#this is altogether unsurprising

[echthr0s]

It actually kind of fascinates me how detailed both the criticisms and defenses of Veilguard are getting. I get the impression that reading and thinking about those posts is probably a more interesting experience than playing the actual game, which is likely just so aggressively mid and unsatisfying that halfway through I'll forget I was even playing it and end up distracted by the idea of playing Rogue Trader again or something.

[weavingmemories]

got top surgery babey🎉

[faerociousbeast]

watched the first two episodes of buddy daddies with my sister. i wish gay people were real

[taintandviolent]

Baby, it's cold outside ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: It's Christmas Eve in Gotham City, and it's bitterly cold, but you're warm up in Oz's penthouse. When he comes home from an event, you're waiting, wrapped up like a little present.

word count & w a r n i n g s: K | older man/younger woman, established relationship, making out, shameless smut, unprotected sex, foreplay in a Santa outfit, santa kink????, christmas themes, very inappropriate use of christmas puns/phrases/themes, fingering (female receiving), festive dirty talk, praise kink, very brief and light bondage, .

a/n: requested by a few anons! I hope it satisfies your festive whore needs for this man!!! not beta read and kinda rushed, but such is life. I wanted to get this out before Christmas Eve. Also speaking of Eve's.... Eve is... MIA I don't know, it's a plot hole, it didn't work out between them, yada yada, but she's not apart of this. all in the name of spice / reader's benefit! banners by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Gotham had been hit by a massive blizzard, but you weren’t complaining. It was Christmas Eve, and the snow was welcomed. At least by you, who didn’t have to be out in it. Big, fluffy flakes drifted down from the clouds, and you had a perfect view of the snow-covered city from the large windows. With the music that you’d put on, it felt altogether very Christmas-y.

You were enjoying the snow by yourself for the time being. Oz had left late that afternoon in a Santa suit. Some favor he had to do – couldn’t get out of it. The way he bristled every time you brought it up told you not to ask for too much information.

Christmas was really important to Oz – you assumed it was a favored holiday of his mother’s or something. Which was unsurprising. Everything, in some way, rooted back to his mother. You had come to terms with that, and accepted it. Played into it, even. 

He was insistent on a tree. A big one.

By the first of December, he had a massive one picked out for the living room, and a smaller (but still substantial) one for his mother’s room and had them delivered to the penthouse. You two decorated the big one that night, with cocktails and music. As with everything in his life, Oz was particular about decorating. After a few drinks, you could admit, your tree decorating skills were lacking. You’d lazily hang them in clusters, and Oz would fuss after you, rearranging it until it looked like it had fallen out of a magazine. 

But tonight, the tree was perfect. You crouched down in front of it, flicking a particularly ample bow atop a package. It wobbled and glittered, catching the twinkling lights above it. Most of the presents were yours – you knew this. Every time you turned around, it seemed there were another two tucked under the tree. 

“Doll?” 

Oz’s gruff voice comes from the hallway, echoing against the walls. Your head snaps up, and you straighten, pushing yourself off of your knees – you hadn’t heard him come in. You wrap the fluffy white robe tighter around your body, making sure that it isn’t revealing anything of your surprise. You’d been in the lingerie for a few hours, not knowing when he’d get home.

He rounds the corner, lumbering in with the signature gait that you’ve come to love. Though he’s ditched the hat and beard, he’s still in the classic red and white suit. It suits his stature and you screw your lips up in an amused smile, trying not to laugh at how miserable he looks. Like an excited child, you gallop over, pressing your hands against the plush suit. You trace circles in the fabric and look up at him with your doe eyes and pouting lips. 

“Ohohoh, Santa,” you coo, playfully. “You’re early.” 

Seeming embarrassed, Oz pulls your hand off his chest, holding it for a moment before bringing it to his lips. A small kiss is placed upon your knuckles before he finally speaks. “Ah, cut it out. Lemme’ get outta’ this fuckin’ thing and I’ll –” 

“Ozzy…” You back up, your hands falling to the tie of your robe. “You know, it’s customary to open a present on Christmas Eve.” 

He stops, mid-turn, and squints at you. He knows you well enough to know that mischievous glimmer in your eyes ain’t going away.

“So, open this one.” 

In a fluid motion, you untie the sash and shrug the robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, revealing your festive lingerie that you’d picked out weeks ago. You watch Oz’s eyes light up as he takes in the visual in front of him, starting at your feet, which are covered in a pair of red nylons, thigh highs. His gaze travels upwards, pausing to savor the look of the garters stretching over your lush thighs. Your bare stomach tenses at his gaze, before finally, he gets to the bra; a giant red bow that conceals the majority of your ample breasts. He can’t see it, but your nipples harden under the fabric, a reaction to the chill of the room and the heavy weight of his gaze. 

“Fuck…” He shifts, turning back around to face you fully. 

“But I dunno’.... Only good boys get their presents.” 

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. Oz swallows hard and licks his lips. He jerks his head to the side and lets out a breathy laugh, before holding his hands out.  

“Baby, who is dressed like fuckin’ Santa here? I think I’m the one that gets to decide who is naughty or nice, huh?” 

Your fingers toy with the edge of the bra’s bow, teasingly. “Hmm. Well, we all know that I’ve been a good girl this year.” 

“Yeah,” he says, limping over to you. His hands ghost over your nearly bare hips. “Yeah, you fuckin’ have.” 

You look down at his hands, then shoot your gaze back up to his brown eyes. Languidly, you grab his hand, bringing it to your lips to graze your teeth over the pads. Oz shifts his shoulder, trying to fend off the oncoming erection, no doubt. Something about pitching a tent in a Santa suit feels immoral, but you clearly ain’t on his side on this one. 

 “Don’t I get to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what I want? Huh?” 

You drop your hands, pulling his with them and tugging him towards the velvet sofa. It faces the windows and the tree, which is an incredibly picturesque and romantic background to fuck to, you think. You yank a little harder, though he’s standing stiff, watching you with hesitant eyes. 

“C’mon Ozzy….. C’mooooon.”

Finally, he concedes to your pulling and follows you to the couch, allowing you to guide him to the middle cushion. With a sharp shove, you push him backwards. He hits the couch with a grunt and looks up at you with those big cow eyes of his  – the ones that you can’t resist, no matter what you do. 

He licks his lips again. “What is this, huh?” 

You tap his nose and bend at the waist to stroke his plush-covered thighs. He’s being good; his red trousers aren’t straining yet. You frown playfully, making sure he sees your pitiful little pout. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, hmm?” 

Your hands continue their trailing up to his groin, and one hand palms his cock outside of his pants. Oz shifts his hips backwards at the sudden contact, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Movin’ your way down the list, sweetheart.” 

“Me?” You gasp. It’s a gentle, girlish sound and you feign shock. Your hand grips his cock a little tighter. “I’m the best girl in the world. I’d never be on the naughty list.” 

He chuckles low and looks down at himself. He feels the telltale heat rushing down between his legs, and it won’t be long before the fabric fights against his hardening length. “I dunno’...”

Your hand abandons its post and moves up to his wide stomach, where you quickly unbuckle the large black belt, sliding it through the loops. You throw it around his neck and pull him forward until his nose bumps into your cheek, and his lips meet yours. You kiss him long and hard, tasting him and whatever alcohol was leftover from the event. 

All at once, Oz lets out a deep groan, and reaches up to pull you into his lap. “C’mon, sweetheart. Sit on Santa’s lap, then.” 

You titter happily, and replace the belt with your arms. One knee at a time, you straddle him and lower yourself down. He doesn’t bother putting on a Santa-esque accent when he asks you what you want for Christmas this year, but does throw in a teasing ‘little girl’. 

You hum and raise your eyes to the tall ceilings, thinking. “Well let’s see… should I play Santa Baby for you? Been an awful good girl…” 

“Why don’t you tell me what you really want?” 

Your gaze falls heavy to his, and you smirk, leaning forward. You position your lips next to his ear and whisper a string of festively phrased, lewd desires that make his lips quirk up in a pleased smirk. 

“Stuff your stocking, huh?” he repeats. 

You nod and as if to punctuate your sentence, you grind your hips against his lap and take note of the stiffness that’s there now. A pleased smirk contorts your lips as you look below your bodies. Amidst all the red fabric, there’s a distinct outline, the fabric tenting as his cock swells from all of your teasing. 

You push yourself up on your knees. As you grip the sides of your panties, you lean forward to tug them over the curve of your ass. The position puts your bow-clad cleavage in Oz’s face and he snags the opportunity to kiss the tops of your breasts. “Mm-mm…” 

You pull them down your thighs, until they rest in the crook of your knees. Oz wastes no time in bringing one of his hands up to her. His fingers stroke her delicately, admiring every inch of her, watching as your hips buck and jerk when he nears the already slick slit. 

“This all for me?” 

“Baby, it’s always all for you. ‘Cause you’re always so good, aren’t you, Ozzy?”  

Between your legs, you feel his hips rise instinctively. He’s hard now, and the tip of his middle finger glides between your folds. You whimper and grip his broad shoulder tight, digging your perfectly manicured nails into the fabric. 

As an afterthought, you bring both hands down to his chest. Fluidly, you slip both hands underneath the jacket, and push it over his shoulders, revealing the white shirt underneath. He’s got his suspenders on, which you immediately tug on. You find them incredibly sexy, something that while he never understood, he appreciates. 

His finger plunges into your warm, wet cunt and sets there a moment, just feeling her.You clench around him, and he pulls out, replacing it with two. The girth of his two fingers is always so satisfying, filling you as he pumps in and out. 

His tongue juts out, mere centimeters from your center. He’s not close enough to taste her, but god he wants to. You can tell; the way he licks his lips repeatedly, his eyes locked on his fingers as they slip repeatedly from your slick cunt. She clenches around his thick digits while you moan above him, resting your cheek on the side of his head.

Finally, after a few more pumps, he withdraws his fingers and you immediately reel back, disappointed. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs around them. 

The visual has you leaking and clenching around nothing. You long for the filled feeling again, and wiggle your hips to remind him. You reach behind your back, and unclip the bra, letting your tits fall free. “Ozzy, don’t stop…” 

Without another word, Oz lifts you up with both hands, and sets you down on the sofa next to him. Using the arm of the chair, he pushes himself up and turns to face you. Slipping your hands over the silky velvet, you flip over and push your ass up into the air. He makes a fist around your panties and tugs them down over your ankles. He flings them towards the tree, and you can’t help but let out a little chuckle when they catch on a branch, hanging there as one of the most lewd decorations you’ve ever seen. 

Oz pulls your attention back, taking a fistful of your exposed ass. “This pussy is the best fuckin’ present, sweetheart. There ain’t nothin’ I want more than this….” 

You let out a humiliating whine as he toys with her from behind, his fingers sweeping over your entrance. His thumb catches the side of her, and he pulls her apart, exposing the slick, glistening flesh. 

“Shit, baby… fuckin’ soakin’ wet.” 

He pulls the suspenders off his shoulders, and kicks the trousers down. It’s a bit of struggle to get his briefs down, but he finally does it, and grunts, shuffling closer to you and hoisting his good leg up onto the sofa behind you. 

Taking himself in one hand while still holding you open with the other, Oz slips his fat tip inside. It’s enough to make you whimper, desperately, but you know the moans will come as soon as he plunges himself inside. Though Oz loves every position, he particularly likes taking you from behind. He loves watching as he disappears into you, your dripping cunt swallowing him whole with every thrust. 

“Fuck me, Ozzy… fuck me, please, baby…” 

“Heh, don’t gotta’ ask me twice.” he replies, before pushing himself a little further in. His thick cock stretches you wide and you arch your back up, unable to contain the moans that tumble from your mouth. 

“That’s it… mhm…. Just like that - fuck!” 

Your hips meet him halfway, and Oz sinks himself all the way in, fucking into you hard with an immediate rhythm. Your stomach tightens with the waves of pleasure, your hands gripping the side of the sofa hard. 

“Oh my god, oh my g— You’re… you’re so fuckin’ good, Oz. You’re so fuckin’ good, oh my god. N-nobody’s better than you, baby…” 

Though Oz usually fucks you speechless, you’ve gotten in the habit of verbally praising him. If you don’t, he’ll ask for it anyway. It’s something that deeply arouses him, and makes him fuck you all the harder. Which he does. He groans and ruts his hips against your ass, filling the room with the slapping of your bodies as they collide. Silently, you’re glad for the music, which disguises some of the erotic sounds. 

“How’s that dick feel, huh? Tell me it’s good.”

You nod, your mouth dry from breathing so hard. “It’s so good. Big, thick cock feels s-so….” Your sentence is shattered by a string of high-pitched moans, but you quickly regain composure and finish it off. “...good!”

He continues humping your ass, driving himself as far in as he can. The head of his cock repeatedly hits the deepest part of your core, and your eyes roll back in your head. You only need a few more moments of his relentless bullying before your cunt flutters around him, glazing him in warm slick. The dizzying high of the orgasm wraps its hands around your head, forcing it to fall heavy onto the sofa.

The sensation sends Oz over the edge – and he’s genuinely surprised he’s lasted this long. He tenses, his hips lose their rhythm as he shudders over you, bucking and stammering words of pleasure. His release coats his cock as he pulls out of you. 

“God damn,” he pants.

You nod, smushing your face against the cushion. “Yeah. You really…” you swallow. “ Decked my halls.” 

Oz wants to tell you to knock it off, but all he can do is laugh. As he pulls himself from you, his gaze falls to an oblong present under the tree. It’s a necklace; diamonds, with a purple garnet and an amethyst dangling in the middle. Once he showers, he decides he’s gonna give it to you. 

“I’ll be back, doll. Don’t get dressed. I wanna see this present on ya’. Stay just like that.”

 So, you do. 

His cock was enough of a present, but you aren’t about to complain to a man like him. 

[palfriendpatine66]

Here’s a little nugget I offer up in apology:

Anakin bit down lightly on the lobe, right on the spot that at one point bore an earring - and what he wouldn’t give to see that - tugging harder when he was met with a low growl of approval.

[there will not be a new chapter of Can’t Buy Me Love before the new year, despite a recent poll that may have gotten hopes up]

[ryunumber]

Spooky from Spookys House Of Jumpscares/Spookys Jumpscare Mansion

Spooky has a Ryu Number of 5/4/does not have a Ryu Number.

(update and explanation below)

(UPDATE: Per @penndragon, Cross Impact has hit Early Access.)

(UPDATE 2: Per @mr-self-suck-by-nin, confirmation of the Cooking Companions protagonist identity gives Spooky an unambiguous Ryu Number of 4.)

Look, it's complicated. Things will be more concrete when Cross Impact hits Early Access.

Fair warning: this explanation is a bit more involved than normal, because the research hole this sent me down had me sincerely doubting my own base competence.

So, from the top: Spooky's only eligible appearance is in her own game, Spooky's Jump Scare Mansion née House of Jump Scares, as her only other appearance, period, seems to be as a trophy in Indie Pogo.

Naturally, this makes SJSM's specimens as the only connecting points. I've identified three that could work:

Unknown Specimen 1 is just White Face from IMSCARED.

This seems to be a dead end, as White Face's only other eligible appearance seems to be in the Nightmare Mode of Cooking Companions, as part of a menagerie of other horror game characters, including SJSM's own Specimen 6. But all of those also seem to be dead ends, and Specimen 6 just gets back to where we started, so that's probably no good.

How about Unknown Specimen 5?

Named Lisa. Sure looks quite a bit like Lisa from P.T. and once-prospective Silent Hills. Let's say it's that Lisa. What else has Lisa been in?

Apparently just P.T., which wouldn't be altogether unsurprising given, you know, all that happened with Silent Hills. Even the Lisa decoys for Metal Gear Solid V showcased in the Tokyo Game Show 2014 trailer didn't make it to the final game.

But there are still other P.T. references that did make it. Namely, that pleasant radio transmission, interruptions and all, can be heard from some radios in MGSV.

Now, given that audio-only appearances are broadly eligible, you could make a case that whoever's reading in this transmission is a character themself, which would in turn connect Lisa to The Phantom Pain, at which point calculating the Ryu Number is just a matter of hashing out who exactly is and is not in MGSV. The only issue I have with making this connection is that the audio is basically reused wholesale from P.T., which arguably makes it more in line with an archival recording, which is not eligible, than bespoke radio chatter, which is eligible, but hey, whatever, I've peddled dodgier. Why the hell not.

So in the search of a route with less caveats, let's consider what I've identified as the last possible eligible connection, Specimen 8. This cervine bundle of fun can be seen in Lost in Vivo as part of Lost Tape 3.

It turns out there's another character in Lost in Vivo who's been in something else: Sotiris. It also turns out that the "something else" in question is, uh,

the EEK3 2020 Virtual Show Floor. Which, to the best of my knowledge, is never referred to as a game, so if that matters to you, then we're done, and Spooky either has the aforementioned route through Lisa or nothing.

If you're willing to say that the virtual show floor is a game, which does not seem to be an unpopular opinion, then good news! There's a clear path to Ryu. You just have to go through Skully, who cameos in Toree 3D,

to the titular Toree, who's a guest character in Lunistice,

to Kit, the main character of Lunistice, who cameos in CrossCode,

to Lea, whose Ryu Number of 2 is already established, which gives Spooky a final Ryu Number of I'm sorry, I'm being handed a note.

Oh. Well fuck me, then, for not considering that the realities of game development could lead to a scenario wherein a character from an in-progress game could make cameo appearances in other games, only to be scrapped entirely before their would-be source game is released. Clearly, this is what the kids refer to as a "skill issue".

And the best part? This chain is so long that I'm genuinely expecting to have overlooked something really obvious that gives a shorter number, because the documentation I found on indie-ass indie horror game crossovers is spotty. So if you have any information that could shorten this more substantial than "White Face is graffiti in the full release of FAITH", send it my way. I'd rather be definitely wrong than dubiously correct.

Anyway, Toree's set to be playable in Cross Impact, so when that's released to the wider public most of this nonsense I just spewed at you will actually come into play. Until then, make of all of this what you will. If you'll excuse me, I need to go fucking distort.

[marchofmistria]

Howdy, I was wondering if you could do an eland x reader where you could do headcanons of them being parent If that's okay with you anyways have a lovely day

Hi there, thank you so much for sending! Love this cute idea. This ended up being about both pregnancy and parenthood, hope you don't mind! I got carried away lol.

It's not long after you and Eiland get married that you become pregnant. You two weren't really trying to prevent it from happening, totally open to the idea of raising a little one with such a beautiful community behind you and in such a beautiful place.

Elsie is the first one to realize that you were pregnant. Call it a sixth sense, but she pulls you aside after dinner at the manor one night and tells you that you have a special glow about you.

A few days later, Eiland wakes up to see you sick in the restroom and you go to Valen together to take a test.

When you two get the wonderful news, Eiland is nearly in tears and Valen has to hand him some tissues as he brings you into the deepest hug in the middle of the doctor's office.

Wanting to play it safe, you two only tell the immediate family at first. Adeline nearly screams with joy, while Elsie is happy but totally unsurprised.

The Baron and Baroness come all the way from the Capital to celebrate a new heir coming to the family. They shower you with lavish gifts and offer anything you could possibly want or need that wouldn't be readily available in Mistria.

They also offer to take you to a more well-known doctor in the Capital for your checkups, but you assure them that you have full confidence in Valen and know how much she cares about you, Eiland, and the little one.

Eiland dotes on you hand and foot during the pregnancy. He doesn't let you lift a finger, and is always concerned about your comfort. He'll spend any amount of money to make sure you have everything you need.

If he could, he'd keep you from working on the farm altogether and pay someone to help, but you insist that the exercise is good for you and the baby.

Eiland is so eager to impart all of his knowledge onto his child. He starts early by reading archeology books to the baby before you've even given birth. You don't mind, as it helps you fall asleep!

Eiland is incredibly compassionate to your pain as you carry the pregnancy. He'll massage your feet or rub oil on your stomach whenever you need.

When it's finally time for you to give birth, Eiland is supportive at each step and cries when the baby is finally put in your arms. You're so excited to see that the little one's hair is a beautiful shade of light pink, just like their father's.

Eiland is happy regardless of the gender of the baby. He just hopes that he can get them as excited in his interests as he is!

He'll happily give you breaks from taking care of the baby whenever you need a nap. He loves nothing more than sitting in a rocking chair with the baby close to his chest, while he reads some of his favorite books just as he did when they were still in your stomach.

He's an incredibly patient father. Raising his voice is just not something he's capable of doing, even when the baby begins to misbehave as they get older.

Honestly though, the baby would be quite well-mannered. They learn from the calm and studious nature of their father and aunt.

Eiland always wants to provide the best for his child and his wife, whether that means dressing you two in the finest clothing or assuring the baby receives the best education money can buy.

Eiland's favorite thing to do with his child is to take long walks through the museum, or to watch Errol work at the archeological dig site. By the time that baby is of speaking age, they can recite facts nearly as well as Eiland himself can!

You're surprised by how much the baby takes after their father. They eat up any sweets you make for them with equal enthusiasm as well.

When your little family visits the Capital, you love to tour the wonderful bakeries there and get so much joy from watching Eiland and your baby enjoy eating sweets together.

With Eiland as their father, the baby continues to grow up as a little intellectual, with a mild-mannered temperament, enthusiasm to learn about everything they can, and a kind heart.

[blackwomanwriter]

"Mine"

Read: Part I, Part II

It's been a minute, but I finally wrote something. And of course, I had to go back to this series because there is something about Thomas Shelby. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and let me know your favorite part. Happy Reading!

He entered quietly like he was on a mission. Although this one was unlike the ones he had performed during the war and after. No, this mission was different. Very different. Yet, Tommy performed it with the same intensity.

Eyes narrowed on the quiet interior, clocking each entry point and exit way, like a soldier, he assessed his environment. He hadn’t been in a house this small since his childhood. Even back then, the space had felt cluttered and cramped. Too noisy to think. Too busy to breathe. The stench of his father’s hangover in the air before it disappeared altogether.

He remembered talking Arthur out of trying to find their father. A man unworthy of carrying - no, sharing his surname. Tommy tensed his jaw, moving past the memory. Instead, he raised a brow at how devastatingly clean the entire place felt. Physically tidy, but clean in a way that made the house feel empty. Unlived. Unloved. Cold. The opposite of everything he thought of her. She was warm. Tender. Inviting.

Moving to the narrow staircase, he could hear the water running. The pipes pushing the water through the house. She was here. She was alive. She was avoiding him - again.

He hiked up the stairs, stepping one foot in front of the other. Like a soldier, he kept moving. He carried on with the task before him. His mind focused on the mission.

Opening the door quietly, Tommy leaned on the door frame - taking in the sight before him. Curved hips that were fuller since he had last seen her. A waist that tempted him to wrap his arms around her. It was now that he reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

“Jesus, Tommy,” she shrieked. The click of his lighter giving him away.

She rested a hand on her heart, shuddering as she closed her eyes.

Unbothered, he traced the stick along his bottom lip before lighting it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, as her breath steadied.

“You haven’t been taking my calls,” he stated. Gaze unchanged. Smoke filling the air.

“I’m in mourning,” she enunciated, grabbing a towel to cover herself. She didn’t bother hiding her frustrations as she shoved past him. She was angry. He liked her angry.

At first, when she didn’t answer his call, he had briefly worried that she was sad. Tearful over the sudden death of her husband, who the police found floating in the river after a night of drinking. His death ruled accidental according to the official report. A drunken man’s blunder. An unsurprising end of life. An expected death for a man who drank as much as her late husband did.

An easy lie to believe, but she knew the truth. The greatest mistake the dead man had made was marrying Thomas Shelby’s favorite whore. It was her mistake more than his. She knew what she was doing when she said yes. The risks she was taking by marrying while Tommy was off in America. Her moment of rebellion had cost a life.

Although, they had gotten past the letter. She hadn’t returned to him. She wanted to keep her promise. To stay married. To honor what was left of her vows. She wouldn’t work for him. She wouldn’t see him. The temptation of losing herself in him made her stay away. She had already ruined the sanctity of her marriage by sleeping with him in his office. She didn’t want to continue making a mockery of the words she vowed before God and man.

She was suddenly religious, which amused Tommy. He thought it was a game, but she clung on to every word spoken by the priest. At the funeral, she remembered his words at the wedding. How he had pressed upon her the importance of repentance. Before Thomas Shelby, she had been a good girl. Never told a lie. Prayed before bed. Devout daughter. Devoted sister. An upstanding and honorable member of her community. He had changed her. Corrupted her. Loved her. Destroyed her.

“It’s been weeks,” Tommy stated coolly.

She ignored him. Her hands focused on the cream she was applying to her skin. Smooth skin. Soft skin. Skin his lips remembered. The taste imprinted on his tongue. Tommy exhaled.

His patience was wearing thin. He loved her. She loved him. He figured out how to help her keep her promise and allow him to keep his. Her husband was dead, and she was free.

“I see you’re eating again,” he quipped, trying to stir a reaction out of her. She didn’t disappoint. He ducked as the bottle of cream nearly struck his head.

“I went from being a whore to being a widow.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a book.” Tommy shrugged then ducked again. This time, she threw a shoe.

“At least I can bargain my way into heaven as a whore,” she resolved, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Is that what your priest tells you?” He brought the cigarette back to his lips for another drag.

He knew. Of course, he knew. She wondered if he was having her followed again. How else would he know about her visits to the church. Her talks with the priest.

“My greatest sin is you,” she finished her thought.

Her words were meant to be cutting, but Tommy remained unbothered. His eyes stoic, jaw set as if he was watching a horse race. He brought his cigarette to his lip, letting it dangle as he neared her. 

She stood up, ready to shove past him again, but he grabbed her forearm. Her eyes flared up at him as she tried to loosen his grip, but he remained firm.

“You want to talk about sins, ey?” He whispered against her ear. “You married a man who picked a pint over his life. A man who stowed you away in a house he couldn’t bear to live in himself, while he stayed three doors down with his brother’s wife.”

She frowned, hearing him confirm a suspicion she wouldn’t allow herself to believe. When he stopped coming home, she told herself that he was drunk at a pub or sleeping his hangover off at his mother’s house.

“A man who lost his wages betting on fights.”

So that’s where all their money had gone, she thought. Her face didn’t flinch as Tommy confirmed another truth. Her late husband was just another man who had let her down. All the words she threw at Tommy about him being a good man were lies. He was just better at hiding his wrongs.

Tommy softened his grip on her hand, as he relayed the sin that he couldn’t forgive. The sin that forced him to intervene without thinking of the consequences. “A man who was willing to sell his wife to settle his debts.”

Her eyes widened then glazed over. The shred of innocence he once found in those warm brown irises was quickly disappearing. He cursed at himself for the letter, but it wasn’t just the letter. It was the months he left her wondering if he could ever love again. It was the voice that told him to push her away. She married the man because of him.

Tommy released her hand. There was a part of him that wished he hadn’t been so honest. Her hardened eyes told him just as much. The look on her face was one he had seen before in the women who dared to love him. When his darkness eventually shadowed their light. When his world swallowed them whole.

She reached for the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Taking a long drag, she exhaled. The smoke covering Tommy’s face.

“My sin was marrying the wrong man,” she concluded.

His thumb brushed her skin, remembering when her lips pressed against his in hunger. His lip bleeding as their need took precedence. Her lip bruised from his appetite. Even when he had her, he needed more. Tracing her lip, he gently placed the cigarette between his fingers then lifted it to his mouth. The first puff was for the memory. The second was for his patience.

“No, my god doesn’t care about sins.”

“I didn’t think you believed in,” sighing, she looked up, “anything.”

Tommy closed his eyes. His patience wearing on him again. “You’re moving out of this house. You’re coming back to work, and you’re going to answer when I call.”

“Of course, Mr. Shelby,” she answered.

His jaw ticked at the use of his surname. The smoke from his cigarette creating a haze over his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Tell me what your god thinks about whores.”

“Everyone’s a whore,” he muttered, as he moved toward the door, already thinking of his next order of business. The kiss would have to wait.

“Is that what your wife thinks?”

Tommy stopped walking. Leaning his hand on the door frame, he closed his eyes. His nose flared. His annoyance growing with her disobedience. He seemed to attract women who were determined to do the opposite of what he asked.

“She confronted me. Told me to stay away,” she admitted, and in that second, he realized why she ignored him. She was no longer his secret. He made his affection too obvious.

“I’ll take care of it,” he firmly stated, leaving no room for further questions. Yet, she continued.

“Does she follow any of the other girls or is it just me?” She asked.

He wasn’t ready to admit that there weren’t any other girls. That there hadn’t been other girls for a while. From the moment he declared his love, Tommy had made himself hers - only hers.

“You love me, but there are others,” she whispered. “I love you, but all I do is think of them. To be with you, I have to worry about them. I have to wait to be yours.”

“Is that what you’re doing then - waiting?” He asked, closing the distance between them.

Her hand dropped to her middle and Tommy’s eyes followed. He stared, then frowned before bringing his gaze back to her. “How far along?”

Her eyes softened. The grief coloring every muscle in her face. Tommy closed his eyes. She was in mourning. He understood her words clearly now. It was moments like this that made him miss Polly. She would have known.

Tommy muttered something in his Romanian tongue as he sat on the bed. He stamped his cigarette out in silent rage. There was never an end. Death seemed to find him at every turn. It hunted him. Craved him.

His hands went to her robe. Slowly, he pulled the fabric, revealing her body. A body that had prepared itself to carry his child. A body that had nourished him back to life. His fingers moved to her belly, tracing the skin there. The soft, smooth skin.

He looked up at her and saw the tears she wouldn’t shed. How long had she held them in, unable to weep. Unable to speak. Unable to fully mourn. Wrapping his arms around her middle, he pulled her in and kissed the place his hands had touched. He tried to do what she had done for him; he tried to make it okay for her to feel.

“I’m fine, Tommy. It’s better this way,” she said, her voice cold and void of any emotion.

“When?” He whispered, knowing it was his, and yet wondering how he’d missed so much in so little time.

“It doesn’t matter,” she stiffened. “It’s gone now, and I need to move on.”

She gave him a second to make peace with the reality she had lived with for weeks. Then, she moved from his touch, closing her robe as she distanced herself. Loving him was painful enough without the added grief of their lost child.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she folded her arms, avoiding his gaze.

Tommy raised a brow, staring at her before glancing around the room. It was as cold as the rest of the house - bare of any details or remnants of her. Standing up, Tommy found a new mission. He moved past her in search of anything that made the four walls more of a home.

His hands traced the metal bed frame. His fingers trailing the linen and cloth. He opened windows and tapped on wooden walls. He inspected the little furniture in the room, unsatisfied with the results.

“Tommy,” she started to say as he pushed open a wardrobe, finding it empty.

She was leaving. She planned to leave London. She planned to leave him. The thought stung in Tommy’s mind as he opened drawer after empty drawer. His anger taking center stage.

“Tommy,” her voice raised with concern.

He shoved the empty wardrobe back, watching as it crashed against the wall.

“Stop,” she yelled, as he shoved the wardrobe again and again. His grief coloring his anger. His anger coloring his grief. Her heart jumped as the wooden drawers finally cracked under the pressure. The splitting wood overshadowing her screams as the wardrobe completely fell apart.

“Tommy,” she cried, rushing to stop him from breaking the wood further. “Stop.”

“Please,” she whispered. Her plea full of a love she couldn’t deny him.

He exhaled. The sound of his heightened breath taking all the space in the room. His anger taking all the air. Tommy closed his eyes. The familiar whispers creeping in his head, telling him to put out the fire. To walk over to the other side. To let go of this life. To finally rest.

She swallowed, unsure of what to tell him, and yet, she persisted. “My sister found work outside of London. She thought it’d be good for me…”

Tommy shook his head, looking up at the ceiling.

“I wanted to tell you,” she stopped, lowering her head. There was nothing to say.

He scoffed. “Tell me.”

It felt like deja vu to hear him utter those words to her again. To hear the same command. The same request he’d asked from her when she told him about the wedding. Yet, this time, there was nothing left to say.

She stared at the back of his head. Her fingers yearning to brush his hair or wrap themselves around him. Her lips longing to kiss the nape of his neck.

Closing her eyes, she confessed. “There’s no life for me here.”

“You’re not leaving.” He pushed back, ignoring her words. “You’re mine.”

“When?” She sighed. “When am I yours, Tommy?”

He lifted his head, staring at the wall. His mind moving a mile a minute. She couldn’t leave him. His heart wouldn’t allow it. His body would protest. His hunger was contained to her. His thoughts all went back to her. How many minutes until he can think of her? How many meetings until he can dream of her? He suffered without her to be with her. Every hour he was away was an hour he promised to give to her.

He was a selfish man, who wanted what he wanted. A man who endured wars and monsters disguised as men. A cursed man. A broken man. A suffering man. A man who didn’t deserve her, and yet, he wanted her. He needed her. She was the cigarette on his lips. The pain tablets in his pocket. The shirt on his back. The razor blade on his cap. She couldn’t leave him.

“When your wife is gone? When you’re fucking other women?” Her voice continued in the background, but Tommy was half-listening. “When you’re bored? When the nightmares come? When the work is done? When am I yours?” She asked again, although there was no anger in her question.

“When you married him, you were mine. Every time you put on his fucking ring; you were mine.” His brows furrowed as he reached into his side pocket for a cigarette. “When you moved into this house, you were mine. When you had my fucking child inside of you, you were mine.” Tommy sniffed, turning to face her. “From the moment you entered my office, you belonged to me.”

She stiffened, as she traced her empty ring finger. His crassness didn’t bother her as much as his refusal to listen. He disregarded her words, only focusing on what he wanted. It was why she didn’t want to tell him about the baby. He would have stuck her in a big house that he would never visit. Given her everything except the thing she wanted, which was him. But now that nightmare wasn’t even a reality because she’d lost their child. She'd lost a piece of him.

“Is that all it takes…” she started to argue, but words were pointless. Their arguments were pointless. They had a love that was cursed from inception.

In this life, he was promised to another. In the next, he would be reunited with another. In life and death, she had no place in Thomas Shelby’s life. Her love for him didn’t save their unborn child. It reminded her that their love had no place to grow. It was wilted, and no amount of money or prayer could save them.

“You’re not leaving,” Tommy declared, cornering her until she had no choice but to look up at him.  Her brown eyes sinking into him, full of a love he didn’t deserve.

“You made me a promise,” he whispered. His jaw tensing as he remembered that night in his office when he had made himself hers. When he had promised to live. To stop craving death. The gods had given him a second chance with her.

“Tommy,” she protested, but he continued.

“You gave me your word.” His lips brushed hers and her body shuddered. “You made promises to me. Promises I intend to collect.”

His hand slipped down to her robe, loosening the ties. His fingers marking a trail from her chest to her neck to her lips. “Promises you agreed to keep.”

She folded under his touch. Her head falling on his chest as she exhaled. Quick, short breaths that made Tommy pull her in closer.

“And what of your promises?” She grabbed his fingers before they could slip between her thighs.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, trying not to smirk. “Remind me again.”

Shaking her head, she moved from his hands. Her heart ached, but it would always ache whether she was with him or not. He was not wrong. It belonged to him. From the moment she entered his office, her heart had become his. Knowing he was promised to another, it still beat for him. It yearned for him. It acted without consequence.

Thou shall not commit adultery. A vow she’d broken within a month of knowing Thomas Shelby. But her heart didn’t care. It didn’t care about the commandments she broke. Her sins were plenty but her heart was full. Full of love for a man who couldn’t confess his love until she married another.

Turning away from him, she closed her robe. Her hand wanted to follow the trail he etched on her skin, but she didn’t. She could hear him lighting a cigarette. His eyes on her. His eyes undressing her. His eyes claiming her as his.

She wanted to run, but her heart wouldn’t let her. Instead, she willed herself to face him. Smoke in the air. His scent in every crevice of the cramped room. She inhaled and tried to tell him again. Her thoughts were on her lips, and yet, nothing.

Offering her his cigarette, Tommy stepped towards her. “Leaving London won’t cure you of me.”

She reached for the smoke. Grateful for the distraction. For the heat. For the vapors. For the way her lungs would expand and contract. For the cigarette they shared between them. His lips on her lips. Her lips on his.

“That priest of yours won’t help you either,” he added.

“What is the cure then?”

Tommy leaned into her. His hands on her waist, slowly moving her robe up past her knees then her thighs. “First, you have to stop running.”

“Running?” She asked, confused by his accusation.

“The wedding. The job. This house.” He counted. “And now these plans of leaving London.” His hands pushed the fabric of her robe from her skin, leaving her naked before him. “You mustn’t run.”

“And what if I do?” She questioned, not allowing her nudity to dissuade her.

Tommy brushed her cheek before taking the cigarette from her lips. “I’ll find you. Remind you of where you belong.”

“And where is it that I belong?” She asked. Her eyes gentle and pleading. 

He brought her hand to his chest, placing it where his heart lay. “Here. Right here.”

She swallowed her nerves, terrified of letting her heart speak. “Second?” She went back to his list.

“Second.” He took a drag, exhaling the smoke before he continued, “You must know, I get scared,” he admitted, and she finally understood why he’d written her that letter. Thomas Shelby was scared of loving her. The first woman he loved died in his arms because of a bullet meant for him. Love was something to fear, and he was terrified.

“Now, it’s unpleasant and it’s unkind. But when I am…”

“I’ll remind you,” she finished, “of where you belong.”

Tommy cupped her face, placing a kiss on her head. “Good.”

She closed her eyes. Her heart too fragile for Thomas Shelby’s confession. He hadn’t proposed, yet they were already exchanging vows.

“Last.” He leaned his head on hers. “And the most important.”

“Yes,” she breathlessly whispered.

Tommy’s finger traced her bottom lip before he kissed her. His lips hungry to taste her. Selfish in his desire - his consumption of her. He groaned when he felt her kiss him back. Her own need just as desperate as his. She moaned when their lips parted, disappointed by her body’s need for air.

“I promise to have you pregnant by spring.”

Her eyes lit up as she laughed for the first time in months. She chuckled, not taking him seriously. “Tommy.”

“A boy,” he declared, wrapping his arms around her middle. “He’ll have your eyes and my charm.”

She giggled, playfully hitting his chest as he picked her up and placed her on the bed. Her smile widening as she gazed at him. She was returning to herself - returning to him. Weeks of grief slowly thawing from her heart.

Tommy stamped out his cigarette before joining her with a kiss. His body on top of hers. His hands on either side of her head. His mind fixated on the softness of her skin.

“I’ll be back at work in the morning,” she whispered in between kisses.

“You won’t be working anymore.”

She pulled away from his kiss, frowning at him. “What are you on about, Tommy?”

He sighed, already knowing he was about to start another fight. “I won’t have you working with a child of mine inside of you.”

“What?”

“You’ll be carrying my son,” Tommy repeated.

Closing her eyes, she realized he was serious. Of course, he was serious. She wondered how long he’d been planning to get her pregnant again.

“I don’t deserve you,” Tommy kissed her lips. “But, I promised to give you a life worthy of everything you are.” He reminded her. “I promised to let you in my head. I promised to do more than just wait to die. I promised to live.”

She wanted to be angry with him, but he remembered. Every word. Every promise. Everything they had discussed in his office.

“I promised to keep you safe.”

“To make us safe,” she corrected.

He kissed her again. “There are no other girls,” Tommy confessed, reminding her of his other promise. Tommy Shelby was hers.

Grabbing his collar, she pulled him into a long kiss. “No more running,” she vowed.

Tommy smiled. “No more.” He pressed his lips on hers before adding, “You’re mine.”

This time, she didn’t argue, simply letting him kiss her. “Now, where were we, Mrs. Shelby?” He asked, slipping his fingers between her thighs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was a long one. If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! Let me know your favorite part.

[mellowswriting]

Can I request jealous/possessive Din 🥺 and maybe some smut that ends with gooood aftercare?? (absolutely love your acct btw!)

all mine

pairing || Din Djarin x fem!Reader

word count || 2.5k

summary || After a successful bounty hunt, Din feels the need to remind you just who you belong to.

content || no use of Y/N, SMUT, fingering, manhandling, rough sex, possessive!Din, unprotected sex, two idiots in loooooove, very fluffy and lovey ending

a/n || me, writing another weirdly poetic smut fic? entirely unsurprising. thank you for the request, anon!

Din Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You really should have known. The moment you mentioned using yourself as a lure to draw the mark away from his guards, you could feel the heat of Din’s gaze burning into you. You knew he wouldn’t like it. The potential danger alone was enough to have him flat-out rejecting the idea altogether but after days of no progress, everyone knew it was the only viable plan. It took less than an hour for your allure to coax the man away from his protective guard. It was worth it, even if you had to deal with the disgusting feeling of his hand at the small of your back for a few moments. 

The relief of finally securing the bounty was short-lived. Din’s tension was unmistakable. The leather of his gloves squeaked with every clench of his fists. He constantly wedged his body closer to yours the moment anyone grew close. His presence was omnipresent, a constant looming over your shoulder. You brushed it off as the stress of a long mission or the adrenaline-driven instinct to keep you safe. 

It isn’t until you’re pinned against the soft mattress by Din’s unbreakable strength that you realize you might have misread the situation. The tension finally snapped the moment he got you alone. The blunt edge of his teeth sinks into your neck and forces a broken sound out of your chest, but he doesn’t let up. His fingers dig harder into your hips to fight off your squirming.

“Fuck, Din.” You tug him back by his hair and the sight he makes sends a thrill of lust arcing through your belly. Those pretty brown eyes are bright with a near fanatical need. His lips are slick and a little swollen from the rough kisses. Every breath leaves him in a jagged rush as if the simple act of holding himself back has left him breathless. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

Din forces a deep breath into his lungs, his nostrils flaring as he grapples with his self-control. His voice is low and tinged with danger as he murmurs, “He put his fucking hands on you.”

The statement is so simple for something that rocks through you so hard. Pure possessiveness curls through the deep tenor of his voice. It doesn’t matter that neither of you has slept much in the last few days or that both of your bodies are tense and sore. That tone is enough to have a new surge of energy rushing through your veins. You can’t help the teasing grin that forms on your face. 

“Oh… are you jealous, Din?” Your voice lilts playfully - and Din is having none of it.

“Can’t be jealous if you’re already mine, can I?” He bites out harshly. The sudden loss of his weight pinning you to the bed has you huffing in disappointment, but he doesn’t give you long to be upset. Both of his hands grip the neckline of your tanktop and before you can utter a warning, the fabric shreds like paper in his hands. Your shorts and underwear are the next victims to be ripped from your body. 

Din wastes no time in shoving himself between your thighs, forcing them to spread wide. The sudden exposure forces a whine from your throat, all vulnerable and needy, but he doesn’t falter. His gaze darkens, a low sound rumbling in his chest at the sight of your cunt, already slick and flushed from his rough handling. 

“That’s all it takes, huh?” Din murmurs. The harsh smack of his palm against your ass catches you off guard and you moan a broken little sound that only encourages him. He grins wildly. “Get a little rough and this pretty pussy just begs for attention…” 

You arch your hips and grind your ass back against him, shivering at the press of his hard cock against your ass. He’s still completely clothed, dressed in his flight pants and soft undershirt. The stark difference of your completely bare body beneath his clothed one only pushes you deeper into that sweet, hazy headspace - and he knows it. He watches with rapt attention as the fabric of his flight pants darkens with your slick, the muscle in his jaw ticking with every clench of his teeth. 

The temptation is too much for him to resist. His fingertips glide along the seam of your sex to find your clit with practiced ease. There’s no hesitation, no slow progression of gentle pressure to ease you into his touch. Two thick fingers sink into you without warning, the sudden stretch forcing a choked sound from your chest. Your thighs jerk against his hold, trying - and failing - to close around his hand. Din just tuts and shakes his head, almost mocking as he chastises you.

“None of that. I know what this needy cunt wants.” Those talented fingers curl upward against that sweet spot over and over until you instinctively squirm away from his touch. He doesn’t let you get far. The grip on your thigh tightens just as his thumb presses firmly against your clit and the pulse of pleasure that rocks through your core is molten and piercing and devastating. 

A low groan rips through his chest at the sight you make and your skin flushes under his attention, his urgent touch. Every inch of your body has been committed to his memory, so thoroughly that he doesn’t even have to watch his movements to have you falling apart beneath him. But he watches anyway, too entranced to tear his eyes away. 

Din grinds his cock against your soft thigh, too taken with the sight of you falling apart to stop himself. Every little whimper he drags out of you only makes him rut into you harder. There’s an intensity that simmers in his eyes as he looks at you, as if he would burn the entire universe down just to keep you here with him. Possessive and dark and all-encompassing. 

“Come on, let go. Be loud for me, sweet girl.” Din murmurs, the low rumble of his voice alight with indulgence. That unshakable restraint of his is splintering right before your eyes. He wants more. His palm presses down on your lower belly just as he curls his fingers and you cry out, a sharp and indecent sound that sends a shudder through Din’s body. “That’s it, that’s my girl. Every little sound, every quiver, every fucking drop… it’s all mine. You are all mine.”

You reach out for him before you can think better of it, your fingers gripping his wrist tightly. His eyes flash up to yours, dark and dangerous, but it isn’t enough to deter you. Your tongue flicks out to wet your lips in a nervous impulse. 

“Prove it.” 

Din snaps. 

The world spins as he manhandles your body, pushing and pulling until he has you on your knees, facedown against the mattress. Adrenaline and desire flood your body with every beat of your heart. His hands settle on both globes of your ass and spreads you apart for his greedy eyes, his fingers giving your plump flesh an appreciative squeeze. You hear the sound of him spitting before you feel it, hot and slick splattering against your cunt. 

You can’t help but envision yourself through his gaze. Bent to his will, quivering and dripping with slick and spit. Fingers twisting the fine, expensive sheets so tightly they may tear. Whining and whimpering and desperate. It’s no wonder he’s so ravenous. 

Din rips the fly of his pants open so harshly that he damn near breaks the zipper in his haste. Anticipation tightens in your belly and you barely have a moment to steady yourself before he’s pushing into you with one devastating roll of his hips. The sound that rumbles through his chest is nothing less than pure animal, entirely feral and starved for you. His hips grind impossibly deeper, even with his pelvis pressed flush against your ass. 

The rest of the world - fuck, the rest of the universe - disintegrates into nothing. Beyond your lover, the heat of his body and the pleasure he draws through your strung-out body with every movement, nothing else exists. It hurts in the best of ways. You slump deeper into the sheets, struggling to keep yourself upright as the waves of pleasure threaten to drown you. Din doesn’t even falter - he just hitches you up higher by your hips and holds you in place, pins you there beneath him at the perfect angle. The way you melt for him is the only sign he needs. His pace grows harsher, fast and jarring until the headboard cracks into the wall with every sharp thrust he delivers into your body. 

“Who do you belong to, huh?” Din growls.

You choke out a weak, “You!” 

“Hm? I didn’t catch that.” His arm wraps around your neck and tugs you up onto your knees, his pace never faltering. Even like this, his head clouded with possessiveness and lust, he’s careful not to block your breathing. His bicep flexes against your neck and the pure strength he contains sends a rush through you. “Speak up. Who the fuck do you belong to?”

“You!” You cry out, your nails digging into his wrist as you cling to him. The sudden change in angle has every thrust pressing against that sweet spot that makes you tremble uncontrollably. “Fuck, I belong to you! I’m yours, I’m all yours. Please just… fuck, please!”

Your voice fizzles out into something soft and sweet, so breathy and fucked out that you can’t even finish your plea - but it’s okay. Din knows. He knows what you want, what you need. The desperate tone seems to break something in him. He presses his cheek to the side of your head, molding your bodies together seamlessly. The brush of his clothes against your flushed skin makes you shiver. 

“Good girl…” Din murmurs in that soft, lovestruck voice that makes you melt.  “Don’t worry, I’ve got my girl. My perfect, beautiful girl.” 

His hand abandons your hip to snake down your belly. The moment his fingertips glide over your clit, you jerk in his arms as if he’s shocked you. Din just holds you tighter, whispering praise and encouragement between his own broken moans. You swear you’ve never felt closer to him. The two of you fuse into one being, a mess of limbs and sweat and lust. You reach back and bury your hand in his hair, your fingers clutching those soft curls at the base of his skull for dear life. His sharp teeth nip at your earlobe playfully before soothing the mark with a flick of his tongue - and you can’t hold back. 

“Oh, fuck -” Your voice is choked away by the weight of your orgasm. The devastating burst of pleasure rips through you until you’re left trembling and breathless in your lover’s arms. A broken moan drips from Din’s lips, heated and wild in your ear as he buries himself as deep as your body will take him. It never fails - your end always brings about his. The quivering of your cunt, the pure ambrosia of your cries… as sure as the sun will rise, your orgasm sends Din crashing down into his own.

He barely manages to keep himself from crushing you as the two of you fall into the sheets. Every grind of his hips sends pulses of overstimulation through your overworked body. You can’t help but shiver with it as his full weight sinks into you, his cock slowly softening inside of you as the post-orgasmic haze settles over you both. 

Time slows, thick and sweet as molasses. The steady beat of his heart and his gentle exhales ghosting across the back of your neck ground you to him, to the unbearably divine reality that surrounds you. This man, the love of your life, so steadfast in his dedication to you. The pure fervor of it is enough to warm you for a thousand lifetimes. You reach back and tug at the shirt he still wears, a wordless plea that still tells him all he needs to know. 

Take it off. I want to feel you. 

Din makes quick work of his clothes. The need to feel his skin against yours is one he feels so keenly that he could never deny you. You stretch out in the silken sheets, lazy and lithe as a loth cat. You can feel his gaze on you as he strips himself bare. The fire in his eyes has eased to embers. Still scorching with heat but… sated. Content. In the low light of the room, his bare body slick with sweat and his expression so full of love, you can’t help but gravitate to him. His muscles twitch beneath your palm as your hand explores the body you know so well - over the soft hairs of his happy trail and the thick muscle of his chest, coming to rest at the junction where his neck meets his shoulder. He grasps your elbow and you meet his gaze, and the sight he makes steals the very breath from your lungs. 

Lips parted. Eyes wide. Hair mused and messy. He looks at you as if you placed the very stars in his sky. There is a devotion that hangs in the air, heavy and so sweet you nearly ache with it. Your hand slides up to the back of his neck, musing the mess of curls that lie there. He shivers at the touch and for a moment, it’s hard to believe that he is the man who just fucked you until you couldn’t think straight.

“I love you,” You whisper. 

His cheeks flush red. “I love you, too.” 

Din doesn’t resist as you pull him back into bed for a kiss. It’s simple, nearly chaste, but it still leaves him breathless and gazing at you with dazed eyes. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips before he tugs you into his lap for another and another until you’re both breathless. Warm hands explore the planes of your back, the curve of your waist, his touch as reverent as it was the very first time he felt you. Despite the exhaustion that curls through you both, he’s so hesitant to let this moment end. 

“We could always take a shower.” He suggests in a tone so conspicuously innocent that you can’t help but laugh. 

“We should rest.” You admit. The disappointment on his face is impossible to miss. He might as well pout. You brush his hair out of his face. “Don’t worry, pretty boy. I have a lot of plans for tomorrow and they all include us staying right here in this bed.” 

The promise is enough for Din to let you both settle in for some much-needed sleep. Even as you doze off, lulled to sleep by the steady beat of his heart beneath you, Din hesitates to follow. He’s exhausted too, but he can’t stop staring at you long enough to let sleep take him. No matter how many times he has seen you curled up against him, deep in sleep, the sight never fails to enrapture him. The reminder that you’re here with him - that you love and trust him so deeply - blows him away every single time. 

“I’m gonna marry you one day, pretty girl.” He whispers into the calm night. “Gonna be a good husband and give you the life you deserve. I promise.”

[blurredcolour]

In My Blood | Part One

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

The aftermath of the Schweinfurt-Regensburg mission floods the Belgian countryside with American fliers, including one very injured Curtis Biddick. On a regular supply run to a Resistance contact, you suddenly find him sharing your regular place of shelter for the night, a simple coincidence that very well may change the course of the rest of your life.

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Violence, Weapons, Spy Craft, Death, Injuries, Angst, Suffering, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4200

-------------------------

August 17, 1943

Pouring from the sky like a summer rain…you had never seen so many downed airmen in one day. It seemed the American Air Force had mounted some great attack. An attack that was met with what must have been every single Luftwaffe fighter plane that now infected your native Belgian soil. The majority were captured by Nazi soldiers, Gestapo, or collaborators the moment their boots hit the ground, keen eyes following the tracks of parachutes as they floated to the ground. But the lucky ones got away, stayed hidden, or were greeted by more friendly faces.

The efforts you had been putting in over the past three months on the exfiltration routes for downed airmen in Western Europe – helping to rebuild and reshape the Pat O’Leary Line into the Françoise Line after the arrest of its former chief, connecting the Belgian-run Comet Line with monetary and equipment-based support from MI9’s agent Jerome in Paris – the timing could not have been better for the sheer demand that the events of the day would put upon them. They were as strong as they could be and yet undoubtedly these numbers would overwhelm them.

Born the only child of a Belgian Jonkheer and the second daughter of the Marquess of Abergavenny, that you would end up as an agent of the Special Operations Executive had been as foreseeable as the Nazi invasion of Belgium. Unexpected and yet altogether unsurprising given circumstance and history.

Entirely too fond of fast cars, cigarettes, gin, and learning the fascinating operations of your father’s iron factories in Wallonia for your mother’s taste, you had been forced off to England in the spring of 1939 to support your cousin Philomena Nevill during her debut. It had been hoped, you supposed, that under the watchful eye of your grandmother, the Dowager Marchioness, that your ‘good breeding’ might suddenly become apparent. That the tomboy whom her father adoringly called mon petit monstre might be transformed into a lady under the onslaught of balls, polo matches, regattas, and horse races all whilst trussed up like some prized pony at a meat market. Never mind that you were three years older than the fresh flesh of the debutantes on display.

All that had been achieved was to put you in the same rooms as the likes of Lord Halifax, Prime Minister Chamberlain, and First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill. The only topic of discussion you had been interested in was the growing threat posed by Hitler with his growing Nazi empire and the fact that your parents remained in your home country right on his doorstep had weighed heavily upon you. There had been a tremendous argument in September, following the invasion of Poland and declaration of war by Britain and her allies. Your father had insisted he must remain to care for his business, his workers, his property. Your mother had insisted that she would remain to care for him. As one united front, all your relatives, including your uncle, the current Marquess, had insisted you remain in England where it was safe.

And so you had found yourself marooned on that unfamiliar island through the fall and winter of the phony war, dread heavy and sour in your stomach as military preparation took precedence over everything. With naught much else to do, you had volunteered with the Red Cross, fundraising as a member of the upper class, outspoken in your distaste for fascism. The watchful waiting came to an abrupt end on May 10, 1940, when the world awoke to the news that the Nazis had invaded the Netherlands, Luxembourg, France, and Belgium in one fell swoop.

Within eighteen days, Luxembourg, the Netherlands and Belgium had surrendered, France was on the verge, and you were orphaned. The hollow, inherited title of Jonkvrouw was all that remained of your parents after an unfortunate run in with a Stuka dive bomber on a bridge out of Brussels, so the letter from your father’s personal secretary read. The post-mark was from Marseilles, confirming that your father had sent everyone else to safety before trying to obtain the very same for himself. It had simply been too late.

Lest you fall to pieces over the loss of your home and family in such quick succession, to be caught grieving in unfamiliar formal homes amongst people you barely knew, you had sought refuge in purpose. Volunteering for the Auxiliary Territorial Service, you put your skills as a motorist to good use. Yet it never felt like enough. Driving lorries full of supplies across the English countryside while sailors and airmen risked their lives made you feel utterly impotent, particularly as the horrific bombing campaigns wore on. Mercifully, more meaningful opportunities found their way to you in the form of Vera Atkins and the SOE. Your social circles overlapped, on occasion, and she had proposed an altogether different use of your unique upbringing, for the four languages you spoke simply by virtue of traipsing across Belgium on your father’s coattails – for the country consisted of French, Dutch, and German speaking peoples and he had insisted you learn them all. While your mother had insisted you spoke only the King’s English with her.

The preliminary school had been difficult, filled with unexpected challenges and daring tasks such as crossing a rope strung between two trees high above the ground. Pure fury at the invasion of your homeland and murder of your parents had carried you through onto the paramilitary school, where you had learned how to master weapons, and hand-to-hand combat. It was then onto parachuting school, as the only way to return to now fully occupied Europe was by low-flying aircraft in the dead of night, and finally finishing school to hone your spy craft.

It was early 1943 by the time you were ready to be dropped into occupied territory, all under the auspices of a deployment to Scotland with the ATS, your extended family none the wiser as you plummeted into an empty field in Northern France to begin your work. By the time the heat of August came around you were proficient at cycling long distances with burdens of weapons and cash, sneaking across the border, making connections on both the French and Belgian side. Making one such delivery of fresh funds for the Françoise line contact brought you to the Flanders village of Beverst that warm summer day.

The small clinic of Doctor Legot, with his flat above, boasted a sizeable cellar, perfect for hosting resistance meetings or the occasional guest such as yourself. He was also a natural community figure for those from all walks of life to visit, obtaining more than just medical advice, though thus far the Gestapo had not caught wise. Letting yourself through the gate into the back garden, you concealed your bicycle amidst some conveniently overgrown shrubbery and slung your handbag over your shoulder before carrying your worn suitcase into the clinic which seemed rather empty for a Tuesday afternoon.

Greeting his receptionist Edda in Dutch, she gestured you down the hall to Dr. Legot’s office. Proceeding with a nod of thanks, you knocked on the door, quietly stepping in as he called out casually in Dutch.

 “Enter!”

As you swung the door open, his head, covered in the thin remainder of caramel hair, shorn close to control its obvious curl, lifted to regard you warmly before falling serious.

“You could not have come on a better day, Marie.” He spoke solemnly, addressing you by the cover name bestowed upon you by the SOE, snapping the patient file he had been reviewing shut.

Stepping fully into the office, you quietly shut the door behind you, setting the suitcase on his desk to deliver the promised funds.

“Indeed, it seems you have been blessed with quite a few visitors today, Doctor.”

You watched silently as he carefully took stack after stack of Belgian francs, tucking them into his safe under his desk.

“More than we have places for, honestly. If you are looking for a place for the night you will have to share accommodations.”

Tight as your grip was on your facial expressions, you still felt your eyebrows twitch in surprise as Dr. Legot rarely housed downed airmen as he himself was not able to speak English and found their behaviour wildly unpredictable, at best. He was a man who preferred things neat and orderly. It was only by respecting his preferences that you had earned repeated shelter under his roof.

“I know, Marie,” he continued, obviously having caught your micro expression, “but the man is in a bad way. Brought his plane down in Maes’ orchard – a feat the boys could not stop commenting upon as they carried him in, even as the pilot was bleeding all over my floor. No one has even asked him if he wants to surrender or explained what trying to evade capture entails.”

“Hm.” You intoned thoughtfully. “Does he need a hospital?”

The middle-aged man settled his broad frame into his worn wooden desk chair with a pronounced ‘creak,’ exhaling heavily in contemplation. “Not need, no. If he chooses to run, he will need maybe two months recovery, but I can manage I suppose.”

The furrow of his brow and the pinched lines around his mouth spoke to his distinct lack of enthusiasm at the prospect, but like so many involved in resistance, his hatred for the Nazis greatly outweighed any other personal preferences after three years of occupation.

“I will give him the speech then, he ought to make an informed decision. Would you mind covering his eyes for me in case his choice is surrender?”

Relief washed across the man’s features, and he nodded quickly, grabbing a roll of bandages.

“Come down in five minutes.”

You nodded in agreement, allowing yourself those five minutes of rest in the safety of Legot’s office, a place you could let your guard down for a little while, until the minute hand of your watch completed its fifth trip around the face. Making your way to the back of the clinic, you stepped into the storage room to the open trap door leading down to the cellar, descending the worn ladder carefully.

Turning in the space lit only by candles, you frowned slightly to see the wounded man, one leg protruding from beneath the sheets swathed in bandages – most likely covered in burns. Stepping closer to the cot that you realized had been carried down especially for this patient, your small twin bed untouched in its usual corner, you swallowed tightly to see more bandages wrapped around the man’s neck, his right arm in a plaster cast and sling. That truly must have been some landing.

“You are certain he does not need a hospital?” You were not usually one to question a doctor’s opinion, but the look of this man left you full of doubt.

Would you not be risking his life hiding him in this cellar in this condition?

You watched a smile tug at his chapped, pink lips.

“You brought a dame, doc?”

Despite the fact that his eyes were covered in bandages, for the sake of protecting your identity, you could definitely read the mischief in his expression.

“Quite certain.” Doctor Legot bristled and gestured sharply for you to get on with it.

Clearing your throat, you summoned all the authority of your grandmother, as well as her haughty vowels, as you spoke. “Airman, listen carefully.”

The pilot’s head snapped slightly in your direction. “Hey there, gorgeous.” He grinned broadly.

The unexpected statement stole the wind from your sails, drawing an incredulous laugh from your throat. “You cannot even see me.”

“Can hear it in your voice.” He insisted smugly and you shook your head sharply – in part to clear it.

“Regardless, I am here you to offer you a choice. We can take you now to the local authorities for surrender, you will become a prisoner of war under the protection of the Geneva Convention and receive further medical care in a hospital. You will remain a prisoner for the rest of the war in relative safety. Or, you can remain here, rest and heal, and when you are ready, we will try and get you back to England. You would be dressed as a civilian and if caught, treated as a spy and shot without trial. Knowing all this, what is your choice? Turn yourself in or try and escape?”

“I will never turn myself into those Nazi fucks…pardon my French ma’am.” He smirked and you bit back another laugh at the preposterous expression.

“Very well. You will stay here and do everything Doctor Legot says. No argument, no trouble.”

“Whatever you say, gorgeous.”

Sighing at his incorrigible nature, you turned to the doctor and nodded.

“He will stay and try to escape.”

“Very well, I have one more appointment today and then I will bring you both some dinner later. Thank you, Marie.” He made his way up the ladder stiffly before securing the trapdoor shut, closing you both into your hiding place.

Reaching forward you gently began to unwind the bandages from his eyes, breath hitching in your throat at the brilliant blue that squinted back up at you.

“Knew you were gorgeous. Marie? I’m Curt.”

“Pleased to meet you.” You replied, doing your best to maintain some professional sense of formality. “You should rest.” Moving to the opposite side of the cellar, you sat onto the mattress that was about as exhausted as you, the springs groaning in protest.

“Yeah, probably right…hey did, did the Doc say if they pulled anyone else from the plane?” His expression was filled with a boyish hopefulness that made you long for a better answer.

“He didn’t, no, but I will ask around tomorrow.”

A soft smile graced his features. “Thanks gorgeous, you’re a gem.” He sighed drowsily and you watched as he was quickly pulled into sleep, so very fragile draped across the cot, swaddled in all those bandages.

In just eight weeks would he truly be ready to face tense train rides and a hike across the Pyrenees?

Your doubts were greatly eased the next time you laid your eyes upon him five weeks later, returning from a guiding run to Toulouse with several airmen who had been downed that day in August including a man named Claytor with a rather remarkable twang to his speech. You bore candles, medical supplies, and extra rations for Doctor Legot, knowing he was undoubtedly going through all at a prodigious rate with his unexpected long-term guest in the cellar. Your trusty suitcase also held an Agatha Christie murder mystery, an English book procured at great difficulty, and a selection of French comic books – while he may not speak the language, you were hoping the pictures would be sufficient entertainment in his subterranean dwelling.

As you climbed down the familiar ladder in the candlelit cellar, handbag swinging on your shoulder, you were startled to find Curt on his feet, looking prepared to try and catch you if you should fall, even with one arm still in a cast. Reaching for your suitcase as the doctor lowered it down for you, he cried your name in greeting.

“Marie! Thought you got lost or something up there.” His grin could only be described as cheeky, his charmingly blunt features only growing more handsome under the display of his playful side. He was dressed in clothes that had no doubt been obtained from a sympathetic local; brown woollen trousers held up by suspenders over a blue flannel shirt, a pair of worn leather boots on his feet.

“Curt.” You nodded politely, setting your case on the foot of your bed. “You are looking well.”

“Doc has performed a miracle, just waiting on this bone to finish healing, then I’ll be right as rain.” He nodded firmly, bandages replaced by a network of fresh red scars creeping up the left side of his neck into his dark brown hair.

Unlocking the latches on your luggage, you opened it carefully, retrieving the assortment of reading material you had collected. “Well, I thought since you might no longer be sleeping so much you might…appreciate something to read.”

Curt’s eyes, clearer than your last encounter, dropped to the comic books and novel you held out to him, eyes widening before he took them with a slow grin. “Been thinking about me out there on your travels?”

“Ensuring your stay with the good doctor remains without incident.” You replied nonchalantly, turning back to organizing your belongings before tucking the suitcase beneath the bed.

When you turned back to him, sinking down onto the mattress to rest your sore legs after your long cycle from Antwerp, he was watching you with a bemused expression.

“Appreciated all the same, Marie. Maybe I’ll learn a little French or something.”

“I thought…maybe the pictures?” You tilted your head and he nodded quickly.

“Definitely.” His grin was all too warm, showing his perfect American teeth and made you turn your attention to the small date book you kept in your shoulder bag, quickly looking over your coded appointments for the next few days.

There were several drops arranged for the area – weapons and radios directly flown from England, set to arrive over the next few nights. Most for the Belgian resistance, though two radios were earmarked for the Comet Line. Night drops were some of the most dangerous things you attempted, but when they were successful, the supplies, otherwise impossible to obtain under Nazi occupation, were invaluable.

“Sure look serious over there, gorgeous. Furrow those brows any harder and they’ll get stuck like that.” Curt’s voice cut through your concentration, your head jerking up to blink up at him as though you were startled he was still there.

The sound of the trap door scraping open saved you from trying to produce some reply. “That’ll be dinner.” You murmured, walking to the bottom of the ladder to accept one bowl and then another of thin vegetable soup followed by half a loaf of bread.

You nodded gratefully to Curt as he stepped forward to take one of the bowls with his good hand.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“See you in a few hours, Marie.”

Carefully setting your bowl on dusty brick floor, you tore the bread roughly in half, offering him the larger portion before retrieving your soup and retreating to your bed.

“He doesn’t cook too bad for a doctor.” Curt commented after swallowing a large sip of soup, taking from the rim of his bowl, and you could not help your small smile.

“I think he enjoys it? Talks about ingredients a lot – how hard some of them are to come by lately.” You shrugged and ate more slowly, savouring every bite as it had been a few days since you had been able to enjoy a warm meal, and Legot was indeed a skilled cook.

“How ‘bout you? You cook?”

You barely contained your wry laugh, shaking your head. Even if you’d had access to a kitchen these days, you certainly had not been raised anywhere near a stove. “My lifestyle isn’t really conducive to cooking, unfortunately.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “My Ma would probably skin me alive if I tried to get in her way in the kitchen. Sisters, too. My Pa and I knew better than to get involved in things we’re hopeless at.”

Licking your spoon clean of every last morsel of soup before moving to swipe a piece of bread through the bowl, you could not help your curiosity. “How many sisters do you have?”

“Two. The apartment back home isn’t big, but the five of us got along alright.” His smile was broad as he leaned back against the cinderblock wall, food long ingested. “What about you? Your family? Where are you from?”

His questions were numerous, bubbling out of him rapidly and making you swallow the half-chewed chunk of bread in your mouth roughly. “Belgium. Do not have one.” You replied evasively before taking another rough bite.

“Just fell out of the sky then? Like some kind of angel?” He teased and you choked a little on your next swallow before managing to get it down.

It would not do for him to know how oddly accurate his jest had been.

“I have to run an errand later tonight, so I’m going to catch a few hours of sleep.” You stood to dust the crumbs from your skirt, setting your empty bowl on the floor.

“An errand in the middle of the night…?”

“Mn.” You grunted in agreement as you toed off your shoes, pulling back the covers before sliding in between the sheets, laying with your back to him.

“Say, Marie?” He asked quietly and you slid your eyes back open.

“Yes?”

“Did you manage to ask around ‘bout…my crew?” There was a soft vulnerability to his tone, his playful bravado seeming to melt away, that made your heart drop.

You honestly had not been sure if he would have remembered that conversation weeks ago, barely conscious and in so much pain. You had of course done as promised, swinging by the Maes farm only to be told that he had was the sole survivor, the rest of the crew set to be buried in the local cemetery by the Nazis – with military honours. What an oddly cruel irony that seemed, to only afford your enemy honour in death.

“I’m sorry, Curt.” You shifted onto your side to face him. “There was no one else who survived.”

An impassive mask fell over his face, his animated expression going blank as he nodded before shifting to lay back on his cot, tucking his hands behind his head. “Thanks for checking.” He mumbled quietly.

“Of course.” You replied softly watching him turn his back to you before doing the same with a soft sigh, duty reminding you that you needed to sleep while you could, a long night ahead of you.

It felt as though you had barely fallen asleep when the scraping of the trap door woke you abruptly. Tossing the covers from your body, you grabbed your handbag, feeling the reassuring weight of your .25 calibre Wembley semi-automatic pistol and F-S knife contained within. Curt glanced back over his shoulder as you slid into your shoes, and you nodded to him.

“Go back to sleep, errand time.” You whispered, collecting both of your supper dishes to pass up to Doctor Legot before ascending the ladder yourself.

Cycling out to the appointed field, you waited hidden amongst the trees with several members of the resistance, the silence of the night unsettling. You knew the plane would fly in low to avoid radar, would cut the engine close to the target to throw off nearby soldiers, but it was a long way from the coast to here. The distant drone of a plane engine reaching your ears made your pulse jump and you forced your breathing to remain even and quiet, every muscle tensing as even the sound of the plane fell silent. Squinting through the trees into the night sky, you licked your lips in anticipation as you spotted the first of several crates falling towards the ground, suspended below parachutes to slow their descent.

Clutching your small spade tightly, you waited until the supplies began landing on the ground before the entire group emerged from the foliage to begin disconnecting the parachutes. Working in concert with others you dug a hole and quickly tossed the telltale silk in before covering it up with earth and tamping it down. Securing the two radios for the Comet Line, cleverly disguised as suitcases, you helped load the rest of the crates and spades into the waiting truck before everyone quickly dispersed into the night.

While your inclination was the cycle headlong towards the safety of the clinic, you forced yourself to maintain a reasonable speed, one that would not attract attention, while taking a rather circuitous route. The eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten as you returned to your hiding place, using the spare key to sneak in the back. Taking a moment to wash your hands in the small washroom for patients, you then carefully descended with the radios and closed the trapdoor. It made quite a racket as it slid home when pulled from the inside, startling Curt from his rest and you frowned apologetically.

“Sorry, everything is fine, go back to sleep.” You murmured, setting the newly procured radios off to the side.

“You’re just getting back now?” He scrubbed a hand down his face tiredly, glancing at his watching blearily.

“Don’t fret about me, rest up, regain your strength.” You smiled wearily and slid back into your bed gratefully.

“There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye, Marie…” A jaw-cracking yawn overtook his statement before he shimmied down beneath his blankets and succumb to sleep once more.

“You have no idea.” You whispered under your breath, settling in for a few hours more sleep before you had to begin your journey to deliver the newly acquired radios to the Comet Line before moving onto the next drop destination.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra

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The Extended Mishandling of LO's S3 Midseason Finale Premiere

Alright, so I had mentioned leading up to the release of the newest LO episode that my feelings regarding LO returning were pretty "meh". Not hyped, but not completely back of mind either. Just sort of a weird calm before the storm type feeling that could go either way.

I'm glad I got to have that moment of calmness because good god, this episode was an absolute shitshow. And honestly, I'm not surprised, for several reasons:

Rachel has never been good at maintaining a buffer, even back at the start of the series she only ever had 2-3 episodes ready ahead of her schedule which is NOT an ideal buffer for an originals series.

Rachel has never been good at writing, she's very "draw first write later" and has stated as such in interviews that when she gets 'stuck' on what she's writing, she'll just start drawing and fit the pieces in later.

Four months is NOT enough time to both rest, attend massive conventions, and work on improving a project while also getting buffer episodes ready.

Because of the FP episodes remaining locked over the hiatus, technically Rachel only needed to have ONE episode ready upon return for the newest FP release, not multiple like she'd usually need like in the past during the S2 midseason hiatus or the season finale episodes which would unlock those FP releases like normal - so for all we know, she could have drawn this episode literally last week, especially when the promo material was so last minute. Frankly I think it was REALLY stupid for whoever it was who decided to keep these FP episodes locked (whether it was her or WT, it was more likely WT) but you can read all I have to say about that in my review of the midseason finale episodes.

All that's to say, no, there was never any guarantee Rachel was going to somehow "turn around" the ride we're currently on. I know that many of the critics were hoping for that to happen, but with the circumstances of the hiatus mixed with Rachel's bad habits of putting her best efforts into the procrastination projects that aren't her actual comic (ex. the few original pieces and LO sketches she put out during the hiatus) it just wasn't in the cards. This is where the comic is at and this is where it will remain until it's over.

I want to also point something out about this episode that was... really glaring to me.

As with all of these hiatus returns, LO got priority advertising in the first two banner slots and push notifications AND a popup ad within the app. This is unsurprising, Webtoons is still trying to milk this thing for what it's worth.

I know a lot of people are gonna focus on the art, or the fact that WT is continuing to shill LO, but I wanna point out the part that WT implemented specifically - "NEW SEASON".

This is literally just false. At best I'd like to think some intern just messed up and thought this was a new season, but it's literally not, the episode designation still says "S3". Note that the creators only design the banner art, the actual labels on top are put there by Webtoons.

But at worst, this feels like blatant lying to continue to hide the fact that LO is ending. Mind you, Rachel and Webtoons have still not put out official posts stating that this is the final arc. There is NOTHING from either of them to communicate to the audience that the comic is ending next year. It feels like they're trying to avoid the topic altogether out of fear of losing the fanbase they still have, rather than hyping up the comic's end for those who have stuck around to see how it all wraps up. And honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if this was the case, considering they're now trying to funnel the fanbase into Penguin/Inklore with new marketing deals and the whole Rachel Smythe Presents thing. They're trying to make this seem like the beginning of something "new" when it's really just a quiet shifting of management (Penguin House).

But all that aside, let's actually get into the episode. It's one episode after 4 months, which is not standard for LO's hiatuses, typically FP episodes release on schedule (meaning free readers start hiatuses 3 weeks after FP readers do), the only time this has been an exception has been with the 2 week breaks because the whole point of those was to build a buffer (which you can't do if you're going ahead and releasing the FP episodes anyways). For extended hiatuses like these, usually free readers still get their FP episodes, but that wasn't the case here. That means Rachel technically only needed one episode ready for the comic's return, and it shows. It really fucking shows.

FROM HERE ON OUT THERE WILL BE FASTPASS SPOILERS REGARDING EPISODE 254. DO NOT CONTINUE IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE SPOILED !!!

As per tradition, we get a title that means nothing at all. It just says what we already know.

Our collective husband Zeus is dying, no thanks to the poison cupcake fed to him by Apollo. For those who don't remember, Apollo had tricked Zeus into eating the cupcake by making him believe it was from Hebe. We are fully aware that it was Apollo who poisoned him. Remember that for later in this review.

Right off the bat we're off to a hilarious start, both with a cryptid appearance from Apollo in the background (lmao) who is, for some reason, ALREADY returning to the scene of the crime he just committed because... who knows at this point. Apollo and Psyche know it was Apollo at this point, I might add, but I have no clue why Apollo is actually returning to the scene of the crime when he has no idea Eros and Psyche know.

Moving on from that, can we talk about this hilarious dialogue?

"We have to call a doctor! Let's call Asclepius!"

"No, we can't trust him! Gosh darn it, why are we only bothering to think of ONE doctor in this universe where we've seen more than one doctor?? Guess Zeus is just gonna die! What a horribly contrived situation this is!"

And that's literally how I can best describe most of this episode. Contrived. There is a LOT of manufactured drama in this that makes ZERO sense even on a surface level.

And what do you mean exactly, Eros? "What a terrible system!" Is this supposed to be a joke? Lampshading? We've seen Persephone go to the gynecologist. There are non-god doctors who tend to gods all the time here.

Eros just doesn't seem to be that pressed over this, he sounds like Ned Flanders and that's NOT a good way to open up a scene like this... let alone an episode people have been waiting four months for.

Anyways, after a few pointless reaction panels (again remember I have to cut a lot of what I show here for Tumblr image limitations but I promise you, I'm keeping as much important stuff as I can in this, there's just THAT MUCH filler at this point), Eros and Psyche confront Apollo and he is... good god.

There is... so much to unpack here.

First of all, remember those theories about how Rachel was clearly trying to write Apollo as this "secret twist villain" the whole time but it doesn't work because Apollo is simultaneously written as both a 'conniving villain' and a massive dumbass at the same time?

Well, I finally have a more appropriate term for him. He's your average red pill redditor - someone who thinks he's smarter than everyone else when really all he does is sit on reddit all day using big words incorrectly in arguments he gets himself into with a bunch of equally-air-headed dumbasses.

"You can't possibly understand the nuances of the Olympian political system," Apollo said proudly, a man who had, ironically and obliviously, run for president in a monarchy. The union of kettle and pot is eternal.

He's the Slappable Jerk but instead of it being a painfully hilarious impression, it's just painful and hilarious for all the wrong reasons.

this is so stupid because it's 1.) Eros pointing out how obvious Apollo's plan was, despite Apollo acting smart two seconds ago with a goddess who, mind you, has been a goddess for ten years, and 2.) patricide isn't even intrinsically linked to politics, there's nothing 'political' about a guy trying to kill his dad except in, idk, a monarchy, which again, Apollo has spent ten years trying to rise to power in as a president which is a completely different form of government.

If I wanted to be really granular with this, I'd like to think Apollo is making some kind of point about the critics who call out LO's whack as fuck political system (especially in the trial arc) - as if he's saying "well you're just a stupid reader and this is fantasy where you don't understand exactly what political system we're using, so shut the fuck up you stupid twig" - but I don't think it's meant to be that deep. I think it's just Rachel trying to write a smart character and then failing at it because she, herself, is not a smart writer. And I'm really inclined to believe that more than the theory about this being some kind of meta-narrative about the critics because this entire plotline is contrived and stupid down to its core.

I did not cut anything out here, that's the pacing. Leto literally just appears out of nowhere and uh oh spaghettio's, she has Kassandra! Remember Leto? The character we were led to believe was truly "pulling the strings" until she disappeared from the story completely after she realized that Apollo and Persephone weren't a thing, even going so far as to call out her own son for being a fucking dumbass? Well, she's back and once again she's being involved as some kind of "double agent" in this whole thing, even though we literally haven't seen her since halfway through S2.

"Mm yes, you're so stupid, falling into my trap! Even though you had no reason to remember Kassandra anyways because she's literally a mortal woman you just met and you yourself have committed acts of violence against mortals without a shred of care! I'm so smart! My plan is all coming together!"

We've never seen Apollo do anything except cry and poop his pants, the closest he got to being "powerful" was his attempts to murder Daphne (who he seems to have forgotten about in this "master plan" of his) but ultimately he's literally just a piss ant baby and there's no reason to believe that he could somehow outmatch the God of Love who can literally manipulate people's emotions and states of mind with his arrows. But yeah sure go off, you're so powerful and smart.

The worst part is, I can't even buy this as the narrative trying to be like "see how manipulative and conniving he is?" because it's just silly. We've SEEN this man cry with his victim complex, we've seen him say and do the DUMBEST things that don't lend to any amount of "intelligence" he may have, it comes across less as him being "smart the whole time" and more as him trying to sound smart but ultimately sounding incredibly stupid. And I can't even immerse myself into it and buy that maybe that's the point, because it doesn't feel like the point, it just feels like inconsistent writing, he doesn't feel like a 'threat', he's just monologuing.

Bad art and Apollo literally just repeating what Leto already implied so this is a waste of the audience's time.

This is the funniest panel in the whole episode because I can't tell if Apollo is supposed to be in the background (for some reason, despite him literally being in front of Eros and Psyche two seconds ago) or if he's in the foreground and just REALLY small for some reason. This is so off-putting. And of course, it's just Apollo explaining what we're ALREADY SEEING ONSCREEN.

You see, in addition to this episode being contrived, it also talks down to its audience a LOT by explaining exactly what we're seeing onscreen. It's like Rachel saw the criticisms about her not including enough to depict what's actually going on in her head and so she thought the solution was to spoon feed information over pictures that are already doing the job of explaining what's going on. Rachel really doesn't know how to write and even when she tries to implement changes that reflect criticisms that have been made of her writing, she somehow makes things worse because she completely misses the point of what those criticisms are trying to get across.

Anyways, without even trying to resist (for some reason) Eros and Psyche get sentenced to horny jail.

They're now trapped in a basement that Leto somehow has in her home. How do we know that?

HAHAHA FUNNY LAMPSHADING SO FUNNNYYYYYYY

Leto claims that they shouldn't try to escape because the dungeon is "enchanted", but she doesn't even bother to explain what that means. So they literally don't bother trying. They don't try to call her bluff, they don't try to teleport out of there, they literally just go "well shoot", shrug their shoulders, and accept their fate. Just like with the whole "we can't trust the only doctor we bothered to think of" situation, Eros and Psyche are turning out to be some of the stupidest, lowest-effort characters in this comic who literally can't be bothered to try because that would require too much brain power.

Notice how much time we've spent on this and we haven't gotten back to where the cliffhanger of the last episode left off? Well buckle up because there's still more to cover.

So it turns out Hebe was still inside with her dad, in FULL VIEW of what was going on through glass which is somehow COMPLETELY soundproof, and when Apollo steps inside, she just has no idea what happened. She never bothered to even look outside to see what was going on with Eros and Psyche, she's just been sitting on the floor staring at Zeus' dead face for what was likely several minutes, unless Rachel is seriously trying to convince us that conversation and hostage negotiation from earlier only took 2 seconds. The timeline is such a mess at this point that characters basically freeze in place as soon as they're not the focus of the scene.

Apollo rushes inside, acting shocked over the situation, and when Hebe asks where Eros and Psyche are (again, she could have just looked out the window at any time), he's just like "dur idk they just left lol" which Hebe just... buys, I guess.

That's just Persephone but yellow. She's even missing her beauty mark.

See how Apollo put his hand on Zeus' chest/shoulder by the way?

Apparently, despite Mr. Smarter Than Everyone Else trying to pretend it wasn't him, he's able to discern that Zeus is dying from a toxic and rare poison just from touching him. He doesn't even really seem to use his powers, he just touches him and goes "welp he's dead i guess lol don't bother asking me how I know that".

But oh nooo remember that note from before? Well gasp Apollo's gonna use it to frame Hebe! In front of no one else at all!

Hebe of course says she didn't write it, but Apollo continues to try and frame her anyways, even though, again, there's no one else present here, and so it effectively just becomes the most absurd form of gaslighting I've ever seen.

Again, THERE IS NO ONE ELSE HERE IN THE SCENE. He's just trying to claim she did it to absolutely no one at all, in the hopes of... what exactly? That she'll just take the fall for something she knows she didn't do? That she'll somehow be convinced? It's not like Hebe has the same thing going on as Persephone where she has a 'wrathful dark side' he could pin it on, this is just a criminal who just robbed a building pointing at the first person they see and yelling "YOU DID IT!"

All I'm saying is that Apollo would be really bad at Among Us. He'd be the type of player to kill someone, hit the report button, then claim yellow did it which, even if he DID convince the rest of the team, would still get kicked anyways as soon as yellow was proven through the eject to not be the imp and everyone would go "okay cool so yellow wasn't the imp, that means obviously it's purple self-reporting." It's a trick that doesn't even work anymore because of how old it is. Hebe isn't a child here, she's an 18 year old woman who should be fully capable of raising an eyebrow and wondering why Apollo is this quick to accuse her - almost like he's trying to hide the fact that he did it.

But Hebe can't catch onto this, just like Eros and Psyche, she has to act stupid for the sake of the plot.

At first I thought maybe Rachel was trying to do some "whodunit" scenario, but that doesn't work here because we already know who did it. And while there are stories that exist like that that pull it off (ex. Knives Out) the problem with trying to do this the way Rachel did is that the person being framed has to have this thing called motive. The reason why Knives Out and Glass Onion work so well is because the person who was murdered (or conspired against) is someone who is being targeted by multiple people who could all be the murderer. It's quite literally called out in Glass Onion as a form of smart lampshading. "It's like putting a loaded gun on the table, and turning off the lights."

But it doesn't work here because Hebe does not have motive. If you're going to attempt to frame a murder on someone, it has to be someone who would have reasonable motive to commit that murder, even if they didn't actually commit it.

And who among Zeus' children has motive?

What about the war-mongering bloodthirsty god of war who has been regularly sentenced to time in the Mortal Realm to fight in wars in which he's been regularly injured?

What about the chaos-seeking wrathful goddess who would do it to get revenge on the parental figure who cast her aside, or even just for the fun of saying she did it?

Why try and pin it on Hebe, the doting daughter of Zeus who's only had a collective of maybe 20 panels in the entire comic?

But then I realized... it's not Knives Out, it's the fucking Lion King.

Which is just as contrived - if not more - than the assumption this was gonna be some attempt to frame Hebe. It's not. He's literally just trying to keep her from assuming it was him. He could have just as easily played dumb without calling attention to the note but he intentionally went out of his way to try and be Scar from The Lion King , while completely missing the point of why that scene worked in the original movie.

Scar wasn't trying to 'frame' Simba for Mufasa's murder. He was trying to hide the murder, while also attempting to get the only heir to the throne out of the picture, so he passed the guilt of the death onto Simba - a child who, unlike Hebe, wouldn't have the ability to rationalize or realize his uncle his a scumbag - who then ran away from home because he was too terrified to face his family for what happened, assuming that it was all his fault when it wasn't.

That's not how this is panning out here. Hebe is the now 18 year old daughter of Zeus, and not one of his only children. She doesn't even fit into the whole "sons overthrowing their fathers" prophecy like Aries would. Apollo is literally just being a big idiot here by saying "well I'm gonna give you a headstart to run away, because if you stay, I might hurt you" (which btw, should be MORE of a smoking gun that Apollo did it??)

And again, it's all so contrived so that the plot can move forward. "Well I'm going to frame you for this murder, but y'know, you should just leave, I'm not gonna try and press it further lmao"

Again, Apollo is a fucking idiot here, because he just attempted to frame someone who has NO MOTIVE to harm Zeus, to absolutely NO ONE at all who would side with him, only to let her go which would leave her to question why Apollo would try to accuse and harm her in the first place before considering other options. And through ALL this he claims he's the smart one, which I can't even be bothered to "love to hate" because it's written so poorly.

And really it all comes down to how everyone else behaves in relation to Apollo that makes it so stupid and unbelievable. Apollo, you're not smart just because all the characters around you are intentionally being written to be as stupid and non-confrontation as possible. If you can only write a smart villain by making everyone else stupid, you haven't written a smart villain, you've written a dumbass whose victory only happens due to contrived plot convenience. It's not even done well like in Glass Onion, it's just bad writing, full stop.

And who does he call to report this emergency? The satyr police? His son the doctor?

No.

The media. Literally just "hello, the media?? I need your best journalist here stat!"

I need you to understand, even if he were calling a tabloid magazine like The Weekly Nark, you don't just... call a journalist to report a murder. These are not the actions of someone who's trying to absolve himself of guilt, these are the actions of a complete dumbass trying to get news coverage of his trophy kill who would be better off just playing dumb instead of trying to play smart. Even Walter White wasn't this fucking stupid despite all the times he fell on his own sword, Apollo is literally just instigating suspicion towards himself for no reason at all. He's self-reporting so hard and worst of all, you can't even take any of this seriously because of how corny it is. There's no dramatic tension, no stakes, it's just a bunch of characters performing in a really bad stage play and reducing every conflict to "well I guess Zeus is just dead now because no one's bothering to make an effort to stop Apollo or ask questions lmao"

It's truly the epitome of "this plot wouldn't exist if characters would just talk to each other."

But finally, FINALLY we mention the thing this episode is named after, the transition point to Persephone.

Just like with the midseason finale episode, there's a lot to cover here, so I'm gonna get more into it in a part two post.

That said, you can see already this is the messiest, most contrived bullshit to ever wind up in LO. It's trying so hard to be smart and it just comes across as a bunch of toddlers in the world's worst stage play rendition of Clue. None of what was done here was in any way dramatic or tense, it's just a bunch of characters infodumping shit we already know, trying to set up new plot threads that don't make any sense, and allowing one another to get away with what they're doing because they don't bother to even try.

It's completely manufactured, contrived nonsense. It's not "smart", it's not "so dumb it's brilliant", it's just dumb.

[tieflingkisser]

Biden, CDC silent as North Carolina lawmakers vote to ban masks

Biden's White House has made everyday survival hell for disabled people. Now the last tool in the toolbox is being targeted with zero pushback.

This week, North Carolina Republicans are voting to ban wearing masks in public. The bill passed in the State House easily, was amended and passed in the State Senate, and will next return to the House for a vote on the amended bill. The Republicans also hold a supermajority that could overturn a veto, and killed a Democratic amendment to allow masking for health reasons. Hot on the heels of student encampments demanding that universities divest from weapons’ manufacturers responsible for mass murder in Gaza, Republicans jumped at the chance to criminalize two of their favorite punching bags, leftists and medically vulnerable people. Disabled people and allies have met the news with chagrin, as Republicans carry out the long-predicted next step in their war on medically vulnerable people appearing in public and remaining alive. Unfortunately, as Joe Biden jokes about refusing to put his mask on after a known COVID exposure, and left/labor pundits ignore the topic altogether, “allies” are few and far between. This combination of aggressive targeting and utter lack of solidarity is leaving those who rely on one-way masking to survive more at-risk than ever before.

[...]

Since it became clear (2021-22) that vaccines would not halt COVID transmission, that the virus would quickly mutate around vaccine protection, and that herd immunity would never be achieved, our government and media have worked assiduously to normalize constant reinfections and stigmatize those who object. People who suggest that it is the governments’ role to mitigate disease are painted as annoying and weak, a narrative that came directly from libertarian think tanks. Those who attempt to protect themselves in the face of harsh abandonment are painted as paranoid and mentally ill. What happened in North Carolina today is the unsurprising result of that years-long propaganda campaign. Masks are a critical tool to protect disabled people from COVID, but many people either bought into anti-mask propaganda, or do not think COVID is dangerous. For a leftist- someone who expresses belief in community care and solidarity- being unmasked doesn’t only convey the sentiment “I don’t think I can be disabled by COVID,” it also broadcasts the accusation, “I don’t believe you can be disabled by COVID.” Being unmasked while COVID spreads unmitigated is an insistence on ones’ inalienable right to expose others to COVID without their consent. Meanwhile, the latest CDC Household Pulse Survey found 17 million Americans currently living with Long COVID, and approximately 3 in 10 reporting having had Long COVID symptoms at one point. Viral persistence is currently a leading hypothesis for the development of post-COVID disease, and “persistence of SARS-CoV-2 RNA or particles in multiple tissues for prolonged periods in patients following SARS-CoV-2 infection, particularly in patients with long COVID, is now well documented.” Mounting research shows that every COVID infection significantly damages cognitive function. Research led by Dr. Akiko Iwasaki at Yale School of Medicine continues to find immune dysregulation following COVID, and studies point to a 40% increased risk of developing autoimmune conditions after COVID. And it’s long been established that COVID substantially increases your risk of heart attacks, strokes, and other cardiovascular complications.

[...]

But Democrats continue to stand behind their failed “vaccine-only” strategy (now, without vaccines!) because of the political impossibility of attempting to pivot. Plus, when you’ve had such blinding success mainstreaming far-right beliefs about illness building the immune system and public health being a personal choice, why change horses now?

[ingravinoveritas]

So al was asking ppl to ask her questions as her Fridays are so dull while her partner doing a play. Doesn't she find when she wiv michael it dull cos usually shows it or the other way round and then the bird one I found interesting cos since when have we seen Ms be protective over Al we haven't seen him speak or defend his relationship of what the journalists or ppl say about his relationship of what was said on weds where she defended it and and put a insta story about it we all know he loud but protective I think if he had to choose to protect or save someone it would be david hands down not al

What ur thoughts love to hear ur take on this

(Grouping together for ease of answering. @hyperfixating-rn-brb's Ask is referring to the last screenshot.)

So, I saw this as it was happening on Friday, and...yeah. I'm not sure what the impetus behind this random Insta AMA was (perhaps PR suggesting that Anna do something to counter her rash of recent off-putting social media posts?), but whatever the reason, choices™ were definitely made with some of (well, most of) her answers.

I think what struck me about the ones in these screenshots is how they’re lowkey insulting to Michael, but all in different ways (and not overtly, but passive-aggressively, as hyperfixating-rn-brb mentioned). It also seems odd that AL is currently in London, one of the most dynamic and attraction-filled cities imaginable, yet acting as if there is nothing to do on a Friday night. (Because Michael (and/or Georgia) aren't there to entertain her, I guess?)

Leaving that aside, the entire way this happened was just strange. A lot of the questions felt very boilerplate ("Are you currently reading anything?" "Who is your biggest inspiration?") and almost like they were planned in advance (I think at least one actually was from someone AL knows personally, IIRC), yet interspersed with enough "wacky" questions to give the impression of it being this spontaneous Q&A thing.

As for the answers in the screenshots above, I saw people on Twitter getting outraged over the "girly" question on Saturday, but predictably for all the wrong reasons. In particular, I noticed people once again blaming Michael/David shippers for it, but just from the wording alone, my feeling was that whoever sent in this question did not seem to be a shipper at all. "Girly" has a very specific, borderline homophobic connotation to it (akin to someone asking Anna if she "acts dykey" around Georgia), and while I know English is not her first language, I don't think that meaning is something AL would have missed.

So, no, it's certainly not a great or appropriate question by any means. But the bigger issue, at least in my opinion, wasn't so much "Why would someone ask this?", but rather "Why would she post this?" Because Anna is a grown woman who could have very easily just ignored this question altogether. Instead, she chose to draw attention to it, and to react in much the same way as her "vagueblogging" from the other day. It was as if the purpose in sharing it was to show people what she has to "put up with"--either from the fans or from Michael or both.

That's the other piece of this--that she shared this question with seemingly no regard for how it makes Michael look, or whether it would or could be embarrassing to him. It immediately made me think of this tweet from Michael two years ago, where he chose to answer a question in such a way as to deliberately not embarrass David (further explanation can be found here). It's something that seems so small but means so much, and that you'd think would happen effortlessly for someone you love. So the contrast of that to Anna posting this was striking to me, and it was further compounded by her answer to the "favorite bird" question.

Again, it's almost unsurprising at this point. Anna has previously made unflattering comparisons between Michael and Cousin Itt, a Hobbit, and Hagrid--among others--and now we can add a cockatiel to this list. What’s weird is that the question itself had nothing to do with Michael, so there was absolutely no reason to bring him into it...and yet. It felt like name dropping for the sake of name dropping, which just seems like a weird thing to do when she's been dating him for five years now. Did she think we forgot? That we needed a reminder? Whatever the reason, this definitely seemed like such a strange choice, and another instance of passive-aggressively putting him down under the pretense of a compliment.

(A note about the "protective" part, as I noticed that was particularly mentioned in this Ask. I would agree that there are a lot more overt/visible instances of Michael being protective of David--many of which I have talked about on my blog--than of Anna. That does not mean I don't think he is protective of her, however, but that there is a distinction between the two. It is possible to be protective of someone out of a sense of responsibility and obligation, and those are not necessarily bad things. But it's very different to being protective of someone not because you feel like you have to be protective, but because you want to be. Interpret that how you will...)

Finally, I just need to mention that one of the questions AL was asked was about Georgia ("Is Georgia secretly holding you hostage?"), and what I have hardly seen anyone talking about is that Georgia reshared that Insta story a short while later...and added a song called "I'm Trapped"...

I just...was this meant to be shady on Georgia's part? Who, exactly, is "trapped" here? The subtext and potential implications can go in so many directions here that it's hard to know where to start, but...yeah. The optics of Georgia resharing this story and adding that song in the middle of AL's Insta Q&A were and are questionable/cringey/unintentionally hilarious on multiple levels.

So yes, that is my take on the events of Friday night. As I've said before and will again, I know I could be totally off the mark here, so I'd love to hear from my followers as to what you think. Thank you for writing in! x

[petrichorium]

his eyes are what you focus on the most, in that strange set of weeks that gojo, the newly crowned king (formerly the presumed dead crown prince turned coup leader turned heir apparent), spends courting you.

for a time, you wonder if you’re as simple as the rest, as easy to please. they’re beautiful, undoubtedly; you can see why his ancestors held them to such esteem, it’s difficult not to believe they must be a sign of divinity. he hides them most of the time behind that damned black cloth or an odd adornment upon his face—a pair of circular lenses colored deep black, connected with a frame of gold, an ornate chain attached to the earpieces and hanging around his nape. yet he takes off such things when he barges into your chambers, removes the blindfold and drops the jewelry so that it dangles from his neck like the pendants he so loves gifting to you, and with the way those eyes trail you relentlessly you wonder if it’s so that he can watch you unhindered.

soon enough you realize that you like his eyes for the same reason he hides them: because they give him away.

or rather, you suppose, because they give him away to you. you’d be surprised if he were so careless with his expressions around others—he’s smart, this you know, smart and strong and capable. certainly too smart to wear his emotions on his sleeve in court as he does around you, eyes soft and adoring every time they’re cast upon you. he hasn’t a taste for subtlety or reservation, not when it comes to you or anything else he covets. greedy man, you call him one morning, when the sun’s rays shine through the curtains and cleave great fissures of light across your bed which most resolutely should not be occupied by another. his long fingers curl around your wrist and bring it to his mouth. only for you, he whispers against your pulse, lies to you with blue irises glinting and tone dripping with saccharine syrup as if he hasn't toppled a regime with the very hands he holds you with.

(or perhaps it’s not a lie, perhaps all his greed truly does lead back to you)

you like his eyes, too, because they remind you of childhood. you recall countless times where he’d tug on your hair to drag your attention from a book, your gaze going from letters to that piercing blue. he still looks at you like that now, and you think you might hold his childhood in your palms just the same as he yours. yet despite that familiarity there’s something more you like in the changes—he’s grown so monstrously large, not simply in stature, and there’s a mature air about him that compels you. he's grown, which should be unsurprising; the surprising part is that you're not altogether turned away by his adult self the way you should be.

you still remember the first time you saw him again, that horrible night, and the way that single eye had stared at you. you don’t believe it’ll ever truly leave you. crazed, bloodthirsty, entirely devoid of warmth—unrecognizable to you, the eye of a man who had lost everything and come back to reclaim what was rightfully his. you’d be lying, frankly, if you said the prospect that you were among that list didn’t send a thrill through you, even back then; lying if you claimed your breath caught at the sight of his eye out of pure fear and not something much more shameful.

(your queen had been the first to notice—or rather the first to act, for his eye upon you had been plain for all to see. she’d offered herself for you; her throat or her hand, without fight, to let you go. you remember how he’d covered up that eye once more, how his smile had dropped, and how he’d left no room for misinterpretation of his intent. you think an old hag like you is a fair trade for her? sorry, auntie, no deal. i’ll have whichever of your ladies i desire)

you, to name the lady of his desire. you still don’t know if you’re flattered by it—whether the part of you that simpers at the thought of being special to him, cherished by him, outweighs the part which resents him. it’s difficult to detangle the threads of your feelings, anger and attraction and hurt and sentiment and more all roiling within you so turbulently that you’re never sure which will be most prominent the next time you meet that piercing blue gaze. you wake up in your bed to see his sleeping body next to you and you ponder whether to run off to the east, then you surprise yourself that evening when he returns by tugging him down by his collar and pressing lips to his cheek in greeting. you’re more than conflicted and you know he’s well aware, those eyes piercing like they can see every clashing emotion.

not fear, though; never fear, you’re not all that afraid of him anymore. not when he’s so careful with how he touches you, not when looks at you like you’re the most important thing gracing the halls of his newly acquired castle. when he’s in your chambers it’s like he’s the same satoru you grew up with—the utter disregard for tradition had practically been signature, and he so adored exasperating you with it. if someone had told you back then that you’d end up years later with him courting you, the fact that he’s so bold as to spend the night with no chaperone would likely be the least surprising of the circumstances.

and perhaps you ought to be more careful, more suspicious; your teachers, your parents, they’d all tell you that you’re a fool for allowing such a man to court you. he barrels through etiquette, has no concern for modesty, throws decorum to the wind—not that one would expect anything less from a usurper. he could ruin you, just as he has left the court in ruin, should he decide that playing with you is no longer amusing and choose to cast you aside.

and it’s a frankly foolish decision to marry you, to make you queen over any of the other more eligible candidates. you are good at working the court, this is undeniable, but your talents are certainly far more suited to an advisor than a queen and your title is so very low that you’re practically ineligible—not legally, but socially. he can marry you, in technicality, but you’re practically a commoner despite how indispensable you'd made yourself to the former queen. certainly not somebody to choose in the already turbulent political landscape he’s created. he’s been crowned in the aftermath of a coup, one which he led himself—he ought to be wed to a proper match, a zen’in or a kamo to appease the families or a princess from a nearby kingdom to reforge allyship.

of course when you’d brought this up he’d merely cooed, cupped your face in a large hand and rubbed soothingly at your cheek with his thumb.

“nobody in this castle can tell me what to do,” he’d told you cheerfully. “except for my darling betrothed, of course.”

the unsaid implication there is hardly subtle—nobody can stop this union, except for you. he’d break it off if you insisted.

but… you don’t want to. you’re not sure what it is exactly. ambition, perhaps; the allure of the crown—or affection, the allure of him, because despite how you ought to feel (he’s upended your life, thrown the court into disarray, imprisoned or killed nearly a quarter of the peerage including more than a fair share of his own family members) you find yourself charmed by him; his easy smiles and his schoolboy teasing and even his incessant need to touch you despite your endless lectures on propriety. it’s likely both, to be frank with yourself.

(perhaps he’s rubbing off on you, selfish man that he is, taking what he wants without thought for what might come of it. perhaps you are looking before you and what you see is a man more devoted to you than you’d ever dreamed you might find, who also happens to be a king, and though you know it isn’t what’s best for your country it is what you want for yourself)

in the end you don your ornate wedding dress and you bind yourself to him and you don’t regret it—in fact you’re pleasantly giddy throughout the whole ordeal. you don’t think about how many men he’s cut down with the hands that take yours at the end of the ceremony, and you don’t wonder how much blood he spilled in these very halls with the same grin on his face that he gives to you now, and you don’t ruminate on the number of lives likely lost in the king’s chambers as he’d stormed it. in fact your mind is quite clear when he tears that blindfold from his face, lifts you easily with a single arm around your thighs despite the extravagance of your skirts, and carries you through those connecting rooms to the bedroom where, he swears to you against your skin, you’ll spend the rest of your nights until your dying days.

and if it weren’t he’d surely have dashed any thoughts from your head when his lips met yours, searing and fervent and hungry.

usurper!gojo masterlist

[ryuichirou]

What are your headcanons for the Twisted Wonderland cast's partner (ship or reader I dunno how you do this ^w^) coming to their room alone in a big robe/coat/jacket etc. and just drops it revealing they're nude?

Another good question that took a long time for me to answer! Had to think about this one lol

Definitely not the “x reader” thing, since we prefer ship the characters together, but based on what ship it is, some of the characters’ reaction might be different… and there is no way I’ll be able to mention all the ships that we like, but I’ll do my best to note the most obvious ones that come to mind.

Riddle would instantly get all red, turn around/cover his face and honestly either go completely silent or start yelling depending on who it is. With Trey, he’d probably be at loss for words, because to do something like this is very unlike Trey, but it’s not like Riddle hates what he saw… and if it’s Floyd, Riddle is going to yell at him lol but then again, it’s not like he hates what he saw.

Trey would actually get very surprised because to do something like this is also very unlike Riddle, but it would take him less time to compute what’s going on and act accordingly. But the shock of what just happened wouldn’t wear off even after they had sex and all – Trey is probably the one to stare at the ceiling thinking “well what the hell was that” afterwards.

With Cater it’s a bit difficult to say since we don’t have any ships with him, but he’d probably also be unprepared for this kind of surprise. But if he’s very into his partner, he’d teasingly say to him that surprises like this are cruel because they’re bad for Kei-kun’s heart~ while being obviously way too into it.

Deuce would start to stutter and be all red and confused and ask Ace what the hell is he doing and that he should cover himself. He just can’t get Ace – sometimes he seems like he isn’t into this whole thing at all, and sometimes he just moves way too fast.

Ace’s first instinct would to either make a snarky comment (to cover his own embarrassment) or to just make fun of poor Deuce, but in more successful turn of event he’ll just be left speechless or mumble some nonsense to himself quietly while staring very disrespectfully.

Leona would be a bit confused, but he won’t do anything. He’d just close his eyes, turn around and continue sleeping, maybe making a snarky comment about how freakishly skinny Ruggie is. But it would still make him think that maybe they should have sex right now… honestly, just because to do something like this is so uncharacteristic for Ruggie, that the sheer boldness of this act would affect Leona.

Ruggie’s reaction is “Huh, is it 20.30 already?” lol, he isn’t phased at all. Well, maybe a little phased, because Leona’s go-to is to just roll around lazily and say something like “what are you waiting for”, but the prince being more impatient than usual isn’t really such a big surprise.

Jack would actually get super flustered and speechless and instantly aroused no matter who his partner is lol, and he’ll also probably try to cover him with clothes and try not to stare that much. But no matter how hard he tries to be a good boy, he won’t be able to ignore this provocation altogether.

Azul would actually very confused and flustered, but then again, he’d also instantly try to save face and act as unsurprised and amused as possible. Oh, you wanted to surprise him? To confuse him, to steal the control of the situation away from him? Jokes on you, because he’s stealing it right back! And commenting on how desperate you must be to appear before him like this~ Whether it was Idia or Jamil, he’s going to regret doing it instantly lol Although Azul’s confused, flustered face was very cute.

Jade would make a surprised face but he wouldn’t be surprised even for a second. He might act surprised, embarrassed and even hurt and scandalized if he is in the mood for some drama though. He’s also going to make his potential partner regret that they’ve done it….

Floyd would get quite amused and aroused actually. And with Riddle especially, he would get so surprised by randomness and boldness of him doing something like this, that he’ll probably jump him immediately… well, or after teasing him for a couple of minutes.

Jamil’s reaction would be a weary sign and a quiet “Where are your pants, Kalim?”, in the most “can we please don’t do this” intonation possible. He is way too tired to take mental energy and try to decipher what Kalim wants from him by acting this way. It can’t be anything good, so for fuck’s sake, Kalim, just wear your pants or go take a shower already…

Kalim’s would probably say something stupid, indicating that he doesn’t fully grasp the sexual nature of what Jamil just did, but at the same time he might randomly address it and call Jamil beautiful and start undressing for some reason. Did he decide that they’re going to have sex now? Or is he joining Jamil for a swim? Your guess is as good as mine. Seducing Kalim is a chore sometimes…

With Vil it truly depends on any given situation. In theory, he doesn’t like surprises, because they tend to happen at the worst time possible. But then again, his partner is Rook, and he, first of all, is a genius of perfect timing, and second of all, is a guru of Vil’s mood. Vil also allows him to do a lot of things he wouldn’t allow to do someone else, so if Rook was to do something like this, Vil would sigh and roll his eyes at first, but then decide that it’s time for him to take a break anyway and get into a flirty mood. But sometimes Vil just skips the sigh part altogether and just stars staring at Rook with assessing gaze.

Rook is also someone who would make his partner regret doing this type of thing to him, because he’d get surprised for a second there (is it a fake surprise?) but then start showering Vil with compliments for both how he looks and how he always leaves him in awe. We’re lucky if he doesn’t start to sing. But then again, there are days when Rook just smiles quietly and grabs the naked body and tosses it on the bed aaand we know the rest.

Epel is someone who would yelp in surprise, get very red and just stare in shock without blinking. He’d stare for such a long time that his partner might want to leave (either because it’s Floyd and he got bored, or because it’s Jack and he got unsure of himself), and in that case Epel would grab his hand and ask him not to leave very desperately. He wants it, he just… didn’t expect everything to be this big…

Idia wouldn’t actually survive this. Okay he would but he would be a mess lol He’d get both flustered and pale at the same time, he’d be cold yet covered in sweat, he’d try to look away but his eyes would be focused on that thing that is an elephant in the room, so Idia is going to end up covering his face not to look at it. He also might either get speechless or start bombarding his partner with snarky comments, like an extreme stand-up version of whatever Ace was doing. He’ll talk so much… But it's a good thing that all of his potential partners are good at shutting him up.

Ortho would play along, and just how he would play along depends entirely on Ortho’s mood that day. He has seen this trope in movies a lot of times, and there are so many possible reactions! He might start acting all shy and stuttery (very fake…), and sometimes he’ll just react with confidence and start flirting back or commenting on the person’s body. With Idia, it’s definitely always the second option. With Vil, however, there could be a wide range, because he enjoys acting with him.

Lilia would blink slowly a couple of times, but wouldn’t really get surprised. He is an old man who used to be (and is still) quite popular, so it’s nothing new to him. Especially if it’s Malleus who does it: to Lilia it’s the “that needy child wants attention” thing. With Silver he might be a bit more surprised, but it’s because it’s very unusual for Silver to do something like this. But even then, with both Malleus and Silver, this is definitely going to get Lilia into a certain type of mood instantly. Wink wink

Malleus would do his amused “hoo?” thing probably lol but he’d get s bit surprised at first. If it’s Lilia who does it, he’d get surprised because Lilia doesn’t really do this type of stuff nowadays, but Malleus is happy to see Lilia being so spunky. He might tease him a bit for that. And if it’s Sebek, Malleus would get even more surprised because of his bold of a move it is (can’t really picture circumstances in which Sebek would do something so indecent…), but the sheer boldness would instantly make Malleus very interested in what Sebek tries to offer him.

Sebek would get so shocked. His reaction would be somewhat similar to Jack’s, but kind of worse in any possible way. He would get super horny instantly and stare like a maniac, but at the same time he’ll either start yelling about how indecent and vulgar it is (if it’s Silver who’s doing it…) or just become a ball of confused loud sounds (if it’s Malleus who’s doing it). He is probably someone who would be the most overwhelmed by something like this, nothing in Sebek’s life could possibly prepare him for such a thing…

And Silver… You know, Silver would probably just look at it for a moment, say “got it” and start undressing himself. He’ll just read it as a signal… Why are you like this, Silver? Does it happen to you very often? Who raised you- alright don’t answer that.

[whinlatter]

Heyyy I absolutely loooove your metas and fics and istg I've read all of them and I constantly keep reading them. Big fan, maam! Also I have a question, how do you think Ginny's family, especially each of her overprotective brothers reacted when they got to know that Harry and Ginny dated? And then broke up and the again got back together?

Thank you so so much for reading (and re-reading!!!!) all of my stuff, you absolute legend 💗💖💘

You will be unsurprised to hear that I've thought about this one a lot. The short version is: I'm Team The Weasleys Always Sort Of Knew Something Was Going On and Were Supportive (if a bit Amused). The longer version is below the cut!

(Also someone else kindly sent an ask about this a while ago, about Molly and Arthur knowing about the break-up, and I completely forgot to post my reply to that, so very sorry to that anon, and hope the too-long discussion of this Q under the cut makes up for it!)

I think there's a lot of evidence that throughout the series at least some of the Weasleys speculated something was going on or would one day go on between Harry and Ginny (especially the observant ones - Bill, Molly, Arthur, maybe even the twins, to some extent):

Ginny's historic crush on Harry in CoS is about as subtle as a brick through the window, visible both at the Burrow and at school with the Valentine, which the twins and Ron all know about (and rinse Harry for)

Ginny's romantic life is canonically the subject of some sibling speculation (see Fred and George at WWW in HBP), as are the love lives of all the siblings bar Charlie and the twins (Bill, Percy, Ron all get the sibling side-eye)

Starting in Christmas in OotP Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny begin to hang out a lot that Christmas as a foursome in ways that might invite some idle speculation about the pairings within…

By HBP, Harry does spend both the summer and Christmas holidays of 1996 either in cahoots with Ginny to tease Ron or staring at her or getting goosebumps whenever she got physically close to him (have you seen a teenage boy with a crush? Also criminally unsubtle)

When Harry and Ginny get together in HBP, I don't think Ginny would ever tell her parents or any brothers other than Ron that she's started dating Harry. But there may well have been clues her family might pick up on:

After Bill's attack by Greyback, Bill remains in the Hospital Wing. It's implied that Molly, Arthur and Fleur stay either in the castle or in Hogsmeade in the days between the attack on the Astronomy Tower and Dumbledore's funeral. Harry and Ginny are together at this point, spending all their time together with Ron and Hermione. Obviously Fleur, Molly and Arthur would be preoccupied with Bill's recovery, but I do think it would be noticeable that the trio had become a four, and that Harry and Ginny seemed much closer than they were previously - Fleur in particular I think might notice, given her affection for Harry, and likely pass on her speculation to Bill (hi sorry you got savaged by a werewolf but guess who your sister is smashing)

Many of the teachers close to Molly and Arthur (such as McGonagall and Hagrid) likely knew about Harry and Ginny (if Snape and Slughorn knew, the goodies knew too, I reckon). They would have had occasion to mention it to the family at least in passing in that interim period between the attack and the funeral (my money is on Hagrid)

At the funeral itself, Harry and Ginny sit together in public and interact quite intimately before the break up takes place (Ginny whispering in his ear, nudging him, then obviously staying sat alone together after the funeral is over). All her family are in attendance, and remain close by when the break-up happens, and likely travel back to London altogether (though I don't think they would necessarily witness the breakup or notice it happening in the moment). I think it would be clear that there was something going on between Harry and Ginny, even if it wasn't at all clear what that was

In DH, you have quite a few moments where there are even more little hints that Harry and Ginny was a bit of an open secret among the Weasleys:

In DH, Ron makes that comment about Ginny and the tattoo as they strip off in the seven Potters scene, in front of his dad, Bill, Fleur and the twins (Ginny's seen Harry shirtless because they're just very good pals, don't worry about it!)

Ok this one is a bit galaxy-brain take sleuthing on my part but during the wedding prep Molly is deliberately trying to separate the trio and convince them not to leave. She allocates the tasks and assigns them to combinations of people very deliberately. The evening after Molly corners Harry and tries to get him not to leave, she makes Harry and Ginny set the dinner table alone in the kitchen. Now, do we think Molly Weasley, Mastermind in Chief, might have put Harry and Ginny on a task together as she tries to persuade Harry not to go on the hunt... is this Molly pulling out the big guns...

At the wedding, Ginny winks at Harry in front of her entire assembled family when Muriel says she's showing too much boob (icon alert). And then Harry spends most of the reception leaning against a pillar staring at Ginny in front of her entire family. I mean, lads. You're killing me

When the DA summon the Order before the Battle in the Room of Requirement, Ginny is my petty queen has that infamous interaction with Cho over the diadem in front of the twins, showing she is giving precisely zero shits at this point

Harry and Ginny have that wordless interaction where Harry refuses to support her staying behind to fight in the battle, in front of all her family, where she at least appears to agree to go home only because Harry has said so, taking his direction over that of her family's. (I mean, we all know Ginny then tries to sneak off to fight because she's not only a petty queen but also a sneaky one but... still significant)

The big one for me is Ginny's reaction to Harry's death. She screams the loudest out of McGonagall, Hermione and Ron when she sees his body, in front of all the Weasleys and all combatants. I'm not saying this grieving war-ravaged family were thinking like huh weird that Ginny's so sad rn given the situation at hand, but I do think it was quite a telling moment for what Harry and Ginny had become by this point in the narrative

All this is to say I think many of the Weasleys might have suspected something was going on, but didn't know the full story, and have the discretion not to blame Harry for Ginny’s misery nor to pry too much after the breakup, especially when Ginny comes home from school heartbroken (which is partly why I had them trying to cheer Gin up somewhat ambiguously in think / hope - her parents can see she's extremely sad, they aren't entirely sure about why or about of the details, but I think they're attentive, loving parents who aren't stupid and might have their suspicions).

Overall, then, when Harry and Ginny get back together after the war, I think the family both sort-of suspect there's been this thing coming on between them for a while, and, while they'd perhaps be surprised by the extent of it (there is literally no chill way to say 'hey I thought of your sister as I died!'), I think Molly, Arthur and the brothers would just be happy for them, with a few jokes and 👀 comments here and there. I don’t think they’d be angry at Harry for the breakup or sincerely over-protective and territorial over Ginny. They love Harry like a brother, they'd love the idea of him being formally part of the family one day, and they trust him implicitly.

Honestly, I think it makes sense that Ron was the one who would have by far the most extreme reaction to the breakup in particular, and even his response is reasonably mature. It's worth noting that it's actually only Ron and the twins that ever openly actually discuss and try to pry/interfere in Ginny's romantic life - the twins in HBP to take the piss a bit (in a slightly slut-shamey way - 'you're going through boyfriends a bit fast, aren't you?'), and Ron both during in the infamous fight over the Dean kiss and during his angry conversations with Harry post break-up. I think this is peak big-brother-to-Ginny-but-actually-little-brother-to-everyone-else energy, playing up overprotective. I don't think Bill, being eleven years older than Gin would at any point be that interested in policing Ginny's romantic life, I think Charlie truly would notice very little and care even less. Percy's got bigger fish to fry and other issues to wrangle with after the war, not to mention a whole relationship with both Ginny and Harry to mend. I think, at most, Harry and Ginny get a bit of teasing from her brothers but that's about it (my dumb headcanon is the first time they hear Harry call Ginny 'Gin' they're like... excuse me? Who the fuck is that?) I think actually protective big brother energy, from the likes of Bill, would mean worrying about the two of them in terms of public media scrutiny, which must be relentless, and about their long-term safety from reprisal attacks more than anything else.

I also think it’s clear that Harry really doesn’t care all that much what the rest of the Weasleys think lol, and certainly doesn't fear them. He does fear the loss of Ron's friendship in HBP (wrongly, because Ron is an OG Hinny shipper), but that’s a fear specifically about Ron’s reaction, not that of his wider family. In DH, Harry’s fully about to go hold Ginny for a bit in front of Molly with zero qualms, and the two of them hold hands in the vicinity of Order members and family members twice (once entering the hospital wing in HBP, and once at the Burrow) - not an especially declaratory gesture, but one that suggests they don’t hugely fear discovery. I think both of them would accept the need to be braced for mockery but basically trust the family not to be dicks about it. The important thing to remember is that canonically Ginny Weasley can and will hex you if you step out of line