#the reason i want a heads up for content with SA in it is because it will slap me in the face

[edwardslostalchemy]

So my friend wants to go watch the new kny movie that's coming out next weekend. So he gave my other friend and I homework: to watch kny so we could understand what would happen in the movie when we go see it. I got him into bnha so i think it's fair that he gets me into a series he likes (but not fairy tail ...... anything but that). I didn't expect for the explanation of watching the movie to be. Confusing? He gave me 2 options. Either finish season 1 and jump straight into the movie. Or watch the first 2 episodes of season 2 and then watch the movie. I figured out there's a 3rd option: watch season 2 episodes 1-7 and you basically watched the movie. My friend, who is going to start the series is confused about this, because she said she would only watch the seasons, but not the movie. And that's where I was like Now see you gotta watch it bc it's part of the plot. This is actually important to the story. You cannot skip the movie. And if she did, she'd miss out on the best Hashira besides Tapioca. I went into the series blind, which is honestly the way I like it (unless there's like sexual assault/abuse...then I would appreciate a huge heads up). My friend is going into it with a lot of information but she's having a problem with processing it. Hopefully, I am explaining things better. It is a very good series and I hope she's able to get into it. That way, our friend group can like bond over a series we've all watched.

[rosieofcorona]

Fellchaser

Hi my sweets, I bring to you some freshly baked Solavellan yearning. Also posted on Ao3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

This is how he remembers it, the first night Solas knew that he loved her. 

He cannot say with any certainty, after all these lonely years, what had happened directly before or directly after, cannot make out the finer details in the grand tapestry of things. But he knows by heart the shape of that hour, the way she had come to him after a victory, flushed with wine and the chill of the evening, her hair curling up in the damp autumn air.

*****

He declines, as he always does, their invitations for a celebratory drink, preferring the relative quiet and solitude of his own quarters.

For many hours, he can hear them– Bull and Sera and the rest– their cheerful noises bouncing off the castle walls like skipping stones. It annoys him for a time, disturbs his solitude, his study, until he hears (or thinks he hears) her voice among them. 

Solas can picture her then, in the tavern. Bright mind, bright eyes, bright laughter. Vibrant even in the dimness of the room. And there’s a flicker of a thought he can’t keep smothered– that he should’ve gone down there with her, despite his judgment. 

It makes no matter how he tries to keep his distance. She seeks him out, as she always does, as he knows she will. When he doesn’t stop her, he tells himself that it’s because she’s their Inquisitor. He tells himself she can go where she likes, that duty alone compels his counsel. 

He knows a lie when he hears one. 

He’s nearly talked himself into making an appearance when she shows up in his doorway, hazy and loose with the aura of drink, the tips of her ears and her cheeks turned rosy. 

He does nothing to discourage her entering. He says nothing to send her away. 

“Hello,” she says simply, when he sees her. Her head tilts against the frame, her gaze fond and unfocused.

“Hello.”

“You never joined us.” An accusation. Lightly leveled, lightly slurred. The syllables tumble in her mouth like stones in a river.

He wants to say, I could not bear you being so close and sweet and real. He wants to say, You are a distraction I cannot afford.  Instead he says, “I was preoccupied,” knowing that answer is insufficient.

She makes her way into the chamber, weaving an unsteady path to the table where he has laid out all his books, his quills, his ink. 

“With what?” she murmurs, curious even in her state.

Solas knows he should excuse himself, conjure a reason to stay at a distance. But he finds himself wanting to– what? Talk to her, tell her, keep her close?

“Translating a record,” he says at last. “Of ancient practices in Arlathan. Ritual offerings to the gods in exchange for their…favor.”

Solas stumbles on the last word, something bitter in its taste, and where she would normally probe him further she takes no notice. She’s busy poring over the largest book, its contents all in Elvhen, the ink and vellum faded by the centuries. “I can’t make out any of this,” she frowns. “Perhaps I’m worse off than I thought.” “Perhaps,” Solas huffs out a laugh. “Although the language has shifted with time. Some words may yet be familiar, if not–”

“Oh, here!” She gasps delightedly when she finds a phrase she knows, though she says the syllables slowly, as if they are new. “Sa-lath. One’s love, one’s only love. Something like that.” 

“In the modern parlance, yes. But here,” he says– and he leans over her to tap the page for emphasis– “Here it means something like ‘beloved.’ The words come together, see. Salath.”

It’s the wine he smells first, that rich, warm scent that floats from her up close, but there’s something different, something distinctive hiding beneath. He wants to taste it and find out, to slip his tongue into her mouth, and– 

“They would offer something beloved, then?”

Solas clears his throat.

“Or someone,” he nods, breathing deeply. “A high price for favor.”

She goes quiet for a moment, tracing the small shapes of the letters with her finger. Such a fine movement is made imprecise by the drink, but she repeats it as if she is carving it into her memory. “Salath,” she whispers, tasting the word. “Salath, ‘beloved.’ I will remember that.”

He very much doubts that she will, come morning. But it stirs something inside him all the same. Beloved, beloved.  

“What would you demand?” She says, sweeping the thought from his mind. “If you were a god.”

If, he thinks, that one word louder than all the rest. 

“I suppose it would depend what was being asked of me.”

“Your favor,” she tells him. “Your love.”

“Ah.” There’s a twist in his chest, like an arrow wrenched free, pain and relief all at once. “The heart of a god is not easily won. I would require yours in return.”

She laughs a little, as if he’s jesting. “That hardly seems equal. A mortal heart for a god’s?”

“Your heart,” Solas says, in a gentle correction. “For mine.” He does not kiss her, like he wants to. He does not stop her kissing him. 

The press of her mouth is a summer fruit, warm and sweet and bruising lightly beneath their wanting, their mutual hunger grown apparent. 

Only once has he kissed her before this. A dream, an impulse, he’d told himself then. A mistake that he wouldn’t repeat, no matter how tempting. 

So he’s grateful, now, that she’s been drinking, that she’s given him an out. He can call this her impulse, even as he takes more, tastes more. He can call this next part chivalry. He knows a lie when he hears one. 

“We can’t,” he says, when they come apart. “You are not yourself, and the hour is late. You should get some sleep.”

She’s disappointed, he thinks– and is it cruel to hope she is? To hope she still wants him as he wants her, even as he turns her away? 

Best not to dwell on it.  

“I will help you upstairs,” he tries again, and she brightens a little. “Can you manage the walk?”

There’s a part of him that wishes she’ll say no, give him an excuse to lift and carry her to her quarters, to feel the weight of her pressed against him. But she says, “Yes,” and, “I’m not so far gone,” and Solas breathes out another laugh. 

He knows a lie when he hears one.

All the same, he takes her hand in his, lets her lean on him as they make the long walk to her quarters, each step its own little feat. She stumbles more than once; more than once, he catches her gently. 

It is worth being gentle for her. 

In her room he removes her boots, knelt on the floor as if at an altar. He hardly knows the last time he knelt, only knows that now he wants to.

When he rises she says, “Thank you,” and the following word may be his name, or another entirely. Solas tries to ignore it, tries to let the sound be lost in the lingering silence but he needs to know, as he always does, needs to be certain. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘thank you,’” she hums, laying back on the bed, and this time he leans in close to hear the rest. 

“Salath.” *****

The walk back to his quarters is longer, somehow. 

He thinks of her all the way, her hair in a dark spill across the pillows, the way she rolled the old sounds of his language around in her mouth. He thinks of her when he undresses, when he slips into his own bed, when he indulges in the fantasy of feeling her under and around him. Just this once, he thinks, as his hand begins to move beneath the covers, slow at first and then more desperate. Just this once won’t hurt, won’t hurt, won’t– 

Ah.  

He is in love, he knows it now, as he shudders and gasps out her name. How tragic it is, and how lovely. How foolish, how sweet. His love for her could level cities. It could grow flowers.

A mortal heart for a god’s. Beloved, beloved. 

He imagines what he would sacrifice for her, if he has to, when he has to. The answer surfaces in his mind like something dredged up from unfathomable depths, some unknown factor which demands to be accounted for, and which fills him with dread.

“I would give everything,” he says aloud, to himself, to no one. 

The words hang in the air like ghosts, the same lament in all their mouths.  Beloved, beloved. Tags by request (thank you, angels!): @meg-does-art, @lavellanart

[netherfeildren]

Kiss, Kiss, Kill, Kill!

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel is a long haul truck driver. One day he finds a pretty girl in a diner and decides he’d like to keep her. 

Murder and sex ensue!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak; Graphic depictions of violence; Murder; Blood; Gore; Threat of SA; Impotence; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Loss of virginity; Virginity kink; Breeding kink; Spit kink; Rough sex; Pussy slapping; Dark!Joel; Mean!Joel (also kinda crazy and pathetic); Obsessive behavior; Possessive behavior; Discussions of suicidal ideations; Unreliable narrators; Alcoholism; Consensual non consent kind of (But not previously discussed - they're both into it tho); Use of misogynistic language; Grief

A/N: Hi :) Another one just bc I have no self control. 

Parts of the narrative read a little disjointed and/or confusing. This is intentional. I was kind of trying something weird out here, I guess.

Word Count: 9.7K

Read on AO3

The first time Joel sees you, it’s a Thursday. His least hated day of the week, but not his favorite, for he doesn’t really have any favorite things anymore. Your eyes’d stunned him at that first look. They sparkled as if dusted with frost – speared him with an intensity that burned. 

But no… that was a lie, and Joel is trying not to be such a liar anymore. He does have one favorite thing now. This middle-of-nowhere diner, this place where’d he’d found you. 

The first time he’d actually talked to you, you’d interrupted his own stubborn, sour silence with a silence of your own. Different, agonizing, compared to your usual persistent fishing for his attention. 

“What’re you doin’ out here in this wasteland, sweetheart?” Because you look sweet as that cherry pie you’re always trying to push on him. 

“Been here my whole life.” It’s verging on evening, the sky gone to melancholy, and there’s a young girl with dark hair weeping on the shoulder of an older woman in the booth over. He wants to snap at her, demand to know what the fuck she could possibly have to cry over? He’s sure she mustn’t have a dead daughter like him, and so there really seems to be no reason for tears. 

“No plans to leave?”

You shake your head, hum a little, set the coffee pot down on the edge of the table to pop a hip out and think on your answer. “Guess you could say I’m a little bit weak or scared, don’t know.”

“Doubt that,” a surprised laugh forced out of him. Entirely improbable, he knows this just by looking at you. “You’ve got eyes that seem as if they’ve never held fear within them in your entire life.” And he makes you laugh at that, head thrown back, throat rippling. The sound like the tolling of the bell indicating the start of the rest of his life. 

When you���re done gifting him your laughter, you ask, “What about you? Why are you here?”

“My daughter died.” Plain. 

Your eyes seem to shutter or flicker, something like a chimera about them, “When?”

“Two years ago.” He watches the crying girl and the old woman get up to go. And then the two of you are alone. You move to sit in the booth across from him. He’d been coming in here to see you for more than half that time since, and now, the first time the two of you are having an actual conversation, and this is what he’s decided to open with. But really, it’s the only story he has to tell anymore. He watches you watch him for a long moment, as though you’re searching for something within him, or mulling over what it is you want to say to him, the shift of your jaw from side to side as you chew on your words. He feels easily frightened now – fragile – and yet vibrantly malignant, at the same time. A juxtaposition on two opposite ends of the spectrum of good and not so good, or perhaps, verging on very, terribly bad, in the grocery store line of human morality. Two Joel’s at the start and end of the queue who could not seem to come to terms with one another. Enemies – they were enemies of each other. A Joel who’d once had a daughter, and a Joel who now did not. A Joel who’d pulled a trigger at his own temple, and one who’d never even considered such a thing. He draws his finger along the line of scar tissue at his temple.

For a long time he’d wanted to tear a hole in his world and escape, but he was no master of inventiveness. On the contrary, he found his attempt rather miserly – had short changed himself at the last moment and flinched. But perhaps, it had been for this reason – for you, to find you. He wishes he could peer inside your mind, crack open your skull and read everything you’re hiding away from him inside there. A violent thought, but you make him feel slightly violent, or – no, that’s not it – for Joel is already a violent man. It’s more that you pull a specific hue of violence out of him, incite it, like he needs to move, to howl, to claw at something, at you, scream and scream and scream to keep your undivided attention on him forever. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say finally, voice quiet. “How old was she?”

His loss. That was a funny way of putting it. It had never felt like a loss. The word was too small. Four letters was not enough to describe what it really was. There was no word for what it felt like. An emaciation of his very self until he simply ceased to exist. Something that had sucked his soul, his heart, his brain out of his body, but they didnt feel lost. They felt destroyed, decimated, or like they had never existed. Sometimes the feeling left him confused, disoriented – this strange purgatory he’d been relegated to, it was like it had never happened in his mind sometimes, or like it had happened to a different man. Like that life with that beautiful little girl with the green eyes who’d had a father who loved her, who’d then died, had happened to someone else. Someone who wasn’t Joel. Like a war that had raged and raged for centuries, and now nothing was left in its wake. Only that terribly fraught reminder of a violence too grotesque for a human mind to conceive. 

How could he miss something, wish for something so, so, so fucking desperately he’d peel his very skin from his body himself to get it back, but also feel like it didn’t belong to him anymore? Like it had never happened to him, like he remembered it out of his own body? A dream that belonged to someone else, and Joel’d only been told of it second hand. His mind was fractured now, he knew this. He wasn't right – broken or glued together the wrong way. His bones didn’t fit in his joints the way they were supposed to anymore. He was all wrong and ugly and fucked. 

“She was twelve.”

“My whole family’s dead,” you say it almost casually, with a half shrug of your shoulders. “Is that why you started driving? To get away?”

He’s been a long haul truck driver for going on two years now. Started just after Sarah – needed to get away, to get lost. He didn’t enjoy it – he does not enjoy it. Not because the work is bad or boring or what have you, but because he doesn’t enjoy anything anymore. But it’s productive and pays well and… well, he does appreciate the solitude. There is that, at least. He’d been on the route from New Mexico to Washington for several months now, and it was fine. Occasionally, he’d head up to the Dakotas – not so fine, longer, harder trek, but he managed it. He preferred this one, preferred the darkness of the north west corner of the country. He never went further south than New Mexico, though. Absolutely never into Texas. He’d never go back there again. 

“Sure… to get away.” He couldn’t be there anymore afterwards, had nothing left. “My neighbor, Anna, she’s got a teenager, Ellie. Sweet kid. Weird kid,” he laughs fondly, remembering the two of them. “The kid was friends with my daughter, Sarah. And after everything– well, after everything, Anna made sure they both stuck around. Didn’t let me shut myself away the way I wanted to,” ill-shaven recluse, confused, fractured, “They’re good people. You’d like them, I think. They’re… they’re my friends.” They were another reason he kept doing the driving, he liked to send money back to Anna and Ellie. He knew they didn’t need it, didn’t want it, but he had to. He needed to feel like he was still taking care of someone, contributing to someone’s well being. It was just part of who he was. 

“I’m sure I would.”

He watches your silent enrapture as you listen to him tell you of his pseudo life. After a while he’d realized that was all he’d started doing, making his way back to you, to this diner where you work. A sad place for ugly men to stop in on a pause from their interminable journeys and lay eyes on an angel. He hadn’t even really realized that’s what he was purposely doing or that it’d become a pattern. He just needed something to see at the end of the tunnel, a light to look towards when he was lost in the darkness. That’s what you are, a single flickering light in the abyss of darkness he exists in now. 

You’re small – tiny compared to Joel’s own hulking size. He thinks he could break you, easily, if he isn’t careful, if he so felt like it. And you were – you are so fucking pretty. He thinks of you so often. Almost as often as he thinks of his dead daughter which might seem wrong or strange, but it’s really nothing more than the two opposite ends of a spectrum of perfect beauty that he’s known within his lifetime that now he cannot reach either end of. Sarah – dead, forever out of reach. And you. Too perfect for consideration, too beautiful and good for these monstrous hands of his. The thing he’s become in his grief is not worthy of a gorgeous creature like you. His existence post Sarah’s death had become some sort of apocalyptic dysphoria where the only monster here was Joel. But he does like to watch, and he does like to think of you. To come to your diner and sit and watch you serve coffee to your customers – the scum that muddles through here isn’t worthy of laying eyes on you – men like him. Sometimes, when he sits here silently, pretending to ignore you and not be entirely beguiled by you, he feels as if he has a purpose again, like the money for Anna and Ellie, getting to inconspicuously watch over you, make sure no one gives you a hard time gives him purpose. And when he goes, even though he never really wants to, he takes you with him in his mind through the long stretches of his hauls. When there are nothing but ghosts to keep him company. When thoughts of Sarah and that dead life become too overwhelming, he calls you to mind, plans his routes to make his way back to you. 

You’re also fucking persistent – not giving him the chance to wallow away in his silence and brooding. He was rude at first, gruff and unresponsive and wouldn’t ever acknowledge your queries of, How’s it going today, and, Oh, back again I see. Sometimes he wanted to snap and just spit the truth at you, ‘course, I’m fuckin’ back, I’m here to see you, I’m obsessed with you. And rounds and rounds of, Can I get you another cup of coffee? The same as usual? You’d memorized his order. Pestered and pestered and pestered for his name until he’d finally ceded it to you, and, How ‘bout some cherry pie this time? After a while you’d gotten sick of his recalcitrant bullshit and just dropped off the piece of pie, slipping it onto the edge of the table and sliding away without a word or a half look back at him. He’d eaten the whole damn thing, savored it, and caught your sassy, little smirk after he’d finished. He’d wanted to bend you over the counter and spank your ass until you cried after that. He bets you’d taste as sweet as that pie, that if he slapped your cunt enough times he could get it red as a cherry. He bets you’d like that – that you’d like it a little rough, a little dirty, a little mean. You might look like an angel, but Joel’s seen the way you look at him, the way you follow him with your eyes, leaning against the counter, chin cupped in your small palm watching him eat his eggs and drink his coffee. 

You want him. 

But Joel is frightened – frightened and cowardly and not right, and as much as you look like an angel, he also worries you might have the ability to entice him into very, very bad things – to provoke him into depravity, even. There is a part of him, large or small given the day and the mood and the weather that he walks in here on, that has the rotten half of his mind whispering at the not-so-rotten half that he wants to defile and debase you, and that he’s pretty sure you’d like it if he did. He wants to fuck you full of his come and then watch it leak out of your used, gaping hole. Then he wants to lick you clean, kiss it all better so that he can do it all over again.

The first few times he’d stopped at your diner, he’d pretended he hadn’t even noticed you, would lie to himself in his mind and tell himself that he had no interest in a little thing like you. He had no interest in women, in making connections, in having conversations. Occasionally… well– no, not occasionally. Twice, it had happened twice now, when the urge had struck, the itch had become too persistent, and his hand not enough, he’d gotten a hooker. The first time he’d shut down completely, lost his hard on and not been able to finish. The second time… he’d finished. He might’ve even made the woman come, he hadn’t bothered to ask, but he thought he might have. Then he’d gone back to his truck and cried great heaving sobs. Like he’d said… not right, he wasn’t right anymore. Couldn’t even fuck a whore without blubbering like a baby. He’d wondered if perhaps his grief had made him impotent. That’d be funny. That type of funny thing that is also a humiliation… you know the sort?

But after a while, the lie had become too much of a farce, even for his own mind. He knew, from that first moment he’d walked in, and you’d spun around, a bright smile and chirpy, little voice telling him to sit anywhere you’d like, be right with you, mister, that he’d taken notice. More than notice. He’d put you in his pocket that day and had carried you with him in some way since. Like a stone chosen off the beach, washed up by the tide and deposited in the sand just for him to come across, or maybe like a fucking infection, like the plague, for he did not want this. He did not want to think of you. He did not want to think of anyone or anything. He wanted to be alone and without anything or anyone for the rest of his life. If he did not have anyone, if he remained alone, then he could never again experience that loss which was not truly a loss, but something much worse and devastating, and even, perhaps, a little hilarious, in that way that a hilarious thing can also sometimes be humiliating and shameful… there it is. A loss that is not a loss for it is a thing so devastating it becomes something else entirely. A humiliation to one’s very existence, a decimation, emaciation, all the things, all the things, and nothing at the same time.

His mind was wont to ramblings, on occasion now. Perhaps, incoherence, was the better word. Anxiety, as well, panic, tears. Couldn’t even fuck a hooker without weeping, howling, a few sobs. 

He had wandered so far, and sometimes he thought, I want to go home, but of course, that home no longer existed. It had been put in the ground two years ago and lost forever. The dissatisfaction of constant ennui. He could, perhaps, return to the geographical place, but nothing familiar would remain. He couldn’t live with the memory, he couldn’t live away from it. It was like it had simply ceased to exist that day that she’d died, and every moment since that moment was just a series of moments filled with a yearning for some place that no longer existed. He didn’t think he’d ever again feel at home anywhere.

And yet…

He turns back to look at you. 

“How did they die? Your family.”

“Home invasion – murdered. He never found me, hid in the boiler closet.”

“Little rabbit.”

“Hmm,” a huff of a laugh, “Maybe. Someone once said I was lucky. Pretty fucked up, no?”

“Do you feel lucky?”

“Never. Angry – that I’d been left behind.”

“Yeah…”

“Alone.”

“Are you alone?”

You turn back to him. Inspect him. He watches the slant of your eyes take in his hair, his face, wrinkled, haggard, his chest, his arms – he feels a flush flare beneath his ribs, then back up to his eyes. He wonders if you’ve ever been fucked before. You’re young – but he can’t imagine how you wouldn’t have been. He thinks he’d do anything in this moment to get between your thighs, but also, he hopes you haven’t, hopes you could be all his, only his, his his. Mine. 

He hopes he won’t cry if he gets the chance. 

“Entirely,” you say finally. 

“I had– have– ” shakes his head, “I have, I guess, a brother. Tommy. But the last time I saw him… I was horrible.” They seldom saw each other now – lie – they never saw each other now. Truth, Joel. We’re telling the truth now. 

You laugh lightly, shrug, “Happens.”

“Sure…”

“What’d you do to him?”

“Ah, just couldn’t get a handle on myself after everything. Things got bad enough eventually, and we fought… a lot. Violently. I was violent. One morning I got out of hand, terrible – one of my biggest regrets. We hurt each other with our words and our fists, and in that way only two people who know each other too well can. He cracked my ribs, gave me half his orange in the evening, afterwards – said our apologies. He was gone the next day. Haven’t heard from him since. I just got to be too much for him,” he says again, needs to reiterate it, make sure you understand that he is too much and too dark, too unmanageable – ugly. That you should not be sat here with him. That he has a violence within him, and that you should probably run as fast and as far as you can, but that he cannot promise he will not follow. “I had…” he is ashamed of this part, surprising for he sometimes wonders if he still possesses the heart to feel shame, “I had a problem with drink for a while – not anymore, though,” he says quickly. “I promise, not anymore.” He should not be promising you anything. “I got control of it – knew it was making it all worse rather than better. Felt like I was trapped underwater with my damn ghosts – that … What's that thing called when – when sick people get like – like trapped inside themselves or somethin’? You ever heard’a that?”

-

“Locked-in syndrome.”

“Yeah– yeah. I read about that once or heard it somewhere – that’s what it felt like when I was drinkin’ – fuckin’ terrible. Let it go after a while… but by that time… Tommy was gone, done with me. I was – dunno… like some sort of demon or somethin’ – somethin’ bad.” He huffs a small, derisive laugh, looks at you with that ridiculously charming, crooked half smile. 

That laugh sparks a kindling of anger inside of you for him. This is a broken, angry, creature of a man, you think. Something fractured – not whole, and he must be handled with care and gentleness. “How could he just leave you?

“Didn't give him a choice. Sometimes people deserve to be left.”

“I wouldn’t have.” That sobers him, wipes the smile right off his handsome face. You think of the invisible giants hurting this man in some unimaginable fashion; of the endless tenderness coiled up inside of him and how the crushing of that tenderness – the death of it – has given way to what may be considered madness. Because after all these months of watching him, of him watching you, you can see it, recognize that tenderness for what it is, but also the madness, for it is impossible to ignore if you’re really looking. Soft marrow at the center of a hard man. 

“I did other things… worse things.”

“Try me.”

“I tried to kill myself.”

You whistle, long and low. You actually had not been expecting that one, at least, not the admittance of it, “You’re just full of truths,” for looking at him – the sort of man he’s built as, the thought that he could be felled by anything, even his own hand, is a little hard to believe. 

“Feels like a sort of confessional in this–”

“Shithole–”

“Diner–”

Your voices overlap. You both laugh. You think you quite like the sound of your voices intermingling one on top of the other. 

“What happened?”

“Flinched–”

“I flinch all the time.”

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

You hum, tilt your head side to side on your neck as if you’re letting the thought slide from ear to ear within your skull. “Perhaps only the peripheral idea of it, but never with much imagination or dedication. I don’t think I have that much to kill myself over, you know?”

“Your family?”

“Not really �� it’s sort of become just this… this thing that happened once. I don’t feel much ownership over it anymore. Don’t know why, exactly.”

“Sure, that’s how I feel about it sometimes too. That belongs to a different man now – like– like some actor or a facsimile, and I just look in on it as if from a distance. Enjoy the sight of someone else's suffering…” He shakes his head, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, no, I understand. Something to do in the way that a tragedy can be compelling to watch. You can let go, let go of your awareness of yourself and experience it in a way you’d never do so in the present moment.”

“A dissociation.”

“Yes. Why would you want to go and relive the basest parts of yourself all alone, over and over again? Not likely.”

“But it was me.”

“A dissociation,” you repeat, smile. 

“Yeah,” he pauses, turns the coffee cup round and round with the slow spin of his wrist as if to dissolve the remains of the grounds you know the shitty machine has left deposited at the bottom. There is a small dusting of golden brown hair covering his wrist and disappearing up his forearm beneath his flannel. You want to taste it, follow the trail to places unknown. “Not so well adjusted, us two,” And he laughs then. A real laugh. He lets you have a real laugh of his, and it is powerful – special. 

“Well… no.” Of course not. “I don’t think either of us could ever claim that.”

“Bet you’ve never been bad a single day in your life, have you?”

You cock your head, let your eyes slide from him to peer out the dark window. His lonely semi is parked under the single flare of light out there. The evening has sunk into a deep blue, the hue of mourning, of melancholy, and the pavement is wet with evening rainfall.

You'd heard that some trucks had spaces behind the seats where truckers could put a bed, have a place to rest. You wonder if he’ll take you back there and fuck you in his little bunk. And honesty is a fickle thing when discussing a topic like this, isn't it? There’s a depravity about him, and you can’t tell if the truth or the lie would placate him – incite him – more. To be similar in such a way as that which he’s imagining. A little bit of both, then. After all, intent holds weight – imagination, desire, it has a mass to it that can, if enough pressure is exerted upon it, be transformed into something else. 

“Not yet,” you tell him, sliding your gaze back to meet his, “Haven’t had a chance – but there’s still time.”

-

“What would you like to do?” He wants to take a bite out of that soft flesh you’re encased in, draw blood.

“Something depraved?” You’re taunting him – trying to provoke. It makes him slightly angry, but also hard. You should know what it is you’re toying with here. 

He frowns at you, at the lilting song of your words trying to beguile him into doing whatever it is you think you want him to do to you. “What is it that you think you want here? You don’t know what I was, how I lived. Shouldn’t be sat here with me, little girl,” he scoffs. “I was– was not– I don’t fucking know, not a man. I’m not, I’m not. Not a person anymore, just this thing that continues to exist. I should not have been expected to survive. This should mean something to you too. You also have no one. You’re alone too. You’re alone in the world. You know what it feels like to only live in the winter.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, and then you say: “I think I’ve come to quite like the winter.” And at that he knows he’s taking you for himself, whether you agree in the end or not. You’re going to be his. 

But he knows he must also let this roiling anger, this depraved hunger settle before he lays hands on you. Like this, in this state, he’d be too rough, break you, nothing compunctious about him or his jaggedness. He excuses himself for a smoke, your only response simply more of that inciting silence – more thoughts of cracked skulls and a cherry red cunt and tears after failed trysts with someone who doesn’t even know his name. He’s fucking embarrassing. What would Tommy say if he knew Joel couldn’t even get it up for a paid fuck anymore? He’d laugh in his face, never let him live it down. He misses his brother very much. He misses lots of things. 

He’s sucking on his Red under the awning of the diner’s entrance, imagining what it’ll be like to suck on your little clit, when he hears them. 

“She’s usually out about midnight. We’ll snag her then.” Grating, guttural voice.

“But I get to fuck ‘er first. This was my idea so I go first.”

“Yeah, whatever. S’only happenin’ ‘cause of me. Too fuckin’ stupid to see the plan through after all these months of watchin’ ‘er.”

“Fuck off.” Silence, and then almost with giddy elation: “We gonna kill her too?” Something cold and terrifying settles within Joel. 

A beat, “Should we?”

“Dunno, man. Might be fun, huh? Never done it before.”

“She’s fuckin’ pretty,” the voice draws the vowel out in a high pitched, sacharine whine. “Got the face of an angel.” Joel’s angel, his, his, only his.

He’s got his Bowie in a sheath on the back of his belt. Perhaps, this would be a useful exercise in release. After he’s dispelled his excess energy he can come back and touch you, take you. 

“Can’t wait to taste that cunt.” His cunt.

“Seen her tits, man? Fucking round and bouncy. Wanna make ‘em bleed.” And there’s only one avenue of consequence after that. After all, this is not the first time Joel’s done this. 

His most well kept secret.

Sometimes, when the itch cannot be eased, abated, by his hand or a fuck or a drink or any of the other readily available vices, he turns to this. Only when the straits were dire. Only when he saw no other recourse. Only after his daughter was dead and in the ground and his brother gone away from him

. 

But sometimes… sometimes it’s just fun. Sometimes it’s useful for a man to do that thing that he really feels he wants to do, if only to enjoy himself, if only to let go of some of that suffocating tension. If only to keep vermin like this away from an angel like you. 

“We’ll chill in the woods for a while, wait the little thing out, yeah?” Joel edges his way towards the edge of the building closer to them, peeks a lone eye around the corner. Two men, middle aged. Not a problem. Not for a man like him. 

He waits for them to make their way to the edge of the tree-line, watches them disappear into the gloom. He looks back into the diner through the murky windows. The warm glow of the overhead lamps washing you in a hue of golden light that brings out all the warm goodness in you he’ll take for himself once he’s snuffed out this issue. 

No one’s going to touch you but him. No one’s going to hurt you but him. 

As he rounds the corner of the diner there’s a piece of metal pipe propped up against the building by the dumpsters. Very nice. 

He goes after them. 

At the edge of the tree-line, under a swaying, low hanging branch, there is a tiny unfledged bird, helplessly twitching its way towards death in a puddle. He pauses to watch its struggle, gathers his skin about him, tightens his seams – prepares to gorge. He watches the inch by inch pilgrimage towards its last breath, then stillness. He feels so much older than his years, like he’s lived a thousand terrible years, watched a thousand terrible deaths. But there is a buoyancy about him, as well. Filled with a saccharine sweet fizz of sticky anticipation. He’s going to taste your cunt after this is done.

 He moves into the gloom. He’s going to kill them for you, and his cock is hard at the thought.

Stepping beneath the canopy of the trees, into that cold, damp darkness, he sees the absolute truth of the world. On the heels of two men who’d do you harm, he knows that he’d failed to save someone he cared about once, he’d not be bested by failure a second time. Darkness implacable, the crushing black vacuum of their overheard words buzzing in his head like flies, of the harm they’d do you. Two hunted animals moving away from a creature much darker than they could even imagine, scurrying on borrowed time. What most moves him is that the things they’d do to you are not so dissimilar to the things he plans to do to you, as well. The only difference being that after he’s done defiling you, he’ll keep you for himself, with all the care and gentleness a little thing like you so deserves. 

-

You press your ear to the cracked open door leading to the back of the building. It’s not the first time those two’ve talked their filth regarding you. The murdering is new, though. You’d not thought they were smart or inventive enough to come up with an actual kill plot. Rape enough of a hardball for minds as shallow and small as those two’ve got. 

You’d never really considered them much of a threat. Or maybe you’d just never really cared enough to pay them much attention. But as you watch the broad, rippling expanse of Joel’s muscled back stalk after them, his pause at the tree-line to look down at something on the ground, you think he must be more in the vein of taking a stupid man’s shit talk to heart than you’ve ever been. 

He has a thick, forearms-length of steel pipe gripped in his huge fist, and there’s a wicked looking knife strapped to his belt on the back of his hip. 

Interesting. 

You look back at the empty diner, the lonely parking lot beyond the glass of the windows, only Joel’s semi still taking up residence on the wet pavement. You turn back to follow after the three men. 

One you want, two you’re interested to see what fate awaits them.

For some reason, when you step outside, you’re expecting there to be snow on the ground, but there is none.  

You move across the pavement towards the forest-line, and the pilgrimage towards the verdant darkness feels very much like your one-way ticket out of this forlornness you’ve been trapped in your whole life. You’ve been stuck in this small town for so long, for too long. One man had already tried to forcibly evict you, had taken your entire family with him, maybe this one, maybe Joel, would do so in a way you’d more likely enjoy. 

There’s been a steady, faint drizzle all day long, and the puddles of rain look like holes in the dark pavement, apertures into some other realm that glide past underground. You wonder if you stepped through if you’d disappear below into some other place. You wonder if he’d be able to find you even in that unknown other. 

You cross the line into darkness. 

The familiar terror of silence – you don’t seem to find it here. There is only the sound of your rushing blood, the cadence of his voice rumbling through your psyche, firing your neurons up into a frenzy. There is a twisting heat low in your pelvis, dampness between your thighs. What’s he going to do? Why’s he going to do it?Is it for me? Is it for me? It’s for you.

You let out a low whistle between your teeth and move beyond the trees. There is a giddiness about the darkness of the wood – the motley of shadows, the aroma of mushroom rot. 

The familiar terror of silence. Perhaps, that is what they are experiencing now. The great horror of being set upon by a beast more terrifying than anything they could have ever conjured up on their own. 

That infinite tenderness from before, that acute madness – it coalesces in the gap in the trees as you come upon the three men. 

Joel has already started on the first. He murders almost tenderly. With great care, but infused with an aroma of agitated frenzy that seems flavored in the same notes of erotic buzzing that hums beneath your own skin. There is blood and viscera splattered on his face and clothes, in his hair. That great hunting knife embedded in the throat of the first man. The body lays facing you now, eyes open, shocked at his own death. Funny. Perhaps, that’s how they would have liked you to have ended up once they were through with you. 

Oh, how the tune changes when the monster is on your side. 

What are you? Be a creature. Be a creature. Be a creature!

You take Joel in. Thick, massive frame. You love his hair, it was one of the first things you’d noticed, thick dark curls streaked with the silver veins of his age and experience. Something that promised of care and knowledge and patience. His patchy beard with the heart shaped gap in it, you’re going to write your name into that space. His powerful arms, muscles coiled tight, his shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he brings the steel pipe up above his head, pauses to look down at his next victim. 

“We won’t bother her anymore, never again – p– please, please, I swear,” the man on the ground begs and cries. There are tears and snot bubbling down his ruddy, pocketed face. 

Joel is silent and terrifying and glorious above him, and then a small nod: “That’s alright… I believe you.” The metal comes down in a whistling arc, makes contact. 

Flesh and blood splatter, the sound of it is pulpy and wet and vindicating. He starts with the man’s knees, then his head, caved in like the shell of an egg, the yolk spilling out like vermilion drool. 

He heaves silently above the man that would have done you harm. Makes the threat go away. 

You step forward, cunt pulsing and wet and eager for him. When he’s gotten his fill of bludgeoning he turns slowly back towards you, as if he’d known the entire time that you’d been stood there watching. 

And the look on his face, it makes something electrifying and sticky buzz up your spine and ooze down your veins. You shift back on your heels

He shakes his head, his eyes are huge, pupils blown wide. “Don’t run,” he says slowly. If you hadn’t just watched him murder two men in cold blood – no, in your defense, he saved you, he protected you, fizzy heart full of satisfaction – you’d say he almost looks a little doe eyed. 

A hollow pounding begins in his heart, as if it had remained silent for the past two years and was only now taking notice of its own silence. His cock, hard enough to burst, angry and throbbing beneath the confines of his blood soaked jeans. Fuck this scum laying on the ground beside him, look at what he has infront of him. Nothing else matters but you. A goddamned angel. Damned for he’s found you now and nothing good can come of this. He takes a step towards you, and you match him with one backwards, away from him, his blood starts to howl in his veins. Different to the humming frenzy that had filled him as he did his murdering. This is hot and viscous and ravenous, and he knows he’ll get to keep his catch once he’s gorged himself on it. He knows he’ll get to keep you once he’s caught you. 

You take two more nervous little, quick steps away from him. Your eyes are slightly manic, face flushed, frame jittery, excited. A rabbit that knows it’s about to be caught. He watches the pause of your limbs as they fill with coiled energy, getting ready to make the bound and leap towards escape. He lunges, goes in for the kill, teeth bared, talons  brandished. 

Faster than you can even comprehend, he lunges, takes you to the ground with one massive, powerful shoulder to the vulnerable, soft of your belly, one huge paw cradled at the back of your skull to protect you from the hard ground. Your spine hits the cold, wet earth, the breath knocked out of you. You think you let out an animal noise, high pitched and supplicant. A thing that knows it’s been caught and is soon to be devoured. Your limbs scramble against the dirt, heels digging into the ground for purchase, you feel the loss of one of your shoes, as you try to get away or to crawl closer, who can be sure. A spider caught in the web or a larger, hungrier arachnid. He sets the huge heaviness of his muscular weight over your much smaller frame, one strong hand caged around the column of your throat, the other pushing your chest into the earth as he shoves his hips into the cradle of your own, forcing your thighs apart and your skirt to pool at your waist. You feel the stretch of the center plaque of your tights as his wide breadth settles between your legs, making room to take you for himself. You bring your own hands up to the wrist holding your throat and dig your nails into the skin there. You can feel the light smattering of hair covering his forearm beneath your soft palms, the cold, wet dirt beneath you, the searing stretch of the inner muscles of your thighs spread wide for him, the damp of the air surrounding the two of you. He leans forwards, pressing you down into the ground, and you have the fleeting thought that you want to transfuse yourself into the earth, into him. 

He pauses then to look down at you, appreciating the gloriousness of his catch. “Caught ya.” And he’s filled with an exuberance, a sort of victory. Look at what he’s snared – all for himself. 

You try and struggle again, if only to see the flare of annoyance in his eyes. It makes your cunt tight and achy. Even more than it already is. There’s a part of you that thinks you want him slightly angry – rough or mean. That you might like it even more if it hurts. Be kind enough to be cruel about it, you want to beg him. He leans forward to press his nose to your cheek, drags the cold vermillioned flush of it along your jaw, down the line of your throat, bites harsh and painful at your collarbone then over the peak of your breast. 

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. It sounds very much like a threat. 

“Yes.”

“Saved this cunt all for me.” And it is not a question. Yes, you moan anyways. Let him know. Let him know that this defiling is a gift you’re granting him. He sits up on his haunches between your thighs, his hands sliding down to press on your lower belly and digs his fingers into the center of your tights and pulls, ripping a hold in them for his pillaging. You try and press your knees shut at the feel of the frigid air on your sensitive inner thighs, dig your nails into the ground above your head to try and drag yourself away from him. 

He digs his own fingers harshly into your flesh, his nails biting painfully into the soft skin of your thighs and ass and brings you back towards him. There’ll be streaks of pain left in his wake after this. Bad little rabbit. He smacks the inside of your thigh, watches the smooth flesh ripple for him. You let out a warbled, angry screech, little nails still trying to claw yourself away from him. He laughs then, a little mean, condescending. “Fight harder, little baby. This is pretty pathetic.” He rips your thighs apart, keep your fuckin’ legs open for me, his hands slick with the blood of his victims slide up the back of your thighs, anchoring his palms beneath the damp creases of your knees to press you open and wide for him, slaps your cunt, hard, over the soaking gusset of your panties. 

“Who the fuck’re you wearin’ this tiny little thong for?” he growls. It’s white lace, with a sweet, little pink bow adorning the front. “Me? Wrapped yourself up all nice and pretty for me?” Your little foot sneaks up under his armpit and tries to push with, what he’s sure is all your valiant might, at his chest, trying to unseat him from his conquering position above you, but he takes your ankle in a vice like grip, bites harshly into the meat of your calf so that an animal squeal of pain is clawed out of your throat at the same time that he slots his fingers under the damp center of your panties. “Sing as loud as you want, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hear you out here.” He can feel the soaking wet seam of your cunt against the backs of his knuckles, and he rips them clean off you. The sound of the last remaining barrier of protection of your cunt against his ravaging being decimated has you going shock still – prey that knows it’s caught and has decided to give up. Good, this is how he wants you. Your big, wet eyes look up at him as he flings the lace towards the still steaming dead bodies. That’s all they’ll get of you. The rest is only his. Mine, mine, fucking mine. 

You let your arms go limp above your head, soft and pliant and ready for ravaging, melting into the earth.

He presses your knees back and up, letting the red blossom of your wet cunt bloom for him. It’s slick and swollen, and he knows when he shoves his cock inside it’ll be burning hot. “Look at this gorgeous virgin pussy, baby. All for me. Only for me…” he murmurs, hypnotized, mesmerized. He drags the back of his knuckles over your slit, uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart, admires the swollen nub of your clit. You’re just as hungry for him as he is for you. Messy, eager little whore. He moves to undo his belt and free his aching length. Huge and brutish, thick veins pulsing just beneath the thin skin. He’s going to split you in half, break you, mold you in his image. 

He spits right onto your soaked folds, watches the thick glob of saliva slide down to mingle with your own leaking slick. He’s not even going to make you come first. Little virgin cunt and he’s not going to even bother getting you ready – just gonna shove the whole, unforgiving length of himself inside of you. Force you to take it. He fists his thick fist around himself, jacks his cock once, twice, squeezing at the bulbous head so that a trickle of precum seeps out of the slit. He presses his head to your clit, slides down to give you a small threat of pressure at your opening. When he looks back up at your face your eyes flutter shut, a look of pure contented submission washing over the gorgeous planes of you. 

“Not gonna be gentle, baby. Don’t got it in me.” He notches the fat head at the slick mouth of your entrance and crams his cock inside of you in one go, meets that thin barrier that says you still belong to yourself and rips through it. Mine now. No reprieve, no respite. And God, the feel of it, cleaved in half, scorching hot, filled to the brim and never deep enough. He is a rabid, snarling beast of a man as he hits the very end of you, grinds his cockhead at the mouth of your womb. You let out a warbled, pained moan, little fingers coming up to claw at his throat and chest with kitten-strength, down to dig into his thick thighs as he pins you down, and you tilt your hips to let him in deeper or escape him, he doesn't know. He doesn't care. He pulls his hips back and forces himself back in, too thick cock wedged into the too tight space. “Christ, goddamn tight fuckin’ pussy – made for me,” he grits through bared teeth.

He fucks you raw and cruel, and he needs you to just lay limp and still and take it.

And you do. And he does not cry this time. 

He sets a brutal pace, throbs deep in your belly at every pause as he grinds at your cervix. It must be painful for you, perhaps, but the flush in your cheeks, the fever in your eyes, the ripple of your cunt around his driving length tells him you also like it. “What a good girl, taking my big cock,” he coos. You preen, tilt your hips this time in supplication he’s sure, hitch your feet higher along his sides. There are tears running back down your temples and into your hairline. His cock makes you cry. If he could, he’d split your throat and drink, he would. But he cannot, so he’ll split your cunt instead. He thrusts into the hilt, complete negligence for care, for gentleness lost in the dark wood, for the desperate necessity of feeling your virgins blood coating his cock. Your protestations lost to the louder song for more, for harder, for deeper

Joel, Joel, Joel. 

He’s going to listen to you sing his name for the rest of his life. 

He feels unhinged, a thread picked at too many times, spun loose, unraveled and frayed. That edge that separates good and evil – his bloody fingers clamp down hard on the edge of your jaw, forces you to open for him, and he spits into your mouth – direct, dirty … warm. “Lemme see…” he rumbles, and you stick your tongue out for his inspection. Once he nods, pleased and smug and conquering, you close and rub the slick of his saliva onto the roof of your mouth with your tongue, savor the taste of him. This was the taste that you’d longed for… that which teaches you what that professed edge really is. Is he good, is he evil – he’d just killed two men, you’d watched him, cunt wet at the sight of it. Albeit to protect you… sure – but does it even matter? You swallow his spit down. Probably not. 

He is huge and life altering inside of you. Your virginity scoured away on his invading length. 

He leans forward, hand clamped around your jaw to pierce you with his manic gaze, like his cock pierces your cunt. He smells like the forest and sweat and power. “Little fuckin’ tease,” he grits, “Bringing me cherry pie like that all the time – fuckin’ provoking me. You just wanted me to pop your cherry for you. Didn’t you, little girl?” All you can do is nod dumbly and take what he gives you. He hooks one of your knees over his elbow, the other propped over his shoulder, foot bobbing limply at each slam of his hips. He has you bent entirely in half, cunt splayed wide open for him to fuck down into the deep, devastating end of you. Your vision goes blurry, black stars streaking across the back of your eyelids. All you see is him. Perhaps he’s all that exists now. Maybe you’re just as dead as the two bodies laying beside the two of you. You wonder peripherally what the sight of the four of you must look like. Joel’s hulking form fucking you like an animal into the dirt. You open your eyes to look up at him, there’s blood splatter across his face, in his hair. His skin is burning hot against yours. You think that perhaps you’ll have scorch marks in the shape of his fingers in your skin after he’s done with you. Two dead, brutalized bodies cooling beside the place where the two of you are fucking. 

“Can feel ya tightening up, baby. Gonna come all over my cock.”

He does something to change the angle, and it fucking hurts. “Too much,” you beg, try to push him back weakly, but your cunt pulls sharp and tight, and then your muscles are rippling around him, womb contracting painfully as your orgasms blinds you with its sudden intensity. 

“Don’t care,” he growls back. “Do not fucking push me away.” No, he must not care. Prey doesn’t decide how it’s felled, after all. 

He pulls out and back then, suddenly, slaps your cunt harshly, once, twice. You mewl, high and shocked, writhing around in the dirt. He grabs you by the hips and flips you so fast you’re left disoriented, pulling your ass up, up, up. 

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he croons, bends to bite down on the meat of your asscheek, and then notches back at your gaping, fluttering hole, orgasm still running through you, and pushes back in. You’re soaking wet, slick and fucked open by him and the taking is much easier this time. You feel his thumb press down on your asshole, “Gonna take this too. Gonna have every part of you, every piece. Gonna swallow you whole.” All you do is arch your back further, cheek smushed into the dirt, fingers digging into the cool earth for purchase, for salvation.

The sight of you stretched around his thick base, so slick he feels you dripping down his balls and further below, into the bloody earth. There’s a red tinge of your own blood coating his skin, and he’s going to come. He’s going to fill you up with his spend and fuck it deep into you until it takes. Until no matter how far you want to run, he’ll be with you, always. He lets his head fall back on his neck and stares up at the dark canopy of the trees, groans low and deep.“You’re gonna be my little hole now,” he promises, presses one large palm into the small of your back to deepen the angle and fuck down into you. “Gonna take you with me and fill you up whenever I feel like it. My gorgeous little cumslut.” The ramming of his hips starts to grow sloppy and stuttered, close to the edge now. Victory is so, so near. 

You start to claw at the dirt and wiggle again. Little knees chafed raw and scrambling against the hard ground trying to get away. He slaps your ass hard, hopes there’ll be the print of his hand to appreciate later. 

“Not inside, not inside – not – no birth control,” you stutter, beg.

“I’m not fuckin’ pulling out.” He twists a cruel and unyielding hand into the back of your hair and presses your face harshly into the ground. Your eyes pinch and tears seep and mingle into the blood and dirt beneath you. “Gonna pump you raw and full. You don’t gotta worry about anythin’ anymore, baby. Gonna take care of you,” he grits and you press yourself harder back into him. There is an existential seesaw inside of you – a volleying of your wants – you want him to hurt you, to force you, to take care of you and keep you, all at the same time.

“Promise – promise me you won’t leave me,” you cry and beg because really, that’s all you want. All you’ve ever wanted. For someone to stay, for someone to never leave, no matter what.

“I promise – fuckin’ swear.” And you go loose and passive again at that – his to do with as he will. Nothing else really matters after all that.

He senses the change. The loosening of your muscles into capitulation. He stops his thrusting and grinds, strums at your clit. “Oh fuck, you want me to fill you up? And what happens if I do? What happens if it takes? Want me to get you fuckin’ pregnant?” Starts to fuck into you again, “I think you do.”

Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

“You’re mine. Fucking mine.” He says it again and again and again, yes, yes, yes, lets himself fall forward, anchored above you with one strong arm as he presses as deep as he can physically go and starts to fill your pulsing cunt with his come, the heat of his spend inciting you to roll into one more throbbing orgasm. He brings his face down close to yours, open your eyes, little thing, lemme see you. The fluttering of your lashes, sweaty, dirt-streaked face, and you are seraphic, the wet crimson heat of your blood pounding beneath the delicate membrane of your skin. Gorgeous, perfect, conquered and his. 

“Fucked full’a me now,” he whispers, presses a soft kiss to the tender skin of your eyelid. You nuzzle into him, and then look up at him with the warmest, most vibrant gaze he’s ever seen. Fucking pleased and sated. 

“They wanted me, but only you get to have me now,” you whisper. “How does that make you feel?” Provoking, provoking again. 

“Like I fucking own you.” He grinds his still spitting cock further, feels the pull of your muscles milk him deeper. 

He lets his weight fall partially over you, too heavy for the full mass of himself. You are, after all, a delicate thing, and he must remember to handle you with care, occasionally. He feels the pulsing and quivering of your cunt around his softening cock, and the two of you settle to lay there in the dirt, bodies still dead, virginity scoured and stolen, and stare at each other. 

“Have you ever been in love?” you whisper, dragging the tip of one little finger, whisper soft, over the arch of his brow, the slope of his nose.

“I feel a little in love with ya right now,” he confesses, and you press that finger against the seam of his mouth, begging for entrance, and then inside, against the flat of his tongue to inspect the wet gleam of it. It’ll be inside of you soon enough, you should take a look at that which you’ll be writhing against in due time. 

“Good. That was my plan all along.” Smug, conniving little creature. 

-

Once it’s full dark, he packs you into his truck, buckles your seatbelt for you, tucks a blanket around your dirty knees and drives off as if he hadn’t just murdered two men and taken your virginity with their blood still hot on his skin. He goes for miles and miles, eventually finds a dark, secluded spot to park the truck for the night. He takes you into the back bunk and fucks you like you’d wanted him to, on your side, one leg slung over his shoulder, hand gripping the lush of your ass to pull you onto his impaling cock, watches your ass bounce against his thrusts. A demanded play with it, lemme see ya push it back in, as he watches himself drip out of your messy hole. Eats your cunt until you cry. Afterwards, the two of you lay, naked and damp, facing each other, tracing the lines of one another in the quiet dark. 

Sometimes he’s worried he’s blood hungry – or pain hungry. Starving for something he doesn’t have a name for. But he thinks that, perhaps, he can use your name to fill in the blank space now. He’d always felt as if his devotion was a punishment to the receiver. After all, everyone Joel has ever loved has left him. But as he looks at you, there’s something in your eyes that tells him that perhaps, you’ll remain. Perhaps, he can compel you to, force you to. Perhaps, he can anchor you to himself, and in turn, give you everything. 

“Are you a ghost?” he asks.

“No. Are you?”

“Sometimes I think I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re like a fuckin’ angel or somethin’. What were you doin’ out here in this wasteland?” He asks you again.

“Maybe I was waiting for you.” This answer he likes.

He’s quiet for a long time after that – taking you in, cataloging you, memorizing you. His fingers ghosting over your face, your hair, strumming the fan of your lashes. Later he asks: How do you remember the memory of someone else? How do you keep them when they’ve gone somewhere entirely unreachable?

“Because you love them,” you tell him.

“That’s enough?”

“Of course. Will you ever forget that you loved her?”

“Never.”

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[jumexju]

MOTHER I SOBER

Pairings !! : Denji / GN Reader

Fic Type !! : Reverse Comfort, Comfort, Angst, Fluff

CW !! : Mentions of SA, Reader is implied to be a survivor of SA, Description of disassociation (denji) in the beginning, SPOILERS FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN'T READ THE MANGA

Summary !! : You comfort Denji after he breaks down.

Note !! : I just wanna give that boy a hug, do not read if you're sensitive to any of the aforementioned content warnings.

✦ MASTERLIST

His vision blurred.

He was there, but not there. 

He saw, but he wasn’t seeing.

His vision blurred.

His ears were hearing, but he wasn’t listening. 

He could feel, but he wasn’t feeling. 

His. Vision. Blurred. 

Soft cooes of, ‘you’ll be okay’ streamed into his non-listening ears. Soft fingers were felt on his scalp as they lightly caressed through his yellow tresses. Soft eyes set on him as he cried through his blurry vision. “..It hurts.” His words came out meekly. No matter how desperately he wanted to move, to go away and hide in a hole forever — He simply had no energy to do so. He was paralyzed. 

Paralyzed in his confusion. 

“I’m here for you,” These words, he did hear.

“Are you?” He bitterly asked. ‘How could you possibly be here for him if you knew nothing of the way he felt?’ That’s what he thought, despite feeling your touch become softer — If that was even possible. “You don’t even know what I feel, hell- I barely know how I feel..”  His words dripped with self-doubt. They dripped with the bone-crushing confusion that he felt.

“I know,” You began, your fingers still in his hair, “-because I’ve been there too.” 

His vision cleared, he was here. “You were..?” 

“Assaulted? Yes, I was.” you confessed to him, hoping he didn’t feel as alone as he clearly did feel. “You’re not alone in what you’re feeling and you’re valid, too.” You gazed down at him with eyes of understanding. 

“Assaulted..? But i’m a guy- I asked her to-” 

“It can happen to anyone.” You cut him off, shutting down his stigmatized beliefs. “Guys too. -And if you had wanted it, you wouldn’t be feeling confused about whether or not you liked it.” 

His head lifted off of your thighs, he wanted to face you this time. “.. I came in her hand- isn’t that proof that I liked it?” 

“No, it’s a bodily reaction.” You gazed into his honey eyes, hoping to help him process it. You knew what to do because you wished someone had been there for you the way you were now here for him. “If you had liked it, you wouldn’t be feeling this torn up about it Denji,” Your words were soft. As if you had all the answers. “What happened to you was assault because she did it even when you told her you didn’t consent to it anymore.. You were violated.” 

“But I..” He looked down at his feet, his back propped up against the wall as he sat next to you. Sorrowful tears spilled down his cheeks, he didn’t want to accept it. But he knew you were right. He knew that deep down he didn’t want Asa to do that. He knew deep in his being that it hurt just like when Makima had done it first. 

You rubbed his back as you watched him process the event before leaning over to envelope him in a hug. A hug that spoke all the feelings you couldn’t put into words. “It's okay Denji, you’re not alone..” You reminded him while you felt his hands slowly come up to return your hug. 

“Why does this keep happening to me..?” He cried quietly into your shoulder, his wobbly voice asking a desperate question. But for this one, you didn’t have an answer.. Because you wondered why it had happened to you as well. So you gave him the best answer you could muster up. 

“Sometimes.. There are just people out there who want to do harm to others without a reason..” You spoke quietly, “There are bad people out there- just like how there are good people.” 

“Every girl I've ever liked — they pulled shit like this.. I just don’t know what to do anymore..” He sounded so hopeless and it broke you to see him like this. It hurt even more because you had been there too. “I don’t know who to trust..” 

You pulled apart from him just slightly, looking at him with a determined expression. “You don’t have to trust anyone.” You held his cheeks in your hands, “Trust is earned, it’s not automatically given to everyone just because they claim to be on your side.” 

He blinked a bit and wiped his tears, the skin under his eyes was red and irritated. “Can I trust you?” 

“That’s up to you,” you smiled warmly.

For so long, Denji thought that what he wanted most in life was sex. He thought that he could die happy if he had a girlfriend that loved him. The only problem was that he thought love meant sex — and that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

Because love was you.

Love was someone that didn’t hurt him like Makima, Himeno or Asa. Love was understanding. Love was patient. 

Just like you. 

[ivymarquis]

A Little Death

Pairing| Ghost x F!Reader Rating| M Word Count| 7k Kinks/Content/Warnings| The author has decided she can't be assed to edit this, Chubby!Reader, Kidnapping, nondescript mentions of torture. Ambiguous mentions of S/A (vague enough you can chose to ignore that part if you want tbh), Reader is traumatized from her ordeal but working through it. Fingering, PiV, riding, squirting, Simon has a moment where he's worried he triggered reader after sex but that is an incorrect assumption on his part.

On days like this Simon can almost pretend he’s normal. 

The game’s on, a beer in one hand while the other has been commandeered by his girlfriend with a simple “Gimmie.”

Simon has never been one to worry about his nails beyond clipping them for practicality’s sake.

Having a SAS lieutenant for a boyfriend means she deals with what she insists is Simon’s paranoia and he insists is a healthy level of suspicion about the outside world. Having a nail technician for a girlfriend means every so often she’ll commandeer his hands to ensure they’re up to her standards. As it turned out, adhering to regulations wasn’t up to par for her. 

His neighbor is a popular woman.

It sets him on edge, all the traffic. One or two people at a time, usually other women- sometimes with a man in tow, other times not. They show up, they stay for maybe an hour or maybe 4, and they leave. Within 30 minutes someone else is knocking on her door.

Normal men humor their partners about things they don’t particularly give a fuck about when left to their own devices, as an acknowledgment of its importance to them. 

And so he sits, beer in one hand as she works on the other. Once she’s finished she gathers up the towel that acts as a catch for the various clips and trimmings before making her move to switch sides, Simon easily acquiescing to her whim.

“I’m not keeping you up, am I?” She asks one night. Music plays lowly from a laptop on her patio as he steps onto his for a smoke break. Just because he’s got his vice doesn’t mean he wants the whole flat smelling like it.

“Don’t sleep much anyway, pet. Bit of music won’t change that one way or another.”

Despite his insistence that he’s merely humoring her, he soaks up the attention she readily gives him. When she’s done and tidied after herself she returns with a small bottle of lotion.

He’s got one arm wrapped around her shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head as she massages his hand. If he plays his cards right tonight he can probably get her to soothe some of the aches and stiff muscles that always plague him. For now he melts as she seems to know exactly what points to hit in his palm and forearm. 

It’s domestic and normal and Simon can almost ignore the burner phone he keeps on him at all times.

It goes off at 5am on a Sunday, Simon already awake and having been watching the ceiling fan since 4:30. He can’t fall back asleep but can’t bring himself to separate from her. 

She burrows further into his chest as his shifting disrupts her. He’s fairly certain she would crawl inside his ribcage if she could, curl up right next to his heart and never leave. 

Simon would gladly let her. 

She’s a nail technician, he comes to learn. Sure as shit, he eventually memorizes the traffic that comes and goes on a roughly two week interval. Some of them are steadfast in their appointments. 2 o clock every other Thursday. 4 o clock every other Friday. Others not so much- they come around frequently but the days and times are random after the 14 day mark. 

The familiarity of some of the faces takes him slightly less on edge. He will never relax, not truly, but it settles him down now that he knows the pattern. 

It also explains why her hands have two completely different designs on each one. Color, pattern, the shape of the nails. Her left and right hand look like they belong to two different people. 

Simon doesn’t use social media, for obvious reasons. His little neighbor has formed an entire career for herself based off of it. 

But the phone buzzes on the nightstand, an omniscient presence that always hovers heavy in the air.

“Price?” Is all he gives for a greeting. Trying to keep his words short and concise. He doesn’t want to wake her, still under the lull she draws him into without trying. 

He keeps his work and his personal life separate with no intention of ever melding the two. 

“Laswell’s got intel. We meet in 2 days, back on base at 06:00.”

He is about to respond, both an acknowledgment and a hopeful end to the conversation, when she stretches next to him with a groan of protest at being awoken so early. 

“Tell your other girlfriend I said hi,” she grumbles, already knowing it’s Price on the phone and that the clock is officially counting down on the time they have left together. 

“You know at a certain point I'm going to just decide you’ve got a whole secret life with a wife and kids and a picket fence.”

He doesn’t want his work to ever follow him home. Not to her. He keeps them strictly separate. She knows he’s military- specifically SAS- and that he works in counter terrorism and that’s about all he’s willing to tell. She doesn’t need to know details. And more importantly the details don’t ever need to know about her. 

His past missions have haunted him in the worst way possible. He’s finally rebuilt something for himself as the ghost of a dead man, and doesn’t want anything to ever tarnish what he’s found. 

He can’t entirely blame her. It takes a leap of faith to accept the little he offers her. What does he have? A dead man’s name and most likely a violent end waiting for him. 

Eventually he does offer a small peace offering. Price is enough to settle the concerns that she hides as jokes. Provides enough credibility that she can let go of the concern that he’s living a double life.

Well, he is. But not the kind that nags at her. 

Price knows her; Gaz and Soap know that he’s got someone waiting for him at home, but Simon is already at his limit of how much intermingling he can handle. They’re both compromising, both making allowances for their comfort levels for the sake of the other. But he has to draw the line somewhere. 

If Simon had his way Gaz and Soap would be none the wiser, but a night of frantic coupling before he’d left had Simon bearing marks that are incredibly obvious in the changing room. 

“Steamin’ Jesus L.T.! You get jumped by a wildcat?” The chortle from the Scot makes it obvious that Johnny is yet again not afraid to push Simon’s buttons. 

There’s no denying what they are, nor how he got them. Neither Soap nor Gaz are stupid. 

Long, red scratch marks criss cross the broad expanse of his scarred back. He certainly hadn’t complained when his lovely girl had left her mark on him- those nails dragging across his skin had only encouraged him as his hips clapped wetly against hers, hands gripping her knees as he pressed them to her shoulders.

Most nights he is soft and gentle and strokes her skin while his lips press either in her hair or the soft expanse of her neck. He doesn’t roughhouse her tonight, but the knowledge he’ll be gone for weeks and tonight is their last together for the foreseeable future?

Well, the pair of them are a bit amped about the impending separation. It’s a good thing neither of them are particularly known for their good sleeping habits, because there’s not a lot of that usually happening on the nights before Simon leaves. 

Leaving without waking her up is an impossible task but he tries anyway.

Whereas Simon finds sleep difficult to achieve and eventually sleeps like the dead once he finds it, she drifts readily enough but will wake at the drop of a hat.

Usually she’ll settle soon after. Eyes following his form in the dark, waiting expectantly for him to come back after he dresses to kiss her goodbye. 

They carve out a routine for themselves. One for when Simon is home, and one for when he’s preparing to walk out the door until eventually coming back through it.

His therapist is equal parts shocked and pleased to hear that Simon is taking the leap and opening himself up emotionally to someone. 

His therapist is less pleased about the way he simply buries himself in her life when he’s on leave.

Simon is nothing- has nothing- when he is not acting in the line of duty. He is a dead man with nothing to his name and no one who gives a fuck if he ever walks back through the door that isn’t tied to his military career. 

He thrives on the stability and schedule on base. On the simplicity of nights spent out on the field. Wake up, piss, dont die, go to sleep. Wake up, repeat. 

Some days the only thing keeping him from trying to end it all (again, he bitterly acknowledges) when he’s gotten too far into a bottle of bourbon is his therapist and the thought of his team’s face at the news. 

Until, at least, he meets her. 

The mission is brief but successful. Simon is pleased. 

The deepest of the scratch marks has just finished healing and he’s already missing the sensation of her nails dragging against his skin- and he’s not picky about the context, either. 

There have been plenty of nights he’s fallen asleep with his face buried in her chest with one of her hands scratching gently at his scalp and the other tracing in broad strokes across his back.

Of course those nails also feel divine scratching at his abdomen while she is on her knees for him.

There’s a process he goes through when he gets home. It lets him shed the mantle of Ghost- to calm down as much as he’s able and be better equipped to deal with civilian life. Helps him give her the illusion that she is with a normal man who’s not holding onto himself with a death grip, desperately trying to keep the pieces together.

He feels fine when he leaves base and heads home. Everything is normal. 

Until he turns the corner and sees the door ajar.

Fear runs ice cold in his veins, hackles raised and on guard. 

I’m just being paranoid, he tries to self soothe as he steps towards the door. She tells me all the time.

Course, it was one thing when he gripes about how she answers the door without looking to see who it is. She doesn’t leave the fucking door open.

“Wish you’d at least look at the peep hole before just opening the bloody door,” he grouses into her hair, pulling her in so she’s tucked up to his side. 

“If I’m expecting someone to come at 3 and there’s a knock at 3, I already know who it is, Si.”

There are times when he is grateful that she has, by comparison, lived a life where she thinks he is paranoid and needlessly worries. She hasn’t had the experiences he has, and he doesn’t wish that upon her. He’s grateful with the knowledge that every time he’s sent out, thus far, that she’s been tucked away safe and sound until he returns. 

But of course the other shoe was always going to drop eventually. 

“Price?” Simon doesn’t know who else to call. 

He’s standing in the middle of his flat, evidence of an altercation scattered around the living room. 

She put up a fight if the state of the flat is anything to go by. He wants to be proud of that at least, use it as hope-

He just feels hollow. 

A group the 141 has dealt with prior are the ones all the signs point to. They wanted the team’s attention and by God they fucking got it. 

Simon doesn’t understand how they found she has any ties to him. He’s so careful- keeps her tucked away and hidden from any potential cross over with his work.

The next few days are a blur and Simon’s mental health has seen better days. 

He resigns himself, even when Laswell gets a hit and the 141 are loaded into a helo, to the fact that at best this will be a body retrieval mission. 

Even as Soap gives a reassuring knock into his shoulder- we’ll get her back, LT- as confident as ever. 

His sweet girl is dead, just like every other person Simon has ever cared about. 

He doesn’t understand what he’s done to deserve losing them all. The only ones he has left are his team, and that’s a tenuous state at best. His family was good. They were normal people with normal lives. She is good and a normal person. 

Her only sin is being foolish enough to love him. 

Some time between getting on the bird and offloading, Simon forces the thoughts in a corner and blocks them off. 

Simon, the terrified boyfriend, gives way to Ghost so he can get through this in one piece. He just wants to find her, bring her home and bury her body. He’s numb to anything beyond the scope of the plan he’s formed in his mind. 

It’s laughably easy. A fringe group the 141 has had altercations with- she’s not exactly a high profile prisoner. They just wanted to fuck with Simon.

There’s no satisfaction or vindication as they clear the building floor by floor. 

He feels nothing.

The further they venture into the building with no sign of her, the pit in his stomach sinks just as far. There’s no sign of anything concrete or anywhere they’d keep a prisoner. 

And then there, in a corner of a hallway, Ghost spots it-

An acrylic nail lying broken on the ground, dried blood clotted on the tips. 

For the first time in days, Simon feels something. 

It’s not hope. He doesn’t dare hope. 

But it’s confirmation that she has, at some point, been in the building. 

It’s also confirmation that she gave it a fighting chance. 

She’s a civilian- nothing much she can do against professional criminals. But she tried and Simon has to find something in that.

They split into pairs down a hallway clearing rooms. Every door that opens only to not have her in it is like a knife that keeps twisting in his abdomen. 

Just let him have this one thing. 

It’s just as Ghost and Soap have called out clear on another room that he hears Price’s voice call to him down the hall. 

There’s only one reason Price would be calling for him specifically.

As he approaches he can hear the captain again, softer this time. Can’t make out what he’s saying but everything feels slow; like he’s moving under water. 

As his mind prepares him for every horrific potential image waiting for him beyond the threshold of the door- there’s nothing that prepares him for what he sees. 

She’s alive. 

Wide eyed and panicked, which is to be expected all things considered, but she’s here and she’s breathing.

Simon forgets himself entirely. He swings wildly from feeling nothing to feeling everything and it bubbles up all at once as he barrels towards her. 

He forgets that while she knows Simon is SAS she knows nothing of Ghost. Simon works in counter terrorism, yes, but she knows nothing about the mask.

So after being kidnapped and going through God-knows-what in her absence, she’s got no fucking clue the 6’4 fucker with the skull mask gunning for her is her boyfriend. 

The sharp, croaked “Stay the fuck away from me!” doesn’t cut but it does jog his memory enough to know she’s absolutely terrified.

Again there’s that part of him that is proud of her. After everything she’s been through even if she wouldn’t stand a chance in an actual altercation- She’s not huddled in the corner. She looks willing to fight him, until Simon rips the mask off his face. “It’s me, love! It’s me.”

“Simon? What the fuck is that?!”

Rather than scrambling to get away she turns to launch herself at him, a tangle of limbs as they cling to each other and reassure themselves that yes this is real and yes the other is there. That this fucking nightmare is over.

Simon buries his nose in her hair- was so certain he’d be bringing her home in a body bag he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. She’s shaking in his grip, sobs ripping through her as he shushes her gently and murmurs “It’s alright, love. I’ve got you now.”

“As much as I love a good reunion- we need to get going, Ghost.” Price is ever the voice of reason, because Simon’s head is not in the game right now. 

He wants to cling to her and never let her go- he needs to pull his head out of his ass. 

Price isn’t wrong. As much as he has to fight off the impulse to tuck her against his side and keep her there, they have shit to do. 

He won’t truly be able to relax until she’s safely stowed on the helo and they’re on their way back.

It’s a bit easier once he puts the mask on. His brain is trained to focus on work and not let his personal life muddy the waters. Where Simon can’t help but falter, Ghost is dauntless. 

Simon can barely string a thought together now that he has her back in his arms. Simon still cannot believe she’s alive and breathing even after touching, smelling and hearing her. 

But Ghost can focus on getting her to the helo. 

Everything is a blur as Price and Gaz lead with Soap bringing up the rear. 

Ghost can’t quite decide where he wants her- keeps alternating between keeping her behind him in the event they get blindsided, that he’ll take any hits that go past Price or Gaz, or getting her in front of him so he can keep an eye on her, and there’s two SAS soldiers in front of her and two behind.

The hostiles in the building wanted the 141’s attention. Mission fucking accomplished.

The ones they chance across are dropped with ease. Simon is no stranger to returning to a location and making his point. Right now he’s got bigger concerns to be worried about. 

A knot of anxiety lodges itself on his ribcage as they move through the building that doesn’t unwind until he’s got her strapped to her seat in the helo. 

For the first time in days he can breathe. The knot slowly untangles as they ascend.

It finally settles in for both of them that she is out and she is safe. She’s been quiet the whole trek to the helo but Price, Soap, and Gaz have been on enough hostage recovery missions to not be caught off guard as she bursts into tears and buries her face in Ghost’s vest. 

It’s finally safe for her to do so, the adrenaline wearing off as she sobs. 

For the most part the other three men try to avert their eyes and not intrude.

Simon’s always been reserved about his life off base and watching him soothe his partner is bordering too personal for the others to witness.

It comes and goes in waves; Simon will settle her down, crooning quietly in her ear too low for the others to hear. She’ll stifle her tears for a bit as he soothes her. They go straight to medical after landing to have her looked at. She starts up again while waiting for the nurse to come back, trying to apologize to Simon through choked sobs. 

He won’t hear it, softly but firmly brushing her apologies to the side and assuring her everything’s fine now, love. No need to apologize.

He feels physically ill when the nurse delicately asks if she needs a rape kit or screenings done.

The rest of the 141 gives them a wide berth- which is a marked accomplishment because all too often Soap and Gaz are trailing behind him and finding some sort of shenanigans to get up to. Simon is perfectly content with the arrangement. He wants to focus his attention on her and that’s easier to do without the sergeants under foot.

His room on base is much like his entire apartment was before she moved in.

It’s 3am, Simon needs to take a piss and as he’s doing so, he’s not-quite eye level with a sign that says

“★★★★★ -

Would poop here again”

He’s got no idea when or where she found that, let alone put it up, but rolls his eyes good naturedly as he tucks himself away.

Normal people have bathroom decor.

Simon can appreciate a bit or a joke as much as the next person- but while this space is his it’s not something he’s ever felt the need to decorate. It’s a bed for him to crash on in between missions or if he’s too bloody exhausted to safely make the trek home.

There’s only one piece of any sort of personal touch to the room- a framed photo of her.

Simon intends to see her through the next few days- they’ll head home in the morning and realistically there’s only so long John can hold off on calling the boys in again. But the captain says he’ll do what he can to keep Simon home while they settle back in. He’s been due for some leave anyway.

He doesn’t sleep the first night. She swings drastically between being knocked out and jolting awake screaming and crying. Even once she’s gotten over the initial shock of her rescue it still takes time for her nervous system to calm down.

“I’ve got you, love- you’re safe here” he murmurs into her ear as she trembles like a leaf. “We’ll be home soon, yeah? You’ll feel better once you’re in our bed.”

The question is twofold- it is to soothe her, and also to gauge her reaction to the prospect of going home. Simon won’t hesitate to set the flat ablaze if it makes her feel better. 

Start fresh.

For now she seems to sleep better if he’s got her pinned up against the wall- the bulk of him a physical barrier to anything that might enter the room.

He’s always slept between her and the door so that’s no hardship- it just takes time to realize she feels safer trapped between him and the wall.

They make it through the first night in one piece, although the next morning she will not stop chewing on her nails. With someone else, he wouldn’t necessarily be surprised- but she’s never been a nail biter.

It dawns on him, as she sits on the couch and bursts into tears, that she wants the nails (or at least the ones that survived the ordeal) off, and is winding herself up too much to take them off the way she knows she should.

Simon goes to her office; he’s watched her enough that he knows the steps and the materials she’ll need, gathering them up before coaxing her to the table.

There’s no interest in redoing them but Simon manages to get the current sets off of her so she doesn’t damage her nail beds- assuming she stops chewing on them (which she does).

Over the next few days he lets her set the pace. She’s jumpy at home and calmer when he takes her out to run errands or just to stretch their legs. 

Maybe he will propose moving sooner rather than later. Their building is a shithole anyway.

He puts her in therapy after a week. It’s the only time he’s away from her. Realistically he knows it’s not good to have her so used to always being within arms length or eyesight of him- it’s not sustainable when eventually he will be called back in. But he has no qualms for the coddling he subjects her to while he’s able to. She’s quiet and comfortable with his hovering in a way she’d never tolerate before she was abducted- he figures he’ll know when she’s feeling a bit like herself again when she starts complaining about him not giving her any space.

Knowing she’s got the therapist gives him some security on how she’ll mentally cope when eventually he needs to leave again.

Her bursting into tears occurs less frequently. If Simon has to pry himself away from her to take a piss in the middle of the night she’s not up, back ramrod straight and waiting for him to come back with wet, teary eyes.

As the days tick on, bleeding into months later, Simon idly acknowledges that-short of when he’s on deployment- this is the longest they’ve gone without having sex. There’s nothing else that goes with that acknowledgement- he’s far more concerned with her well being than he is getting his kicks. He’s just taking stock of all their ‘normals’ and prior to her abduction they’d had quite the active sex life.

It’s one day as they’re watching a movie that it’s apparent Simon isn’t the only one aware of their dry spell.

They’re laying on the couch, her back pressed against his front with one of his heavy arms draped across her rib cage to keep her snuggled up against him as they watch the screen in front.

At first he thinks that she’s repositioning- thinks nothing of it and lifts his arm just enough to allow her the freedom to wiggle to a more comfortable spot. She keeps wiggling though and Simon is trying to keep his mind off the sensation of her arse grinding into his groin. Trying to ignore the way his dick twitches in interest, because- God help him- he's not dead and the love of his life is grinding her arse on him. Bodies are going to do what bodies do, and he can feel himself stiffening in response.

“Sweetheart, you need to sit still,” he whispers the plea into her ear. 

Her head tilts back towards him and lust jolts through his body at the look in her eyes while she still continues to grind against him.

“I miss you, Simon,” and given how he is rarely further than grabbing distance from her, there’s very few other ways to interpret what exactly it is that she is missing.

He’s a goner when she gives him that wide, doe eyed expression paired with the prettiest “Please?” he’s ever heard in his life.

One moment they’re quiet and content laying on their sides on the couch- the next Simon’s gripping her arm and pulling her on top of him as he settles onto his back. She follows his lead and moves so her weight is settled on his hips as his hands grip hers.

It is no hardship on his end to wait for her- the patience never truly even registered in his brain. She can have as much time as she needs and Simon will give it to her gladly.

But his pretty girl batting her eyes at him and pleading softly for him? His patience isn’t the only thing he’s willing to give her.

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t mean to second guess her or make her question herself but he does want to make sure that she’s not acting on obligation.

“Yes, Simon- Please,” and who is he to deny her?

His hands are on her immediately- pulling her towards him and encouraging her to grind, knowing her sweet clit will light up at the friction of her soft panties dragging across the rough material of his jeans.

His lips find hers, separating only briefly as he hauls her dress up and over her head, happily discarding the material in a heap on the floor.

His hands grip her hips, Simon relaxing into the couch while his fingers dug into the pillow soft skin perching above him. He’s straining against the fabric of his jeans- knows the tip of his erection is leaking clear pre and it’s not just going to be her being the reason the fabric has a wet spot.

The couch is certainly not the worst place to be, his beautiful girlfriend’s tits in his face as she grinds down in his lap with little hitching breaths.

“Just like that, pretty,” he encourages, kissing down her jawbone, the length of her neck and across her collar bone before happily mouthing at her breasts which are blessedly right in his face.

Simon groans in pleasure as he teases one nipple, her sweet mewls and the grip on his hair only spurring him on.

Grabbing a handful of her plush arse, he groans in anticipation while switching from one breast to the other.

It’s been a fair while since his back has been shredded by her nails and he can’t wait to feel the bite of them dragging down the length of his spine.

“Lift up, sweetheart,” he instructs, somewhat loath to release her plump bottom but eager to get her dripping for him.

She pulls up enough for him to slip one hand between her legs. Exploring fingers are quick to spread her wetness, dipping between her folds and dragging back up to circle her clit softly.

“Fuck- Simon!” she whines in his ear.

He knows enough by now what makes her tick. Once she’s all warmed up and ready to roll, that sweet cunt of hers could take a thrashing. But warming up involves feather-light touches to get her squirming and squealing for him.

“Feels good, pretty?” he asks despite knowing the answer in the way her arms wrap around his neck and she sags against him, hips twitching as she lets him tease her.

“Ye-yeah,” she murmurs, and presses her lips against his neck as he takes another pass- finger pulling away from her clit just to draw shivers from her as he traces back down her folds and presses ever so lightly against the entrance on her- just to the first knuckle- and making his way back to tease her clit.

Each pass has her rocking her hips more as he slips more of his finger inside, eventually adding a second that has her mewling and squirming in his lap.

He’s going to have one hell of a hickey from how she’s sucking on his neck, but Simon can’t bring himself to care. Not when his ears are graced with the delightful little noises she makes- whimpers of protest as he pulls his fingers out of her, the shaky inhales as he circles her clit and the trembling moan when he once again slides his fingers inside of her to give a few pointed strokes to her g-spot just to get her shivering and blinking up at him with lust-blown eyes.

“Fuck you’re wet,” there’s absolutely zero resistance now, even when he slides a third finger inside her. 

“Please,” she mewls into his skin, hips rocking in time with the thrust of his fingers into her.

“What do you want, sweetheart? Use your words.” He’s always found her an absolute delight to tease- she gets so flustered and stares at him with that doe eyed, betrayed look- how dare he make her ask for anything when it’s obvious what she wants.

“Please let me cum,” she pants as her eyes screw up in pleasure while his fingers trace and circle her clit for several passes.

“You wanna cum, love?” His tone is just a bit too soft to be a mocking tease despite the way she glares at him. Spoiled little thing so easily sliding back into her old habits.

“I’m going to bite you,” she grumbles in bemused annoyance, brows furrowing as she tries to follow his hand while teasing her.

He doesn’t doubt his little viper for a second, mollifying her displeasure with three fingers digging for that spot that makes her see stars.

“Oh~,” she mewls against him as he stokes the fires of her orgasm with a vengeance. He doesn’t stop, angling his hand so his thumb can stroke against her clit and enjoying the way she trembles against him like a leaf caught in a windstorm.

“That the spot, hm? Right there, innit?” He rumbles low in her ear, a satisfied smirk on his face as she nods in a big sweeping motion against his neck. “Come on, pretty. You wanna cum so badly? Do it.” he baits.

Mission accomplished.

Fuck he’ll remember the vision of her crying and cumming and trembling in his hold, soaking his forearm and abdomen as she squirts, for the rest of his days. His free hand runs soothingly down her back for a few passes before pulling both hands away from her.

She’s immediately whining against him, upset at having his touch taken away. “Simon, please-”

He shushes her with a kiss to her temple, “I know what you need, sweetheart,” he murmurs while deftly undoing his pants and freeing his cock.

It only takes a few strokes, already straining and ready to perform, before they’re shuffling as he pulls and maneuvers her so she’s hovering above him and Oh fuck has Simon missed this as she sinks down on him.

It always takes a couple attempts- he’s not a small man, and doesn’t want to risk injury. Not to mention there’s just something fucking delicious about only giving her a few inches, pulling back and feeding her just a few more. Slow, short, steady thrusts that get deeper bit by bit, having Simon ready to melt into the couch at the bliss of being buried in her by the time she sinks all of her weight onto him, her groin pressing against his.

She’s so fucking warm and wet, clinging to him as she shuffles to get good leverage on top of him to bounce.

Bloody fucking hell does she feel good. “That’s it, pretty. Take it all,” he encourages her while she whimpers above him- if he angles himself just right he can grind her clit against him in a way that has her sucking down air and shivering.

She’s so good for him but he knows there’s only so long she can bounce in his lap- even resting on one knee on the couch and her other foot on the floor so she can shift her weight and give leg a break every now and then, Simon throwing his head back and groaning loudly.

It’s one of the only times he’s particularly verbose- Usually content to be silent and broody unless he has a specific question in mind, the bedroom (or in this case the living room) is the one place where he is a chatterbox. The mouth on him is surreal at times, and while one would think his sweet girl would be use to the filth every now and then he’ll catch her off guard with some particularly out of pocket comment.

For now though, he’s a bit reserved- doesn’t want to go from zero to a hundred out of nowhere.

No, for now his attention is focused on the goddess bouncing on his cock, wondering if he can get her to squirt a second time if he just- he shifts underneath her, changing the angle and fucking hell does that seem to do the trick for her. Swiping one of his thumbs across his tongue before pressing it to her clit and circling again, Simon can’t help the smug look on his face when she squeals. “Just like that, sweetheart. Fuck,” he grunts as he thrusts up into her. From how those pretty thighs are trembling, her legs are about to give out as he fucks into her. 

“Simon!” She’s yelping his name with glassy eyes and a clenching cunt “Fuck- Simon! Please-”

She doesn’t have the energy to get herself back up again- poor thing, her thighs must be burning, and he can’t help but be a cocky fuck about the fact that she loves riding his dick to the point that she physically can’t keep going.

“On your back, sweetheart,” he instructs with a light swat to her ass- appreciating the way her body jiggles at the impact.

His sweet girl has done so well and worked so hard, it’s only right that he rewards her. Once she’s on her back he grips her under her knees and folds her legs back- gives himself room between those gorgeous thighs.

“Fuck, baby- please don’t stop,” she pants underneath him, back arching in pleasure as his mouth drops to her breasts again. Her arms wrap loosely around his neck, and he twitches in anticipation at the feel of her nails tracing ever so lightly against his back.

“Not gonna stop, pretty girl.” he groans against her skin, alternating between which nipple he has between his teeth.

Fuck she’s clenching down on him like a vice. He knows she’s getting close; squirming in his grip, keeping her legs nice and spread for him. The feel of her nails reaching down his back and dragging up his spine pulls a groan that would be embarrassing if Simon could find it within himself to care in the slightest. The slight pain encourages him as he cants against her.

“Simon!” The sound of his hips knocking into the back of her thighs is loud and messy. Fuck he’s such a goner when she looks up at him with that sweet expression on her face- pure adoration and wonder in her eyes.

“Just like that, sweetheart. Fucking hell, love,” he grunts out, a second wind reinvigorating him when she starts shaking. Those plush thighs shaking in his hold as he knocks the sense out of her pretty head, he’s so fucking close he can taste it but is determined to get her across the finish line first.

“Such a good fucking girl,” he purrs in her ear, “You feel fucking perfect taking my cock. This wet cunt’s all mine, innit?”

All she can do is chant “Yes! Yes! Yes!” over and over again- Simon’s not sure if even she is certain if she’s repeating the word to answer him, or if she’s just babbling because he’s making her feel good and she’s getting close.

“You gonna cum again love? Gonna soak me, hm?” He’s just running his mouth now- knows the shit she likes to hear, reaffirmed by the way she’s shivering in his hold and crying for it with a glassy eyed gaze.

Whatever she is going to respond with is cut off with a squeal. Simon rears back, enjoying the show as she makes a mess all over his cock with her eyes rolled back. He lets go of one of her legs in favor of teasing her clit just shy of overstimulation to prolong her orgasm- she lets him for a time before her hands abandon shredding his back in favor of wrapping around his wrist in a plea for mercy. 

“Simon it’s too much,” she laments with teary eyes as he pulls his hand away with a chuckle and a chaste kiss. 

He stays curled over her, hips driving into hers. “Tell me where you want it,” he instructs.

“Inside! Please, I want it inside!” Her answer is sharp and immediate, the leg not pinned to her chest wrapping around his waist like she is daring him to even try to pull out.

And fuck there is something cathartic about his orgasm when it hits. Burying his face in her soft body while his hips snapped into hers a few times, Simon groans as his vision damn near whites out for a second.

Simon knows better than most that there’s good days and bad days- and a presumed good day can become a bad day quicker than one can blink. But overall he feels like consistently she’s doing better all around. They take their time calming down, Simon showering her in attention and getting a feel for where her head is at. Praising her for how well she did and making sure she feels stable.

He lets out a breath, feeling confident that she’s settled, having a good day, and everything is fine for now. 

And it is. Until about two hours later.

One moment they’re finishing the movie they’d initially started before the impromptu romp on the couch, and then Simon has a 3 second warning of her sniffling as she obviously tries to fight back the tears and then she’s sobbing harder than she has in weeks.

Simon goes from content to concerned in a second, his blood turning to ice in his veins. His immediate assumption is that their prior activities finally caught up with her mentally and now that she’s had time to think it over it wasn’t good. It was too fucking soon to have sex. He should have told her no, should have been gentler, should have-

“Sweetheart? Talk to me,” his voice is tinged with a thinly controlled concern (not panic he convinces himself) and while he means to comfort her, she can hear his tone and that just sets her off anew.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she blubbers, turning to face him. “I don’t know why I’m crying!”

That settles Simon’s nerves somewhat, stroking her back and pulling her close to comfort her. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” he soothes her, listening to her sniffle against his shirt after shoving her into the crook of his neck.

“I just want to feel normal again,” she sobs into his collar.

“You will, love,” he assures her- never mind that ‘normal’ is something that even he struggles with on a near daily basis. “It’ll take time but you’ll get there. I promise.”

He’s a bastard for making a promise to her that he can’t guarantee to keep. There’s a part of him that knows that- hell, he’s been working on his shit for years and he still doesn’t feel normal most days.

But while he can’t promise that she’ll ever get back to feeling exactly the same as she did before all of this happened, he can promise that he’ll be by her side and ensure she’s adjusting. It will take time, and work, but Simon will make sure she gets there one step at a time.

[hihhasotherfixations]

John Price headcanons sfw & nsfw P2

Part 1

Here’s some more of my headcanons for this man. They’re a but all over the place, apologies. But enjoy :3

Sfw:

While he himself is not religious, he was brought up in a Christian family.

Speaking of his family, he unfortunately doesn’t have a very big one. He has a father he barely talks to and older sister. His mother passed away from cancer when he was still a lieutenant and because of it, when he got promoted to captain there was no one around - his sister was caught up and stuck with work. It was not a good time for him. Instead of celebrating his accomplishment, he was alone and stricken with memories and grief.

His dad was incredibly strict growing up and Price’s relationship with him is still very strained to this day because of it.

His late mother was very adamant on not swearing and while he tries to uphold that, he’s also been in the military for 19 years. And sometimes (very often) the danger or his men become too much. This has caused him to adopt swearing even though he tries so hard not to. One of his most used swear words however is ‘jesus- fuck’ as it’s become almost a habit to swear with jesus christ, though he always catches himself last moment and tries to divert from swearing with the religious man’s name and says fuck instead.

Price can’t ride a bike. And I don’t mean a motorcycle, he’s fine with those - really good even. But an actual bike? Man can’t do it. Do I say this purely because I find the thought/image of Price on a bicycle cursed? Yes, yes I do.

Price finds it hard to say ‘no’ to the 141 when it comes to small and inconsequential things. Due to this, there was a time where for over a month, the 141 walked into his office, asked him to doodle a cat and then left without a word. And yet he did so every time, confused but content enough whenever they waddled off with their doodle. What he didn’t expect, was to show up on Christmas morning to find a blanket strewn over the couch in the rec room - it’s print being littered with every small cat he had doodled. It is now one of his favourite things.

Not a headcanon but I wanted to let the world know: Price has a tiny birthmark on his nose and it is the most adorable thing in the world. (Thankfully I’m seeing more people bringing attention to it >:3) Because of it, if you repeatedly kiss his nose for that reason? To kiss the birthmark? He’s gonna get really flustered really quickly. Not much will bring this man to a stop mid order-giving, but that would shut him up real quick ;3

He does not like singing but you can often catch him humming when doing something such as cooking or cleaning. He doesn’t really realise he’s doing it so don’t point it out! Otherwise he’s gonna be conscious of it and you won’t hear it for a month or two.

Terrible at golf. Gaz once took him golfing cause he thought that’s something Price enjoyed/was good at. It in fact turned into Price getting frustrated and nearly obliterating the golfbal with how hard he hit it. He gave up after that.

This is more logistics that I keep for myself but Price was in the British army for 4 years before he moved to enlist in the SAS.

Loves, loves, loves playing with your hair if you let him. Sitting/cuddling on the couch? His fingers are touching it in some way. Kissing? His hand is keeping your head near his via the back of your neck and his thumb will be rubbing back and forth over the hair there.

Pretty sure 90% of people share this headcanon but good LORD his sneezes. They are loud and you can hear him from across the field. He then proceeds to shrug it off like they’re nothing.

Man has the sharpest and loudest finger whistle and 100% uses it on his men to get their attention. Both the 141 and the soldiers he reigns over as captain. It’s a noise ingrained into every single person who has served with him and will get them to shoot straight and pay attention instantly.

This is a little more niche. But this man sucks at almost every game except for survival games. FPS? Absolute shit, will get maybe one bullet to hit before dying. Horror? While he doesn’t jump at the jump scares, if he is being chased by a monster or a killer, you can almost guarantee he will die. But survival games?? Give him the forest (kinda) or Subnautica to play and this man will absolutely tear it up. You can leave him for an hour or two and when you come back he’ll have crafted a base and be halfway through the game.

This includes Minecraft. Kinda. Man is an absolute god at building, but do not send him into the mines. You will see a message pop up of him falling into lava or dying by mobs every 5 minutes.

Basically any game where he’s not in constant danger, he’s fine.

Avid peanut butter enjoyer.

If Price were to ever have children, he would try very hard to give them the childhood he never had. He would not deny those kids of anything. They want to go outside in the rain to play in the mud? Alright, let him get the raincoats, he’ll wash the dirty, muddy clothes later (he is 100% out there with his kids, splashing them or letting them push him into puddles).

In the same vein, he would try very hard to separate work and life. Sure he might need to get stern sometimes and tell the rambunctious rascals off, but he tries very hard to do so in his dad voice, not in his captain voice. It would still happen sometimes though and he’d feel absolutely awful. Especially if he makes his kids cry because of it.

One of his favourite songs is Escape by Rupert Holmes (The piña colada song). You can oftentimes hear it and songs like that softly playing in his office while he’s doing paperwork.

Not really a headcanon and don’t ask me why, but this donkey is giving me Price vibes: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJV6o5cB/

While he smokes cigars, he’s not at all a chain smoker. Usually saves them for moments where he feels he earns them (after a mission, completing paperwork he really didn’t want to do etc), high stress, or when he’s really craving one.

In a similar topic, he hates cigarettes. Tried one when he was younger, hated it and instead unfortunately took over the cigar habit from his father (when said man was home). Because of this however, he can’t stand to smoke with Laswell. She tries sometimes - cause while she’s trying to quit, it’s hard - but Price only allows it if she’s upwind from him, blowing her smoke away from him.

He stubs his toe SO often. Don’t get me wrong, when out on the field, every step is calculated and precise and you will never in your life see him slip up. It’s a different matter entirely when he’s on leave or just around base though. His body doesn’t need to be on edge 24/7 anymore. Which means that if you’ve served under him, you’ve heard him curse out a door for daring to stand open in the way it did. When he’s at home with you? Double so. He tends to walk around without shoes at home - logically so. Which means his poor toes meet cupboards, table/chair legs and doors a bit too often. He’ll swear less when at home tho, more… take-a-deep-breath-to-control-the-rage kind of reaction.

For the love of god, call him pretty. It’s just- it does something with him. He’s heard handsome, rugged, manly, weathered, etc. And don’t get me wrong, if you call him any of those? Pride bursts through his chest and he’ll make sure to repay you in kind. But if it’s just you and him on the couch, leaned into each other, the tv softly playing? Just a quiet moment? And you call him pretty? It heals something in him.

Has once overheard soldiers insulting/mocking his facial hair and definitely made them shit themselves when he appeared behind them with his full 6”2 (188cm) buffed up captain stance - arms crossed with the most vicious glare you can even imagine. Also definitely made them run until they dropped and then do it again or gave them toilet duty for a month. It also definitely wasn’t only one time he overheard someone.

He’s an absolute history buff. At one point he seriously considered to become a history teacher but at that point he was too far into his military career. He didn’t feel like he could leave his men. It also felt like he’d have wasted years of his life and going back to school wasn’t really on his ‘want to do’ list at that age. So instead he opted he’d be of better use to the world right where he was.

If you allow him to infodump however? He will absolutely tell you the most random facts. Disturbing ones too. He just wants to tell you cool facts, its a way of showing love :)

Quality time often consists of him sitting beside you while you do whatever. He’s either reading a book or doing a puzzle, if he can he will have one hand on your thigh, absentmindedly rubbing it while his mind is elsewhere (its a bit hard when he does puzzles with one hand, but he makes it work)

In the vein of those puzzles, he absolutely LOVES them. If you come home with a newspaper saying “I got this for you!” and show him the not-yet-made puzzle, he will absolutely fall a little bit more in love with you every time. That’s his form of you coming home with roses for him.

Ridiculously good at crosswords. Very rarely has to look up an answer. He also tends to ask you out loud. Not per se to actually ask you though. It’s more of a way of thinking out loud. “What’s a six letter word for a cloud formation in space? …Nebula, thank you.” And then just moves on without you ever having said a word, not even realising he does it.

He always feels guilty when leaving you for long periods of time due to work. Tries very hard to make up for it, even if you assure him he doesn’t have to.

He does things while on missions that he is not proud of. He does not tell you any of the more inhumane things he’s done because he’s terrified it’ll change your perception of him.

These moments haunt his every moment however. Sleeping and awake. You are his only escape.

He is not proud of a lot of things. But the 141 is one of them.

Kyle is one of the most prominent ones. From when he found him in Piccadilly to the elite soldier he is today, Price is incredibly proud of who he’s become. Though he’s also very worried for the danger he’s put the younger man in by dragging him into this world.

Price also makes sure to look after Ghost. Strangely enough, he feels almost responsible for what happened to Ghost despite him having nothing to do with it. Because of it however, he feels very protective over the man and tries to treat him the best he can.

Soap is someone who he sees a lot of himself in. So he always tries to push the man to be better than he was. Price sees the potential Soap has in furthering his military career and if the moment came to it, he’d recommend the man for a promotion in a heartbeat. Soap is someone he always trusts in.

He has a lot of scars on his body from his years of service. If he feels you run your fingers over the scar and you ask him about them, he’s okay with telling you about how he got it. Even if he spares the details sometimes.

Lastly, if Laswell and her wife ever got a child, Price would 100% be the favourite uncle and regular babysitter whenever he’s off deployment.

That’s it for the regular headcanons again :3 Please respect the banner and onto depravity.

Nsfw:

Whenever he’s making out with you, he LOVES having a hand on your throat. Not to squeeze. Never to squeeze. He does not like the thought of choking you at all, brings bad memories. But he is addicted to the thrum of your heartbeat underneath his fingertips. The submission that comes with it as you let him hold a place so vulnerable while he attacks your lips.

Doesn’t have to be during sex either. You two can be cuddling on the couch and he’ll gently pull you in by your neck or throat and press his lips into yours. Or push you up against the wall by it when you greet him as he comes home. Just let him hold you and move you like that.

Fingerprint bruises. Oh my god he properly leaves them whenever you two are having an especially… passionate night.

Don’t get him wrong though! He’ll kiss the bruises and apologise after, even if seeing them sends a flutter down his spine. Loves walking up to you and slotting his fingers right over the marks, careful and appreciative as his hands fill up the spots.

Man loves biting and nipping any place of you he can reach. Have I mentioned how much he loves leaving his marks on you? Hickeys and imprints of his teeth e v e r y w h e r e. (Won’t go above the collar if you don’t want him to)

Depending on how okay you are with it, he’ll definitely bite hard. He’s holding you in a mating press, kissing you to hell and back and when his hips start to stutter, when that telltale spark begins to come up, he’ll divert to where your neck meets your shoulder and bite while fucking the last few strokes into you, muffling his groans and noises of pleasure into your skin.

He has once broken skin while doing it, he felt absolutely awful after it. Immediately after coming down from his high and realising what he did, he went to go get the med kit from the bathroom. Naked and sweaty, he waddled away and back, concern and guilt as he disinfected the wound and dressed it, pressing a million apologies to you.

While it is rare to get him to actually fully give the reins to you and be submissive, when he does, call him by his honorifics still. Praise him with them. “You’re doing so good for me, captain” , “Are you feeling good, sir?” Whisper things like that in his ear and he’ll be whining and desperate for you like never before.

Man has a raging breeding kink. Will absolutely fill you up as many times if he can. Just the sight of seeing his cum leaking out of you instantly gets him going for a second round. The possessive side of him comes out thanks to the thought of you walking around with a piece of him inside you.

I don’t know if I mentioned it in p1 of this but he’s an absolute aftercare KING. Literally won’t want you to do anything. He’s cleaning you up with a towel first and foremost, gentle and careful - especially if he was a little rougher that day. After that, if you’ll let him, he’ll run a bath or shower for you and gently wash you himself. Kisses, cuddles and clean sheets are all in his service.

[genericpuff]

So, I want to confess something. I believe I speak for everyone when I say that the SA in LO is not only poorly written but very mishandled and was unnecessary. I want to point out I am not a SA victim, so I can not say with experience how well the deception was. Though I do know people in real life that were victims, I also don’t want to disclose their stories either. But, here’s the thing. I personally don’t mind SA in the media, if it is handled with care and they portray it as a serious issue!

The problem I have with most media is that shows and stories will either use SA as A. A plot device for romance development. B. Shock value or C. A joke. So many media I’ve watched use SA as any of the three categories (13 Reasons Why and content from Vivziepop being a few that I can think of off the top of my head). The only show I can think of that actually portrays SA seriously and shows real life impact is Tuca and Bride. I also think it’s pretty hypocritical that the media will use SA as long as they fall into any of the three categories, but when you want to show the negative effects of it like in Moral Orel, suddenly you get canceled! Again, Hypocrites! I also don’t think first time writers should write this kind of stuff, and Rachel is no exception. You can tell she didn’t know what she was doing, based on how little importance the SA has on the plot or how it falls into said categories as well. (and the rumors that she didn’t even know it was SA doesn’t help).

Now, that being said I don’t think a SA plot line was a bad idea for this kind of story. Again, the original myth was “The abduction of Persephone” and in some versions, Hades did force himself onto Persephone. And considering Ancient Greece was rife with many stories of such heavy topics, I can see why they would include that. My personal issue with LO’s SA plotline… is Apollo! First of all, while Apollo may have had some questionable relationships in his myths, he never really forced himself on anyone. In fact, the most famous story of him chasing Daphne was only because he was under the influence of Eros, meaning Apollo had no agency in loving Daphne. Second, Apollo had nothing to do with Persephone. They never interacted in any myths. Sure, there was one myth where Apollo asked Demeter for her daughter’s hand and Demeter rejected, but that’s it. The two never had any relationship. So it makes the plot line even more convoluted because of their lack of historical and mythical connection. Though, I do admit I kind of like Apollo and Persephone as a couple (In Rekindled not Lore Olympus), but I know they don’t get together.

Honestly, if Rachel really wanted to do a SA story that would prop up Hades without demonizing anyone, she could have done that! By making Persephone’s assaulter be Zeus instead of Apollo! Hear me out, in some stories, Zeus actually disguised himself as Hades and slept with Persephone, thus it resulted in Zagerus. So, it is canon in a sense that Zeus did SA Persephone. Not only that, but given he had a role to play in the “Abduction of Persephone” where he sold his daughter off to Hades, this makes him even more impactful to the story. He could be the villain instead of Demeter, who wants to use Persephone. And considering Zeus’s love affairs and his god complex (no pun intended) he would believe he was entitled to Persephone and would want to have her as a secret concubine.

Maybe Zeus would be able to learn more about Persephone through Hera and he would decide to set his sights on her. He could try and get closer to her as she is naive and never met the King of Gods, and would use her trust to pounce on her (Because in SA cases, your attacker is more likely to be someone close to you rather than a stranger.) And maybe Zeus would blackmail Persephone so she would have to keep seeing him or else get kicked out of school and be a disgrace to her mother. Then, you could have Hades find out and he would rage against Zeus. Maybe Hades would get Demeter involved and they would team up to punish the King all for the sake of protecting Persephone. Hades would suggest making Persephone his queen for protection, and Demeter would make the world grow cold unless Zeus complies, thus explaining Winter. Zeus would agree to give Persephone to Hades, and she will be under Hades’s protection. But Persephone would still want to be with her mother, so Demeter and Hades make custody arrangements.

Bam! A SA plot line that A. Actually adds to the story and raises stakes. B. Makes a terrifying but complex villain for the story that we all can hate without assassinating his character. C. Have Hades and Demeter come out on top. D. Be historical and mythologically accurate. (I’m also not saying that I wanted SA in LO or LR, nor do I think this version would have made it better, but I personally believe this plot line makes way more sense than: Apollo meeting Persephone in one day and SA her in her sleep.)

I agree with a lot of this, thank you for sharing!! (sorry this is a late response, I didn't want this big analysis to go to waste fdjasklfdsajlk)

But yeah, in essence / on paper the SA plotline in LO would have been fine, especially considering SA is present in just about every Greek myth story, but I don't think Rachel was really cut out to tackle that subject yet, mostly as a writer as all of her writing is very baseless and doesn't have the necessary planning, research, and direction required to depict a subject like that. It takes a lot of sensitivity, self-awareness, and self control, none of which LO has as a narrative or Rachel as a writer.

IMO Apollo being the god of the sun made for a great springboard for him to be like, this self-centered god who was so delusional in his own ego that he couldn't believe Persephone wouldn't want him, that alone was enough to make him out to be a great villain - even with the use of SA, where he couldn't take no for an answer - but then we had to get into the whole "Apollo is gonna use Persephone to overthrow Zeus" crap and it all fell apart from there. Not to mention the story could never decide if Apollo was some nefarious puppet master or just a delusional dumbass, so all the flip-flopping on his motivations led to him becoming a very weak villain.

That said, I will cut her some slack for not having Zeus assault her. Because while it's more accurate to the myths (and character accurate) the story could barely handle Apollo and he's the canon Good Boytm in the myths, imagine it trying to handle an actual serial assaulter?

But that's not me saying it's necessarily a bad idea. I just don't think LO would be able to handle it with Rachel at the helm lol

[grimoireofhayley]

Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, eventual Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA (rape), Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ content, Stalking, Jealousy, Angst, Possessiveness, (let me know if there’s more that needs to be added!)

Word Count: 1.02k

Tag List: @ev3ningrain @nerdytif @m-the-little-witch

A/N: Ah, I hope y’all feel lucky. Two chapters in one day! I hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope I captured Randy, Billy, and Stu’s personality correctly. Thank you so much for reading! I’m hoping I’d get an update out tomorrow, but if not, it should be up later on this week at some point so keep an eye open. I also wrote this on my iPad, so I apologize if there’s any grammatical errors. I’ll proofread again tomorrow and put out an updated version. Oh, again, if you wanna be added to the tag list, just comment down below. Thank you :)

All chapter links! 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 3

“Remember, your principal loves you, and I want you to be safe. All students are encouraged to return to their homes promptly from school grounds…” The principal spoke over the PA, “Avoid strangers, walk in twos and threes—“

You pinched the bridge of your nose, visibly stressed from all the questioning. You haven’t a clue why you were so upset about everything, you weren’t the killer, but for some reason it felt like you were. Maybe you should’ve lied? Twisted the story a bit so you didn’t reveal you were a mistress at some point in your life.

“I am a slut..” You mumbled, dragging your fingers down your face, causing your eyes to droop. “Now Brooke is definitely going to find out, how am I to confront her on that?” You asked no one in particular.

You stared at the vibrant blue sky, squinting when the sun flashed your eyes. “Have mercy on me, please?” You begged the man upstairs, not expecting an answer in return.

“What kind of questions did they ask you, Sid?” You heard Tatum’s voice in the distance.

You blew a raspberry, putting your brave face on and sauntered over to your friend group at the fountain.

“They asked if I knew Casey…” Sidney’s voice soon followed.

“Hi, guys!” You chirped, sitting in front of Stu, Billy, Tatum and Sidney, unintentionally stopping their conversation.

“Hello, Sweetcheeks!” Stu blurted, eyes glazing over you, a small smirk planted on his lips. “What took you so long?” He groaned, “It’s always so boring when you aren’t here!” He frowned, tossing his head back.

“Gee, thanks Stu..” Tatum snipped, causing you to giggle.

You looked over to Billy, seeing Sidney leaning against his legs, your face contorting in disgust as jealousy was creeping up on you. You mentally slapped yourself, looking away and back at Stu.

“Uh, they had me stay longer for questioning…” You admitted, leaning back against your bag, stretching out your legs.

“Huh? Why?” Billy asked, curiously.

“Yeah, why’s that?” Sidney mumbled.

You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat.

“Just reasons, I guess.”

“Speaking of questioning, did they ask if you like to hunt?” Stu looked at Billy and Randy who seemed to have shown up out of nowhere.

“Yeah, they did. Did they ask you?” Billy answered and probed, Randy nodded in agreement.

“Hunt? Why would they ask you if you liked to hunt?” Tatum voiced.

“Because their bodies were gutted.” Randy spoke up, shoving a peanut in his mouth.

“They didn’t ask me if I liked to hunt…” both Sidney and Tatum declared.

Stu looked around, but his eyes always seemed to land on you, which caused you to blush, and chew on your fingernail.

“‘Cause there’s no way a girl could’ve killed ‘em..” Stu laughed.

“That’s bullshit. The killer could easily be female, basic instinct.”

“That was an ice pick. Not exactly the same thing…” Randy butted in.

“Yeah, Casey and Steve were completely hollowed out. And the fact is, it takes a man to do something like that.” Stu grinned, still staring at you without realizing it.

You leaned in, placing your chin on the palm of your hand. “Really now? If that’s so, then why did they ask me if I liked to hunt, Stu?” You smirked, catching all of them off guard. “Like Tatum said, the killer could easily be a girl. Though, with how they were killed it was clearly a man. They’re all the same, messy. They like to play with their prey. A woman on the other hand, knows how to get things done, swiftly and cleanly. Why do you think they don’t get caught as easily?” You finished your statement. Drumming your fingers across your lap in triumph.

“That was— I was not expecting that.” Stu laughed loudly, bewilderment lingering around him like an aroma of some sorts. Billy was just as shocked, but more amused.

However, Sidney wasn’t having it. “How… How do you gut someone?” She asked.

“You take a knife—“ Stu started and Billy looked up from his lunch. “And you slit ‘em from the groin to the sternum..”

“Hey.” Billy cut Stu off, glaring at him. “It’s called tact, you fuckrag.”

You sighed, shaking your head.

“Hey, (Y/n)..” Sidney asked, ignoring Billy and Stu’s former conversation.

Your ears perked and you looked at her confused.

“Didn’t you used to date Steve Orth?”

‘Now how in the fuck could she have possibly known that…’ You thought, your ears turning red from anger and you clenched your fist.

“Yeah, for like a couple of months..”

“Hold up, did I miss a chapter or something? When the hell did you date him?” Billy asked, looking somewhat pissed.

“Uh, yeah, I have to agree with Billy here.. when the hell did that happen?” Tatum’s eyes widened, she felt betrayed.

“Jesus, guys, it was only a couple of months, I don’t even know how Sidney found out.” You started, shooting Sidney a glare.

“Can we change the subject, please?”

“Did you sleep with him?” Stu mumbled, starting to get irritated as well.

“All of you, please just shut up. It is not a big deal.” You demanded.

“Are the police aware that you dated the victim?” Randy asked, ignoring your pleas.

“Hey, what are you saying? That I killed both Casey and Steve?” Your mouth gaped at the accusation.

“It just makes sense, ex-girlfriend not over the relationship, gets jealous seeing her lover with someone else… You know, the scorned ex who kills for revenge!” Randy shouted, earning a few stares in the process from passersby’s.

“(Y/n) was with me last night, okay?” Billy spoke, winking at you from behind Sidney.

“Yeah, I was…” You stated, catching Sidney’s eyes darting your way.

“Was that before or after you sliced them up?”

“Hold on, you went to (Y/n)‘s after you came by my place? You said you were going to Stu’s!” Sidney flared her nostrils, anger bubbling to the surface.

“Oh, brother…” You whispered, face-palming. Seeing Sidney hurriedly packing up her things, she didn’t give neither you or Billy time to explain...

<- Previous Next ->

[tom-foolery-incorporated]

May I have a NSFW content where Thomas Hewitt and his S/O 'got it going on' in the bedroom? I would also love to have Thomas being handsy on her breast and often times likes to lick and suck on her tits.

Second slasher related titty ask I've gotten. Not shaming though! Slashers and titties go together like peanut butter and jellied fruit preservative <3

Also feel free to just say sex or fucking if you're comfortable. I'm not bashful xoxo

NSFW, MDNI, 18+, Thomas Hewitt, fem!reader, non-descriptive titty size, racially ambiguous, breast worship, titty sucking, mild lactation kink (no milk but mentions it), heavy breeding kink

Putting the blame wholly on Thomas wasn't reasonable. You had no right to be laid out in that sheer nightgown like that on his bed in his room. You knew it was a tough day for dear old Tommy so you decided to surprise him in the pink nightgown he loves to see you in so much. The baby doll cut accented your pink silk covered breasts while the sheer fabric of the skirt flowed over your legs. You laid there like a tantalizing piece candy for Thomas's viewing pleasure.

You felt a shiver crawl up your spine when you heard the click of the door being locked. After a hard day at work, all Thomas wanted to do was watch your beautiful form as your breasts bounced up and down with every thrust of his cock into your drooling pussy. Thomas made his way over to you trying to savor the entire image of his most dearly beloved laid out for his delight. You moved from a laying position to sit on the side of the bed. Thomas dropped between your legs to wrap his stout arms around your waist. His masked face lay nestled between your heavenly breasts, breathing in the sweet aroma of your perfume.

You glided your fingers through his black hair doing your best to get the knots out without a brush. His shoulders slowly drooped into a relaxed position as he became more lost in your form. Your legs were wrapped around Thomas's ribs as he continued snuggling himself into your chest. You could feel his broad hands stroking your back through the soft fabric of your sheer nightgown. Thomas slowly pulled away from you to push the straps of your lingerie down, further down past your shoulders until the sweetheart neckline of your nightgown was bunched up around your waist.

"They're all yours," you affirmed when the seconds between Thomas undressing your upper half and having his lips on your nipples was growing to be too long. He honestly just had to admire the way your breasts hung from your chest. The way your skin grew goosebumps at being released to the night air in his room. How your nipples hardened under the arousal he made you feel. He made you feel.

You gently brushed your fingers along his mask until you found the knot that held it in place on the back of his head. You made quick work untying his mask then gently slipping it off his face to gingerly place on the nightstand. He felt so exposed without the safety of his mask but with you the exposure didn't feel so frightening.

Thomas took the nipple of your left breast into his mouth. His lips brushing over your areola to take your perked nipple into his wet mouth. You let out a soft breath at the feeling of Thomas's tongue running over the sensitive skin of your nipple. His right hand found its home palming at the breast currently not being suckled into his mouth. The squishy give of your tits excited Thomas with every squeeze he would give you. You Held the back of his head to your breast. Your eyes were half lidded and your lips parted with silent breaths escaping.

He dragged his lips out over your areola again releasing your nipple from his mouth. Thomas never left you neglected, however, because he quickly returned to worshiping your form with open mouth kisses all over your tits. He held both of your breasts in both of his hands, pushing them up so he could worship as much of them as he could. You eagerly leaned back to make as much room for Thomas as you can. The salt from your skin tasted like the sweetest candy on Thomas's tongue. He kissed your breasts again, running his tongue over your skin to have more of your decedent flavor in his mouth once more. You let out a shaky moan when Thomas took the skin of your right breast into his mouth and sucked leaving his mark behind in the form of a hickey.

"Tommy," you said in a breathless whisper. Thomas looked up at you through the tops of his eyes as he returned to sucking on your breasts. You bunched your eyebrows together at the sight before you. Such a large and feared man on his knees sucking your breasts like a new born baby. You whined pushing your chest forward earning an approving groan from Thomas.

"Fuck, baby," you sighed. "Trying to get milk from me?"

It was a simple tease, really. With the way Thomas was so eagerly sucking your breasts you would have thought that he was a man starved of milk his entire life. To Thomas, however, a switch flipped in his mind. He could get milk from you if he really tried. Thomas wasn't a man that read up on inducing lactation but he did know that if you got pregnant you'd start producing milk.

He released your nipple with a pop earning a soft groan from you. The look Thomas had in his eyes, however, made you shiver. He stood up and grabbed your by the waist with his burly hands. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist has he climbed onto the bed with you underneath him. Your back fell against the mattress with your hands firmly on his broad shoulders. His calloused hands ran down your hips to the end of your sheer skirt which he pushed up. The panties you wore were simple white ones with a small bow at the front. You bit your lip and spread your legs more to give your lover easier access. Thomas took note of the wet stain you left on the crotch of your underwear with much delight. He knocked the wet fabric to the side as he bullied his fingers into your wet hole. Thomas buried his index and middle finger to the knuckle trying to feel everything your pussy had to offer. Your back arched upwards as your fingers dug into his shoulders through his shirt.

Thomas started out slow by gently curling his fingers inside of you. He burned the faces you made into his mind and as much as he was loving watching you writhe on his fingers, your breasts look oh so neglected. He leaned down to take your nipple into his mouth. He pulled back lightly mesmerized by how your breast followed his movements. You were wonderful. Your moans, the wet noises from your pussy, the way you shuddered in bliss under his touch, how the salt from your skin melted in his mouth. You were so wonderful.

Thomas didn't even notice but his fingers sped up to chase the increasingly loud moans you were making. His main focus was watching your face as your orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your mouth hung open and your eyes went wide as you curled your torso forward. Thomas dropped your breast from his mouth leaving a string of saliva still connecting his lips to your nipple. Your body shuddered and your cunt tightened around his fingers bringing back memories to Thomas of the same sensation happening around his cock. He pulled his fingers out of your gripping hole as your panties slid back into place. Without a second thought he brought his fingers up to his mouth to lick clean, not breaking eye contact with you as he did so.

You weakly moaned as your body went flat against the bed once again. This man had no idea what he does to you. "Baby," you murmured, "please let me suck your cock." Thomas shivered at the way your lips curled around your words. The same lips that he had thrusted his cock through and the very same lips that beads of his cum dribbled out of. Oh how he loved to see your lips brushing against his pubic hairs as you take him down your throat but right now he was on a mission. Your pussy looked oh so empty with out his cock stuffed into it and so lonely without buckets of his cum buried deep within.

Thomas impatiently started fumbling his shirt off to toss to the ground. The lovely mix of fat and muscle that laid beneath the thick layer of black hair was more than enough eye candy to wait you over while he jerkily pulled his pants off. When Thomas crawled back on top of you, hands on either of your hips, you couldn't help but run your fingers through his coarse chest hair. Thomas shivered at your gentle touch and he almost felt bad for what he was about to do next.

With the sheer skirt of your lingerie still pushed up, Thomas grabbed onto the elastic of your panties and tugged. You gasped at the tearing sound as he tossed the useless white fabric to the floor. You looked up at Thomas with wide eyes and your lips parted but whatever you were about to say was pushed out of you in the form of a moan when he pushed your pussy open with his throbbing cock. Your walls happily parted to accommodate the massive girth that was him. Thomas returned to having a firm grasp on your hips as he started thrusting. You grabbed onto the sheets pathetically as he pushed you up the bed with every snap of his hips into your sopping cunt. You could feel your whole body heat up from the juicy noises your pussy made and the slapping of Thomas' skin against yours.

You almost felt your soul leave your body when you made eye contact with your lover. It was as if you were looking into the eyes of a predator. Fixed and focused on his prey, Thomas' gaze pierced through you. "Tommy!" you wailed throwing your head back. You looked like heaven the way your breasts bounced with every push of his cock into your cunt. His calloused hands moved from your hips to grab hand fulls of your breasts. He palmed the soft flesh and squeezed earning shivers and moans from you. His dick throbbed at the thought of you being filled with milk. You'd be knocked up and filled with his, and only his, cum. Thomas would bet anything that your breast milk would be the sweetest nectar he'd ever tasted. To know that you were carrying his child, your body prepping to care for them, made him want to keep you pregnant.

"Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!" you cried with your legs snaked around is waist. He groaned at the way tears sprung to your eyes, beautifully leaking down your cheeks. Thomas held the back of your head with one hand and your breast with the other as he took your lips with his. You moaned and whined into his mouth as your hands clumsily grabbed onto his hair for support. He groaned letting a soft whine slip into your mouth at the feeling of you tugging his black tresses. Thomas moved from your mouth to your neck to leave open mouth kisses across your throat. You could only lay there as he used your hole to sheath his cock into. His balls slapped against your ass with every thrust and you could feel your juices leaking down between your cheeks.

Thomas slid down to return to your chest. He kissed across the plump flesh of your breasts while the hand that was holding your head slid down to rub at your clit. Thomas pressed his fingers firmly down as he draw circles around your sensitive clit. You cried out in pleasure at the feeling of being so filled with cock while your clit was being toyed with. He latched back onto your breast, sucking your nipple hard enough you were sure it would bruise. He really way trying to get milk from you. The way you held onto the back of his head made his hips spasm then thrust faster. Claps of skin on skin echoed off the walls and you were sure you wouldn't be able to leave this room without hearing something from Monty.

A spark ignited within your stomach and your fingers slid from his hair to claw down his arms in bliss as another orgasm rams into you.

"Thomas!" you cried out earning and appreciative growl from the man sucking your breasts. You whined at the sensitive feeling of your cunt being pounded into. He moved his fingers away from your clit and wrapped both arms around your waist. Thomas was usually very gentle with you so it was easy to forget exactly how strong he actually was. You could almost forget if it wasn't for the way he both pounded into you and lifted you like a doll to move onto his cock. Shaky cries left your throat as he used your pussy as he pleased. Your lingerie was crumpled and twisted on your body from the way your body moved from Thomas's rampant thrusting. His eyes never once left yours as he growled and moaned at the feeling of your pussy around his cock.

Thomas really could get used to having his sweet little wife plump and knocked up if it meant he could fuck you like this every time. He thought about how your stomach would grow with the life he helped create inside and how your beautiful breasts would swell with milk. He shivered and gave one last snap of his hips before releasing gobs of cum deep within your womb. You shivered at the warm feeling of his semen being released into your warm cunt.

Thomas gently lowered you back to the bed as he caught his breath. Your lips parted as you panted from being fucked within an inch of your life. "Oh Tommy," you softly sighed, "you're so good. You're so good!" Thomas slotted his head between your neck and shoulder while supporting himself on his forearms that rested on either side of your head. You were too good to him. "Fuck Tommy," you mused, "you came so much there is no chance that I'm not pregnant." Thomas bit into your shoulder growling as his hips awakened at the mentioning of your wonderful body making way for his seed. You gasped and whined at the sensitivity of your over fucked cunt being used once again. It seems that tonight was going to be a long night.

[manikas-whims]

Reasons I despise Shadow and Bone

• Inej Ghafa in the books was an SA survivor and a girl who despite all that she went through, held hope close to her chest. Book Inej was so scared of the menagerie, she couldn't walk past it without the fear of being recaptured. She finally moved on from this fear when she choked Heleen at the Ice Court, stole her diamond choker and ran, calling her silks feathers. And finally believing that she was free after facing her fear, her abuser head on. So seeing the show Inej casually walk into the menagerie as well as merely shrugging upon hearing of Heleen's death this season, was not just extremely ooc but disrespectful and had zero depth.

• Kaz Brekker's disability was basically neglected this entire season and his cane treated like an accessory. Not only that they butchered the entire Kaz-Nikolai meeting in CK. Kaz would've immediately recognized Nikolai, like that was such a downgrade. Not to mention Nikolai threatening Kaz (and Jesper). Kaz wouldn't be threatened. Instead he'd make negotiations with Nikolai on his terms. Oh and most importantly, his entire backstory was rushed and played off like it was nothing serious. That intensity of two innocent small-town boys being tricked by an adult with agency and power, I couldn't feel it as much as I felt reading the books.

• Jesper Fahey's backstory is very emotional and beautiful. The memories with his mother and his coversations later on with his father, all lead up to him slowly accepting his grisha side more and embracing it. Embracing being a zowa. The show speed-ran through it and well, it lost its depth.

More importantly none of the backstory material makes much sense and lacks so much depth because there was nothing that lead to that development. The books, whatever transpires in SoC is what leads to and triggers their individual character developments. So any backstories stuffed in the show made no sense.

• Nina Zenik's bisexuality is completely erased by the show. Its like netflix is allergic to sapphics 😭

• Now Kanej! We got so much Kanej content we should be happy right? I agree. The scenes did give me a momentary high because those are some of my favorite parts of the books and its a blessing to be able to see them adapted on screen. Except, none of those scenes made sense, especially since season 1 barely hinted about some chemistry between the two and then season suddenly escalated all that slow burn into significant moments badly stashed into the show plot. I mean ofc we got the chapel scene and all but.. The whole wound patching-up scene was a pivotal moment in their relationship and it was completely downplayed in the show. And then there was also Kaz getting mad at Inej freeing some children from slavers? Like ofcourse even book Kaz would be slightly miffed but he wouldn't outright reprimand Inej and tell her she's off the team due to it, but thats what show Kaz did. And then after everything that happens, the sudden drop of “how will you have me” and the “without armor” dialogue completely did dirty to that moment. Like ofc she says “gloves on, fully clothed, head turned away so our lips never meet”. But in the books, Inej utters those words because of all the secrecy and lack of effort for pursuing a proper relationship between them. The “no armor” Inej says is addressed towards wanting him to be more open about himself (since Kaz knows basically everything about her, from her full name to how she was captured and ended up in Ketterdam) but Inej knows nothing about him, not even if Kaz Brekker is his real name. But the show made the “no armor” dialogue so bad. Its made Inej look so shallow as if she is merely speaking in terms of her physical wants.

Ohh and I did mention this in another post but everybody fucking knowing about Kaz's backstory? Everyone but Inej? The only person he actually tells in the books. Him even telling the fraction of stuff he tells Inej spoke volumes about their bond and how he trusted her enough to reveal this truth about himself. Show Kaz's past is revealed to Nina and Jesper casually walking in and listening??? WTF was that? And no Inej in thaf moment. Call it nitpicking but it was WRONG.

• Wesper has been reduced to the token gay couple of the show. Their sweet first encounter has been completely eradicated and they're turned into this typical trope of people who had a one night stand and accidentally met again. Their romance is so sexualised in the show, as many tend to do with queer ships (which is extremely disgusting imo). More importantly, we'll most likely never see the “no, not just girls” in that possible spin-off 🙂

• Ketterdam: the show has given no proper insight on Ketterdam. I bet most of the show only people don't understand much about the city and the gangs. I wonder if many even know whats a Dime Lion. And Pekka randomly having the stadwatch in cahoots with him was so shitty writing?

And these are just a few that i can remember right now. Also i don't want this post to get too long.

–» If you're one of those sheep fans, don't comment shit like “creators already told us its different from the books, so you shouldn't be mad” 🤪 cause I'll definitely delete your comment.

If you are one of those, scroll past this post. Cause what do y'all even mean? People can't freely discuss or criticize a piece of media now? STFU!

[chaifootsteps]

I think there's an argument to be made in favor of showing the reality of what Angel deals with on the day to day, both on the gear he wears and the SA he faces from Val.

but these kinds of scenes can very easily be exploitative; used for cheap shock value & end up fetishizing that abuse by presenting it as titillating. it's long happened to female characters where the violence becomes an excuse to show them brutalized or with their clothes ripped off and given how often Angel is sexualized it can just as easily happen to him.

Addict managed to communicate a whole history of sexual abuse committed by Valentino with just a forced kiss and a hard cut to Angel having a breakdown in his room. The scene focused on Angel's emotional distress rather than the act itself, so it avoided objectifying him further and was still effective

this is part of a wider pattern already established by Helluva Boss, where abuse is treated in the least sensitive, most sledgehammer blunt and cartoony way possible.

going by HB, abusers are:

always obvious and easy to spot,

they're complete monsters devoid of any life or interests of their own,

they have no inner lives whatsoever because they only exist to hurt the victim (Stella stays around the house despite not liking Stolas, Crimson wants to force Moxxie into a gay marriage despite being homophobic - to the guy who put his son in prison in the first place!!) - they're inconsistent and unknowable,

they abuse their victim openly in front of others everyone goes along with and tacitly approves of it (Stella's friends happily laugh at her jokes disparaging a demon prince who could kill them all despite knowing he's in earshot)

they cannot be easily stopped even when they have far less power, either in magic or social standing, than the person they're abusing (Stolas and Stella, again)

they hang around long past when they should despite the cast having ample reason to proactively do something to stop them (everyone leaves Crimson alive despite killing all his minions, Stolas knows Stella has ordered a hit on him but probably still lets Octavia spend weekends with her??)

they are fundamentally Bad People. None of the 'good' characters can every be called out for being abusive, what they do is funny - because they are fundamentally Good People. It doesn't matter how many traits Stolas and Stella have in common, he is Good and she is Bad. It also doesn't matter that Stolas sexually coerced someone for a season and a half, neglected his daughter and abused his servants, and barely feels bad about his own infidelity. He is Good so anything he does can be excused. Same with Loona - beating people is bad, but it's OK for her to give her dad a black eye and beat his head in with a picture frame, because she's one of the Good Guys. Same with Blitzo demeaning Moxxie constantly in the workplace - it's funny when he calls Moxxie fat, it's abuse when Mammon does it to Fizz

Abusers are fundamentally Other from Us, and we never need to examine our own behaviors as long as we know we are fundamentally Good.

like how is any of this making the world a better place? or advancing the understanding of abuse? it's an embarassingly dated and in places actively harmful depiction of what abuse is or isn't (I don't even want to get into the bad takes I've seen surrounding Stol/tz and what coercion is or isn't, but you can probably add that to the list too)

if the Angel scenes are as brutal as they sound then the rating should be an 18. I don't entirely blame Viv for that, I know sometimes ratings boards have a weird habit of treating works that have LGBT content as somehow 'more adult' than movies with straight up rape and SA scenes in them (though HH is both, so idk how literal bondage gear didn't up the rating), but I hope against hope there's some kind of trigger warning for this somewhere, and it isn't just dropped on the viewer's lap in order to shock them further with the world's bluntest and most graphic animated scene of SA it can

This. All of this, every word.

[writeformesinpie]

Carnal Restraint 

Niragi x Reader 

Summary - The Beach is a dangerous place as you yourself well know. When you are saved by Niragi you realise you owe him. It’s time to make it up to him. 

Genre - Smut 

Warnings - Smut, attempted assault, attempted SA, sleazy non-main characters at the beginning, canon typical content (death, violence, blood, guns etc), explicit language, oral (fem receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, just all the warnings. 

Word Count - 3.6K

Note - I wrote this after watching the first season and held onto it to edit then proceeded to forget about this one. I hope you enjoy it! Also, remember this is just a fantasy. You deserve better in real life <3

The Beach is not as glamorous as some make it out to be. It’s still part of the borderlands, after all. How grand can it really be?

“Hey baby, you want to come back up to my room?”

Boring.

You don’t bother to respond, flicking your wrist to shoo the faceless man away. Your eyes remain closed as you sit by the pool, sunbathing because protecting your skin isn’t a priority anymore, now is it? Survival is the only thing of worth out here. It should be devastating but there’s a freedom in having nothing. It brings out what’s important, shines on the values that matter.

The faceless man mutters a slur under his breath as he shuffles away. They are all faceless here. They drink. They fuck. They die.

Except for him.

Niragi’s not faceless. He’s here now. His laugh is unmistakable. If that wasn’t a dead giveaway, the murmurs that follow him are.

He’s the reason you still shave your legs (because let’s be serious, what’s the point in things like that now?). That’s right, the image of that face between your smooth legs, that pierced tongue feasting on you; it’s the only reason to keep beautifying yourself.

A smile flutters across your face. Everything else is still. You’ve seen him watching you, you could have him at any time, but it’s the chase that excites you. You want him to want you.

“What are you smiling about?”

Repressing a sigh, you ignore the second faceless man whose hand is lingering on your thigh. It takes a few more minutes before he gets bored and walks away.

You aren’t stupid, you know they whisper about you behind your back. Let them say what they like. You aren’t here to make friends. This is the easiest place to live. That’s all.

Drowsiness is your cue to head back to your room. The sun is a blessing and a curse. It’s hard to win endurance games with blistering skin. The sounds of people partying aren’t enough to keep you awake anymore. They can laugh, brawl and sing drunken songs, and you can sleep through it all. This place was engraving itself on your skin, becoming home.

Walking into the hotel, the drop in temperature is automatic as a few people run past you laughing on their way out to the pool, you press the elevator button and wait.

“Oh, look who we have here.” It’s the man from earlier. That one that called you a cunt. He has two men on either side of him, closer to you than you’d like. “A stuck up bitch that likes to walk around the place like she owns it.”

You ignore him, turning back to the elevator. Why bother giving him the satisfaction of a response?

“Are you ignoring me, bitch?”

How original. Why is everyone so tedious here?

“She’s ignoring us.”

It happens fast. His fist snakes out and pulls you back by your hair as the bell dings. The elevator door opens. You jab him in the gut and walk forward, followed by the three men. Six arms grabbing at your skin. Swallowing the urge to heave, you instead bite the hand clamped across your mouth. Spinning you bring your heel down on one of their toes.

He’s watching you, that smirk on his face that disappears as the elevator closes. Bastard. Niragi was the last person you wanted to see in this situation. And that smug look. What was that about?

“Shit! She bit me.”

“Hold her down!”

One of them slams your shoulder against the mirror at the back of the spacious elevator with enough force that it cracks. Pain sears up and down your arm as you curse under your breath.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you?” It’s the one from the pool. His friends snicker. “Do you want to come back to my room now?”

“Not even if you were the last man in the world,” you sputter with a soft laugh. That gets you a punch in your gut. You tumble over, crawling into a ball with a hiss.

“Not so tough now, are you?” He bends down close to your face. The elevator dings and opens as he grabs your face, pulling you up to your feet before pulling you against his lips. Hand on the back of your neck he walks you out of the elevator. “I’m going to be the last man to make you scream.”

“In disgust maybe. You’re not man enough to make me scream,” you say, elbowing his stomach with everything you have. It’s his turn to fall to the ground as the other two descend on you. Picking up one of the potted plants on the side of the elevator you throw it at one of the men and ignore the piece of shit screaming something behind you as you run to the stairway. Rounding the corner, you come face to face with Niragi.

“Who’s not man enough to make you scream?” His eyes glisten with amusement.

“I’m hard to please,” you say looking over your shoulder. The two friends are close behind you, the widening of their eyes comical as they see you standing with Niragi. His reputation is well known. They turn back the way they came quickly.

“Should we stop them?” He smirks, slipping the gun off his shoulder.

“Why bother?” You shrug, tongue sliding along your lips, your eyes locked with his. He picks up on the cue, pushing you back against the wall with his body.

“If I kill them will you give me a treat?”

“I’ll give you a chance,” you say, a smile tucking at the corner of your lips. “If you can make me scream, I’ll return the favour.”

“Yeehaw,” he whispers against your neck, his tongue gliding against your skin before he pulls back, turning the corner. You hear gunshots and the sound of bodies falling. Sneaking a peek around the wall the two men are sprawled across the floor, bullet wounds riddling their now lifeless bodies.

“Yeehaw,” you whisper as you follow him up the hall to the elevator where the creep from earlier is still sitting, begging Niragi to reconsider.

“Please, I didn’t realise you two were a thing. Of course I wouldn’t have touched her if I had known,” he says in a high pitched whimper. “Please. I won’t do it again.”

“I know,” he says before pulling the trigger, causing you to flinch. You thought he was going to play with him a little. He turns to you and motions towards the elevator before walking in.

A soft moan comes from the room as Niragi presses a button. Looking down at the man, his eyes flicker and you realise he’s still alive. From the soft wheeze of his struggling breath coming from deep within his chest, you assume Niragi shot him in the lung.

Before you can look at him for too long Niragi is in front of you, blocking your view, a smirk on his lips. He takes a step towards you, leaving no room to move, your back already up against the wall behind you. His fingers walk up your arms before finding their way into your hair. He pulls your head back and excitement pools between your legs, the previous touch of the man gurgling at your feet forgotten as Niragi’s lips claim yours.

You know it’s wrong. After everything you’ve heard about him, all the vile things he’s capable of. All the things you’ve seen with your own eyes–although not as bad as the claims made by others–do in fact give credence to those very claims. You know it’s wrong, but it’s also exciting. If this isn’t the place to indulge your darkest desires, you don’t know where is. You’re sick of being a good girl, sick of being in control, sick of always doing the right thing.

The ding of the elevator snaps you out of your reverie. His tongue slides across your neck one last time before he turns, leading the way. You take a gander behind you, the man struggles to reach out his hand towards you, eyes bulging before the doors close.

Following behind Niragi in silence you notice how quiet it is up on this floor. It’s rare not to see other people walking the halls here and there, because although the preference is the poolside, people don’t usually hang out there every minute of their day.

He stops to look at you before turning the knob. “Ladies first.” It feels like a dig but you enter the dark room anyway, feeling along the wall for the light.

The door closes and the room darkens, the only light faintly fluttering across the room coming from between the closed curtains. As you find the light switch his hands envelop your fingers, spreading your arms out, his chest against your back as he pins you flush against the wall. He chuckles before nibbling on your neck, his cock already hard against your arse. You hear something placed against the wall near the door, most likely the rifle.

He turns you, the dark outline of him seen through your unadjusted eyes briefly before he throws you over his shoulder. You let out a squeak, clutching desperately at his back as he walks you over to the other side of the room. He plops you down on the bed before you have a moment to gather your thoughts.

“You don’t waste time,” you joke as you bounce on the bed. Before you can add anything else you have to shield your eyes from the sudden intrusion of light as he spreads open the curtains.

“Of course. I want to play with my new toy.”

“Toy?”

He smirks, turning back to open the window, the light sounds of laughter and splashing can be heard from below.

“You looking for an audience?” Squeezing between the pillows you push your back against the headboard.

“Where are you going?” He slithers over and pulls you back down to the bottom of the bed. His hand slips under your shirt, the shock of his touch causing your back to arch. “You’re this sensitive yet you’re hard to please?”

Slapping away his hand you sit up, the noise from outside sounding closer than you’d like. “I’m just cold. Since you opened the window.”

“Then I better warm you up,” he says, a mischievous grin flashing across his face before his tongue dances along his bottom lip.

“You could just shut the window.”

“Shy, too? I wouldn’t have expected that from our earlier conversation,” he says, pushing you back down, his body hovering over yours. His hands push against your shoulders to keep you in place as his tongue glides down your stomach leaving a soft wet trail.

“Not shy. Just private.”

He smirks before his lips caress your hips, nibbling at the flesh. He pulls down your pants, leaving them around your ankles and chuckles at the floral print panties underneath.

“It’s laundry day,” you say, pushing against him. “And the window is still open.”

“You won’t notice it in a moment.” He lowers himself again to your hips kissing along that delicate line between your stomach and underwear.

He grabs your sides and pulls you closer, your legs now dangling off the edge of the bed. Slipping one ankle out of your pants, you slide your legs apart. He kneels between them in silence. Starting to regret stirring up this situation you hover on your elbows looking over your body at him.

“Lay down.” It’s a demand, his tone shocks you into submission, you lay back against the plush bedding. Thoughts scurry around your head with haste, accompanied with feelings of confusion and embarrassment parading to the front of the line.

Then you feel his tongue flicker across your pussy over the fabric of your ill advised choice of panties. He finds your clit and the power of his sucking, tongue swirling over the sensitive flesh, causes you to let out a gasp. The sensation feels both erotic and dirty.

The sensation of his moist tongue flush against you yet denied complete access by the cotton clinging to your flesh is new. His hair tickles your inner thigh, his tongue zigzagging across your sensitive thigh. Wanting more, no, needing more, your fingers start to pull at your underwear only to have him push you back. You try again but this time the pressure of his tongue stops. Assuming he’s about to slip off your panties you sink back against the pillows, but instead of pleasure a searing pain radiates up from the flesh of your skin.

“What the fuck?” you say as you jerk up, practically spitting the words, moving to rub at the red mark he left branded against your skin.

Thrusting his hands against your shoulders you’re slammed back against the bed. This bastard really just went there. He looks down at you, wagging his finger back and forth as you attempt to get up once more. “I’ll tell you when you can move. Feel free to scream all you want but stay still.”

Heat skips across your cheeks as you lie back down, your eyes on his as he takes your clit back into his mouth, his tongue moving circles across the soft flesh. Excitement pools in your lower abdomen, making it difficult to deny. You refuse to scream for this man. Biting your lip you lean back, closing your eyes.

You try to think of another time, attempting to avoid the pleasure the beast between your legs is eliciting, avoiding the way he flicks his tongue while smirking up at you. Why are your eyes open again? But damn if he isn’t fucking georgous. His curves, his bones, his skin. It’s exciting to watch someone so pretty do such dirty things to you.

Curling your toes and clenching your fists you refuse to believe that he can make you come without even getting your pants off completely, your jeans still hanging from your left foot. Think of the jeans, don’t think of his tongue and that piercing or what he’s capable of doing with that mouth when you’re finally naked. Your breath hitches. You're close. Turning to the side you bury your head, hands tight balls as you let the wave of your orgasm flow through you with a soft sigh.

Looking down at him, that smug smile still on his face, he finally pulls your panties down. His tongue laps up the crease of your thighs before taking a bite. “Are you ready to scream?”

“You think you can make–"

Your words are cut off by the sudden pressure of his fingers plunging into your pussy, his lips back on your clit as you throw your head back.

“You’re dripping for me, baby. It’s only a matter of time before I get you to scream.”

Frowning you try to remember why it was you couldn’t scream, why had you decided not to give in fully to the pleasure Niragi was so intent on providing. The reason escapes you as the cold piercing dances across your clit, a contrast to the warmth of his mouth. He’s right, you are dripping. The wet, sloppy sounds of his fingers deep in your cunt makes you want more.

There’s a dangerous hungry look in his eyes that promises a long night. Biting your tongue your fingers pull at his hair before digging into his back, your nails marking him as he finds your spot. He’s got you now and he knows it. His fingers stoke back and forth, caressing your g-spot with persistent precision as his tongue vibrates, the two movements working together in unison until he pulls out of you.

“What?”

Crawling up on your elbows, you frown at the absence of his heat. The slight breeze from the window brings attention to the beads of sweat lining your forehead and down the small of your back. Why the fuck did he stop?

The question is answered as he pulls towards him, “I want everyone to hear you whimper and moan.”

That brings you out of your temporary euphoria. “You wish.”

“I don’t need to wish. You’ll be screaming out for me in a few minutes.”

You scoff. Right as you start to turn away from him he grabs you up and flings you over towards the window, like a ragdoll he has you bent halfway out the window. He blocks your attempts to hit him, pinning your hips painfully against the window frame, your breasts on display for anyone who happens to be looking up from the pool only a few stories below.

“You bastard! Let me go before people see.”

“But baby, I want them to see,” he whispers into your ear, one hand cupping your breast and the other on your ass. He chuckles before licking up your neck. “If you don’t want them to notice then keep quiet.”

“I’ll fucking kill you for this.”

“No, you won’t. By the time we’re done you’ll be thanking me.”

“I very much doubt that,” you say between clenched teeth pushing back hard against his chest. He’s an impenetrable wall.

“Let’s time it and see how long it takes,” he says, bringing his wrist up to you, the Rolex showing 5:53. “I can guarantee that you’ll be screaming before six.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the plan.” The words resonate against your skin as his tongue flutters across the back of your neck. He massages your breasts, his cock hard against your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t stand.”

Gripping the side of the window ledge you bite your lip to hold back the gasp that threatens to escape as his thick cock thrusts into your slick pussy. The angle he has forced your body into enables his dick to pound against that special place, that magical spot that makes you weak in the knees. Fucker. A tear rolls down your cheek as he fills every inch of your pussy with himself, fitting perfectly within you, as if this is where he belongs.

Shuddering, you bite your lip harder as the sinful pleasure of his cock pummels into you over and over until you worry you're about to give in. The moans start as whispers before morphing into loud pants until ultimately they turn into desperate pleas. The heat is gushing through your body like lava on a rampage, unable to stop even with the strong wind blowing against your naked skin. The only thing holding you up as your knees buckle are his hands on your hips. Even your grip on the window loosens; you're complete putty in his hands.

The wanton purr that exits your lips is unfamiliar as his pace quickens, the tears coming down a little faster as he pounds into your g-spot repeatedly. Gulping with sudden abandon, the freshness of the air from this height almost unnoticed, you whine as he bites your ear lobe and neck, his tongue playful against the side of your head.

“You’re so tight.”

The words bounce around for a few moments before they form into something you understand, the bliss causing a delirious fog within your brain. The air up here is too sweet. It’s dizzying as you look down. You can see someone looking up at you but you can’t think why it matters anymore. Blood is pulsing throughout your body, the sound of your heartbeat loud enough that you don’t hear what he’s saying.

“Hmm?”

“I said it’s okay to let it out. Let go. Come for me." His voice is honey and you’re so very thirsty, but when you lean back for a taste he instead twists your hair around his fingers and snaps your head back.

Pleasure and pain erupt within. Shaking, you give into the ecstasy. The need within you is electrifying and inescapable, you allow the pleasure to ripple out, slink across your skin and crescendo from within. You try to ignore the crowd forming below but if you are honest with yourself, it only turns you on more. The intensity of your arousal skyrockets into something you can no longer control.

“Fuck! Oh, God!"

The words are not screams. They are loud, yes, but not screams. The friction is torturous, his pace beyond human comprehension. Howls of rabid pleasure fill the room and you want to tell whoever’s making the loud, guttural sounds to shut up when you realise it’s coming from you. Fuck. You’re like a fucking animal, teeth bared as his own bury into your neck again. It’s enchanted delirium and you’re drowning in it.

“Come for me, baby.”

That’s when the walls begin to crumble beneath you, your body splintering as the waves of fire sputter from within and erupt, every atom ignited in pure bliss. He continues to slide into you slower now but still touching that spot with meticulous skill. Your fire burns down to your bones yet somehow avoids him, only scorching you.

Your vision darkens and blurs as you ride out the final waves. High pitched ringing vibrates within your ears as you cling to the window frame, your legs wobbling as you turn back to him. It takes everything left in you to resist the urge to slap him. He’s holding up his watch, that smirk plastered across his face. 5:57.

“Well, looks like you screamed,” he whispers, pulling you into him, his lips claiming yours. He’s honey and you’re still thirsty. He pulls back, a look of impish delight flashing across his face as he pushes you down roughly to your knees. “You can thank me by returning the favour.”

[starogeorgina]

𝐑𝐮𝐧

Paring: Joel Miller × reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of attempted SA, violence, age gap relationship, blood, kidnapping, mentions of child abuse

Chapter: 1.02

You have to fight to keep the rage from your face, not wanting to give Ellie another reason to disappear again. And though you felt guilty for sending her out into the freezing cold in the first place, you thought it was better for her to collect buckets of snow rather than witness Joel vomiting. The young girl practically leaps down the staircase into the basement, dropping a small bag in front of you without an explanation. You release Joel’s hand and whisper to Ellie, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“I have medicine for Joel."

After escaping the raiders, Joel collapsed, falling off his horse, and you’d managed to help him into the base of a house in a small abandoned town. When he began burning up, you sent Ellie outside to get a bucket of snow to try and cool him down with. When she never came back, you tried to look for her, but with the heavy snowfall, you lost Ellie’s footprints and have been ill with worry since. “Where from, on the other side of the country?"

“I made a deal to trade the deer I killed with some guy. He was a fucking weirdo.”

You could tell by the flush on her cheeks that she was hiding something, but you didn’t have time to pry it out of her. Joel's stab wound had become infected, and he needed the medication immediately. You give him a shot of penicillin on his side, which causes your stomach to turn.

“What guys? Did they follow you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You were more pissed at yourself than with Ellie; she was just a young girl trying to be helpful, unaware of the danger she was putting herself in.

—

Joel lets out a quiet moan as you link your fingers with his. “Where is she?” He asks weakly, “Ellie.”

You point to the corner of the room where Ellie was sleeping with her back pressed against the wall, “asleep.”

Content that Ellie was safe Joel turns his attention to you. He brushes strands of hair behind your ear and says, “You look tired.”

“Really? Because I thought I looked great.”

A pained smile crosses his face. “I don’t need you to watch over me.”

Admittedly, Joel was looking a lot better after a few more injections of penicillin, and he wasn’t as clammy as before, but he was still in and out of consciousness. You sigh, “I need to keep watch.”

“Suppose, but I’ll listen out if you want to close your eyes.” Joel grunts as he shuffles over on the dirty, worn-out mattress he’s laying on, giving you enough space to settle down beside him.

Hesitantly, you put your head on his chest, careful to make sure you don’t put any weight on his body. You feel comfort for the first time since you left Jackson when Joel kisses your forehead and gently twiddles a strand of your hair.

—

You press the back of your hand on Joel’s forehead, trying to gauge what his temperature is. He had fallen into a deep sleep a few hours previously, and it was difficult to get him to take a sip of water. Ellie had to pry his mouth open while you poured it in.

“Are you dating?”

Your head snaps up to meet Ellie’s burning gaze. “What?”

“You and Joel, are you dating?”

“Um, no, we aren’t dating.” The past few days were made up of fleeting touches and shared looks. You thought they had gone unnoticed, but it seems you were wrong.

“But you’ve slept together.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“Why would you do that if you aren’t together? It’s just going to make everything more complicated than it is,” Ellie says, sounding so much older than she is. “Adults are so fucking dumb at times.”

Ellie probably didn’t even fully understand what she was talking about. You were sure she had only learned the basics of sex at school, but she was too young to understand how. You feel bad seeing the faraway look on her face. Ellie had started to see Joel as a father figure, and it was possible that she thought he would choose you over her. “I promise nothing will change—what was that?”

Ellie climbs up onto an old washing machine and looks out of the window. “Oh shit. It’s that guy, David, with a group of men, and all of them have guns.”

“Tell me everything, now.”

Quickly, Ellie fills you in on how the man she met before was part of the same community of raiders that attacked you at the university and would likely be hunting you down to get revenge on Joel for killing the man who attacked you.

Panic begins to set in, as you only have a few moments to figure out what to do. You zip up your jacket and make sure the gun is loaded before placing it in your holster. “Everything me and Joel do is to keep you alive, so I need you to do everything I tell you to, okay?”

Ellie nods.

“Find a place to hide and don’t come out. I’m going to lead the men away from here, and whatever happens, you stay with Joel, okay?”

Slowly, she nods again, tears glistening in her eyes.

You lean forward and kiss her on the forehead before climbing up onto the washing machine and cracking one of the windows open; thankfully, you were able to squeeze through it. Silently, you prayed. The three of you made it through the day and managed to not get captured by these assholes.

—

Despite agreeing to do what you said, Ellie decided to try to help you lead the men away from Joel, which derailed your plan. You had managed to go unnoticed as you snuck along to the house at the end of the street and set it on fire. Once they were distracted by the fire, you would mount the horses and go in the opposite direction, but just as the group of men noticed the smoke, Ellie rode the horse down the street to try and lead them into the woods.

When you see Ellie fall off the horse, which has just been shot, you try to reach her before the group of men do. You fire at them, “Stay the fuck away from her!”

You almost reach her in time, but you’re tackled from behind and pinned down to the ground.

“There’s no need to be so afraid,” a man says before picking up Ellie's unconscious body, and immediately you know something is off about him. You could sense the evil presence around him. “My name is David, and I mean you no harm.”

“Put her down now! You son of a—”

—

Your throat burns as the last of the food in your stomach exists in your body. As soon as you saw so much blood on your hands, you began to vomit. You were knocked out and carried to some community in the middle of nowhere, where you were chained to the wall like a wild animal ready for slaughter.

You had made yourself small and crouched. In the corner, one of the men from before tried to offer you a drink of water.

“James, is it?”

“Yeah."

The look in his eyes is almost tender, as if he feels bad for what he’s doing. You swing your leg up and kick him in the face, bursting his nose open. “That’s for shooting my fucking horse. Now, where is she?"

“You’re going to regret that, stupid bitch!” He hisses before storming out of the small room, slamming the door behind him.

—

David towers over you as he tries to convince you that he is a good guy and that everything he does is for the good of his people. He had handed you a form to fill out, which was mainly questions about your menstrual cycle and told you everything you needed to know. He was searching for healthy women to breed them like cattle.

In a neutral tone, you say, “I’ve met men like you before. I know what you are.”

“And what’s that?” David asks, amused, thinking he has won you over.

“No man focuses on a little girl so much unless they are sick in the head,” you say before spitting in his face. “You’re a fucking pedophile!”

“I think you’ve talked enough for today.”

You pull on the chain keeping you attached to the wooden wall and loudly scream, “If you touch a single hair on her head, I will fucking skin you alive!”

—

You stumble out onto the thick snow; if it weren’t for Joel and Ellie calling your name, you would have obviously been in their presence. Tears fall from your eyes as you continue to limp straight ahead towards the icy river. Your bare arms start to feel numb as the cold nips at them.

You had no choice; you had no voice.

Until the day you died, the nightmares of what just happened would haunt you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see the crimson trail you’ve left behind—a mixture of your own blood and the blood of those you killed dripped from your body. Your eyes return to the front of you as the reality of what you did starts to become overwhelming. The second you feel a hand touching your shoulder, you begin to scream and lash out. “Get away from me! Get away!”

“It’s me! It’s just me!”

“Get off of me!” You’re unable to scratch and slap when your arms are bound with something. “Let me go! Just let me go, please!”

“Stop, it’s me; it’s Joel.”

Slowly you stop lashing out, your chest having as you take gulps of air as you sob. “J—Joel? Joel, they—they—”

They are cannibalistic freaks who tried to force themselves on me with the purpose of getting me pregnant.

“Shh,” he pulls you into his arms, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “I’ve got you; you’re safe.”

You feel Ellie hugging you from behind, her head resting against your shoulder blades. It takes you a moment to register that Joel has removed his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders. Once you’ve regained control of your breathing, you lift your head and quietly ask, “What do we do now?”

“We’ll find shelter and get you cleaned up.”

You nod, and stepping back, you fix your arms into the sleeve of the jacket and fasten it. Joel leads the way, his fingers tightly gripping his shotgun. You and Ellie share a look that cuts deep. From the look in her eyes, you can tell she’s as traumatized as you are.

[idkbroimjusthere]

The Path I Chose | Part One

I've never posted on anything but I decided to finally write down the story I've had in my head for a while now. I have no idea when or if I will post the next chapter but I probably will if this gets some attention.

Summary: I'm a freelance CIA agent. That's not really a thing but that's what I call it. I'm working for a woman named Kate laswell on some off the books investigating. We've been searching for Information on a child trafficking ring that has connections to ultra nationalist groups through europe. I don't get to know the details, but I know enough to do my job. I know what I'm doing is dangerous, but I'm staying away from the worst of it, Right?

Edit

Content Warning: This is going to be pretty dark, cannon typical violence and all that, some implied SA, and forced proximity I guess? so no minors and read at your own risk. Also there will probably be sex cause I'm a perv

How the fuck did I get here? It was never supposed to go this far. If I knew I'd be here at the end, dying, alone, I don't think I would have ever signed that contract.

I'm standing, chained to a wall, peeing my pants because I can't hold it any more. Sharp pain shoots through my lower back and I can feel my kidneys throbbing. The combination of whatever fucking drugs they're feeding me and the fact that I've been trying to controll my bladder for what feels like, fuck, I don't even know anymore, it's really making me want to give up. I wonder if it would be that easy, if I could just decide I'm done, that I'm too tired for this shit, and die. No. I'm probably going to have to wait until these peices of shit decide they're done with me, and pray that it's soon. My head hurts. It's not bleeding like my limbs, but it is pounding, endlessly, like my heart has somehow been moved by all the shoving and kicking, and it now rests heavily in my skull. A door opens somewhere to my right and I try to lift my head to see but a wave of nausea rolls through me and I drop my eyes back to the blood slowly dripping from my body into a puddle on the floor

Maybe that will kill me, blood loss would explain the brain fog. But so would the drugs. I experimented with things in my early adult years and I'm pretty sure it's some combination of psychedelics. Everything feels far away and the cement floor is swirling under me in Van Gogh-esque patterns. It's not pretty though, it feels cold and harsh under me.

The men that I've learned to recognize since the beginning of my imprisonment have come back to try to get me to tell them answers that I don't have to questions I don't quite understand. They have every reason to believe I might know the answers, I work for the fuckin united states government after all, and for a woman I'm pretty sure has more power in these matters than she tells me she does, they probably saw that and assumed I had information about some weapons dealer's death. I don't, but I don't think that matters anymore. I was an easy target to them. I came right to them. They won't let me live, I'm sure of it. If they were going to let me go the men torturing me wouldn't have shown me there faces. One man has tattoos that I took note of In The begining, but I don't think knowing that there is an ugly looking spider inked on the bigger man's hand is going to do me any good anymore. I hate spiders. And pain. All I feel is pain. No hope of getting away anymore.

I hear someone talking but it's muffled by the ringing in my ears. My knees buckle as something solid hits my in the ribs shooting pain through my chest and spine. My guess is it's the bat that the smaller man seems to love swinging. I'm hanging by my wrists from the wall, unable to sit down because of the metal digging into me and leaving what I know will be dark bruises by tomorrow, if I'm still alive by then. They then take a step back and I hear something familiar. Something I can't quite place as I slip in and out of consciousness. The men tasked with getting answers from me shout at each other, or me, I can't tell.

They're gunshots, I think. The sound rings through the air and hits my ears with a sharp ping. My brain tries to focus as my head spins and I see the men looking out into the hallway. Before the door can even open all the way, both men are shot. Clean kills by the sound of it, just two shots. The sound echoes in my ears as my eyes close and open slowly.

Someone steps into the room, they seem to be studying me. I would be self conscious if I had any ounce of pride left, but right now, I don't care.

This person is large, taller than me but I am half on the floor right now. This guy looks huge from here. I try to stand and it takes me a moment. He watches without moving an inch, I realize his assault rifle is aimed at me.

"Who are you"

The question barely registers as I try to breathe more evenly

"I'm with, I'm a-an American, I work for the CIA" I stutter out stumbling through the words like I've never said them before.

"Please, I can't, I'm not supposed to be here, I don't know what they want from me" that's only sort of a lie, right?

He doesn't shoot me, yet. I guess somewhere in my mind I do want to live because I'm begging for help. The man says something to a radio strapped to his chest and starts rummaging around in the pockets of the two men who have been torturing and drugging me for what I can only assume is weeks now. He cuts off the bat guy's badge and pulls the key card for my room out from his pocket. He pulls both bodies into the room, like they weigh nothing, and closes the door.

He turns towards me and I shudder, adrenaline and panic shoot through me. His face is covered and I can't see very well so I have no idea what he's thinking. I'm going to assume it's bad though, this man feels dangerous, like he's one wrong word away from bashing my head in.

I try to stand up straighter and look him in the eyes but my body aches and I feel weak. I can't feel my hands anymore everything feels fuzzy.

He walks up to me and grabs my wrist. I feel the restraint fall off my wristand my arm drops to my side. As I try to bite back the pain of the blood I have left rushing back to my fingertips my other wrist falls.

The combination of all my ailments rolls through my body like a wave and I stumble. The man in front of me grabs my shoulders and sets me on the floor a foot or two to the left of the spot I had been standing in for way too long.

My head falls forward and my vision gets dark around the edges

"Hey, it's ok, I'm not going to hurt you."

I shake my head as he grabs onto my arms again. Fear of what this man could do to me if he wanted to rattles my bones

"N-no, don't touch me, please" I say, tears now falling down my face.

"You're ok, I'm going to help you, we're going to go somewhere safer" he says in low, calm voice.

I hear muffled words from an earpiece he's wearing. He holds his radio and replies "copy, I've got the key card" he leans me back against the wall and stands, heading towards the door. He swipes the card and it opens, letting in another man. He looks at me and I blink dumbly at him.

He says something to the masked guy and takes a step towards me. I cower away and try to scoot back into the corner

"It's alright dear, I'm not going to hurt you, you can trust me" he says in a light, kind tone.

I'm not sure I have a choice here, if I say no, tell them to get away from me, I'm stuck here. I don't think I can stand, let alone walk and my best chance of getting out of here is going along with this. My judgement may be clouded but something about his voice seems to make me relax. That could also be the blood loss.

"Please, I just want to go home." I'm still crying, looking up at these men from the floor in my broken, battered state.

"You'll be alright with us, we will get you out of here"

That sounds great, I'm in. I try to give a response but my mouth is so dry and it comes out as a sort of croak.

"Here, I have water" he kneels down to open a canteen on his side but it doesn't slosh when he shakes it.

"Fuck, Ghost, bring your's" he says, but the man is already stepping towards me and crouching down, bringing the open bottle to my mouth. He carefully holds the water, tipping it up slowly, and I drink as much as I can. He pulls it back and screws on the cap. I whine a little. I haven't had much food or water since I've been here and I don't feel satisfied by the quick drink at all

"Thats enough for now, we need to move."

"Yeah, captains waiting for us with the truck on the east side, building's clear to the exit"

I look between them as they speak and they both look at me.

"Ready love, we've got you, don't worry." Says the man who's name I don't know. The one called ghost picks me up again and sets me sort of over his shoulder. Pain once again floods through my body and I feel myself start to slip out of counciousness.

"You're alright yeah? We'll be out soon, just hold on" the man to our right says. It's the last thing I hear before sinking into the void of darkness that clouds my eyes.

[ink-the-squid-gremlin]

Endouma is a terrible ship, and here is why.

‼️WARNING‼️: Post not only contains semi spoilers for KNY, but it also contains mentions of things like suicide, depression and noncon/sexual assault. If you are uncomfortable with those topics, please refrain from reading.

TLDR: Enmu and Douma are not compatible with each other because that ship is mostly built up on fetished MLM tropes, overly sexualized versions of the characters and the romanticization of SA.

(God, I feel like I have been posting nothing but hot takes on this account as of late. I promise I will go back to posting art, cosplays, and more just chill stuff after this.)

Enmu and Douma are not characters that should not be shipped together, for multiple reasons. Starting off, THEY ARE NOTHING ALIKE!!!! I don’t know where or how it was decided that they were alike, or that Enmu is “Douma 2.0”, but it makes no sense. While both are meant to be irredeemable monsters, Enmu was an irredeemable monster from the get go. From what we know about his backstory, he knew he was scamming people and targeting the weak and vulnerable for it. Douma’s backstory goes a bit more in depth and explains that he was put into the role of “all mighty god” as a child, which lead to the power of it going to his head as he grew up. Douma was still an impressionable child who was failed by the adults around him, and as he grew up he took on some of those same traits as the adults he was surrounded by. The bottom line is this: Douma, while a shitty person, still has some way to sympathize with him, Enmu does not, and thats just on the story side of things.

Enmu and Douma also share nothing in common personality wise. On face value, they may kinda act similar (i.e how they talk (sorta)) but it really just stops there. Enmu ultimately had a goal to kill Tanjiro and gain more blood from Muzan so he could climb the ranks of the demon hierarchy. He wanted to gain more power and to overthrow one of the upper moons for the sake of power. He doesn’t care how many people he has to torment, hurt or kill, as long as he has spot in power, he is happy, hell, he literally has vulnerable and even sick children do his dirty work! Enmu is a sick and twisted individual and he prides himself on that. Douma on the other hand put on the happy and up beat facade to hide that he knows he was failed. Douma is aware he was failed as a human, and so he decided to fail his followers by being the embodiment of false hope. He plays into the false icon lifestyle by pretending to be hopeful and happy around his followers and even the other demons to an extent. He doesn’t care so much about power, rather he cares more about control. Douma keeps up his false religion persona to keep control over his followers. He knows he’s failing them, but he doesn’t want to lose the control he has over them.

Now onto the elephant in the room: the mischaracterization I’ve seen of both of them in the Endouma ship. In both fanart and fanfics I’ve seen and read (well more so forced down my throat since thats all I’ve seen with Enmu in recent times) both Enmu and Douma are mischaracterized to high hell just so we as the reader/viewer will feel pity for them. I’ve seen more of this with Enmu, in that all the stuff that made him unique from the other KNY demons is stripped away so his “savior boyfriend” Douma can comfort him and coddle him. Now, writing an AU is one thing, but if you’re just going to make content of the ship with the characters as they are in the series, then their actual personalities should be honored or at the very least acknowledged.

Going more in depth about the mischaracterizing I’ve been seeing with Enmu, almost all (ALMOST all, not all in general) Endouma content I’ve seen have made him either a depressed and anxious baby that Douma is meant to coddle, or an overly fetishized hyper feminine man thats there simply for sexual reasons. It just goes against their roles in the story of KNY.

Going off of the hyper feminine man mischaracterization of Enmu I’ve seen in regards to the Endouma ship, having him be pretty much a “femboy” not only contradicts him as a character, but it also is pushing toxic heteronormativity on a queer relationship. Making Enmu essentially the “woman”, while putting toxic heteronormativity in a very much MLM ship, it also just boils him down to a sex object and nothing else. Now, I will not say that portraying Enmu as a very sexual and even gross character is wrong, because there were plenty of scenes in KNY of him that had very sexual and perverted undertones, but that is what they were, undertones. There is more to his character than just the sexual undertones he has (as I stated earlier when describing him), and by boiling him down to a “sex doll” for Douma just kind of shows that there wasn’t much of an understanding of his character while making the ship art or a fic. He is much more than a sex object.

Moving onto the mischaracterization I’ve seen of Douma, while not nearly as bad as Enmu, it still feels very off from his character. Making Douma someone who GENUINELY cares for another person is also very contradictory to how he acts in the series. He is someone who cares very little for anyone he comes to meet, whether it be his followers or other demons. Now you may be asking “but, Ink! Douma saw Daki and Gyutaro when they were on the verge of death and decided to save them!” Which is exactly what I am talking about. The only reason he “saved” them was to keep up his facade of a savior and to get himself “brownie points” (for lac of a better term) so his public appearance would look good. Because he cared very little for Daki and Gyutaro, it shows that he only cares about looking like a good person and nothing else. Portraying him as essentially “Enmu’s therapist” that coddles him and such just feels weird. Douma has no emotional connections to anyone, so why would he have an enmotional connection to a demon that is considered lower than him?

Now similar to what I said about Enmu earlier, Douma is also much more than a sex obsessed pervert. Douma being portrayed as basically a male nymphomaniac in the Endouma ship is a very strange way to portray his character. Yes, he may have been fine with letting women seek refuge in his temple, but again, it was to make him seem and look like a good person. We should all know, or at least have the understanding that Douma is literally a woman eater. The women he houses in his temple ultimately have the fate of being nothing more than food. Viewing his reason for taking in women as something sexually driven is a complete misunderstanding of his actions. This misunderstanding of Douma paired with the sexual misunderstanding of Enmu not only creates a toxic relationship, but it also fetishizes and sexualizes MLM pairings. This is something I’ve noticed more in Endouma art, but a lot of it that I have seen feels very fetish-y. I can’t go too in-depth about this aspect, as I am a queer woman, but the way the ship is portrayed in a lot of the art I have seen of it feels as though it is pandering to the appeal of yaoi obsessed straight girls. While yaoi has been a term used for decades to refer to MLM based pairings in media like anime and manga, over the past couple of years, its meaning has become more based around fetishizing MLM pairings rather than just being about MLM pairings.

I now want to bring up something that I’ve seen associated with Endouma (and also the Enmuzan ship, but that is a topic for another time) that really makes me uncomfortable, and that is noncon and the romanization sexual assault. I don’t want to talk too much about this topic, as it is not only triggering for me, but it should also be common sense that fetishizing sexual assault is wrong. Again, this is more so something I have seen in artwork, but it seems almost normalized for Douma to be portrayed forcing himself onto Enmu. Now, I know you are all probably saying “Ink, if you don’t like it/are triggered by it, then don’t interact with it”, but when its all that has been made in regards to newer Enmu content as of late, and how people are hyping it up, its kind of hard to avoid. It makes me truly question just how many people really missed the point of their characters, and only focused on things like Enmu being more androgynous, and Douma being tall and muscular. In a general sense, if a ship is built on, or is popular from fetishized and romanticized sexual assault, it shouldn’t be a ship.

Finally, I just want to mention that these characters have NEVER once interacted in canon. I know that hasn’t stopped people from shipping characters before, but it’s just something I want bring up. (As well as the fact that the Upper Moon’s hate the Lower Moons)

I want to end off this post by saying that all of this is by no means targeted at a specific person, nor am I trying to say that my opinion is correct. I am just stating my own opinions and just stating observations I have made after being in the KNY/Enmu fanbase for nearly 4 years now. People are allowed to ship characters together (within reason) however they like, but just be aware of how it will look on your own part, and what views it may look like you have.

[billyloveschickennugget]

nonidol!Mingyu x malereader

prompt: having an arcade night with Mingyu where the winner gets to command the other for the whole day tomorrow.

Wordcount: 1939

Genre: Fluff

CW: curse words, kms jokes

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

The sky had quickly darkened when you arrived at the apartment Mingyu lives in, your hand fumbling with the keys to unlock the door.

Your morning was just a normal routine—sitting through hours of lectures, hanging out with your friends in the canteen, and while reading the chat of nags of your older boyfriend at work.

He was apparently upset with the fact that his boss was so dense—his words, not yours—and wanted to punch him so hard you were actually convinced he was going to do it.

Mingyu didn't though, because despite his boss being so annoyingly dumb at times—you could sometimes agree if you referred to what he always said��, that guy managed to become a boss at such a young age.

You knew Mingyu was jealous, but your puppy-like boyfriend wouldn't admit it—not when he once said "shit you not, he's so stupid I'm actually gonna kill myself" and you since then assumed Mingyu hated his boss so much that everything the man did seemed to piss Mingyu off.

You may or may not have made him sulk for weeks to your impulsive answer when you accidentally blurted out, "You would've been a boss if you were smarter than him..."

You did not worry any bit at the time because even when it took him a while to unwind, in the end, you knew he would come back to you.

Just as he is your safe haven, you are also his.

Tonight seemed to be the same. Not long later, you heard the door clicked open and expected Mingyu to arrive home from work. You were already out of shower by then, quickly preparing yourself for the night he had promised—a date in the arcades.

You rounded a corner and found the tall man dropping his briefcase on the couch, his whole attire still neatly on.

Sometimes, you'd wonder if your guess about him being a baby's soul trapped in a big man's body is true. His hair may be neatly styled, his shoulder may be broad, his facial structures may be sharp, his veins in his palm may be bulging out, but at last, a single pout in his lips could make you melt.

When you knew him and imagined a future with him, you thought of a life with a big man who would probably smile once a year. But god where you so wrong.

"Baby? Are you readyyyyy?" You watched him lazily called you, before he raised his head up to find you in the hallway, grinning ear to ear with a towel still draped over your neck.

He seemed to realize that you noticed his pout, and immediately reached over to pull you into a hug.

"Ugh, i hate him," He groaned to your hair, slowly taking in the scent of the shampoo you both used. For some reason, the same brand on you could smell so heavenly different, and he loved it more than anything.

"You smell nice." Mingyu added when you stayed silent, probably happy to see him pouting. He couldn't even muster anything to sulk even more—your presence alone were ceasing all the pent up stress from the day.

"Come on, change up. I'll wait for you," You urged, looking up to meet his weary but contented smile.

"Okay, I'll be quick." Mingyu leaned down to peck your cheeks before letting you go and passing you to go to the bathroom you had just left.

You continued drying your hair with the towel and entered the bedroom, applying your skincare while humming to a random music stuck in your head.

It didn't take him long to finish the shower, as you found him trudging his way in naked—his dampened hair dropping water that marked the carpet.

Mingyu searched through the wardrobe and pulled out a random hoodie, slipping it over his head, then grabbed another pair of shorts to finish it up.

"Want me to blow dry your hair?" You offered and looked at him through the mirror in front of you.

Such simple act of service could somehow take the grim in him away as he walked over with his canine teeth showing, sitting on the stool you dragged to your front.

Mingyu sat there obediently, watching you absentmindedly dry his hair through the mirror.

You suddenly chuckled, in which he only grinned wider to.

"What?" You asked, despite knowing what the answer always is.

"You're beautiful."

You left him in silence and turned off the hair dyer before standing up to tidy the desk up, all while Mingyu leaning his weight on you, squealing over how cute you were for blushing over his compliment.

You were certain your cheeks hadn’t given anything away, but he knew you too well not to notice the quickening of your heartbeat, without contact or whatsoever.

He knew it the best, of the effects he has on you.

"Stop leeching on me and get your skincare done. I'm starving already." He saluted to you, animatedly sitting back on the stool to apply his own as you took the towel he left on the bed back to its place outside.

As you killed time by tidying up any mess in the kitchen or the living room, Mingyu came out of the bedroom with only a phone and a wallet in his hand.

"Let's go babe, stop being so obsessed with cleaning!" Mingyu called from afar as you placed away the napkin and washed your hand.

"Alright, alright." You walked to him, picking a beanie you prepared on the head of the couch and wore it.

He laced his free fingers with your, feeling the cold he didn't liked on you melt as his warmth overwhelmed it.

"You're cold again. We'll get you a hot chocolate later." It wasn't that your cold makes him uncomfortable—he was instead afraid that you'd be uncomfortable with the persistent cold on your skin, and insisted on a weekly check up with the doctor.

You were told that your skin was just a bit sensitive with the temperature and it shouldn't be a worry, but Mingyu will always make sure to keep you warm.

And as your shoulder touched his arm (you're too short for it to touch his shoulder </3) with every synchronized step you both took, Mingyu walked you to the nearby arcade that he often dragged you to visit with him.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

You threw the ball forward and watched it enter the ring as the machine beeped in a vibrant tone.

Contrast to the congratulating timbre, however, you dropped down in despair, groaning and clutching your hair as if you’d lost the grand prize in a lottery by just one digit.

"That's two and a zero, babe. One more and you're all mine for the whole day tomorrow!" Mingyu excitedly teased, leaving no mercy, not even for his boyfriend.

You knew Mingyu would do the dirty move and choose games that he's better in, but you always have cards in your deck.

You two may be lovey dovey and sort, but when it comes to these competitions, everything goes second. Letting the other win is like a taboo within the two of you. Both of you had even agreed that dying is literally better than losing.

Mingyu would proudly cheat if it meant to win against you, and you would do the same if it meant to show dominance. To show who's born better.

"Hmph. Now that you've chosen yours, it's my turn to choose the next two games!" You got up with new resolve, your eyes burning with fiery determination.

Mingyu smirked and followed you, taunting with the confidence he must've gotten from winning consecutively two rounds against you.

You couldn't help but to smirk as you led the way, just as confidence as he was with the newfound skill you had learned exactly for this moment.

"A claw machine?" Mingyu asked as you smugly stopped in front of the machine, hands on your hips and your head held high.

"Exactly! Whoever gets a plushie out first, they win a point!" You explained it perfectly clear and nodded twice, satisfied with your words that must've sounded so cool.

Mingyu didn't seem to have any of it though, as he agreed on your challenge and went first.

Inserting a coin, he focused controlling the claw, aligning it perfectly with the plushie beneath it. To your expectation, the claw grabbed the object but dropped it on top, before returning back to its starting position.

"This is so rigged!" Mingyu complained, sulking as he stepped aside to let you have your turn.

But you felt so kind that you advanced his turn before yours.

"I'll give you another chance to try again just because I'm nice. Go ahead," You calmly offered, innocently smiling as Mingyu skeptically inserted more coins into the machine, but replaced with a focused expression as he turned his attention back to the minigame.

Or maybe because you knew something Mingyu weren't aware of.

You didn't had to look to know that the claw dropped the plushie again, and Mingyu whined in annoyance, blaming the machine for being rigged.

This time, you stepped in like a man under the spotlight, confidently said "let me show you how to play this in the correct way."

With practical ease, you moved the claw and dropped it when it aligned with the plushie you were aiming for. Unlike Mingyu's, yours brought the item to the starting position and released it into the hole.

Your boyfriend's jaw hung open as the machine clanked. Crouching down, you inserted your hand and took out the plushie that the claw had grabbed earlier, smiling innocently to the owner holding it.

Knowing Mingyu well, he took it as an offense and went for another try. You gave him 3 rounds to try while you circled the arcade for a quick walk. It wasn't necessary, but it was to instead piss Mingyu off, because you knew how much it would tilt your boyfriend to be that cocky.

You came back during his third try, and from afar you knew the claw machine had failed him again.

Mingyu hissed in anger, restraining his big muscles from punching the glass to take the plushie out himself.

You chuckled and stepped in, asking him to watch you closely—which he genuinely did since he thought it was actually a skill issue—and of course see you win another one, completely destroying his ego and sanity.

"This machine is rigged! It's not fair! I'm trying others!" Mingyu stomped his way to search for another claw machine that piqued his interest, and you only followed him from behind with your two plushies sitting comfortable in your arms.

Mingyu seemed to find one that he was sure he could win one and immediately started the machine with the basket of coins.

He went for another three, and ended up with nothing but a hollow disappointment in his arms.

Mingyu was already hugging his knees in the floor as he hopelessly witnessed his whole ego stomped with your third win, bringing back again another plushie with the win.

You cleared your throat with clear exaggeration, grinning wide as you hugged the three plushies in front of him, wiggling your eyebrows in amusement.

Oh, the thrill of winning against Mingyu once again was absolutely exhilarating.

Even as you both continued playing with tons of other games in the arcade, Mingyu kept that pout that he would always have whenever he lost, but deep inside, he was more than happy to know that you were enjoying the time, no matter if it costed his pride.

But when he took you home later the same night, with you still bouncing with bags of goodies you won from the arcade and the joy you felt from the day competition, Mingyu knew better than to be relieved still, not when the next day had yet to come.

Because what he knows for sure is that you’ll go all out to use the privilege you’ve won to make him suffer ♡