#the weekly sonnet

[kroosluvr]

i fought honey b lovely for an entire HOUR and only got a legwear token and this drawing of sonnet?!?!??!?!?!??!?!

[nerice]

poetry class was such a trip bc 2019 was my worst year at the time (in retrospect it was perfectly fine + also had qs renaissance but i digress) but not only did i hand in the gay poem of all time as my first work that my prof loved so much & i still cherish fondly. but esp the early pieces i submitted (rrf / the black swan one) were such hot character studies. even the prwp one while a little on the nose had some real fun energy even if it toed the line to girlboss in a way i didn't care abt but. occupational hazard i guess. OH ALSO THE FKCIN WHITE ROSES CASKETS ONE..

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Obey Me

♡ featuring: kaeya x f!reader

♡ summary: you learn your lesson for disrespecting the calvary captain wc: 4.1k+ (i am so sorry)

♡ cw/tw: wax play, humiliation, degradation, sex toys, dacryphilia, rough sex, hard dom, overstim, orgasm torture, edging, bondage, squirting, pet play if you squint, kaeya is kind of an asshole, pet names (dove, pretty girl, sweetie)

notes: idk how the word count did that I'm too silly. feral kaeya does something to me tbh. n e way I promise a shorter one next time hehe. art by ttalby_ on ig <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Kaeya isn’t used to feeling like this.  

The interesting days of tasks and adventitious missions superseded his need for activities outside of the Knights of Favonius. He often stumbled—more so, needlessly interjected—into petty situations. He lived for theatrics, an audience to indulge emotion and intimacy in its most vulnerable state. A man who solves the problems of the public before his own knew neither authentic nor genuine connection. Kaeya was well aware of how easily he made hearts swoon, with a silver tongue and attractive timbre, a mask imperceptible. When you arrived as an apprentice for the 6th Company, he assumed you’d be just as easy, just as captivated. You were anything but. You barely acknowledged his existence for the first year, and he’d be wrong to say your lack of dalliance didn’t chip away at his self-esteem. 

Something egotistical in him wanted your attention. Romantic prospects were dispensable to him, but you had to know who he was. After all, who doesn’t love the Calvary Captain?  

Just for fun he told himself, as you became the first person to turn him flushed and sow seeds of doubt surrounding love in his heart. Kaeya finally managed to achieve your regard and all you asked for was his name. The audacity of you, to ask the captain who he is? He nearly busted out laughing. He gently held your hand and kneeled to kiss it, maintaining eye contact throughout. 

“Kaeya, my dear.” 

You were surprised to find him waiting for you outside the headquarters one day, handsome navy strands haloed in confidence, a delicate flower and perfumed letter in hand. Kaeya watched you read it in silence, his poem dedicated to you, requesting a date. You couldn’t help but smile at his charm, despite his sweaty palms as he awaited your answer. An accumulation of the little things; the bouquet of roses he bought you weekly, so you’d always have a fresh one, making sure you were always hydrated, his ability to make you laugh in trying times. You were both full of adoration, though he wouldn’t admit how invested he was. The only person who glimpsed the truth was Diluc. Kaeya rambled in his drunken stupor at the tavern, and Diluc sighed at the overdramatic sonnet. “My heart beats for her like no other. Will this be my fate? My Greek tragedy?” he mumbled through hiccups. 

As your relationship blossomed, work withered. An emerging problem reared its ugly head. Your assignments consumed your daily life and dwindled the moments spent with Kaeya. In the beginning stages of dating he understood, exuding nothing but patience and encouraging words. He didn’t expect you to drop work for him, and he was willing to accommodate the hectic schedule. Romantic gestures were limited to light caresses or kisses, clandestine sessions in abandoned alleyways. Frequent dates reduced to a couple a week, then a month, then none. The worst instances were when you assured Kaeya you’d arrive, only to call him a couple hours later with a tired apology, still stuck at your office. You promised him you’d make time for yourself and practice self-care, but it was evident you weren’t listening to his advice. You were no stranger to quickies, kindly offering them to Kaeya if he ever needed “destressing”. But the captain was never a fan of rushed affairs. He wanted desperately to share extended time with you, and you had none to give. It became easier to lie than to admit how overworked you were. 

Kaeya didn’t come to headquarters today, but you recall the conversation from the previous night. 

“Mm, I’m missing my little dove. Think you can come see me?” he said, tilting your chin up to meet his loving gaze. 

“Of course. I don’t have a lot of work tomorrow so I should be done early.” 

“Great. I’ll make dinner for us. Be at my place by 8, okay?” You agreed to the timeframe. 

Now that you’re comprehending the incomplete documents strewn across your desk, you regret your conviction. You shouldered the weight of everyone in your division. It’s getting close to the date, and you’ve barely scratched the surface. You fumble for concentration, anchoring down to finish the rest of the list. You make haste and shove the papers at Hertha. I still have time to get there you thought. Glancing up at the clock as you dart out the building, your eyes widen at what it reads. 10:15 pm. 

Fuck. You’re running now, skirt bouncing and bag rustling, navigating busy streets with an uneasy mind. Once again you promised, and once again you broke it. How could you be so careless? You catch your breath when your hand contacts the door. You relax before giving a few light knocks. The door swings open.  

Kaeya’s hair is free from its usual constraints, draping down his back and shoulders, wispy bangs hugging his sharp features. He’s clearly pissed reclining against the doorframe. He stares at you with his arms folded in front of the parted button down that peaks into the muscular, scarred chest underneath. 

“Kaeya, I-” 

“Get inside.” He turns and walks to the kitchen. You follow him inside and take note of the cold portion of a beautiful plate—presumably your meal—sitting on the table. He swishes the nearly finished red wine before taking a sip. You search aimlessly for an acceptable excuse while he leans against the table with his hand, glass in the other, eyes trained to the floor. Each second of silence simmering makes your stomach knot tighter, and he lets you stand uncomfortably.  

“I’m sorry, I... There were a few roads closed in the area. I had to take a different route.” you fib. He gazes at you, panning up and down before forcing a sarcastic smile. 

“How unfortunate. Are these the same roads that made you three hours late?" His jaw tightens. 

“It was pretty busy today-”  

“I’m feeling generous tonight, so I'll give you one more chance to be honest.”  

You sighed. “I’m so sorry. There’s been a lot of work lately. It’s not fair to you to deal with my problems.” He scoffs deeply, downing the rest of the glass and sets it on the table. 

“If this isn’t working for you, I understand.” 

“Oh? Are you suggesting a separation? Not even the gall to try and make it up to me?” he sneers. 

“You’re handsome and people like you. It’s not hard to find other options.” 

“If it’s not hard, why is the one thing I truly desire so difficult to hold? A petal drifting unpredictable wind, too quick to grasp.” He starts stalking towards you, relaxed but seemingly irritated. The contrast between his words and actions unnerves you. 

“How many times must I tell you to take care of yourself, to not let them walk over you, to come to me if you need help?” He gets to you and snakes his calloused hand behind your neck, a firm grip. Yearning lips are inches from yours, his hair tickles your eyelashes. 

“Why can’t you just listen to me, (Y/N)? Hmm?” He’s lenient, but you feel a shiver up your back and heat pooling in your stomach, nonetheless. 

“I’ll try harder. I promise.” you say, barely above a whisper. The pad of his thumb swirls your cheek. 

“I won’t entertain promises. Show me your dedication.” 

“What do I do to prove it?” A sadistic grin grows across his face, and lips graze your ear, sultry voice coiling around the shell. Your breath stalls. 

“Tonight, I’ll eat you up slowly-” Kaeya peppers soft kisses between the words against your jaw. “-savoring every. Little. Bite.” He trails down to your neck. You're melting in his hold, grabbing his robust arms for anything to stabilize you. "And when I’m picking you apart, and there’s tears in your eyes and you’re begging and you can’t take it anymore-” He drinks up your anticipation, an amused chuckle from the shudder prickling your skin.  

“-you’ll sit there and obey me until I'm done. Like a good pet.” 

You’re stripped of everything besides your underwear in front of the restlessly eager man. Standing in the center of this candlelit room, you feel miles away from him as he sits fully clothed on the edge of the bed. He’s lax, legs spread with a nonchalant posture; they invite you to kneel between them. Sex with Kaeya was never like this. Though infrequent, your back-alley blowjobs were done with kindness and haste. It was one thing for Kaeya to ogle your mouthwatering figure, another in the humiliating state he constrains you to. Your hands are bound by leather handcuffs that clip to a chunky black collar on both sides, limiting the movement of your wrists to just centimeters away from your face. You could move if you tried to, but the collar locked and tightened around your neck the harder you struggled. In the middle was attached a dangling leash, empty of its owner.  

The vibrating lace panties he put you in buzz agonizingly low against your clit, sending gentle bursts to the butt plug filling deep, foreign space in your body. You’re glutted, chafing your thighs together to numb the sweet ache dotting your core. 

“C’mere dove.” Kaeya orders, his finger curls in a guiding motion. You take one step assuming his entreat, and he retorts with a tut. 

“Aht aht, dogs don’t walk. Get on your knees and crawl to me.” Embarrassment overcomes you as you drop to your knees from the filthy demand. It’s degrading, having to crawl without the use of your arms. You scuffle with balance, and he takes pleasure in playing with the controller. Your rocking rear and wobbly legs find rhythm on the floor through the violent highs and lows of vibration. It was harder due to the position you stumbled in; the bullet teases you in the right spots. You finally reach him, resting your head on his knee, exhausted for what’s to come. He merely pats your head and uses the other to stifle the smug smirk. 

“Good puppy. Look at me.” Suddenly, he wraps the leash around his hand and pulls in taut. It snaps your eyes to his lustful expression, a thick aura that encapsulates you, suffocates you in his command. Kaeya zips his pants down to spring his throbbing cock free, a dark brown gradient to the mushroom tip.  

“Suck. If you let anything spill, I’ll punish you” he cooes. You lick the pre come away, fixating on the sensitive tip. His breathy sighs show appreciation. You lick in circular motions around it before lolling your tongue and taking all of him between your lips. His girth makes space in your mouth impossible until the head presses the back of your throat. “Ugh, fuck” he groans. Kaeya stands and pulls the leash towards him, enough to nuzzle your nose against his pubes. You gag and slobber over his balls from the constant pressure in your throat, and he keeps you there, watching the tears ball in your eyes, unfazed by your retching pleas. He keeps a firm grip on the back of your head.  

“Can you take it?” It’s almost mocking, as if he can’t see the mascara that smears your cheeks and your sweaty, breathless figure. You nod anyway, eager to please. He hums approval before pulling out completely and hammering his length down your throat. His heavy balls smack your chin at a savage pace, and strings of spit connect your puffy lips to his shaft. It’s barbaric and your throat is raw from the impact, but he chases his high. You’re absolutely powerless, your hands can’t even push his thighs back. However, subconsciously it felt nice, to be out of control, at the mercy of someone else using you for their impulse. The whir in your soaking panties feels richer now, tangling in your lower back and clouding your senses. All you smell and feel is him, it was like you never worked a day in your life. Like you were made for this, and this alone. Obscene noises come from your squelching mouth and Kaeya’s broken moans. Fuck and yes are all he can handle through constant whimpers, and you feel him trembling toward his release. He tilts your head to get a better view of you, spit and tears mixed with strands of hair stuck to your skin. You were a mess. But his eyes are solely on you, drenched in adoration and pure love for your trust in him.  

“I want this pretty face on me when I come” he whines and speeds up his thrusts before spurting hot, creamy ropes down your throat, painting your mouth white. He twitches wildly on your tongue till rest, and his guttural moans echo in your ears as you hollow your cheeks to suck him clean. A satisfying pop emerges when you free his tip, and he recollects himself. He somehow looks completely untouched, besides the sheen of sweat; the poise of a prince. 

Once Kaeya comes to his senses, he eyes the evidence of wetness that soaks through your panties, along with drops of pre come you failed to notice. Truthfully, you tried hard to avoid spilling anything, but the sensations in both your back and front were dizzying. He drawls a dramatic sigh, and loosely fiddles with the leash. 

“Didn’t I say not to spill anything?” His words are methodical, weaving enough vitriol to make your blood still at the upcoming punishment. “I’m sorr-” 

“You made a mess. Clean it.” He drops the leash and waits. What you assumed to be a towel clean-up was quickly refuted as you felt the tension of his boot press on your upper back. With just enough weight, he forces your body down towards the fluids, arms crossed. You lick it up without complaint. “Good puppy” he praises. 

Kaeya picks you up as if you’re featherlight and sets you on the edge of the bed on your stomach. You can’t see what he’s doing, and the silence frightens you. Immediately, the judder of the bullet increases significantly—not enough to make you come, but just enough to torment. You attempt to sway from undying heat between your legs, yet the static overtakes. Unbeknownst to you, the butt plug begins to vibrate, as well. You whine and arch your back involuntarily. You finally hear a deep chuckle from Kaeya. His fingers graze your sopping underwear. 

“So naughty, you got like this just from sucking me off?” He pushes the bullet harshly against you. You mewl from the feeling. “Please Kaeya, it’s too much.” 

“Shh, I know, I know. We still have a long way to go.” he soothes. He spreads your ass to reveal more area, and he’s hushed to an alluring whisper in your ear. “(Y/N). I’m going to spank you. And each time I do, you’ll count. One, thank you. Two, thank you. Up to sixteen. Understand?” 

“Yes” you rasped. 

“Good girl.” 

Kaeya massages your backside and prepares a slap. His palm crashes sharply on one with a resounding crack. Blazing surge sprawls across the whole cheek, but you manage to stay afloat. “One, thank you.” He promptly delivers another, a staggering strike to match the other cheek. “Two, thank you” you hissed. He kneads the smoldering dough in his hands and smiles at the juices stuck to your inner thighs. 

“Such a pervert. You’re not enjoying this, are you?” he teases. The lines of pleasure and pain blurred for you long before. The crackling fire of his hand swatting your ass makes you cry out. He’s brutal, and the grip you have on his sheets colors your knuckles white. You endure delicious thwacks with a tender bottom all the way through thirteen. Your malleable mind forgets to count past that, forgets your place. Kaeya feigns hurt. “Am I that forgettable? Should we start over?” A shudder trails down your back. 

“M’no, Kaeya ple-ase. ‘M sorry.” you stammer. He swipes your tears with his thumb and licks it. “I’m touched by your tears” he groans. He moves back to your searing bottom, digging crescent shaped indents into the welted flesh with his nails. 

“Do you know why I had you count to sixteen?” 

“N-no...” 

A low hmph. “That’s the number of dates you missed.” You go pale for a second. “It won’t happen again, Kaeya. Please!” you beg. The need for release ruins your rational thoughts, and he can taste your desperation. “Please what, dove?” He plays ignorance. “Tell me exactly what you want.” He caresses your face lovingly, despite his cruelty. 

“Wanna come, I need it so bad, Kaeya.” His name rolling off your tongue in lewd fervor makes his length constrict in his pants. You’re putty in his presence, and he delights in molding you to his wishes. 

"Are you worthy of it?" he taunts. Fresh tears brim your eyes, and he can’t fight back the snicker in his throat. He walks away from you, and you’re left alone until you feel the mattress give way under his knee. What little sight you had in front of you is robbed by the silky black blindfold pulling stiff on your eyes. “Too tight?” 

“A little.” He loosens it a bit and kisses your temple. Suddenly, a sphere makes contact with your lips, and you open. The ball gag secures around the back of your head, and you’re already salivating from the stretch of your jaw. 

“You know what, I’ll let you come.” he lulled. You can’t hear the malicious tinge in his words, and he swiftly turns both vibrators up to a harrowing speed at the same time. A strangled moan gets caught in your throat and you quiver and lurch over. He spanks your sore behind in response. 

“Keep your back arched. I want a perfect view” he husks. You use the stamina you have left to stay in that position. Your hips are unconsciously rutting against the bullet, and the ecstasy lapping at your swollen clit sends trails of fire up your stomach. Kaeya watches the saturated outline of your convulsing vulva, the honeyed, muffled moans unending and palms his erection.  

“I’m sorry, this must be so hard for you” he soothes. “Almost as hard as it was for me to hear you lie so blatantly.” Kaeya wasn’t a man that held grudges, but he took amusement in your reactions. All he can think about is breaking you, with each touch and kiss; so that you travel through heaven and hell, drowning in desire until he carries you out. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and you come hard, hole fluttering around nothing with electricity squirming in your bones. However, the pressure doesn’t stop, it seems to vibrate faster as you buck and cry. “Oops, wrong setting.” He turns it up higher, the bastard. It rips through your orgasm, already approaching another and you can’t take the sting. “Tell me if it’s too much” he sneers. Your hands jolt and snap back to the collar.  

“I’ll turn it off later, I’m kind of busy right now. You know, work and stuff.” What? He wouldn’t leave you like this, right? Undecipherable noises bounce around the gag, but none persuade him. Footsteps get quieter, then the door shuts.  

You can’t look or beg for Kaeya, and tears begin to stain the blindfold. Buzzing roars in your ears, your limbs are too weak to hold up and you can barely breathe. Your thighs shake from sick passion, and you come undone again over the persistent toys. The twenty minutes he was gone felt like hours. Your muffled sobs are uncontrollable, come cascading down your legs and spit dribbles from your lips. You aren’t sure how many times you came before he got back.  

The Archons must have shown mercy; the vibrations stopped. You hear that suave voice resounding in your brain. 

“I think you’ve earned a break.” he says, freeing the panties from you. The plug steadily glides out of your pulsing ring, and he removes the blindfold. Kaeya is the first thing you see, and for a moment he shines like royalty. The gag comes off and you’re babbling Kaeya’s name over and over like a chant, a devoted disciple. He cradles your face and hushes you. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” He flips you on your back. You’re in a daze gazing at him but his attention is lowered to your spread legs, slabbering at the slippery aftermath of his abandonment. 

“Beautiful. A living work of art” he whispered. His mask dissolves before you. He reaches for one of the red candles glowing vividly on his nightstand and returns with the wax-leaking stick. You share a soft kiss, warm and pure while he tilts the candle over your chest. He’s careful with the course and allows it to dance across your breasts, down your sternum and above your pelvis. Each crimson plop and fleck are its own singing thrill, but your awareness is diverted to his wanton kisses, the nips on your bottom lip. Heat reignites your core. Once he blows out the candle, he smudges French kisses down your neck, tracing the pattern of the wax to subdue the burn. “You’re flawless” he breaths against your nipple. He sucks one while pinching the other, the occasional bite on your slightly bruising skin makes you wince. He slides off the bed and starts stripping with an insatiable thirst that longed to be inside you, shirt and pants thrown about. In one swoop, he grabs your thighs and pulls you to the edge.  

“If I uncuff you, will you behave?” You nod frantically with the clinking metal, and he detaches the restraints. He brings your legs over his shoulder, and you feel the cockhead prodding your slit. Kaeya sinks his tip into you, and you’re suddenly overcome with frenetic throbbing that ripples through your hypersensitive clit. “W-wait, Kaeya-” You don’t have nearly enough strength to protest when you grab his wrists settled on your waist—he’s determined to fuck it out of you. “Mm, just a little more” He’s craving, his veins rub your walls all the way to the base. With his balls flush, he pulls out and drives into you. The first pump sends a flaming shock through your body, an abyssal fall you succumb to. You can’t register the erotic screams or pleasant shock of Kaeya as a stream of liquid coats your bodies and drenches the sheets. Your hysterical sobs and innocent sorry’s are music to his ears, better than any melody in Teyvat. He rubs circles on your lower belly and starts again at an unrelenting pace. “I-I can’t Kaeya, ‘m coming so hard.” you wail, writhing from the deep strokes coaxing your g-spot. Your stomach quakes and you grip him like a vice, he can’t stop the feral urge. “Fuck- aww, sweetie. I know, I know. Can you do another one, for me?” He tries to keep his composure, but his voice is bordering unhinged, dying to see you squirt again. Kaeya's chest pins yours and he pummels your cunt with your shaky legs locked around him. Your nails latch onto his back and you weep into his shoulder. The emotion is too intense; your heart thrums viciously in your ears.  

“You’re my pretty little fuck toy, hmm?” he stutters through thrusts. “Just lay here and take my cock. Quit your job. Be mine entirely.” Loud plap’s accompany his silent plea, and you feel another orgasm boiling. His palm pressing on your womb makes you incoherent and he chuckles. “Aw sweetie, it feels too good?” he mocks. You touch foreheads. You’re both teeming, waiting for each other. “Give it to me. Come on my cock like a good slut” he demands. Wave after relentless wave splinters you, and the gushing sprinkler covers him exactly like he wanted. Kaeya moans at the sight. “Shit, ‘m coming.” He pursues his sputtering hips, shooting thick globs that greedily crowd your sex.  

Kaeya breathes heavily as he comes down from his peak twitching inside. You still tremble sporadically in his arms. He rubs your back, placing calming kisses all over your face. “You alright, pretty girl?” You’re edging on unconsciousness. He stays with you until you gather responsiveness.  

When you wake, the collar is off, and you identify concern in his eyes. “You weren't this scared when you were killing me” you murmur quietly. Kaeya flashes a genuine smile. “If you died from good sex, that’d be quite the compliment on my part.” He props you into his lap facing him, and you're reposed on his chest. He pats your hair, staring off into nothing and everything. 

“I’d much rather have you in pieces. Because I’m the only one that can put you back together.” It was a passing thought, one that shouldn’t be said out loud. It churns in your gut, and you aren’t sure why. 

“You worked so hard today. Let’s take a bath, okay?” 

[butcherlarry]

Weekly Fic Recs 81

This week's fic rec list!

The Great Boyfriend Bake Off by pomeloquat @pomeloquat - Superbat, Teen, 7329 words, complete. Superman and Batman both think they have the bestest boyfriends ever. Shenanigans ensue.

veracity by pomeloquat - Superbat, Mature, 3314 words, complete. Batman gets captured by some goons and they dose him with truth serum to find out Superman's biggest weakness. Instead, they learn about all the NSFW things Batman wants to do with Superman. Shenanigans ensue.

Fears & Old Scars by matriarchcomputer @alitontress - Batfam, General, 22035 words, wip. A Battinson fic, and sequel to Nightmares & Blueberries. Bruce takes on a tough case that that hits a bit too close to home. Also featuring tiny Dick, Cass, AND Duke.

be as you've always been by Excalis @excalisi - Superbat, General, 6121 words, complete. After helping out a magic user, Martha Wayne is resurrected for a day for Bruce. So many feels ensue, good thing Clark is there to help. I enjoyed the end when Dick and Jason are racing to see who meets their grandmother first.

panacea by pomeloquat - Brutalia, Explicit, 4649 words, complete. Omegaverse! After years of not presenting, Batman finally gets hit with his first heat. Alpha Talia is there to help.

Skinny and the Duke by husborth - Clark & Bruce, Unrated, 3998 words, complete. Bruce and Clark get stuck in the past during the wild west and have to wait for the Justice League to get them out. Wild west shenanigans ensue. I LOVED Bruce and Clark's banter throughout the fic.

A Bad Habit by Mawiiish @superbattrash - Superbat, Explicit, 9763 words, complete. A stressful week leads to Bruce falling back on some bad habits. Clark suggests they do something else to relieve stress.

i bet we'd have really good come right on my, i mean camaraderie by NotesAppWitch @notesappwitch - Poolverine, Explicit, 31,049 words, complete. Wade and Logan switch bodies while doing a job for the TVA. Shenanigans (including the sexy kind!) ensue.

Sonnet 43 (How Do I Love Thee) by Curupia @curupia - Poolverine, Explicit, 5590 words, complete. Wade likes to have sex with Logan with the lights out, which Logan thinks is odd since he can see in the dark anyway. Cue Wade finding this out and having terrible self-esteem issues. Cue Logan showing how much he loves Wade (and his body) through some good good body worship :)

Moving up, Moving out by LiathLining (ActuallyAMenace) @actually-a-menace - Poolverine, Explicit, 9631 words, wip. Omegaverse (kinda). Wade and Logan are looking for a new place to move into and find the perfect place. Unfortunately, there is some extortion, along with other criminal activity happening there. Fortunately, they have experience handling this kind of situation, and Wade knows a pretty good lawyer who can help.

family affairs by yellow_crayon @yellowwwcrayon - Poolverine, Explicit, 2762 words, complete. Takes place in the X-men Origins universe, featuring a genderbent Logan. Wade and Logan had a one night stand before the events of the movie, and then get together again while they are on the X team. Sexy shenanigans ensue.

unhappy man syndrome by gossippool (fearandhatred) @gossippool - Poolverine, Unrated, 6886 words, wip. A Whumptober fic inspired by this Tumblr post. My body is ready for pain and angst :)

cause you're my lady, i'm your fool by WhatIsAir - Poolverine, Explicit, 11,694 words, complete. Wade and Logan receive some side effects from the Time Ripper explosion. They can feel each other emotions, and Wade gets the benefit of borrowing Logan's healing factor to deal with his chronic pain. Nothing can go wrong from this. Nope. No siree.

Happy reading!

[onedappercat]

Unforgivable

An illustrated Good Omens sonnet

Thank you to @isiaiowin for the weekly poetry club and the beta!

@goodomensafterdark

[theragethatisdesire]

much ado about nothing chapter 3 - plug!eren x reader - 18+!!!

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.

finally!!!!!!!!!! finally all the tension has led to something.....well, some of the tension, anyway. you and eren are both idiots in denial, but you're horny idiots in denial, which makes all the difference. hope y'all have your a/c on, bc it's about to get hot in here.

corny jokes aside, pls enjoy chapter 3 of plug!eren and get ready to get steamy (finally!!!! sorry for holding out on you<3333)

miss the first couple chapters? find the series masterlist HERE

specific cws: smut, nasty nasty smut. mentions of drugs/alcohol. use of pet names, squirting, oral (fem!receiving), eren being a cute little shit

-

“That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.” - Hamlet by William Shakespeare (Act III, Scene 2)

You make your way through your weekly routine, but Eren follows you everywhere you go. You see him in the dark-haired man two rows over in the library, the smell of weed walking down fraternity row, in the kissing couple sitting on the campus’ main water fountain. It doesn’t help that Historia won’t shut up about him, scolding you day and night for not bringing him to your bed that night.

Part of you agrees with her, but another, more sinister part of you relishes in the denial of it all, the hot anticipation that courses through you each time he sends you a cheeky text about nothing. You promised yourself one fuck, one good, long fuck, and you were leaving him in the dust, and you weren’t going to rush to get it out of your way.

You’re busy anyway, heading over to The 104th Bean, the campus coffee spot, on quick feet to make it in time to the study group you were hosting for a few of your students. You didn’t think the sonnets you’d assigned for this week were too complex, but a good chunk of them were struggling with the meter of the lines. It was the least you could do to offer them an opportunity for one-on-one help, and in lieu of an office, 104 was the best spot to get it done.

“Hi guys,” you breeze in, breathless and slamming a stack of papers down on the table your students have gathered at, “sorry I’m a little late.”

“We just got here,” Falco, a precious, blonde wisp of a kid smiles brightly up at you, “and we went ahead and got you a coffee. It’s still hot.”

“Aw, thank you guys,” you gratefully accept the paper cup he offers you. It’s your favorite brew, and you raise your eyebrows in surprise. “Which one of you figured out my coffee order?”

“All of us,” Gabi shrugs, “you bring the same thing to class literally every day.”

“We have a whole thing about it in the group text,” Zofia wiggles her phone at you.

“I might need to offer some extra credit.” You take a sip, closing your eyes at the blissful feeling of caffeine rushing into your half-conscious brain. You jump straight into the material, deciding to tackle the sonnets one by one, line by line until they’ve all made perfect sense to your little group of college kids. They’re all smart, evidenced by the way they question their way to the answer before you can give it, and in their defense, some of the sonnets you pulled have been from your graduate classes. You spend the next hour working through everything with them, a welcome reprieve from sitting alone in front of your laptop, tugging at your hair.

“I…um, need to go to the restroom,” Gabi checks her phone and stands suddenly, looking frantic. You frown, but wave her off in the direction of the bathroom, making a mental note to send Zofia after her if she didn’t return soon.

After a few minutes have passed, Gabi sits back at the table, looking much calmer than when she’d left. You don’t make any note of it, until a tall figure catches your attention out of the corner of your eye. You’re positive that it’s your mind playing tricks on you like it has been all week, until you hear a familiar timbre calling your name.

Eren’s sullen mouth widens into that heartstopping, crooked grin as he walks over to wrap his arms around you in a hug that makes your knees weak. “What are you doing here?”

“Study group,” you gesture at your students, noticing that Gabi’s blushing heavily and pointedly avoiding eye contact with both of you. Ah. “Working?”

Eren glances at Gabi and looks at his shoes. “Nah, just needed a coffee.”

“Uh-huh,” you roll your eyes. He’s not even holding a cup, and you’re not buying his story for a second. As her professor, you should scold Gabi for buying drugs which are definitely banned on campus, but considering that you’re plotting to get into her dealer’s pants, you figure that might be a tad hypocritical.

“You didn’t text me back last night,” Eren pokes a finger into your ribs playfully. You’re well-aware of your students’ eyes boring into your back, watching intently as their professor’s personal life spills into their study session. Great material for the group text.

“I knocked out! You know I’m busy.”

“Too busy to reply to my memes about Jujutsu Kaisen?” Eren cocks an eyebrow.

“Apparently so. I woke up with my phone still unlocked and stuck to my face.” That draws a laugh out of him.

“Okay fine,” Eren concedes, “but if you’re not going to pay attention to my very funny memes over text, then you’ll have to check them out in person.”

“Eren,” you hiss, flicking your head in the direction of your suspiciously-silent students, “Would it kill you to behave?” Eren scoffs.

“They’re not listening. What about tonight? We can watch a movie or something.”

Watch a movie. You want to inform him that each one of those students is very much listening to him shamelessly flirt with you, students that absolutely know what “watch a movie” is code for. Especially Gabi, who knows exactly what Eren’s occupation is from experience and will likely be all too thrilled to inform her classmates that you’re banging her hot drug dealer. Simply getting Eren to leave is probably your best bet at retaining any shred of respect your students hold for you.

You can’t resist teasing him a little first. “Is that what an old man does on a Friday night? Watch movies?”

“Mikasa’s covering some clients for me,” Eren admits, “if you come over, that is.”

“I think I’m free tonight,” you scan through your lengthy list of obligations in your head, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters as you realize he’s already gone out of his way to cover work and give you both your alone time, “as long as you don’t mind if I bring some quizzes over with me. I still have my 9:00 am’s to grade.”

“Can I help?” Eren’s eyes light up, childlike and excited.

“You don’t even know the answers.”

“Straight As for everyone,” Eren smiles, changing his tune when you shoot him a look, “straight Fs, then?”

“It won’t take me long, twenty minutes tops, and then you can pester me with all the memes you want. Deal?”

“You got it, teach.” Eren’s tone is suggestive enough to make your face warm, and you shoo him away from the table of young adults that you literally must remain respectable in the eyes of. Eren bids you goodbye with a wink that goes straight to the warmth pooling between your legs. You allow yourself one deep breath to regain your composure, turning back to your students with a wide, nervous smile.

“Sorry about that, guys.”

“Is that your boyfriend?” Zofia flinches when Gabi kicks her under the table with a loud bang.

You hesitate. No, just the hot guy I have no business getting wrapped up with that I’m going to let fuck me stupid later. “Just a friend.”

“He seemed pretty into you to be just a friend,” Falco teases.

“Do you want to fail your next three tests?” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he balks, turning back to his notebook with a mumbled apology. You don’t miss the way Gabi’s looking at you, something between embarrassment and curiosity on her face. You can’t blame her; you’re not far enough in age from your students to be completely out of touch, and if you found out one of your professors had been sleeping with someone as deliciously dangerous as Eren, you would have been all over spreading that rumor.

Friends with someone like Eren, you correct yourself in your mind, remembering that you haven’t slept together, not quite yet. Tonight’s apparently the night, though, and your chest is tight with anticipation. It’s all you can do to pull yourself together and make it through the day, breaking out in a cold sweat when Eren shoots you a reminder text to head to his place around 7:00.

“Oh you’re getting laid. You’re so getting laid!” Historia squeals excitedly through your phone speaker. “I never thought this day would come!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you say, letting the sarcasm drip freely from your voice. Your nervous hands had started shaking in your pockets as you rode down the elevator shaft to embark on the twelve-minute walk to Eren’s, so you had Facetimed Historia for a distraction. All you had gotten in return so far, however, was a whole bunch of shrieking.

“You just second guess yourself too much,” Historia says, shaking the camera, “let loose, live a little like we used to.”

“Living like we used to is what had me crying in the shower over a frat boy every two weeks, remember?”

“Eren’s not like that,” Historia dismisses you, “and honestly, he seems into you.”

“He invited me over to come fuck in broad daylight, so yeah, Stor, I’d say he’s fairly into me.”

“Not like that, like actually into you. I’ve never seen him get all touchy with anyone like he did the other night. Plus, he drove you home, which was super sweet.”

Oh, calling Historia was a mistake. Big mistake. That’s the last thought you need in your mind on your way to your one-and-done, already being a repeat offender for catching feelings from basically nothing. Eren’s too volatile to play with, too charming, and if you’re not careful, you’ll fall right into a trap he probably doesn’t even know he’s setting for you.

“I don’t know,” Ymir chimes in from somewhere off-camera, “guys will do a whole bunch of shit to get laid. Probably doesn't mean anything.”

“You’re literally a lesbian, Ymir, shut up,” Historia snips. You raise an eyebrow.

“Do the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ have any meaning to you?”

Historia rolls her eyes. “Ymir’s like, allergic to penises, don’t listen to her. I, on the other hand, have a million guy friends and, with no emotional or sexual interference in my male-female relationships, I have learned to read them like books. Deny it all you want, but he’s totally got a little crush on you.”

“This is the last thing I need to hear,” you groan, “he’s too pretty for me to think he has a crush on me. We’re fucking just this one time, and then I’m done with him.”

“Sure,” Historia smirks knowingly, “I’m sure Sasha’s roommate said that too.”

“And they never dated either, so that’s on her for breaking her own rule.” You’re pushing back a little too hard to be described as anything but defensive, you know it, but a small, wavering flicker of hope in your chest wants Historia to keep going, wants her to be right. Because Eren’s dreamy, makes you want to kick your feet and twirl your hair like a schoolgirl, and if anything actually came of this, you wouldn’t be the one to say no.

However, you’re heading over for a meaningless, one-time fuck, so feelings need to be pushed to the back of your mind.

“You’re never any fun,” Historia pouts.

“Two days ago I drank an entire bottle of wine with you for zero reason other than the fact that you wanted to get drunk and cry to Taylor Swift. That’s plenty of fun.”

“She does that to you, too?” Ymir commiserates, still off-camera.

“Okay, it’s Eren-talk time, not shit-on-Historia time,” Historia huffs, blowing a strand of blonde out of her eyes. A notification pops up on your phone: destination in 200ft.

“Oh my god, I’m almost there,” you practically moan, covering your face with your hand, “what if he does have a massive dick and it like, impales my uterus or something?”

“No dick talk!” Ymir snaps. Historia shushes her.

“Relax, for every rumor about a guy’s dick, you have to knock, like, two inches off what you hear. Trust me.”

“What if I choke on it and throw up on him?”

“I’ve seen you deepthroat an entire banana without batting an eye,” Historia pulls a knowing face.

“What if this whole thing is a prank and Ashton Kutcher pops out and they’ve somehow started up a Punk’d remake that I don’t know about–”

“Then you get a selfie with Ashton Kutcher and call it a day,” Historia laughs, “you’re working yourself up way too much. Remember when you used to be a slut and do this, like, five times a week?”

“Jesus,” you hear Ymir mutter.

“Thanks, Stor. Thanks so much.”

“No, but seriously. Eren might be hot and funny or whatever else you like about him, but he’s just a guy. You are also hot and funny and totally a catch, you’ve got the upper hand here!”

“Ugh,” you stop a few feet from Eren’s drive, knowing you would fully die if he overheard you gossiping about him on the phone. “I’m here. Let me just get this over with, and I’ll see you at home later.”

“Yeah, when Eren answers the door, try to sound a little more excited that you’re going to get laid and less like you’re going to your execution,” Historia traces a smile onto her cheeks with a pink fingernail, “good luck!”

“Use a condom!” Ymir pipes up just as the call ends.

You look over at Eren’s house, cute and squat with its little red door, and trudge up the sidewalk before you can lose your nerve. You wince at the tremors shaking your fist as you knock, wanting to run away or throw up or disappear–

“Hey,” Eren answers the door with a broad grin. You eye his gray sweatpants, essentially straight woman kryptonite, and gulp. He knows too much.

“Hey,” you force a smile, letting him beckon you inside. It smells…very nice. Not as boyish as it should. You take note of the candle burning on the coffee table with a little smile.

“Want anything to snack on? I have popcorn, stuff for quesadillas, cosmic brownies…” Eren’s eyes twinkle at the last suggestion. You’re not surprised; he seems like the type to have an insatiable sweet tooth.

“I ate before I came over, but thanks anyway,” you say, fiddling with the zipper on your jacket. Eren takes note of your twitchy hands, raises an eyebrow at you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say automatically, embarrassed that he’s caught you flustered. He’s just a guy. “It’s…okay, it’s honestly just been awhile.”

You expect him to laugh or tease you, but Eren just smiles that stupid fucking canine-heavy, disarming smile. “We’re just chilling, okay? No sweat.”

“No sweat,” you repeat, admittedly feeling a little better now that you’ve gotten it out. Eren’s new to you, still unfamiliar and full of surprises, but for some odd reason, you trust him. There’s something comfortable and steady in his casual confidence that eases your nerves and ignites a pounding in your heart all at once.

“So, I was thinking Texas Chainsaw,” Eren goes on like you hadn’t just shared a little moment in the hallway, flopping onto the couch, “but if you’re not into horror, I’d be down for Pineapple Express.”

The irony’s so blatant it’s almost not funny.

“So, the drug dealer wants to watch Pineapple Express?” You plop down beside him, relieved that he’s drawn you to the living room as opposed to his bedroom. Sure, you feel better, but you know one look at Eren’s bed would ignite a fresh wave of nerves. Eren rolls his eyes as you poke fun at him.

“It’s a classic!”

“For seventeen-year-old stoners, definitely. What about Grease? That’s a classic.”

Eren lolls his head on your shoulder, pretending to snore. You smack his face lightly, still giggling under your breath, and he fakes jumping awake, shaking his head. “Sorry, I dozed off. Boring.”

“Okay, fine, let’s just do your horror movie,” you sigh, knowing that if everything goes according to plan, you won’t be stuck watching the movie for long. “I’ve never seen that one, and isn’t it sort of a pillar of the scary movie realm?”

Eren pauses his thumb on the remote to gape at you. “You’ve never seen Chainsaw Massacre? Like, ever?”

“Nope.”

“Holy shit. Prepare yourself to be educated,” Eren mumbles disbelievingly under his breath, finding the movie quickly and standing to turn the lamps in the room off, leaving nothing but the cozy glow of string lights and the TV. “Ready?”

You snuggle into his side, letting him pull you close enough to feel his chest rise and fall under your face. “Ready.”

The movie doesn’t hold your attention, too caught up in Eren’s embrace to pay much attention to the plot. He’s got one arm around your shoulders, hand dangling down far enough that you can reach your hand up to play with his large fingers. It’s comfortable, probably a little too comfortable for a quick fuck, but you’re content, trying your best to focus on the film until he makes his move.

“M’bored,” Eren says abruptly, after not even thirty minutes.

“You picked this movie,” you argue, peering up to look at him. He’s feigning a pout, but there’s something mischievous glittering in his eyes.

“Yeah because I thought you’d scream,” he says, shrugging, “but for someone who didn’t want to watch a scary movie, you don’t seem very scared.”

“I’m not screaming because it’s predictable.”

“You’ve never even seen it, you should be screaming.”

“You need a horror movie to make me scream?” You’re tired of the games, confidence restored as you remember just how badly you want what you came here for. Historia was right, he’s just a guy, and you’re ready to get laid. Eren blinks for a brief second, caught off guard, but a slow, wolfish grin slowly begins to spread over his face.

“Is that what we’re doing now? Talking shit?”

You’ve dug your grave now, blood running hot with anticipation. Might as well get comfortable. “Maybe.”

Eren shifts, pulls you into his lap to straddle him chest to chest. Through your leggings, you can feel the outline of him, intimidating and hard, rubbing against your core. It draws a little gasp from you; no running from him now. “Yeah? Where’d that mean mouth go?”

You lean in, already eager to feel his lips on yours, but Eren reclines further, making you chase him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Eren chides, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Thought you wanted to be mean to me.”

“That’s not what I want.” Your voice already sounds gone, breathy and heavy in your mouth.

“What do you want then?”

“Wanna kiss you,” you admit, hating how strung out you already are, hot between your thighs and shaky in the hands. Eren smiles at you, so sweet and easy on the surface, but you can see the danger lurking behind it. He’s going to eat you alive.

Eren leans forward, leaving a chaste peck on your lips. You make a discontented sound as he pulls away. “What’s that for? Gave you what you wanted.”

“Not like that,” you play with the strings of his hoodie, not even able to look him in the eye, lest he see the unadulterated want pulsing through you, “like…”

“The other night?” Eren finishes for you, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Been thinking about it?”

“Mhm.” He puts his hands on your hips, and you hum at the heat of his hands through your clothes. Unexpectedly, Eren pushes you down, grinds you against the erection growing in those damned sweatpants, ripping a humiliating, choked sound out of your throat. You aren’t sure what you’d expected of him, but you definitely hadn’t anticipated this level of boldness.

“Been touching yourself? Thinking about me?” Eren asks, low and expectant. You nod, hating yourself for admitting to your late night transgressions, giving into him so easily. “Good. ‘ve been doing the same thing.”

Eren swallows the little moan that spills out of your mouth, crashing into you, all teeth and tongue. He’s sloppy, far more demanding than he had been the first time around, licking into your mouth and fisting a hand into your hair. His other hand’s still hard at work, moving your hips against him, letting out little grunts when you grind down particularly hard.

“Not here, need to,” Eren pants into your mouth, trying to speak around your tongue slipping between his lips, “need to take you to my room. Is that okay? Need you to tell me now if it’s not.”

Your heart melts; you want to kick yourself for ever calling him ‘scummy’. Even in the midst of your heated moment, Eren’s eyes are blown wide, scanning over your face for any sign of hesitation.

“Please,” you purr against him, peppering his jawline with kisses and rubbing yourself on him wantonly. Eren groans deep in his chest, a sound that makes your cunt throb between your legs. That convinces him; he scoops you up, legs around his waist like you weigh nothing– god, it always strikes you just how strong he is– stumbling through the house and letting you plant sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down his throat.

You bounce on his bed when he tosses you, not even taking your eyes off of him for a moment to do a quick inventory of the room. You decide you’ll take the time to investigate afterwards, greedy for any details that might unravel the mechanisms behind the man in front of you. Eren’s practically ripping his hoodie off where he towers over you, revealing an expanse of hard muscle nestled under olive skin, random little tattoos etched into his physique here and there. You want to trace those tattoos with your tongue, feel how the skin gives under your teeth. Your jaw drops an inch or two; you reach a hand up to ghost your fingertips under the ripples of his ridiculous six-pack.

“You’re a drug dealer. What do you even need muscles like that for?”

Eren snickers, letting you have your fun for only a moment before he’s reaching down to tug your top over your head.

“I have a lot of down time, I guess. You’re one to talk anyway,” he sucks in a breath, crawling over you and forcing you back on your elbows, “I mean, just look at you.”

You bring your hands up to your face to hide where your cheeks are growing warm under his lecherous gaze, but Eren’s having none of it, pulling them above your head and securing them by the wrists.

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts, mouthing his way down your neck, “why so shy all of the sudden? Don’t hide from me now.”

“S-sorry,” you stutter, back unwittingly arching, shoving your chest closer to his eager mouth. Eren releases you to unclip your bra, slide it over your shoulders. His eyes darken even further, bright green deepening into the shade of a dark, forest floor.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” Eren mumbles, leaning down to drag his tongue over the tops of your breasts. It’s lewd, sloppy, the way he licks at you like you’re something sweet, something to be eaten, but you like it, fisting your hands in his dark hair and clutching him to your chest. Eren’s large hands palm at your tits; he takes one nipple in his mouth and you sigh contentedly as he sucks, nips at you in all the right places. “You've got the most beautiful body, baby. Feel good?”

“Yeah, feels good,” you whisper, cradling him so close you might be suffocating him, but you don’t care. There’s something akin to a Greek god licking at your tits, looking up at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, can you really help yourself?

Eren kisses down your stomach, tugging your leggings and panties down easily, propping your legs open for him. You frown, popping up on your elbows, more than ready to just get him inside of you as fast as you can at this point. What stops you is the extremely sexy noise he lets out at the sight of you, bordering on a growl.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he absentmindedly circles your clit with his thumb, dips it into your hole a few times, testing the waters.

“Eren, no– want you in me,” you pull at his shoulder pointedly, but Eren just chuckles, breath fanning over your sensitive cunt, making you jolt.

“Gotta get you ready for me, yeah?” Eren tilts his head innocently, rubbing a little faster against your clit. Your words die in your throat, nothing but a broken whimper slipping out in place of your protests. “See? Just want to taste you, know you’ll be so sweet.”

“Fine, knock yourself out,” you say, trying to appear at least slightly less wrecked than you are. Eren looks up at you, amused.

“Gonna fuck that attitude right out of you if you’re not careful.” Jesus, the mouth on him. You bite your lip, too afraid of what might come out if you dare to respond. You believe him.

Eren’s leaning in, licking through your folds lazily, no clear plan in mind, just getting a taste for you like he said he would. Somehow, even with his warning, it still catches you off guard, the hot lathing of his tongue into your center.

“Shit,” Eren groans into you, “you taste so fucking good.”

His words go straight to your pussy, and you twist your fingers in his hair shamelessly, pulling insistently. You need far more than what he’s giving. You need what you know he’s capable of.

“Where’s all that shit talking now?” Eren chuckles under his breath, the vibrations sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

“C’mon Eren, quit fucking with me,” you pant, making the mistake of looking down. Whatever you were about to say gets lodged in your chest; Eren’s looking right back up at you, bottom half of his face tucked into your cunt and one eyebrow cocked smugly.

“Need something?”

“Your mouth, your f-fingers, please–” you’re off the deep end, feeling yourself spiral further down into Eren’s little world of hot hands and devilish lips, bottomless need threatening to swallow you whole. You’re not the begging type, but for him? You’re as good as on your knees.

“There you go,” Eren coos, sinking a long finger into your heat, crooking it just right to punch a groan from you, “can have whatever you want, baby, just gotta ask.”

His mouth closes around your clit, sucks hard just as his finger nudges into the perfect spot in your walls, that spot that makes your head spin. You’re crooning above him, muttering something about how good it feels, how you need more, putty in his experienced hands. When he slips another finger into you, picking up his rhythm, you nearly cry, tears welling in your eyes as he works you open.

“That’s– fuck, that’s so good,” you whine, fisting the sheets, his hair, your own chest, anything you can sink your claws into to keep you grounded in the moment, keep you from floating away like you feel like you’re going to. Your hips are canting up into Eren’s mouth of their own accord; you buck so violently that Eren has to throw his free arm over your stomach, locking you in place so that you have no choice but to stay and take what he’s giving you. “Eren, I–”

“Hm?” He hums against your swollen clit; you can even feel his lips stretch into a grin against you.

“Don’t stop, I’m gonna– gonna cum,”  you manage, legs already beginning to shake. Every part of you feels like it’s on fire; when Eren presses his arm down a little harder on your lower abdomen, a strange, sticky heat starts building in your stomach. “Eren–”

“Come on, baby,” Eren huffs, sinking a third finger into you, stretching you impossibly wider. You’re wet enough that it doesn’t hurt, but the shock of it is enough to make you cry out. “Don’t fight it, want it so fucking bad. Let go for me.”

That’s enough to hurl you over the edge, obscene sounds spilling from you as you jerk in his hold. You’re vaguely aware of the squirt dribbling out of you, soaking the sheets, but you’re preoccupied with the earth-shattering orgasm rocking through your body, the lewd slurping sounds Eren’s making between your legs, groaning into you as you cum violently on his face. You finally begin to settle, shoving at Eren’s head and whimpering from the overstimulation.

He presses his lips to your hip bone before he comes back to you, pulling you into a filthy kiss, both of your faces drenched in your cum and sticking together. When he pulls back, you nearly cum again at the sight of your slick literally dripping from his chin.

“How was that?”

“Fine,” you pant, “just fine.”

Eren laughs, a real laugh that pulls a giggle out of you too, makes everything just a little less intense. “So you’re good?”

“I’m very good,” you grin up at him, bleary-eyed and blissed out. Eren falls back against the headboard, sitting himself up. You notice two things right off the bat: 1. that his gray sweatpants are gone and 2. that the rumor mill wasn’t lying.

His dick is massive, wide enough that your fingers wouldn’t touch if you wrapped them around it and long enough that you’re pretty sure it would slap against your belly button if you laid it just right. It’s pretty, too; flushed red tip leaking precum down his shaft in a way that makes your mouth water. Your eyes widen, apparently enough for Eren to notice.

“Quit drooling and get over here,” he chuckles, grabbing you under your arms and pulling you to his chest, forcing your legs to spread over his thighs, “wanna see you ride me first.”

“I’m not drooling,” you scowl defensively, trying to regain some of your composure after whimpering and crying for him only a minute ago. He’s just a guy, Historia’s words echo in your mind.

“Go for it, then,” Eren smirks, landing a light smack on your ass that makes you jolt. You steel your gaze against his, determined not to give him the upper hand.

You take him in your hand, slide the head through your wet folds, earn yourself a hiss from him. Shit, even the tip catching on your eager hole has an intimidating stretch to it. He wants you to sit on this thing?

Either Eren’s a mind reader, or your hesitation is written all over your face because he cups your chin, pulling you down to him for a troublingly tender kiss.

“Just a little at a time, okay?”

You’re humiliated by his encouragement, but you tuck your lip between your teeth and nod, pressing just the head into you, pride forgotten on account of the slight burn between your legs as you sink down on him.

“Oh,” you sigh, long and languid, head rolling back off of your shoulders at the stretch. Eren’s grin has fizzled out into a look of fascination, his eyes glued to where he’s splitting you open. You inch down a little further, wincing at the ache in your thighs and in your walls; he feels even bigger than he looks. Eren notices, wipes a thumb under your eye at a stray tear.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you hiss out through your clenched jaw, “s’just…so much.”

“Doing so good for me,” Eren’s thumb returns to your clit, swiping across it softly, “does this help?”

Your answer is nothing but a heady whine as you drop down another inch or so, cunt pulsing around the welcome intrusion. Eren’s trying to comfort you, holding you tight to his chest now and murmuring little encouragements into your ear, but his voice is strained and you can feel his hips twitching, begging to buck up into you, just as unraveled as you are at this point. After what seems like eternity, you’re almost there, feeling him deep in you, nudging against your cervix, but there’s still a small space between you, one you can’t manage to close.

“I can’t, Eren,” you whimper, fucking yourself up and down on him in an effort to get that last little bit in, “won’t fit.”

“Yeah it will,” Eren simpers, taking you by the waist, “lemme help.”

Eren adjusts the way you’re sitting, leans you back just a little, and he’s right. The small space between you disappears, both of you groaning when your clit meets his stomach.

“Oh, f-fuck,” you stammer, rolling your hips against him experimentally.

“So goddamned tight,” Eren huffs, voice gruff with the strain of keeping himself under control, “so fucking perfect for me.”

You move, rocking this way and that, marveling at the way each new angle feels. Eren’s digging his teeth into his bottom lips, squeezing your hips hard enough to bruise, but he holds himself back, letting you work yourself open and get a feel for him. When you lean forward, brace your hands on his shoulders and grind your hips back, his cock nudges a spot in you that makes you see stars. You collapse onto Eren’s chest, rutting your hips into him desperately, panting.

“Right there?” Eren’s hands finally move, pulling and pushing your hips back and forth against the spot that has you mewling into his chest.

“Right there,” you gasp, feeling your orgasm building upon itself embarrassingly fast, still raw from his fingers.

“That’s right,” he grunts, moving your body against him faster, “not so mean with my dick up in you, are you?”

You mumble something unintelligible in response that would have been muffled by Eren’s shoulder between your teeth even if it had been a coherent sentence. Your eyes roll back in your head as the pressure builds, and Eren releases his grip from one of your hips to rub hard, fast circles against your clit.

“Come on,” Eren licks up your neck, “give me one more. You can do it, baby, just one more.”

And just like that, you’re cumming again, wailing into his sweaty skin as tears fill your eyes. Eren guides you through it, working your hips into a slow grind, groaning deeply in your ear as you ride it out, moving your hips along with the rhythm he’s set. He rubs circles into your back as you come down, leaving a litter of kisses along your shoulders while you tremble on top of him, nails dug into his biceps.

“That was a big one,” Eren grins at you, all cocky and stupid, when you pull back to look at him. You’re too exhausted to berate his smugness, laughing breathlessly.

“It was good,” you agree, whimpering when Eren lifts you off of him. He tosses you to the side, propping you up on your hands and knees.

“Gonna let me have my fun, now?” Eren asks from behind you, landing a few light spanks to your ass.

“That wasn’t fun?”

“Oh, it was very fun,” Eren slides back into you, all the way to the hilt, punching a groan from your throat, “but doesn’t this feel so much better?”

Before you can respond, Eren’s got his hand around your throat, pulling you up onto your knees until your back is flush with his chest. His fingers sneak up, grab your chin, force you to look down.

“See? Like this, you can even see where I’m fucking all the way up into your little tummy.” His free hand rubs lovingly over the little bulge in the bottom of your stomach pulsing in and out in accordance with his slow thrusts. At this angle, Eren’s hitting that gummy spot in your walls dead-on with each snap of his hips; all you can do is cry and whimper pitifully as he picks up his pace, skin on skin echoing throughout the room. 

“E-Eren— fuck,” you can barely form words, overcome by the way he’s just using you, manhandling you and bullying you into the shape of him. Your fucked out mind struggles to grasp onto Historia’s reminder; Eren’s not just a guy, he's ruining you for any man to come after him.

“Feel good, baby?” Eren releases you, placing a hand between your shoulder blades, shoving your face into the mattress creaking underneath you and shoving himself that much deeper, fucking up against your cervix. “You feel so good for me. Best pussy I’ve ever had baby, s’like magic.”

You notice the slur in his words, like he’s drunk on you, getting lost in you as much as you’re drowning in him. You shove your hips back towards him, trying to line up in rhythm with his thrusts, make this good for him too instead of being a complete pillow princess. Eren slaps his hands onto your hips and grabs hard, hard enough to leave little fingerprint bruises and move your hips for you.

“Look at you, pretty little thing all slutted out just for me,” he sounds strung out, like his inner monologue is just spilling from his lips, “lemme take care of you, bet I can-“

A hand wraps around your body, thrumming insistently against your puffy, sore clit. You’d like to think the sound that erupts from you is more akin to a moan than a scream, but you’d be lying to yourself. You claw at the bedsheets, desperately trying to run away from the overstimulation- it’s so much, he’s so much-

“Don’t run from me,” Eren slaps your clit sharply, “you can cum again for me, can’t you? After all that fucking talk earlier, I know you can.”

“I can’t, I can-“

“Yes you can,” Eren’s whispering all sweet in your ear like he’s not fucking the life out of you, “just one more, baby, then I’ll give you mine. Promise you can do it.”

Your abused cunt tightens around Eren so viciously you nearly push him out, sobbing into the bed sheets as Eren shoves you over the edge for the third time that night. Eren’s murmuring in your ear how good you are for him, how good you feel, how pretty you look crying for him, only making it all that much sweeter. His hips begin to stutter behind you, and he cums deep in you with a loud groan and a generous amount of swearing.

You collapse in a sweaty heap, Eren pulling you to his chest and affectionately rubbing circles into your back, whispering sweet nothings as you sniffle into your chest. When you start to come back to yourself, giving Eren a meek smile, he runs off to the bathroom for a washcloth to handle the wreck between your legs. That gives you the opportunity to sit up, clutching the sheets to your chest to protect any sense of modesty you might have after that, and take a look around his room.

There are some anime posters on the walls, Jujutsu Kaisen (naturally), Death Note, Bleach, and a framed picture of Eren, Armin, and Mikasa as children. You notice there’s nothing resembling a family photo, and your heart thuds sadly. There’s a desk in the corner scattered with papers, and your curiosity wins out over the trembling in your legs. You toddle over on weak knees, sheets wrapped tightly around yourself, wincing at the feeling of Eren’s cum dripping between your thighs.

To your surprise, most of the papers littering the little desk are sketches of buildings, measurements and keys to each drawing detailed on the side in neat handwriting. They almost look like blueprints, professional and meticulous. You pick one up and study it, missing the creak of the bedroom door.

“What are you doing?” Eren’s got a suspicious look on his face, holding a little cloth and a cup of water in his hands.

“Sorry,” you’re flustered, dropping the paper onto the desk, “I was just–”

“Snooping?” He cocks a knowing eyebrow, walking over to you. Your cheeks warm.

“A little. What are these?”

Eren joins you by the desk, spreading a large hand over the collection of drawings. “Designs.”

“For what?”

“I was an engineering major,” he says simply, shrugging. You can tell he’s a little uncomfortable, but when he doesn’t elaborate, your curiosity outweighs your manners.

“You went to college?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Eren chides, scooping you up bridal-style, sheets and all, and walking you both back over to sit on the bed. Your stomach does somersaults; you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of how easily he can just move you where he wants. “Yeah, I sell drugs or whatever, but ‘m not a complete idiot.”

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly, letting him open your legs and gently wipe at you where you’re sticky and dripping, “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised s’all. Why didn’t you do anything with your degree?”

Eren frowns, clearly you’ve hit a sore spot. “I couldn’t stand the idea of the nine to five, wife and kids shit. My dad and my brother really pushed it on me, so they haven’t exactly been gung-ho about the fact I never used my diploma. They still think I’m just bartending somewhere.”

You wince; from your conversation at Scout’s, you know you’ve now tread into completely inappropriate territory for a one-night stand. “I didn’t mean to bring it up, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eren offers a tense smile, “you didn’t know.”

“Your drawings are actually really good.”

“They’re designs, not drawings,” Eren corrects you with a chuckle, “just because I finished school doesn’t mean I stopped liking the work. Just…don’t really want to settle yet, you know?”

You nod. “I know the feeling. Want to just drop it?”

Eren smiles gratefully, pulling the sheets back around you. “You cold? I can find something comfy for you to throw on while I cook.”

You scrunch your nose. “Cook?”

“Think I’d put in that much work on you and not take care of you after?” Eren snorts, already having set you on the bed and started rummaging through his drawers. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

You blush, having expected nothing more than a pat on the bottom and a goodbye after Eren added you as another notch in his belt. “Didn’t particularly take you for any type of man, but definitely not a chef. What are you cooking?

“Burgers,” Eren turns around with a triumphant grin, holding out a corny t-shirt that says Kiss the Chef on it in enormous, white letters. “You want this one, or the Grill Dad shirt?”

[simpingforstardew]

muse

pairing: sdv elliot x reader

synopsis: elliot is struggling with severe writers block; if only he had a muse...

note: a while ago i talked about having a derivative idea for an elliot x reader fic; here is that fic !! the premise is completely unoriginal, but i'll leave the references at the end of the fic to avoid spoilers hehe

warnings: i don't even know for this one gang, wholesome w/ an ending that could be read as spooky? let's call it a doomed romance !! tw/ relationships that are doomed by the narrative !!

word count: 1.5k

Adronitis

A heart so damaged; tender; sore—

You ever-blooming sycamore,

Through hunger pangs; my deliriousness,

I mourn my mortal catoptric tristesse.

With starving dreams, your warmth I crave—

I worship you, I must embrave,

Indulge me, lay your fear ahind.

Our sanctuary; your piece of mind.

My amorous famine demands more […more what?],

So I feast on your smile […] petrichor.

i am just writing this right niw so it

looks lije i am being pro ductive oh Yoba

andnow leahs comin g over this

is alll shit im jist going to star t overrr

“How’s the writing going, El’?” Leah peers down at Elliot with a smile, wiping the sweat from her brow. “We’ve been at it for a while without a break, you know?”

“Oh, Leah! It’s going splendidly, and yes, it seems we have…” Elliot coughs, avoiding eye contact while tearing the paper from his typewriter. “Why don’t we call it for today then?”

“Without showing me what you’ve done? C’mon,” she whines, “What do you have?”

Elliot and Leah had decided, sometime early last Spring, to meet in Cindersnap forest every Wednesday to work on their current projects. ‘Parallel play for artists,’ Penny once called it when walking Jas back to Marnie’s ranch. For Leah, this weekly rendezvous has (so far) allowed her to complete 2 clay sculptures, 3 wood sculptures, 23 drawings, and 8 paintings; for Elliot, the last few months has allowed him to create…

“Nothing,” Elliot sighs, packing his typewriter’s case with a frown. “I have, somehow, written nothing! I mean, I wanted to craft a Petrarchan sonnet, inspired by Poe’s romantic, yet macabre sensibilities. I ended up with trash I couldn’t even make hendecasyllabic. It’s embarrassingly Shakespearian and—”

“Whoa, whoa, buddy, that’s okay. That’s fine. I’m not sure what any of that means, but…” Leah scrunches her freckled nose, hoping to find the right words to calm Elliot down, “It seems like you’re expecting perfection from a first draft. Maybe we should call it for today, and you could revisit your poem tomorrow?”

“Yes, you are right,” the authors scowl softens; after a moment of meditation—feeling the summer breeze tangle in his hair—he looks towards Leah with a smile. “I will see you next week, Miss Faraday.”

Elliot didn’t return to his typewriter until later that week, deciding instead to bask in the sun’s warmth on the beach. The author sits on the pier with a contented sigh, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore providing a soothing backdrop to his afternoon reverie.

Even still, despite the Elysium that he has found himself in, Elliot cannot shake his frustrations; his linguistic discouragement plagued his every thought.

“Ahoy there, my boy! Perfect weather for fishing don’t ya reckon?” Willy smiles, closing the front door to the Fish Shop behind him. Elliot

“Ah, hello Mr. Tucker,” Elliot waves as the fisherman sits beside him, attaching a small blue tackle onto an impressively shiny rod, “I suppose it is, although I fear I don’t have my fishing gear with me today.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me that? No need to be so formal, son,” Willy chuckles, casting a line into the vast depths of the saltwater, “Say, aren’t ya usually off in town around this time? Feel like I never see you this early on a Wednesday.”

Elliot still had to adjust to the predictive routine of a small town, and the horrifying consequences of straying from said routine: becoming the topic of mid-afternoon gossip.

“Yes, well, I um—,” Elliot sighs, looking into the deep blue below as if the ocean concealed the antidote to writers block, “I have been, writing with Leah every Wednesday and… actually can I ask for some advice?”

“O’ Course ya can, my boy.” Willy nods.

“I have been… struggling lately,” The taller man slumps as he runs a hand through his auburn hair, his voice heavy with uncertainty, “I feel as if I have lost my spark, my… capacité artistique. I cannot, for the life of me, write anything of quality! I just… I feel broken, Mr. William.”

Willy takes a moment to think, slowly breathing in the salty air, “Hmm, I see your problem, lad— but it’s important to know yer not broken. Aye, nothin’ about ya is broken.”

A fish tugs at Willy’s fishing line: desperately; hopelessly.

“It’s like if yer pal Willy couldn’t fish anymore… I��d sooner swallow a sea urchin than lose my ability to do what I love,” Willy pulls the rod towards him, putting up a fight with whatever poor creature is on the other end of the line, “but sometimes it’s tricky doing what ya love 24/7, son! You got to remind yerself to take breaks, and…”

The creature is hurled out of the ocean, flapping helplessly as the fisherman releases it from his tackle. Willy holds the freshly-caught octopus up to Elliot.

“Remind yerself why ya love it!” Willy chuckles, before mumbling to himself about throwing his newest catch in a tank lest he ‘gets inked’.

As Elliot sits in contemplative silence, the ocean offering solace: the rushing winds, the distant cry of seagulls, even the smell of salty air. Over the last year and a half, he has grown to love it all.

As he rises to his feet, Elliot considers his friends’ advice. He certainly didn’t want to remain in this slump forever; so he needs to find a reminder of why he loves writing; a source of reinvigorating inspiration.

He needs to find a muse.

A muse in a village with a population of 27.

‘Well,’ Elliot thinks, slamming his cabin’s door shut behind him as he slides onto his desk chair. He sets up his Olympia SM 9 for the second time today. ‘If I can’t find my muse in life, I will simply create my muse in art.’

For a moment, the black page loaded into the typewriter stares back at Elliot, mockingly. Then, as suddenly as the crash of thunder that bellows from above, the author began to write.

Elliot bursts into the Fish Shop, his manuscript clutched tightly in hand, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Willy, my friend, you’re incredible!” he cheered, his excitement palpable. “I truly could not have done this without your support.”

Willy grins, offering a sincere thumbs-up. “Glad to hear it, lad! So what was your reminder, eh? What got you back on track?”

Elliot coughs, a flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. “Well, you see… I made it up.”

Willy arches an eyebrow, bemused,“Ya made up yer reminder for why you love writing? Now, son…”

“No, no,” Elliot hastens to explain, “My love for writing is genuine. But my muse, my darling muse, is not.”

“I’m not following, my boy.”

“I have spent all night crafting the narrative of a completely fabricated person, it’s all here,” Elliot elaborates, “They’re genuinely kind, talented and hard-working, despite never being appreciated. They have the most charming mole on their neck, and they’re delightfully witty! After their grandfather passed away, they—”

“Son,” Willy interrupted gently, his tone tinged with amusement, “Yer a peculiar one, ya know that? How is this going to help with yer writing?”

“It does sound ridiculous, but dedicating my sonnets to this idealised character… thinking of them as I work on my novel… It has been phenomenally motivating!” Elliot laughs, re-reading through the pages before stopping in his tracks, “Oh, I do apologise old friend, I barged into your shop like a man possessed.”

It had been months since Elliot had felt such a fervent desire to write; his unbridled excitement was contagious; a smirk spreads across Willy’s face, crinkling the corners of his dark green eyes.

“If it were anyone else instead of you, I’d be furious, lad,” Willy chuckles, reaching into his mini fridge, “‘Ere, I whipped up too many crab cakes last night, and I know they’re yer favourite— consider it a gift.”

As Elliot arrives back at his cabin, writing snacks in tow, the muffled playing of his piano greets him. He chuckles softly, before preparing to shoo Harvey out of his home so he could resume his day of writing.

“Sincerest apologies, I—,”

“Oh! Honey, you’re back so soon.” Turning away from the piano, your eyes catch Elliot’s with a familiar warmth. You admire the way your boyfriend’s hair always forms delicate waves when exposed to the sea spray.

The author was struck speechless, his heart pounding as he stared at you with more focus than you have ever been subject to.

It couldn’t be real. And yet there you are. You. The muse Elliot had crafted— who's entire life was written mere hours prior on the pages that were now strewn about the floor— was standing before him in flesh and blood.

Every flawless detail exactly as he had imagined.

“Elliot, darling, are you okay?” Your smile becomes wry; nervous as to why your lover was acting so peculiar, his pale skin was now a ghastly white. “Would you like me to pour some wine? We can—”

Before your suggestion was made, Elliot was gone; the door slamming shut behind him.

note #2: okay if you didn't catch it, my inspiration was the 1960 episode of the Twilight Zone: 'A World of His Own', and (more relevantly) the 2012 psychological horror romcom Ruby Sparks !! if you check out either that episode or movie, pleasepleaseplease lmk what you think <33

[isiaiowin]

GOetry - Let's Rondel

Welcome to GOetry! A weekly poetry club.

Every Monday, you'll receive a new poetry prompt and have until the following Monday to submit your poetic creations. Come join the fun! Post your finished work under the #GOetry and don't forget to tag me @isiaiowin so I can see your work.

You can also add your work to the AO3 collection here.

Thank you for joining in writing sonnets last week! The incredible work you produced was amazing to read. 

This week’s prompt:

Form: Rondel

Theme: Resist

A Rondel is a French form of poetry dating back to the 14th century. It consists of 13 lines arranged in three stanzas, typically two quatrains (four-line stanzas) followed by a quintet (five-line stanza), with repeated lines throughout the poem.

The rhyme scheme is: ABba / abAB / abbaA(B), where uppercase letters represent repeated lines.

A common variant, known as a Rondel Prime, adds a 14th line, turning the final quintet into a sestet.

If you'd like to write a Rondel Prime, simply add an extra line to the end!

Example: 

Reflecting by: Lawrencealot 

When desolation grabs your heart and forces tears

Let nature speak, reminding you not all is known.

When you, so young were taken to the funeral biers

my faith was shattered; all beliefs and hopes were thrown

away. I felt no comfort thinking heaven’s spheres

could somehow recompense for earthly love we’d grown.

When desolation grabs your heart and forces tears

Let nature speak reminding you not all is known.

I went to our lagoon, our waterfall appears

today to look like you, and hope renewed is sown

into my soul.  We lived and loved! This thought coheres.

That truly shines. Remember we are just on loan.

When desolation grabs your heart and forces tears

Let nature speak reminding you not all is known.

But most of all have fun! 💚 Moon

@goodomensafterdark

[neathyingenue]

An entry in Slowcake's Exceptionals, at Notability 9: "A whole paragraph on your deeds, your honours, your history, your reputation. Quite a lengthy paragraph. A sterner editor would probably slice it in two."

Silvia Salcedo, the Radical Sonneteer

Citizen Salcedo came to the Neath by way of British Honduras. She earned her moniker in 1899** when her sonnet cycle, "The Bloodstains of Commerce," circulated in several fringe journals. Shortly afterward, she was seen in several violent labor movements at Wolfstack Docks and arrested on suspicion of burning down a warehouse. The charges were eventually dismissed. Ms. Salcedo was first included in our pages when they founded their weekly newspaper, The Prodigal Plebian, whose misspelled title they insist is intentional. Regular readers of the Exceptionals may recognize the Plebian as the paper whose unfavorable review of the Boisterous Author sparked public outcry. These days, the Radical Sonneteer's ventures are less poetical than prosaic, as she continues to rail against the Empire and whoever she views as its mouthpiece. She is rarely seen in Society, except at the openings of plays or operas for which she had deemed it necessary to offer her opinion.

[kemetic-dreams]

Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 – February 9, 1906) was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Born in Dayton, Ohio, to parents who had been enslaved in Kentucky before the American Civil War, Dunbar began writing stories and verse when he was a child. He published his first poems at the age of 16 in a Dayton newspaper, and served as president of his high school's literary society.

Dunbar's popularity increased rapidly after his work was praised by William Dean Howells, a leading editor associated with Harper's Weekly. Dunbar became one of the first African-American writers to establish an international reputation. In addition to his poems, short stories, and novels, he also wrote the lyrics for the musical comedy In Dahomey (1903), the first all-African-American musical produced on Broadway in New York. The musical later toured in the United States and the United Kingdom. Suffering from tuberculosis, which then had no cure, Dunbar died in Dayton, Ohio, at the age of 33.

Much of Dunbar's more popular work in his lifetime was written in the "Negro dialect" associated with the antebellum South, though he also used the Midwestern regional dialect of James Whitcomb Riley. Dunbar also wrote in conventional English in other poetry and novels and is considered the first important African American sonnet writer. Since the late 20th century, scholars have become more interested in these other works.

[burtonandtaylor]

Burton’s First Encounter with Taylor (1953)

“It was my first time in California and my first visit to a swank house. There were quite a lot of people in and around the pool, all suntanned and all drinking the Sunday morning liveners – Bloody Marys, boilermakers, highballs, iced beer. I knew some of the people and was introduced to the others. Wet brown arms reached out of the pool and shook my hand. The people were all friendly, and they called me Dick immediately. I asked if they would please call me Richard – Dick, I said, made me feel like a symbol of some kind. They laughed, some of them. It was, of course, Sunday morning and I was nervous.

I was enjoying this small social triumph, but then a girl sitting on the other side of the pool lowered her book, took off her sunglasses and looked at me. She was so extraordinarily beautiful that I nearly laughed out loud. I didn’t, of course, which was just as well. The girl was not, and, quite clearly, was not going to be laughing back. I had an idea that, finding nothing of interest, she was looking right through me and was examining the texture of the wall behind. If there was a flaw in the sandstone, I knew she’d find it and probe it right to the pith. I fancied that if she chose so, the house would eventually collapse.

I smiled at her and, after a long moment, just as I felt my own smile turning into a cross-eyed grimace, she started slightly and smiled back. There was little friendliness in the smile. A new ice cube formed of its own accord in my Scotch-on-the-rocks.

She sipped some beer and went back to her book. I affected to become social with the others but out of the corner of my mind – while I played for the others the part of a poor miner’s son who was puzzled, but delighted by the attention these lovely people paid to him – I had her under close observation. She was, I decided, the most astonishingly self-contained, pulchritudinous, remote, removed, inaccessible woman I had ever seen. She spoke to no one. She looked at no one. She steadily kept on reading her book. Was she merely sullen? I wondered. I thought not. There was no trace of sulkiness in the divine face. She was a Mona Lisa type, I thought. In my business everyone is a type. She is older than the deck chair on which she sits, I thought headily, and she is famine, fire, destruction, and plague, she is the Dark Lady of the Sonnets, the on lie true begetter. She is a secret wrapped in an enigma inside a mystery, I thought with a mental man-to-man nod to Churchill. Her breasts were apocalyptic, they would topple empires down before they withered. Indeed, her body was a miracle of construction and the work of an engineer of genius. It needed nothing but itself. It was true art, I thought, executed in terms of itself. It was smitten by its own passion. I used to think things like that. I was not long down from Oxford and Walter Pater was still talked of and I read the art reviews in the quality weeklies without much caring about the art itself, and it was a Sunday morning in Bel Air, and I was nervous, and there was the Scotch-on-the-rocks.

Like Miniver Cheevy I kept on drinking and, in the heady flow of the attention I was getting, told story after story as the day boozed slowly on. I went in swimming once or twice. So did she, but, lamentably, always after I’d come out. She swam easily and gracefully as an Englishwoman would and not with the masculine drive and kick of most American girls. She was unquestionably gorgeous. I can think of no other word to describe a combination of plentitude, frugality, abundance, tightness. She was lavish. She was a dark unyielding largesse. She was, in short, too bloody much, and not only that, she was totally ignoring me. I became frustrated almost to screaming when I had finished a well-received and humorous story about the death of my grandfather and found that she was turned away in deep conversation with another woman. I think I tried to eavesdrop but was stayed by words like – Tony and Janet and Marlon and Sammy. She was not, obviously, talking about me.

Eventually, with half-seas-ed cunning and with all the nonchalance of a traffic jam, I worked my way to her side of the pool. She was describing – in words not normally written – what she thought of a producer at M.G.M. This was my first encounter with freedom of speech in the U.S.A., and it took my breath away. My brain throbbed; I almost sobered up. I was profoundly shocked. It was ripe stuff. I checked her again. There was no question about it. She was female. In America the women apparently had not only got the vote – they’d got the words to go with it.

I was somewhat puzzled and disturbed by the half-look she gave me as she uttered the enormities. Was she deliberately trying to shock me? Those huge violet-blue eyes (the biggest I’ve ever seen, outside those who have glandular trouble – thyroid, et cetera) had an odd glint in them. You couldn’t describe it as a twinkle…. Searchlights can not twinkle, they turn on and off and probe the heavens and so on.

Still I couldn’t be left out. I had to join in and say something. I didn’t reckon on the Scotch though. I didn’t reckon that it had warped my judgment and my sense of timing, my choice of occasion. With all the studied frenzy of Dutch courage I waded into the depths of those perilous eyes.

In my best chiffon-and-cut-glass Oxford accent I said: “You have a remarkable command of Olde-Englishe.”

There was a pause in which I realized with brilliant clarity the relativity of time. Aeons passed, civilizations came and went, brave men and cowards died in battles not yet fought, while those cosmic headlights examined my flawed personality. Every pockmark on my face became a crater of the moon. I reached up with a casual hand to cover up the right-cheeked evidence of my acne’d youth. Halfway up I realized my hand was just as ugly as my face and decided to leave the bloody thing and die instead. But while contemplating the various ways of suicide and having sensibly decided, since I had a good start, to drink myself to death, I was saved by her voice which said, “Don’t you use words like that at the Old Vic?”

“They do,” I said, “but I don’t. I come from a family and an attitude that believe such words are an indication of weakness in vocabulary and emptiness of mind…. Despite Jones’s writing that in times of acute shared agony and fear, as in trench warfare, obscenities repeated in certain patterns can at times become almost liturgical, almost poetic….” I ran out of gas.

There was another pause; more empires fell. Captains and kings and counsellors arrived and departed. She said three four-letter words. These were, I think, “Well! Well! Well!”

Somebody laughed uneasily. The girl had turned away. I had been dismissed. I felt as lonely as a muezzin, as a reluctant piano lesson on a Saturday afternoon, as the Last Post played on a cracked bugle.

I went home and somebody asked, when I told them where I’d been, what she was like. “Dark. Dark. Dark. Dark. She probably,” I said, “shaves.” To nobody in particular I observed that the human body is eighty percent water.”

Words by Richard Burton

[firstdove15]

I went on my weekly walk and stopped at the local bookstore to get Mom her favorite scone and, predictably, I walked out with more than a scone BUT it was a nice moment of listening to the owner recite a Shakespearean sonnet from (one of) the book(s) I bought. He was so excited I was getting it. ^^

[wideeyedloner]

[fic] [sga | mckay/sheppard] we're still here

Summary: "We're here. That's our status." ----- “‘So long, Rodney,’” comes McKay’s slurred mimicry of what Sheppard’s last words to him could have been. His attempt at a baleful glare is dimmed by obvious sleep deprivation. “Asshole.”

ao3

He doesn’t bother knocking. He does lock the door behind him, though.

Rodney is face-down on his bed, hand still half on his tablet screen. His eyes are hazy, and he had clearly been in the middle of something when his brain gave up on him. Sheppard tosses the turkey sandwich onto his back, causing him to jolt into something resembling wakefulness.

“‘So long, Rodney,’” comes McKay’s slurred mimicry of what Sheppard’s last words to him could have been. His attempt at a baleful glare is dimmed by obvious sleep deprivation. “Asshole.”

Sheppard leans against the wall next to the bed while McKay sits up to wipe the drool from his mouth and nibble with uncharacteristic daintiness at his food. It’s the most standard-sized sandwich they have.

“I didn’t exactly have time to recite a sonnet before flying off to my death.”

He stands there, watching McKay slowly chew the corner of his sandwich until he decides enough is enough. He pushes the tablet towards McKay’s feet and sits at the head of the bed beside him.

McKay’s eyes are trying to focus somewhere in the direction of the doorway. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant Ford.”

That’s why Sheppard is here. He’d laid in the dark, eyes pointed at the ceiling but still seeing Ford’s wrathful expression as the transporter doors closed between them. He was–is–responsible. For Ford. Markham. Smith. Sumner. He’d figured Rodney would be up, detoxing from the amphetamines or doing a postmortem on one thing or another, and he’d been right.

“Yeah,” is all he can really say. He looks at the tablet by their feet, gestures with his chin. “What were you working on?”

McKay tosses the rest of the sandwich on his nightstand and blinks tears from his bloodshot eyes. “Grodin, he–” Tears well up again and he sets his jaw, shakes his head, and instead picks up his tablet and shows Sheppard his weekly agenda. “Very few remaining have the interdisciplinary skills to be as useful in the field, and I’m not putting Zelenka at risk by sending him out there with any regularity. I’ve been looking at where it would make sense to squeeze in worksho-o-o–” McKay interrupts his high-speed explanation with a protracted yawn, opening his mouth wide and stretching. “Workshops.”

“That’s–a really good idea, Rodney.”

“I’m so…” McKay’s chin trembles, and he stares at where his hands sit, face-up in his lap.

“Hey,” Sheppard says, waiting until McKay’s eyes slowly come up to meet his. “Hey. Think you can sleep?” McKay nods, glassy-eyed.

Sheppard switches the lights off with a thought, ignoring McKay’s bitter ‘show-off,’ placing the tablet on the nightstand beside him. He gets his boots and gear off, helps McKay with his, and pulls the sheet up over them both.

McKay is pretty rank from a week of amphetamine usage, stress sweat, and not showering. But this quiet space, with McKay’s overheated body and heavy breathing, is the reassurance he needed. Atlantis is still standing, most of them remain to fight another day, and McKay is here to keep his eyes on the horizon while Sheppard watches his six.

It’s unlike anything Sheppard has had anywhere else. Better than the wind in his hair on a flat stretch of highway, the view of the sky from a ferris wheel, or the freedom of flight.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” McKay murmurs, barely awake.

Sheppard grins at him. “Ditto.”

[redheadspark]

pretty words promts

lyrical - write a scene where your character has to make a speech or perform poetry. Again you pick the character!!

A/N - STELLA THIS IS BRILLIANT! I would love to write this for you, Thanks for requesting this, bestie!

Sonnet

Summary - Poetry was not his forte. But for you, Druig was willing to try.

Warnings - Just come cute fluff :D

"Thanks for coming with me tonight, Sersi!"

"Of course! I love poetry reading, if only I could bring Dane along. He finds it a bore,"

"Well then he and Druig can be good friends then I guess,"

Sersi laughed as you both were sitting together near the small stage at the back of the bar, a smaller booth that was tucked against the wall and already sipping on your wine. The mood was light and intimate, the lights were dimmed low with only the tea lights on the table giving a small glow, and a handful of other poetry lovers were sitting and waiting for the event to start. It was one of your favorite weekly events to go to, a great way to unwind and not think about your job or the stressful drama of your family.

You loved and adored poetry, starting way back in middle school when you had to do research on poetry. The love and obsession came so naturally, coming along with you and your life as you were an English Lit. Degree with a minor in Poetry. Diving into poems about heartache, rage and anger, history, but most importantly, love.

You were a sucker for the poetry about love. How could you not? No other drug or alcohol could hold a flame close enough to warm you at night to bring you more joy and a unique sense of pleasure. Being in clubs and groups that were just as obsessed with poetry as you helped you pass your time in college, which is where you met your best friend Sersi, and got roped into being with her group of friends

It was also where you met your current boyfriend Druig, who did not like poetry at all.

There were a few reasons for that, but the one main reason was that he thought of it as corny. Maybe it was, Druig was more of a cynic and sarcastic in what he thought was great and what he thought was corny. It was in his nature and it never bothered you really, he was a Philosophy major with a minor in human studies so he had to question plenty of things around him. Poetry, in his mind, seemed to be a waste of time when it came to describing how you felt.

"Just say what you feel, don't put it in a sonnet," He said one time on your second date together, you raising a brow to him as a shrugged, "I'm blunter than the average guy,"

"Clearly," You joked back, seeing him roll his eyes as he shoved your shoulder playfully.

You invited him to Poetry Readings before, and he did come to one just to be a supportive boyfriend to you since he knew you loved it. But by the second hour in, you could tell it felt more like torture to him, fidgeting in his chair next to you and his leg bouncing in both anxiousness and boredom. You had to give him credit for waiting it out for two hours, and you took him home early to not torture him any longer. Of course, he felt bad and he was going to come up with an excuse for it, but you were simply glad he made the effort.

It's been a year since you two were introduced by Sersi, 8 months since he asked you out on a date, and you both were still in love with each other. Druig had you move into his apartment since his roommate Kingo was getting his own place and Druig didn't have the heart to let go of the apartment he was in since he loved it too much. All of the steps you were taking together were pointing in the direction of engagement and marriage.

Yet Druig never proposed.

Now you could be patient for so long, but something inside of you was itching to ask him if he wanted to get married in the future. Did he like the thought of marriage? After seeing Sersi and her previous fiance Ikaris break off their engagement in a nasty manner did leave a bitter taste in his mouth, he hated Ikaris ever since he walked away from Sersi. His own personal life was rough, his parents splitting up when he was young and that left a bad scar along his heart. However you knew he loved you, he would show you and tell you constantly he loved and adored you more than he could ever comprehend.

So, all you could do was wait and hope.

"Ladies and Gentleman, thank you again for coming out to this special Poetry Slam tonight! We are excited to get to the artists who are showcasing their words tonight, but before we do, we have a special reader who wishes to go first. He's new to our reading, so go easy on him. Please, give a warm welcome to Druig!"

"Oh my God!" Sersi said in a shriek as your eyes were huge, seeing none other than your boyfriend going up onto the small stage about 50 feet away from you. He was sporting his black leather, a gift you gave him on his birthday, a dark shirt under the jacket with fitted jeans, and his boots. It was his usual wear, but you noticed that his hair was cut and styled to the side, something that wasn't like him. But there he was, looking rather nervous as he was clutching a thin book in his hand.

"Hi," He said into the microphone. A few people clapped and snapped their fingers as he cleared his throat, "I...I wanted to read something special, for someone special that is in my life. This is very new to me, so bare with me," He joked, several people were chuckling as he looked over at you. You grinned, feeling your heart pounding in your chest as he smiled widely at you and pointed to you with his spare hand, "This is for my girlfriend, and the love of my life,"

Some people cooed and awed as you felt Sersi rub your arm in encouragement, your eyes never leaving Druig as he flipped open the book. You could see his hands were shaking, beyond nervous, and almost looking a bit pale. But he then took in a long breath, the nerves were gone, and it almost felt like it was just you two in the bar. Everyone else melted away, just you in the booth and Druig reciting poetry to you.

"It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

Tears were forming in your eyes, knowing this poem very well. You could recite it on your own if you could, and as Druig was saying that poem smoothly into the microphone, you were mouthing along with him. Hearing his tone, how the words flowed into the room and painted the picture of Poe, made you shove the tears away rapidly as he went on.

"I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.

You remembered feeling him about this poem in particular back when you two first officially got together. You had to stay at his place over the weekend since there was a leak in your bathroom at your apartment and the maintenance crew was going to take several hours to fix the leak and any other problems. You brought your Edgar Allen Poe book, reading it next to Druig as he was turning off the lights and snuggling in bed with you.

"Read it to me?" He asked.

"But you hate poetry," You reasoned.

"Aye, but not when you read it," Druig replied, making you blush madly as you then read Annabelle Lee. Druig listened, hanging on your every word and never once losing interest as you recited the poem in such a gentle tone and with no urgency.

Now Druig was doing just the same in this moment, just for you.

"For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulcher there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea"

The bar erupted in clapping and snapping of fingers, Druig closing the book and smiling as you moved out of the booth without even realizing that you were rushing to him. You hugged him tightly, and the clapping got louder in the room as Druig hugged you just as tightly. You weren't thinking about the other people in the room, of that you both were still on the stage under the lights, you were focusing on Druig and the fact that he recited poetry in front of a group of strangers. This was out of his element, out of his comfort zone, and it didn't stop there.

He fell to one knee, taking out a small ring box from his jacket pocket and opening the top.

"Marry me, my love?" He asked, though his voice was being fogged by the erupting of cheers from the bar and all that was watching. You were freely crying, nodding rapidly as a flash of a camera taking your picture went off. The ring slipped on your fingers, Druig kissed you with a massive grin on his face, and Sersi took another picture with her own tears in her eyes while she sent the picture to the rest of the group in your group text.

Druig would read the same poem to you again a year later at your wedding, you proclaiming that poem as your shared poem together.

The End.

[maggotslove]

hiiiiii there im Mel :]]]

what are your fav types of poetry and how much do you usually write??

Hii <33!! Nice to meet you, Mel

My personal favorites are haiku and free verse !! I write on a weekly basis and I’ve been writing since I was a child around 7-8, mostly sonnets

Now I write free verse and sometimes fluctuate between others but I’m trying to get better at haiku at the moment !! Thank you for asking :))

[sims4t2bb]

weekly update

Hello, happy Sunday and have a nice week ahead! As always, this week's database updates can be found right under the cut:

— Base Game

Through the Looking Glass Window conversion by @balkopat has been added.

Bunchapals Postcard Corkboard conversion by @tombstoneoflifeanddeath has been added.

Expansion Packs

Cats and Dogs

A missing item, The Tragedy of the Saint Bernard, and Other Tales from the Isle, and its conversion by @nuttydazesublime, have been added.

Discover University

Debug University Homework and University Homework Display conversions by @crispsandkerosene have been added.

Cottage Living

Henford Stone Diamond Lattice Window, Sweet Country Air Window by Wee Windows Inc., The Daintiest Window by Wee Windows Inc., Sonnet-Worthy Double Shuttered Window, Slightly Larger Sonnet-Worthy Double Shuttered Window, Henford Stone Circular Window, and debug Well of Central Square conversions by @tenlittlepandas have been added.

Growing Together

Well Crafted Window, Well Crafted Double Window, Well Crafted Stained Glass Window, Well Crafted Short Window, and Well Crafted Tripped Window conversions by @cozy-sims have been added.

Stuff Packs

Moschino

Luxury Loft Sliding Door, Breezy But Tall Loft Window, Breezy Loft Window, Closed Loft Window, and Lofted Arched Window conversions by @balkopat have been added.