#storm blot gender

[terms-made-by-toons]

First post!!

A set of Xenogenders both based on Epic Mickey!

Storm Blot - a gender related to the unused enemy the storm blot, where your gender feels represented by it along with blotings and the general dark theming of Epic mickey

There can be association with Rabbits / Oswald the lucky rabbit!

Thinner Mouse - a gender related to the unused Route / appearance known as “Scrapper mickey”, where your gender feels represented by it along with Ink dripping from your body and the general dark theming of Epic mickey

There can be association with Mice / Mickey Mouse!

[thetwstwildcard]

"I'm often painted as the bad guy, and the artistic part of me wants to hand out the brush."

Full Name: Emrys Solderini

Gender: Non-binary

Age: Unknown

Sexuality: Pansexual

Birthday: December 31st

Star Sign: Capricorn

Height: 190.5 cm (roughly 6'3")

Eye Color: Varies/ Changes randomly

Hair Color: Warm Ash Blonde

Homeland: Unknown

Affiliation: Solstice Watchers

Job: Overblot Monster Slayer

Favorite Food: Baccalá alla Vicentina

Likes: Saving innocent people, their family, their organization, animals, simple foods, crystals, coffee, distinct smells, light magic, canines, and ancient magic

Dislikes: Overblot Monsters, Dire Crowley, too quiet/calm places, the calm before the storm, unskilled magic users, bland foods, spending time on "frivolous things" and things that could change their perception

Hobby: Looking at the memories of those they took a fragment of their black crystal from to make sure they are remembered

Personality: While looks wise people would think they are an aloof loner, they are surpringly social. However, they do seem to put up a wall to not allow people to become too dear to them. They are soft spoken to children and those who are learning magic. They will never harm an overblotting magician, only aiming for the monster behind them. They wear their scars with pride and are eager to tell the stories of how they got each one. While they say they refuse to take students, they are quick to teach and advise those who struggle with magic control

Trivia:

Unique Magic: Slayer's Binding - Can control anyone with the slightest bit of blot to obey them. Obedience increases with the amount of blot in the individual. They simply have to just say a command and the blotted will have to obey. A mark will also appear on the blotted that will fade with time (depending on the amount of blot)

Their family were prominent members of The Solstice Watchers, however they have all passed. They carry their pocket watches with them (a symbol of the organization)

Has buried many who have died in overblots and will go to visit them on occasion

They are actually very emotional, but have learned to hide their emotions to avoid accumulating blot

They became a hunter when they were 7 but killed their first overblot monster when they were 15

They are hypercritical of Crowley because they do not want to bury more children

The closest they came to overblotting was when they watched their family die, that monster was the only one they didn't take a shard from

They never formally attended a school but are well versed in magic knowledge, combat and ancient spells

Can smell blot on a magician

While close to those outside of the organization, they are distant to other hunters as they know the job can be deadly and so don't want to be close to feel more loss

The "cigarettes" they smoke are not true cigarettes. Instead they are herbal with their default being honey and rose

[heightstm]

❛❛ — you have such a february face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness. ❜❜

. ✧ . * . ˚ ━━ ｢ LEE SUNG KYUNG, CISFEMALE, SHE/HER. ｣ welcome CLYTEMNESTRA NIHAR, the SPOUSE OF THE HIGH RULER of THE WINTER COURT to velaris! it is well known that the 35 / 699 year old HIGH FAE is WARM and PATIENT. it is a lesser known fact that they are also MOODY and SELF-SACRIFICING. however, it is knowing just how cold it is by the crunch of snow beneath your feet, the haunting whistle of the wind blowing through the sparkling icicles, snowflakes collecting on dark eyelashes, and the golden sun warming your face – reminding you that the winter is beautiful too, that truly define who they are. in the shadows, their alliance with THE WINTER COURT makes them a force to be reckoned with. truly, who knows what to expect of them. cauldron save them, mother hold them.

full name: clytemnestra wren nihar ( née cygnet ) nickname: clem, clemmie age: six hundred and ninety-nine, biologically thirty-five species: high fae gender + pronouns: cisfemale + she/her sexuality: heterosexual marital status: married to kardan nihar, high lord of the winter court court + allegiance: of the winter court, loyal to the winter court

height: 5'10" build: lithe and slender hair: black , in competition with a heavy blot of ink on paper eyes: lifted hazel eyes that reflect a kaleidoscope of colours complexion: pale skin in a permanent state of rosy thanks to her residence in the winter court fae: pointed ears capped with white gold crawling up the lobe

i. our dearest clemmie was born on a brutal winter’s day with lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony, and skin white as snow. the trees shook and the howling of the wind harmonized with her mother’s as she clutched the bark of her bedpost. that’s how the legend goes, they say.  her parents love their little girl as they love each other, and the heir of their family's grandiose fortunes grows happy and healthy. there’s little to speak on in a time so gone to the annals of time but she is loved and grows to love.

ii. clytemnestra grows swiftly into her long limbs, grace seeping into her bones. her beauty is well-praised with annual portraits done to show off just how beautiful she becomes with each passing year. it’s her birthright to grow into her beauty and into her rightful place in the mosaic of beautiful ( and perhaps not-so outwardly beautiful ) kinds of faeries that reside throughout the winter court. her wonderment turns into caring, and with caring comes her protective nature. she loves the winter court. akin to the steadfast flame in the window during a winter storm and the yuletide joy that offers reprieve in the bitter cold, it is home. prior to her life as a miserable wife, clytemnestra is an advisor in court. although sharp-minded, she doesn’t get to do much. she’s just a girl. she knows there’s a hierarchy to follow. but, it’s thrilling to be so close to the action. to watch change happen. the war is a startling wake-up call. 

iii. how better to protect her home than at the right hand of the high lord of the winter court ? that's how her parents reason it to her before they ask her for the rest of her life. and although she has a love and a life that she cherishes, she puts her happiness behind her because how does she say no to her loving parents who have never asked anything else of her ? they simply want to help the court and she ... she is in agreement of that. the days of being paid to voice her opinion have passed, but she tries to enjoy being the wife of the high lord ( while the court enjoys her family’s gold ). it feels that more than a wife, she is a mother to their people. the winter court is her life. 

iv. possible connections: friends who meet every so often to catch up over wine and dance ! someone she simply doesn’t like due to a snide remark made in passing about the winter court ! perhaps you don’t think she deserves to stand next to the high lord ! maybe you support her endeavours !

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Celaya AGE & BIRTH DATE. 30 & October 17th, 2994 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cis Female & She/her NATIONALITY. Iskaran SPECIES. Witcher FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. N/A FACE CLAIM. Lindsey Morgan

biography

( tw child abuse, war, death, injury )

Fear was the little death - and under the litany of stars, those which pierced the moon blotted sky, a young child willed for such fears to settle and pass. Celaya was only seven, cosmic runes and ancient ruins surrounded her home, the helm of the Westlands. Her parents were of the very scholars within the mystic runescape, their livelihoods dedicated to the swirling mists and depths which shrouded them. Celaya grew up amazed, a beacon of hope, a vestige of potent storms and willpower. She was strong like her mother, had the same freckles and rampant ambitions that could not be so easily quelled with realism. But she was seven now, seven and half-dead already, as a weaver did what was to be done. If her parents had been so enamored with the mysticism of the Mistveil Mires, why would they let fear overcome them when their daughter’s own ancient magic came to its rightful apex? Celaya knew this answer, understood it well; witchers prowled, they hunted and extinguished, and there was no mercy even for one as free-spirited as she. 

Fear was the mind killer - it would be the incremental loss of her very being if she did not stand tall as the witchers swarmed her home. Spirited hope was wilted lightly as her parents did little to protect her from the manacles which wrought her new fate. A criminal whereas she’d never once stolen a crumb of bread or told a bolden lie. Celaya had known what fate would await her if she had been to weave, but she had done so anyway - it had not made this ascension any easier. 

Fear was what brought total obliteration and Celaya stood tall and mute amidst the journey to the Northlands, to the Witchers Watch. The mind commands the body and the body obeys, the mind could order itself and meet resistance but submerged within the Witchers Watch, trembling alongside Lake Dökkvatn, she was wily and unassuming. Her voice in life was not conjured until long after she was given agency in her new vision as a witcher, but such a summit would come later. For now, a once foolhardy child folded in on herself as frightened eyes peered around the small group of children that each spoke of something similar to her. One wrought the same freckles, another held the same sleek hair that wrapped tightly in a braided bun. Each recoiled in the same afflicted agony as poison was administered, the special brew that would strip away the core of their magic. Fear was the mind killer but sometimes one submitted to it - watering eyes, an acrid taste on her tongue as vomit fell from her lips and Celaya dropped and convulsed. The First looked down at her, sneering and chuckling; they’d seen such violent affairs many times before and was immune to the cruelty of the practice, did little to aid her as guttural screams involuntarily escaped her lips. 

A process could not be understood by stopping it and as Celaya went limp, fire melding with her veins, the screams stopped as she was taken alongside the others to be placed on bedrest until 72 hours had passed and consciousness would reclaim her. The one with the braided bun and another who’d spat at the First’s feet would not be there when Celaya first sat up and it painted the wretched truth to what was only the beginning of her freshly carved story. Understanding moved with the flow of the process and though her fate was carved in the flesh of brutality, Celaya learned to surmount it. Her back stood a bit straighter, she learned the weighted hilt of each weapon adorned in calloused palms and her ferocity came upon the urge of survival. Cruelty was not innate in her pursuit but it became a kindred part of her; a spitfire only tamed by High Witcher Gunnhild herself, and much like the first Celaya would resist against any blinding light which tried to take her. 

The people who can destroy a thing are those which control it and it was any wonder why they all answered to any barked command the High Witcher reported. The Final Trial had her sit within the mountains of Valkyrie’s Rest and though she could see the illuminated lights of her home off within Westreach, the soon to be witcher felt nothing which resonated within her towards it. Celaya’s graduation, alongside the six others who advanced alongside her, came with a bellowed warcry as blades were cracked together, staffs and hilts were pounding against the floor and the head of an Armanite lounging at her feet - whatever terrors had once infused Celaya towards the plight of survival, they were all forgotten as the poison saddled a new identity and purpose. Her braid, woven by the High Witcher herself, was wrapped tightly in a bun as Celaya left Lake Dökkvatn behind. Whatever teeth of childhood, blood and bruises of adolescence, and the resistance of her youth which once festered there had died; nothing had been immune to the alchemy of transitioning to a fully blooded witcher. 

Her first trek across Iskaldrik had brought her to the earthy rust of the Ironwoods. Her training served her well and Celaya learned to brush off any gaze of hatred or vision of fear cast upon her; the world had not wrought a comforted journey for her so why should she be kind in return? One would only be foolish to think they were above the mast of cruelty and Celaya engrossed herself in the profession; she had no parents to strive after and so she looked at the vision that was the First and grew frantic to reach it. By the time she was twenty, Celaya had lost track of how many she had personally sent to the mines but she never lost track of how many scars gouged her frame or twisted a snarl on her expression. 

Fear was the little death - and she’d had so many since she’d been seven, small and unassuming, taken to the frigid embrace of Lake Dökkvatn. Each little death repurposed her; she’d been seven and it only took seven years for the body to purge old cells completely. How many lives had she lived since she’d been that small, weaving child hellbent on leaning into her powers? How many little deaths chipped away at her soul until she was merely alchemist poison and violence? Years could biologically strip away what made up her very being but it would not change the choice - how Celaya chose to perpetuate the very violence of their kind each and every time. If she did not rest nor falter then she could not lament on what could have been. No titles, no land, no children; fear was the total obliteration of her entire self and she refused to grant it absolute power over her. If Celaya was to be in possession of anything it was the stability to endure, the strength in her disposition and the glee of becoming one with the mind of a huntress, a killer. 

Survival was the ability to swim in strange waters - change was this perpetual ebb and flow and just as swiftly as she had found paramount comfort in being the monster to hunt monsters, the entirety of her world was flipped. Aetheron attacked, the magic they spun and wove had called to her as this beacon, and as a moth to a flame, Celaya ran towards the battlefield, a last line of defense for Hrafntun. They’d been pushed back to Runestorm Keep as the watchtower fell, a mighty sea of acrid flames, the pungent flavor of magic wiping the glacial slate of Iskaldrik clean. Plumes of magic equivalent to hellfire rained down on her and the others, bodies of her allies fell beside her and it seemed in tandem foes would multiply in potency. Perhaps this was everything Celaya had been trained for, the ultimate foe, this mighty bastion of magic that seemed unyielding as the smell of mottled flesh filled the air and the anguished screams of Iskaran-born protectors fell. Without change something sleeps inside us and as Celaya watched everything go up in flames she ran; abandonment was not like her, but there was nothing left of Hrafntun, of Runestorm Keep. They had become skeletal vestiges of what she once remembered and in order to fight another day, she turned towards the monstrosity that was the sea. 

A remnant piece of the watchtower served as her buoy; the sea should have taken her, a massive entity with its own mind, but it was the raiders who first swept upon her. Her rations, her weaponry, Celaya was left with only the sharpness of her mind, but it did little to assuage the fact that she was now a prisoner of the sea. The spraying foam and hidden entities that lay waiting in the water would be kinder than the raiders who had hoisted her aboard and as rampant storms took hold of the Veiled Sea, Celaya managed to slip away into the waters as though it was her only chance. Starvation took hold quickly, exhaustion a secondary affliction as hunger caused her muscles to still and freeze. No matter the adeptness her trajectory in life had warranted, no one was any match for the ruthlessness of the sea. The miasma of rot and salt followed her, infected wounds and a dampened spirit allowing her to be this willing entity that was tossed from wave to wave. A merciless journey, one forged from the desperation of the storm inside her and the cruelty of the storm around her. 

Her body washed up on the shores of Borderreach, a husk of what once was. Whatever branded her a witcher had been pried from her identity, stripped from her by the brine of the sea and pilfered by wretched raiders awaiting their next score. The musk of survival pervaded the senses as one looked upon Celaya and wondered how it was any miracle one survived the wrath of the sea. The fates above could grant that she was instead granted the mercy of it, however scant such mercy was. A bastion of vigilance and defense greeted her under the command of Lady Severian, whatever similarities resounded in the watchtower were lost upon blank eyes as Celaya attempted to piece together who she could have ever been. Hardy folks looked upon her with hesitance; these were the protectors of this rugged expanse and it seemed their personality was to match it fluidly. Two weeks lost under the brine of the sea was enough to make any seasoned warrior weak, but from the look of Celaya’s rags and the peak of exhaustion in her gaze; Lady Severian scoffed at the idea that she could be devised as a threat to their borders.

Celaya permitted her fears to pass, allowed herself to overcome any prospective what-ifs and stepped into the refuge of Lady Severian’s home. It allowed her the first hot meal she’d had in ages, willed the exhaustion to expel itself from her bones, and salved the wounds she’d endured from what seemed to be the innate violence of the sea. Celaya had no wiseness to the war that brewed in her home Kingdom, the violence she once perpetuated, and the lethality that was hidden inside her and nothing Lady Severian attempted seemed to be successful at drawing these truths to the surface. Her body had not only reverted to survival mode it had transformed into a will of potent trauma masked by the need to endure.

Fear was the mind-killer, it had been the little death, and if she was to carve a new identity for herself then Celaya would step willingly forward into this new land that embraced her, no matter the cost to her past. 

personality

+ Ambitious, Plucky, Valorous – Cruel, Abrasive, Intolerant 

played by gus. cst. she/her.

[twisted-wonderland-but-gayer]

All righty

Ethan Winters Yuu-Except being a hybrid of mold there a hybrid of blot.They survive shit they weren't supposed ,lived through being burned, ripped up by leaves,and water blasted with the force of a power washer.

How Ethan got his heart ripped out by Mother Miranda.Yuu has there heart ripped or pierced either by lida or malleus.lida probably, then after doing a test finding out Yuu is more blot then human.

"Get up your journey's not done yet.You are still needed."

After Grim's overblot is defected they are fill with a sense of relief "It's over everyone's fine,we won,we won. Grim is breatheing.Its over"

Think of that scene of Ethan handing off rose but it's grim to Ace and Decue.This is when you body breaks apart,well Yuu just laughing saying, "We won boys come on,we won it's over".

Ace and Decue are just holding you ,well you body breaks apart in to blot or ashe.There will be no funeral to attend because there will be no body.The only thing left of them is the black and white tie of there unform.

Yuu died with a smile on your face. Completed what you where brought here to do.Like a true hero.

"The Aftermath"- Yuu is Dead

Soooo I kinda got carried away… This is after Yuu dies as i feel it would be much more angsty... Can be interpreted as suicide. Ortho is with the first year squad and admires Yuu as a sibling/parent. Gender Neutral.

There was a storm over the entirety of the Sage Isles since last week, courtesy of Malleus’ foul mood. No one could blame him though, for he was mourning his only friend. Everyone felt the impact of Yuu’s… disappearance as some called it, too afraid to call it as it was— death. There was nobody found, so how could they be so sure Yuu died?

They were lost, poofed back to their own world, alive and well— an idea Crowley even encouraged, he couldn’t handle the guilt. It leads to a lot of tension between certain groups of friends. Disgusted about the events that transpired. If Crowley was just a bit more competent…

"I hope Yuu is okay back home” “For the last time Kalim— They. Are. Dead."

“Even I thought you were more mature than that, Floyd, they’re gone.”

“In all of my years of living, I have seen people come and go, yet the pain of losing someone stays the same.”

“Yuu still isn’t back huh?”

Survivors' guilt was rampant. If only I were stronger, a certain wolf thinks to himself. If only I was more supportive, another duo agree. If only I listened for once, a croco-fae cries. If only I predicted this, a bot calculates. If only I was a real man, a farmer mourns. If only I were less greedy, the octopus sighs, curling away. If only I wasn’t so closed off, a servant huffs. If only I was kinder, the lion concludes. If only I wasn’t so vain, the queen mumbles. If only I tried to see things from their perspective a rose groans. If only I was braver, a fiery figure lamented. If only I was there, a dragon grieved. If only I didn’t— a housecat cuts himself off.

Ramshackle was duller than ever. A few students leave offerings and gifts on their doorstep. No one dares to touch them. Friends going inside to help clean. Even Jack found himself wandering into Yuu’s room, remembering how barren it is. Nothing to call their own. They never had a single personal item that they could claim as theirs. Nothing to remember them by. Ace finds himself laying on Yuu’s bed, remembering when he first slept over

Sebek struggles to walk through the door. Epel can only sit in the living room with his memory of the camp that was held here. Deuce can only pace around the dusty house, trying to tidy here and there. Yuu’s death hasn’t truly hit him yet, it hasn’t really sunk in for anyone yet, actually— judging by the fact Ortho is still calculating the possibilities of Yuu being alive that is.

Grim can’t even stand being in Ramshackle anymore. He sleeps in Ace and Deuce’s shared room, on the tie they left behind. He refuses to wash it in fear it will lose Yuu’s scent. May god have mercy on the first person to try and touch it. No one really knows what to do…

Sam gave away many free items to students so they can also make offerings. It’s the least he could do for the little imp. Vargas couldn’t push his students to do their best in P.E, he couldn’t blame them, even he has lost some motivation. Perhaps he should start a self-defense routine to teach students. Vargas remembers the many bruises and wounds on Yuu’s body from their many fights.

Trein was also much more light in his lectures. The loss of Yuu was heavy on his heart. He saw them as another child of his and even told his daughters about them. He remembered how they wrote about wanting to meet their honorary sibling. What was he going to tell them? He couldn’t save the only other addition he had to his family. It was like losing his beloved all over again. 

Crewel was distraught. Yuu was his pup, you know? Yuu was one of the most responsible and kind students there were on this campus. They always went out of their way to help everyone. They were roped into everything. Yet they studied hard and always did the best in class. He often found himself left with them or working with them. He remembers draping his coat over Yuu when they fell asleep in his classroom after they passed out from exhaustion from their hard work. A domestic moment he hoped to have more of. They didn’t have parents right? Crewel never fancied himself a father figure but...

At least Yuu will hopefully rest easy knowing that there are no more blots causing issues.

A few more weeks passed, and many more went to leave an offering at the graveyards around Ramshackle. The first years have all decided to go visit Ramshackle together, hoping it could help with the mourning process. The whole way Ortho held Grim and buried his face in his fur to dry his tears. Jack held the child’s hand as they approached the dorm.

The solemn atmosphere between the group turned to shock when they see the state of the dorm. Run down and being torn apart. Crowley stood in front of the dorm as many sports club members helped to prepare for demolition. 

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS CROWLEY?! THIS IS YUU’S DORM!” Crowley paused, the usual eccentric headmage now solemn. He turned around to face the young men, all of them in states of anger and shock.

“I am well aware of that, young Zigvolt. However, since this dorm is no longer in use there is no need to keep it around. It was costing too much in maintenance anyways.”

The crew’s eyes widened, Ortho shook his head in disbelief. “What in tha hell?!” “You can’t just destroy it!” Deuce sputters out in shock. Ace nodded in agreement, brows knit together. “Yeah, Deuce is right! There’s so many memories in here. Ones with Yuu—“

“Which is precisely why it must be destroyed.” Crowley retorts, his voice leaving no room for debate. “No one can bear to be around that dorm anymore.”

Ortho sobbed, “Y-you can't just do that! I won’t let you. They’re like my big bro! This is all I have left of them!” “I’m sorry Ortho, but it must be that way.” Jack tsked “So is that how’re your gonna be headmage.” You could practically see the disgust in Jack's eyes. A vein was threatening to burst out of Epel's head, Sebek looked on with a mix of pure shock and rage.

Deuce tried to hold back his delinquent side as he held onto Ortho to soothe the child, allowing the boy to hold onto his blazer and sob. Ortho allowed himself to let go of Jack's hand. Ace was so close to just going up and punching Crowley, the same way he did to Riddle. Until...

Grim piped up. “W-well now that Yuu is gone, I can be housewarden now! You can’t just destroy my dorm!” “If you remember what I said at the beginning of the year, you and Yuu were only half of a student. Now that they are gone, you can no longer attend Night Raven College.” “NYANI?!” “If you all want something from the dorm, get it now before it is completely scrapped.”

“So you’re kicking Grim out now too?!” barked the redhead, absolute disbelief dripping out of his words. “Yes,” Crowley replied, coldly, cruelly. It was off-putting. “If it wasn’t for him, Yuu would still be here, wouldn’t they?”

[theyanderespecialist]

Base Yandere Trapper Headcanons: Old Fashion Courting (Bonus NSFW) (Dead By Daylight)

[Hello My Sexy Readers, I am here with a new chapter and the base headcanons of the trapper, I hope you all Enjoy this chapter here!]

-Base Headcanons With Trapper-

.Evan MacMillan started off as soft, sweet, artistic and kind.

.But from how his father raised him and how certain events happen in his life.

.Evan slowly became the trapper and after he met you in the entity realm

.You were a person that he did not understand fully.

.He knows your a modern human and he did not know how to feel about it.

.You are ahead of his time.

.He would be conflicted with very little.

.This is the entity realm not his world so it does not matter your race or gender just that he wants you.

.As said he was soft so he holds a bit of that piece still in him and is romantic with you

.He is a old fashion man coming from a very different time.

.He has a temper that is for certain he was made into a hard man.

.Also with being very old fashion he has values in which he wants his partner to stay home be it male or female and keep the house clean and cook dinner and warm his bed.

.He works hard in those challenges to make sure that you have food in your belly and a nice home.

.He would very likely have made a deal with the entity to keep you in his realm and where you cannot leave him.

.He would line the property of his estate with bear traps so you could not leave though even if you want to.

.He is rough and demanding and strict.

.But has a slight soft spot for you.

.With rivals if they are other killers he will keep you locked away from them.

.If his rivals are survivors he will not hesitate to kill them this is not even to fulfill his roll as killer.

.But to show that he is the best for you and they mean NOTHING.

.If you accept his love he is more willing to spoil you and such.

.If you are to reject him you can expect being chained to the bed not allowed to leave until you learn your place as his love

.He is the type of yandere to toss you over his shoulder and take you home as a prize and you should know you are his and his alone.

."You will be my partner, and I will be your husband, but you will have to listen to me, is that clear Sweetie?"

-BONUS hey person who requested this off of Archive you wanted kinky well her is the kink :D-

.He obviously has a size kink he is a big big man.

.In more places than one.

.He would love to just toss you over his shoulder carry you to bed where he throws you on it and demands you strip.

.Do not take to long or he will just tear the clothes off of you.

.He's waited for this for a long time, so he will not be to much into forplay the first night.

.He will know you need to be prepared as he may not be the longest but he is very thick.

.He would have a breeding kink, does not matter if you have those parts are not, it will be real breeding or role play.

.He may refer to you as a mother in this it is not to miss gender you but just to refer to you being pregnant with his seed.

.(You guys can brain storm GN Names for mother later)

.Once he gets your prepared he will have you ankles above hsi shoulders.

.Plowing into you and kissing down your neck leaving love bites in his wake.

.He is a chest man, so once he gets to those, may you gifted with boobs or not he is going to play with you chest.

.Twisting both nipples playfully with his hands.

.Then taking one in his mouth suck and making it nice and pink with nips and bites.

.He is going to make your chest so sensitive that you are shaking from that alone.

.During all of this he is still thrusting away in you, making you moan and squirm and grip the sheets.

.He be rough maybe even tying you up.

.He wants to see you as you come apart on him.

.Letting down all your guard and cum from him fucking you.

.But he is not done yet, he will keep going until he cannot go anymore.

.Your hole dripping with his seed, stomach slightly blotted from all the sperm inside or hole.

.He would then either pass out with you or clean you up and then sleep with you.

.It depends on how much you wore him out that night. ;3

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS Another chapter done, I hope you all enjoyed and stay sexy all of my friends!]

[hey-its-cweepy]

Name: Faust Astaroth

Gender: Male (He/Him)

Age: 17

Birthday: Feb 14

Star sign: Aquarius

Height: 6'1

Hair color: Black (blueish undertone)

Eye color: Red sclera, white iris/pupils

Occupation: Student

Dorm: Heartslaybul

School year: 2nd

Club: Light Music Club

Best subject: Defensive magic

Dominant hand: Left

Likes: Teasing, cats, spooky things, Riddle (ADMIRATION NOT ROMANTICALLY)

Dislikes: Horn/tail pulling, taking things too far

Favorite food: Red velvet cake (but any cake will do)

Least favorite food: Garlic

Hobbies: Trying out various instruments

Talent: He generate electric shocks from the electricity stored in his body, being capable of giving people electric shocks whenever he feels like it

Personality: Despite being offered to join Diasomnia, Faust preferred to just stick around in Heartslabyul, he likes that its chaotic yet in "order" at the same time. He prefers to spend his time alone, but when he does have company he enjoys teasing them. He has big respect and appreciation for Riddle, especially considering he earned his spot as Dorm Leader within his first year. He doesn't always take things seriously, but when he does, he means business!

Unique Magic: The Calm Before The Storm: The user is capable of summoning a huge storm around them, absorbing the electricity generated from it and using it to their advantage or storing it for later use. The longer its used, the more blot that's built up

[meat--grindr]

NFSW with Yandere Harry Warden.

Finally, after like, ten thousand years, it’s here! I’m so sorry this took so long. Both the Christmas break and the 46-page essay I wrote just before really swallowed my routine and motivation whole. But! I think I’ve found my words again, which means it’s back to the grind, baby!

Just some notes before we get going: as with the previous Yandere ask featuring best-boy Brahms, I feel I should give out a little warning. In general, I am not really a fan of the whole yandere thing, and I have some real issues with it when it comes to NSFW scenarios. I’m not judging if that’s your thing, I’m just saying it isn’t mine. That being said, I find the more possessive/protective aspect of the yandere troupe fits really well with slashers (possibly because I find it attractive on the lowest of keys asdkaskah). As was the case with that previous ask, I have taken some liberties that tend more toward ‘possessive’ than properly ‘yandere.’ As always, if this isn’t at all what you were hoping for, my DMs are open. Perhaps we could figure something else out together!

Under the cut you will find two different scenarios which follow a similar premise—you were flirting with someone else at a bar to make Harry jealous. When you get home, he takes matters into his own hands. Honestly, this is just borne out of my deeply held belief that our Valentines’ Slasher is a switch ;)

Jealousy: A Double Feature (Yandere [?]) Harry Warden (Gender Neutral Reader) – NSFW

The Set-Up:

·       Harry had been with you all night, that much you knew, though you had only caught sight of him once. He was tucked away in a dark corner of the bar, the brim of his hat pulled down low over his eyes. You spotted him over the shoulder of the friend of a friend—a stranger really, though that hadn’t stopped the pair of you from orbiting one another all night. You knew he was the perfect choice from the moment you set eyes on him. He was tall, broad shouldered, cut rough around the edges, but he had a sweet smile and an open face. It was one that said there would be no hard feelings at the end of the night if he didn’t end up going home with you. It almost made you feel bad, leading him on as you were. Almost.

·       The way you smiled and laughed at his (admittedly quite funny) jokes, the proximity of your hand to his on the table, the way you pressed your cheek to his, feeling the scrape of stubble along his jaw—none of it meant anything. You knew it and you were pretty sure Bradley (Braden?) knew it too. Harry Warden definitely knew it, but as you peaked over a flannel clad shoulder, you could see, even from a distance, the tight set of his jaw, and the tension in his shoulders. You smirked at him and leaned in to whisper into the stranger’s ear.

·       It was something utterly trivial—a compliment about his jacket, or a comment on how badly you needed another drink if your friend was going to play that song on the jukebox—nothing of substance, but you knew it would make Harry’s blood boil all the same.

·       When Happy calls last orders, you stand, exchanging lengthy Maritime goodbyes with close friends and friendly-for-the-night-strangers alike. Casting a glance around, you can’t find Harry. He must have slipped out already, not wishing to be spotted as the crowd thins. Coming out at all had been quite the risk for him and had taken more than a little convincing on your part.

·       You expect to meet him in the lot, but his face was not among those still milling about their cars, stuffing drunken friends into backseats or beginning tottering journeys down the street.

·       You count the alleys on Atlantic Street as you pass them, sure you’ll catch him in your peripherals, but you find each unoccupied, save for one. A pair of rats fight over a scrap of bread, their beady little eyes and slimy coats catching the dim light of the streetlamps in a greasy fashion that makes you almost ache for a shower.

·       Your eyes scan the streets as you walk, senses on high-alert for any sign of his presence—the puffed clouds of his breath in the cold or a late-night smoke curling up toward the streetlamps in the distance, a kicked pebble scraping across the pavement, anything. You find yourself jumping the gun and mistaking familiar landmarks for a more welcome shape in the darkness—the saplings you’d helped Mr. Hastings plant in his front yard in the summer, the devotional cross behind the hedges at St. Andrews Presbyterian, the statue of the town’s founder in the square. Even with each disappointment, your mind jumps to the next place he could be waiting for you: the grocer’s lot, the schoolyard, the ballfield—all empty.

·       It isn’t until you turn into your driveway that he materializes, as if from the darkness itself. His face is bathed in shadow, his shoulders hunched against the cool breeze. He follows you up the drive, hands dug deep in his pockets. He’s utterly silent, but you’re relieved to see him anyway. He slouches up the steps, bracing a shoulder against the weather-worn siding. It creaks beneath the pressure. 

·       “Well, you sure got here quick. I didn’t see you leave.”

·       He makes no attempt to respond, merely waiting for you to produce your keys and let him inside. While his silence is not wholly unusual, this one feels…pointed. Perhaps you had upset him more than you had intended.

·       You chew your lower lip as you contemplate this, fishing your keys from your pocket and turning them in the lock. The grating screech of rusty door hinges proclaims your late-night return into the silence. You cringe as the sound carries, echoing around the enclosed back porch. You hope your neighbours are heavy sleepers, as if not there would surely be some comment made in the morning. The folks around here are nice enough that you doubt there would be any legitimate animosity in it, but sometimes their friendly commentary comes off more passive-aggressive than not, and their interest in your life more condescending than genuine. You know they mean no harm, but that doesn’t stop them from getting on your nerves now and again.

·       Fixing the hinges would have been a quick and easy thing, sure—a drop or two of WD-40 and a filthy rag were enough to work a quick miracle around these parts, but you knew they would only rust again when the heavy snow came in a few months time. And despite the optimistic predictions of a mild winter folks were spouting around town, come you knew they would.

·       The snow would drift in, creeping up the porch as it always did. First just a dusting, thin and powdery as icing sugar, easier to remove with a broom than a shovel. Then, almost overnight, the heavy snow would come, whipped by the wind as it howls across the harbour into great peaked dunes, waist-deep and packed tight against your door. On more than one occasion, you had found yourself climbing out through a first-floor window to dig a tunnel just to get the damn thing open.

·       No, it would be far less of a hassle to simply leave the hinges as they were—at least until the spring. By that time, there would hardly be a scrap of metal in the whole damn town that wasn’t oxidized nearly past the point of usefulness. Let the neighbours complain then, as if their hinges wouldn’t be squeaking just as badly.

·       Pushing through the second screen door, you stumble into the kitchen, already in the process of kicking off your boots. Your companion slips in behind you, allowing the screen to bang against the doorframe as it closed. The noise echoes around the tiled kitchen, battering your ears. You wince, but at least it wasn’t quite as piercing as the protesting hinges.

Part One—Domination or Mine, Mine, Mine:

·       The metallic music of jangling coat-hangers greets you as you throw open the closet and hang your jacket. Your fingers smooth over the wrinkled denim in a vain attempt to make it look even a smidge more presentable for the next time it’s worn. Deep down you know what it really needs is a good pressing. But you hated pressing clothes and would probably put it off until it couldn’t wait a moment longer.

·       Behind you, you hear the screen door woosh open again—probably Harry going out for a smoke, you think. Then the scream of the hinges pierces the night, and the resounding SLAM of the outer door shakes the house. You hear the lock click into place, a quieter sound, though it’s no less forceful. You whirl around, equal parts frightened by the noise and irritated by the man who had caused it.

·       “For Chrissake, Harry! It’s late, would it kill you to be more qu—!” You don’t get the chance to finish your reprimand before Harry’s strong hands catch you around the waist. He swings you about, storming forward to slam you against the door. The wood shudders with the impact, the flexible mesh of the screen warping around you; a thin net between the rough wood and your shoulder blades. Your head cracks against the door, white light bursting across your vision, blotting out the dark kitchen and the even darker shadow of the man who stood before you.

·       Even as the blinding brightness behind your eyes dissipates, you struggle to make out his features in the darkness despite your proximity. Then, his lips press against yours and the breath stills in your chest, unable, or simply unwilling to rise beyond the catch in your throat. They are warm and wet, tasting of bitter liquor and a recent cigarette—du MAURIER’s, you thought. You’d never seen more than the very tip of a pack peaking from a denim pocket or the rolled cuff of a shirtsleeve, but the red box was distinctive. He must have smoked it on the way home. The thought comes to you sluggishly, stuttering through the few sparking neural pathways that hadn’t shut down entirely when he’d first grabbed you. Dimly, you are aware that it’s an utterly absurd thought to have in this moment. How can you think of anything at all when Harry’s got you pinned against a door and he’s kissing you like a man starved? Maybe you’d knocked your head harder than you’d thought.

·       You try to clear your mind, directing your focus away from cigarettes and packaging and back to the matter at hand—Harry Warden.

·       You can almost feel the anger rolling off of him. It’s in the tightness of his jaw, the rough press of his hands against your hipbones, and the strength with which he keeps you pinned against the door. It thrums through his lips where they press against you and jolts through you when his teeth clash against yours, or his fingernails dig into the sensitive flesh just above the waistband of your jeans.

·       You reach for him with trembling hands to cup his jaw and kiss him harder, to wrap around his neck and pull him even closer, to feel in your hands somehow, anyhow, solid, and warm. But he catches your hands, pinning them roughly against the door, his grip so tight it’s nearly painful.

·       A keen, stinging pain blossoms on your lower lip as his teeth sink into your flesh, hard and sharp. Then he’s gone, melting into the shadows of the dark kitchen. You’re left there, back braced against the door, breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. Quite suddenly, you realize you’ve gone hot all over, as though a fever had dug its claws deep into you in a manner of seconds. Your brain struggles to restart its thinking processes through a fog of unsavoury thoughts and debauched imagery. So, this was to be the consequence of your actions. I can live with that.

·       With a shaking hand, you feel your way up the wall to your left, groping along in the darkness, until you find the light switch. With a muted click the kitchen is bathed in a soft glow. After so much time spent in the darkness, the light, low as it is, is dazzling where it bounces off the white tile floor. You raise a hand to shield your eyes but catch a quick glimpse of Harry. He’s standing over by the table, a hand on the arched back of a white-washed chair. His head snaps to the side, dark eyes fixing upon you, unwavering.

·       His voice is low, a gravely growl that rumbles from deep within his chest, “Turn it off.”

·       You blink at him, stupidly, one hand still hovering over the switch. He wrenches the chair from its place at the table, swinging it around and slamming it down before him with a BANG. He takes a menacing step toward you, never once taking his eyes from yours. “Turn. It. Off.”

·       You jump, rushing to do as you were told, flicking the switch again. As the darkness settles over the room like a blanket, your eyes, now more accustomed to the light, struggle to pick out his shape in the gloom. A small patch of sodium-orange light streams through the window above the sink, staining a patch of floor before the chair. Beyond that pool of light, you can see nothing.

·       Your ears, however, do not fail you as your eyes have. You can hear him rifling through a drawer. From the rattling, you assume it’s the junk drawer—a messy collection of odds and ends that seemed to have no other place in the house. You were always saying you’d get around to cleaning it out one of these days, but it only ever seems to accumulate more junk.

·       You peer into the darkness and find, if you squint, you can just make out what you think is Harry’s form. He’s hunched over the drawer, picking through the bits and bobs, looking for…something. Maybe if you had cleaned the drawer out, he’d have an easier time of it. Alas.

·       Then, he stills, the drawer slams shut, and the room goes silent. The hazy smudge retreats further into the gloom, and you lose him again.

·       For a long moment, the silence fills the room, pressing against you, an almost tangible force. Then, with a single word, it is shattered, “Strip.”

·       Despite the bright bolt of heat that single syllable sends thrumming through your gut, you almost laugh aloud. “I-In the kitchen?” Your incredulous tone does little to mitigate the warmth rising to your cheeks, nor the desire that flutters to life within your chest.

·       Harry does not respond. You can feel the command hanging in the air, and with it, the weight of what he has asked of you—a display of willing vulnerability. Your gaze is once again drawn over to the kitchen window. Set above the sink it faces out onto the street. The blinds are raised, as you had left them after dinner, and the lacey white curtains do very little to obscure the view in either direction. Usually, you see this as a blessing, watching the comings and goings of the world as you eat breakfast or dry the dishes, but now it makes you squirm in discomfort, “I don’t know, baby…the window’s open. Someone could see us…”

·       You peer into the darkness again, craning your neck, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but everything beyond that smudgy patch of orange light remains lost to your eyes.

·       Harry’s voice rings out from the opposite side of the kitchen, much closer than you had realized. You hadn’t even heard him move. He was so quiet you’re sure the neighbourhood cats would swat at his boots in a jealous rage as he passed…if they could hear him coming that was.

·       “You didn’t seem to care who saw you with that fuck in the bar.” His tone is even, but there is a tightness about it that betrays him. “You know this town. You know how people talk. It’ll be all over by tomorrow. ‘That lonely soul from 214 out on the town. With a man no less. Could be the start of something.’ They’ll ask all about it, I’m sure. And you’ll just brush it off like you always do, but they’ll speculate all the same. Little do they know; I’ve already got my stamp all over you.” There’s a short pause, “Now, strip. I won’t ask you a third time.”

·       You turn your head to face him, but are met with nothing but the seemingly endless, empty void. Usually, you wouldn’t have any qualms about pushing back against his commands. You both got off on it in fact—you know just how much he likes putting you back in your place, though sometimes he lets you get away with misbehaving. But you could usually see his face. You knew by the set of his jaw, or the narrowing of his eyes, just how much harder you could push him. Now, however, you could hardly place him in the room, let alone determine how much pushing he was willing to tolerate. If the sharp, impatience of his commands was anything to go by, you could tell the answer this time around was little. Very little.

·       You eye the window again, weighing the risk. Sure, someone could pass by and see you, but it was late—so late it was almost early. Plus, it was dark enough inside someone would have to press their nose up against the glass to get much of a look, and if that was the case, you likely had a much bigger problem on your hands. And you cannot deny the thrill that shudders through you at the thought of stripping down for Harry when he gets like this: all demands and possessiveness. Then there are the thoughts of what he might do to you once you have. Those come quick and easy: his lips on your throat as he hoists you up onto the counter, strong hands on your thighs as he sets to work on your most intimate spots with his tongue, his cock stretching you open as he takes you in that chair, bent over the table, spread out on the floor. You feel a damp patch beginning to form in your underwear, a heat spreading between your legs that wants and wants and wants.

·       Fuck the risk.

·       You fumble with the button of your jeans, fingers trembling with a jangly mixture of excitement and trepidation. You peel them down your thighs, the thick denim seams scraping against your skin. You kick them off and into the darkness, not caring where they land. Your shirt quickly joins the pile, a rumpled ball of coloured cotton. It’s only as your fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear that you meet resistance from Harry.

·       “No.” The command echoes, again, from a new spot—this time somewhere behind the chair. “Leave them on.” You frown a little, but obey, leaving the cotton garment alone…for now. “Sit.”

·       You edge forward, socked feet sliding against the tile. Your legs are trembling, something you hadn’t noticed with the door against your back, assisting in keeping you upright. You knew it had nothing to do with the night’s boozy beginnings. When you’d left the bar, you could feel the pleasant hum of alcohol buzzing at the base of your skull, but now, in all honesty ever since that kiss, you would swear you were stone cold sober. No, this shaking has nothing to do with the drink, and everything to do with the man who waited for you in the darkness, and the promise of what he was going to do to you.

·       Not wanting to push your luck, you slip around the patch of light on the floor. If you caught so much as a glimpse of someone through that window before you had even started, you knew you would lose your nerve and that would be that.

·       When at last you plant yourself firmly in the chair, you jolt, squawking in surprise, knees reflexively shooting up to your chest. “It’s freezing!” You curl in on yourself, wanting as a little of your bare flesh touching the chair as physically possible. You hear him chuckle, a dark, rich sound that makes you shiver almost as much as the sudden chill. “Poor baby.”

·       You wrinkle your nose at him, huffing in indignation. You were no baby. It was just cold. Still, you take a grounding breath or two before you can find the courage to press your temperature-sensitive flesh back against the cool surface of the chair. You know the wood will warm beneath your skin in no time, but your muscles jump and twitch regardless, making their opposition known. It’s not an unbearable chill, despite the wave of goosebumps slowly spreading across your exposed skin; perhaps a touch uncomfortable, but it will pass.

·       Your ears prick up as you hear Harry approaching from behind. “Hands behind your back.” He says, his breath stirring the little hairs at the nape of your neck as he bends over you.

·       When you comply, he grasps your wrists roughly, winding something coarse around them—it feels like a length of cord, old and fraying at the edges. You squirm in your seat, rolling your shoulders and wriggling your hips, not quite fighting against Harry, but not making it easy for him either. Still, he manages to wrangle the rope around you and pull the final knot tight. He pushes two fingers beneath the cord, exploring the space between it and your skin. Clearly satisfied with his handiwork, he withdraws, sweeping around the chair to face you.

·       Dropping to one knee, he forces your legs together and binds them at the ankles in a similar fashion. You notice, however, that he does not tie your ankles to the chair itself, merely to one another. With a little squirming and tugging, you discover the same to be true of your wrists. Again, he ties the final knot, and eases a finger between your skin and the cord. He looks up at you, his handsome face only semi-visible in the gloom. You realize, after a long moment, that he’s waiting on your approval. You give the ropes a little pull each, and nod.

·       Harry is on his feet in an instant, looming above you. “‘magine my surprise,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “When I see my baby making eyes at some other cocksucker in a bar.”

·       You supress a smirk. You’ll play along with his game, sure, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have your own fun along the way, “Some other cocksucker? You really are a man of many talents, huh?”

·       His hand is around your throat in seconds, pressing you back against the chair, but not squeezing enough to cut off your airflow, “Keep mouthing off, see where that gets you.”

·       You roll your eyes, though you’re not sure he can see it in the dark, “C’mon, Harry. You know it didn’t mean anything. We were just talking.”

·       His hand snaps upward, abandoning your throat in favour of your jaw, blunt fingernails digging into the soft flesh beneath. His face comes into focus, mere inches from your own. You can see him clearly for the first time: the sneer on his lips, his eyes alight with jealousy. “Yeah, you’re real good at that ain’tcha? Had him hanging off your every word.”

·       You swallow hard. The waver in your voice is only half-forced, as most of your bravado evaporates in the face of Harry’s dominating presence. He’s a small fellow—short and slender—but somehow, he’s able to fill out the meager space his physical body takes up as though he’s twice his size. It’s in the way he holds himself, coiled like a snake about to strike, like he’s used to throwing and dodging punches alike. He’s rough around the edges, scrappy, and though you knew he’d never lay a hand on you that you don’t want, it doesn’t make him any less intimidating when he looms like this. “Doesn’t mean I was interested, Harry, you know I’m yours and—"

·       Your words are squeezed into a premature silence as Harry squishes your cheeks together, pushing your lips into a pronounced pout. His thumb sweeps soothingly across your cheek. “I know that,” His grip tightens as he leans in closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from your own, “I think you might need a little reminder of jus’ who ya’ belong to.” His eyes flicker down to your lips, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you. But he simply releases your jaw and melts back into the shadows.

·       From further back in the kitchen, you hear him say, “Can you be good for me and let me remind you?”

·       You swallow thickly, feeling the heat pooling in your gut with every word he speaks. God you want nothing more than to be good for him. You nod emphatically, then with a jolt, you realize that if you can’t see him, he likely can’t see you either. You croak out a wavering, “Yes,” through a throat that’s suddenly far too dry.

·       “Yes, what?” You can hear him rummaging around again, though by the sounds, you’d wager he’s searching the countertops this time. For what you couldn’t say, but that pronounced clink was certainly something bumping up against your sugar jar.

·       “Yes, Sir.” What could possibly be on that counter that was more important than you, bound and promising him your good behaviour? Nothing obvious springs to mind, and yet he keeps searching all the same.

·       “Good.” A shudder passes through you, and you know you’d do almost anything to hear him say that again. At this point, the impact that word had on you was damn near Pavlovian, especially when he said it like that, with a smirk on his lips and a rumble in his chest.

·       The room falls silent again as Harry puts hands on whatever it is he’s looking for. In the quiet, you get the distinct impression that he’s looking at you, even if he is unable to make out your form in the dark. Maybe he can see you, maybe he can’t. Either way you know he can hear you just fine. Why not give him a little show?

·       You whine, long and low into the darkness, struggling against the bonds and rubbing your thighs together, seeking any sort of stimulation that might abet the growing heat between your legs. As expected, you’re sorely disappointed with the results. Huffing your displeasure in what you hope is Harry’s general direction, you hurl a desperate plea out into the kitchen, “It’s so cold, Sir. Please come touch me. Please.”

·       You hear him let out a shaky breath. You know how much he likes to hear you beg and frequently use it to your advantage. Harry wasn’t one for poetry—the point of pretty words was mostly lost on him—but a blunt statement of exactly what you wanted from him—how deep, how fast, how hard—tinged with the desperation of needing him and needing him now? Well. That was a different story altogether. Begging was usually an easy way to get exactly what you wanted out of Harry Warden. This time however, much to your personal frustration, he manages to collect himself in record time.

·       He tuts softly as he strides past you, visible for only the briefest of moments as he passes through the patch of light. “What have you done to deserve my touch?” He stops behind you, “An’ no, flirtin’ all night wit’ a stranger don’t count.”

·       You throw your head back to look up at him, a pout on your lips, “Wasn’t flirting.”

·       “G’way witcha. You were so.” His hand whips out and grasps your chin. “I can’t have that. See, you’re mine.” He’s wearing his gloves, though not the soft leather pair you’d bought him for Christmas last year. Those, in all likelihood were stuffed into his coat pocket. No, these were his old work gloves. The tough leather was cracked and torn in places, exposing the cotton padding. They smelled heavy—like dust, like the depths of the mines. You didn’t even know he still had these.

·       “You know what I think?” He leans forward, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin just below your ear, relishing in the shiver it elicits, “I think you was doin’ it on purpose.” He trails a line of searing, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin, “Trying to make me jealous. Well, guess what?” He sinks his teeth deep into the meat between your neck and shoulder, “It fucking worked.”

·       You cry out, the mix of pleasure and pain stirring up the heat that had been steadily blooming inside of you. Sharp and bright, it spreads up through your gut, filling your chest and seeping out into your limbs. You can’t help but smirk up at him, “Good.”

·       He presses his lips into a thin line to keep from smiling too, “Uh-uh. That’s bad. You’ve been real bad, haven’tcha?”

·       You chew your lower lip, pretending to mull it over, “Maybe…”

·       “I think you have.” He trails a gloved hand down and over your shoulder, pressing into the bitemark he’d made. The shredded fingertips of the glove burrow into the indentations left in the wake of his incisors. A dull ache pulses to life beneath the skin, forcing a pained hiss of air between teeth clenched tightly together.

·       “Aww, does it hurt, baby?” Condescension drips sweet and thick from his words as he digs his fingers in harder, you nod frantically, face scrunched up in discomfort, a gasp tearing from your lips as you attempt to flinch away from his touch. “Poor little thing.” A second, gloved hand joins the first, trailing down the other side of your neck. The texture of the old leather ignites a new wave of goosebumps, spreading with the shivers that race across your skin. His fingers trace the tendons in your neck, lingering over your pulse points, scraping gently against the sensitive spots he knows so well just to watch you squirm, “Mine.”

·       The chair creaks as Harry leans over your shoulder, reaching further down your body. He lavishes your collarbone with gentle touches, exploring the dips and hollows he finds there with a rare patience—one you see in him only when he is well and truly set on teasing you. He drags his fingers down, ghosting across your chest, circling your nipples, and tracing your ribs. You shudder beneath the cool leather. It isn’t right. Harry’s hands should be warm and calloused, two points of bright heat against your chilled flesh. That’s what you really crave: the felling of his skin, bare and burning against yours. You open your mouth to ask him, beg him to take the gloves off and touch you properly, but your mind goes fuzzy and blank as his lips find their way to your neck, leaving soft kisses and pressing the points of his teeth into the skin above your pulse.

·       His narrow chest presses hard against your shoulder as his hands roam even further down, trailing across your stomach. You can feel his heartbeat. A little thrill jitters through your chest when you realize that despite his calm outwards demeanor, all steady hands and cocky words, his heart is racing—jackhammering against his ribs so hard it must be painful. A giddy wave washes over you then, knowing he wants you with the same mad desperation. Of course, you had known that from the start, from before that even, still it made your heart shake and your lips twist into a dopey grin.

·       Deft fingers press against your sides, teasing the ticklish spots that make you squeak, and wriggle beneath his hands. A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest, though he decides to take mercy on you, sliding his hands down to caress your hips and the tops of your thighs. “All mine.”

·       One hand drifts, pressing against the seam where thigh and hip join. The pressure feels strange, the muscle jittering beneath his touch, though it doesn’t hurt. His fingers follow the natural curve of your body, pressing into the space between your thighs. You try to part your legs for him, but the cord binding your ankles only lets you go so far. Still, it’s enough for Harry to slot his slender hand into place, fingers pressed tight against the wet spot that’s been steadily spreading across the cotton fabric of your underwear.

·       His tongue flickers over your neck, a snicker bubbling up in his throat, “Well, well, well. Aren’t you just a little fucking slut for me tonight?”

·       You whimper, the sound sitting high in the back of your throat, “Take the gloves off and touch me.” What was meant to be a command comes more as a cracked plea, half-whisper, half-sob.

·       The bark of his laughter is muffled against your skin. His fingers remain pressed against you, but they stay frustratingly still. The pressure is delicious, sparking your touch-desperate nerves, but not providing the stimulation you so desperately crave—you need him to move. “Who said I was gonna keep touchin’ ya’ ‘t’all?”

·       “Please!”

·       Deaf to your pleading, he remains utterly motionless, and you feel something inside of you shatter. Perhaps it was your patience, perhaps it was the last of your inhibitions. Whatever the case, Harry had chipped away at it, cracking it piece by piece with his teasing. Now it lays in shards within you, and you know the only way to get what you want is to take matters into your own hands.

·       You buck against his fingers and for a moment, the pleasure swallows you whole. Your head falls back against the hard wooden back of the chair, a moan tearing itself free from your throat unbidden. Your toes curl as you begin to move your hips, grinding against his fingers, glassy eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

·       Behind you, Harry growls. Dimly, through the fog of pleasure clouding your mind you realize you may have made a mistake. A split second later, his fingers disappear. Your hips jerk forward, desperately trying to follow. You thrash in the seat, a sob wracking your chest, as the pleasure deflates into a dull throbbing. “No!”

·       You feel the smile slide onto Harry’s face, more teeth than lip, “Oh no, no, no, Sweetheart. You’ve gotta earn that.”

·       The simpering edge to his voice has you bucking into the empty air again, “Then let me.” Your struggle to catch your breath, craning your head to look at him. “Let me earn it.” The silence stretches on in the darkness. Was he considering it? Would he refuse? Not if you could help it, “Please, Harry. Please.”

·       A soft sound leaves him then—when you say his name like that, a prayer—a sound like he’s been punched, a rush of air accompanied by a soft groan. Though he’d never admit it, your voice had such an impact on him. Especially when you sound like this, husky and wrecked. Desperate. It takes him nearly a minute to find his voice again, and when he does, it’s rough, a rocky rasp caught low in his throat, “Maybe I will.”

·       He slides back up your body, his weight lifting from your shoulder. You give the joint a quick roll, working out the stiffness you’d failed to notice growing beneath the pleasant weight and warmth of his body. Quick as a flash and silent as a shadow, he sweeps around the chair, appearing before you.

·       With strong, sure hands, he seizes you by the arms, dragging you to your feet. He kicks the chair back, sending it sliding across the floor with the screech of wood against tile. In the darkness you hear the snick of a switchblade. You still, a prick of fear piercing your chest despite yourself. Harry drops to the floor. In a matter of moments, your ankles are freed from their restraints. Though you expect him to do the same for your wrists, he flicks the knife closed, leaving you partially bound. You hear something land nearby on the floor, though for all your squinting, you cannot make it out.

·       He reaches for you then; with a gentleness usually reserved for after your more…strenuous encounters. He strokes the back of his hand down your cheek, and you jolt against his touch, realizing it’s the touch of bare skin. You attempt to lean into it, but he’s already pulling away. His other hand snakes up, fisting roughly into the hair at the nape of your neck. Instinctively, you arch your back, craning your head and bowing against him to lessen the sting.

·       He presses down, forcing you to bend toward the ground until you lose your balance and collapse, bare knees colliding with the cold tile. Your arms jerk against the cord, as you attempt to catch yourself, but the knots hold firm. You wobble, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden change in position but manage to remain at least partially upright.

·       Even before you hear the jangle of his belt buckle hitting the floor you know just what he wants from you. You readjust yourself, sitting higher on your haunches. The rustle of his jeans hitting the floor makes your heart flutter with excitement.

·       Harry looms before you, a great dark shape. Though he isn’t overly tall or broad, he towers over you when you’re on your knees for him. The pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, the rough skin dragging against your flesh. Your tongue flickers out to meet it and he stills. He hooks the digit into the corner of your mouth, pressing it into the soft meat of your cheek. You press your tongue against it, sucking gently and he groans. “I think my baby can handle somethin’ bigger, yeah? You want something bigger?”

·       You whimper your affirmation, letting him slip his thumb from your mouth, waiting patiently as he pulls his cock from his underwear. He presses the tip against your lips, hissing as your tongue slides wet and warm against it.

·       “That’s a good pet. Open up.” You open your mouth, pushing your lips down over your teeth as he presses into you. “That’s it, baby. Take it all. Show me how good ya’ can be for me.”

·       Breathing deeply through your nose, you try to remain as still as possible as his cock slides into you inch by inch. Your jaw is already beginning to ache from the stretch, but a sore jaw will certainly be worth the reward if you can be good for Harry now.

·       The tip bumps against the back of your throat and you have to fight not to gag. “Fuuuck.” He presses in further, hips canting forward as you choke around him. The tip slips down into your throat, and you panic. The sensation is entirely new, never having taken him so deep before. You jerk back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. You gag, doubling over in a fit of coughing that wracks your body. Harry’s hand is in your hair again, tugging gently. You look up, vision blurry, and the tugging becomes a gentle petting, his fingers carding through your hair soothingly, “Are you okay?”

·       You take a shuddering breath, but nod. Your voice comes out in a shredded whisper, “Just s-scared myself is all.” You draw yourself back up onto your knees and take his cock into your hands.

·       “Take your time, pet.” He groans as you begin pumping his length slowly, but you can hear the grin in his voice, like he knows he’ll get what he wants from you sooner or later. “I’m in no rush.” Cocky bastard.

·       You trace the vein on the underside with a finger and he pulses in your hand, a bead of precum dripping down his length and onto the floor. You dip your head to kiss along the shaft, following the thin wet trail as you work up the courage to take him into your mouth again.

·       You take a deep breath and sink down onto him, relishing in the growl that rips through the air above you, “Mmm! Mind the fuckin’ teeth, Sweetheart!”

·       Your legs begin to cramp beneath you, but you press forward, swallowing around the length in your mouth. He bucks into you, the tight heat drawing him deeper in, the tip once again bumping against the back of your throat. This time, however, you’re ready and manage to keep control over your gag reflex. You swallow around him again, and the hand in your hair tightens, dragging your head back. His cock almost begins to slip from your lips, before he pushes his hips forward again. “Let me fuck your mouth, yeah?” You moan around him, letting the slackness of your jaw speak your permission for you.

·       Curses tumble from his mouth as he rolls his hips into your waiting mouth again and again—a litany of ‘fucks,’ and ‘Christs’ and disjointed praise mixed with a constant stream of ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ The sound of his voice and the drag of his cock over your tongue is nearly hypnotizing. You flatten it against him, hollowing your cheeks as you do, and his hips stutter, your name suddenly the only thing on his lips. It makes you throb. You just need a little friction to take the edge off, to ease the dull ache between your thighs. You squirm, twisting your wrists against the bonds. Harry makes a sound above you, and for a moment, you freeze. Had you been caught? You glance up at him, but you find his head tilted back in pleasure, eyes cast to the ceiling.

·       Feeling a little braver, you begin to bob your head along with his thrusts. His grip on your hair tightens in response, and he moans long and low in the back of his throat. He seems far too occupied with your mouth to take any notice of your hands.

·       You twist your wrists again, feeling the knot beginning to loosen. So, you keep at it, working the cord further and further up your hand until it pops free. Your body jerks with the momentum, momentarily thrown off balance, but you recover quickly, forcing yourself to choke, as though Harry had pushed too far into your throat again.

·       The ruse appears to work, as Harry’s hips buck forward and still, lost in the tight squeeze of your throat. You ease your thighs apart and slip your fingers between them. The cotton of your underwear is soaked, likely to the point of transparency. You can’t help but moan long and low around Harry’s cock as you brush your fingers against the drenched fabric. The wave of pleasure that rolls through you is heady and electrifying. You want more. Right now. Your fingers press harder and your hips jerk up against your hand.

·       Even in his pleasure, this gets Harry’s attention. Looking down at you, he almost laughs, the sound caught somewhere between a snicker and a moan. You feel your cheeks heat with the shame of being caught, though by this point you’re so tightly wound you can barely find the brain space to care. You can practically hear the cocksure grin on his face, “You greedy little whore.”

·       You try to pull your hand away, but Harry’s boot comes down over top of it. He doesn’t press down hard, but you can feel the thick treads grinding against your flesh, indenting the pattern into it. Your fingers are trapped right where you wanted them: pressed against the damp fabric of your underwear and the sensitive nerves beneath. They spark and throb against your fingers, begging for more stimulation and you can do nothing.

·       You sob around Harry’s cock as he begins to thrust into your mouth again. “You wanna touch it so bad, baby, I know,” He presses down harder with his boot, and you whine around him, “But’cha can’t.” He’s pushing deeper into your throat now with every thrust, “You can’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.” His hips begin to stutter now, losing their rhythm as he picks up the pace chasing his release. His voice has gone taught, shaking with both the pleasure and the exertion, “You’re all mine, Sweetheart. All mine.”

·       His cock throbs against your tongue. He pushes to the back of your throat one final time, and he’s cumming, letting it fill your mouth and leak down your throat. You sputter, swallowing around him in a desperate bid not to choke. His thrusts have gone shallow and lazy, but he doesn’t stop. Groaning, he grips your jaw, “All fuckin’ mine.”

·       You swallow a final time, and he pulls out. You cough, gasping for breath. Dimly, you’re aware of the rustle of denim and the metallic chirp of a zipper being done up. Regaining control of your breathing, turn, cleaning your drool covered chin on your shoulder. You inspect the wrist of your free hand. The skin feels tight and raw but doesn’t appear to be broken. You assume the same is true of the other, where it remains trapped under Harry’s boot. “Fuck, baby. You take it so well for me.”

·       You tilt your face up toward Harry, chest tightening with the praise. “Harry,” Your voice is raw, your throat aching from the fucking it had just endured, but you beg him anyway, “Please, I was good. Touch me…or let me do it myself. I-I’ll put on a good show for you!” You buck up against his boot, throwing your head back and whimpering.

·       He grinds his boot down against your hand, and your vision fills with white spots. You jerk against him, unable to still your hips. His voice floats down to you through the fog of pleasure, as though from far away, “I’m not so sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

·       You sob, bucking against both boot and hand alike, until he presses down harder, and the blinding pleasure becomes a crushing pain that sucks the breath from your lungs, “Harry! Harry, you promised! Fuuck, please! Please! Ow! You said If I was good—"

·       The pressure lessens, “Now, now, baby. Don’t get so worked up. I said I might let you cum. Never said when.” He laughs at your devastated expression. “We’re just getting started.”

Part Two—Submission or Yours, Yours, Yours:

·       The metal hangers burst into a jangling song as you fling the coat-closet open to hang your jacket. The padded denim will probably see you through another month if you layer properly beneath it. Too much longer than that and you’ll be pushing your luck. Perhaps tomorrow you would go through the ‘winter clothes bin’ and bust out the ole’ windbreaker. Of course, to do that you’d have to spend an hour sifting through the assorted piles of junk in your basement to actually find the ‘winter clothes bin.’ Now that you think of it, despite the numerous trips you’d taken down into the dark and dingy space, you haven’t actually laid eyes on the bin since you had put it into storage last spring. Ugh.

·       Though, maybe Harry had seen it. Three days ago, you’d woken up and stumbled to the bathroom to find a steady stream of water pouring from the cabinet space below the sink. It must have been leaking for a good long while before you found it, because the floor was soaked—the bathmat was so saturated with water it had actually squelched underfoot.

·       Luckily, it had only taken Harry around five minutes to fix the problem—a loose ring nut of all things—but he’d spent a good deal longer than that tearing the basement apart in his mad hunt for the toolbox. After a great deal of shuffling, banging about, and swearing, he’d found it wedged between the wall and a cardboard box of assorted holiday decorations. He’d rushed up the stairs, breathless and wild-eyed, “Christ, but it’s a mess down there. This?” He’d said, brandishing the toolbox in his left hand, “stays in the porch from now on.” He’d swept passed you then, leaving no room for argument as he marched off to save your bathroom from any further water damage.

·       Point is, Harry’s ‘leave no stone unturned’ approach to impromptu basement reorganization may just free up your afternoon and save you a headache—he’d probably seen the bin and with any luck would remember where he’d moved it. If not, finding the damn thing would be tomorrow’s problem. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask while you were thinking of it.

·       “Hey, Harry? When you were down in the basement the other day, did you see the—” Turning to face him, you’re shocked to find that he isn’t standing behind you anymore. You could have sworn you’d felt him there with you right up until you’d turned around. You call his name out into the darkness but receive no response. You roll your eyes, sometimes he got like this when he was in a mood—preferring silence to a solution.

·       Your left hand finds the wall, feeling your way along the cool plaster until your fingers find the switch. Light floods the kitchen momentarily flaring too bright against your retinas, and you realize he’s not even in the room anymore. You hadn’t heard him leave, but he’s certainly not still here, unless he’s somehow managed to master the art of invisibility without telling you. He’s a remarkable man, you’ll give him that, but you highly doubt he’s that remarkable. In all likelihood, he’d just popped out for a smoke. Though you’d love to know how he managed to sweettalk the squealing hinges into silence.

·       Crossing the room, you pull the screen door open, bracing it against your hip to keep it from banging closed on you. You crack the main door open just enough to poke your head out. You go slowly, easing it open bit by bit—the hinges whine high and thin into the night, but it’s nothing compared to the fuss they’d made when you first came in. peering out into the darkness, you don’t see Harry in his usual late-night smoking spot—leaning out over the porch railing, one hand curled around a cigarette, the other cradling his chin as he stares out into the relative seclusion of your back garden.

·       Around this time of year, it wasn’t much to look at—the leaves mostly gone from the trees, the shrivelled corpses of your flowers littering the rapidly browning grass—but in the spring, it was a sight, bursting with blossoms and buzzing insects alike.

·       You suppose it doesn’t matter though, Harry never gets to see the butterflies and bees anyway. Not when he only comes out to smoke at night. On the bad days when he’s stressed, or tired and really croaking for a smoke before the sun dips down into the harbour, he usually retreats to the basement, cracking one of the tiny windows that looks out onto the street. But otherwise, he’s an exclusively nocturnal smoker.

·       One night in the summer, when it had been far too muggy to do anything but lay in bed and sweat, you’d given up on sleep to sit out with him. Outside, the air was no less close, but even the pitiful, sporadic gasps the breeze offered had felt so good against your feverish skin you couldn’t bring yourself to complain. He’d stood there, leaned out over the railing, the cherry of his cigarette flaring red-hot in the darkness. You had hopped up onto the railing beside him, dangling your legs out over a bed of wilting marigolds—even they were flagging in this heat, not that you could blame them.

·       For a long while, neither of you spoke, content to simply inhabit the same space at the same time. It wasn’t long before you were lost in thought; staring up at the stars and marvelling at how the scent of your little lavender bushes almost covered the stink of the harbour. Almost. Then, Harry blew a cloud of smoke out into the darkness, which drifted sluggishly across your vision, bringing you back to the present moment. To this day, you don’t quite know why you’d asked the question, nor where it had come from, “So…you only smoke at night, huh?”

·       He’d frowned a little, his eyebrows pulling together as though he was only realizing this for the first time. He’d maneuvered the dart into the corner of his mouth so he could speak around it, “I s’pose so…”

·       “What’s up with that?”

·       He chewed on the end of the cigarette, jaw working as he thought, “Probably got somethin’ t’do with spendin’ so much time in…” He raked a suddenly shaky hand through his hair, “…the pit.”

·       “You were a miner?” You had known so little about him in those days.

·       Again, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, the silence stretching long into the humid night. “It…uh…fucks your sense of time real good. Y’get used to it bein’ dark all the time.” He takes a deep drag, letting the smoke curl about in his lungs for a good long while before letting it go with a heavy, rushing sigh. “‘N ya’ get to like it better that way.” With a practiced flick of the wrist, he taps the ash from the end of his cigarette, scattering in on the wooden deck-boards beneath his boots. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

·       And so, you’d let it go. But the pieces had begun to fall into place: Why he never went out with you, why he was so hesitant to talk about where he’d come from or what he’d been running from the night you found him shivering and soaked to the skin at the end of your street, why he’d asked you to keep quiet about him, why he hadn’t told you his last name—a name everyone in town both knew and feared.

·       He’d told you half the truth then you suppose. After all, he is a night-owl, and that probably did have something to do with his previous profession. However, you think his late-night smoking habit likely also has something to do with risk. You know now who he is and what he did. If anyone knew he was back in town, there would be trouble no doubt. Of course, the rumours that would start flying about if a strange man were spotted hanging around your place would also be trouble, just the type you were more accustomed to handling. There had been jaw about you in town before and there would likely be again. You could deal with a few stray comments from old folks with nothing better to do than gossip and young folks who did but wasted their time on it anyway. You knew for certain that you could not handle the sight of Harry beaten and dragged off to God-knows-where by a mob of angry townsfolk or worse, the police. No, if it came down to it, you’d take the rumours.

·       Shuddering, you close the door, locking the knob and sliding the deadbolt home. You lock the screen door as well, something Harry always teased you about. You could picture him now, leaning against the counter, hands in his pockets. An easy grin slides across his face as he watches you, ‘Now what’cha lockin’ that for? S’not gonna stop nobody from comin’ in if they really wanna.’ But you always locked it anyway—it made you feel safer. Sometimes you’d tell him so, but that smile would only grow as he pushes off from the counter and scoops you up into his arms. He is really quite strong despite his small stature. ‘Don’t need locks for that no more, Sweetheart. You got me.’

·       But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you’d never locked your doors before he came along. Not once. There was never any need to. The community was small and tightly knit. With only one notable exception—the cause of which now shared your bed on the regular—the crime rate was so low hardly anyone locked their doors at all. But since Harry, you had felt compelled to do so. Not out of obligation to the town, rather an obligation to Harry. They didn’t need to be kept safe from him—they had already paid for their mistakes. If they were smart, they’d never give him reason to shed blood again—no you locked the doors to keep Harry safe from them.

·       Though there was a memorial plaque dedicated to the lives lost in the mining accident right there in the middle of town, it was something the residents rarely spoke about. Most were content to forget it—and the grisly murders that followed—entirely. But when February rolled around again, an oppressive tension swept through the streets. Even as people pretended to carry on with their lives like nothing was wrong, their hushed whispers and conspiratorial glances spoke the truth plainly—they hadn’t forgotten at all. They couldn’t forget. Harry Warden had stained their community, perhaps forever, and they hated him for it. Many would rather see him dead than locked up and you could think of one or two who might actually try if given the chance.

·       Maybe there was a time when you would have let them, out of fear or some misguided sense of morality. But now that you knew him, everything was different. That night, when he’d finally told you the truth about who he was, what he’d done, the place he’d escaped from, he had seemed so small—trembling on the floor of your living room, fingers digging hard into his arms, unable to look at you for fear of your reaction—and you’d decided then and there you would stand between him and that hatred. You would keep him safe. Locking that door was just one of the thousands of small ways you had found to do so. Maybe a part of him knew that. Maybe not. Still, that door stayed locked at night.

·       Now, if he wasn’t outside and he wasn’t in the kitchen, where else could he be? You pad quickly through the kitchen, your thin socks only able to protect you so much from the chilly tiles. On your way by, you pop your head into the den, wondering if he’d decided to curl up on the sofa in front of the TV—a favoured spot for a deep sulk. If his attitude in the driveway told you anything, this had been be a pretty good guess, but the room is as dark and empty as the kitchen. Strange.

·       Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, four doors stand before you: the bathroom, the office, the guestroom and your bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, and through the crack beneath, you can see the light is turned off. The same can be said for the office, and upon closer inspection, the guestroom as well. You suppose he could be in any of the three rooms, but if that’s the case, it’s safe to assume he really wants to be left alone.

·       Perhaps you really had hurt him in your silly attempt to make him jealous. You both knew it was dangerous for him to go out, but you’d pushed him anyway, and he’d said ‘yes,’ because he trusts you and he loves you. And what had you done? You cuddled up to a stranger all night and let him watch. When you think about it like that, a hot wave of shame rolls through your gut. You feel nauseous.

·       You stand there in the hall, chewing your cheek and wondering what you should do. You could knock, calling his name softly and apologize. Maybe he’d open the door and come to bed with you, maybe he’d choose to sleep on the sofa and send you to bed alone. Either way he’d know you were sorry. But trying to force a conversation Harry wasn’t ready to have was often like talking to a brick wall—a brick wall which could get up and leave the room. Perhaps it would be better to let him come to you when he was ready. But if you leave him alone, he might think you don’t care. But if you push him, he might not take you seriously. As you weigh your options, a flicker of movement from further down the hall catches your attention.

·       Your bedroom door is open just a crack, and through it a quavering light pools on the carpet. At once confused and curious, you creep down the hallway. Pressing your ear to the door, you don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it doesn’t sound like anyone is in there at all, and yet the light from within flickers as though something is moving in front of it. Curiosity burning in the pit of your stomach, you press your palm against the faded wooden door and give it a push.

·       Candlelight spills out into the hallway, its warm glow washing gently over you. There must be a hundred candles in the room, as every available surface from the dresser to the desk is covered with votives and pillars, tapers and tealights. Were these all yours? You can’t recall ever buying so many, yet here they are. The air is filled with their mingling scents: apples, beeswax, and fresh linen, but beneath that the smell of smoke and the sulfurous scent of the matches he’d used to light them all linger in the air. It can’t have been long since he’s finished lighting them.

·       Harry himself kneels on the floor at the foot of your bed, thighs spread wide. Though he’s facing the door, he hadn’t looked up when the it opened. His eyes remain trained on the carpet before him. His hands though firmly clasped behind his back can’t have been there for long—both the button and zipper of his jeans are fully undone, the fabric stretched wide and slung low across his hips. Beneath the jeans, his boxers have been pulled low, exposing his cock, already hard and drooling precum onto the carpet beneath him.

·       Stunned by the unexpected sight before you, you can do little more than stand there in the doorway, gaping. Harry had certainly never done this before—he’d knelt for you on occasion, sure, but never without being asked first. A tight heat begins to stir within you as the blood rushes from your head to much more…important areas. Feeling a little lightheaded, you find yourself leaning against the doorjamb for support. Though your legs feel as though they’ve turned to jelly, you find your words again with your shoulder braced firmly against a solid surface, “What’s all this then, baby?”

·       He makes no attempt to look at you as he answers, his eyes glued to the floor in a clear sign of submission, though his tone is anything but. There’s bite in his voice, an anger that thrums through his every word, and vibrates through you even from your spot in the doorway, “Jus’ wanna show ya’ I’m good.” He clenches his jaw, eyes burning holes into the carpet, “Make you forget all about him.” He spits out the word like a mouthful of rotten fruit.

·       You grinned. So, he is just jealous after all. Good.

·       “Look at me, Harry.” His eyes flash in the low light, still blazing with anger even as they find yours. His while body is tense with that rage, every muscle coiled and ready to strike, through he remains still, head bowed, arms folded behind his back. His voice is tight, enunciating very clearly, his usual industrial drawl combed into something smoother, “I want to show you I can be just as good for you. Better even.”

·       You smirk down at him, “Oh really?”

·       “I can—” He begins to shift, the movement dragging his shaft against the rough denim of his jeans. He shudders, the words momentarily dying on his tongue. His fingers sink into the carpet at his sides, knuckles going white as he struggles not to roll his hips, bucking into that coarse pleasure. His cock pulses and another bead of precum oozes from the tip. “Fuck,” He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing closed for a brief moment, “I…I can prove it.” There is a pause, his jaw working as he struggles to force the next word out, “Please.”

·       Oh, he really is wound up. Begging doesn’t come easily for Harry Warden, but that just makes it all the sweeter to hear when he does.

·       “Please, let me prove it to you.”

·       You can’t help the grin that slides across your face. “And just how do you intend to do that, baby?”

·       He goes still for a moment, eyes narrowing, still angry but acknowledging the challenge. His gaze slides down your body, dark eyes drinking in your form, coming to rest on the carpet at your feet. “I’ll do anything.”

·       Your grin widens, “Anything?”

·       He swallows thickly, nodding.

·       “Anything?” You’re just teasing him now.

·       “Yes.” His voice is tight and there’s tension building in his shoulders, but you think you can push him a little further.

·       “Anyyyything?”

·       His head snaps up, eyes boring into yours, ablaze with frustration, “Yes for Chrissake! Anything. Just,” He sighs through his nose, bowing his head again, “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

·       You push off from the doorjamb, managing to wobble only a little, as you saunter into the room to stand before him, “Shirt off.”

·       It takes him less than a second to respond, pealing the white cotton shirt over his head, exposing the hard planes of his chest and stomach. “Mm, good boy.” You flop down on the bed, tucking your legs up beneath yourself. “Now, touch yourself.” He reaches for his cock, “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say ‘touch your cock,’ Harry. I said, ‘touch yourself.’”

·       Harry makes a noise caught halfway between a sigh and a whine but does as he’s told. He sits up straighter, his neglected cock bobbing against his stomach. His hands trail up his sides, pressing against toned muscle and bone alike. He shivers as his fingers brush against the scars that litter his chest, remnants of the accident that nearly took his life. “Feel good, baby?”

·       He wrinkles his nose a little, “Not…really? They’re numb kinda…”

·       “Keep going then, you can’t stop until it starts to feel good.” He swallows and brushes his fingers across his nipples. His jaw goes tight, fingers stilling for a moment. You know he doesn’t get much out of touching himself like this, much preferring to fist his cock fast and hard until he finds his release. This is mostly for you—he cuts a lovely figure half-undressed, hands roaming across his body—but if it’s the only stimulation he’s allowed, you figure he’ll find some enjoyment in it. And this hypothesis seems to be correct thus far, as he continues to play far more attention to his chest than he usually would, the fingers of one hand digging into the flesh of his pectoral as his thumb rubs a slow circle around his nipple. His other hand is trailing up his neck, pressing against the sensitive spots just beneath his jaw.

·       His breath is coming harder now, and he’s making lovely little sounds at the back of his throat. His hips press forward, seeking stimulation. “A little lower now, baby.”

·       As commanded, his hands slip down across his ribs, over his stomach. His hands hover about his hips, hesitating, waiting for your instructions. “Oooh, there’s a good boy. Let’s test your self control, shall we? How close can you get to it before you can’t keep still anymore?”

·       He heaves a shaky breath. His fingers dip below the waist of his jeans, tracing the bones of his hips and the tops of his thighs.

·       “You can do better than that. Closer.”

·       You can see his thighs beginning to shake as his fingers slip ever closer to his cock, teasing the inner most spots on his thighs and the seams of his hips, spots you know he loves and hates to find your mouth in equal measure.

· It isn't until his fingers brush against the sensitive flesh just above his cock that his hips stutter forward and a soft cry tears free from his lips.

·       You slip from the bed to kneel before him, pressing your face close to his, crooning praises into his ear. “Is it too much for my good boy? That’s okay, you follow orders so well.” You can feel his cheeks heating us as he flushes a deep red in the low light.

·       Cupping his face, you tilt his chin up, forcing him to look up at you. “Good boys deserve rewards, don’t you think.” Despite the deepening blush, his haughty expression tells you he’ll get you back for this someday. Every word of simpering praise, every degrading kindness will be repaid in full. You can hardly wait. You tilt his head up and down in answer to your own question, “Yes they do. So, let’s give that cock some attention, hmm?”

·       In that moment, Harry forgets himself. His hands shoot out, reaching down to wrap around his length. “Stop!” You bark the order, and he freezes, fingers curling against the air, rather than his throbbing length as he so desperately wants. “Not with your hands.”

·       A long breath hisses out through his teeth. His tone is petulant, “Then how am I supposed to—”

·       “Is that backtalk I’m hearing? Because if it is—”

·       “No!” And just like that the attitude is gone, replacing with a stumbling apology, “I-I’m sorry, I’ll do what you asked. I was just…just clarifyin’. How do you want me to…get off?”

·       “No one said anything about getting off.” You press a finger against his chest, slowly dragging it down over his pecks, his sternum, his stomach, until you find his cock. Your touch merely ghosts over his sensitive flesh, but he trembles beneath it, moaning low in the back of his throat.

·       Your finger finds the tip of his cock, and slips to the underside, stroking roughly against his frenulum—the most sensitive spot on his body. In an instant he’s bucking against you, your name tumbling from his lips along with a litany of trembling pleas for more. While it’s tempting to indulge him, you don’t want this to be over quite so quickly. With a lopsided grin, you withdraw your hand. Harry whines in frustration at the loss, his hips stuttering against the air.

·       His cock drags against the rough denim of his jeans, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He hesitates for only a moment as he looks at you for permission. You nod and his shoulders slump forward, his hands shooting forward to catch himself. His fingers sink into the carpet before his knees, and his thighs slide further apart to accommodate this change is posture.

·       The drag of coarse denim against the over-sensitive flesh of his cock can’t have been the most comfortable sensation in the world, but one wouldn’t get that impression from watching Harry’s expression. Though his head is tipped forward, you can see still his eyes, screwed shut in pleasure. His teeth catch his lower lip tightly. It’s really such a pity, because you know he’d make such lovely noises if he would just open his mouth. You suppose you could just order him to let you hear him, but it was always so much more satisfying to pull the sounds from him yourself.

·       Dipping your head, you press your lips into the column of Harry’s exposed throat. For a moment he goes utterly still, shuddering beneath your mouth. In between peppering every available inch with little kisses, you murmur, “Keep going baby,” against his skin. It takes him a moment to process your command. His lust-fogged mind is able to focus on only a few things at a time, and your lips are taking precedence over everything else. But when it finally clicks, his hips jerk back into motion

·       You graze your teeth along his jaw, catching the spots his fingers had toyed with earlier. Like a latch clicking open, his teeth release his lip, and he moans—a soft sound, almost a sigh. Beautiful. You fall into that spot, nipping and sucking at it until the sounds—moans, whimpers, and curses alike—are tumbling from Harry’s lips one after another.

·       You dig your teeth in hard, and his hips slam forward, a gasp on his lips. The force of his movement pushes his cock further through the opening of his jeans, and the teeth of the zipper drag across his flesh. He hisses, sharp and sibilant, as the sting overtakes the pleasure. God you wish you could see his face—the pleasure swiftly transforming into agony then back again. Though you’re sure your imagination pales in comparison to the real thing, the pictures your mind conjures are enough to send a throbbing wave of want through you. The tortured mix of pleasure and agony on his face is a sight, second only to the beauty of Harry’s expression when he cums for you.

·       As though he could read your thoughts, Harry’s hips jerk down, rutting against the fabric from a different angle. His pace becomes quicker, more frantic as his orgasm looms large on the horizon. You grin against his throat. “Are you close baby?”

·       Harry doesn’t speak, but you can feel him nodding, his bony jaw bumping against the top of your head. “That didn’t take very long. Were you playing without me earlier?”

·       Of course, you know the answer is ‘yes.’ He’d likely been kneeling right there, bucking into his fist while you were locking still the doors. But you wanted to hear him admit it. “Answer me, Harry.”

·       His voice is trembling when he replies, speech lust-slurred and sluggish “Yesss, Ssweetheart”

·       Tsk, tsk. Maybe I shouldn’t let you cum after all.” You place a hand on his hip, stalling his movement. He’s strong enough he could just shake you off, keep going until he finds his release, but he doesn’t. That’s not the game you play. Instead, he shudders under you hand, trembling as his release slips away from him, the pleasure fading to a dull throb between his legs.

·       “No!” His cock pulses, the precum shiny and wet against the tip. “Please, I-I’m sorry. I jus’ wanted to be ready for ya’, I didn’t mean to break the rules.”

·       “I know.” You pat his cheek affectionately. “I understand. It’s hard to be a good boy when it’s in your nature to be a filthy little whore.”

·       Harry’s chest heaves as he comes back down from the edge. His ego chafes under your degradation, but his body shudders with the thrill of it. He rolls his head back, shooting you a sideways glance, “You’re so mean, you know that?” Though his words are anything but, both his expression and his tone are utterly adoring.

·       You peck his cheek, “You love it.”

·       “I do.”

·       You stroke his cheek gently with the back of your hand “Can you start again?”

·       Harry rolls his hips forward, experimentally. His teeth fix into his lower lip almost instantly, but he nods. You can tell the break wasn’t quite long enough, but that’s okay. You’ll just need to keep a closer eye on him to make sure he doesn’t slip over the edge before you’re ready to let him.

·       Your hand finds his hip again, slowing him to a stop. “I think we’ll play a different game this time. Wouldn’t want you getting bored.” You glance down at the rough denim, “Or chaffed up.”

·       Your hand slips into his jeans and grips his cock firmly around the base. He cants up into your hand almost reflexively, heating flesh sliding against your palm. You smile, “Oh no. None of that. You’ve gotta stay still this time, baby. In fact,” You give his cock a gentle pump, causing him to buck into your hand despite your instructions. You pull you hand away. “If you move, I’ll stop. Understand?”

·       Harry’s knuckles go white in the carpet as he struggles to keep himself under control, but he nods. “Good. Now,” You wrap your hand around him once again. “I won’t make this easy on you.���

·       He grins, “Wouldn’t be any fun if ya’ did.”

·       You can’t help but grin back, an expression of your adoration for the man before you as you begin to move your hand. As promised, you set a brutal pace, your grip tight around his feverish flesh.

·       His head falls back, eyes going wide, “Ohh, fuuck!” His hands are shaking where they’re dug into the carpet and his thighs tremble with the tremendous effort of keeping still. And though he takes a near herculean stab at following your instructions,  when your thumb swipes gently over the tip of his cock at the end of a stroke, he falls apart. His hips jerking forward into you hand

·       “Ah, ah,” You say, pulling your hand away despite the high whine at the back of Harry’s throat. “I said don’t move.”

·       His breath is coming in ragged gasps, “Let…Let me try again. I’ll be good!”

·       You purse your lips, as though to say, ‘I’m not sure you will be.” But he leans in, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and whimpering, “Please,’ against your skin, and you’re almost convinced.

·       Your pulse jumps as his lips press against your skin. The need to put hands on him again bubbles up within your chest until you cannot fight it a second longer. You hand finds his cock again, sliding against his skin which is now positively radiating heat and slick with precum. He’s really enjoying this. You squeeze your fingers around him a little tighter as he twitches in your hand, “Look at you! Taking it so well for me.” He whimpers in repose, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth works against your skin.

·       Swiping your thumb over the head of his cock again, his voice breaks, climbing higher into the back of his throat. Yet his hips remain still. So, you do it again, thumb spreading the slick precum gathering at the tip of his cock across the head. He shudders against you, sinking his teeth deep into your neck. He’s putting up a good fight, but you can tell he isn’t far from breaking. You begin to move you hand more quickly, squeezing your fist tightly around his shaft.

·       “You’re doing so well, baby. But I wonder…” Your other hand hovers just above the tip of his cock. “What would happen if I…” You touch his tip gently, ghosting your fingers over. The combined sensation of the rough pace of your hand and the gentle touch of your fingers makes his thighs tremble. He’s cursing now, a steady stream of ‘fucks’ and half-coherent pleas tumble forth into the hollow spaces between your collarbones.

·       You press a little harder, rubbing a gentle circle around the head of his cock, and he bucks into your hand, pressing the tip hard against your fingers, desperate for more. Through clenched teeth you can hear him chanting, “No, no, no” over and over, clearly frustrated by the betrayal of his own body.  

·       You smirk down at him, “Looks like you’re really sensitive here huh, baby?”

·       Harry doesn’t respond, merely shuddering against you, his head still buried in the crook of your neck. “It’s not your fault though.” You release his cock, stroking you hands soothingly against his trembling thighs. “You know, I think it’s partially my own fault for not touching you enough. But I can fix that.” You can feel the confused frown pulling against his handsome features, one that begins to melt into a look of shocked horror as he realizes what you’re about to do.

·       He pulls away from your neck just a moment before you set upon the tip of his cock. Your fingers making a tight little ring, you squeeze around him. His head jerks back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. You stroke your thumb against the tip, rubbing tight quick circles against his weeping slit. He finds his voice, broken and wavering and cries out your name, begging you for more and to stop in the same breath.

·       His hips buck into your hand wildly, but this time you don’t stop, squeezing tighter, as your fingers slip beneath the head, rubbing relentless circles against his frenulum. His body seizes up, his voice momentarily dying in this throat. When it returns, he’s babbling, nearly sobbing with the pleasure, “Need t’stop…” He whines, “Neet’sssstop or I’ll cum,” His speech is slurred, punctuated with sharp moans and deep gasps for breath.

·       “But I thought you wanted to cum, Harry.”

·       His chest is heaving now, sweat slicking his sandy hair to his temples, “I do, fuuuck, IdoIdoIdo, pleassse, but…” He swallows hard, struggling to grind out the words around the white-hot pressure building in his stomach, “Wanna...wanna be good for ya’, don’t wanna…c-c-cum until you let me.” Despite his words, he grinds down against your fingers, unable to stop himself. “Please lemme be good, FUCK! Please, babyssstop! I’m gonna cum,”

·       For just a moment, you consider letting him. But the beseeching look in his eyes tells you even if you did, though the release would be satisfying, it wouldn’t be good enough. Harry wanted, no, needed to be good for you. Taking pity on him now wouldn’t help.

·       You pull your hands back, and despite himself, Harry sobs, a fat droplet of precum spilling down his pulsing length. Harry shudders as it rolls down his flesh, over-sensitive as though he’d just cum. You realize then, just how close he’d actually been.

·       You take him into your arms, pulling him close and petting his hair gently as he struggles to get his breathing under control. He jitters against you, a low whimper in his throat as your repositioning causes his cock to rub against you.

·       “Christ, I’m sorry,” He says, voice a cracked whisper, “It’s been so long since we’ve…”

·       You shush him, “I know baby, take your time.” His head falls against your shoulder, the weight of his shuddering body a welcome pleasure. He presses soft kisses into your neck, trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

·       He kisses you softly, his lips sluggish against your own, but still no less adoring. He pulls back enough to whisper, “I’m yours.” And you smile.

·       “I know.” You run your fingers down his back, ghosting over exposed skin and he shudders.

·       “No one else will ever belong to you like I do.” Despite Harry’s fragile state, it isn’t a question, rather a statement that isn’t to be questioned.

·       “No one else.”

·       He melts against you, “Then touch me. I can take it.”

·       You push him back, searching his dark eyes. What you find there is the same lust that’s driven you since the beginning of the night. You tug him to his feet, gripping his arms tightly as he wobbles on stiff and tired legs.

·       “Get yourself out of those jeans, and get on the bed. We aren’t finished.”

[yandere-daydreams]

requests are open!! a yandere little merman please? like the one who gave up his voice to become human to be with his pirate princess darling :3 thank u !!

I never thought I would end up writing about, what is essentially, a gender-bend disney one-shot, but I love desperate mermaids struggling to show their love for their hesitant human Darlings too much to pass this up. Consider this a version of the ‘mermaid drags a drowning royal to land only to discover they’ve fallen in love with the person they think saved them’ trope. I’m a sucker for the classics.

Title: The Little Mermaid.

TW: Violence, Blood, Emotional Manipulation, Mentions of Drowning, Implied Lasting Trauma, and Jealousy.��

~

Rielle liked to visit you, at night.

It’d been a habit since the first day he spent in your palace, when bruises were still spattered across his pale skin and he carried the smell of sea-salt and sand as if it was a second-nature, the latter of which took much longer to fade than the former. You couldn’t say you blamed him. He’d been rattled, and he was still in a state of shock, unable to utter a word about his home, his tragedy, anything beyond a few disjointed syllables you’d been forced to assume were his name. He hadn’t asked to sleep in your bed, nor had the curled up on your rug like a puppy still getting used to its new owner, but he’d tentatively rested his hand on your shoulder and listen to your stuttering attempts to fill the silence until he saw fit to return to his own chambers, thanking you for your time with a smile and a boyish blush. When he’d come back the next night, you hadn’t refused him. You were fond of him, and of his nightly visits, too. And even if you weren’t, he wouldn’t be turned away.

You’d never had the heart for that kind of thing, not when it came to Rielle.

He didn’t even knock, tonight, he didn’t really have to. Even if you were the heir to the throne, your kingdom was small and peaceful, and any guards you employed were more to soothe the minds of your weary parents than out of any genuine paranoia of your own. Rielle slipped in without a sound, only bothering to announce himself with an arm wrapped around your chest and a face buried in the dip of your shoulder, as much of a hug as your chair and desk would allow. He didn’t seem to mind, though, only letting a mess of violent, auburn hair linger in your vision as he slumped against you, the energy he’d had during the day just beginning to fade. It hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, only a few meetings with your advisors and a trip into town to break up the monotony, but when Rielle clung to your side and approached everything with the same determined, prying amazement, it was hard not to let him take you by the wrist and lead the way, even if that ended in missed appointments and sore feet more often than not. It’d taken as much of a toll on you as it did on him, but while he’d be free to collapse onto the comforter of your bed as soon as he pulled away, you had paperwork to toil over, letters to write and bills to sign and corrections to make to plans you could swear you’d corrected the night before. The work of an heir, not a boy who’d washed up on their kingdom’s shores little more than a week beforehand.

“You couldn’t sleep?” You asked, if only out of formality, because it was what you asked every time he came to visit you. He didn’t try to sleep, not when you weren’t around, not when he couldn’t yawn at the lecture of a councilman or rest his head on your shoulder in the back of a slow-moving carriage. Out of routine, he shook his head, and in a merely performative response, you sighed and reached up, running your fingers through the hair that cascaded over your collarbone, as a result. “I suppose that’s my problem, isn’t it?”

A nod, this time. Non-committal, but in the eager, restrained way that lent credibility towards the contrary interpretation.

“And I suppose I’ll just have to let you distract me until you’re tired?’

This time, he didn’t play at coyness, only squeezing you toward his chest and pulling away, a grin painting itself over his lips as he made himself comfortable propped against your desk, seated on the spot you left unoccupied just for him. He took a moment to survey your arrangement before plucking an unused quill from its inkwell, twirling the tip against the center of his palm and smearing back across his skin. That, in particular, earned a half-hearted frown and a lax effort to wipe the excess on the dark material of his pants, but the inconvenience was forgotten as his eyes found what you were working on - a nearly blank piece of parchment, only a name and scrawled out greeting marring its barren surface. You’d have to start over, but you’d have to figure out how to start, first. Rielle tapped a finger against the corner, leaving an unignorable blot of ink in his wake, but you didn’t scold him for it. You could never get mad at Rielle, not without feeling too guilty to stay mad at him.

“It’s supposed to be a letter,” You explained, leaning back in your seat as you stretched, working the kinks out of your spine. You were empathetic to Reille’s situation, anyone would be, but part of the reason you were willing to offer a supportive hand has to do with a more personal type of sympathy, one that wouldn’t belong to just any shipwrecked man you happened to discover. “While sailing here, about a month ago, my ship was caught in a storm. It was a bad one, too, and… I was thrown overboard. The rest of my crew was alright, but for all they knew, I’d drowned.” You paused, biting down on the side of your cheek, as you always did during this part of the story. You were uninjured, so the incident shouldn’t have bothered you nearly as much as it did, and yet, Rielle’s presence alone was enough to prove that you weren’t fully past it. “I hadn’t, obviously, but by the time I washed ashore, there was more water in my lungs than air. It’s like... those fairy tales about mermaids swimming sailors to land. Have you heard them?”

Rielle winked, gesturing to his chest, and you chuckled. Of course he had, who hadn’t? Every child born along the coast was raised on that kind of story, and you couldn’t say you hadn’t considered it, when you first awoke, delious with fever and desperate for a plausible solution.

“I’m just lucky there was a temple nearby. One of their acolytes had to nurse me back to health. I just…” You trailed off, this time, closing your mouth completely. Rielle rested a hand on your arm, urging you gently to continue. It was all you could do to nod, sending a small smile in his general direction. “He’ll never know how thankful I am,” You admitted. It was more than that, but you couldn’t seem to force yourself to voice what exactly more meant. “I want to make it up to him. I want to show him that I haven’t just forgotten. I… I think I’d like to see him again, if I’m being honest.”

Rielle went tense, and somehow, quieter than he usually was. Curiously, you glanced in his direction, only to wish you hadn’t. He wasn’t grinning, anymore, and his eyes were wide, but they weren’t full of amazement, they weren’t full of anything.

Suddenly, they were empty.

Suddenly, he was empty.

You flinched back, moving to voice your concerns, but for all his naivety and reckless abandon, he’d always been faster than you, always been stronger. In less than a second, his hands were in your hair, his nails digging into your scalp as he rooted you in place. With his free hand, he gestured furiously, but his motions were senseless, frustrated, mad, all sharp angles and pounds at his chest without any meaning to be found. His features contorted, scrunching into something irritated and unpleasant, the kind of ugly seriousness you’d begun to think Rielle wasn’t capable of. Again, you tried to interrupt him, tried to reach out and soothe him, but as soon as your attention shifted away from his abrupt outburst, his grip tightened, clamped down, ripped and clenched and tore until something hot and vibrant was running over his fingers, dripping down his forearm until you could see it pooling on your lap, staining your clothes with a mixture of red and black, blood and wet ink.

Your blood, Rielle’s ink.

That was when you screamed.

You decided that, in the morning, you’d request to have a guard posted outside your door, maybe two, maybe three, if they had that many to spare. Maybe you would, but maybe you wouldn’t. Having guards outside your door probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference, not when the sound was cut off so quickly, your breath hitching in your throat as you were wretched out of your seat, thrown to the floor without a spare moment to catch yourself. It was all you could do to catch your breath, to remember how to inhale as something heavy slotted itself against your chest, lean arms wrapping around your torso as another body settled over yours, holding you, clinging to you, pulling you so close, you could feel Reille’s cold breath against your neck, his warm tears against your skin, a shapeless mess of auburn hovering in the corner of your vision, unwilling to move. Not wanting to move.

You could’ve pushed him away. You wanted to. You were stunned, but you knew you should yell, you should fight, you shouldn’t let him cry into your chest like you’re the one to blame. He’d hurt you, he’d lashed out and he’d hurt you, but...

You could never be mad at Rielle. Above all things, you could never bring yourself to be mad at him, not when you could’ve so easily been in his place.

You’d just have to remember to lock your door, tomorrow.

[radcanada]

By Rosie Dimanno for the Toronto Star.

“You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Person with a Vagina.”

“Man! I Feel Like a Person who Menstruates”

“Oh, Pretty Person with a Cervix”

Apologies to Aretha Franklin, Shania Twain and Roy Orbison, but this appears to be where we’re heading if language radicals get their way.

And they’re getting it, tying everybody up in linguistic knots so as not to offend or get clobbered by the social media mob.

Full article under the cut.

“You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Person with a Vagina.”

“Man! I Feel Like a Person who Menstruates”

“Oh, Pretty Person with a Cervix”

Apologies to Aretha Franklin, Shania Twain and Roy Orbison, but this appears to be where we’re heading if language radicals get their way.

And they’re getting it, tying everybody up in linguistic knots so as not to offend or get clobbered by the social media mob.

The erasure of women is not.

“Woman” is in danger of becoming a dirty word … struck from the lexicon of officialdom, eradicated from medical vocabulary and expunged from conversation.

Which is a bitchy thing to do to half the world’s population.

It shouldn’t leave well-meaning people tongue-tied, lest they be attacked as transphobic or otherwise insensitive to the increasingly complex constructs of gender.

“The Lancet,” the prestigious and highly influential British medical journal, put “Bodies with Vaginas” on the cover of its latest issue, referring to an article inside, entitled “Periods on Display,” a review of an exhibit about the history of menstruation at the Vagina Museum in London.

Maybe the editors, who tweeted the piece, were just looking for clickbait, with a pullquote on the cover teasing that “Historically, the anatomy and physiology of such bodies have been neglected” — this although the author had used the phrase “bodies with vaginas,” only once and “women” four times.

A hell-storm broke out, quite rightly, with readers indignant over the wording. As one, an author of books on childbirth and women’s bodies, wrote: “You’re telling us that you’ve noticed that, for hundreds of years, you’ve neglected and overlooked women, and, then, in the same breath, you are unable to name those people you’ve been ignoring.”

The magazine’s editor-in-chief apologized hastily.

This isn’t an argument against gender self-identification. Surely we’re well past that. It’s more about an infelicitous evolution of language, which is fundamentally about communicating clearly. Even if making the argument ends up aligning uncomfortably with reactionaries and regressives with whom I have no truck.

In one fell swoop, “The Lancet” — remember, this is a medical publication! — reduced womanhood, biological or metaphysical, to purely anatomical parts, a gross reversal of the century-long campaign to, not only achieve equal rights, but for women to be seen as more than their biological and rampantly objectified, sexualized packaging. This is fundamental to feminism and humanism. Further, we are seeing, in, for example, legislation passed or coming down the pike in U.S. to severely restrict abortions, basically undoing Roe vs. Wade, how fragile these gains can be.

“That Lancet” episode was not an over-woke outlier.

The American Civil Liberties Union took detestable liberties by deliberately mauling the words of beloved and brilliant Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg in marking the one-year anniversary of her death. Reaching back to comments Ginsburg made during her confirmation hearings in 1980, wherein she spoke about the right of women to obtain an abortion, the ACLU unilaterally removed “woman,” replacing it with “person.”

It came out thusly: “The decision whether or not to bear a child is central to a (person’s) life, to (their) wellbeing and dignity …. When the government controls that decision for (people), (they are) being treated as less than a fully adult human and responsible for (their) own choices.”

Anthony Romero, executive director of the ACLU, also subsequently issued a grovelling mea culpa, promising he’d never again drastically alter quotes in the future.

But is that really a lesson that needed to be pounded into his head?

And still Romero tried to justify his interference by claiming that Ginsburg would have supported more inclusive language.

Maybe so. I would really like to know what she might have thought. But we don’t and can’t and it’s outrageous for anyone to mishmash the justice’s voice.

Women have abortions. Or, I suppose, in the tiniest of numbers, people born with female genitals who identify as male or fluid can terminate a pregnancy.

Women have babies. Or, in the tiniest of numbers, people born with female genitals who identify as male or fluid, can get pregnant.

Yet in 2016, the British Medical Association recommended staff use “pregnant people,” instead of pregnant women. A British hospital now instructs staff on its maternity ward to use “birthing people,” instead of pregnant women. The Biden administration’s proposed 2022 budget substituted “birth people” for mothers. Rep. Cori Bush has used that term, while her Congressional Squad teammate Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez has talked of “menstruating people.”

These are women I admire but they’ve jumped the shark.

All of this recalls the point bestselling author J.K. Rowling was trying to make, wryly, in a tweet that got her bludgeoned by the mob: “People who menstruate. I’m sure there used to be a word for those people. Wumben? Wimpund? Woomud?”

Rowling was branded a TERF — activists do like their neologisms — meaning trans exclusionary radical feminist. As if she was hostile to the trans movement, which she assuredly is not. Some bookstores removed her work from their shelves. Were she not a gazillion-selling author, Rowling could have lost her publisher.

In Britain, where roughly 680,000 people do not identify with the gender they were assigned at birth, according to government figures, midwives at Brighton and Sussex University Hospitals were told to start using terms such as “chest milk,” instead of breast milk. This, apparently, because some transgender men who give birth and nurse their babies were distressed at being reminded of what they were doing with those lactating female appendages. Although surely “breast” is a gender-neutral term, as both sexes have them and both can develop breast cancer.

This is all directly a phenomenon resulting from trans activism run amok.

I get the passion for recasting language, to improve gender and LGBT equity, to minimize the “cognitive mental salience” of males.

The movement has been spectacularly successful in the progressive West, although English isn’t as heavily gendered as, say, Italian or French. Truly, props for an undertaking that has given voice and power to a demographic historically oppressed, horribly shaped and disproportionately subjected to violence!

Merriam-Webster was the first dictionary to add gender-neutral pronouns “they” and “themself” to refer to a person whose “gender identity is non-binary.”

But these examples go far beyond insistence on neutral pronouns, into an outer orbit of linguistics where both women, as a gender, and “woman” as a noun are being blotted out.

There’s more than a whiff of misogyny to it. Why “woman” the no-speak word and not “man?” Why not “persons who urinate standing up” or “people who eject semen?”

Certainly there are words — they are slurs mostly — that are no longer acceptable. “Woman” shouldn’t be one of them.

The battleground of language has turned into a baffleground of agendas.

I am woman and I am roaring.

[pulchinelle]

Name:Draa vương quyền

 Japanese: ドラー ブング クイン 

 Rōmaji: doraa vungu kuin

Nicknames: oniitomakiei-san (Floyd)

 Voice Claim: /

 Age: ??? (Pretty old doe)

 Gender: cis male

 Birthday: 25th of June

 Star Sign: cancer

Homeland: Drakaina

 Height: 210 cm

 Eye Colour: violet and bright green

 Hair Colour: Baby blue, turning cyan on the end, with bright pink

highlights

 Twisted From: Sisudatu from "Raya and the last dragon"

 Sexuality: Omnisexual

 Family: 4 unnamed older siblings, unnamed parents

School Life

Dorm: Diasomnia

Year: 3rd

Class: 3-B

Best subject: Animal Languages

Backstory:

Draa comes from a royal family, and is the youngest out of his siblings. All his life he has been compared to them, but he always felt like he could never be on their same level. This also caused many

Of his people to consider him inadequate to be in the royal family, whixh in turn led to Draa messing with something he shouldn't have....

He came to Night Raven College on his own accord, and now he can spend more time with his Malleus!

Draa met Malleus during a meeting, since Briar's Valley wasn't always on Drakaina's good side. They later became pen pals, and even enrolled into Night Raven College together. As a student he is very hardworking, kind and respectful, although sometimes he might slack off

Unique magic: "River of Life"

It allows him to control water around him (including causing storms), and causes vegetation to grow around him at an unnatural rate. When he is using his unique magic no one in a 500 meter radius can only use water related magic. This magic also has the effect to reduce the amount of blot in one person, but the blot will be absorbed by the user (a.k.a Draa)

Personality:

Draa is a very open and friendly person. He tends to approach the people he finds interesting, and often befriends then shortly after.

He's also hardworking as a student, and will help other schoolmates studyng. Although he is mostly kind and caring, he is easily angered, and often needs to be calmed down by someone close to him, as he takes great offense in any kind of taunting.

Fun Facts & Likes

Likes: rain, swimming, talking to others, studying

Dislikes: deserts, being underestimated, unnecessary drama

Dominant hand: Ambidextrous

Favourite food: Shrimp (raw or cooked)

Least favorite food: /

• Draa likes visiting the Montro Lounge to relax, since it reminds him of his home

•He likes to call Lilia "Grandpa"

• he doesn't let anyone touch his horns, and will get very mad if anyone tried.

• If someone taunts him in the slightest, he will snap at them

• he has a dragon form

• when angry, some of his dragon-fae traits start to show

[karanuit]

prompt, waking up and being soothed back to sleep. muses, akaashi keiji and gender neutral reader. word count, 978 words. genre, fluffy comfort.

[ 2:09 a.m. ]  —  you were running. to where? you weren't sure but you knew that you had to get away as soon as possible. sharp pants rang beneath the mild crunch of gravel as it grew closer, its thumping footfalls hinting at its close proximity. your feet cried out for relief of the ache yet stopping was not a choice, not when it could pounce at any stalled moment.

everything was colored in pitch black with an additional coat of grime that you couldn't see anything beyond the path that you ran down on. a gateway opened itself up ahead of you, causing your exhausted body to swerve swiftly and throw it off of your trail. it seemed promising due to the glow of the lanterns that hung by the sides and the debris that was nowhere to be seen but you had spoken too soon. it wasn't easy to see at first but it was there — a dead end.

a wince slipped from your chapped lips at the severe blow that your side had taken to the wall, you were certain that a bruise would bloom in its place. mutters of curses engulfed your mind as you stared up at the blockage, its daunting height and smooth surface looking as if it was taunting you.

you turned your head in all directions in a desperate attempt to look for another exit but there was nothing left to see. the lights that had illuminated your path were nowhere to be seen, they had left you to fend for yourself. the only solution left was to go back down the way you entered but when you heard the piercing screech of it, you knew that it was hopeless.

left with no other defense, you braced yourself against the wall and waited for the inevitable with a bitter laugh. it was no use trying to fight anymore, you had already lost from the moment that the day had turned against you. there was that second of silence where your mind was vacated of all thoughts and voices until something broke through.

something— no, someone was calling your name. it was faint at first but when you opened your ears a little more, their voice chimed louder than its horrifying screams. the former was your voice of comfort, the succulent melody that you would never get tired of. it was him, calling for you to return.

and so, you listened.

it took a jab at your restraints but you finally stirred and sat up with wide eyes that had spilled so many burning streams of tears beforehand. akaashi sat next to you, his hand rested upon the small of your back where you could feel his thumb gently drawing circles to soothe you. those gunmetal blue irises of his held so many ribbons of feelings and perceptions in one look; concern, fear, distress, but above them all — solace.

you threw your arms around him and buried your face in the crook of his neck, the moisture of your cheeks smudging his shirt but he chose to not point it out. with your eyes shut tightly, you were fully aware of the slight shift in his muscles as he raised his hand to gently stroke your hair.

after a few minutes passed by, you found your strength to pull away and wiped away the remaining tears that had likely dried up. he merely watched you without uttering a word, allowing you to regain your piece of serenity before he asked, “do you want to talk about it, princess?”

“no.” your nose crinkled at the ghastly recollection, just the mere thought of it was enough to churn your stomach. you tilted your head down to cast a curtain with your hair and watched your fingers fight against each other, a good distraction that had managed to hold a fraction of your attention.

akaashi shuffled a little closer and parted your makeshift drape to reach your blank face. he knew that it was a facade, that the shallow expression was just a mask to hide the anguish that had clutched at your throat. still, he opposed the idea of pressing you past the brink of fear as you were obviously still reeling from the nightmare.

with his fingers rested beneath your chin, he slowly tilted your head up to look at him and hummed at the sight of the storms that raged within your eyes. you returned the stare with an additional note on the raven strands that covered his knitted brows and the pursed shape that his lips were molded in.

“we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, alright?” another nod as you couldn't find the will to trust your voice. he seemed satisfied with his impromptu check up and laid down, one of his warm hands bringing you close to his chest while the other brought up the comforter.

“come on now princess, let's get you back to sleep.” you shook your head, afraid that it would return if you chose to shut your eyes. “keiji, please don't make me go back there.”

“don't worry, i'll always keep the monsters away." he kissed your forehead and drew circles across your back again, fully aware that it'd soothe you better any other gesture could.

you couldn't resist any longer, not when you felt so safe and loved in his presence, so you finally succumbed to rest. this time, there was no beast there to overwhelm you with its looming figure and vindictive shrieks. instead, a magnificent scenery of emerald green grass and young blossoms welcomed you warmly with a light brush of its breeze and a dazzling azure sky that hung above your head with soft puffs of ivory blotted across it.

it had worked. his words, your dreamcatcher — it had worked.

‘i'll always keep the monsters away.’

[aberrantforge]

Pan (Remnant From The Ashes)

Unlike the past 2 homebrew creations I’ve made is a race from a video game. I’ve stated before but otherwise from time to time will pull from video games, movies, and other media. It should go without saying but, just to be safe I’m not endorsed nor am I planning monetary gain from this creation. The concepts, and ideas of this belong the creators of the respective media, Gunfire Games and Kyle Enochs For the art.

Anyways,

Pan are a race of upright mammalian creatures resembling satyr esque goats, but lacking most humanoid aspects. They are highly dexterous and very fast. As a species they are very territorial and protective of their beautifully constructed villages against “Paxultek”, or outsiders, which they have historically had issues with.

Pan society is dictated by two castes, one is the bulk of their society, the workers, laborers and standing army. The other is nobility, priests and the queen, the upper caste is noted for its immortality, allowing them to rule over others without fear of death.

Pan live almost exclusively in deep wooded jungles. In these wooded jungles the trees here grow incredibly large, in fact they grow so tall Pan often build villages halfway up the trees in interconnecting circular wooden structures. These villages above the ground are so high up comparatively that the canopies of smaller trees seem like the ground whilst the canopies above them are still thick enough to blot out the sun. Those that do live up this high use the massive branches as farmland and harvest rain in large catches.Those that live on the ground are not too different, though they often have patrols that stalk the thick ground foliage for enemies and prey for them to hunt.

The Pan have a cultural reverence for death. They entomb their dead with thick wrappings of cloth straps, making a mummified coffin. They deposit the deceased in massive underground mausoleums.

In addition, pan warriors are not dictated by gender, and some of the mightiest warriors are female pan, who are pulled from a festival where they prove themselves in the arena.

The Pan civilization is lead by a queen, with a sort of ruling class beneath her. In the heart of the great forest lies a tree the Pan revere as sacred. Within this tree grow fruits that when consumed, grant unending life, allowing them to live forever sans the other mortal ends one may meet. How old the queen has ruled is unknown, but some Pan tell of rumors that the tree is corrupted, and the fruits no longer give them their immortal lives.

They also are noted for their harnessing and reverence for the power of storms and electricity. Mages among the Pan tend to not only be among the upper echelons of Pan society, but usually learn magics pertaining to storms and lighting.

In combat, the Pan are fast, aggressive and generally favor hit and run tactics, utilizing their natural speed and acrobatics.

Besides combat, Pan are also excellent musicians, noted for being great flute players.

Racial Traits

Ability Score Improvement: Pan gain +2 to Dexterity, and +1 to Charisma

Age: Pan normally live well into their third century, but can be extended.

Size: Pan are medium

Alignment: Pan normally are neutral, but can sway into lawful and chaotic. Different factions within their culture generally dictate this.

Speed: Pan are very nimble, their land speed is 35ft

Language: Pan Speak Xatek, their racial language, and common at start.

Nimble: Pan are naturally nimble creatures, they are always proficient with acrobatics and have advantage to dexterity saving throws.

StormKeepers: The Pan’s reverence for thunder and lightning has granted them a racial resistance to electrical damage

This is concept art made by Kyle Enochs, Senior Concept artist at Gunfire games, he has a lot of other incredible pieces here: 

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/8lm8zQ ,

[terrorhqs]

                                            THE WOLFHOUND.

— NAME: MARIAH DEVINE.

— AGE: 38.

— GENDER: cis male, he/his.

— ROLE: military, bounty hunter..

— FACE: none, original art.

Blood is thicker than water but coin thicker than blood. You’ve seen the very same shade on the scabbed knees of bairns as that on the grinning teeth and fingernails of Europe’s basest; winking on ghetto cobblestones the same way it did anointing blades wielded in the Queen’s name. It’s the stench that gives them away - and you’ve always had a good nose. When you became too big for the chimneys and the tenters, you took to earning your keep as a hired scourge. Debtors burrowed into the East End like worms into woodwork, but you knew that cesspool stench too well for it to mask them. The dues of the destitute were your only leverage until you downed a sheep and found a wolf in its skin - for which you were bestowed a steelier and sharper foundation to stake into those more deserving, for bounty you’d much more deserve. You expanded your hunting ground from London across Europe, and your prey from worms to wolves. You’d never known silver before you’d licked that platter clean, but forbidden fruit surely smacked the same. Had the same bitter aftertaste preceded exile from Eden? Did justice come from the intention or the enactment? Certainty, then- The remedial sweet to the sour. Wolf after proven wolf shackled and caged. At the back of the throat, still it persists. So still you’ll persist. Bloodless or bloodied, coin still tastes the same.

                                                CONNECTIONS.

✹ THE PROGENITOR — You never took too kindly to the leash, but their hold of you was so extensive and winding you oft-forgot it was there. It was lengthy, not boundless as you once thought - the sort that pulled taut around stakes you’d been heedless to their planting until they were realised as foundations for a web. It was folly of youth for you to come gallivanting for their first paycheck, but you can hardly plead such excuses now. All these years later, you know to step carefully. You forget whether they still have that phantom cord in hand - but you brace for its pull all the same.

✹ THE SERAPH — It was neither a miracle of God nor oversight of the Devil that saw you back to life - although the haze of red on white always did make you wonder. No empyrean chorus or wails of the damned, but a tone so soft, so distinct, so close - but impossibly distant all the same. Incising through the shrill echo in your skull that deafened all else, blotting a storm into a sonorous fog. You followed it once into waking and it stuck as a half-remembered dream; a resonant echo in essence, with no worldly detail. Either it followed you back to the land of the living or it’s you tailing it to a boreal purgatory. If you are the supposed dead, why is it you who feels haunted? 

✹ THE CHAPLAIN — One who found their calling in redemption of sin and one in seeing to the condemnation of them. You imagined they’d take to you as affably as any dog - and with their restive air, you assume the ice you’re on is thinner than any for miles. That mellow benignity is all you’ve seen but you doubt it’s God that makes up the rest; there’s been something unplaceable stuck in your nose since setting sail and it’s nothing like frankincense. There’s no divinity to this magnetism, but there’s a science - and as with like poles you’ve made a stalemate of this head-on evasion. With science, there’s explanation. This ice you’re on could just as surely accommodate a meeting in the middle as a damning plunge along the way. You suppose there’s one way to find out.

                                                   This skeleton is TAKEN by Silvali.

[lilacjaemin]

sun showers

pairing: friends to lovers!taeyong x gender neutral reader

genre: mostly angst and then fluff at the end

word count: 910

summary: #96 “i brought you an umbrella” from 100 ways to say i love you

a/n: inspired by my payton and a tweet that said taeyong’s love language is acts of service:( he’s a sweetheart he'd do so much to show you his love !! (just like pay does and that’s why they’re perfect for each other but i digress)

“im gonna go for a walk.” you typed, ignoring the ‘in the rain?!’ text that followed. you didn’t get very far however, the exhaustion stopping you just a few feet from your door.

you sat in your front yard, the sky pouring down on you even though the sun was shining from behind the clouds. you felt every raindrop touch your skin, though you felt numb to it all. your eyes burned with tears and your head pounded from hours of crying, mindlessly plucking at the grass around you. your phone sat inside, unanswered texts from your best friend continuously lighting up your screen.

you almost didn’t notice when taeyong pulled into the driveway, rolled down his window and leaned over the passenger seat to call your name. 

“please, let’s go inside, or get in my car. just please don’t stay out in the rain.” he shouted over the sound of the downpour.

you barely looked over in his direction.

you could hear the car door open and then close, his shadow covering you from the sun and suddenly leaving you very cold.

“i had a feeling you’d say no, so i brought you an umbrella. and i threw this towel in the dryer. it’ll get a little cold in the shade.” he said quieter this time, flicking it open and plopping down next to you. he wrapped the warm towel around your shoulders and tucked a few strands of hair behind your ear before his eyes drifted to the unusual color of the sky.

it was silent between both of you, the sound of the rain against the big red umbrella filling your ears and reminding you just how sad you were.

“yongie,” you were surprised at how broken your voice sounded, “why is life so hard on me?” 

he didn’t know. he didn’t know why each day seemed to get worse instead of better, or why nothing seemed to go your way. it was unfair. he couldn’t understand how the world could be so cruel to the one person who deserved happiness most. but swore he would do everything in his power to be the one glimmer of hope in your life. he would never be a reason for your tears.

he opened his mouth to speak, but he knew in that moment he wouldn’t be able to convey it all correctly. when words failed him, actions spoke volumes, so he tucked the umbrella into his elbow and pulled you into him, rubbing your shoulder and trying to sooth your shivering. 

“what am i doing wrong?” you sniffled.

“nothing,” he used a corner of the towel to blot at your cheeks, “you’re doing absolutely nothing wrong. it’s not your fault. please know that.”

“it feels like it is,” you pursed your lips as more tears sprung to your eyes, “i’m sorry i’m so sad all the time. i try to stay happy, i really do. but sometimes it’s just so hard to.” you whispered, halfheartedly hoping he wouldn’t hear. you turned your face into his chest and prayed the rain would drown out your sobs.

the sound of your cries broke his heart. he desperately wanted to ease your burden. he wanted to tell you that you didn't have to face the world alone, that he was here, and that he wasn’t going anywhere. you had always done it for him, he needed you to know the same.

a moment of clarity came over him like the clouds parting overhead. he dropped the umbrella and let it fall to the side, his hands moving to cup your face. he smiled, no amount of rain or tears could make you any less breathtaking. he let his thumbs swipe the water away before connecting your lips. they tasted like raindrops but they felt like sunshine. when he pulled back, he settled on a few words to comfort you.

“you remind me a lot of a sun shower,” he had barely moved away from your mouth, his eyes still closed as he built up the courage to finish his sentence, “no matter how bad the downpour is around you, you remain so bright. but you don’t have to be positive all the time, you’re allowed to have those difficult days, i hope you know that.”

he pressed another kiss to your lips.

“i love you through thick and thin. you’re the only one i want by my side on the good days and the bad. you make the world easier to face just by being there and wiping my tears, and if you’ll let me, i’d like to do the same for you.”

when he opened his eyes he found you tightly gripping the now soaked material of his shirt. you leaned your forehead on his and he searched your face for a reaction. you were calm, your features no longer scrunched in sadness. you both sat still, breathing each other in.

you stared at him and took in every detail. the way water dripped off his hair and fell around his face, the love in his eyes, the raindrops that clung to his lashes, the warmth he radiated. he was quite literally your umbrella, your shelter from each and every storm.

“taeyong,” you breathed shakily, “i don’t think i could ever get through it without you.”

he smiled, unfurling your hands from the hem of his shirt and sliding his fingers in between yours, squeezing slightly.

“you’ll never have to.”

[libraryofvenus]

There Will Be No Peace - W.H. Auden

Though mild clear weather Smile again on the shore of your esteem And its colours come back, the storm has changed you: You will not forget, ever, The darkness blotting out hope, the gale Prophesying your downfall. You must live with your knowledge. Way back, beyond, outside of you are others, In moonless absences you never heard of, Who have certainly heard of you, Beings of unknown number and gender: And they do not like you. What have you done to them? Nothing? Nothing is not an answer: You will come to believe - how can you help it? - That you did, you did do something; You will find yourself wishing you could make them laugh, You will long for their friendship. There will be no peace. Fight back, then, with such courage as you have And every unchivalrous dodge you know of, Clear on your conscience on this: Their cause, if they had one, is nothing to them now; They hate for hate's sake.