim to care, no less? despair.

the fact that a lot of progressive people truly cannot tell the difference between a woman who is sexually objectified, and a woman who is an active sexual participant is bad bad bad bad bad bad bad

[zstartrixxx]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇

ᵒˡᶦᵛᵉʳ ᵐᵉˡˡᵒˢ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

good evening to all oliver mellors devotees!!! inspired by this post of mine here, i decided to develop a small fanfic for pure fun (horniness) to start a good friday, on the way to a splendid weekend! 

— pnp (+18 | NSFW | porn without plot | dirty talk, breeding kink and fingering | a lil' bit of after care | wc.: 1.7k ) happy reading for whoever is going to read it <3

"You want me to fuck you?"

The question came between one rough grunt and another, his half-bare chest rising and falling as he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, looking at you with a visceral hunger to devour you. You felt your body respond to that slutty gaze of his—weak legs, pussy throbbing and burning with the ache of wanting him, breath ragged and heavy between your lungs, pupils dilated in awe as the man undressed just for you.

Oliver didn’t stop devouring you with his stormy eyes, clouded with passion and desire: seeing you lying there in fragile, beautiful nakedness, legs slightly parted to reveal your wetness—all because of him—adorning his bed in the dim light of a cold afternoon, the fireplace crackling beside you, the air thick with the scent of sex, your sweet perfume mingling with his bittersweet sweat. It was driving him wild with lust and adoration. As soon as Mellors tore off his shirt, his voice came out breathless:

"No..."

"No!?" He raised a challenging eyebrow, hastily undoing his pants, where your eyes wavered at the sight of the thick bulge straining against his underwear. You wet your lips before speaking, matching his defiance: "No. I want you to split me in half with your cock. I want to choke on it today—no making love."

"Oh—" He gasped, then laughed smugly, yanking his pants off and pushing back the fringe that had fallen over his eyes before settling between your legs. He kissed your neck, his stubble prickling your skin, making you shiver. The tip of his nose trailed along the curve of your neck to your ear, his lips pressing hotly against your lobe as his deep voice whispered: "Are you sure you can handle all of me?"

Your hands wrapped around him—beneath your palms, his skin was soft, smooth, warm, and damp with a thin layer of sweat. You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in his scent—wood, upturned earth, sweet sweat, him—before answering:

"If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked, Oliver."

You were his ruin.

Oliver was (once again) certain of this as he pushed himself up on his arms just to look at you, with the perversion of someone who’d just been invited to destroy something. In this case, to destroy you. He smirked wickedly before leaning down to capture your lips in another slow, wet, messy kiss, grinding against your entrance as if he could already fuck you through the barrier of his underwear. His tongue, soft and possessive, tangled with yours as one of his hands guided yours to his back, then shoved it down his briefs, murmuring against your lips:

"Feel that? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Mhm..." You whimpered softly, giving his cock a teasing squeeze, drawing a low, almost restrained groan from him—one you swallowed in the kiss as you stroked him, your hips rocking against his. Oliver couldn’t take the sheer lust and adoration, roughly pulling your hand away, urgency taking over as he yanked down his briefs, letting them pool at his knees before grabbing you again, crashing his lips back onto yours.

You welcomed him with open arms and legs, so wet that the moment he lined himself up and pressed the head against your entrance, he sank into you with a long, drawn-out moan that sent a wave of unbearable heat through you—you loved hearing him moan for you. Drunk on your pussy, Oliver whined:

"Fuck, you feel so good," he started pushing in, slow, deliberate, making sure you both felt every inch, skin to skin, in this dance. "So tight and—" He gasped when you clenched around him, laughing at the face he made—eyes rolling back briefly before shutting, biting his lower lip. He stopped thrusting, opening his eyes in a flash of blue darkened by blown pupils:

"If you keep squeezing me like that, I’ll fill you up—like, now!" He chuckled as you bit your lip, amused, your hands gripping his narrow shoulders for some semblance of control, your voice slipping between a whiny moan and a playful tease:

"Maybe I want you to fill me up, Mellors... Who knows? Maybe we’ll have a little baby in a few months."

"Slut," he growled when you clenched around him again, moaning like a complete whore for you, taking deep breaths to keep from coming right then.

"Come on, Oliver, fuck me good, my love. We’re just getting started, and I want you to ruin me," you murmured, staring into his eyes. Oliver looked hypnotized—by you beneath him—his rough worker’s hands gripping your waist firmly, a shock running through both of you as he rolled you onto your side, one hand lifting your thigh over his. His cock had slipped out during the shift, drawing a giggly moan from you before he slid back in, pulling you into a tight embrace, his mouth going straight for your jaw, then your chin, before fucking you with the fury of a man consumed by desire.

Your moans grew louder, filling the room, your bodies pure flame, the world reduced to just this sweet, filthy moment between the two of you.

Mellors’ lips didn’t just devour you—they mapped every inch of your face, his tongue licking your lips, teasing you with kisses he trailed down to your cheek as he thrust deep, hitting that spot, one hand gripping your back to pull you harder onto his cock, slick, feeling you drip around him. It felt so good to be filled by him—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually—nestled between your soul and heart, sending spasms of pleasure electrifying your thighs, sweat-slicked and crying out in love for him.

"I’m gonna split you in half fucking you like this, my love—" Mellors gritted out, stopping his thrusts, making you whine at the loss of his cock. "—Oh, don’t look at me with those begging eyes, sweetheart," he murmured roughly, a tender hand cupping your face as he smirked. "I only stopped because this angle won’t let me shoot my cum deep inside that pretty little pussy, hmm?"

"Oh yeah? Then how are you gonna fuck me now?" There was no shame in these bedroom talks, at least not between you two. Your eyes gleamed, your breathing so heavy each word came out as a gasp, your hands gripping his arms.

Oliver simply pulled out of you.

Empty.

Your little whine made him laugh darkly before his strong hands flipped you onto your stomach, one leg hooking over yours as he settled behind you, thick and heavy, sliding back into your soaked, desperate cunt. Your hands scrambled for purchase, gripping the sweat-damp sheets as Oliver buried his face in your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin, his wild-honey scent enveloping you, his stubble scratching as his other hand slid down to your clit, rough fingers rubbing harsh circles:

"Like this, my love—taking you from behind while I make you squirm on my fingers..."

Your body was pure fire, Oliver fucking you with his cock and his fingers—his thrusts slow on the way in, rough on the way out, his balls slapping against you, his fingers slick with your arousal, sending electric shocks through your legs. You rested your head on his forearm beneath you, looking up at him with pleading eyes, met only by the most wicked, sinful gaze. Mellors pulled his hand away for just a second, wetting his fingers with his tongue before returning to your clit with renewed vigor, watching you writhe between his cock and his touch, the pleasure building, building, until—

"Oliver!"

His name tore from your lips in the most beautiful moan, music to his ears—and feeling you come around him, milking him, trembling, undid him. A choked groan ripped from his throat as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his hand stilling on your clit, instead splaying over your lower belly to keep you pressed against him.

You came together, staring at each other.

Smiling, satisfied, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips:

"Stay like this for a bit... Just to make sure you’ll walk out of here pregnant with my child."

"No doubt about that, my love. The way you came in me—the way you made me come..." You laughed, your body still floating from the aftershocks, sensitive, making you squirm beneath him.

You kissed again, this time letting it deepen, tongues tangling, tasting each other before—reluctantly—you pulled away, settling against his warm, comforting body, feeling some of his cum trickle out between your thighs.

Oliver shifted over you, his chest pressing against your breasts as he kissed your chin, nipped your nose, sucked on your cheek—"Stop! You’re gonna make me all slobbery...!"

"Oh, you’re talking? The one who just got filled with my cum is complaining about manners?" His laughter against your neck filled the entire space, and you melted into his touch, his mouth lazily mapping your skin, your drowsy eyes fixed on the white plaster ceiling, the orange firelight casting dancing dust motes in the air. You felt like you were floating, even with Oliver’s comforting weight on you.

Another kiss, this time on your lips, before Oliver whispered:

"I love when you get like this... All dazed after I fuck you."

"How romantic of you—" You laughed, squeezing him tighter against your chest, wishing you could fuse with his sweat-slick body before wriggling free, lying back on the mattress, looking at him with love: "—but you’re right about that... I’m better when I’m with you."

"I doubt that’s just when we’re fucking..." He shifted, offering an arm for you to curl into, his other hand lacing with yours over your stomach.

"Yes, Oliver... In everything."

"I feel the same, my love..." he whispered.

When you looked at him, his gaze was distant, lost in thought, and you wished you could read him completely—but you relaxed, reassured by the certainty that Oliver would always tell you, in that beautiful voice of his, just how much you meant to him.

As if reading your mind, with the gentleness reserved for holding a delicate flower, Oliver brushed your hair from your face, revealing your beauty to him fully, melting all over again. His lips curved into a smile of sincere love and devotion before pressing a kiss to your temple—long, lingering, as if he could telepathically whisper "I love you, love you, adore you, want you, love you" over and over with just that touch.

And so your bodies nestled in that cocoon of love and surrender, humming with pleasure—yours light and content, wrapped in Oliver’s unwavering devotion, completely at peace.

i’d like to thank you all once again for being here, reading my little crazies—truly, from the bottom of my heart!!! also, a quick announcement: we’ll have a remmy fic dropping on friday the 13th (if you’re reading this after that, RUN to check my masterlist ;). and now, i’ll be focusing on a full-length fic (yes, with actual plot and everything) 'bout mellors, PLUS another one about remmy crying over pussy—anon, i saw your message and i’ll reply properly later, in case you’re reading this here—to celebrate yet another milestone for this humble blog. see you soon, with wet kisses, tight hugs, and sweet dreams of our beloved lover oliver mellors (or our pathetic whiny vampire remmick!!!)

"You want me to fuck you?"

[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (17)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 6.8k

authors note: i'm now writing in real time and will post at the same time when chapters are ready, here and on AO3. i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

tag list: @thelastemzy @its-in-the-woods @wkhannah @h0neylemon

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

Frank’s hands shot out, fast, rough— fingers curling around your wrists before you could step back again. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Intentional. You froze at the contact, pulse flaring under his grip. It wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about stopping you. It was about the tether. The last one left. And some part of you— the part buried so deep it didn’t speak often— thought: This is what it feels like to be wanted. Not gently, not softly. But completely. Dark corners and all. His skin was hot against yours, fevered almost, and the way he held you felt like a contradiction in motion: desperate and hesitant all at once.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at where he held you like you couldn’t quite believe it. You tugged at his hold on you, flexing your arms, trying to pull back— and his grip on you tightened.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Just— don’t.”

You could feel the breath leave your lungs in a slow, shuddering exhale. His thumbs dragged across your skin, slow, uncertain, like he was memorizing the shape of your pulse. Like he hadn’t meant to grab you but couldn’t make himself stop.

His eyes lifted to yours. And this time— he looked. Really looked. Like he didn’t want to. Like it cost him something. You didn’t recognize the expression on his face. Not exactly. But it carved itself into you, sharp and permanent.

“Let me go, Frank.”

“No.”

His voice came low, wrecked, nearly swallowed. But there was steel beneath it. Not possessive, not pleading. Just a refusal carved from the same place as grief. And in that one word, you heard everything he hadn’t said: I already let go once. I tried to. I can’t do it again.

Something in you shifted at his refusal— some deep, bruised place inside that hadn’t stopped aching since the night before. The air felt thinner now. Too tight in your chest. Your hands were suddenly damp, clammy with adrenaline. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or anticipation setting your skin alight, but goosebumps rolled across your arms, even as heat pooled low in your belly.

His grip on your wrists tightened once more— still not painfully, but with a kind of authority that made your heart stutter all over again before picking up into a staccato beat. His eyes were on yours now, locked and burning. There was no apology in them, no regret. Just fire. And the fuel? You.

This time you were certain. He moved first.

His mouth crashed against yours with none of the tenderness from before. This wasn’t slow or careful. This was a punishment. Or maybe it was a surrender. A kiss thrown like a match onto gasoline. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up— spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders and then around the back of his neck, wrapping tightly around him. You kissed him back just as hard, just as hungry. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, and he growled into your mouth like the sound was torn from the center of him.

The fury inside you didn’t die— it shifted. Reformed. Molded into something molten. Something reckless and clawing and full of need.

His hands had dropped from your wrists to your waist, and now began to lower— gripping tight, anchoring, dragging you against him like he was trying to fuse your bodies together. You felt the scrape of your zipper catch his, the heat of him pressed flush to your stomach. And still, he kept moving you, pulling you forward with single-minded purpose— toward the bed, the wall, the table. He didn’t care. Neither did you. You just needed him closer.

The room tilted slightly, like gravity had shifted. Your ears buzzed faintly, overwhelmed by the roar of your own pulse. Your legs were trembling now, knees gone soft from the weight of what was building between you— fury and hunger braided so tightly together they were indistinguishable.

His mouth broke from yours— only to trail down, over your jaw, your neck, biting heat into your skin with every pass.

“Take it off,” he muttered, voice rough, hand already shoving beneath your shirt, dragging it higher with fingers that shook.

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because it was him. And because you were… you.  

“Frank—”

The name caught in your throat, came out softer than you meant it. Like a question… or a warning.

He froze for a breath, his chest rising fast against yours. And then his mouth found yours again, harder now. Wilder. Like he needed to drown out whatever meaning you’d tucked into his name.

“Why can’t you just listen to me?” he growled into the kiss, lips rough and unforgiving against yours. “Why can’t you just do what you’re told?”

It was about the shirt. About the moment. But it also wasn’t.

You felt it in the way his hands trembled just slightly as they ran over your skin, dragging the fabric higher, exposing inch by inch like he needed to feel every part of you to believe you were still here. Still real. Still his— for now.

You kissed him again, rough and open-mouthed, your breath coming in uneven stutters. His stubble scraped your cheek as he shifted the angle, took more of you. You could barely hold yourself upright, legs starting to tremble, the heat of it blooming low and insistent between your hips.

You broke away just long enough to yank the shirt over your head and toss it aside.

Cool air hit your skin, sharp and immediate. Your nipples peaked instantly, not just from the change in temperature but from the heat of his eyes tracking every inch of new skin, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Your chest rose too fast, too shallow— like your body hadn’t figured out how to breathe properly with him looking at you like that.

And even if it wasn’t smart— if it wasn’t safe— your hands found the hem of his shirt next. With trembling, overheated fingertips, you lifted the material up over his stomach and chest, pushing it past his shoulders. You didn’t do it because he asked. You did it because you wanted to. Because you needed this like air. Like absolution. Like maybe if your skin touched his, if your breath synced with his heartbeat, you could stop the world from falling apart for a little while longer.

Because in this moment, he wasn’t shutting you out.

He was pulling you under.

And you went willingly.

Once his shirt was tossed aside, he pulled you in to him with more urgency. His fingers trailed the length of your back, slow and deliberate— just a pass of heat, a promise— and then the clasp of your bra came undone with maddening ease. You didn’t know why it startled you. He’d seen all of you before, had his hands on your skin, his mouth on your pulse. But something about this— about the deliberate pull of the straps off your shoulders, the way he didn’t rush it— made it different.

Your breath caught.

Not because of the chill in the room or the air against your skin.

But because he was looking at you now. Really looking.  

His hands framed your shoulders, not gripping, just resting. Holding you there like you might vanish if he didn’t keep some part of you tethered. His gaze dragged down your chest, slow, unflinching— his throat bobbed once, like the sight of you made it hard to swallow. Your skin burned where his eyes dragged over it, leaving a flush of pink in its wake.

He reached up and pulled the loose straps the rest of the way down your arms, fingertips grazing the inside of your elbows as he did. Then he let the bra fall to the floor like it didn’t matter, like he never wanted to see it again.

And then, without a word, he moved. One arm wrapped around your hips, the other braced across your back, and he turned you both, guiding your body down to the mattress with a careful, practiced strength that felt like something reverent. Your back hit the sheets and the cotton felt impossibly rough against your over-sensitized skin. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You were dizzy with it— want and fear and some unnamed thing crashing together inside your chest. The bed gave under you, the thin mattress creaking beneath your weight, and then he followed— settled over you, not all at once, not crushing, but piece by piece. A knee on the edge of the bed, his hands reaching for your hips to push you back further.

You could feel the tension in him now, clearer than before. The braced strain in his arms. The tremor in his thighs. The heat of him where he hovered, where his hips didn’t quite touch yours.

You didn’t look at his face— not yet.

Your eyes dipped lower. Across his chest, where muscle stretched taut beneath old scars and new bruises. Across the plane of his stomach, where his skin was tight, breath just a little uneven. And lower still— to the thick press of arousal straining against his jeans, the metal teeth of his zipper stretched tight.

You exhaled slowly, felt the nerves start to melt out of your spine and join the pool of heat gathering between your thighs. The tension that had held your body rigid began to loosen, unraveling by degrees as the reality of his nearness— his weight, his heat, the sheer force of him— sank into your skin. You didn’t dare move, not yet. Just let yourself feel it.

Your gaze lifted to his, and the air caught hard in your lungs.

His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the brown until they were nearly black. He wasn’t looking at your face. His eyes dragged across your bare skin with a weight that was almost physical— slow, heavy, deliberate. You could see it: the muscle in his jaw flexing, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his throat bobbed like he was trying to swallow something down. Control. Restraint.

And God, he looked hungry.

Not starved. Not desperate. But focused— like your body was something sacred and he was memorizing every inch of it before it slipped away. His eyes tracked the curve of your breasts, the rise and fall of your chest as your breath struggled to stay even, the faint lines where your jeans had pressed into your hips, the flush spreading across your stomach.

He met your gaze only after he’d looked everywhere else.

And when he did— when those dark eyes locked on yours again— you felt it. The burn of it. The weight of every unspoken thing strung tight between you. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your hands ached with the urge to pull him closer. And the heat between your legs sharpened, deepened, until it was a need you could no longer ignore.

He was already undoing you, and he hadn’t even touched you again.

You lifted a hand, traced the edge of his jaw with your knuckles, slow and tentative.

“Frank,” you whispered.

And you didn’t say anything else. Because you didn’t need to.

Because the way he looked at you then— eyes both light and dark, lips parted, breath caught halfway between control and surrender— said enough.

The hand not gently caressing at his jaw went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, but his fingers caught your wrist again. Stilled you. Stopped you.

“Stop fighting me,” he rasped, breath hot against your cheek. “Just— let me.”

You hesitated, only for a second. But it was enough.

One of his hands found the center of your waist, his thumb and forefinger making quick work of undoing the button of your jeans. He dragged the zipper down slowly, and all the while, his eyes remained on yours. The heat in his gaze made you shiver and then shift beneath him, body unsettled. Then his hand lowered, pressing into the dark material of the jeans where they pulled tight over your thighs. He dragged them down your legs, one-handed, the other one braced beside your head to keep him hovering above you. His eyes never left you. Not even when his knuckles skimmed the inside of your thigh, not even when he made you gasp. He wanted to see this— you— coming apart under him.

His head dipped, mouth dropping to your neck, distracted, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Why the fuck won’t you stay safe?” he muttered, voice splintered and low. “Why can’t you just stay safe?”

He wasn’t asking questions to be answered. You knew that now. These weren’t demands… they were confessions.

A breath trembled loose from your lips, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. A sudden rush of emotion jolted to the surface, overwhelming. Your eyes pinched shut, trying to fight against the sudden burn there. You weren’t crying, not really, but the ache in your chest was sharp enough to threaten it.

This was the storm breaking after too many days of silence.

His mouth moved lower, dragging across your collarbone, then down— slow, deliberate, like he needed to map every inch of you with his mouth just in case he never got the chance again. He didn’t kiss like a man being handed something. He kissed like a man taking it— claiming it— because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing it again.

When he reached your breasts, he didn’t rush. Didn’t grope or grab like he was impatient to move on. He slowed. Settled.

His lips brushed across one nipple first, barely a graze, just enough to send a jolt straight through your spine. Then his tongue followed— hot, rough, insistent— as he took you into his mouth. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails curling into flesh. Leaving behind little crescent moons in his pale, battered skin. But he didn’t stop. Sucked harder, just once, and the sound that left your mouth wasn’t a word. Wasn’t anything but need. He grunted in response, seemingly urging you on.

His other hand came up to palm your other breast, thumb stroking slow as his mouth continued its work— sucking, licking, dragging his teeth just enough to make your hips jerk beneath him. His stubble scraped your skin raw in the best possible way.

You arched into him, head tipped back, fingers sliding into his hair and gripping tight.

“Frank,” you whispered again, broken this time. A plea. A prayer.

His eyes lifted to yours then— half-lidded and darker than you’d seen them before— and the sight of them nearly undid you. He looked like a man caught in something he couldn’t name, couldn’t outrun. And still he kept going. Kept devouring you like your body held the answer to every fucked-up question in his head.

When his mouth finally let go, his breath was ragged against your damp skin. He pressed a kiss to the underside of your breast, softer now, and then another one just beside it. Like he needed to mark the places that made you shake. Like he couldn’t stop himself.

And then his lips found yours again. The kiss was wet, hot, a little wild. And his hands kept moving lower.

Your jeans were halfway down your legs, caught at the knees. He tugged once, rough, like his patience was gone, and you lifted your ankles, helping him. Not because you were ready. Because you couldn’t bear to be away from him for a second longer.

He pushed the denim to the floor, barely glancing away to do it. And then he came back— lowering himself again, the heat of him now pressed full to the curve of your thigh. You could feel the shake in him, the restraint coiled so tight you thought it might snap.

You reached for his belt again.

This time, he let you.

Your fingers fumbled, not from inexperience but from urgency. From the way his gaze pinned you, daring you to flinch, to hesitate. You didn’t. You tugged the leather loose, popped the button, dragged the zipper down inch by aching inch. You felt the weight of his erection pressing against the material there, the heaviness a promise, a threat.

And when he shifted to kick off his jeans, you took the chance to sit up just enough to meet his mouth again. This kiss was slower, not softer— still messy, still hot— but deep. Your hands curled around the back of his neck, pulling him into it, like if you kissed him hard enough, long enough, you could rewrite what came after.

You broke away only to whisper again, “Frank.”

It was the third time you’d said it. Every time different.

This time… it meant stay.

“Shh,” he whispered back, the sound meant to soothe. “Enough.”

Something in him must’ve understood. Because a hand landed on your thigh and curled tight, fingers digging in so deep you were certain he’d leave marks, and he lowered himself again, all the way this time. His body covered you, fitting against you like you were made for it. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes shut, breath ragged. And for a moment, there was stillness.

No war. No fear. Just you.

Just this.

His breath ghosted against your mouth, warm and uneven, as his body settled fully onto yours. You could feel every line of him— every inch of hard muscle, every scar, every point of heat. He was heavy without being crushing, a presence that grounded rather than smothered, and you curled into it instinctively, one leg sliding up along his hip to anchor him closer.

His hand moved again— up your thigh, around your waist, fingers splayed wide and firm like he needed to memorize your shape before it disappeared. His touch wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either. It was urgent and possessive in a way that made your heart stumble.

You felt him, fully, against the cradle of your hips— hard, thick, straining. And when his hips shifted just slightly, brushing along the seam of your underwear, a shiver rolled through you. Your breath caught, and his did too, like he felt it. Like he always felt it.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His tongue slid against yours with deliberate care, like he was tasting something he hadn’t let himself believe he’d ever get to have. Your hands moved restlessly over him— his back, his shoulders, the ridges of his ribs beneath your palms. You traced the bandage just below his shoulder blade, the one you’d placed just the night before, and he shuddered, pulling back just enough to breathe you in.

His eyes opened— barely. The emotion in them was raw, startling. Your breath caught at the back of your throat.

“You alright?” he rasped, voice worn and low, like gravel pulled over silk. “You sure about this?”

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Just pulled him down again, tilting your chin to meet him, lips parting for him like they were meant to. And this time, when your bodies shifted— when your hips lifted and he slid a hand between you, nudging your underwear aside— there was no hesitation. You’d given him the final piece he needed to keep going.

His fingers brushed you there and you gasped— sharp, involuntary. His eyes searched your face as he stroked slow, testing pressure, finding rhythm. He wanted to watch. Needed to see how you reacted to every touch, every curl of his hand, every brush of his finger. And when your thighs trembled, when your breath hitched and your nails dug into his back, his mouth found yours again— hungry and shaking.

“God, you’re fucking soaked,” he muttered against your lips. “You always this wet for me?”

You arched into him as a response, breath catching as his hand left you— just briefly— and hooked in the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t ask. Just tugged, firm and rough, dragging the last barrier down your legs in one practiced motion. The fabric caught on your ankle, and he cursed under his breath, yanking it the rest of the way before tossing it aside like it offended him. Like it had kept him from what he needed.

You shivered— part nerves, part need— as his hands skimmed back up the fronts of your thighs, slower this time. And when they reached your hips again, you let your knees fall open beneath him, unabashed. His breath hitched at the sight.

You didn’t look away.

And neither did he as he shifted back just far enough to reach for his own waistband. His fingers moved fast, impatient— pushing his boxer briefs down past his hips, freeing himself with a sharp breath. He kicked them off with a jerk of his legs, leaving him bare, the length of him thick and flushed, already hard. Precum leaked from the tip and your tongue darted out from between your lips, tracing the seam of your mouth. His eyes locked on the movement, eyelashes fluttering and breath catching in his throat at the sight.

You reached for him and he didn’t stop you. Your hand curled around him with deliberate slowness. He was hot in your palm, solid, and when you stroked him once— slow, teasing— his eyes squeezed shut. His jaw clenched like he was in pain.

His hand caught your wrist, then, but not to stop you— just to still you. Just to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I need—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

Because you were already shifting beneath him, lifting your hips, guiding him to where you needed him most. Your hand shifted to his hip, easing him forward, breath stuck somewhere in your chest as you met his eyes again.

He looked down at you like he could see straight through your skin, like every breath you took rattled something loose in him. His hand shook when it found your thigh again— just a little. But you felt it. You felt everything.

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Your voice was shattered. Shattered and wanting. The air between you shimmered with tension so thick it felt like your skin couldn’t hold you together. Every nerve ending sang. You could feel your pulse in places that had never had a heartbeat before. Your body ached— not just with need, but with the ache of almost. Of being on the edge of something irreversible.

His gaze held yours— still dark, still burning— but now there was something else layered behind it. Something like restraint, barely holding on. Like reverence trying to masquerade as control.

He hovered there, the head of him brushing your entrance, and it was maddening— almost painful— the way he didn’t move. Like he was waiting. Or giving you one last chance to stop him. Your breath stuttered, chest rising too fast, your whole body lit up like a live wire. You were soaked, aching, every nerve turned outward and begging for him. But still— he waited. You shifted beneath him, unable to stay still. The pressure inside of you was throbbing, begging for relief.

You reached towards him, one hand curling around the back of his neck again, grounding him. Pulling him in.

“Please,” you whispered, another plea. And permission.

His forehead pressed to yours. His eyes closed. And then— finally— he pushed in.

The stretch was slow. Deep. Devastating. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat, like there wasn’t enough room left inside you for air and him at the same time. Your inner muscles fluttered around him, overwhelmed by the intrusion and the aching relief of it. You gasped, head tipping back against the pillow, lips parted around a sound that never made it out. He groaned low in his throat, voice rough and guttural, like the feel of you had destroyed him, ripping him apart at the seams.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “You’re— fuck—”

Your fingers clawed at his back, dragging down the long ridge of his spine, needing something to hold onto as your body adjusted around him. He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep, like he was anchoring himself. Like if he moved too soon, he’d lose everything.

Your heart was racing, thundering so loud it seemed to echo in your ears. You felt too full, too open, like he could see every part of you from the inside out. And it terrified you. But it also calmed something. Silenced the part of you that still feared he’d disappear again without warning.

His mouth found yours, softer this time— no less hungry, but tempered. Steady. His tongue licked against yours, explored the inside of your mouth, trying to distract from the pain of the stretch his body caused within yours. Then his hips rolled once, barely, and the sound you made against his lips cracked him open. He flinched against you, pulling back, just by an inch.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured against your jaw. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you breathed. “You couldn’t.”

That did something to him. You felt it in the tremble of his arms, the twitch in his thigh, the way he buried his face in your neck and started to move. Each thrust was slow and deliberate at first— exploring, relearning, like he was mapping your body one stroke at a time.

You met him, hips tilting, legs widening, the air between you going thick with heat and breath and the sound of skin against skin. Every time he pulled back, you swore you could feel the emptiness he left behind. Every time he pushed in, you swore you were being filled with more than just him.

With something whole.

The rhythm built slowly. Not frantic, not yet. Just steady. Deep. Like he was trying to memorize the feel of you around him— each inch, each shudder, each tightening breath. His hand slid under your thigh and lifted it higher, curling it around his hip, pulling you closer, deeper, until there was no space left. Until you felt him in places you hadn’t even known were empty.

Your skin prickled with goosebumps, despite the heat. Your palms were slick where they gripped his back, nails leaving pink trails in their wake. There was a buzzing in your ears, a dizziness behind your eyes— like your body had shifted into some other state of being. One where only this existed. This weight. This man. This moment.

“Fuck,” Frank groaned into your shoulder, teeth dragging blunt and hot along your skin. You shivered at the feel of it. “You feel so—” He cut himself off, voice cracking like he didn’t trust what might come next. His stomach flexed above you, damp with sweat, each thrust carving tension into his frame. You dug your heels into the backs of his thighs, chasing the rhythm, urging him deeper.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely think. You just moved with him. Met every roll of his hips with your own, every thrust punching the breath from your lungs in sweet, stuttering gasps. The tension was building low— hot, insistent, coiling tighter and tighter with every slick slide of his body inside yours.

And the way he looked at you when he pulled back to see your face—

It was ruin. That’s what it was. You’d ruined him. Just as surely as he’d ruined you.

“I can’t…” he panted, forehead dropping back to yours. “I’m not gonna last.”

You nodded, breathless. “Don’t care. Just don’t stop.”

His hand reached between your bodies, found the place where you were most sensitive, and pressed— just enough, just right— and the world shattered. His eyes locked with yours in that final second, wide and wild and reverent. And it was that look— more than his touch, more than the drag of his body inside you— that pushed you over the edge.

You cried out, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other twisting in the blanket beneath you like it could keep you grounded. Your body arched, clenched, shuddered around him as the orgasm hit— sharp and bright and blinding. Your walls pulsed around him, and he groaned so low it bordered on a growl, one hand braced beside your head, the other still between your thighs, coaxing everything from you.

He lasted a beat longer. Two. Then he buried himself deep and broke.

You felt it in the way he locked up— muscles taut, jaw clenched, a sound like a curse torn from his throat. But it wasn’t a curse. It was your name. His hips stuttered, once, twice, and then he collapsed— not fully, but just enough to fold himself around you. His arms were braced on either side of your head, trapping you between them like a cage.

His breath was hot at your neck. Harsh. Unsteady.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

You just laid there, tangled and ruined, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, the last of your tremors easing under the weight of him.

You knew the moment it changed.

There was no shift in light, no grand declaration. Just a slow, almost imperceptible pulling away. The warmth of his body started to fade. The weight of him— once grounding, steady— lifted inch by inch until the space above you felt colder than it had any right to.

His gaze dropped to your face as he moved, softened by something you couldn’t name. Something that might have been sorrow, or guilt, or the kind of tenderness that only showed itself when it was already too late. The amber in his eyes caught the light like it was trying to hold on. Then his hand lifted— slow, careful— and he reached for you. Not like a man ready to leave, but like one who almost didn’t. His knuckles skimmed your cheek, fingers brushing back the hair that had fallen into your eyes. The touch was unbearably gentle. Reverent. His thumb lingered at your temple, like maybe he could memorize you this way. Like maybe, if he touched you softly enough, it would undo what he was about to do.

Then the warmth was gone.

He eased himself back, limbs reluctant, slow. You watched his eyes change first— like a door quietly clicking shut behind them. Then his chest, the way it rose and fell just a little faster. The breath before retreat.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, his bare back catching what little light filtered in through the window. You stared at the jagged lines across his spine— old scars, new bruises, the carved history of a man who never stayed still.

Your eyes followed him as he reached for his jeans on the floor— his movements stiff, achingly human. The soft scrape of denim against skin filled the room. You saw him wince as he bent, his shoulder catching, one hand going instinctively to his ribs like he’d forgotten they were still healing. But he didn’t pause. He just pulled the jeans up in one fluid motion and zipped them with more force than necessary, like maybe if he moved fast enough, none of this would stick to him.

Your gaze caught on his bare feet against the cold floor, the way they shifted subtly as he reached for his shirt next, shaking it out before dragging it over his head. He didn’t look at you. Not once.

You sat up slowly, cool air pinching at the exposed skin of your chest, but you didn’t care. You pulled your knees up to your chest and you wrapped your arms around them like you might hold yourself together that way.

“Where are you going?” your voice was hoarse. Brittle.

He didn’t answer right away. He grabbed his belt from the end of the bed, looped it through with steady fingers. The ritual slowness of it was unbearable— methodical and practiced and final.

Only then, without turning, he answered. “I need to finish this.”

That was it. Five words. Flat. Functional. Like you were just another variable in his equation. Like the ache still blooming in your thighs, the echo of his voice rasping your name against your skin, hadn’t changed a thing.

Your throat closed. Something inside you buckled. Shook. Nearly shattered into a million tiny, imperceptible pieces.

You blinked once, slow. Let the words hang between you like a tripwire for a beat.

“We’re really still doing this?” you asked, voice raw. “After everything?”

“Yeah, we’re still doing this.”

The response cut deep. But it was the ease of it that hurt more. The certainty. Like this was already decided, already boxed up in his mind under necessary loss.

You released your hold on your body and swung your legs off the bed, the hardwood slapping cold against your bare feet. Your body flinched, goosebumps rising in the silence he left behind. The ache in your chest cracked wider with every beat of quiet. You weren’t trying to stop him— at least, that’s what you told yourself. But your body betrayed you, standing in his path like your presence alone might be enough to make him hesitate. You were naked— skin completely exposed and on display— but you didn’t allow yourself to pause, to flinch.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, and your voice broke on the last word, anger bleeding into it now. “You don’t get to take and then walk away like it didn’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped himself. Ran a hand down his face, sighing hard through his nose. “That’s not what this is. Not what that was.”

“Then what is it, Frank? Because I’m standing here naked after letting you in— really in— and you’re halfway out the fucking door. So please— enlighten me.”

His hands dropped to his sides. Rigid. Tense. You watched the flex of his knuckles. The silent clench in his jaw. He looked like he wanted to say something. Like maybe, if he could just find the right words, this wouldn’t have to get uglier than it already was.

But whatever he found wasn’t enough.

“I already told you how it is, how it has to be.” He said finally, quieter now. “What just happened doesn’t change anything.”

You stared at him, stunned. The heat behind your eyes broke, the first tears slipping down before you even registered the burn. You just stood there in silence, stripped bare in every sense, tears carving tracks through the flush on your skin. And for a moment— just a breath— Frank looked. Really looked. His eyes met yours, and whatever distance he’d been clinging to wavered. His face didn’t change much, not to the untrained eye, but you knew the signs now. The small flinch at the corner of his mouth. The ripple of something jagged passing behind his eyes. He looked like he’d been shot— quiet, internal, a wound without blood. But still, he said nothing. Because that was who he was. A man who bled alone.

“Jesus Christ, Frank.” You let out a sharp, humorless breath, your voice thick with tears. “You could at least pretend you give a damn.”

“I do.” His voice dropped, a near-growl. His eyes flashed with emotion— the kind of emotion that, in him, was easy to name. Anger. Frustration. “But it’s not about that.”

You laughed. It sounded awful. Broken. A noise torn from something raw.

“Then what is it about? Hm?” you stepped closer, shoulders squared, baring your hurt like a blade. “Is this you protecting me again? Sparing me from the fallout? Or just sparing yourself the guilt?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Just held your gaze with something heavy in his eyes— like regret wearing armor.

“You’ll survive this,” he said. “You’ll go on. You’ll be safe. That’s all that matters.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it made your ribs ache. You shook your head, not in disbelief— just disappointment.

“I don’t want safe, Frank,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He looked away in an instant, jaw clenching so tight you wondered if the muscle might break through the skin. That was worse than any answer.

And then he reached for his coat. Slipped it on like it weighed nothing. And even though he moved like a man with broken bones, he still walked like he was trying to disappear.

You watched the entire exit— the rhythm of his steps, the way he didn’t once meet your eyes again. And still, some soft, ridiculous part of you held on. Waited for the pause. The turn. The fucking apology.

But it never came.

He reached for the door with a hand that had touched every inch of you just moments ago and twisted the knob with the same fingers he’d buried into your skin.

“Just go,” you said, quieter now. “If you’re gonna go, then just fucking go.”

Frank hesitated at the door.

You saw it.

The slight pause in his spine, the flicker of conflict tightening the muscles in his jaw all over again. But he didn’t look back.

He left.

The door closed behind him with a soft click. A polite little ending to an impolite, violent rupture.

You stared at it for a moment, frozen. Then your knees buckled.

There had been no warning. No shift in breath, no soft confession. One moment he was part of you— bone, breath, blood— and the next, he was leaving you behind. Not with a door slammed in anger, but something far worse: absence wrapped in silence. Like you’d never been real to him at all.

You sat hard on the edge of the bed, breath catching in your throat like something jagged. Your hands went to your face and stayed there, muffling the soft, ugly sounds that broke free. The tears came hot and fast now, not from sadness alone— but humiliation. From the way he’d taken everything you gave him— your body, your trust— and left it crumpled on the sheets behind him.

You could still smell him. Still taste him.

And he’d still walked away.

Your hand curled into a fist before you even knew what it was doing. You drove it into the mattress, once, twice, breath catching on a sob you refused to let loose. Then you grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it across the room. It hit the far wall with a soft, traitorous thud. Not nearly loud enough.

The room felt hollow without him, like all the air had been siphoned out. The sheets beneath you were still warm, still wrinkled with the imprint of his body, and it made everything worse— like he was a ghost pressed into the fabric, fading with every second. Your body curled in on itself, not from cold, but grief. A grief so wide and raw it had no edges.

* * * * *

Eventually, you pulled yourself up. You didn’t know how long it’d been. Every motion was mechanical. Your limbs moved like they didn’t belong to you. Like your body was just a shell you had to carry until your rage was sharp enough to fill it again.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. Not really. The room was spinning too slow and too loud, like the silence itself had teeth. Every inch of your skin still felt him— every bruise, every bite, every place he’d held on like you were the only thing left tethering him to the world. And then he let go.

Just like that.

Your body was still trembling. But it wasn’t grief anymore. It wasn’t sadness. It was something sharper. Meaner. A howl curled in your throat, caged behind your teeth. You didn’t want to cry anymore. You wanted to tear something apart.

He walked out with your breath still in his lungs. With your name still on his mouth. And somehow he made it feel like none of it mattered.

You needed to do something. Anything.

Your eyes snapped to his bag, near the foot of the bed.

Not because you had a plan. Not because you knew what you’d find. But because something in you needed a lifeline, a weapon, a fucking map. Something he hadn’t already taken.

Your feet hit the floor before your mind caught up. The motion was clumsy, raw. You dropped to your knees and tore the zipper open with shaking hands. You didn’t care what you touched. You just needed to feel powerful again. Needed to dig your hands into the truth he wasn’t willing to share.

Your hands trembled as you unzipped it, digging through the contents like a woman possessed. And there it was— small, black, nondescript. The burner phone he’d taken from the men who followed him.

With a thumb brushed against the screen, it came to life. You pressed again and it unlocked— no password.

You scrolled.

One message thread. A location. A time.

You stared at it. Then again.

This wasn’t over. You weren’t done.

And if he wouldn’t let you in…

Then you’d find your own way through the fire. Without his permission. Without his blessing.

[lxvenderjewel]

TJLC & Co; a full examination of John & Sherlock's relationship

(PILOT) Literally in the first episode they’re mistaken for a couple. Mind you, this is coming from Mariana, who eventually becomes one of their closest friends, and is arguably one of the most observant characters in the series. Being a podcast about Sherlock Holmes, it’s pretty easy to forget that everyone else only looks stupid because he’s exceptionally smart, but Mariana is quite intelligent as well, and her first impression of them is that they’re together. So.

(THOR1) This is sort of the first time we see John and Sherlock start to get intimate (not like that you nasty bastard). Up to here they’ve pretty much barely tolerated each other but here we get some really sweet moments that start to build up their relationship with each other.

(GOLD3) This is really early on in their budding rapport, but it sounds so very soft and fond when you listen to the audio. Sounds sort of like John is smiling. Already, John knows that Sherlock is something special. He’s also already fully aware of Sherlock’s sleeping habits.

(CARB1) Then of course we get to Blue Carbuncle which is the beginning of their weird ass flirting. This is just crazy work in general to me. It’s pretty early on in their relationship but we can already begin to see that they’re into each other, even if they don’t know it yet. (Expand the second image if you want to see the full scene. It's one of my favorites, personally.)

(REDH2) Everybody knows this scene. Why’d Sherlock sound so thirsty here? Like... why?

(GLOR2) We come to The Gloria Scott and we start to see real actual bonding of substance happen between John and Sherlock, I mean this is a crazy moment… Sherlock’s freaking out right now because he doesn’t want to fuck it up with Victor and John comforts him, they’re stealing away a moment in between all of the crazy emotions in this case and just laughing together in John’s bedroom? Even just as friends, this is a pretty pivotal moment for their dynamic. They’re really starting to get comfortable with each other by this point. They're so. <3

(SILV2) Just John complimenting Sherlock for no other reason than he can… beautiful to see really.

(REIG1) Sherlock trying to rile John up here, even though by this point he thinks he’s just teasing him, he doesn’t realize he actually. Well. Heh.

(REIG1) LOOK CLOSELY. VERY CLOSELY. WE DO NOT HEAR JOHN TAP SHERLOCK’S CHEEK. BUT IT IS IN THE SCRIPT. WHY? WHY PUT EMPHASIS ON THE FACT THAT JOHN IS TAPPING SHERLOCK’S CHEEK HERE WHEN IT DOESN’T END UP IN THE FINAL CUT? WHY JOEL

(DANC3) I’d say this is where it fully clicks for Sherlock that he’s in love with John. I think he probably had an inkling when he was going crazy about Ian the sniper but here it’s like. Well wow. John just got shot and he could’ve died. And Sherlock responds completely normally by first checking to see that John’s okay and then going and trying to actually kill Abe. So normal.

(SHOS2) This is probably where John realizes he’s in love with Sherlock. Like by this point he’s realized that Baker Street has become his home and by extension Sherlock has become his home, this following Dancing Men where he watches Sherlock go absolutely batshit insane, like just crazy over him getting shot… yeah the man is down bad.

(LION3) Some odd tension post DANC/SHOS… why? I’d say because they’re both dealing with their recently realized feelings for each other. That can always be. Well. You know. John’s always a bit awkward but I find their fumbling around each other during Lion’s Mane Verrry Curiouss

(SIGN4) This strange ass flirting right after John finishes talking to Mary? At least John has an excuse here, he was just talking to Mary so he’s probably feeling romantical, Sherlock literally has no reason to be telling John he has a warm lovely face.

(SIGN4) By far one of THE strangest arguments I have EVER had the displeasure of witnessing in any media ever. Sherlock gets weird and strangely possessive about John here, tries to cover it under the guise of him being concerned that John is forgoing professionalism for the sake of a date, and then loops BACK around to say that Mary doesn’t really care about him, Sherlock does, and he shouldn’t be neglecting Sherlock like this because he’s the only one who truly cares about him? What the fuck are you talking about.

(SIGN4) Which is then IMMEDIATELY followed by John bringing up Victor and making a weirdly flirty remark that calls back to Sherlock calling his face warm and lovely? Seriously one of the oddest scenes in all of fiction. They're so weird and disgusting.

(WIST1) Is being jealous just a funny back-and-forth game for them? Because they do it far too often. Sherlock is being very open in his praises for Baynes and it sounds like John would rather be literally anywhere else. Weirdly possessive of each other.

[adhd-riddled-crow]

Not to "yes and" this post but...

My self insert Rook, Samael de Riva:

Is an abomination. Like Lucanis he was fused with a demon, not entirely against his will (not this one at least) he was possessed by a Despair demon.

I personally have a relationship, if you will, with despair and a sense of depression. Sometimes, I'm just sad for weeks on end, whether I cry tears or not. I wanted to add that to him as a character trait that we could share. (That and the added angst ability if I ever write about him and not just as a cameo character.)

And this is why his sclera are pitch black, I chose this design choice as a way to show you that he wasn't just a normal looking elf. That there was something else to his character that you couldn't quite understand just yet, if at all.

I even have a Spite style tell for when Despair may be in control or using their powers, Sam will cry nonstop these viscous black tears, like ink dripping from a pen onto paper (ala Billie Eilish):

It's awful, and he hates it, but it tends to happen more often than not. He tries to hide it from any of the others as best he can.

Despairs powers that Sam can use act similarly to Blue Diamond's fro Steven Universe where others around him whilst Despair is active begin to cry involuntarily, the worst thing with Despair and their power is that after the effects ware off the effected has no recollection of what just happened or why/what they were crying for. (Samael hates explaining what happened to those he cares about - friends, family, anyone - that's why he tries not to do it around them if he can help it. No one knows that he's possessed, and he wants to keep it that way ideally.)

Although he'd much rather face cleaning up inky tears from his skin or his clothes than deal with Rage's destructive behaviour.

That's right, this elven mage has enough trauma for not one but TWO demons to want! (I'm not 100% sure if someone could be double possessed and remain unaffected and normal looking, but eh, we love some creativity with our oc's in this house!)

Now Rage and his tell is different, less dramatic than Despair's. His tell is basically Sam's eyes glow a deep fire like orange. Like his eye's glow like Lucanis' do when Spite takes over except Sam's literally look like there is a fire in his eyes. (Like the metaphor!)

And! The fun part! His powers basically make Sam dash around ala Hunter from The Owl House!

Samael mainly uses it for transportation and/or dodging in a fight, but can use it to sneak up on others if necessary (he is a Crow after all, so.) It also glows the same fire like glow too!

(I, too, have had a history in anger issues, so that is why I chose Rage as a second character trait.)

I also like to believe that his mage abilities in certain elements are enhanced because of the demons' presences. I.e, Rage fuels his fire spells, and Despair fuels his lightning spells (cause I don't use ice magic in gameplay, so I changed it to lightning/storm magic.)

He is also deeply intune with blood magic. And guess where he's originally from!! I bet you won't get it with the first guess!

Samael de Riva is originally from Tevinter. ('Cause irl, I am English speaking and sound closer to a Tevintan when speaking, so to me, it makes sense.)

But I will (hopefully) get into that connection in a small fic about him (that may or may not feature a cameo from @dragonagegayz 's Bas de Riva! <3). All you need to know for now is his connection to/with blood magic is how/ why he got possessed by Rage. (He pulled an Anders with a Meril twist 🤭)

today i’m thinking about how the despair demons tend to single rook out and how the first time this is recognized is after the treviso/minrathous decision

like, listen. i know it’s probably just a game mechanic thing. but it’s interesting to me that every despair demon in the game does this—single rook out. and how you encounter a lot more despair demons the worse the situation gets. and every single time, without fail, rook is their primary target.

like. the potential juiciness of it all. rook who carries regrets and despair hidden behind a smile that no one can see behind until the regret prison. rook who has to keep up a brave face as the leader so that the team doesn’t collapse because someone has to make a decision.

the narrative juiciness of regret…despair…someone sedate me

[cherriette]

afab/transmasc scara brainrot ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚ᅟ࿚ׁ࿙𝜗℘࿚ׁ࿙ᅟ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚

♯ ˶ featuring ⦂ afab!scaramouche (or wanderer! that works lmao) x afab!reader

♯ ˶ notes ⦂ scissoring / implied overstimulation / bottom!scara / awkward writing :( POTENTALLY OOC!!! i hope not though. this is just a brainrot post (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`) !!

i never sesbian lex scissor city before!! so i hope this isn't unrealistic. :( i'm trying </3

♯ cherry~cherie

∿ two rounds? three? maybe four? 𓈒 At this point, he wasn't even sure; mind blank, hazed---eyes glossed over by pure lust and pressed so prettily into the mattress beneath him. That confident front he had up earlier, long forgotten and completely melted away into whoreish submission. Such a pretty face he had ~ flushed rosily, pretty lips gaping and slick with drool--tongue lolled out with every few stroke of your clit against his that made his eyes roll back. And his moans, pornographically sweet as they bounced off the walls. broken, whimpering, raising in pitch and volume.

You wore the smallest smile, watching him unravel while you ground against him. pussies rubbing desperately against each other, slick mixing together and thighs soaked with your fluids. The lewd, wet noises filled the room, somehow still audible under his moans, growing more broken and whiny each orgasm you rode and pushed him through; "a-ahhnnn~ fuck, slow down--- i already-- s-sensitive... ahh~!"

And still, even while fucked out, his own cunt was throbbing around air, clit swollen and sensitive and his hips moving needily up against yours for more friction. It was amusing, honestly. How he'd whimper out how it was too much yet still wanted more, how for the umpteenth time he'd scream your name as he gushed all over your pussy mid-act. How his hands, slender and trembling, found your thighs with a tight grasp - his body rocking while you slid your pussy against his just right, his back arching off the bed with a high-pitched squeal of your name that made him inwardly grimace.

A faster pace.

He moaned into it---of course he did. You moved against him like you needed him to remember specifically how you felt against him. Like having him writhing and borderline sobbing under you wasn't enough, you needed him completely ruined and fucked stupid. And at this point, that was the case - and every little reaction of his only served to egg you on. How his body twitched and jolted when your clits rubbed, how his breaths sharpened as he moved his hands to your hips ~ a lazy attempt to press you more against him to chase his own orgasm.

Pretty whimpers slipped from his lips as much as he tried to hold them in, his head pressed back into the pillow and his eyes fluttering closed, eyebrows furrowed and-- "C-Cumming~ gonna c--- fuckfuckfu--"

A few more ruts and his body convulsed under yours, messy squirting accompanied by a round of high-pitched moans and nearly coherent blabbering with some attempts of your name amongst it. His hands flailed around, desperate to grab something---the sheets, the pillow, the air and then back on your body as you rode him through it.

Beneath you, his body fell limp. Chest rising and falling with his orgasm, Indigo irises still dull and fucked-out as they looked up at you tearily. Some faint, satisfied giggle left your lips when you lifted yourself off of him--a string of slick briefly connecting you as you moved up to kiss him. A quick peck, light and gentle, then a deeper kiss--before you moved to kiss his forehead and cheeks. "Mmh.... you're so pretty like this.."

࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚ᅟ࿚ׁ࿙𝜗℘࿚ׁ࿙ᅟ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚

hii i'm back i think. i think it's my preference for women and femme anatomy that possessed me because i haven't been able to write on this -- or any -- account for months.

forgive me for any typos, i tried to check through for them. and i'm sorry if this is cringey, i've gotten rusty with writing smut (as well as writing overall). i hope i can be more active on my accounts now that i've found back my motivation, although i might occasionally hide again out of habit if i pressure myself to keep posting. </3

i'll be revamping my page in the meantime.

[angelyuji]

sugar daddy husband

so i was planning to make everything into one post but then each one got too long... whoops. i also wasnt sure which character to write for each of these scenerios, but then i closed my eyes and talked to god and he was like angelyuji... check out these visions my dawg and then i had a straight up conjuring possession and then started cooking.... so here you go

18+!!!!!!!!!!! MINORS DNI!!!!!!

cw // yandere/toxic behavior, implied kidnapping, asshole tony stark, noncon, manipulation, power imbalance, gender-neutral reader

yandere tony stark x gn!reader

his hands were cold, sending chivers down your spine as he zipped up your outfit. "you're going to have to play along today. can you do that?" you watch tony through the mirror. his eyebrow quirks up as he stares back. you nod, letting him dress you up. you were tired. tired of him, tired of this place, tired of everything. tony smiles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "gorgeous." he waves over pepper, whispering in her ear. you don't bother to listen into their hushed conversation. last time you did, tony made sure to correct your misbehavior. she nods, walking back to the hall. the door closes, softly, and you startle when tony's cold hands force you to turn. tony's eyes return to you, looking you up and down. he whistles, "i always know exactly what to buy for you. don't you think?"

"sure." you turn, resigned. tony rolls his eyes. he taps his cheek and you lean in. tony pulls you in, catching you by surprise.

"gimme a good one." he whispers, arms tight around you. you scowl and he laughs. "come on, babe." you lean in and tony closes the gap. his mouth was hot, a stark contrast from the rest of his body. you let him take dominance, already annoyed.

you could feel his hands squeeze your butt, pressing you further into him. wrapping your arms around his neck, you grind your knee between his legs. tony moans into your mouth, retaliating by biting into your bottom lip. you hiss, shoving him away. "there's that fire." he laughs. you grit your teeth, forcing yourself to calm down. he enjoyed it. enjoyed your pain, your anger, your anguish. it gets him off, breaking you. tony comes closer and you back up against the vanity. he grabs your arm and pulls you back, pressing your mouth against his. his tongue laps up the blood staining your lips.

"tony. you guys need to get going or you'll be late." pepper doesn't come inside, choosing to save herself from watching the vulgar display.

the ride to the event went by quickly. he had left you alone in the car, keeping your hand clasped in his. the lack of tony's usual perversion left you on edge. the event itself started smoothly. everyone came up to you to kiss up to tony, believing that somehow you were the key to having an in with ceo of stark industries.

"you look lovely today!" "you look even more gorgeous than usual!" "have you and tony considered marriage yet?" "how about kids?"

you fend off the questions with polite chuckles and move to the bar. you can still feel his gaze, but you gesture to the bartender to give you something stronger. you feel your skin prickle. something was wrong.

"hello! hello! i'm so glad everyone could be here today. to give to charities in need and to celebrate another ground-breaking achievement for the avengers." you whip around, watching tony puff his chest as he continued. "i actually have one more incredibly important announcement... this was something that i've been wanting to do since i met them." you feel someone grip your arm and pull you towards the center.

"no no no no wait" you let out panicked whispers, but the security team leave you stranded in the middle. tony jumps down from the stage with a grunt, waving off the security. you feel your blood run cold as his hand goes to search the inside of his jacket pocket.

"oof so embarrassing for me, huh." he lets out a chuckle as he finally pulls out a box. tony gets down on one knee in front of you, grabbing your hand. "(y/n), you are my everything-" you could hear your heartbeat, pounding loud and fast. it could've been the tight grip tony had on your hand or the rest of the avengers planted strategically around the venue, but it took everything in you to stop yourself from running out of there. "-your heart, your soul, and your body belongs to me. and i to you. will you marry me?" tony takes off his glasses, before looking back at you, lifting the ring up to your hand.

he waits for your response, but you couldn't speak. you could feel a sob choking your words. tony's shit-eating smile falters and he whispers so only you could hear, "don't fucking embarrass me, (y/n). say yes. now." you nod, unable to speak and the crowd erupts in cheers. tony forces the ring onto your hand and lifts you up, spinning you around in glee.

you didn't see pepper when the two of you got home, but you couldn't check since tony hadn't put you down since he proposed. "can i go to sleep now." he had placed you on the bed and started to undress you. tony takes his time: lifting your hips up to pull down your clothes, carefully taking your shoes off and massaging your soles. tony's hands are soft, delicately touching you.

"no sleep, we're enjoying our engagement." tony's starts to kiss up your neck and you push him away.

"i don't want to enjoy it. i want to go to sleep." tony's eyes darken and you suddenly feel how naked you are. you try to cover yourself and you see his jaw clench.

he shoves you and you fall back onto the bed. your bottom lip quivers as you remember what comes next. he grabs your jaw, "i don't care if you don't enjoy it, sweetheart." his hand gropes your chest, "i've allowed a lot of your bullshit this far, but we're getting married soon." he pinches your nipple and you moan, unable to stop yourself, "so things are going to change."

tony forces two fingers into your mouth, gagging you. you try to speak but he tuts. "messy, messy." you could feel your saliva start to coat his fingers, slowly dripping down the sides of your mouth. tony smirks, "be good, (y/n), cause i'm not going to hold back anymore."

[fluoxetinehcl]

I'm a coward so I'll post it in Tumblr because less people will see it, but I just want to overshare my thoughts a bit.

I'm scared of yumeship or something like that even though I'm technically a canon x oc shipper which is yumeshipper (?)

I see lots of possessive yumeshipper who put 'strictly non-share' about their favorite canon characters.

Personally, I don't mind seeing Rufus or Cor or any of my favorite characters being shipped with whomever or even OC or self-insert.

But, non-sharing people triggered me because I had two unpleasant experiences (one is traumatic, mind you, I literally drink antidepressant for 2 years+ because of it) in the past even before the internet use yumeship term widely---I also only know that term this past year or so.

I don't own those canon character. It's not my right to stop people from loving them and ship them with whomever they want. So, I'm happy when I see someone who loves the same characters as me.

Until...

I know that people can get possessive with them to the point they don't want to see those characters with anyone else, but their OC/self-insert. I thought it's just one or two people (who did something unpleasant to me), but turned out, there are a lot of people like them. Am scared 😂

Of course, if you don't want to see other people yumeship, it's your right! Block them! Mute them! It's totally your right!

Again, this is just my personal opinion!

And most of the time I see people use that tag, they put 'non-sharing' on their profile which give me impression that if you do yumeship, you will be 98% non-sharing... (again, not everyone is like that, it's just my impression~!)

So, I decide to not use the tag and keep saying my ship as canon x oc.

Case 1

I used to ship Eira with Ignis. But, turned out that my irl (ex) friend didn't like it. That's why I shipped her with Cor, which is a good decision because in the end I like Cor more than Ignis. (Thanks ex-friend)

(Ex) friend didn't like seeing Ignis with other OC, and uh long story short, our 12 years of friendship was broken because of possessive love toward a fictional character. 😅 IRL human and human friendship, destroyed by a FICTIONAL character. Imagine?

She triggered my depression (well one of the triggers) to the point whenever she sent me message, I got headache and vomited, literally 😅

Case 2

A Cor x OC shipper slid into my DM and asked me to stop shipping Cor with Eira. Yeah.

She also talked with my (ex) friend about how she hated seeing Eira with Cor. And (ex) friend showed the screenshot to me lmao.

And this girl told me several times so that I ship Cor with someone else.

I was 👁️👄👁️ Girl? Really? We're not even friend? You're just a stranger, bro...

Well, that's it.

[zenaidamacrouras1]

This was in my drafts so one can reasonably assume I haven't posted it. Look. Backhoe has a baby sister! After I wrote Backhoe I published a handful of stories in a Backhoe Expansion Pack. All of the stories in that series, including my favorite, A Passel of Backhoes, are in that slimmer volume I made to match Backhoe.

The typeset has a quilty them, the specific block is a modified Ohio Star block, which is a favorite of mine, though it's a little rigid and dramatic in its pure form, I like it messed up a bit.

I could have sworn I had an image of the table of contents but I don't seem to and I already gave this book away. Oh well. When I was looking for the picture I found this image of my most precious possession, my grandma's avon bottles of Abe Lincoln and George Washington. My Grandma has these in pride of place in a cabinet in her dining room. Mine are in my kitchen on a prominent shelf but they get dusty.

I had to give them their once per decade bath and Abe's head got a little loose and some cologne leaked out and re-scented me so bad I was afraid my family would reject me from the nest. My partner walked into the kitchen and said, "oh! Smell!" and walked back out.

Anyway. I love them despite the fact that they are full of 50 year old pestilent cologne and possibly gave me brain damage.

Anyway I feel like this story could absolutely be something that happens in the old Barnes homeplace so I am sharing it here.

Oh right, here is the link to my binding of Backhoe, the big brother book

[ghoulspaw]

Obscuary my beloveds <3

[shepscapades]

Uhm hi Shep 👉👈

if I were to request more Xisuma, what would you sayyyy?

(P.S. saw you redraw one of the mini doodles for the last request - this time, can it be the cleo and X one?)

Well normally i would rush to find a little xisuma to share from part 3 (which is almost done btw >:3), but I remembered that little doodle of cleo hugging x and whipped this up because they are so special to me and I think xisuma should get 100000 comforting hugs

[mothoscope]

Been a while since I've drawn these dumbasses.

[beanghostprincess]

Do you think shuggy ever gets possessive over one another?

Definitely. Undoubtedly. And it goes both ways.

I believe the most obvious answer would be saying Shanks is the possessive one because, you know, have you seen the rizz this clown has to always attract people? Cross Guild??? So Shanks gets jealous easily but I don't think he actively shows it because he wants to keep things peaceful and he truly does not want Buggy to get angry at him for this. So it's small, subtle moves that let others know Shanks is possessive over Buggy but without making Buggy notice.

On the other hand, Buggy is way more explicit with that. Shanks is just too nice. It doesn't mean he flirts with everyone he meets but he just has a flirty personality and it does look like that when he's being polite, plus, for some reason every girl wants to fuck Shanks. That man looks disgusting and very gay to me, but whatever the female gaze wants, idk-- And Buggy is more the type to get angry at Shanks and yell at him about it and quickly drag him away from any flirtatious conversation, but Shanks kind of sort of likes it, ngl. ("Awww you want me only for yourself, Bugs?" / "Shut the fuck up")

But this doesn't only happen romantically and I doubt you meant it only in that way. I was saving my favorite thing for last.

I think they were possessive of each other since they were kids. You know. Always being together and clinging to each other constantly. Never being without the other. They of course argue but they always have this "he should be with me" sensation when the other is with someone else because it just doesn't feel right to be apart from him. They have also always been possessive in the way of like-- Not the "you're mine" sort of thing but "we belong together, that's how it always has been". On the battlefield too, btw, if you touch one of them you will probably end up dead because they're just that protective (Shanks does it in a more obvious way and Buggy could kill someone to protect Shanks but he would blame Shanks anyway and say he didn't do it because of him when he totally did).

There's just something about them now that screams how they want to go back to the way things used to be when they could live in their own bubble together, only the two of them. And there's this clear possessiveness because their love is only theirs and no one else's. And I believe them to be extremely protective in all stages of their relationship. When they were kids. When they were teenagers. Even when they were fighting. And even more, if they date again.

By the way, I just had the most adorable thought about lil kids Shuggy being this possessive. A little headcanon-- Roger always playing with them and showering them with love because of course he did, and he used to hold Buggy and go "He's mine!!! <33 My ray of sunshine!!" and Shanks instantly got so possessive and angry going "No!!! Mine!!" and Roger kept joking about it until Shanks cried and he had to let go of Buggy if he didn't want the kid to have a whole breakdown about it (Buggy didn't give a single fuck btw he liked to be with Rayleigh better).

[good-beans]

Yandere Milgram. What do you think? 🎤

Mmmmm… a prison full of society’s most unloved and forgotten people whose fates depends entirely on the love and support of others is the perfect recipe for some yandere disasters… I confess I haven’t seen much specific yandere media/tropes, but have some loose headcanons under the cut >:3 The wording skewed outside of milgram since the prisoners have more control there, but these could definitely happen within the prison just as easily.

Haruka: Spends all his time with the person he likes, doing anything for them and doing anything to impress them. Though these start off as positive shows of his love, they take a turn when he finds that their reaction to him becomes even stronger when he’s showing off his strength and control…

Yuno: Showers her object of affection in attention and gifts, knowing exactly what it is that makes them happy. When this warmth is returned genuinely, she gets intoxicated by it. She’s been seen to risk her own safety to really feel something, to get a thrill, so when she thinks she’s found someone who understands and feels the same as her, she doesn’t mind risking their safety as well.

Fuuta: He’s glad to find someone with the same interests as him, and the two spend hours doing their hobbies together. Those hours become days, and at some point he’s nonchalantly suggesting the person he likes go everywhere with him. He talks about the scumbags of society and how dangerous the world is, and before they know it, he’s convinced them to stay back at his place, where it’s safe, forever. He can be their hero, and watch over them always. 

Muu: She’s thrilled when she has someone she loves, spoiling them with everything she has. Sometimes jealousy/doubt creeps in, and she worries their love isn’t true (after all, she’s met way too many people who were fake to her and hurt her,) so she decides to have them prove it. At some point the tests she’s asking of them change from something they choose to do, to something she’s forcing them to endure.  

Shidou: So one option is that after what happened to his family, his situation would turn out similar to Fuuta’s: a well-meaning fear of what happened last time would result into a full possessive panic of keeping them at home where he can watch over them. I’m also thinking that if something did happen to them, his desperation/confidence in his own abilities would kick in early. He wouldn’t trust any other doctor with their care, and insist he can do the proper procedures himself, happy to have their life in his hands. 

Mahiru: Very similar to Muu, Mahiru’s feelings are pure when she starts spoiling her partner. She’s heard too many stories of cheating and falling out of love, and all the best romances involve major and risky tests of love – why not plan a few of her own in order to write the perfect love story?

Kazui: After a lifetime of denying himself of what he wants, someone reciprocating his feelings could completely break a damn of emotions in him. He throws himself into the relationship, loving and being loved, until that cat-like hunger gets the best of him. He starts taking and taking, keeping them home and in his arms because he can’t imagine ever going back to a life without this.

Amane: (I’m pretty sure yandere is a romantic thing, but if it can also be platonic:) Amane loves having someone her age that understands and accepts her wholly. Even if the other doesn’t share the same beliefs, they don’t judge Amane for them like the others do. She shows her love by saving their soul – she starts convincing them not to treat injuries, sometimes physically preventing them from doing so. If this person tries to tell adults, they always side with the diligent, pious, school-focused half of the pair, further convincing Amane that she knows what’s best for the person she cares about.

Mikoto: Finding someone that finally turns his attention away from job allows Mikoto to pour all that extra attention into them. The same obsession he’d usually have for his work now focuses on one person who makes him feel just as fulfilled and important. They’ve become the center of his world, and he wants to return the favor by becoming the center of theirs, whatever means necessary. He makes sure they spend all their time together, and even starts keeping tabs on them no matter where they are in the city. 

John: It’s like a miracle to find someone that makes him feel safe and relaxed. John revels in the feeling of having them around. Just hearing their voice, just seeing their face makes him incredibly calm. John’s always had a bit of a “exceedingly direct” approach to problem solving, so he decides it would be best to just keep them with him all the time, where he can see their face and hear their voice, no matter what it takes. 

Kotoko: Surprisingly, I think her situation would be similar to Haruka’s. She’s not used to getting attention/recognition for her vigilante work, so having someone shower her in that feels amazing. She ramps up her shows of strength, both with the criminals she’s tracking down and when training with/hanging out with the person she likes. Even when she takes things too far, there’s a little thrill they respect her and her strength

Es: (Same thing, keeping it platonic:) Es isn’t used to strong feelings of affection for another, they mention never giving much thought to it before – so when it hits them, it hits them hard. They become obsessed with knowing everything there is to know about the other, loving absolutely every piece of new information they discover. Prisoner or not, they’re thrilled to keep running Milgram’s machine on this person in order to know every last detail about them.

[kitkatsgalore]

now playing... ☆ track 03. pathetic love ☆ track 04. outsider ☆ track 05. why you hate... ☆ track 06. bleu

mini 와장창 track "visualizers," inspired by the ones yechan drew for the blue album! 🎶

part of #LUCYWEEK2025 | day 2 | prompt: all kinds of blue

[floorpancakes]

funny thought that just came to me do you think watanuki would start crying getting spooned for the first time because he's emotionally overwhelmed