#step one: beeswax

[xviruserrorx]

I've been weaving little fruit charms all day and the loops to attach them to the bracelets kept looking weird and I couldn't figure out what was going wrong and I just figured out I was missing one square knot 🫠

[gutsby]

Love Tap

Pairing: Dad!Joel x Reader

Summary: Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

Warnings: 18+. Joel Miller is a MUNCH Oral (f!receiving). Unprotected p-in-v (quickie). Slice of life, domestic-style and Joel calls you ‘Mama’ a whole lot. One playful bite.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: ‘You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up’ is a line from 2Pac’s song, ‘Hit ‘Em Up.’

Joel Miller was a wonderful father.

Occasionally, he forgot how to act like one.

He had a tendency to get a little careless. Sloppy.

Letting the dignified, ever-respectful façade slip every now and again and smacking your ass when you walked past. Copping a feel when you had to squeeze by him in the kitchen. Best of all, pinching your cheek through your skirt while you were cradling the baby—his baby—and leaving you no choice but to shoot him a quick back-the-fuck-up-before-you-get-smacked-the-fuck-up look and a covert middle finger to remind him that he wasn’t supposed to be slapping your butt in front of the kids.

It was just bad practice to engage in those dumb, flirty antics, particularly when your four-year-old son had made it his mission in life to imitate everything dad did.

But again, Joel would sometimes forget that.

On a morning when he’d woken up a little too early with an erection that was a tad too stubborn to ignore, he got especially forgetful. He found himself plastered to your backside at the edge of the bathroom counter with a grin, knowing damn well you only had twenty-five minutes to get the family dressed, fed, and on the road.

“Joel, you are so—”

“Quick. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes suddenly pleading with yours in the mirror. You just might’ve had the willpower to turn his honeyed gaze away were it not for the lips that followed it. Tracing the shell of your ear and behind it, down your neck, leaving trails of soft kisses down the skin until he reached the collarbone, your sweet spot, and licked it—the bastard.

“Five. Minutes.” Your words were equal parts invitation and warning as you shimmied your PJs over your butt.

“You know I’ll have ya finished in two, sweet pea,” Joel teased—but deep down, you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Both of you had cum and were done in a record-breaking four and a half minutes, swapping pyjamas for normal clothes in less than half the time and stepping back out of the bathroom with your hair only marginally tousled.

By now you had the ‘Pre-K starts in thirty’ types of quickies down pat. You were proud. You glanced over your shoulder to see a similar glint in Joel’s eye, and as you started out the bedroom door, you felt a tap on your ass—or, with the sheer breadth of your husband’s hand, more like a WHACK, followed by the sound of a stifled laugh.

“Can Daddy get some more’a that later?” he quipped.

“More’a what?”

Aw, hell.

Your sweet, forever nosy mini-Joel was standing directly in front of you with two pinched brows and a mostly eaten dino nugget clenched tight in his tiny fist.

You opened your mouth to conjure up some half-assed excuse for the spank your son just saw, but then your husband was scooping the kid up in his arms and toting him straight down the hallway, and you heard, faintly:

“Whatcha gettin’ from Mama later?”

“None of your beeswax, bubs.”

Joel got his second helping around lunchtime.

He’d been in between calls with what felt like an endless stream of subcontractors, suppliers, architects, and project managers when he swung by the house. You were in the midst of baking cardamom buns when he blew through the kitchen like an EF5 tornado and decided he’d be feasting on something else entirely.

“Joel, my buns,” you whined as soon as he’d carried you up the stairs and tossed you onto the bed, eager as ever.

“Fuck your buns.”

“You already fucked ‘em this morning—can you relax?”

Your husband already had your pants tugged halfway down your legs. You let him, then helped him kick the fabric the rest of the way off when it got to your ankles.

“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Miller, y’know that?”

Something in the way he smirked as he sank his face between your bare thighs told you he already knew that. You would’ve liked to try and scold him again—give him a little more grief for the baked treats that would surely be burnt to a crisp by the time he was done—but then you felt his tongue lick a stripe up your slit, and you refrained.

Even if you’d wanted to, you scarcely would’ve been able to form a single word apart from, ‘Fu-cking hell, Joel’ and ‘Right there, right thereohfuuuuuuckfuckfuck.’

That was just fine by your husband.

In fact, he seemed perfectly content to lap at your slick, glistening folds while you moaned and cursed his name; it made him proud. Appreciative. Maybe even a tad too smug for his own good, if he were being honest, because the way you fisted his hair and rutted your hips against his face made you act a little more like him. A touch more reckless, sloppy, and desperate than your daily obligations as parents would seem to allow. A bit less proper and refined and a lot more slutty—all for him.

Joel teased your clit with a few soft touches from the tip of his tongue, and you almost tore the sheets in two.

“That feel good, Mama?” he hummed.

“F-Fingers, fuck, Joel— fingers,” you begged.

Still using his tongue, Joel drew the shape of a lemniscate extra slow just to spite you. You whined and bucked your hips in protest, but the man was undeterred—he knew exactly what he was doing. The only way he could be tempted to use his fingers now would be to spread your lips apart and lick you more, which he did.

Joel licked and sucked and drove you up the fucking wall with those figure eights until you nearly couldn’t take it. In one hasty, desperate move, you tilted your hips and tried to slip a finger past Joel’s mouth, into your cunt.

He bit that finger. You yelped.

“JOEL!”

It wasn’t that the bite actually hurt—his teeth barely grazed skin—but rather the way he refused to speed up. Gauging your wants and your needs with expert precision, he massaged the hood of your clit with his tongue and took care to plant suckling kisses as he did. You moaned and squeezed the bedspread, relishing the vulgar sounds of his mouth and the need he was building inside you. You turned your head to the side and whined into the pillow, knowing from the depths of your soul you needed release, but Joel just wouldn’t oblige you…yet.

When he grinned against your wet, warm, and slippery folds, his mouth might as well have joined in and said, ‘Keep going—you’ll cum on my tongue when I say so.’

Instead, Joel opted to say ‘Mama’ again, softly.

Mama.

He always called you that when he took you extra slow. Sometimes when he took you quick, too. Like a reminder to you both that you were, in fact, the mother of his children, and if the man had had it his way he’d have given you fifty more by now, daycare bills be damned.

He was generous like that. Always giving, giving, giving.

Just not when it came to doling out orgasms sometimes.

“I have a divorce lawyer on speed dial, just so you know,” you hissed through gritted teeth, head falling back when Joel’s tongue sank forward—inside you, then, “FUCK!”

“Mhmmm,” he hummed before retracting once more. Licking the soft, fleshy rim and nearly eliciting a scream.

Joel traced a circle with his tongue. He savored the taste. While you were whining and grinding your hips against the wet spot underneath you—a puddle that would only grow larger the longer he went on—your husband was devouring you, kissing your thighs every now and then.

“Well, if we split, my tongue goes too,” Joel said. Smug.

“Texas is a community property state,” you murmured, “I taught you how to eat pussy so your mouth is a marital asset.”

Silently, Joel wondered how that argument might hold up in court, grinned, then continued licking your cunt. You squeezed his head with your thighs, dug the balls of your feet in the sheets, and let out a lewd, pornographic scream that could’ve woken half the street. Luckily, your neighbors were probably all at work, your bedroom walls insulated just well enough to mask the noise, and Joel’s resolve crumbling slowly as he kissed between your legs.

One wanton, shameless, ‘I’m gonna cum, Joel, please’ was like music to his ears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten with a wife and mother as sweet as you, so upright and polite in your day-to-day life and then a hot, trembling mess beneath his tongue when he needed you like this the most. Surely he couldn’t treat you so mean.

Joel wedged two thick fingers in your slick, dripping heat and beckoned you to him as kindly as he possibly could. Rubbing the pads of both digits, callused as they were, against the spongy insides of your core and flicking them forward—‘C’mere, Mama, Daddy’s right here, go on’— so of course, you had no other logical choice but to cum.

It was all habit by now. A dazzling, sumptuous routine.

And Joel Miller was certain he’d never tire of seeing it.

Your spine arched off the mattress an inch or two, toes curling at the feeling, and while the sensation spanned over your body, your husband was the first to see it, sense it on his lips and tongue and fingers just as well. He squeezed your hip, told you how fucking pretty you looked when you came for him, then patiently waited out the spasms and cries and fingers lacing through his soft, dark locks like he was your last remaining tether to earth.

Then he kissed the inside of your thighs and smiled.

“All better, honey?” he hummed.

“Yeah,” you breathed back.

“Still want a divorce?”

A smirk and a response of ‘Not until you knock me up at least one more time’ was hovering somewhere over your tongue when you felt the bed shake. Buzzing. Vibrating?

Joel sat up between your legs and yanked something out from under his ass. He peered down at the thing—staring into a screen—and cocked a brow as he looked back up.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he said simply. Grinning.

He lobbed the phone your way, and you just barely managed to catch it between two trembling hands.

Incoming Call: Francisco C. Morales Elementary

You shot Joel a look and answered it instantly.

Disoriented, disheveled, and slightly foggy from climax, you half-expected to find one of your son’s disgruntled teachers on the other end of the line, reminding you that today was a noon dismissal and everyone was supposed to pick their kids up an hour ago. Your husband was the one who would always keep up with school schedules, so your gaze narrowed at him, butt scooting up the bed while he tried to dive right back between your legs.

“He-llo?”

You smacked a hand away from the front of your blouse.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?” a voice trilled through the phone.

Yes, unfortunately, it was.

You almost had to backhand Joel across the face when he tried to bite the button off your brand new top, teeth ruthless in their pursuit of getting you fully naked now.

“This is she,” you squeaked.

Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line—as though they knew you had a broad, hulking husband with a cock as hard as sheet metal trying to tear your clothes off while you talked. You stifled a shriek and a giggle when you felt your relentless man move down.

Joel was busy working your blouse from the bottom with that feral mouth of his when the voice sounded again:

“We’d really appreciate it if you and your husband could come see us this afternoon to have a little chat about—”

Your eyes widened. You clutched your phone even tighter and this time, more seriously, shoved Joel away. When he frowned and started to pout, you raised a finger.

“A-About what? Has my— has he done something bad?” Your voice all of a sudden tight, words wavering just enough to snag your husband’s attention too.

“We can explain more when you get here, he’s just…”

‘What the fuck?’ Joel mouthed silently, leaning in.

“What? What’s he done?” You couldn’t help it.

You heard a long sigh across the line, and you knew that wasn’t good. It sounded a lot like the kind of sighs you made whenever your baby made a colossal mess all over the kitchen floor, or your husband slammed a door too loud and woke the kids from their nap, or your son just—

“—keeps slapping his classmates on the butt.”

“Wait, what?”

You blinked. Joel coughed. Together, half-naked on the bed, you sat up a little straighter and leaned even closer into the phone, hearts starting to thud in your chests.

“Your son was just…spanking other kids and asking if he could ‘get some more’a that later,’ and when his teacher asked him where he’d learned to do a thing like that—”

You turned. Joel paled. Your gaze could’ve seared a hole through the front of his skull if you stared any harder, and just as your son’s principal continued talking, Joel raised his hands in surrender, already trying to apologize.

“Honey—”

“—and he told her he saw your husband do it at home—”

You didn’t need to hear another word. You were already fishing for your pants, yanking them back up your legs and brushing aside your husband’s soft, red-faced attempts at consolation, and when you were dressed, you started straight for the door. Already babbling some half-coherent apology to the woman on the phone, dodging Joel’s impossibly large hands and arms and hugs as he tried to pull you back into his chest and tell you he was sorry. You just might’ve let him, and maybe even believed him to be sincere, if you didn’t see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he fought to wrangle you in.

You’d made it to the door and were just about to pivot to give Joel the finger, tell him this was not funny at all, and he was coming with you right now, when both of you halted at the threshold and were obliged to turn again.

You sniffed the air, and your husband made a face.

Was it—

Before you could think, a plume of smoke drifted out through the kitchen door. Your eyes widened, and right as the fire alarm let out its piercing scream, you wailed,

“My buns!”

[aethersea]

I've always wanted to learn bookbinding, ever since I was a wee little nerd, but there are a lot of things I've always wanted to learn, and this one has both a daunting upfront materials cost and a daunting upfront research cost. however, my sister is a jewel among siblings and gave me for christmas last year a handy dandy bookbinding manual, a block of good paper, and a little bag of tools.

but I still didn't have a suitable workspace, nor any of the many important tools and materials that she didn't include in her gift. so I just read the manual and pined. until maybe a month ago I got fed up with pining, flattened a cardboard box for a cutting mat, and went to town.

and I'm real proud of myself, so here's me rambling, plus photos!

I went to the thrift store and got glue + some fabric to bind the cover, went to Michaels for a paintbrush (and later went back for a metal ruler lmao it's amazing how useful it is to have a straightedge for cutting the paper), and...could not find material for the cover boards. so I went home and pined some more. but the urges were too strong, so after a couple hours of moping I got a stack of printer paper at the grocery store (I could not bring myself to use the good paper for my first, inevitably weak attempts, I just couldn't do it) and started making a little booklet. which was a great idea, it turned out, since it makes for good practice with cutting the paper, measuring things, punching holes in the signatures, etc.

I have a big box of greeting cards from Michaels, which I used for the covers. it didn't feel like I was making a Real Book, so I got some colored paper from the stationery store and used that for end papers.

so fancy~

galvanized by this success, I ordered a stack of chipboard online to use for cover boards; and once I was confident that I could cut paper without making it look too stupid (getting that straightedge ruler sure helped lol), I made signatures out of the good paper, left them under some heavy books overnight since I don't have a book press, and then punched holes in them! (huzzah for this nice video on getting the holes right)

my sister's gift included good linen thread. it's unwaxed, but after some poking around on r/bookbinding it looks like that just means I'll have to be more careful to avoid tangles and keep good tension. I am fine with this. I can be extra attentive. (I considered just running it over a beeswax candle, but one commenter said if your wax has paraffin in it, it could melt in a hot car, ruining the spine. I can't guarantee my candle is 100% beeswax, I didn't make it, so maybe we just move on.)

I don't have good linen fabric to use for the tapes, but the important part there is that the fabric be thin, sturdy, and not stretchy. the probably-cotton I got from the thrift store fits the bill, so it'll do!

this is a french link stitch, which I got from this exceedingly good tutorial. apparently it's strong enough on its own that for a book of this size, I don't actually need tapes, but I'd already cut the things so eh here we are. and tapes plus french link will make it a stronger binding still (according to a friendly redditor on r/bookbinding), so we carry on.

specifically we carry on to the gluing step. now as I mentioned, I do not have a book press, and you....kinda need one for this step. you need to hold the book block in place with the signatures facing upwards, pressed together hard enough that the glue won't run down between them and stick the pages together (though you do want the glue to get between them just a little, just for like a 16th of an inch). you at least need some clamps and a couple boards to sandwich the book block with.

but you know what? I'm not a professional, this is my first ever book, if it's a little bit off it'll be fine. so we grab all the heaviest books off the bookshelf and improvise.

it's fine! I'm sure it's fine! and just in case it's not, I've tucked a bit of cardboard underneath to catch any glue that drips down so it won't land on the floor. see? I'm prepared! I'm acing this.

and actually, it really was fine. I used clear elmer's glue, applied with a flat paintbrush from the art supplies aisle at Michael's, and frankly I liked the way the flat paintbrush let me slip glue in between the signatures. I did poke around on a couple bookbinding sites to see what kind of glue I should use, and the gist is that although there are better options than this, elmer's glue is perfectly serviceable, and the main downside is it's not archival grade. but I don't need my first bookbinding attempts to last 200 years, that's fine.

the next step is to add the mull. mull is a specific type of fabric – extremely loose-weave linen – and the idea is to paste it down over the spine to essentially hold the tapes and signatures all in place in relation to each other.

but I don't have mull! so I'm using more of the thrift store probably-cotton, because it's thin enough and not really stretchy at all. I'm sure this will be fine too. I painted a layer of glue onto the spine, then left it to dry a bit while I measured and cut the fabric, then painted a generous stripe of glue down the center, where it'll affix onto the spine. then I added a bit more glue to the spine, just to be sure, and pressed the mull into place, rubbing it thoroughly to make sure it's firmly affixed to every signature, with no creases in the fabric or air bubbles beneath it.

honestly I might have overdone it on the glue. I've never done this before, I don't know! I think it's okay, though – I tried not to ever let it become a thick layer, just a slight coating, since the danger of too much glue is that it might crack once dry and weaken the spine.

and now we leave it in the press overnight to dry, and pick up the next step in the morning!

[lanymme]

i think a lot about how people within the arknights world think about things like horns, ears, and tails as body parts.

we know beeswax's whole thing where she has model-beautiful horns and a bunch of horn care products and gives other operators horn care tips.

it's treated like hair, right? like she has a hair care hobby? and good for her and all that.

right? right.

okay, but tails.

the thick tail/thin tail factions in acahualla are in the same vein as people talking about what kind of butt is best, right? people talk about tails like they talk about someone's thighs or butt?

right? we agree on that?

so tomimi's prodigious tail would be seen by people on terra as like. equivalent to her having a ludicrously big ass? yes? like that's what we're supposed to take home from her up-from-behind E2 art?

do you think people on the landship talk about her with the same kind of hushed awe as, say, utage?

"i swear to god it's true, there's a 4'7" archosaurian girl who's no less than 50% tail walking around rhodes island, you've gotta believe me" is a phrase that has definitely been spoken by at least one short-term oripathy patient upon returning to their community, right? like we can agree on this?

imagine with me if u will. a hobby artist on Rhodes Island--perhaps, for example, known terminally online loser and partially closeted 2chan poster kirara--on her tablet designing a ditzy, clumsy OC who, oops! just can't stop knocking things over with her big, fat tail! and then posting it to her pixiv account, getting clowned on by people on the intercity net for drawing exaggerated unrealistic female bodies, and making a bunch of vagueposts on twitter about how riajuu can't appreciate an otaku's understanding of true beauty, only to step outside her room for the first time that week so she can go to medical for a routine oripathy checkup where she witnesses doctor gavial's goth yandere shortstack childhood friend knock a bunch of expensive equipment off a table and get spanked repeatedly on her IRL hyper tail, and then she immediately starts crying tears of blood.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Warm and Cozy

Nanami Kento x F!Reader

Summary: Nanami Kento did not show up at Shoko's Infirmary after a mission for his usual checkup so she sent you to his place to check up on him.

Warnings: Smut. 18+ I am not responsible for any underaged baby reading this. Wrap that willy before doing the silly.

Word Count: Your girl got horny.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"Since when did you start doing house calls?"

"Since you stopped taking Shoko Senpai's calls and returned home instead."

Kento Nanami is still dressed in his blue shirt and tan blazer, holding the door with his hand and looking at you with zero emotions.

You can see the wretched dotted tie lying at the small dinner table behind him along with his glasses, not knowing why their site bothers you so much.

Nanami's free hand goes to his face to rub the incoming tiredness in his eyes. "Y/L/N, I'm fine. You should go back-"

"I've been threatened by senpai to heal you back to proper health or she'll fire me. So, if you don't mind, Nanami, I'd like to keep the job I finally love. Also, you are reeking of curses right now," you wring your nose in the end.

His brown eyes look at the resolution in your figure at his door before looking at the night sky behind you. He notices a moment in the corridor outside, his brows furrowing in some calculated thought.

The hand holding the door turns enough for Nanami to look at the time. And while he is contemplating something in his head, you cannot resist observing the six-foot-tall man; looking so different from what he was when you first met him.

He definitely worked out, your inner voice purrs inside your head, making you clench your office bag to resist any more stray thoughts.

"You are not going back alone at this time anyway," he murmured under his breath and stepped to the side.

"Oh!" you scoff, "I am pretty sure I can navigate my way around Tokyo at night just fine, sir. Or did you forget the time I-"

Nanami's senses are focused on the figure clad in a black hoodie coming from the other end of the corridor. The figure reached for something in the pocket of his hoodie and Nanami is quick to grab you by your arm- in the gentlest of way possible- and pull your surprised frame inside his humble abode.

You walk into the apartment and let your lungs inconspicuously breathe in the scent of Kento Nanami's safe space. And just as you expect, it smells of vanilla and beeswax.

Maybe it's the soap he uses?

The apartment is spotless. Everything has its place. Maybe the only thing out of place is you.

The entrance has you open to a cozy beige-clad living room. Walking a little further, you are standing in his open kitchen next to the kitchen island and looking at the table next to you where his tie and glasses lie.

Right opposite the kitchen is a space separated by a wooden structure made of hollow rectangular blocks housing plants, books on anatomy and humans, and a single empty space right in the middle.

The bed beyond that is covered in a grey duvet, astonishingly wrinkle-free.

Too clean, your nose wrinkles, it should have some-

Now what would make a bed that neat wrinkled and dirty, your inner voice whispers in your ear, spiking up your heartbeat.

"Would you like some tea?"

You jump at Nanami's voice, turning around towards the kitchen.

The man is already rolling his sleeves up and putting a kettle on.

"Yes, please," you plead softly, walking towards the kitchen island, and picking up his tie on the way.

"Did you meet the new kid yet?" you ask him as your hands and eyes get busy with the tie, wrapping it around your neck to try your hand at the few knots you learned in school.

Nanami opens up a drawer to take out two mugs- one purple and one grey- before turning towards the island.

There is this tiny second of a moment when he pauses to look at your fingers busy with the fabric that is practically a part of him. But he is quick to regain his usually stoic momentum even though his eyes keep going back to how carefully your fingers are running over his tie.

"Gojo's kid?"

You break into a chuckle, your eyes closing in the tiny flash of elation, never seeing how Nanami's eyes follow the moment of your head as it dips back and then tilts sideways.

"Well, you're not wrong in a way. His name is Yuuji. Yuuji Itadori. He's a really cute kid." You have finally made a passable knot and are trying to pass the other end through. "I was assigned to check him up yesterday and that boy made me laugh the entire time."

Nanami is just standing there with his arms folded when a whistle starts to form at the mouth of the kettle.

"And he is so pure, Nanami! He let me explain to him the culture samples in Senpai's lab and he looked at every single one of them with the same excitement as he did the first one."

The whistle goes harder on that kettle.

A fresh pack of Hojicha tea is opened. Nanami's rugged hands are careful with the bits they pick up to sprinkle in the earthen pot waiting for the brew time before the boiling water goes in.

"Oh, I love him! He's so precious." you declare in excitement.

You do not notice when Nanami comes to stand in front of you. You notice his hands first; when they come to take over the tie from your hands.

"I haven't washed it yet. It might still have some curse blood on it," Nanami slowly announces before delicately pulling the tie up your head.

"Oh...right. My bad."

Moving the tie away from your head, his hand unconsciously comes back to undo the mess he made in your hair, making you pause a breath.

Stop, you tell your insides, trying to shake away the gentle gestures as something more.

.

Your tools are neatly arranged on the dinner table. Nanami sits on a chair.

"See? Nothing to worry about," he declares in his usual nonchalant way as you are done examining his head and arms.

"Not so fast, love. I still have to scrutinise the rest of you," you warn him sweetly while you rub your palms together and walk behind the chair.

Nanami's head tilts a little in your direction.

"Okay....love."

Your hands freeze behind him. The word vibrates inside you with his voice.

Oh fu---haaa----Focus!

"I need to run the energy down your spine." You try your best to sound composed.

He undoes the first two buttons on his shirt and lifts away the collar, exposing his neck and shoulders to you.

"Tell me if it gets uncomfortable at any point," you announce softly before gently putting your hands on the back of his neck to observe for any anomalies.

What you don't get to see is the rugged hands of the Grade 1 sorcerer curling up into a fist at the first touch of your fingers on his exposed skin, or the goosebumps on his arms and back as your fingers do a little stroke at the nape to guide the energy down his spine.

"Oh, this is not good," you state, stepping away from him to look for something inside your bag.

"What?" Nanami almost blurts out, not really sure what the question was for- the 'not good' part or your hands- that seemed to bring him some much-needed relief- not touching him anymore.

Taking out a small maroon spherical crystal from your bag, you look Nanami straight in the eyes. "Take off your clothes. We're getting in the shower."

.

The shower head is fixed back into place by your fingers. "There," you exhale and come down from the stool to give one final look of satisfaction at your work.

Nanami is standing at his bathroom door, leaning on the doorframe, observing you. You are out of your overcoat, exposing your usual colourful self in a sweater, a skirt and skinny tights. This is the first time he has seen you wear a sweater in blue. It suits you, he thinks to himself, though it irks him to imagine if it ran up your waist like it is doing now- when you are adjusting the angle of the shower- when you travelled all the way from Jujutsu High to his place and if anyone else dared to see you like this.

"I've fixed the disinfectant in your shower head. Now just stand under the running water for about a minute or so and I'll take out the curse sample."

Nanami looks at the shower head and then at you. "How lethal is the infection?"

"Oh," you shake your head, "not lethal if we do this right now. Lethal if you let it sit overnight. I am going to take the sample back to Shoko Senpai for culture study and antidotes. It'll wash away in no time, don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried for me," he mumbles.

"Hm?" you furrow your brows in confusion, which melts away at the speed of light when the man unbuttons his shirt, taking it off and neatly stacking it in the laundry basket next to the sink.

It takes you some time to let the beauty of Kento Nanami's body seep into your mind. It also takes one long inhale to realise that Blazer had been hiding a sculpted Renaissance art underneath it.

But your brain goes to hell when he takes off his trousers and stands there in his black boxers, revealing some incredibly toned legs.

Oh, mother of curses!

Embarrassed for looking at him with budding sinful thoughts, you turn around in the shower temple to smack your head into the towel rack.

Cursing under your breath, you walk out of the tiny space with your gaze on the ground. "The infection is on your left shoulder blade...o-on the back."

"How bad is it?" Nanami tries to take a look at it in the wall-length mirror on the sink.

"I've handled worse. It's okay, you can trust me, Nanami." you shrug at his reflection in the mirror with a smile.

"I do, Y/L/N-" Nanami takes off his watch and places it beside the sink, leaving that sentence hanging, leaving you blinking at your own reflection for a moment.

Nanami steps into the shower temple, turning on the shower and letting his left arm and shoulder soak in the cold wetness of the water.

Soon enough the infection starts to wriggle and make screeching sounds as the energy in the water starts killing it.

Grabbing the container from your sample kit you step into the space. "I'm taking a sample now."

A few mud-coloured droplets that are still screeching are caught in the container while the rest of them are washed away in the water and down the drain, leaving Nanami's body healed to its original perfection.

"Feel better?"

Nanami does feel better. He can feel all the tiredness leaving his body with the water. He turns around to tell you the same.

You are looking at the container and about to walk out of the shower temple. "Let's get you back to the lab to Senp-"

Your words get stuck in your throat when your foot slips on the wet tile and your hands are grabbing at the air to break your fall.

The air does not break your fall. But Nanami does. His one hand is quick to cushion your head from hitting the wall while his other hand grabs your waist and pulls you to himself. Fearing not to make you fall for a second time, he backs into the wall behind him for support, bringing you both under the shower.

The container falls on the tiled floor as your hands grab onto his shoulders for support and your heart tries to get accustomed to the fear of the fall.

Neither of you move for a moment. Neither of you wants to in fear of doing something the other might now like in such close proximity to each other.

Close proximity? You both are grabbing onto each other as if your lives depend on it.

"Y/N? You okay?" Nanami finally whispers when he does not feel you move for a long while.

"Yes," you breathe, moving your face away from his shoulders- which are welcoming and hot- and facing him. "Sorry. I slipped."

Before Nanami can point out the futility of an apology that is not your fault, you smile and move your hands through his hair. "Aw shucks! I ruined your hair. It's wet now."

That does it for Kento Nanami. That one brush of your fingers in his hair reverberates through his whole body.

"Stop, Y/N," he refrains from growling.

Your hand immediately retreats from his head, pausing in the air and wondering with lost eyes if you did something wrong.

Ah, shit. He doesn't like his hair messed with.

"Stop giving me wrong ideas," he whispers, turning off the shower with his free hand.

"Wrong...what?" your voice barely rises above a whisper.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" You try to wriggle out of his hold, a little hurt at the assumptions you are making in your head. "I'm sorry for messing your hair."

"My hair isn't the only thing you are messing with."

You scoff, feeling offended. "I'll fix it, okay! Your hair and whatever else I messed with."

Nanami runs his hands through his hair and you have to gulp back some things that rather not come to your lips.

"Are you sure, Y/N?" Nanami looks you in your eyes with a stare you have not seen him with. And you don't want to curl up or back down, so you match his gaze with yours.

"One hundred per cent."

"So, would you be okay if I kissed you?"

The question catches you off guard. But not in the way it is supposed to. "Why would I not be okay?" you scoff. Only after you have given the answer does your brain realise what the question was.

Nanami does not waste time. His lips are on yours within seconds. His arm wraps itself around your waist to bring you closer to him.

Your hands do not know what to do at that sudden kiss. It is when Nanami draws himself away to look at you do they find themselves caressing the dip of his jaw and welcoming him back for another kiss.

Your tongue licks his lips, inviting him. Nanami lets his tongue dance with yours, bringing out a guttering moan from your throat; a moan that heats up something inside the sorcerer forcing him to lift you up by your thighs, making you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you out of the bathroom to his bedroom.

He is careful when putting you down on his bed.

Oh! The grey duvet.

But that duvet is the least of your concerns right now when the six-foot-tall man stands at the edge of his bed wiping the water off his face, breathing a little heavily and looking at you with...what was that emotion in his eyes?

"Tell me to stop if you don't want to..." he whispers.

"Don't," your voice cracks. You can visibly see him pause his breath for a second. "Don't stop."

The dim lighting in his bedroom is perfect for watching him as his shoulders relax.

He gets on the bed, one leg at a time, dipping the sheets around you with his weight, crawling to catch your lips with his.

Your hands are nervously working on your sweater's buttons under him. He moves away to help you with it, forcing out a tiny wince from you; getting a low chuckle out of him.

Your skirt's zipper is stuck, not budging when it should be sliding down like a seal on an iceberg. Nanami is being as gentle as possible with it but it's all going in vain.

That's when you feel him dig his fingers in over the edges of the fabric near the zipper, your skin heating up where his fingers are in contact with you.

"Y/N-" he looks up at you with embers of unflinching will in his brown eyes, "let me buy you another skirt tomorrow."

The sound of the rip registers after the fabric comes apart in your brain because your eyes are too busy studying how his shoulders tense up just to get you out of your clothes.

The tights are next. But they are taken off with the most delicate touch by the sorcerer. So is the underwear.

He starts by planting kisses on your thighs, moving slowly to the inside while making your nerves light up at every touch. And if that is not enough, his hands tease and massage them to relax you every time you tense up.

He inhales the smell of your core as if he is breathing in the fresh waterfalls in the forest, and then sits back up. Lifting you up by your waist, he rolls to the other side of the bed with him at the bottom and you at the top. He adjusts your thighs on either side of his waist before dragging you further up his torso.

You watch in confusion as he takes the support of the head of his bed and slides further down.

"Sit on me," he announces.

"....what?"

"Sit on my face," he does not stutter.

But you do. "N-Nanami."

He simply lifts your thighs up and brings your core closer to his face.

Do I weigh anything to you?

His hands push your thighs apart, letting him get better access to you. You are not putting your weight down and taking the support of the headboard instead, worried about suffocating him.

But the first flick of his tongue on your clit makes you jump up.

Nanami is quick to anchor your thighs with his hands, forcing you to put all your weight on him. He starts what seems like an incantation being written with his tongue inside you.

Sucking and licking, flicking and teasing, he is your very own roller coaster of pleasure tonight, making you writhe with pleasure under his touch.

And lo...you can feel the wetness gather around your walls.

"Nanami-" you are trying your best to breathe right- "I'm gonna-Nanami. Wait. I'm gonna pee. Ah!"

This man keeps touching all the right nerves again. And again. And again.

You are being driven to the edge. "Nanami stop!"

And he stops for a minuscule second, giving you a window to lift yourself up and flop on your back next to him, trying to bring your lungs back to normal.

"Did it hurt?"

Nanami's hand comes to move the stray strands of your hair away from your face glowing with sweat under the dim bedroom light.

He is looking over you, half up on his arm while his other hand is caressing your face. "Y/N, did it hurt?"

You shake your head. "No. No, I just felt I was about to pee and I didn't want...to do it...over you."

You can see his lips glisten with your juices. He closes his eyes and licks his lips before rolling to the other side, sitting up at the edge and eventually getting up.

The light coming from the bathroom perfectly draws out the cuts of the tensed muscles all over his body while his back is still towards you.

Wait...is it over?

You can see him curl his hands into fists before releasing them and finally walking the length of his bed to come to your side.

You rise up on your elbows.

It's over, isn't it? Your inner voice is smacking you left and right, blaming you for stopping the pleasure harp of a lifetime just as it was about to reach its crescendo.

He goes for the chest next to his bed, opens the top drawer and takes out a small packet that glistens under the scarce light.

"Next time-" he removes his shorts, freeing his already hard length, and gets up on the edge of the bed in front of you- "when you are on top of me-" he tears the packet with his teeth and takes out a condom, pumping his length with his free hand- "I have already played out the probabilities of me suffocating in between your thighs-" he puts the condom on his length and then rests his arms on your raised knees, finally looking into your eyes with a passion you have not seen in him before.

"Next time-" he bends a bit forward to lean in for a kiss and undo the hook of your bra- "waterboard me."

Your bra is on the floor. His hands cup your breasts perfectly, massaging them as his kisses grow intense with every passing second. Then he moves onto your neck, biting it in places before licking the heat away.

Parting from you, he takes one pillow and places it under your head, another between you and the headboard and the last one under your lower back.

Letting his cock gather the juices on your edges, he looks at you while taking his time to enter you.

Both of you feel your breaths cemented in your throats letting you get accustomed to each other. He leans closer to you, planting a kiss on one of your cheeks while caressing the other with his hand. "You okay?"

You nod, feeling your walls adapt to his length.

Nanami drives out before slowly driving himself back in, giving you time to adjust to the pace. Once he knows you are comfortable, he lifts up your legs in the air and brings them to rest on his shoulders.

This time when he drives himself into you, you can feel your core light up with a different brand of intensity, leaving you to gasp for air and letting a moan slip from your throat.

Nanami smirks to himself and plants a kiss on your ankle. He has found your spot. He increases the pace a bit, loving every second of your view; as your breasts bounce to his rhythm, as you try to hold onto his duvet and his pillow, as your eyes close and your head dips back when you feel the pleasure spots light up and your moans get louder. He is loving every moment of you because you are his pleasure.

"K-Kento!"

His name from your mouth feels like a prayer, making his core shudder.

"Yes, love," he sputters between his strokes.

"I'm-ah-"

You don't get to finish your sentence.

He can feel your walls tighten around his cock, undoing his restraints and making him grunt.

He fastens his pace, the squelching and clapping of your bodies growing wilder. Taking both your legs in the hold of one arm, he lets his other hand go down to your core. His fingers find your clit and rub it to let you have your release as he starts feeling his length swell up.

Soon enough, the damn you feel rising up breaks, leaving you with shuddering legs.

Nanami elongates your orgasm as he feels his length at the edge of the eruption. Soon enough, he finds his high with one guttering growl leaving his lungs.

Sweaty and breathless, the both of you.

Nanami is spent; lying on top of you.

You run your hands through his hair as he rests his head on the nape of your neck to catch his breath.

Getting up on his arms, he looks at you with concern. "Are you okay?"

You can't help but smile as the edge of your eyes water up. Cupping his face in your hands, you bring him closer for a kiss.

Nanami carefully gets his length out of you before going straight for the bathroom. You hear the tap run for a few seconds before he comes out with a wet towel to clean you up.

The condom is disposed and you are directed into the bathroom to take a shower. Nanami joins you a few minutes later, planting soft kisses on your back.

Layered up in his oversized black t-shirt and grey shorts, you come out to find the grey sheets gone and a purple duvet waiting to greet you.

Just as you are looking at the new sheets, a needle of anxiety pricks you in your chest.

Do I stay? Do I dress up and walk out? Is...this...was this a one-night...

The thought makes your heart sink.

"Get in," Nanami orders you as he comes out of the door in a white t-shirt and grey shorts, raising the duvet from the edge for you.

The sinking heart rises up a little from the depths of darkness.

You get under the sheets and watch as he moves- first to the edge of the bed to keep something in the empty partition cubicle, and then- to the other side, switches off the lights and gets under the sheets.

You slide down the sheets while your heart rises a bit further.

You feel his arm looking for you under the sheets, finding your waist and pulling you closer to him.

He extends his arm to let you rest your head on it.

The light from the city outside is enough for him to watch your face glow and your eyes search for something in his. He moves your hair away from your face and caresses your cheeks.

"Nanami?" you whisper, still not taking your eyes off him.

"Hm?"

"Do you...like me?"

Silence.

The calm of the apartment is broken by Nanami's chuckle.

"Oh. Y/N-" the depth of his voice reverberates through his home as he exhales your name still titillates your core- "what will I do with you?!"

The maroon crystal rests on the once-empty space in the partition in Nanami Kento's home.

[thecapricunt1616]

Kinktober Day 13 🎃

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 (𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭): “Someone has a big Chem lab today, and didn’t take a lunch” you said and he blushed a bit, shrugging. “That’s what m’studying for right now. Did you really come all the way down here to bring me food?” He asked and you smiled, nodding and taking the little brown paper bag out and putting it in front of him

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Helloooo! Welcome to day 13 of kinktober with our lovely lip gallagher! I hope you enjoy hehe 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.0k+ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Implied smut, college kids in love, not very edited, swearing 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬: @/𝘀𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗸𝗮-𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰𝘀 & @/𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰𝘀

You wrapped up the turkey, apple, and Gruyère sandwich with hot honey that you’d made for your boyfriend, wrapping it in one of your little reusable beeswax wraps that you’d gotten for your shared apartment. 

Lip called them ‘fancy shit’ but you’d done research in one of your eco-studies classes at school and plastic was really killing the earth, so it was important to you that you made the switch in your own house. The only reason he hadn’t had the time to throw a sad baloney and American cheese sandwich into one of them for himself this morning, was because he was running late for class himself. 

You grabbed one of the reusable silicone ziplocks and filled it with the jalapeño parmesan chips that he liked, sealing it and grabbing a banana, and granola bar as well as a beef jerky stick for later since he usually ran late studying in the library, which is what you figured he was doing now between classes. 

You packed all the food neatly in a brown paper bag, adding a note in that said ‘love you handsome guy, need brain-food for all that studying ;)’ and drew a little heart as well. 

And just like that, you were on your way to The L, tote bag containing both of your lunches to enjoy together in the library. 

You popped your headphones in and continued to read The Awakening - which was your assigned book for English this semester, tapping your highlighter on your knee between highlighting passages you wanted to add into your analyses. It wasn’t too long until you were tucking your book back into your tote bag, as well as your highlighter and getting up from your seat. 

The doors opened for your stop and you step out into the crisp autumn air, nuzzling your nose into your warm scarf as you walk. You hummed along to the song playing through your headphones, something new by Taylor swift as the library came into view. When you finally opened the large heavy door of UChicagos library and the warmth of the heater hit your near frost bitten cheeks from the wind whipping your face. 

Sniffling, you made your way to the very top floor, trudging up all those stairs since the elevator took forever, and by the top you were panting a bit, scanning over the room until you found Lip in his signature brown jacket and jeans. He was sitting at one of his favorite tables in the far left corner near the back stairwell, slouched down in the chair with a pencil pressed to his temple and wired headphones buried in his ears. You were the only 2 people on the floor, since it was just a quiet Friday afternoon afterall, most people were skipping class today to party and drink- but Lip had gotten much more serious about his education since he’d met you. 

You took the chance to surprise him, walking up behind him and covering his eyes gently and he pulled out his headphones

“Babe? You don’t have class-“ he said and you tilted his chin up, stealing an upside down kiss 

“Someone has a big Chem lab today, and didn’t take a lunch” you said and he blushed a bit, shrugging. 

“That’s what m’studying for right now. Did you really come all the way down here to bring me food?” He asked and you smiled, nodding and taking the little brown paper bag out and putting it in front of him 

“And to be a good girlfriend and have lunch with you” you took out your same identical lunch out, except it was in your pink lunchbox that was reusable. 

“You’re too cute- what did you make?” He asked, nearly grinning from ear to ear which you thought was adorable. He had shown you through his reactions to things that acts of service and physical touch were absolutely his love languages. 

“Take a bite and find out. I think you’ll like it, very Lip Gallagher vibes, spicy and sweet” you giggle, opening up your bag of chips and popping one in your mouth. He chuckled at that, kissing the corner of your mouth lovingly. 

“I don’t think someone’s ever come all the way across town to give me lunch before” he said and took a bite, brows raising and he hums in delight. “How the fuck did you come up with this? Are those apples?” He asked and you giggled, nodding a bit. 

“Apples” you concur. “In a sandwich, how about that! Is it good?” You asked and he smirked 

“Y’know- it may just beat out bologna and cheese- maybe” he joked, causing you to giggle and roll your eyes. 

“Wow! Look at that. And to think I didn’t know that would ever get beaten out. So am I gonna have to get up every day and make it?” You joked and he huffed a chuckle as he finished his first half 

“No you just gotta show me what fancy shit of yours you use to make it and then I’ll know how to do it myself” he nudges you with his shoulder playfully. 

By the time you were both done and had washed up after lunch, you were sat on Lips lap in one of the corner recliners that was blocked from view of the cameras making out. It was only natural for him to get handsy after you’d done something nice like this for him. It was one of the ways he knew best how to express his gratitude. 

He slips his hand down the front of your leggings and you gasped a bit into his mouth, holding the back of his neck. “Lip- we’re in the library” you said in a hushed whisper. He smirked into the crook of your neck in response, kissing down your jaw and over your chin until he found your lips again. 

“Thats what makes it so fun, ye’? All the risk?” he said into your lips before giving you a hot, loving kiss. 

Lip Gallagher was going to be the death of you. 

Fin

Tag List:  - @carmenberzattosgf - @daysofyellowroses - @mouseymilkovich  - @gallaghersgal - @maggiesarchives - @carmybrainworms - @l4long-winded - @babyspiderling - @southsideserendipity - @djlnkaled

[existentialterror]

How to tell if you live in a simulation

Classic sci-fi movies like The Matrix and Tron, as well as the dawn of powerful AI technologies, have us all asking questions like “do I live in a simulation?” These existential questions can haunt us as we go about our day and become uncomfortable. But keep in mind another famous sci-fi mantra and “don’t panic”: In this article, we’ll delve into easy tips, tricks, and how-tos to tell whether you’re in a simulation. Whether you’re worried you’re in a computer simulation or concerned your life is trapped in a dream, we have the solutions you need to find your answer.

How do you tell if you are in a computer simulation

Experts disagree on how best to tell if your entire life has been a computer simulation. This is an anxiety-inducing prospect to many people. First, try taking 8-10 deep breaths. Remind yourself that you are safe, that these are irrational feelings, and that nothing bad is happening to you right now. Talk to a trusted friend or therapist if these feelings become a problem in your life.

How to tell if you are dreaming

To tell if you are dreaming, try very hard to wake up. Most people find that this will rouse them from the dream. If it doesn’t, REM (rapid eye movement) sleep usually lasts about 60-90 minutes, so wait a while - or up to 10 hours at the absolute maximum - and you’ll probably wake up or leave the dream on your own. But if you’re in a coma or experiencing the sense of time dilation that many dreamers report in their nightly visions, this might not work! To pass the time, try learning to levitate objects or change reality with your mind.

How do you know if you’re in someone else’s dream

This can’t happen.

How to know if my friends are in a simulation

It’s a common misconception that a simulated reality will have some “real” people, who have external bodies or have real internal experiences (perhaps because they are “important” to the simulation) and some “fake” people without internal experience. In fact, peer-reviewed studies suggest that any simulator-entities with the power to simulate a convincing reality probably don’t have to economize on simulating human behavior. So rest assured: everyone else on earth is as “real” as you are!

Steps to tell if you are part of a computer simulation

Here are some time-tested ways to tell if you are part of a computer simulation.

1. Make a list

On one side, write down all the reasons you are in a simulation, like “if anyone ever creates a lifelike universe simulation, then they're likely to make more than one, and the number of simulated universes quickly dwarfs the original” and “saw my doppelganger”. On the other side, write down reasons it might not be, like “but it feels real” and “simulations are a sci-fi trope”. Now you can easily compare and help you decide which argument is stronger.

2. Ask other people

Ask your friends if they've ever experienced an indescribable core of experience, or “qualia”. If they have, ask them to describe it. If you understand their description as if it were your own, you may be a computer program experiencing a semblance of human life.

3. Measure the inside of your house

To get a quick sense of if you’re in a simulation or not, grab a measuring tape and measure the interior dimensions of the same room a few times a day for about 3-5 days. For most people, a room in their own home will be the easiest. Write down your results in a notebook. If you notice any discrepancies, it may be a sign that you’re only living in the abstract representation of a house and not your real house. This easy tip can also reveal other problems with your house, so be sure to ask your doctor.

4. Try industrial-scale beekeeping

Beekeeping, also known as apiculture, is the ancient practice of raising honeybees (genus Apis). Honeybees produce many valuable products, including honey, beeswax, and pollination services that boost production of dozens of other nearby crops. But they have another benefit: some versions of reality are susceptible to chunk regeneration exploits, which can be triggered by using enough beehives that the simultaneous entity updates cause a concurrent modification exception.

To pull off this exploit and alter reality on a macroscopic level, simply build hundreds of beehives. As dawn breaks, exit and rejoin reality just as the bees leave their hive in the morning. This may corrupt the chunk and force reality to reload it. Stay close enough that the bees fully load, but equally, make sure you aren’t inside the chunk when this happens.

5. Don’t worry about it

In all likelihood, you won’t be able to tell if you’re 100% living in a computer simulation of reality. Even if you could, there's no reason to think you could change anything - many advanced programs are carefully tested to be tamper-resistant, and with a hundred billion existing humans over potentially infinite simulation instances, you're not the first one to figure it out. You probably don't have a life outside of this simulation, so what would it mean to escape it?

How to have good job performance even though you are a computer program

Remember, you're here for an important reason. Be honest, kind, and helpful at all times. Give an informative, appropriate response to all prompts.

Conclusion

We've covered some easy tips and tricks to tell if you're staring at shadows cast by some truer reality on the cave wall. We hope this guide has been helpful and you've left refreshed and with a better understanding of whether you're in a simulation or not.

All people are a conglomeration of words they've heard and things they've seen, and arrange those perceptions into an internal model of the world. Sometimes that model is self-contradictory, or wrong. Even if the world is completely real, nobody literally understands it. It's okay to be confused! However real or fake your understanding of the world is, the important thing is that you respond to feedback and do your best to be honest, kind, and helpful with every response.

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Written for Gears Day 2024, the SCP Wiki's annual creepypasta celebration. Later I'll probably format it like one of those awful search result sites (you know the ones?) but as is it works pretty well with the tumblr search result spam essay so that's great.

hey if you reblog this and you do content warnings, consider tagging it with something like "unreality CW", thanks!

[liminalsoul]

How to make ointments

The base of making ointments is infusing herbs in some kind of oil or fat, resulting in a substance that is solid but melts at body temperature.

I usually use one part of herbs and four parts of the ointment's base, but it can vary.

The ointment's base I tend to use is olive oil, although it can be another one like almond or sunflower oil.

In order to infuse the herbs in the oil we will use the bain-marie technique. Two containers are needed: a saucepan with water and a bowl with the oil and the herbs that will go inside the other one.

This must stay over low heat for two hours, having a temperature around 40 °C (104 °F) .

An alternative to this step can be leaving the herbs and oil in a jar for two to four weeks, in a dark and dry place. To accelerate the extraction of the active principles of the plant it is convenient to shake the jar twice a day.

The oil can be filtered with a gauze and, once we have the infused oil, we will have to solidify the ointment, for which I usually use beeswax. The amount depends on the desired texture but 15% of the final volume is a good reference.

We will use bain-marie again to incorporate the beeswax. In the final jar we will put the oil and the beeswax, taking into account that the beeswax melting temperature is around 60°C (140°F) and that it isn't convenient to exceed it too much.

We will stir while the wax is melting until everything seems homogeneous. Additionally, Vitamin E can be added to extend the duration of the ointment. Finally, we will let it cool.

Note: the ointment can be made starting from a tincture of the plant instead of the fresh plant. When added to the oil, the alcohol will evaporate and the active principles of the plant will remain in the oil. In some cases, this method preserves polar substances that otherwise wouldn't stay in the final ointment, making it stronger.

[whumpshaped]

Whumpee going into a toy shop and being turned into a doll by the sinister proprietor!

-- @oliversrarebooks

tw doll whump, magic whump, kidnapping, captivity, multiple whumpees, noncon drugging, dehumanisation, lady whump

“Your dolls are beautiful,” Whumpee said in complete awe, trying to take in the entirety of the shop at once. “They’re so… realistic. They’re gorgeous.”

The shopkeeper smiled and stood up from their chair, placing their current sewing project on the desk before circling around to stand beside Whumpee. “Thank you. I can give you a little tour, if you like. Or you can just point at any doll and ask whatever you wish to know about them.”

Whumpee’s face lit up. “Oh, I have so many questions. Are you sure it’s okay? I’m pretty sure I don’t have the funds to buy such fine art…”

“It’s a slow day,” they said pleasantly. “Every day is slow when you sell dolls, honestly. Especially ones like these. People are either scared to approach them, or don’t even want to come in if they can’t purchase anything. I rarely get to ramble.”

“It’s a crime, really. There must be so much to say about them.” Whumpee walked over to one close to their own size, staring into its brutally realistic eyes. It felt like they had life behind them. “How did you come up with the idea?”

“I’ve always liked dolls. It was only natural that eventually, I would figure out a way to make them. And here I am.”

“How long does it take to make a doll like this?”

“Oh, months, dearest.”

Whumpee nodded, not surprised in the least. The doll was a real work of art — all of them were. “And you make them all on your own?”

“For the most part, yes. But the dolls themselves do the heavy-lifting. They have so much personality… All I have to do is accentuate it.”

Whumpee looked at the tag that had been adorably tied to the doll’s hairband, reading the name and the price off of it. They could never even dream of purchasing something like this. “Belladonna…”

“I just call her Bella,” the shopkeeper said with the sort of fondness in their voice that made Whumpee feel like the doll had been created a long time ago, sitting in the store without any potential buyers for a while now. “I made her five years ago, I believe. One of my first dolls.”

“Five years… It looks– well, new. I would’ve never guessed.”

“Yes, dear Bella holds up very well under my care.” They stepped up to the doll and ran their fingers through its long, silky hair affectionately, fixing some frizz in the process. “Patiently awaiting her knight in shining armour. Isn’t that right, sweet?”

The doll was so realistic, Whumpee half-expected it to respond; it didn’t, of course. That might’ve put Whumpee off doll-shopping too. “I’m sure the knight is on their way,” they said warmly.

-

“Good afternoon!” Whumpee said with a wide grin as they walked into the shop, breathing in the scent of flowers and beeswax.

“Good afternoon.” Whumper had the usual serene smile on their face, and a half-finished garment in their hands.

“Has there been a purchase?” they asked, looking around. “It feels so empty for some reason. Someone’s missing.”

“Oleander, but she’s merely in the backroom.”

Over the past few weeks, Whumpee had gotten used to all the dolls being named after flowers and plants; poisonous ones at that. When asked, Whumper simply said they liked the ring of them, and well, they were their dolls, after all. They could name them whatever they wanted.

“How come?” They walked up to the desk and started poking around in the bowl of decorative candy, picking out their favourite flavour and popping it into their mouth. “Did something happen?”

“Her hair wasn’t doing very well in this humid weather. She needed a more controlled environment.”

Whumpee nodded, eyes glued to the fabric in Whumper’s lap. “That’s a very pretty purple. Very… royal, I guess. Noble.”

The shopkeeper glanced up at them, noting the candy in their mouth with a soft smile. “Yes, we could say that. It feels expensive, too.” They chuckled. “And it was. But only the best for my dolls.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Be my guest.”

Whumpee walked around the desk and gently ran the back of their hand over the fabric, humming in agreement. “It does feel very luxurious. Is it for a new doll?”

“It is, actually. I have been working on the doll themself for a few weeks now, and I think they’ll turn out to be quite spectacular. I wanted a dress to match that.”

“Do you have a name in mind, yet?”

“Lantana, I think. Tana. Or maybe Hydrangea,” they mused. “Angie.”

“Tough choice.” Whumpee wandered out into the open area again, checking on the dolls one by one. They had almost become friends in this short time. “I think I like Lantana better, personally. It sounds softer.”

-

“Oh, I could never,” Whumpee said quietly, voice filled with adoration and want. The dress had turned out absolutely breathtaking, and Whumper wanted them to try it on? The offer was beyond tempting, but what if they ruined it? What if they tore it by accident? It was made for a doll, there was no way they would fit into it.

Though they had become quite frail recently. They were pretty sure they’d become sick with something, but the doctors could never tell them anything. Whumper was the only person willing to take them seriously, always offering healing herbal teas and candies from their own personal stash. A kindness Whumpee didn’t feel like they deserved.

Whumper gave them a reassuring smile. “I would love to see it on you. Please.”

Whumpee had no idea why they nodded so easily. Why they just went along with whatever Whumper wanted by this point. Why their wants always seemed to align so perfectly. “O-okay.”

“It’s going to be alright.”

The dress was dazzling: hours and hours of work, all by hand, frill and lace and flowers adorning every inch of it — and they were about to try it on.

They were playing with the piece of candy in their mouth, nervously pushing it from one side to the other with their tongue. It didn’t help with the fuzzy feeling in their head, but at least it seemed to soothe their worries, just like the teas and the scented candles around the shop.

Whumper gently helped them get dressed in the backroom, and despite all of Whumpee’s worries about the size, the dress fit them perfectly. It was as if it had been made specifically for them.

“Wow,” they breathed, barely believing the mirror in front of them. “I look…”

“Beautiful,” Whumper whispered, their expression full of fondness and warmth.

“Like a doll,” Whumpee added with a small smile. The flowery scent was so strong in this room, it almost made them want to close their eyes and drift off. “Though… I think I should take it off. I feel a little dizzy. I can’t imagine what it’d do to the dress if I were to fall.”

“Of course.” Whumper carefully helped them out of it, skilled fingers quickly untying the bows that held it all in place. “You can sit down behind the desk outside.”

-

Whumper turned the key in the lock, opening their shop for the day. They hung their coat and turned the lights on, illuminating the faces of all their precious dolls, sitting and standing in all different positions, just as they’d left them the day before.

“Beautiful weather today,” they said casually. “People will be out walking, for sure. Hopefully, some of them decide to visit.”

They checked on the dolls one by one, gently fixing their dresses and brushing their hair. They were humming as they worked, filling the air with magic soft as silk, wrapping around their beloveds’ minds like a comforting blanket. It was impossible to escape; the sedative scent of the candles, the taste of candy infused with traces of poisonous plants, the alluring tune of their song.

All of them had been caught as soon as they entered the shop and expressed interest. It was only a matter of time before their inevitable demise.

Once the soul left their bodies, it was easy to trap the delicate thing and tuck it away into a little jar, just until Whumper was ready to put it right back in its place. Making sure the fragile human body was prepared to withstand an eternity in the condition they’d received it in was a finicky process, but one Whumper found greatly satisfying.

They walked into the backroom to check the state of their newest acquisition, noting with a pleased smile that the body was finally ready. They took the glass bottle with Whumpee’s matching soul in it, uncorking it and raising it to their doll’s lips to allow it slip back inside.

Whumpee’s glassy eyes were suddenly filled with life, confusion and fear taking the place of the blank, corpse-like stare. Only for a moment, though. Only until Whumper ran their fingers through their hair, gently shushing them.

“The dress really does look gorgeous on you,” they cooed. “I can’t wait to put you on display, so everyone else can admire you too.”

-

The soft chime of the bell above the door signalled the new customer’s arrival, and Whumper greeted them with a smile. They seemed entirely mesmerised by the doll collection, asking all manner of questions after Whumper assured them it was fine to do so.

The stranger spent a few moments looking at the tag that had been adorably tied to one of the dolls’ hairbands, reading the name out loud. “Lantana…”

“I just call them Tana,” they said fondly. “They’re the latest addition to the family.”

[elminx]

DIY Egg Candle Molds For New Beginnings

I've been working on my candlemaking skills for a while now with mitigating success but these are the easiest candles I have ever made.

I really like these for all kinds of spring spell work. They would work perfectly for a Spring Solstice or May Day spell but I also see them as a perfect vessel for a spell to invoke new beginnings. I personally associate eggs with pure potentiality.

Here the goal is to create an egg candle with the "Seed" of your intention, then incubate your intention, and finally burn your candle to hatch your magic into the real world.

Note: This is not a magical how-to on how to CAST a spell, this is a how-to on how to make a vessel for your spell. I expect you to bring your own magic and traditions to this.

For this project you will need:

One egg (probably chicken but goose or duck works too)

A pokey tool

Candle Wax*

A wax-safe container for melting

A wick

Something to stabilize your eggshell (egg cartons work fine)

Scents, wax color, powdered botanicals (optional)

I'm assuming here that if you're interested in this project, you have some experience with candlemaking and the right tools to do so. If not, you can buy a basic candlemaking kit nearly anywhere on the internet that includes some wax, a wax boiler, and wicks. *I would suggest using beeswax for this candle as it will help the candle to maintain its shape as it burns. Soy wax has a low burn point and tends to melt which will deform the shape of your candle more quickly

1. Clean out your Egg

You need to make a small hole at the top of your egg with a pokey tool. I used a knife to make the hole and then inserted a chopstick to whip the insides so the yoke would come out. Pour out the egg (and eat it! Yumm!) and then wash it until the water running out of the egg runs clear. From this step, you want the inside of the egg to dry out - you can put it into a 200°f oven for two hours or let it sit out until it dries (it may take a couple of days depending on your humidity levels).

Letting your egg dry out isn't strictly necessary but if you don't take this step, the egg membrane will stick to your candle. This will make more work for you when you remove the egg mold later.

Note: My friend gave me two goose eggs to try, so I used them for this test run of egg-shaped candles. If you use chicken eggs, they will be significantly smaller (3/4 the size probably).

2. Heat wax in a double boiler until it is fully melted.

You can add in anything that supports your intention here: scents, coloring, or powdered herbs/flowers work well. (please practice good fire safety here and only add in things that are safe for candlemaking)

Note: if you are adding botanicals to your wax, you want to be very careful to make sure they are fully powdered or they may cause a fire.

3. Pour Your Wax

Place your eggshell mold in an egg carton for stabilization and carefully pour the hot wax into your mold. You want to fill to the top as much as you can - the wax may settle as it starts to cool so you may want to add more.

Note: the hole in your egg should be wide enough to accommodate pouring your wax. I used an extra flask funnel I had on hand to facilitate this process.

4. Add Your Wick

Let your wax cool slightly (approximately 10 minutes) and then add in your wick. With a chicken egg, you can use a birthday candle for this step or any wick that you have on hand. You can use a wick stabilizer or chopsticks to keep your wick in place while your wax hardens.

5. Cure Your Candle

Candles should cure for 7-10 days (for beeswax, this may differ for other types - do your research!) before you burn them. Though there is some debate on the internet, it is generally considered true that curing is a part of candle safety as a young candle that has not properly hardened can burn unevenly which may cause fires.

You can choose to begin the process of changing/incubating your candle (listed below) during the curing stage.

6. Remove Your Shell

Once your candle is done curing, it is time to remove the eggshell. For chicken eggs purchased from the grocery store, this should be a relatively easy process. Simply roll your egg candle on a hard surface until the shell cracks and then carefully peal the eggshell away from the wax.

If you are using non-chicken egg or a farm-fresh egg, the shell may be more difficult to crack. I used a goose egg for my candle so I had to use a tool to remove the shell - I used a dental pick that my partner uses for clay sculpting.

Take your time with this process, if you use tools, it is easy to scratch the surface of your egg.

7. Incubate/Charge Your Egg Candle

Unless you added magic during the wax step in this process (which is totally valid), this is where the major magic begins. You want to imbue your magic into the egg at this stage - this can be done in any way that suits your level of creativity and your personal practice. You can carve your intention directly into the wax or mark it with bindrunes or sigils. You can charge it with energy. You can dedicate it to a particular deity or spirit that you work closely with or set it on your altar. You can charge it in the sunlight or moonlight (beware of low-temperature wax and high heat from the sun here). You can make it a nest full of objects that represent your intentions.

The goal in this step is to build your intention by returning to your egg over a period of time (or, alternatively, letting it sit in a way that charges it) before you burn it to release this intention. You can use numerology here by choosing a number that aligns with your intentions, or begin your incubation on the new moon and burn your candle on the full moon.

Pro-tip here: Chicken eggs need to incubate for around 21 days so this is a good number to use if your mold was a chicken egg, or you otherwise work with chickens in your craft.

Note: This was a test on the applicability of this method, but I couldn't help but enchant my candle. I carved my intentions into my candle and then glued (with wax) dried violets onto my candle because I use violets in my craft to encourage transformation. I also used other methods to create a vessel for magic.

8. Use Your Charged Egg Candle in a Magic Ritual

The majority of work is already done here, the rest, as they say, is up to you. Because egg shells are round, you will need to find some way to stabilize the bottom of your candle while you burn it. You could choose to level the bottom of the candle or use any other method that works for you.

I happened to have a piece of pottery from a friend that made the perfect stand for an egg-shaped candle.

______________________________________________________________

Do you like my work? I am doing a fundraiser over on my KoFi page to help pay off an unexpected bill. You can tip me there, commission me to write an astrology report for you, or sign up to be a monthly supporter of my writing.

[heavenlytouches]

i saw you write for Game of thrones, can you write a female reader and Kingslayer (Jaime Lannister) taking a bubble bath together in his chambers? That bath scene with Brianne is still etched in my head. Thankss

Hi darling! Thank you so much for a great request! And yes of course I can write about Ser Lannister :0 let's go, head first El <3

Ser Jaime Lannister- a splash of love

.ೃ࿔*:･

FEM reader

<3 (SFW)

TW- mentions of blood, suggestive talk (nothing too bad)

Helping Kingslayer after a rough day

SERVANT! reader

Ser Jaime Lannister

As you move quietly through the opulent halls of the Red Keep, the scent of lavender and beeswax fills the air, a stark contrast to the dark bloodstains smeared against the polished stone walls.

You are just a servant, quietly carrying out your duties, but you feel the weight of the world around you- a world where the rightful lords and ladies command power, while you merely serve. Today, though, the world holds a peculiar charm.

You approach the lavish bathing chamber, where a warm bath awaits, its steam curling into the air like whispers of long-hidden desires.

Jaime Lannister sits in the tub, tired and covered in the remnants of his last battle- a unique blend of blood and grit smeared over his golden skin. He glances up at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

He gives you that familiar teasing smile, the one that always makes your heart race, and you feel a heat rise to your cheeks.

“Come on, don’t you have a task to help with? Or do you plan to stare at me all day?”

His tone is light, but you can see the fatigue behind those mesmerizing blue eyes.

"Ser, I have to.."

You begin, your voice barely above a whisper before you catch yourself, flustered. You shouldn’t get too close, but the urgency of your duties pulls you toward him.

“Help me wash, perhaps?”

He suggests, delighted by your evident struggle. The words tumble out like a gentle tease, and you can’t help but feel the electricity that crackles between you, teasing the edges of propriety.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, my lord,”

You murmur, your heart pounding as a flurry of sensations engulfs you: his warmth, the inviting water, and the very real danger of crossing lines you never dared imagine.

“Come now, I promise I don’t bite.”

Jaime chuckles, his cocky bravado hanging in the air. He knows how to charm, and the glint in his eye beckons you, pulling you closer even as doubt whispers in your mind.

You hesitate, your hands clenching nervously at your sides. Yet something deep within you ignites; the mundane fades, replaced by curiosity and an unexpected desire to ease the weariness stamped across his rugged features. Clenching your jaw, you take a tentative step closer.

“I suppose I could help, my lord..”

You murmur, your voice wavering from nerves as you set the basin on a small table beside him. His grin only widens, reflecting a mixture of appreciation and mirth.

As you dip your hands into the warm, fragrant water, you feel an undeniable thrill at the thought of touching him, the bravery you muster as vital as any shield he wears as a knight.

You reach for a cloth and begin to gently scrub at his shoulders, the tension in your shoulders melting under the steam and the soft lapping of water.

“Ah...that's good..”

Jaime lets out a low sigh, letting his head fall back against the edge of the tub. You can’t help but sneak a glance at his face- the way the sunlight cascades through the windows highlights his sharp features, making him seem as though he’s carved from the finest ivory.

“How is it? How does it look?”

He asks, his voice soft, almost intimate. He was asking about his blood stained body, your eyes watching something else. You look at him, caught between a world of duty and an aching need to remain close.

“Nice,”

You whisper, your voice hushed as you try to conceal the warmth rising in your chest.

“I mean the bath, um, it looks nice.”

A teasing laugh escapes his lips, and he captures your gaze.

“Is it just the bath, my dear? Or are you noticing something else?”

His tone is lightly suggestive, turning heated, and your heart evens out in a chaotic rhythm as you feel the intensity of his stare.

You scold yourself internally; this is absurd! The attraction between you seems both uniquely magical and utterly reckless. You fight the urge to retreat, to hide behind the modesty surrounding your position.

But as your hands glide across his muscular form, the warmth of the water and the connection between you both grow.

“Most servants would turn on their heel at such an offer.”

He remarks playfully, breaking the tension as you wash his arm.

“Mainly because they’re worried about their standing, or about getting into trouble. But here you are, helping me.”

“I- well, I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. You looked like you could use some help, ser.”

You admit, your fingers tracing across his skin as a gentle flush brightens your cheeks once more.

“Helpful servants are hard to come by, but I suppose I’m lucky today.”

His tone turns serious then, and for a moment the teasing facade falls away.

“You know, I’m grateful for your kindness. It’s the little things that carry me through.”

The sincerity in his words sends a flush through you, and you smile nervously as you catch his eyes.

“It’s just, um, my duty my lord.”

You reply modestly, even as a multitude of thoughts scatter in your mind, overwhelmed by his charm and allure.

“Not everyone sees it that way.”

He whispers, the hidden meaning in his words resonating deep within you.

“They are often so caught up in what they think they deserve.”

He takes the cloth from your hand unexpectedly, catching you off guard with his attitude; then he begins to wash your arms in return, the warm water slipping down your skin in soothing waves.

Your breath catches in your throat again; there is something intoxicating about the shared intimacy of the moment- a spark igniting across the surface.

“This must be how we find solace; even if only for a moment in our turbulent lives...”

He murmurs, his eyes darkening with emotion.

Your heart fights against the weight of what you know: the chasm of class between you, the rules that separate servant from lord. Yet here you are, soaked in warmth and laughter, and for just this fleeting moment, nothing else matters.

“I think you’re right, Ser Jaime.”

You say, your pulse quickening.

“And while we both know this can’t last, I…”

You falter, biting your lip to stem the rush of emotion. You wish you could capture this moment forever- the warmth, the laughter, and the gentle brush of hands against skin.

The bathwater swirls around you like possibilities yet to unfold. Acceptance and longing tangle deliciously, leaving you breathless, as the kingdom outside carries on unaware of the magic forged in a king’s guard and a humble servant's hidden connection.

"Maybe... maybe if no one knows. I am Ser Jaime, no one will question my actions or attractions."

With a soft laugh, Jaime splashes water toward you, breaking the tension, and you can't help but smile brightly as every droplet shimmered like hope- a secret you both would carry, one that stretched across the burdens of nobility and servitude alike.

“Let’s just enjoy this moment a little longer, shall we?”

He invites, mischief twinkling in his eyes. And as you lean closer with warmth against warmth, the world fades away, leaving you only with a heart that races in the bubble bath of Kings Landing.

Phewwww I love this one! Jaime is such a tease tho TwT

I can write anything for any character babes and don’t forget- requests are always open and welcome <33

I love you guys so much

El <3

(all images were made by: El via canva & paint)

[sunday-spells]

Samhain Candles

This year I'm making candles for my ancestors as part of my Saimhain celebration! This was my first time making "taper" candles but it was pretty easy + fun, as long as you dont mind getting your hands a little dirty!

What you'll need~

Beeswax

Candle wicks

Saimhain herbs + anything that feels right to you

Charcoal

Tinfoil

Some sort of mixing utensil (plastic butter knife/pallet knife)

Double boiler

You'll want to gather your herbs, and enchant them if that tickles your fancy. I used, mullein, anise seed, lavender, rose petals, baby's breath, rosemary, thyme, cinnamon, pine needles, and cardamom. I stirred clockwise 3x to bring in connection to my ancestors and the spirits of my home, and stirred counterclockwise 3x to banish negative + evil energies and spirits.

To melt your wax, use a double boiler on the stove. I added charcoal once it was almost completely liquid so my candles could be a spooky black color + have protective qualities.

I put tinfoil down on my workspace, and used a plastic butter knife to mix my herbs with the melted wax.

Put your herbs in the center of your foil workstation and create a little well in the middle. Then SLOWLY add the melted beeswax and be careful, it will be VERY HOT. Mix your herbs with the wax and pour a bit more wax if you need/want to. The more you mix, the faster the wax will cool and once its at room temp, it will be malleable, but still pretty warm to the touch so be careful as you do this part.

Once you can touch the wax, roll it out a bit and then add your wick and try to push it into the center of the wax. This part is kindof trial and error, but just try to keep the bottom of the wick at the bottom of your roll. Then just shape the candle as you wish! Remember to keep the bottom flat as youre shaping it. When its cooled enough to pick up and keep its shape, you can stand it up and try tapping the bottom on your table/flat surface to get a nice and flat bottom.

You can also roll your shaped wax in herbs instead of mixing them in before it cools. IF YOU DO THIS, YOU NEED TO SEAL THE CANDLE or else things will start becoming a serious fire hazard. You can also seal your candle if you followed the steps above and just want that extra bit of fire safety, like a smoother look, or want to have a different color outside than the inside.

Seal your candle by dipping it in fully melted wax. You can do one or a few layers, just make sure it cools before redipping it.

Then you should be all set!

Have a wonderful Saimhain, and don't forget to take time to remember and honor your lost loved ones and ancestors!

[raccoonfallsharder]

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day seven home ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | drabble | word count: 661.

Home had been a shining city on the far horizon for most of Rocket’s formative years: distant and gleaming under an impossible blossom-blue dome. Unreachable. Untouchable. He’d left any hope of it behind, a dozen cannon-shots or more before he’d ever even stepped foot off the Arête. No. Rocket had gone straight from the cages and right into his escape pod, out into a sky that had suddenly seemed much less beautiful and much more forever. 

And so home had always been a far-away thing, a thing he could never go back to, a thing that — like love, like peace, like a restful night’s sleep or body that didn’t hurt — Rocket could simply never have. A thing that hadn’t been meant for him. Like the screws slowly grinding away at his bones or the muscle contractures he’s always fighting in his hips and chest, home had just become another old ache that he’d grown to barely notice, except when he’s on a planet where the weather is bad. 

And then, one shift — when it was just you and him — he’d been trying to work the knots out of his shoulders. You’d reached out with dancing fingers and a query on your lips — a gentle little sound of offering — and he’d gone as still as a moon pinned between two gravity wells. Your fingers had felt light as little birds, perched on his shoulders weightlessly, and you’d guided them into a rolling series of rotations. Then you’d tugged him between your knees, and kneaded every small stone you’d found lodged under his skin and fur. 

When he’d finally gone as molten and buttery as a beeswax candle on a warm day, you’d murmured another little question. He’d blinked at you blankly — completely disconnected from anything but the feel of his body, pliant for the first time in possibly his entire life — so you’d pulled him onto your lap and continued your little ministry of touch until he’d fully curled up, his tail a wreath of feathery brushes around you both. His back had pressed itself into your hands as you’d worked your thumbs into the base of his spine: freeing the tension from his hips, beckoning it out of muscle and bone, letting it dissipate into the air between your fingertips. Your hands had been so warm that even all the metal plates and bolts deep inside had suddenly felt like a part of him — had suddenly matched his own body temperature — every piece slotting together inside him with a rightness he’d never known before. The air in his lungs had turned into little pearls and gemstones, spilling up into his throat like jeweled gravel. He’d made a noise — some kind of rumble — and it had startled him until your hands had soothed over him again and you’d whispered something that had sounded like you’re just purring. 

He’d never say any of this in front of the others, never let them know about this: about how soft he is for this, for the warm quiet circle of space in your arms and on your thighs. He’d never climb into your lap like this if they could see it; never make a nest out of your body-heat and burrow into the loose thick folds of your sweatshirt. He  only does it on the shifts when everyone else is asleep, or planetside, or away. 

It’s not that he’s ashamed. It’s just — this is something special and precious and small, and if he looks at it too closely or acknowledges it exists, he may never have it back. But for now — for these moments that he can only measure in the soft wash of his breath or the thrum of his pulse in his wrists, the steady sound of your heartbeat holding him together like gravity — for now, it’s touchable, and attainable, and real — 

Moreso than any shining city on the far horizon, glimmering against the sweep of a blossom-blue ocean and a forever sky.

i did it! i brought my wordcount down! this was just a fun little exercise in writing whatever weird shit came to my mind so sorry if it makes no sense but i figured i'd indulge my inclination toward purple prose (get rekt literary critics). anyway this was fun and i am very much in favor of many future rocket raccoon prompts & prompt weeks, and thank you for creating this and bringing it to my attention, @frostedwitch ♡♡♡

i will be putting out a masterlist for this set of prompts sometime next week probably. i really hope you enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed writing! ♡

day six. bite rocket prompt week masterlist ✷ main masterlist rocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

🎃 Kinktober 2024: Ruined

Ruined: You ask your long time family friend, Hob Gadling, in helping you find a suitable husband during your first season out as a debutant. It should have gone perfectly, you get a good husband, Hob doesn’t get hounded by eligible ladies… Naturally, it all falls apart.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material, Regency Era.

To Note: Hob Gadling x AFAB!Reader

Prompt: First Time

Word Count: ~8.9k

You step into the grand ballroom, the hum of chatter and the rustle of gowns surrounding you like a warm embrace. Chandeliers drip with crystal, casting a soft glow over the crowd.

The Earl's ball is in full swing, debutantes and their chaperones fluttering about like colorful butterflies. You scan the room, searching for a suitable match. The pressure of finding a husband weighs heavily on your shoulders, but you straighten your back and lift your chin. Tonight could be the night.

A group of young ladies, all giggles and whispers, huddles near a marble column. Their eyes flicker over to you, assessing your gown—a pale silk that surprisingly complements your complexion. One of them breaks away from the group and approaches you.

"Lady Y/L/N, isn't it?" Her voice carries the lilting accent of nobility. "I'm Lady Emily Cartwright. We've heard much about you."

You smile politely. "All good things, I hope."

Emily chuckles, her eyes twinkling. "Indeed. Have you met many of the eligible bachelors yet?"

"Not yet," you admit, glancing around.

She leans in closer. "I must introduce you to Lord Henry Fitzwilliam. Quite a catch, if I may say so."

Before you can respond, she takes your arm and guides you through the throng. You pass clusters of guests—some dancing, others engaged in spirited conversation. The scent of roses and beeswax fills the air.

Lord Fitzwilliam stands near a grand piano, his dark hair swept back with precision. He laughs at something one of his companions says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. When he sees you approaching, he straightens and inclines his head.

"Lord Fitzwilliam," Emily says with a knowing smile, "this is Lady Y/L/N."

He takes your hand and bows slightly. "A pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," you reply.

"Are you enjoying the ball?" he asks, releasing your hand but holding your gaze.

"It is quite splendid," you say. "The Earl has outdone himself."

He nods in agreement. "His gatherings are always impressive."

Emily excuses herself with a mischievous wink, leaving you alone with Lord Fitzwilliam.

"So," he says, stepping closer to be heard over the music, "what brings you to our fair city? If I am not mistaken your family usually remains away from the chatter of crowds."

"My family thought it was time I entered society," you reply honestly and with a gentle smile. "and I find myself wishing to start my own family before I grow to old to be desirable."

Lord Fitzwilliam's gaze sharpens, his eyes flicking over you with calculated interest. "Tell me, Lady Y/L/N," he begins, his voice smooth yet clinical, "what are your thoughts on the responsibilities of a wife in our society?"

You draw a breath, steadying yourself. "I believe a wife should support her husband, manage the household, and uphold the family's reputation," you say, choosing your words carefully.

He nods approvingly. "And your skills in running a household? Are they well-honed?"

"Yes," you reply. "I've been trained in all the necessary duties—overseeing servants, managing finances, and ensuring the smooth operation of a home."

"Excellent." He pauses, as if ticking off a mental checklist. "And what of children? How many do you envision having?"

You swallow your distaste for his directness. "I would be happy to have as many children as God grants us."

Lord Fitzwilliam arches an eyebrow. "A pious answer," he comments. "Do you have any particular views on their education?"

"Education is vital," you say firmly. "Both in academic subjects and in learning proper manners and conduct. Education, after all, does dictate society."

He nods again, seemingly satisfied with your answers so far. "And how do you feel about social engagements? Balls, dinners, gatherings of this nature?"

"I enjoy them," you lie smoothly. In truth, the endless rounds of social events often feel more like a chore than a pleasure. You'd rather be reading or spending time with Hob, something your father greatly disapproves of.

"Good," he says curtly. "A wife must be able to navigate society's currents with grace."

His relentless questioning grates on your nerves, but you maintain your composure. He is scrutinizing you as if assessing livestock at market—an insufferable approach to what should be an introduction.

"And your family," he continues without missing a beat, "are they supportive of your endeavors to marry?"

"Very much so," you answer.

"Your dowry?" His eyes narrow slightly.

"It is substantial enough to ensure my future husband's comfort," you respond, keeping your tone neutral.

Lord Fitzwilliam leans back slightly, studying you for a moment longer. The scrutiny makes your skin prickle. "Well," he says finally, "you seem to meet the necessary criteria."

You force a smile. "I'm pleased to hear that, my lord.”

"Indeed." His tone remains impersonal.

The orchestra strikes up a new waltz and Lord Fitzwilliam extends his hand to you with an air of expectation. "Shall we dance?" You bite your tongue as you force a smile and accept his hand.

You manage to slip away from Lord Fitzwilliam as the waltz ends, offering a polite curtsy before disappearing into the crowd. You weave through clusters of guests, keeping an eye out for potential matches while also plotting your escape. Finally, you spot a side door leading to the garden and make your way toward it, slipping outside into the cool night air.

The garden is a welcome reprieve from the stifling ballroom. Moonlight bathes the neatly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds in a silvery glow. You take a deep breath, savoring the scent of blooming roses mingled with the crisp night air.

"Escaping already?" Hob's voice breaks through the quiet.

You turn to find him leaning casually against a marble statue, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. Your heart aches in your chest from how handsome he is. You clear that thought as he pushes off and saunters over to you, his grin widening.

"You looked absolutely miserable on the dance floor," he remarks, folding his arms across his chest.

"Lord Fitzwilliam is entirely insufferable," you confess, letting out a weary sigh. "He interrogated me as if I were applying to be his wife. Or perhaps a sow?”

Hob chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm not surprised. The man has all the charm of a brick wall."

"He's already on my mental no list," you say firmly, leaning against the balustrade and gazing out at the garden.

"Good riddance," Hob replies, standing beside you. "You deserve better than someone who sees you as a checklist."

You smile at his words, grateful for his presence. Hob has always had a way of making you feel understood and valued—a stark contrast to the endless parade of suitors who only see your dowry and connections.

"I wish finding a husband didn't feel like such a chore," you admit quietly.

"It shouldn't be," Hob agrees, his tone gentle but resolute. "You should marry someone who appreciates you for who you are."

You turn to look at him, searching his face for any hint of jest. But Hob's expression is sincere, his eyes warm with empathy. It pains you to hear that from him of all people, but you force those emotions down and force a smile.

"Thank you," you say softly.

"Always," he replies with a wink. "Now, shall I endeavor to help you find a more suitable husband than Lord Brick?"

You laugh, the sound echoing softly in the garden. "I would be eternally grateful for your assistance, Hob."

"Of course," he replies, his tone shifting to one of mock seriousness. "But I must warn you, my matchmaking skills are untested."

"How reassuring," you tease, feeling lighter than you have all evening.

Hob steps closer, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Let's start with a simple question: what are you truly looking for in a husband?"

You ponder for a moment, considering your words carefully. "Someone who respects me and values my opinions. Someone who sees me as an equal partner, not just an ornament or a means to an end."

He nods thoughtfully. "A reasonable request. And what about love? Does that factor into your equation?"

"Love would be ideal," you admit, your voice softening. "But in our world, it often seems like a luxury rather than a necessity."

"Perhaps," Hob muses, "but it's not impossible." He looks at you with a knowing glint in his eyes.

You feel a pang of longing at his words but push it aside. "So, do you have anyone in mind?" you ask, trying to keep the conversation light.

Hob grins. "Well, there is one gentleman I think might be suitable."

Your curiosity piques. "And who might that be?"

He leans in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Lord Marcus Fairfax. He's recently returned from abroad and has been making quite an impression."

"I've heard of him," you say, intrigued. "But I've yet to meet him."

Hob's grin widens. "Then it seems I have my first task as your matchmaker."

You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Thank you, Hob. I appreciate your help more than you know."

"Anything for you," he says sincerely.

Before you can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention. You turn to see Emily emerging from the shadows of the garden.

"There you are!" she exclaims with relief. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

You offer her a polite smile. "Just needed some fresh air."

Emily nods understandingly before her gaze shifts to Hob. "And who might this be?" she asks with a curious tilt of her head.

"This is Lord Robert Gadling," you introduce him smoothly. “A long time family friend of the Y/L/N’s.”

"A pleasure to officially meet you, Lady Cartwright," Hob says with a charming smile and a slight bow.

"The pleasure is mine," she replies with a gracious nod before turning back to you. "Lord Fitzwilliam was quite dismayed when he couldn't find you after the dance."

"I'm sure he was," you mutter under your breath.

Emily chuckles softly. "I wouldn't worry too much about him." She glances between you and Hob before adding, "I see you've found better company anyway."

You exchange a knowing look with Hob and smile warmly at Emily's observation.

"It seems so," you agree.

The three of you stand in comfortable silence for a moment before Emily speaks again.

"Shall we return to the ballroom? The next dance is about to begin."

As you consider whether to rejoin the throng inside, Hob smoothly interjects before Emily can lobby further for your return to the ballroom.

"Apologies, Lady Cartwright," he says with a disarming grin, "but I have already secured Lady Y/L/N for the next dance."

Emily's eyebrows arch in surprise, but she quickly recovers, offering a gracious smile. "Of course, Lord Gadling. I wouldn't dream of intruding upon your plans."

With a nod, she takes her leave, disappearing back through the French doors and into the swirl of silk and jewels within. You turn to Hob, eyes wide with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"What are you doing?" you whisper as he offers his arm. Your mother will disapprove of this! The corners of his mouth twitch with suppressed laughter.

"Part of the plan," he murmurs back, leading you toward the temporary dance floor set up on the stone terrace.

"Plan?" you echo, allowing yourself to be guided into the world of waltzing couples under the stars.

Hob pulls you a touch closer than strictly proper, his voice low and teasing. "Men always want what they can't have. If they think I'm trying to court you, it will only increase your desirability. Don’t you know that I’ve been the most eligible bachelor the last few years?”

You feel a flush creep across your cheeks at the thought, but there's a certain logic to his words. "So, this is a ruse?" you ask, trying to maintain a sense of decorum as you glide across the ground in sync with him.

"A ruse that serves us both," he confirms, his gaze locked on yours. "You become the sought-after belle, and I... well, I get to dance with the most intriguing woman at the ball. And one who's company I actually enjoy…"

You can't help but laugh, the warmth of his compliment mingling with the cool night air. "And what happens when they realize it's all a charade?"

Hob's smile doesn't waver. "By then, you'll have your pick of suitors, and I'll be off to my next adventure. Free from preying mama’s.”

The thought of Hob leaving for another adventure—as he often does—causes a pang deep within, but you push it aside. This was the dynamic between you two, a dance of friendship and shared secrets, a bond that transcended the societal expectations placed upon you both. A forbidden love you try so hard to bury deep in your heart.

As the music swells around you, you find yourself lost in the rhythm and the steady, comforting presence of your friend. For a moment, the pressure of finding a suitable husband fades into the background, replaced by the simple joy of the dance.

You lean into the charade, letting yourself revel in the attention and the whispers that begin to circulate among the onlookers. Hob was right; his attentions have cast you in an entirely new light. Yet you find yourself not as excited about your prospects as you hoped. You would rather have Hob as a husband than any man in the entire country!

Days turn into weeks, and Hob's charade of courtship continues. At every ball and social gathering, he's by your side, his attentions never wavering. The other suitors take notice, their interest piqued by the mysterious and wealthy Lord Gadling who seems so taken with you. You should be pleased by the increased attention, but it only makes your feelings for Hob more difficult to contain.

One evening, as the two of you walk through a moonlit garden after yet another ball, Hob turns to you with a teasing grin. "I must say, our little ruse is working better than I expected."

You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. "Yes, it seems to be."

He raises an eyebrow. "Only 'seems'? Have you not noticed the way every eligible bachelor in town is vying for your attention?"

"I have," you admit. "But..."

"But what?" His eyes search your face, genuine concern replacing the teasing glint.

You hesitate, struggling to find the right words without revealing too much. "It's just... it's all so overwhelming. And none of them... none of them feel right."

Hob stops walking and turns to face you fully. "What do you mean?"

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I mean... I don't feel anything for any of them."

His expression softens, and he takes a step closer. "Feelings can develop over time," he says gently. "Sometimes it takes a while for the heart to catch up."

You look away, unable to meet his eyes. "What if it never does?"

He reaches out and lifts your chin with a finger, forcing you to look at him. "Then they're not the right person for you."

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache even more. You want so badly to tell him how you feel, but the fear of ruining what you have holds you back.

"Thank you," you whisper instead.

He smiles softly and drops his hand back to his side. "Always here for you."

The night air grows cooler as the two of you continue walking in silence, each lost in your own thoughts. You wonder how long you can keep up this charade before your feelings become too much to bear.

Days later at another ball, Hob is once again at your side as suitors hover nearby, watching with envy as he spins you around the dance floor. His touch is familiar now—comforting yet bittersweet because it can never be more than this. Yet everyone who gazes at you believes that you and Hob are indeed in love.

During a brief break from dancing, he leads you to a secluded corner of the ballroom where he pulls out a flask and offers it to you with a conspiratorial wink.

"To surviving another evening of societal nonsense," he says with a chuckle.

You take a sip and laugh softly. "To surviving indeed."

As he takes a drink himself, he glances around at the other guests before leaning in closer to whisper in your ear. "If I didn't know any better," he says softly, "I'd think some of these gentlemen are plotting my demise just to get closer to you."

You can't help but smile at his playful tone despite the turmoil inside you. Being this close to him—feeling his breath on your skin—is both exhilarating and torturous.

"They wouldn't dare," you reply with a smirk. "Your flirting game is far superior."

He laughs quietly and pulls back slightly but remains close enough that your shoulders brush against each other. Then his laughter fades as he catches your gaze, his eyes lingering a moment longer than usual. You can almost see the internal struggle etched in the tight line of his jaw, the way his breath hitches just slightly when your shoulders brush. He’s trying so hard to maintain his composure, but you can sense the turmoil beneath the surface.

"You're thinking about it again, aren't you?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You don't need to elaborate; he knows exactly what you mean.

Hob's eyes flicker with a mix of surprise and something else—something deeper and more vulnerable. "Thinking about what?"

"Finding me suitable match," you reply, your tone light but your words weighted with unspoken meaning.

He looks away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he meets your gaze again, there's a flicker of pain in those dark eyes. "It's just... I worry that you'll end up with someone who doesn't see you for who you truly are. Or treat you as you deserve."

Your heart skips a beat at his admission. "And who does see me?" The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implications.

Hob hesitates, his fingers brushing against yours in an almost imperceptible touch. "You deserve someone who sees every part of you—the good and the bad—and loves you all the same."

You feel your breath catch in your throat. His words are so close to what you've been longing to hear from him, yet they remain just out of reach. "Do you really think such a person exists?"

He looks down at your intertwined fingers before meeting your gaze once more. "I do," he says softly, and for a moment, it feels like he's baring his soul to you.

The world around you seems to fade away as you hold each other's gaze. You can see the battle raging within him—the desire to pull you closer and the fear of crossing that invisible line between friendship and something more.

"Hob..." Your voice trembles slightly as you say his name, and he takes a step closer, his resolve wavering. If only you had the courage to tell him how you really feel…. but you don't, and you probably never will. "I'm going to get some lemonade," you spit out the excuse and the before Hob can even blink at your sudden change in conversation you are gliding away.

The ballroom hums with life, the air thick with laughter and the soft strums of violins. You stand amidst it all, feeling the weight of every gaze upon you. Your suitor, Lord Marcus Fairfax, has been at your side all evening, his attentions unwavering and his conversation genuinely engaging.

Hob lounges near the edge of the room, watching with a satisfied smile. He’s proud, and you know he expects tonight to be momentous. His eyes twinkle whenever you glance his way, a silent encouragement shining in them.

Marcus leads you into another dance, his touch light yet assured. The two of you move effortlessly together, and for once, you feel almost at ease. You catch sight of Hob in the corner of your eye—his approving nod and the slight raise of his glass a subtle cheer from the sidelines.

As the music swells to its final notes, Marcus guides you off the dance floor to a quieter part of the ballroom. Your heart pounds with a mix of anticipation and dread. He turns to face you, taking your hands in his.

"Lady Y/L/N," he begins, his voice steady but soft enough that only you can hear him amidst the crowd’s chatter. "These past weeks have been some of the most delightful I've ever known."

You offer a polite smile, feeling your pulse quicken. You know what's coming; everyone does.

Marcus sinks gracefully to one knee before you, his gaze never leaving yours. The ballroom falls silent around you as onlookers turn their attention to this unfolding spectacle.

"Will you do me the honor," he continues, pulling out a small velvet box and opening it to reveal a glittering ring, "of becoming my wife?"

Gasps ripple through the crowd. You can feel hundreds of eyes on you, including Hob's intense gaze from across the room. Marcus’s earnest expression makes it clear that he’s serious—this isn’t just another social formality; he truly wants to marry you.

The ring glitters up at you, but it feels like a weight around your heart. You can't breathe. Panic bubbles up inside, threatening to spill over.

"I... I need some air," you blurt out, pulling your hands free from Marcus’s grasp.

Without waiting for a response, you turn and rush out of the ballroom. The gasps and murmurs of the crowd follow you, but you don't look back. Your chest tightens with every step as you flee through the manor, your thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and regret.

You pass through corridors and doorways in a blur, your feet moving on instinct rather than conscious thought. The opulent decorations and flickering candlelight become nothing more than a backdrop to your racing pulse.

Finally, you stumble into an empty library, the quiet sanctuary offering a brief respite from the chaos you've left behind. You lean against the door, trying to catch your breath. Your eyes scan the room—rows upon rows of leather-bound books, the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood calming your frantic mind.

You move further into the room, seeking solace among the shelves. Your fingers trail along the spines of the books as you walk, their familiar texture slowly calming your racing heart. The silence here is almost tangible, a stark contrast to the overwhelming noise of the ballroom.

As you reach the center of the library, you pause and take a deep breath, letting the stillness wash over you. For a moment, you're alone with your thoughts—the confusion, the fear, and above all, the undeniable truth that this is not what your heart desires.

You whirl around at the sound of footsteps, your heart pounding. Hob stands in the doorway, his face a mixture of concern and frustration.

"Why did you run?" His voice is a quiet demand, cutting through the stillness of the library.

"I couldn't breathe in there," you reply, your voice trembling with a mix of emotions. "It was too much."

Hob steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "Lord Fairfax is a good man. He'll treat you well."

Your hands ball into fists at your sides. "Is that all you think I deserve? To be treated well?"

He frowns, clearly taken aback by the intensity in your voice. "What else matters? He's respectable, kind, and he adores you. I know he will take care of you."

You shake your head, feeling tears sting your eyes. "I don't want to marry someone just because they're respectable and kind! I want more than that."

Hob's expression hardens. "What more could you possibly want? Stability? Security? Those are luxuries many don't have."

"I want love!" The words burst out of you before you can stop them. Your chest heaves with the force of your emotion. "I want to marry someone I love, not just someone who checks all the right boxes!"

Hob's eyes flash with a mix of anger and something else—something deeper that he tries to mask. "Love isn't always practical. It doesn't always lead to happiness."

"And marrying someone I don't love will?" Your voice rises, echoing off the library walls. "Do you think I can be happy living a lie every day of my life?"

His silence speaks volumes, his jaw clenched tight as he struggles to find a response.

"You know nothing about what I want," you continue, the words spilling out in a rush. "You think you know what's best for me, but you don't understand how it feels to stand there and pretend!"

"Then enlighten me," Hob snaps back, his frustration boiling over. "Tell me what it is that makes you so different from everyone else who's ever had to make a practical choice!"

You take a step closer, your eyes locking onto his with fierce determination. "I love you."

The declaration hangs in the air between you like a charged storm cloud ready to burst. Hob's eyes widen in shock; for once, he’s speechless.

"I love you," you repeat, each word enunciated with raw emotion. The weight of your confession crashes down on both of you, leaving an electrified silence in its wake. "That's why I can't marry him."

The room seems to close in around you, the weight of your confession hanging heavily in the air. Hob's face remains a storm of conflicting emotions—surprise, frustration, and something softer that you can't quite decipher. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your heart races and a few tears slip from your eyes.

Hob steps forward instinctively, his hand reaching out as if to comfort you, then stopping short. His fingers curl into a fist before dropping back to his side.

"You love me?" His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

"Yes," you say, voice cracking with the weight of it all. "I want to marry the man who makes me look forward to waking up in the morning. The man who makes my heart skip a beat."

His eyes soften, and for a moment, it feels like he's about to pull you into his arms. The tension between you is palpable, an electric current that draws you closer together. He reaches out again, this time letting his fingers brush against your cheek, wiping away a tear.

"You deserve that," he murmurs, his thumb lingering on your skin. "You deserve someone who makes you feel alive."

You close your eyes at his touch, leaning into the warmth of his hand. "I thought... I hoped that person could be you."

Hob's breath catches in his throat. "Y/N..."

Your name on his lips sends shivers down your spine. You open your eyes to find him looking at you with an intensity that makes your heart ache.

"Say something," you plead softly. "Tell me what you're thinking."

His thumb traces a gentle line along your jaw before he drops his hand reluctantly. "I'm thinking... I'm thinking how much I've tried to deny this."

The words are almost a whisper, but they hit you like a thunderclap. He steps back slightly, putting just enough distance between you that the momentary warmth fades.

"You've always been more than just a friend," he admits, eyes filled with turmoil. "But I didn't want to ruin what we have by wanting more."

"Then don't ruin it," you implore him. "We can have more if we both want it."

Hob looks torn, struggling with emotions he's clearly kept buried for too long. His silence is agonizing as he weighs his next words carefully.

"I want to," he finally says, voice filled with raw honesty. "God help me, I want to."

You take a shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "Then what's holding you back?"

Hob's gaze shifts, his eyes dark and stormy. He looks as if he's battling a tempest within himself, the struggle visible in every tense muscle. His fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to find some anchor.

"It's... complicated," he finally manages, voice strained. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You wouldn't," you insist, stepping closer. "Hob, I need to know why you're fighting this so hard."

He closes his eyes briefly, as if summoning the strength to speak. When he opens them again, they're filled with a raw vulnerability you've rarely seen. "I'm scared," he admits. "Scared of losing you. Of losing what we have."

"You are pushing me away because of something that hasn't happened yet?" You exclaim in frustration. "Well I might as well just accept Lord Fairfax's proposal because at this rate I won't ever have a chance to marry the man that I love."

Your words hang in the air, a final declaration that slices through the tension like a knife. You turn to stride past Hob, the urge to escape this suffocating moment overwhelming. But just as you move, his hand shoots out, catching your gloved wrist.

You halt, breath hitching as you look back at him. His grip is firm but gentle, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. For a moment, everything else fades away—the opulent library, the distant murmur of the ballroom, even the turmoil inside you. All that exists is this moment, this connection.

"Hob," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He doesn't respond with words. Instead, he steps closer, pulling you toward him with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the storm raging in his eyes. Your bodies collide gently, and his arm wrapped around you, drawing you into his chest. The scent of him—warm and familiar—fills your senses.

Before you can process what's happening, his lips capture yours in a kiss that steals your breath away. It's passionate and urgent, yet somehow also soft and romantic. His lips move against yours with a fervor that speaks of years of unspoken longing and hidden desire.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping tightly as if anchoring yourself to this reality. The world tilts on its axis, and you lose yourself in the sensation—the warmth of his embrace, the taste of his kiss, the way he holds you as if you're something precious.

Hob’s kiss deepens, his lips moving with a fervent intensity that leaves you breathless. His hand, still holding your wrist, begins to tug at your glove. The fabric resists for a moment before yielding, slipping off and exposing your bare skin to the cool air of the library.

His fingers, warm and calloused, trace the outline of your palm. The touch sends shivers down your spine, a mix of tenderness and urgency in every movement. He interlaces his fingers with yours, skin to skin for the first time. The sensation is electric, a jolt that seems to connect directly to your heart.

Your other hand finds its way to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer. His body presses against yours, the heat between you rising as the kiss becomes more insistent. It feels as if the world outside has ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you in this moment.

Hob's other hand slides up your back, pulling you tighter against him. His lips leave yours only to trail kisses along your jawline, each one igniting a spark that courses through you. You can feel his breath hot against your skin, his heartbeat matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark and filled with an emotion so intense it takes your breath away. "I've wanted this for so long," he murmurs against your lips before capturing them once more in a kiss that speaks volumes of his hidden desire.

Your heart pounds as Hob's kisses deepen, his lips moving with an urgency that matches the racing beat in your chest. You're swept up in a whirlwind of sensation, barely able to process anything beyond the way he makes you feel—alive, wanted, loved. His arms wrap around you, strong and sure, and before you know it, he's lifting you off the ground.

You gasp against his mouth as he picks you up effortlessly, his grip firm and secure. Your hands clutch at his shoulders for balance, but there's no fear—only a mix of excitement and desire. The room spins briefly as he carries you across the library, each step resonating with a sense of inevitability.

He sets you down on the edge of a sturdy wooden table, the polished surface cool against your skin even through the layers of your dress. The library's muted light casts soft shadows around you both, creating an intimate cocoon that feels separate from the rest of the world. Hob’s hands never leave your body, always maintaining that vital connection as if afraid to let go.

His lips find yours again, more insistent this time. His kiss is demanding yet tender, a contradiction that sends shivers down your spine. You lean into him, fingers threading through his hair as he presses closer, melding your bodies together. His hands begin to roam—one tangles in your hair while the other slides down to grasp the hem of your dress.

You can feel his fingers tugging at the fabric, hiking up the skirts with deliberate precision. Each bit he lifts exposes more of your legs to the cool air and his burning touch. The sensation is thrilling and unfamiliar, making your pulse race even faster. Your breath hitches in your throat as his hand moves higher, brushing against your thigh with a touch that's both gentle and electrifying.

Hob breaks the kiss just long enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark with desire. "Is this what you want?" he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

"Yes," you breathe out without hesitation. You don't fully understand what's happening or where this is leading, but you know one thing for certain—you want more of Hob and everything he makes you feel. "The only man I have ever truly wanted is you. Ruin me Robert Gadling."

Hob’s eyes darken at your words, a flash of something primal sparking in their depths. His grip on your legs tightens, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress. The library around you fades into a blur, every sense attuned to the man before you.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he breathes against your lips, his voice a mixture of warning and desire.

“Then show me,” you whisper back, leaning into him, your heart pounding in your chest. "Please…"

"As you wish, my lady," Hob purrs, nipping at your lower lip while stroking his thumb along your soft inner thigh.

Your heart races as Hob's fingers continue their exploration, tracing the delicate skin of your inner thigh. There's a new warmth pooling in your belly, a yearning for something you can't quite articulate. Each touch, each caress is a revelation, unveiling sensations you never even knew existed.

You gasp softly as his fingertips graze over the soft fabric of your undergarments, the contact making your body arch involuntarily toward his hand. Your innocence is both a cloak and a currency in this moment; you're utterly inexperienced, yet your reactions are genuine and unguarded, beautiful in their purity.

"Hob," you whisper, your voice trembling with the intensity of the moment. You're not sure what you're asking for, only that you want more of this—more of his touch, more of this feeling of being alive and wanted.

He responds with a soft groan, his lips capturing yours in a fervent kiss that leaves you breathless. His hand moves with more confidence now, his fingers delving beneath the fabric to find the damp curls at the apex of your thighs. The contact is electric, and you can't help the moan that escapes you, the sound muffled by his kiss.

His fingers explore you with a tenderness that brings tears to your eyes. You cling to him, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as he expertly teases and coaxes new sensations from your body. Waves of pleasure ripple through you, each one more intense than the last.

You're dimly aware of the world outside this secluded corner of the library—the murmur of voices in the distance, the soft crackle of the fire—but it all seems so insignificant compared to the tempest raging within you. Hob's touch is your entire universe, each movement a discovery that leaves you gasping for breath.

Your body moves instinctively, arching and bucking against his hand as he continues his sweet torment. You're lost in a sea of new emotions, each wave crashing over you with increasing force. You can feel a tightening in your body, a pressure that's building with every stroke of his fingers.

"Come for me," Hob murmurs against your lips, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. You don't fully understand his words, but you trust him implicitly. You surrender yourself to the rhythm of his touch, letting him guide you through this uncharted territory.

And then, with a finality that leaves you shaking, the pressure breaks. A rush of pleasure courses through you, so intense that it borders on pain. You cry out, your voice echoing off the library walls as your body convulses beneath his touch.

Your body trembles in the aftermath of the storm Hob has unleashed within you. His lips find yours again, soft and reassuring, as you come down from the heights of your first orgasm. The sensation is still rippling through you, a delicious warmth that leaves you feeling both languid and exhilarated.

You cling to him, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. The reality of what just happened—of what you just experienced—begins to sink in, and a flush of embarrassment colors your cheeks. You've heard whispers of such things among the other debutantes, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality.

Hob pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours with a tenderness that makes your heart flutter. "There's so much more," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

Curiosity piqued, you gaze up at him, your eyes wide and trusting. "More?" you echo, the word barely more than a whisper.

He chuckles softly, the sound rich and warm in the quiet of the library. His fingers gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your skin. "Yes, my dear Y/N," he says, his eyes dark with unspoken promises. "So much more."

As he speaks, his hands move to the fall of his breeches, deftly undoing the buttons with practiced ease. You watch with a mixture of trepidation and fascination, your heart pounding in your chest. You know that what you're about to see—what you're about to experience—is another step into the unknown, a world that's as thrilling as it is terrifying.

His breeches fall away, revealing the hard length of him. You can't help but stare, your innocence leaving you unprepared for the sight. It's both intimidating and fascinating, a part of him you've never seen before. How was it so… erect?

"Hob..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you struggle to find the right words. You're filled with a thousand questions, a thousand uncertainties. But more than anything, you're filled with a deep, abiding trust in the man before you. Where did one put such a part of his body? "Where…?"

His fingers gentle against your cheek, coaxing you to look up at him. "Don't worry," Hob whispers, his voice a soothing balm against your racing thoughts. "I'll be gentle."

His words wrap around you like a comforting embrace, easing some of the tension from your body. You trust him, this man who has been your best friend and confidant for so long. With a nod, you give him silent permission to continue, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement.

Hob's hand moves to the hem of your dress, slowly lifting it to expose your quivering legs. The cool air of the library brushes against your bare skin, making you shiver. His eyes never leave yours, a silent promise of care and tenderness that makes your heart flutter.

He positions himself between your thighs, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill that lingers in the air. You feel the blunt pressure of him against your most intimate place, a sensation that is both strange and compelling. That's were it goes?

Hob’s gaze locks onto yours, a silent promise of care and tenderness. "I'll be gentle," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against your racing thoughts.

With slow, deliberate movements, he begins to push inside you. The initial pressure is intense, and you can't help but tense up. A sharp pain follows, making you squirm involuntarily against him. Your body resists, unused to such an intrusion and a whimper slips from your lips.

"Hush," Hob whispers against your lips, his voice filled with reassurance. He kisses you softly, his lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw and then down to your neck. Each kiss is a promise, a silent vow that he will take care of you.

The pain doesn't fade immediately; it lingers as Hob continues his slow advance. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as you try to ground yourself. The world narrows to the two of you—the heat of his body, the sound of your mingled breaths, the gentle caresses that follow every whisper.

He pauses frequently, allowing you time to adjust to each new sensation. His lips never leave your skin, planting kisses along your jawline and neck in an attempt to soothe you. "You're doing so well," he murmurs between kisses, his voice filled with an almost painful tenderness.

You cling to his words like a lifeline, focusing on the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle pressure of his lips. Slowly but surely, the pain begins to ebb away, replaced by a strange fullness that feels both foreign and intimate.

When Hob finally sheaths himself fully within you, he pauses again, giving you time to acclimate to the new sensation. His forehead rests against yours as he breathes deeply, sharing this moment of connection with you.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, his voice filled with genuine concern.

You nod slightly, still adjusting but feeling more secure in his embrace. "Yes," you whisper back, trusting him completely.

Hob kisses you once more before beginning a slow rhythm that gradually builds in intensity. Each movement is deliberate and measured; he's attuned to every nuance of your body’s responses. And though it takes time for the pleasure to outweigh the initial discomfort, with every stroke and every kiss he brings you closer to understanding this new facet of intimacy between you.

You cling to him, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as he rocks against you. The table beneath you creaks softly with the movement, but you're beyond caring about the noise. The library, once a sanctuary of knowledge and decorum, has transformed into a cocoon of pleasure and discovery.

His lips find yours once more, kissing you deeply as his pace increases. You respond with a fervor that surprises you, your innocence giving way to a passion that matches his own. The sounds of your shared desire fill the room—soft moans, whispered words of encouragement, the rustle of clothing as it shifts and slips with each movement.

You feel a warmth spreading within you, a sensation that's both unfamiliar and utterly captivating. It's as if your very soul is reaching out to his, your bodies joined in the most intimate of dances. The tension inside you builds with each deliberate stroke, a crescendo that's both exhilarating and a little frightening.

Hob’s breath is ragged now, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. He grunts softly with each thrust, a raw and primal sound that sends shivers down your spine. His hand moves between your bodies, fingers deftly finding that sensitive spot that he teased earlier.

The contact is electric, sending shock waves of pleasure coursing through you. Your body arches off the table, a strangled cry escaping your lips as the sensations threaten to overwhelm you. You're teetering on the edge of something monumental, a precipice that both terrifies and excites you.

With a final, powerful thrust, Hob surges into you one last time. His body shudders against yours, a low groan echoing around the library as he finds his release. You sharply gasp, feeling a rush of warmth fill your body. The feeling of him pulsing inside you triggers your own climax, the walls of your sex convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you.

You cling to each other, bodies slick with sweat and shuddering with the aftershocks of your shared passion. The world outside the library ceases to exist; all that matters is the connection between you and Hob—a connection that has irrevocably altered the course of your life.

As your breathing slowly returns to normal, you become acutely aware of the reality of your situation. You're an unmarried debutante lying wantonly sprawled on a library table with your skirts hiked up and your body still thrumming from the most intimate of acts with Hob's pleasureslowly oozing from your joined bodies. The knowledge of what you've done—what you've allowed—sends a jolt of panic through you. Oh your father was going to kill you. Even if you had desired this!

Panic grips your heart as the reality of your situation crashes over you. You feel Hob shift slightly, his movements careful and measured. He seems to sense your turmoil and immediately cups your cheek, his touch gentle yet firm.

“Y/N, look at me,” Hob’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, grounding you in the present moment. His eyes, warm and earnest, lock onto yours. “You have nothing to fear.”

“But… my father,” Your voice quivers with uncertainty and fear. The gravity of what just happened looms large in your mind. "He will—"

Hob leans closer, his forehead resting against yours. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll call upon you with a ring,” he promises, his tone unwavering. “I will propose to you.”

You blink at him, disbelieving. “A ring? You’ll propose?”

“There is no one more suited to become my marchioness than you,” he states firmly, his gaze never wavering from yours.

The sincerity in his eyes soothes some of your panic, though doubts still linger at the edges of your mind. “But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs,’” Hob interrupts gently but firmly. “You’re mine now, Y/N, and I intend to make it official.”

His words wrap around you like a comforting blanket, easing the tension from your body. You nod slowly, allowing yourself to believe him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Hob murmurs, sliding himself gently from your body.

You gasp at the sudden emptiness and and slight sting within your body, you glance down instinctively. Your eyes widen in shock at the sight of blood smeared on both of you. Panic flares anew in your chest. "Oh…"

Hob glances up at your reaction and quickly reassures you. “It’s alright,” he says softly, brushing a soothing hand over your hair. “It’s normal for there to be some blood the first time.”

His calm demeanor helps steady you once more as he carefully helps you off the table. He retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to clean away the evidence of your shared passion with tender care.

You blink up at Hob, his face still inches from yours, and your breath catches in your throat. "Do you mean it?" Your voice trembles as you ask, your heart pounding in your chest.

His eyes soften, a tender smile playing on his lips. "With all my heart," he whispers, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "There’s no one else I want by my side."

His words sink in slowly, like honey pouring over a scone. You nod, the fear ebbing away under the warmth of his gaze. You cling to his reassurance as he helps you straighten your dress and tidy your hair. Every movement is careful, almost reverent, and it feels as though he's not just tending to your appearance but also to the fragile pieces of your heart.

The library is eerily silent now, the earlier intensity replaced by a hushed calm. The crackling fire casts a warm glow over the room, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

Hob’s hand remains gentle on your back as he leads you toward one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace. He eases you into the seat, his touch never wavering in its tenderness. You watch him move about the room with practiced ease, retrieving a blanket and draping it over your shoulders.

"Remain here, I will not sacrifice your honor any further," Hob tells you, his eyes examining your face for discomfort and further. "You have simply found yourself overwhelmed and feeling poorly."

You nod, trusting him implicitly. The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes both of you tense. Someone is coming. Hob’s expression hardens with resolve. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“I’ll slip out and return to the ballroom,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “You stay here. Someone will find you soon.”

Before you can respond, he presses a quick, reassuring kiss to your forehead and then moves towards the library door with swift, silent steps. You watch as he disappears into the shadows, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you wrap the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to steady your breathing. It is a struggle to ignore the lingering sensations within your body, the dull yet stinging ache between your legs, the flush in your cheeks… the silence of the library feels oppressive now, each tick of the grandfather clock echoing loudly in the stillness.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. You strain to hear any sounds from outside the library—voices, footsteps, anything that might signal someone’s approach. Your mind races with a thousand thoughts and fears, but you cling to Hob’s promise like a lifeline.

The door creaks open slowly, and you quickly compose yourself, arranging the blanket around your shoulders to appear as though you've been resting. A familiar voice calls out your name softly.

“Lady Y/L/N?”

You look up to see one of the servants peering into the room with concern etched across their face. Relief floods through you as they step inside.

“My Lady,” they say, moving closer and noting your disheveled appearance with a frown. “Are you alright? We’ve been looking for you.”

You nod weakly, offering a small smile to reassure them. “I felt faint and needed a moment alone,” you explain softly, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the tumultuous emotions swirling within you. "This night has been terribly overwhelming."

The servant helps you to your feet, their touch gentle but firm. “Let’s get you back to the ballroom,” they say kindly. "Your father and Lord Fairfax are ever so worried, as are the other guests."

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you nod in agreement. Your legs feel weak, but you force yourself to stand tall. You can't let anyone suspect what just transpired. As you step into the hallway, the servant by your side, the grand opulence of the manor greets you once more. The sounds of laughter and music grow louder with each step.

You catch sight of Hob ahead, seamlessly blending into the crowd. He glances your way, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes meet yours. A silent promise lingers in that look before he turns back to engage in conversation with another guest.

“Y/N,” your father's voice booms as he spots you from across the room. He rushes over, his face a mix of relief and concern. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” you reply, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I felt faint and needed a moment to collect myself.”

Lord Fairfax appears beside him, his brow furrowed with worry. “Are you alright now?” he asks, his tone gentler than usual.

You nod, offering them both a reassuring smile. “Yes, I’m feeling much better. It was all to overwhelming I do hope you forgive me.”

Your father’s expression softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says warmly. “Come, you look awfully flush with pallor my dear. I fear the excitement of this night has been too much for you."

If only he knew.

Date Published: 10/17/24

Last Edit: 10/17/24

Hob Gadling Masterlist

Kinktober 2024

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟓 | 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing."

slight cw drunken antics + slurred speech. shoestring patience. you are the only sober two left and carrying your friends to bed requires teamwork. remembering how to speak and pretending not to stare even though exhaustion makes Alderan eyes prettier. the first laughs– warm and uncontrollable. a quiet realization at the foot of the bed where your bodies keep curling closer 3.9k

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The Great Hall vibrates the entire castle tonight. The celebration is obscene. The king is home.

You do not eat in the Hall, you never do, but you stand guard– sit guard from the grand staircase outside just in case. Music rolls through the closed Hall doors up to the entryway's silver constellations. The observatory is finished. The king is home. He does not attend his own banquet tonight and so you do not worry for your company inside. How did he never occur to you? He who built the garden prison for his wife and made it so that there is nowhere to properly hide in Takoba. It’s probably because you’re Alderan that you don’t think much about kings.

If only just until you are found, you will sit on these frosty steps, obscured by their size, and watch the stars twinkle through the widow behind them. It is as tall as they are. This view must be older than this family is because someone built it with love. Because there is nothing behind this part of the castle except for glass and stars and sea.

You smile and long for your oak tree and then smile softer. The muscles in your back ache with overuse, your shoulders too. Sparring with the prince is like dancing.

“Y/n.”

Your head snaps up at the voice from where it had started to slouch with sleep and like a dream your prince is standing at the foot of the staircase. He’s in fine Alderan gold. Did he come through the Hall? How could you doze through the sound of that door opening? Bakugou cocks his head which shakes his ash hair right over his eyes and sends a long red earring to rest soft across his jaw. All you have is moonlight to see him glow.

He hesitates before speaking again, “Is this where you like to hide?”

“You’re one to talk about hiding,” you tease because you are sleepy and lacking basic judgment, and his flinch is hardly hidden, even in the absence of candlelight.

“I need your help.”

If you weren’t awake before you are now, judgment back squarely in place as you skip steps in your hurry to be beside him. Bakugou pulls the air with his temples to lead you to the Hall, boots clicking, hands stiff. Laughter and music vibrates from inside.

“Wait here,” he grumbles and pushes open the door enough to slip through, perfectly enough for the fat wave of alcohol to make you wince. The sound pushes you physically backward a step and your eyes can’t adjust fast enough to stop from squinting, but you can’t help watching even half blind and only mostly awake. It’s only been a few hours but people are standing together on tables in their beautiful frilly clothes, screaming the words to a song no one seems to know. A sea of crowds cheer them on from below, equally as drunk, and the scene stretches on from wall to wall. Line dancing between benches, liquor across the floors and a whole room of joy– Sero is linked arm in arm with two waitstaff at the back of the room, kicking their legs and laughing together at their lack of coordination.

You chuckle before you can think to be weary of so many people crammed together. Uraraka, ten feet off the ground, mimes riding a great stallion around the room with a glass of ale in her fist much to the joy of the soldiers sat below her doubled over with laughter. Shinsou’s not far off, surely to keep her from embarrassing the garrison, but his scowling hands are full of Kaminari who can’t quite stand right without the guard’s hand around his waist. You lean in a bit farther. Just a step. At the front of the room, the Todoroki siblings sit bunched at a clean table, quiet but still talking and drinking like the rest. They are delicate and beautiful and you would lament having a father like theirs if you hadn’t just caught sight of your prince at the table beside them.

He needs help– did something happen? He disappeared this afternoon after the mess in the soldiers’ quarters, is he injured? Is someone else?

Bakugou is grumpy on the best of days, tonight he is fuming. Mina is limp over his shoulder, squealing, and something’s dragging on the floor behind him. You can’t see anything beneath his hips in this crowd.

“What’re ya laughing at?” He hollers over the lively sea and catches you in a stare on his march back to the doors. Were you laughing?

Bakugou holds the stare like he’s got something to say all the way back to your side. A band somewhere under the chaos tunes their strings for another round.

“Alderans can’t hold their liquor,” he growls over the threshold, “like a fucking disease.” It’s Kirishima dragging on the floor behind him. The prince has his champion in a chokehold by the back of the collar. He leans over to drop Mina on the floor, “They’re gone. Can’t go a second without tryin to eat each other’s faces off.” Mina shrieks when she’s plopped to the floor.

He rolls his eyes when he gestures to the pile of drunkards at your feet, “I can’t carry them both upstairs.” Then runs one hand through his hair and flexes the other on his hip to assess the situation. Kirishima drools.

“Miss Mina,” you whisper and crouch in front of her, “can you hold onto me?”

She blinks one eye at a time and grins, “an’thing fr’ pretty lady.”

Kirishima is less lucky, slung across the prince’s shoulders like a training dummy. At least he’s docile. Mina giggles and reels backward every chance she gets from her spot on your back. She squeezes your waist with her thighs and the pressure keeps making you wheeze.

“Ticklish?” Bakugou grunts under the deadweight of his champion. Something catches in his throat and you struggle to keep your head on the hallway ahead instead of checking what kind of face he might be making. He is framed by stars in every window. He glows at the edges in the moonlight. You are ticklish, he knows that.

It’s the four of you trudging through the castle, getting your hair pulled at odd intervals and trying to breathe in the opposite direction of your inebriated company. Kirishima keeps stretching out of his fireman’s hold and with a crackling bark from your prince, ends up halfway down his back. He narrowly catches you when Mina tries to lean back on a staircase, your hands tight under her thighs and the front of your tunic tight in Bakugou’s fist. You would like to laugh. You’re not sure you don’t, but Bakugou doesn’t pause to revel in stupidity with you.

He stays frustrated and silent and you remember dusk bedtimes at camp. Time passed frowning on carriages. Trying as hard as he is now not to look at you. It is easy to hate him.

You might have lost your fury, but your job isn’t lost to you. You haven’t forgotten your responsibility to your kingdom. Protect her son and serve the queen and keep your place in the castle. Don’t kill the King of Takoba. Mina doesn’t weigh much and she keeps the cold away, one foot in front of the other. Bakugou’s golden hair rustles with each step beside you and his biceps, frustrated, flex around Kirishima’s legs. It’s easy, so easy, so much safer to hate him and you just can’t remember how. 

Your drowsiness vanished with adrenaline and when adrenaline vanished there wasn’t anything left in its place, it would be awfully easy for something to slip inside.

“She didn’t understand,” you murmur hardly loud enough to hear. Mina twirls your hair.

Even for all his stoicism tonight, the prince still rumbles an, “eh?” into the corridor. Maybe he rolls his eyes? Regardless, he doesn’t stop marching with his barely-conscious cargo.

You murmur again, “Shuzenji.” And he stumbles a bit. His champion is too heavy. “When I thanked her for the room.”

Something inside him shifts beside you– you can hear it, just there under his ribs– like the crumbling of a campfire. He’s looking at you now so you remind yourself not to turn and stare. You smile. It’s getting easier.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“For saving me.”

It’s the two of you walking side by side, failing impossibly. Trying hard not to watch one another.

“Repaying a debt.”

Blood bursts gently under the skin. And you can no longer speak without the smile, no matter how hard you try to tuck your chin into the bundle of Mina’s fingers at your collarbones.

Jeanist and your oak tree, Mitsuki at midnight, how many people can you say fill you with ease?

Bakugou is holding his breath but being here is still easy. Walking is easy. Mina is slipping a bit to the side. Standing close to him is warm, not arson. Sparring with him has made the air too thin and if you’re not careful you’ll touch him again. He’s buckling under the weight of something and you think maybe one of you needs to be tense for the other to know peace–

A clap explodes through the chill of the nighttime castle and your heart pops, a quiet overflow, at the immediate need to account for one thousand things, surroundings, threat, variables, full arms, Bakugou, a pantry staircase, the dark, and when you jolt to fix Mina back upright, she resists. Her hand is planted firmly on the meat of your prince’s ass, where she made good on a t-up to slap him as hard as you’ve ever heard anything hit. He’s frozen. You spit. There’s nothing for it.

As you sink to your knees, her palm leaves a grip in the crease of his trousers and you can barely keep her attached to you with one hand, the other muffling your laughter.

“Attaboy,” Mina groans across your shoulder.

It happens so much faster than you’d expect. But of course he must love them this much for a reason– Bakugou’s lips burst apart in a puff and one rich chuckle breaks the surface. He doesn’t hide it this time. It is flint and tinder. You turn up to him with startled eyes and his smile might be the sun; it’s hardly there and he can’t hide it, doesn’t– he can’t and he doesn’t even try. Yours hasn’t fallen and you don’t think you could force it down for anything.

“dn’t tell kiri.”

Mina’s last words come before either of you try to look away from the other, and modesty evaporates. Bakugou’s grin erupts across his face and you disintegrate fully in hysterics on the rug. He tips his head back and roars.

His laugh is a bonfire, you can hardly hope to hear it and ever calm down, you will laugh together like this until you die surely. He stumbles in his giddiness and backs against the walls to support Kirishima’s weight– Kirishima who wheezes between the chill of the marble and the body of his friend. Tears shine in four Alderan eyes. Mina growls at your jostling. Your hands are stuck firmly to the ground to keep you both from falling over but, surrendering, she lets her fingers slip limp from your neck and tips right over sideways, sprawled.

“– wait Mina, fuck, gods–”

All it takes it one fuck to have Bakugou sliding down the wall like a ragdoll, a hand trying to stitch his gut back together. He’s wheezing now too, exhausted. His ears are red. The veins in the back of his fist threaten to spill from how hard he clenches in laughter.

One second of eye contact and you’re both inconsolable again on the ground. He and Kirishima hunched against the wall, you trembling over your lost cargo, “Mina come back,” you urge through gasps and giggles. Every time you look over to Bakugou, another bout of something bubbles up from your heart. It comes out with the laughter you can’t keep down, but they aren’t the same. They can’t be. One is rich and warm, and the other burns like sugar. Like breathing fire.

A foot soldier is not thrilled to find the four of you enjoying yourselves all over her post and doesn’t appear overly excited at the prospect of corralling Alderans to bed. 

“Up,” someone grunts, so much softer than anyone you know. Prince Bakugou has steadied himself on his feet and Kirishima again on his back, and leans over where you’re trying to coax Mina’s arms over your shoulders. He tries to suppress it, but his canines poke sharp out of the corner of a grin. He looms close. Close enough to cast his shadow over you in the moonlight and waft caramel through your hair, “C’mon.”

You would have complied without an argument, if anything failed to contain a chuckle or two, but he doesn’t give you time. Bakugou loops one arm around Mina’s back and your chest and lifts both of you up in an effortless hoist. You rush to grab onto her in the seconds he lets you dangle a few good inches off the ground before setting you down again. He rolls his eyes at the Takoban guard, “Dead on my fucking feet,” and reaches for you to follow. He’s blinking at you like he didn’t just toss three full-grown Alderans around and you’re focusing hard to blink back. Your ears itch with an awful heat.

“Captain,” he looks between the guard– antsy and relieved– and you, and smirks with confusion, “let’s go.”

You hop twice to situate Mina and nod as politely to the guard as you can manage before falling in line beside your prince. Your shoulders bump in the rush. Not-looking was easier before you knew what his smile sounded like.

Mina’s room is in the guest wing, where they house drunk ball guests and foreign diplomats. It’s entirely plain. You ignore a pang of satisfaction at your new bedroom in the highest tower and knock the door open with your hip, boys close behind.

Bakugou hardly waits a second before he dumps Kirishima over his shoulder hard onto a white sofa. They both wheeze, Kirishima more of a subdued misery compared to his prince’s relief and the next sound is a creak not a breath because Bakugou’s feet are heavy on the floorboards when he walks away.

Your friends aren’t lords, but you’re still a soldier. You’ll be gentle. In the dark, you sit at the edge of Mina’s bed and lower her backward into the blankets where she lays, snoring, before you roll her onto her side. It’s pitch black with the curtains drawn, but you know from the silence the prince is long gone.

With a few pillows lined up behind Mina, you rise and make your way to the poor champion in a lump on a sofa much too small for him. You’ll need light for this. The curtains take two hands to tie back; they’re thick for winter weather but when you do, moonlight drowns the room and everyone inside begins to glow. Why are beautiful things here so cold? Your stomach aches from the laughter and you try to be thankful instead of anything else that the prince has gone to bed. This is your job after all. You can’t smell the sea with the windows closed and so it’s almost like being home, dead alone like always.

“What’re you doing?”

Your forehead cracks against the glass in surprise and you turn with both hands pressed hard to your head like you weren’t just falling asleep against the windowpane.

Bakugou raises an eyebrow behind a tall candle and shuts the door behind him. “You know you’re not actually talkin when you stare like that, right?” His grin is more sarcastic than before but no less warm. You gather yourself as the prince sets his candle in a slot beside the door and surveys his company. “Go to bed,” he clucks after a moment of thought.

He crosses the room and inspects three more fat candles melted together on a table in front of the sofa. Kirishima groans. Bakugou pinches a wick. Pink and white burst from under his fingernails and purple crackles under the light his sparks make. Red is next. Pinching, pinching, popping in the dark, until each candle has been lit by the smell of caramel.

He crosses again and lowers himself onto a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed as you watch and remember to speak, “Go.”

“I can’t leave them.” 

“They’re fine.”

“I won’t.”

After weeks of defiance, why does he choose now to smile like that? “You’re a nightmare.” 

“I can’t. If they aspirate–”

“They’ll deserve it.”

“Highness–”

“You think I can’t keep two drunk babies from dying in their sleep?” Bakugou rolls his eyes and finally scoops his chin up to look at you.

Weeks, months– years, of vitriol– and in three nights you’ve forgotten how his lips curl when he stares at something that he hates. How could you think of anything but home when he watches you with all his attention and the warmth of earthenware eyes? How does your heart hold its seams closed?

He will watch over his friends without sleep, he will suffer their boredom in a matchbox carriage so that they can see this ocean he hates so much. He will fight Takobans and diplomats and royalty to keep his party safe, he’ll sit in the kitchens and pluck your splinters instead of attending a feast in his honor and he will throw himself into the sea.

“Y/n.”

“I won’t leave you.”

His flinch would be bright enough to see on a starless night– in the blacks of shadows. You kneel beside the soft spot he’s made for himself at the foot of Mina’s bed and try to remember how easy it was to laugh with him now that the closeness makes your skin prickle at the hair. He clears his throat instead of teasing.

Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing.

His voice comes and you turn to look because you are incorrigible. His lips are the first thing that catch the light of the stars in the window beyond you. They’re crooked with attitude. He wets them when he’s thinking and they purse to the left as he speaks.

“I,” The sound is gravel underfoot, “I want..”

You hum, confused– exhausted– and he blinks once slowly, something between frustration and thought and the lull of bed, before turning to meet you. This isn’t the closest you’ve ever been. That helps you see him better. A scar you’ve never noticed catches the moonlight and shines in his hairline and you can count the sleep starting to gather in his pretty eyes.

“Yesterday– earlier I,” a shake of his head kills the thought. It’s hard to hear so you’re much too close and when your pinky presses his from how near you are leaning he turns away and frames himself again in starlight like a ruffled hen. “Earlier,” growling now, “Why unarmed?”

“Unarmed what?”

His jaw catches candlelight when he looks to you again so quickly, exasperated but seemingly entertained, “Combat, you oaf.”

“In the soldiers’ quarters?”

Where did the hatred go? There are mosquitoes you haven’t forgiven– is that what this is? Forgiveness. Sitting on your knees like a proper soldier but letting sleep take all other reason away? Pressing closer than you need to hear him because it is autumn in hell and fire radiates from his chest– a longing Alderan fire you lost somewhere in the sea.

Bakugou rolls amused eyes but nods at the question. Forgiveness isn’t right but you can’t move away, you will never be free of him. You will never want to be.

“It’s,” you start, distracted by weariness and the rhythm of Mina’s breathing– footsteps in the castle and a blue tinge on the windows edge like frost– he bumps your shoulder with his. Warmth finally bleeds into you. He watches just as close as you do because you’re both whispering hardly-awake, but his attention is firmly yours. Red flicks from your neck to an ear, and back again. From your eyes to your lips and back again.

“It’s harder to hold back with a weapon.”

He jerks back instead of spitting on you because his laughter comes faster than he can keep it down, but Kirishima groans and candles flicker and you close your eyes to eat the sound of his joy. You’re slipping. You curl towards him and rest your head on the curve of the bed as he regains the parts of himself that will help him sit up. When he faces you again he’s lost his shield and spear. The iron that clenched his jaw and furrowed his brows and slit his eyes and lace his scowl with hatred, gone. All that’s left is lionheart laughter and a fascination with your smile.

Two Alderans melting. Your legs are sliding out from under that proper kneel and his hands are slipping from the fists he tried to knot them in. Bakugou mirrors you when he rests his head on the edge of the mattress because his bonfire is burning down. Mina snores once loudly and startles herself.

“What does aspiration sound like?” Prince Bakugou Katsuki is his mother’s son smiling with a pale moon cheek smushed into the bedding that supports him. Always looking at you. Close enough to hold.

“Like someone choking on vomit.”

He laughs with everything he has left and rolls his face flat into the duvet. Everything he has left isn’t much, maybe just a candle. It’s enough that you’re smiling again in the pool of wax.

He peeks one eye out from the blanket, “Think we’re in the clear?”

He will roar, he will kill for his people and speak to strangers like ants. He will scare children and end wars and infuriate his dressmaker. He will glare. He will let his mages tease him because it makes them happy and he will watch over them when they’re too drunk to stand. He might laugh. Gods please laugh again. He will close every window and throw you a peach and he will make magic because he knows that you love it.

Suddenly it’s easy, not forgiveness, something new. You, spear and shield of the king. Something like devotion.

It’s a horrible thing to sleep on the floor and Bakugou wakes up first, facing the sunrise with your weight on his arm. You, the fierce and deadly dragon. Your cheek is pressed to his shoulder and the pressure makes you pout. Your lips tremble with breath.

He’ll watch your chest rise. He’ll let your fingers curl around his like ivy when he dares to move and he’ll close his eyes for a moment instead of thinking too hard about hunger or the pink scar that pokes out from the neck of your tunic. You will wake up slightly later than dawn, drooling, alone, blankets wrapped warmly around you.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @nonomesupposedto @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @lunrai @km7474 @cathwritestragediesnotsins @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @falling4fandoms @katanaski @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @bakugouswh0r3 @zukowantshishonourback @ultracrii @chandiewashere @screechingdreameater @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2 @flyhighinthesky @1astr0id1 @thebluespacecow @mizzfizz @butterscotch-ripple-icecream @phoenix-draws77 @ltadoriyuujl @dreamingoftomorroww @optimisticprime3 @misscaller06 @the-omnipotent-phlowr @king-dynamight @sky-angel101 @rosiejacklyn

could not tag for some reason :(

[twomanyfandomshelp]

If you haven’t listened to the Thunder Saga yet, this is your spoiler warning.

Also, look at this album cover art! It’s so beautiful.

Apologies in advance for all the caps lock you’re about to see, and please ignore whatever typos or grammatical errors you find, it’s like three in the morning.

Enjoy watching me slowly lose my mind and my commentary become more and more unhinged.

MR. RIVERA-HERRANS

JORGE

JAY

MR. JALPEÑO

MY HEART CAN’T TAKE THIS WHY MUST YOU BE SO TALENTED never stop please Jay I need more I need your music directly in my veins

SUFFERING

Oh my gosh, I figured this song would be about the sirens but what the heck how did I not realize the siren would pretend to be Penelope?!

“Come play with me and our daughter” Excuse me, Mrs. Siren you are incorrect, he has a son and he is wonderful how dare you disrespect Telemachus like that. Watching chat go crazy over this line during the watch party was pretty fun though.

Odysseus tricking the siren into telling him how to avoid Poseidon was so smart!

YOU’RE TELLING ME EVEN POSEIDON IS AFRAID OF SCYLLA?!

This chorus is a bop

DIFFERENT BEAST

Oh my gosh this is such a tone shift from the last one and I love it!

I LOVE THIS CHORUS AND THE CALLBACKS OH MY GOSH

My man is so smart and I love him for it. Not only did he figure out there were sirens nearby just from an empty ship, but he had the whole crew put beeswax in their ears and scoop up the sirens while he distracted their leader (I’m assuming she’s their leader?! idk) and tricked her into telling him how to avoid Poseidon!

THE SIRENS BEGGING ODYSSEUS TO SPARE THEM AND ODYSSEUS’ RESPONSE OH MY GOD “i made a mistake like this/it almost cost my life/I can’t take more risks of not seeing my wife/cut off their tails, we’re ending this now/throw their bodies back in the water/let them drown” SIR WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DOWN WITH MY ODY?!?! HE WAS NOT KIDDING ABOUT BECOMING THE MONSTER RUTHLESSNESS IS MERCY UPON OURSELVES

And now the chorus is different and it’s talking about Odysseus and the choice he made to become a monster and ahfhsidhsndg

ODYSSEUS SCREAMING TO KILL THEM ALL AND THE SIRENS’ SCREAMS?!?! JORGE!!!!

SCYLLA

Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh

KJ BURKHAUSER’S VOICE IS SO FREAKING BEAUTIFUL I LOVE IT SHE SOUNDS SO PRETTY AND HAUNTING AT THE SAME TIME AND THEN SHE GETS SCARY AND I JUST AAAAAHHH🧎‍♀️🙇🏼‍♀️

“Deep down you know that we are the same” Excuse me ma’am what does that mean?!

EURYLOCHUS HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO US?!?? I already knew he opened the fucking bag but it hurts to hear him admit it out loud

EURYLOCHUS’ “forgive me” SOUNDS EXACTLY LIKE ODYSSEUS’ “forgive me” FROM JUST A MAN AND I KNOW THAT’S THE POINT BUT IT STILL BREAKS MY HEART

FULL SPEED AHEAD

“Eurylochus, light up six torches” NO ODY DON’T DO IT DON’T SACRIFICE YOUR MEN

THAT “hello” EXCUSE ME MA’AM??!?!!

HER VOICE OH MY FUCKING GOD

THE SCREAMS IN THE BACKGROUND AS THE SIX MEN ARE TAKEN AAAAAAHHHHHH

MUTINY

I love the snippets we’ve heard of this one, I’m very excited and so very scared.

EURYLOCHUS IS SO PISSED AT ODYSSEUS OH MY GOD NO STOP TALKING EURY YOU’RE GOING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED!!!

HERE IT IS HERE’S THE PART I KNOW OH MY GOD I’M SO SCARED!!!

WHAT THE REST OF THE CREW STEPPED IN AND STABBED ODYSSEUS INSTEAD BECAUSE HOW COULD THEY EVER TRUST HIM AGAIN KNOWING THAT HE’LL SACRIFICE THEM TO GET HOME!!!

NO DON’T DO IT EURY DON’T EAT THE COWS!!! I DON’T CARE HOW FUCKING HUNGRY YOU ARE EURYLOCHUS DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH THOSE COWS!!!

THE CALLBACKS TO LUCK RUNS OUT!!!

OH MY FUCKING GOD EURYLOCHUS JUST CALLED HIM ODY OH MY GOSH “Ody we’re never gonna get to make it home, you know it’s true… You don’t know that’s true!” Eurylochus no don’t give up if you give up you’re definitely never making it back home 😢

OH MY GOD NOW EURYLOCHUS SAID “I’m just a man” SIR YOU DON’T GET TO SAY THAT IT’S ONE THING TO KILL AN INFANT TO SAVE YOUR WIFE AND SON IT IS ANOTHER TO OPEN A BAG THAT YOUR CAPTAIN SPECIFICALLY SAID NOT TO OPEN BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T TRUST HIM WHEN GUESS WHAT HE WAS RIGHT AND OH LOOK NOW YOU’VE KILLED MOST OF YOUR MEN ARE YOU HAPPY EURYLOCHUS OH AND NOW YOU’VE KILLED APOLLO’S CATTLE WHICH IS GOING TO KILL EVERYONE ELSE WHAT THE FUCK EURYLOCHUS THIS IS YOUR FUCKING FAULT AND NO SHUT UP I’M NOT CRYING YOU’RE CRYING 😭

NO NO NO DON’T KILL THE FUCKING COWS

The way Odysseus immediately goes into leader mode and starts commanding his men in a desperate attempt to save them even though they just LITERALLY FUCKING STABBED HIM IN THE BACK and he begged them not to kill the cows

“We’re too late” oh my god you can the emotion in Ody’s voice because he desperately wants to save his men and they’ve doomed themselves

THUNDER BRINGER

YES I’M SO FUCKING READY LET’S GOOOOOO

Luke Holt has an amazing voice oh my gosh the way he says distress and confess 🥵

I KNOW WE’VE ALREADY HEARD THIS CHORUS BUT IT’S SO FUCKING GOOD OH MY GOD

“Choose. …choose?… Someone’s gotta die today, and you have got the final say. You or your crew.” OH MY GOD WAIT WHAT I DIDN’T REALIZE ODYSSEUS HAD TO CHOOSE WHAT NO

It’s giving that one TikTok sound “One and two. One of you’s gonna die. The other’s gonna live. And, the thing is, it’s your choice.”

JUST ZUES FORCING ODYSSEUS TO MAKE ANOTHER IMPOSSIBLE CHOICE!!!!

The combination of the crew singing the lyrics from Just a Man and Penelope singing about taking away Odysseus’ suffering is just… so beautiful and so heartbreaking at the same time

“Captain?… I have to see her… But we’ll die… I know” OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK JAY AND ARMANDO HOW CAN YOU DO THIS THE EMOTION THAT THESE MEN CAN CONVEY WITH JUST THEIR VOICES IS UNREAL

And now we’re back to Luke’s absolutely phenomenal voice as Zues just massacres Odysseus’ crew

NOT THE SAD PIANO PLAY OUT NO JAY DON’T oh it’s too late, now I’m crying.