#this is not actually a plot hole to be clear

[whatinhellisgreat]

Glass seems to be the most honest of the demons.

It's only when he finally trust us that he is willing to form a pact with us.

As usual...Levi has nothing nice to say.

And we have the Ark but it's already open. Bimet thinks we are just being silly.

But then this guy is the only other thing in the room.

I don't think it's actually a baby unless...

Unless we are seriously doing a Sailor Moon plot right now...

Don't do this game...we don't need to go down that rabbit hole.

Well...I have no words. Things might clear up in the next chapter, but who knows. I'm still going to play to find out...but I can't promise it will make sense.

[thefandomexpert]

can’t wait for tigurius to beat the shit out of whoever made the decision to send the brand new primaris marine he JUST dug out of deathwatch himself on an absolute mortality mission

[buff-muffin]

People praising Oda as the most amazing author ever is genuinely so funny to me because he writes the same way i do. A damn good idea and bullshitting as he goes. "Damn that name sounds cool I'm gonna add it." "Shit I forgot to consider something, I'm gonna make a joke about it." "Hey remember that thing from chapters ago? Well I just remembered it too so I'm bringing it back." So many 'such clever foreshadowing' moments was most likely him just bringing back old shit cause he remembered it. And its genuinely so funny??? Oda doesn't even take himself seriously. He's like a living Buggy and were all his followers. 10/10 iconic.

[lord-squiggletits]

NGL I think one of my least favorite "gotchas" that I see/get while critiquing stories is "so how would you fix it? oh so you don't have an idea of how to rewrite the story to make it better? oh so basically you're just complaining that you don't like it and don't have actual critique."

Buddy.

Sometimes the reason I don't have a "solution" to how the author should've rewritten their story to be better, is because I'm not privy to the author's thought process, what their alternate story ideas were, what they talked about with their editor, what they might've been forced to do by deadlines, or even what they might've thought they were writing towards at first but then later changed the trajectory of their story to be about something else.

It's all well and good for me to say something like, idk, "I think Character A should've gotten more narrative focus because their story could have helped fix XYZ Plot Hole," but it could very well be that the author never intended for Character A to be a prominent character (just a secondary or tertiary character). Maybe using Character A to solve one Plot Hole would've gone against the writer's plans because then it would open up a different plot hole for something else they had planned later in the story. If it's an ongoing story, maybe something I see as a "plot hole" is actually a deliberate mystery that the creator left open to write about later-- or maybe the plot hole is because there was a deadline crunch and the author had to drop a certain character/plot point/etc because they couldn't fit it into the story any more. Maybe having Character A be a more prominent part of the story is just based on MY personal tastes and what I would want to write in MY version of the story, but completely clashes with the characters/conflicts the author wanted to focus on.

Because yes, there are some story critiques that are as simple as "part A doesn't make sense, you could just fix it by doing B", but there are also some story critiques where suggesting a viable "solution" would require BEING the author or someone involved in the production of the story to understand what limitations or plans were involved in the selection of that flawed plot point. There are also some story critiques where even if there is a "problem" and my critique offers a "solution," there could be another "solution" or even dozens that do just as good of a job fixing the issue, but involve vastly different characters, plot ideas, so on and so forth.

Being a good critic isn't (just) about going "the story would've been better if X happened" because the story is ultimately in control of the author and their vision, and without knowing what the author's vision was (something that you almost exclusively know if you're 1. the author or 2. their beta reader), it's impossible to definitively say "this plot point should've been cut/[completely different thing] should've happened instead" because THAT is the point at which you're complaining, not critiquing. I would argue that in some cases, trying to "fix" a story yourself actually makes your critique worse, not better, because it ends up being a case of you simply imposing your artistic vision over the author's to say "I think it would've been better this way."

At least if you just say "this part of the story was flawed because XYZ" without saying "it should have been ABC instead", then you're stating your grievances with the story without being presumptuous enough to assume that YOUR version of the story would fit the author's original vision, or the constraints they were working under, or the other versions of the story that they were debating over at the time before ultimately settling on one version (even if flawed).

There's a point at which "this plot is flawed, that should've happened instead" is just fix-it fan fiction and not actual critique that could help the writer write their story in a way that fits their vision.

[legendary-cookies]

Well in Ovenbreak it doesn't show Princess and Tiger Lily as family in relationship chart even though they're canonly sisters.

Ohh that's a good point

And they technically didn't reveal that until Kingdom (I think?)

I'm pretty sure they hinted at it somewhere, but it wasn't expressly canon until Kingdom

I think

So maybe it is just for dramatic effect and they'll reveal it later lmao

I'm still waiting impatiently for that Wind update so you never know

[immobiliter]

so it's not entirely clear how many of focalors' memories furina actually retained once she was separated from her divine self, and there are two pieces of evidence to suggest that she has very few, if any at all — firstly, that when neuvillette quizzes her about egeria and the stone slates at the start of act 5, she genuinely seems to know nothing about egeria or the nature of the sin that she committed against celestia ( she had no reason to really lie to neuvillette at that point, especially as this is in the aftermath of poisson and the final straw for him to put her on trial to get some answers ), where we in fact know that focalors was one of egeria's oceanid familiars, wanted to be human herself and was her successor after egeria perished during the cataclysm, and second, that focalors specifically describes to neuvillette that when she separated her divine and human selves, she "left behind only a self that was as naive and bewildered as my past self on her first day as a human being."

but furina does have the knowledge of the prophecy before focalors explains it to her more fully in the mirror, saying that it's in her head but she doesn't know why. so, in trying to reconcile all of this, i lean towards the idea that focalors left behind certain vague memories, the two key ones being that of the prophecy and an understanding that she needed to bring the hydro sovereign to the court of fontaine, but without any context in order to preserve the idea that, for the most part, furina was operating completely in the dark in terms of focalors' plan

so furina enters into her position as hydro archon with considerable gaps in her memory ( and, due to being a human with an unnaturally elongated life span rather than being a species or divine creature who is naturally long lived, has memory issues later down the line, but that's a separate meta ), and, as a result, she does an incredible amount of research into the archons, celestia and her role in teyvat. i don't think it was a coincidence or just a fun joke that, in her demo, furina imitates all of the other archons we'd met up until that point — she confesses to the traveler before her trial that at one point she had agents all over teyvat and i think some of this was intelligence gathering concerning how archons governed in other nations. furina became archon in the immediate aftermath of the cataclysm and the death of fontaine's previous archon without any memories of focalors' life as egeria's confidante and familiar, so was already at a huge disadvantage in those early years of her rule

[crownin-thestars]

I just realised the reason why it's so hard for me to figure out how to write the bad boys hogwarts au is because Harry Potter has like the shittest world building. Like I love Harry Potter but holy crap the amount of problems there are in it's entirety

[b-rainlet]

'Mike Flanagan stop being a coward and make a movie about child abuse actually about child abuse' challenge

[snailmailmp3]

i feel like a lot of (but by no means all) criticism of homestuck's writing can be boiled down to attributing views expressed/actions taken by the characters as being endorsed by the comic.

and when i say "endorsed" i don't necessarily mean that these ppl think that the comic is saying that these positions are "good" bc most do not in my experience; i mean people thinking, for example, that the comic presents terezi's instructions for john's retcon as the only (or at least the most) correct way to fix everything that had gone wrong in the game over timeline. if you want to read it that way you can but imo it's more enjoyable and rewarding to think about what her motivations and feelings were in that specific moment than to just dismiss it out of hand

[o-wild-west-wind]

The more I think about it, I actually REALLY like the choice in the Wicked movie to alter Elphaba and Fiyero’s introduction and to switch Avaric (I think?) from a human to a sentient Horse—because it adds the tiiiiniest bit of insight and foreshadowing into Fiyero’s character and his subsequent relationship with Elphaba.

Not only does it soften their introduction, but it also establishes him as someone who—while clearly seeing himself as superior in terms of rank—still views Animals as fellow people. He and the Horse have banter and camaraderie, and Fiyero explicitly uses “we” instead of “I.” He makes it clear that they’re both fully present with Elphaba in the scene.

That helps fill in the arguable plot hole of why Elphaba spares him (and not also Glinda) in the lion cub scene—he’s already established as someone who respects Animal autonomy in at least some capacity, and who she can reasonably trust to “get” the problem with Animal subjugation (something that Glinda, while just having proven her empathy for Elphaba specifically, hasn’t genuinely shown herself to understand yet). IMO, it subtly helps establish Elphaba and Fiyero’s relationship as one borne of political allyship (something that was really only subtextual in the stage show)—which is also part of why Glinda’s relationships with the both of them are tragically and inextricably doomed by the narrative.

anyway. we stan one (1) woke bisexual winkie prince

[spencerreidenjoyer]

giddy up | spencer reid x reader

Spencer gets shot in the leg. You help him feel better about it.

wc: 1.7k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: s5/jesus hair reid, established r/s, reader and spencer are both switches, riding, grinding, frottage, porn without plot, fluff and smut actually

a/n: was thinking about writing jesus reid/crutches reid for a long time and this was the only thing that came to mind. I am only a little sorry about it. (also find this fic on ao3!)

Of all the things Spencer could complain about after having been shot in the leg, not being able to fuck you properly is something you definitely did not consider.

You’d been worried sick when Penelope had called you, when Spencer had woken up after surgery. You were the first person he’d called for.

No unnecessary pressure on the leg, the doctor had said. Spencer was to use crutches at all times until the doctor cleared him. You don’t remember the rest of the doctor’s instructions, at least not now, when Spencer’s doing much better. He’s just been cleared to walk off his crutches, but he still has a slight limp in his step and starts to wince when he’s on his feet for too long. He hasn’t healed completely, but it’s enough to put you at ease being around Spencer, not having to worry excessively about him. 

While you know he’s grateful to have only gotten shot in the leg and not somewhere more risky, Spencer’s got a mouth on him, which leads you to where you are right now:

“I’m so tired of not being able to fuck you,” Spencer groans. 

You’re lounging in bed with him when he says this, and you whip your head around to look at him, shocked at his sudden admission. “Damn. What’s the matter, baby?”

“I just–” Spencer huffs in the middle of his sentence, like he needs to find the right words. It blows his hair out of his face. It’s cute, but what he says next is filthy in comparison: “I miss fucking you. Properly. Not just handjobs.”

“I thought you liked my handjobs, babe.” You pout, pretending to seem upset. “And my mouth.”

“I do!” Spencer is quick to correct you, insisting, “I like all of that, but it just doesn’t feel the same.”

“As to when you’re buried inside of me?” You whisper, resting your hand on his chest, giggling when Spencer turns red. While he was no longer the innocent, virginal nerd you’d met him as, sex talk still flusters him from time to time, and you love to fluster him.

“Baby,” Spencer whines at your teasing. “I’m serious. I miss making you feel good too.”

“You’re good with your hands, though,” you swoon, mind drifting. “And your mouth. Really good with your mouth.”

You think about Spencer asking you to sit on his face for the first time. Neither of you were exactly used to the position, Spencer typically preferring to be between your legs when he went down on you. But the way his tongue was expertly flicking at your clit, slipping into your hole, making you feel so good until you were making a mess of his face, your slick everywhere–

“Hey, focus.” Spencer taps your cheek, and you puff your cheeks. “I want you to feel good too.”

“I know, pretty,” you hum, letting your thumb trace his jaw. “I think I have an idea.”

Spencer quirks a brow in attentive curiosity. You, getting up from laying next to him, swing your leg across his hips. You sit down squarely on his crotch. 

Spencer’s eyes widen. “O-Oh.”

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” you coo. Spencer nods hurriedly. 

Spencer looks up at you with wide eyes, roaming all over your body but unable to leave it. He watches you roll your hips into his crotch. He lets out a pitiful whine. You feel him hardening between your legs already. You grind against him like this, solely intent on working him up. You know this kind of pressure isn’t enough for Spencer, pleasure dulled between layers of fabric, so you aren’t surprised when Spencer asks, “More, please?”

You smile. “Poor thing.”

“Please, darling,” he exhales. 

“Okay,” you hum, climbing off of him so you can get your shorts and underwear off. His eyes are so big as he stares at you, all of you, like he’s still surprised that he gets to see you undress. You laugh, and snake your hands into the waistband of his pyjama pants. You push them down, until his hard cock springs up, bobbing against his stomach. You meet Spencer’s gaze, before pressing your cunt to his cock.

You both gasp, feeling each other’s warmth. You’re so wet you know you must be making a mess of Spencer right about now. You don’t slip him inside of you just yet, instead grinding your bare pussy against Spencer’s length. You can’t imagine how it feels for him, but you see the way his face is scrunched up in pleasure – what you’re giving him is not entirely enough. You know he misses sinking into your wet heat, and you’re just giving him a taster, sliding his cock along your slick folds, pressed against your leaking hole.

“Spencer,” you moan, rocking your hips harder. It feels so good, Spencer’s hardness against your cunt, the tip of his cock nudging at your clit every time you press your hips down. It’s too much yet not enough, both you and Spencer needing that sweet relief, the feeling of his cock pressing into you. Still, you want to drag it out for him, and you grind your pussy against him some more. “You feel so good, baby.”

“It would feel better if you let me fuck you, darling,” Spencer grunts with gritted teeth. You can tell he’s desperate, his hands antsy by his sides, nails digging into his palms. 

“Mm, not yet,” you hum, feeling a little bratty, enjoying the feeling of building tension, growing arousal between the two of you, between your legs. It’s heaven grinding against Spencer like this.

And maybe you’re too wet, or Spencer is too convincing, because by some act of God, when you roll your hips down against him again, the head of his cock is breaching your entrance, and you moan when you feel his tip pressed inside of you. “Oh–!”

“Fuck,” Spencer moans, long and drawn-out. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

You can’t blame him, since you’d put a stop to sex with Spencer as he recovered. You’d only started giving him handjobs and blowjobs once you were sure an orgasm wouldn’t break him – “I promise an orgasm won’t hurt. It’ll be fine. I’m a doctor.” “You’re not a medical doctor, idiot.” – even then, penetrative sex was off the table.

Until now, as Spencer’s cock pushes deeper inside of you, and the rolling of your hips only serves to remind you just how good Spencer feels. You’ve missed this, his thick cock pressed inside of you, splitting you in half, filling you up until you don’t know anything other than his name. 

“Spence,” you whine. “Feels good.”

“I know, darling,” Spencer groans. “You feel tighter than I remember. Wetter too.” 

He sounds so nonchalant saying these things, and that only serves to drive you more insane. When did he get so confident, so cocky? You want to say something witty but you can’t find the words. Spencer just continues, almost bored to the untrained ear, but you know Spencer’s barely keeping himself together, “So, are you going to ride me or not?”

You grumble, your thighs flexing as you push yourself up, shifting from a rolling, grinding motion to bounce on Spencer’s cock instead. You don’t think you’ve done this before with Spencer, always content letting him get on top, so the new angle makes the both of you a little crazy. He moans, and so do you.

Like this, Spencer’s cock fucks you deeper, harder, the weight of your bouncing thrusts driving him into you until you feel positively ruined. You cry out, desperate, “Spence– Oh, Spencer, oh my God–”

“You’re riding me so well, darling,” Spencer says in awe, slack-jawed. His large hands come to hold your waist, feeling you bounce on his cock, helping you with the laborious movements. “You look so fucking hot right now.”

You whine, thighs already feeling the burn, but the way Spencer’s using your weight to fuck you down onto his cock has you feeling lightheaded. You think you like the feeling, being pushed around like a warm, wet fleshlight for Spencer to fuck into. “Spence, so deep–”

“I want to fuck you so badly right now, my love,” Spencer groans. You feel his hips bucking up into you slightly, right when he pulls your ass down against him, but you know his movements are restricted because of his leg. Still, his desperation to bury himself into you is wild, and your head spins. “But I can’t, and you’re doing so good fucking yourself on my cock.”

You tremble, using all your strength to fuck yourself on his cock, sobbing because you just feel that good. Spencer’s filthy words and the intensity of it all has you weak, and you wish Spencer could just flip you over and finish the job.

“Come on, darling,” Spencer encourages, his hands squeezing your ass and your thighs. It makes you feel wanted, a desperate Spencer’s way of feeling you. “I’m so close too. You’re doing so good.”

“Spencer-!” You sob, clenching around him as you come, your orgasm wracking through your body like electricity in your veins. It’s so good, too good like this, Spencer pressed up inside you like he could split you in half. 

You’re frozen as you feel him inside, his cock twitching as he blows his load. It’s warm and wet and sticky, as you feel it drip out of you. You almost can’t believe it, feeling Spencer buried to the hilt of you after months, and you wonder why it hadn’t occurred to either of you to do this sooner. 

You whimper as your emotions rush over you, and Spencer is quick to pull you close, his lips pressed to the top of your head. “That was crazy. You’re amazing. And perfect. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say, still a little breathless. “We should do that more.”

“Until my leg is better? Then I can fuck you the way you want,” Spencer soothes, his hand petting your hair, and that certainly sounds like a good idea.

“Yeah. But we should also just do that again some time,” you giggle, resting your head on his chest. You feel his heart pounding under your ear. “I like riding you.”

Spencer laughs heartily, a warm sound that is like music to your ears. “Giddy up, cowgirl.”

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Get Me Out of Here || Rook Hunt

You’re isekai’d into a trashy novel and stuck as a tragic side knight character. All you want is survival, but your boss is Rook Hunt—a poetic, eccentric duke.

Now you’re caught in his chaos and, worse, you kinda don’t mind.

Series Masterlist

You’re a completely normal person. You eat normal meals at normal times, sleep the normal amount of hours (give or take a few, who needs all eight anyway?), and hold down a regular, soul-crushingly normal job. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills and lets you indulge in your one true love: reading web novels for five hours straight like some kind of feral literature goblin.

Your current obsession? The Lady’s Tragic Love. It’s the sort of story that you can’t put down—not because it’s good, but because it’s so excruciatingly terrible that it loops back around into comedy. The heroine has all the personality of a wet tissue but somehow manages to ruin everyone’s lives with reckless abandon. It’s almost impressive.

You rub your temples as you skim yet another chapter. “Oh my God, this woman has the moral compass of a black hole,” you mutter.

The plot makes less sense the deeper you go: the heroine starts off as the daughter of a down-on-their-luck noble family. Her father racks up an unholy amount of debt, so she’s forced to marry a viscount who—get this—is actually a nice guy. Like, genuinely kind. He agrees to marry her in name only to protect her from debt collectors, even offering to fund her hobbies.

And what does she do? Poison him. Poison him!

"Okay, maybe she's misunderstood," you think, in the kind of delusional optimism only a web novel enthusiast can muster.

Nope. She poisons him because she "can’t stand looking at his face," which is only mildly unattractive and not the ogre-like monstrosity the text implies. Also, he was literally helping her stay alive.

“Oh, sure, let’s kill the only decent male character in this hellscape. Why not?” you hiss, scrolling furiously.

After committing literal murder, the heroine sets her sights on an archduke, who is tall, handsome, and very much engaged to the so-called villainess. The villainess is stunning, kind, intelligent, and inexplicably hated by everyone because—checks notes—she’s too perfect?

At this point, you're gripping your phone so hard that it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in half. “Why is the villainess the villain? This should be the heroine’s title! She’s practically speedrunning how to be the worst human being alive!”

But no, the heroine gets rewarded for her nonsense. The archduke doesn’t fall for her (because he has taste), but the crown prince does. The prince, apparently a sucker for chaos, marries her. Instead of being happy with her new title and riches, the heroine spends her days scheming to ruin the villainess’s life because, in her words, “How dare the archduke choose someone that isn’t me?”

You pause and reread that line. Then reread it again.

“WHAT?!” you yell so loudly that your downstairs neighbor bangs on the ceiling.

It’s a spiral of nonsense that drags you through emotional whiplash until you finish the last chapter with a migraine and a full-blown existential crisis. You stare at the screen. "Why...why did I do this to myself?"

You stumble out to your tiny balcony to clear your head, phone still in hand. The cool night air washes over you as you lean on the railing, your brain buzzing with rage and confusion.

“Why does she get a happy ending?” you grumble. “She’s a walking red flag factory! The villainess deserves to be queen, and the prince deserves a lobotomy for his taste in women!”

In your frustration, you kick the balcony railing. Unfortunately, your landlord hasn’t exactly been diligent about repairs. The rusted screws holding it in place give way with a terrifying screech.

“Oh, come on,” you say, deadpan, as the railing collapses beneath you.

You plummet ten stories down, bouncing off an awning like some kind of cartoon character before landing face-first in a suspiciously placed fruit cart.

As darkness creeps in, your final thought is not of regret, nor fear, but of pure, unfiltered pettiness:

“I hope my next life is more exciting… and I never have to read about this heroine again.”

With that, you pass out, blissfully unaware of the absurd fate that awaits you.

You wake up, groggy and disoriented, and immediately ask yourself the first logical question: Why the hell am I alive?

The last thing you remember is gravity betraying you and a suspiciously convenient fruit cart breaking your fall. But when you sit up and look around, it’s very clear you’re not in your crappy apartment anymore. For starters, this place is way too clean, smells faintly of vanilla, and—oh, is that sunlight streaming through those beautiful glass windows? Not the dim, depressing flicker of the streetlight outside your old place?

Something is very wrong.

You scramble out of the bed, which is definitely not your rickety twin-sized monstrosity held together with duct tape and misplaced hope, and start poking around. The furniture is elegant, the carpet is plush, and there’s an oil painting on the wall that practically screams, Welcome to Generic Medieval Europe™!

The realization slams into you with all the subtlety of a freight train: You’re in that garbage web novel.

You pause, frozen, your brain throwing up a million red flags at once. Your knees almost buckle. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. This is some kind of cosmic punishment," you whisper to yourself, clutching your temples.

You creep towards the ornate mirror on the other side of the room, your reflection getting clearer with every step. “Please,” you mutter, “if there’s a single merciful entity out there, don’t let me be the heroine. Or the villainess. Or, God forbid, one of the male leads.”

You finally reach the mirror, squeeze your eyes shut, then crack one open. And there you are: just some random face.

“Oh, thank God,” you exhale, slumping against the wall. You’re not the heroine. You’re not the villainess. You’re not one of the tragic walking disasters that make up the main cast. You're just… some person. A total nobody.

But just as you’re about to bust out your victory dance of mediocrity, something catches your eye. You lean closer, squinting.

Wait.

No.

NO.

You’re that nobody.

You’re the tragic commoner knight who gets blackmailed by the heroine, coerced into doing her dirty work, and ends up assassinating the villainess for her. The same commoner knight who dies in three chapters because the heroine throws them under the bus as soon as the villainess's fiancé finds out what happened.

You stagger back from the mirror like it’s cursed. “Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. I did not reincarnate into this medieval soap opera just to get unalived in the dumbest way possible,” you say, pacing the room like a lunatic.

Your character’s life flashes before your eyes: the abusive father, the crippling family loyalty, the gambling debts. This poor soul had it rough even before getting turned into the heroine’s personal murder minion. And you? You’re not about to pick up that torch.

So you grab some parchment and pen what might be the most passive-aggressive resignation letter of all time.

“To Her Highness, the Crown Princess,

Kindly do your own dirty work from now on. My father can gamble himself into oblivion. I’m out. Good luck with your reign or whatever.”

Satisfied, you sign it with an unnecessarily large flourish, slap it on the desk, and prepare to bounce.

You’re halfway down the hall when you almost walk face-first into him.

Rook Hunt, the walking embodiment of “this guy doesn’t belong in this novel but here he is anyway,” stands there with his golden hair and overly dramatic smile. He’s loud. He’s eccentric. He’s dressed like he’s about to break into a musical number about the beauty of life. Oh, and he’s also the duke whose household you served in as a knight before you quit.

“Mon ami!” he exclaims, throwing his arms wide like you’re long-lost lovers. “You’ve returned to me! What an exquisite twist of fate! Shall we celebrate the beauty of reunion?”

“No,” you say flatly. You attempt to sidestep him, but Rook doesn’t just let things go.

“You cannot leave me again! Do you not wish to resume your role as my loyal knight?”

“Absolutely not,” you snap on instinct, because why on earth would you willingly dive back into this mess? But then it hits you. Wait.

Rook isn’t part of the main plot. He’s not the crown prince, not the archduke, not the villain, and definitely not one of the doomed love interests. He’s just… there. A minor character. A colorful extra who pops up to sprinkle poetic nonsense into the plot and then wanders offstage.

Your brain kicks into overdrive. If you stick with him, you’ll be close enough to the action to keep tabs but far enough to avoid the heroine’s nonsense. Plus, salary. And minor characters like him rarely die!

Your decision solidifies. You plaster on a winning smile and nod. “Actually, on second thought, yeah. Let’s do that.”

“Magnifique!” Rook practically beams as he grabs your arm. “Come, let us bask in the splendor of returning home!”

You follow him, letting his endless stream of poetic babble wash over you. Is this the best plan? Probably not. But it beats getting murdered for a heroine who couldn’t find her moral compass with both hands and a map.

You make it back to the duke’s grand estate—because of course it’s grand. Every aristocrat in this godforsaken novel seems to have a mansion the size of a small country. Rook practically floats through the gates, his dramatic energy causing every passing servant to give him the “not again” look. You follow, still trying to process the reality of your current situation.

After an unnecessarily flowery tour of the place (you’ve been here before in this body, but you let him talk because it’s easier than interrupting), he finally stops in the courtyard. He turns to you, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Now, mon chevalier, reclaim your rightful position as my trusted bodyguard!” he declares, flinging his arms wide as if inviting the heavens to applaud him.

You blink. “…Respectfully, sir, why do you need a bodyguard?”

He pauses, staring at you like you just asked why water is wet. Then, with an infuriatingly serene smile, he says, “Ah, but the shadows are filled with secrets, my dear knight! The beauty of life is in its mysteries, n’est-ce pas?”

You squint at him. “Okay, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because the wolves, mon ami. The wolves.”

You freeze. “…What wolves?”

Rook straightens up, tilting his head as if contemplating the meaning of the universe. “Ah, they are everywhere and nowhere. In the forests, in the halls, in the hearts of men. Who can say where danger truly lies?”

This man just said a whole lot of words without saying anything.

“Right,” you say slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “But you’re, like, ridiculously strong. I’m pretty sure you could take on any wolf—metaphorical or not—by yourself.”

“Ah, mon chevalier,” he says with a wistful sigh, placing a hand on his chest like he’s reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy. “Strength alone cannot protect one from the unexpected, the unseen, the poetry of peril!”

You stare at him, trying to figure out if this is some sort of elaborate prank. But no. This man is completely serious.

“So… wolves. Poetry of peril. Got it,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I’ll, uh, just… go patrol or something, I guess.”

Rook claps his hands together, beaming. “Ah, magnifique! I knew you would understand! Truly, you are a gem among knights!”

You slink off, still scratching your head. You’re 90% sure the wolves are a metaphor for absolutely nothing, but who are you to question the logic of a trash novel? At least the pay is good.

You quickly realize this trash novel is trying to trash you right back. It’s like every corner you turn, fate has decided you don’t deserve a peaceful life.

Walking through the garden to calm your nerves? Someone leaps out of the hedges with a dagger. You narrowly dodge, trip over a decorative fountain, and the attacker runs off, cackling.

Trying to enjoy the roses because you’re starting to think, “Hey, if I gotta die, at least let it be aesthetic?” Nope, arrow. Right past your ear.

By the fifth assassination attempt (some guy “accidentally” dropping a potted plant from a balcony), it clicks. The heroine must’ve decided since you’re not doing her dirty work anymore, she needs to eliminate you before you spill the beans. But, unlike her, you have brains.

So, you write a letter.

Dear Villainess and Esteemed Archduke,

I hope this letter finds you well, though considering the general chaos surrounding us, that feels optimistic.

I am writing to inform you of an unfortunate situation involving a certain someone (cough the crown princess cough) who has, shall we say, less-than-noble intentions toward your continued existence.

To clarify: she asked me to assassinate you. I know, shocking. However, as someone who values integrity, personal safety, and not being murdered by shady royalty, I’ve decided to step down from my position as her unwilling assassin.

This does mean she may hire someone else to handle the job, which is unfortunate for you but also none of my business anymore. I’m not sure how you typically handle murder plots, but I suggest taking precautions, like perhaps not smelling your roses or standing under precariously placed flower pots.

Lastly, while I am admittedly a pawn in this chaotic mess, I felt it was only fair to let you know what’s going on. I wish you both a long, unassassinated life.

Warm regards,

Your Local Retired Assassin

P.S. Please don’t kill me. I’m just the messenger.

You thought this letter would buy you peace. Instead, it bought you an invitation.

And by “invitation,” you mean you’ve been dragged into a private meeting with the villainess and the archduke, who are both sitting across from you now, looking like they’re deciding whether to thank you or strangle you.

“So,” the villainess says, her voice like ice. “You’re telling me the crown princess is plotting to kill me?”

“Uh, yes,” you say, your palms sweating. “But, like, not me anymore! I’ve retired. Permanently.”

The archduke raises an eyebrow. “Why would she want to kill us?”

You glance at the villainess. “Uh… because you exist?”

Before the villainess can stab you (she looks ready), the door swings open, and in saunters Rook.

“Ah, my friends!” he says, grinning ear to ear. “How serendipitous that we are all here. I believe I can shed some light on this matter.”

You gape as Rook launches into a detailed explanation of the heroine’s convoluted scheme—exactly what she’s planning, who she’s hiring, and even the color of the dress she’ll wear while gloating about it.

The villainess and the archduke exchange a glance, then rise, thanking Rook for his “invaluable insight” before sweeping out of the room, leaving you and Rook alone.

You turn to him, your jaw still on the floor. “How do you even know all that?”

Rook just winks at you. “Ah, mon chevalier, the shadows have ears, and I am their maestro.”

He struts out, humming a jaunty tune, leaving you sitting there, more confused than ever. At this point, you’re half-convinced Rook is either a genius or just making stuff up as he goes. And honestly? You’re too tired to figure it out.

You’re stationed at the edge of the garden, trying your best to blend into the scenery while the tea party unfolds. Rook, as usual, is the life of the gathering, passionately chatting with Vil and Epel, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You’re in your usual "bodyguard mode," which mostly consists of staring off into the distance and trying not to fall asleep. It’s peaceful—for once—until Epel casually drops a comment loud enough for even you to hear.

"Rook, you finally got them back, huh?"

Your brain screeches to a halt.

Got you back? Back? What does that mean? What is there to get back? Was there something to get back in the first place?

You barely have time to process any of this before Rook, in the most Rook way possible, interrupts with a flurry of poetic nonsense.

“Ah, young Epel, the winds of fortune have indeed graced me with their bounteous song! But let us not dwell on the past, for the present blooms before us like a radiant garden of opportunity!”

You blink. Did… did that mean anything? Epel seems to think it doesn’t, judging by the way he rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath. But you’re too busy processing the odd look on Rook’s face to care.

Because, for the first time ever, Rook looks nervous.

His usual serene confidence is still there, but there’s a hint of something else—a faint pink dusting his cheeks, an almost imperceptible shift in his tone. And why the hell is your heart fluttering at the sight?

You squint at him, trying to decode whatever is happening here. Is he… embarrassed? Flustered? Can Rook even be flustered?

Before you can spiral further into overthinking, you notice Vil’s sharp gaze cutting through the moment like a knife. His violet eyes lock onto yours, and an infuriatingly amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Oh no. He knows.

Vil, of course, pretends like nothing’s happening, smoothly pouring himself another cup of tea and joining the conversation like the consummate aristocrat he is. But every so often, you catch him glancing at you with that same entertained expression, like he’s just discovered a juicy secret.

You try to shake it off, refusing to let yourself be dragged into this nonsense. But Rook’s flushed face lingers in your mind, and every time he smiles at you for the rest of the party, you feel the heat creeping up your own cheeks.

Great. Just great. Whatever this is, it’s going to haunt you for days.

It started with an uproar in the palace—a desperate, urgent call for help sent to Rook, Duke of Hunt.

"The wolves are attacking!"

You were mid-sword practice when the messenger arrived, breathless and frantic. He handed the summons to Rook, who took the parchment with an amused smile.

"Wolves, you say?" he mused, tapping his chin dramatically.

"Yes, my lord!" The messenger practically collapsed from the effort of delivering the message. "They’ve breached the outer gardens, and the prince and heroine request your immediate assistance!"

Rook looked at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ah, mon chevalier, do you recall what I told you once about wolves?"

You blinked, frowning. "You mean the thing about being surrounded by wolves one day? I thought you were joking."

Rook’s grin widened. "Oh, I never jest about wolves."

You opened your mouth to demand clarification, but Rook waved the parchment dismissively. "Alas, I must decline."

The messenger froze. "W-What? But…you’re the Duke of Hunt! The greatest tracker and marksman in the kingdom! Without you, the palace is doomed!"

Rook leaned forward conspiratorially. "Tell me, mon ami, what makes you think I’d risk life and limb for the likes of the heroine and her precious prince?"

The messenger stammered. "B-But—"

Rook held up a hand, silencing him. "No, no. I simply cannot. My schedule is far too packed. Why, just this morning, I promised my chevalier here that I’d help reorganize their weapons rack." He turned to you with a wink. "Isn’t that right?"

You rolled your eyes but nodded. "Yep. Super busy."

The messenger left, looking utterly defeated. You figured that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Over the next two hours, messengers kept arriving, each more desperate than the last. Rook refused them all with increasing flamboyance.

One messenger was sent away with, "Alas, the stars are not in alignment for such a hunt!"

Another was dismissed with, "The winds whisper that this is not my destiny today."

Finally, a personal plea came from the heroine herself. She barged into the estate, dramatically throwing herself at Rook’s feet.

"Oh, noble Duke!" she wailed. "You are the only one who can save us! Please, I beg of you!"

Rook tilted his head, pretending to think it over. Then he glanced at you, his expression suddenly sharp beneath the veneer of cheer.

"And what of my chevalier?" he asked.

The heroine frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You’ve made quite a nuisance of yourself lately," Rook said lightly, though there was an edge to his voice. "Why, only yesterday, you sent someone to ambush them in the gardens, did you not?"

Her face paled.

"I might reconsider," Rook said, his tone taking on a singsong quality, "if you promise to leave them alone from now on."

There was a long, tense pause. The heroine’s expression flickered between rage and fear before she finally forced a smile. "Very well. I promise."

"Splendid!" Rook clapped his hands and stood. "To the hunt, then!"

You stood there in stunned silence as he walked out the door, bow in hand. When he turned back to flash you a grin, you couldn’t help but mutter, "What the hell just happened?"

Rook’s laugh echoed through the halls, and you were left wondering yet again if you’d ever fully understand this ridiculous man.

It’s payday, baby.

You’ve never been more excited to hold a pouch of jingling coins in your life. Your day off couldn’t have come at a better time, and you’ve already decided to treat yourself. No assassination attempts, no cryptic poetry, no Rook yammering about beauty—just you, the market, and sweet, sweet retail therapy.

After wandering for a while, you stumble upon a fruit stall, and your eyes light up. The produce is incredible—vividly colored, juicy, and nothing like the waxy, suspiciously glossy stuff you’d get in your original world. You don’t even know what half these fruits are, but they smell amazing, and you’re buying them all.

As you carry your haul back to the manor, an idea hits you like a freight train. You’ve been craving dessert—specifically, something you can’t get in medieval Europe. Something simple, sweet, and utterly anachronistic.

And that’s how you end up in the kitchen, surrounded by fresh fruit, flour, sugar, and whatever else you’ve managed to scrounge up. You’re determined to make crêpes. Yes, you know they weren’t invented yet, but the cooks don’t even seem to know what a waffle is, so they’re not going to stop you.

It takes a bit of trial and error—because, shocker, medieval kitchens are not equipped for finesse—but eventually, you’ve got a plate of soft, golden crêpes filled with fresh fruit and drizzled with honey. It’s so beautiful it almost brings a tear to your eye.

You’re mid-bite, mentally congratulating yourself, when Rook materializes out of nowhere like some kind of dessert-seeking missile.

“Mon chevalier! What marvel have you crafted here in this humble kitchen? The scent alone rivals the sweetest perfume!”

You freeze. This is fine. He’s just curious. There’s no reason to panic. Subconsciously, you scoop up a bite on your fork and offer it to him, your body on autopilot.

Rook doesn’t hesitate, leaning in and accepting the bite with the elegance of a prince at court. “Magnifique! Truly, you have woven magic into this creation, mon cher!”

You relax slightly, pride swelling at the compliment—until he takes your hand and licks a stray drop of honey from your finger.

Your brain short-circuits.

Before you can even form a coherent thought, Rook grins at you with that infuriatingly charming smile of his, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek.

“You are as talented in the kitchen as you are with a blade,” he says, his voice warm and soft, as if he hasn’t just dismantled your sanity.

And then he’s gone, striding out of the kitchen with his usual jaunty step, leaving you standing there like an idiot, replaying the sensation of his lips on your cheek and his tongue on your finger.

You slowly sink to the floor, crêpe in hand, trying to process what just happened.

“Why,” you mutter to yourself, taking another bite of your crêpe for courage, “does this keep happening to me?”

Life had been…dare you say it, pleasant recently. No assassination attempts, no tea parties and no surprise arrows whizzing by your head. You were almost convinced this world might not be so bad after all.

But like clockwork, the plot reared its ugly head.

You were outside, basking in the rare serenity of a quiet afternoon, when the shouting began. You knew the voice instantly. It was grating, furious, and way too familiar.

Your abusive father—the original you’s deadbeat excuse for a parent—had somehow crawled out of the woodwork.

“You useless brat!” he snarled, stomping toward you. “How dare you stop sending money? Do you think you’re too good for your family now?!”

Oh, for the love of—

You crossed your arms, already done with the theatrics. “First of all, family implies mutual care and respect, neither of which you’ve ever provided. Secondly, kiss my ass.”

The man’s face turned a deep shade of purple, veins bulging in his forehead. He raised his hand, and you didn’t flinch. You weren’t scared of him. You were just irritated that he had the audacity to show up and ruin your vibe.

But before his hand could even swing down, an arrow whizzed past, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It nicked his cheek, leaving a shallow cut, and he yelped like a scolded dog.

You turned, and there he was.

Rook.

But this wasn’t the poetic, flowery Rook who praised sunsets and waxed lyrical about everything under the sun. No, this was Duke Hunt. His bow was clenched tightly in one hand, his expression colder than you’d ever seen. His eyes locked onto your father, sharp and unyielding, and for the first time, you truly understood why people called him a hunter.

Your father stumbled back, clutching his cheek. “Y-you’ll regret this! I’ll get my revenge!” he spat, turning tail and running like the two-bit villain he was.

You didn’t even watch him go. You were too busy staring at Rook, your heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the fact that, dammit, he looked good like this.

You silently scolded yourself. Really? Now? This is when you’re going to have a revelation about your feelings? Pull it together.

Rook’s gaze softened as he looked at you, and without a word, he closed the distance between you. Before you could process it, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a firm, steady embrace.

You stiffened for a moment, but then it hit you—you were shaken. You hadn’t realized it until now, but the encounter had left your hands trembling. And Rook…he didn’t say a word. He just held you, radiating warmth and reassurance, as if he knew exactly what you needed.

Slowly, you relaxed, leaning into him, letting the tension bleed out of your body. For once, there were no witty remarks, no poetic musings, no cryptic riddles. Just Rook, steady and solid, and the quiet comfort of his presence.

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. Maybe life here wasn’t so bad after all.

It was the hunting competition trope—the bread and butter of every third-rate villainess novel ever written. Noblemen rode out in droves to massacre innocent wildlife in the name of prestige, while the women gathered on the sidelines to swoon over who could kill the most majestic creature.

Normally, you'd find this whole affair ridiculous, but today? Today, it was a strategic opportunity.

Rook and you had cooked up a plan. After bagging his game, Rook would publicly gift it to the villainess, cementing the stance of his household against the heroine. A subtle yet unmistakable message to everyone present: this duke’s house wasn’t here to play politics; it was drawing battle lines.

Rook was, predictably, ecstatic about it all. “Ah, mon chevalier, what a splendid opportunity to honor beauty and justice with the art of the hunt!” he proclaimed, twirling dramatically as he readied his bow.

What you didn’t anticipate was his strange fixation on a handkerchief before he left.

Throughout the day, noblewomen approached Rook, each one batting their lashes and holding out dainty, embroidered handkerchiefs. It was practically a parade of desperate peahens.

“Oh, Lord Hunt, a token for luck!” cooed one particularly persistent lady, pushing her frilly kerchief toward him.

Rook clasped his hands to his chest with exaggerated reverence. “Ah, mademoiselle, your thoughtfulness moves me beyond words, but alas, I cannot accept. To carry such a treasure into the wild would be to risk its loss, and I could never bear such tragedy!”

Another woman attempted to loop her kerchief around his wrist directly. Rook gracefully dodged, as though she were offering him a live snake. “My dear lady, your artistry is unparalleled, but the only adornment fit for this hunt is the pure, untainted spirit of nature herself!”

By the third rejection, you were practically biting your tongue to keep from laughing.

But then came the curveball.

“Ah,” Rook sighed as he approached you. “If only I had a handkerchief imbued with sincerity. A simple, honest token to guide my aim and steady my heart!”

You blinked at him. “What, like…this?” You pulled out your completely ordinary, unembellished handkerchief and held it out.

Rook’s eyes lit up as though you’d just handed him the Holy Grail. “Mon chevalier! How perfect! How divine! This humble square of cloth shall be my guiding light!”

Before you could protest, he tied it around his arm with a flourish and rode off, looking like he was ready to star in his own personal opera.

From his place in the pavilion, Vil Schoenheit took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, his sharp eyes locking onto yours with a glint of pure amusement. The smirk tugging at his lips seemed to say, Oh, I know exactly what’s going on.

Meanwhile, Epel squinted between you and Rook, his expression shifting rapidly as though he’d just cracked the secret to immortality. He whispered something to Vil, who nearly choked on his tea before regaining his composure.

What the hell is going on? you thought, baffled.

Fast forward to now, the present, where the plan was supposed to culminate with Rook triumphantly presenting his prize to the villainess. Simple, elegant, strategic.

So why, why, was Rook standing in front of you holding a literal griffin?

“Uh, Rook,” you whispered through gritted teeth. “What are you doing? This is supposed to go to the villainess.”

But Rook was having none of it.

“Ah, my loyal chevalier,” he declared loudly, drawing the attention of every noble in the vicinity. “It is only fitting that such a prize goes to the one who inspires my steadfastness and resolve!”

Your jaw dropped. “Rook. No.”

He turned his radiant smile on you, looking like a proud schoolboy showing off a crayon drawing to his teacher. “Yes!”

The gathered nobles erupted into murmurs, and you could already feel the weight of every single judgmental stare. This was not part of the plan. But despite your internal screaming, a small, annoying part of you couldn’t help but feel…flattered. This was a duke, and you were just a knight. A very confused, very underqualified knight, sure, but still.

Vil, still seated with his ever-present cup of tea, took another long, pointed sip, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

This was the drama he’d signed up for.

The hallway leading back to the room where Vil, Rook, and Epel were sitting felt oddly silent, the muffled voices of their conversation barely filtering through the door. You weren’t one to eavesdrop—but when you heard your name, well, curiosity got the better of you.

"Just confess already," Epel was saying, his tone exasperated. "We’ve all seen the way you look at them."

Vil chimed in, his voice tinged with amusement. "Epel is right for once, Rook. Love is about timing, and yours is abysmal."

"But love is an art, mon ami," Rook replied, his tone unusually hesitant. "It cannot be rushed. It must unfold naturally, like the petals of a flower in spring."

"Okay," Vil drawled, clearly unimpressed. "But what happens when someone else plucks your ‘flower’? Say, the gardener they’ve been spending so much time with?"

The silence that followed was deafening. You leaned closer, your heart pounding, hoping—no, needing—to hear Rook’s response.

Instead, you heard nothing.

The stillness stretched unbearably until you couldn’t take it anymore. You shoved the door open, startling all three occupants. "What are you talking about?"

Vil raised an eyebrow, the picture of nonchalance, though the corners of his mouth twitched with mischief. "Perfect timing, as always. I’ll leave you two to sort this out."

He grabbed a very reluctant Epel by the collar and dragged him toward the door. "Wait, I wanna see what happens!" Epel protested, but Vil shut the door behind them with a decisive click.

Which left you and Rook alone.

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look that you hoped masked the frantic hammering of your heart. "So…what’s this about a confession?"

Rook’s usual composure faltered. For once, the poetic, perpetually self-assured Rook you knew looked…unsure. Vulnerable. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his gloves, and he avoided your gaze, staring instead at the floor.

"Rook," you said softly, stepping closer. "Please, just tell me what’s going on. I need to know."

He finally looked up, and the raw emotion in his eyes was enough to steal your breath.

"Mon chevalier," he began, his voice low and trembling, "I have loved you from the start. At first, it was the camaraderie of equals, a kindred spirit I admired. But when you returned from the heroine’s side, defying expectations and staying true to yourself…you captured my heart completely."

You blinked, stunned. "Rook, I—"

He continued, the words spilling out as though he’d been holding them back for far too long. "You never treated me like I was strange. You accepted me as I am, even when others mocked my passions or dismissed my eccentricities. I never truly needed a bodyguard. I just needed you. Near me. Always."

His voice broke slightly on the last word, and you felt your resolve crumble.

You sighed, but it wasn’t from exasperation. It was the sound of relief, of something clicking into place. "Next time," you said, stepping even closer, "just tell me your feelings directly. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble."

Before he could respond, you reached up and pulled him into a kiss.

It was everything a first kiss should be—long, searing, passionate. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you flush against him as though he never wanted to let go. You melted into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, and for a moment, the world outside that kiss ceased to exist.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Rook’s lips quirked into a smile as he whispered, "Your lips are the sweetest arrow, mon amour, and they have pierced my heart beyond repair."

You burst into laughter, burying your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound. "Gods, Rook, only you could ruin a moment like this with something so cheesy."

He chuckled softly, his arms still secure around you.

And as you stood there in his embrace, you couldn’t help but think that this ridiculous, trashy novel world was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

The parlor was warm with the golden light of afternoon sun filtering through the windows, but the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. You stood near Rook, his arm casually draped across the back of your chair, as Vil and Epel looked at you expectantly.

“Well?” Vil prompted, raising a perfectly arched brow.

You glanced at Rook, who smiled encouragingly, as if to say, go ahead. Clearing your throat, you announced, “We’re…together.”

Vil sighed dramatically, setting down his teacup with a soft clink. “Finally. I was starting to think I’d have to intervene.”

Epel, on the other hand, froze mid-sip of his cider. Slowly, he set the glass down, stood, and walked over to you. His expression was a mix of grief and dread, like someone had just informed him of some terrible, life-altering news.

He placed both hands firmly on your shoulders and looked you dead in the eyes. “Good luck,” he said, solemn as a funeral bell. “This is a life sentence, y’know.”

Rook chuckled, clearly amused. “Mon cher Epel, you wound me! Surely being with moi is more of a treasure than a trial?”

Epel turned to him, unimpressed. “Treasure? You follow people for fun. You recite poetry to wild animals. You can’t even eat pie without analyzing its existential meaning. I mean, who does that?”

You were already laughing, shaking your head as you patted Epel’s hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Epel. This is a sentence I’m more than happy to serve.”

Vil smirked behind his tea, watching the scene unfold with obvious amusement. “Frankly, I’m just relieved we won’t have to endure any more of his tragic sighs every time you left a room.”

Rook clasped a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Oh, Vil! My sighs are poetry incarnate!”

Vil didn’t even blink. “Your sighs are the sound of unspoken melodrama. Spare me.”

Epel plopped back into his seat with a long groan, running a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I guess congratulations or whatever. At least now we can all stop pretending we don’t notice him staring at you like some love-struck puppy.”

“That’s rich,” you shot back, grinning. “You’re the one who looks like your pet rat just died every time we get close.”

Epel huffed. “I’m just saying! Now you gotta deal with him being even more poetic! And clingy! You thought the prince and heroine were bad? Wait till you see Rook when he’s in love. You’re doomed.”

At the mention of the prince and heroine, Vil made an exaggerated sound of disgust. “Speaking of those two… Honestly, has anyone ever been so painfully predictable? The prince has all the charm of wet cardboard, and the heroine—don’t even get me started on her hair ribbons.”

“Ah, the heroine,” Rook sighed wistfully, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Always so delightfully transparent. Her schemes are like open windows to her soul.”

You snorted. “If by soul, you mean her desperate attempts to turn everything into a sob story, then yeah, sure.”

Epel leaned forward, grinning. “Did you see her crying at the hunt competition? Like, girl, it’s a competition. What did you think would happen? That the griffin would apologize and hand itself over?”

Vil smirked, tapping a manicured finger against his chin. “Or how about the prince declaring his ‘eternal devotion’ to her at the banquet last week? I nearly choked on my wine.”

Rook chuckled, turning to you with a soft smile that was far more genuine than his usual theatrics. “Ah, but let us not waste all our words on such trivialities. This moment, mon amour, is one of joy.”

You leaned into him, your laughter subsiding into a contented smile. His arm slipped around your shoulders, holding you close as Vil and Epel continued their playful bickering in the background.

For the first time since you’d been thrown into this absurd world, you felt completely at ease. If this was the result of being trapped in a trash novel, then so be it. You were exactly where you wanted to be.

Trash Novel Masterlist

Complete Masterlists

[miyukisu]

A Trace of Body Paint .ᐟ

❤︎ Request | He's learning anatomy for his art class—you'll help him, right? 3.1k wc ╰ feat. artist!shidou ryusei (bllk) x afab!reader

tags - lots of tension and build up at first, p*rn with plot, college au, artist! shidou, he and reader are both experienced, FILTHY, dirty talk, unprotected smeggs, rough smeggs, face f*cking, creampies, overstim, no y/n, not beta read

MEGA MASTERLIST

minors do not interact

"Yeah! I'll see you next week for my next assignment. Okay?"

Yeah right... next week...

You didn't peg Shidou as the type to flake on you, especially since he was the one who needed something from you. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt, then your mind wandered to impossible territory.

Maybe he found a different person to model for him.

Maybe you weren't good enough a model and he was getting low marks because of you...

But wouldn't that be his fault?

Maybe... he dropped out of class?

Every possibility crossed your mind, but not once did you think of actually asking him, "Hey, what's up with not calling me anymore to model for your art class? You know... THE THING WE DO WEEKLY?"

But pride does get the best of us. You are no different. Either the world ends or he grovels at your feet for ghosting you like that. Anyway, why did you care so much?

Shidou Ryusei only asked you to model for him for a few weeks for an art course he was taking. It just so happens you two were close and your schedules matched (and he thought you were really pretty). In exchange, he'd treat you after every drawing session. Ordinary stuff—that was until you slowly started to develop feelings for him.

There was something about the way he looked at you as he studied every minute detail—making sure they were all transferred to paper. He made you feel so... beautiful in ways you've never realized before. But most of all, you fell for such a creative and passionate spirit.

You were snapped out of your thoughts upon spotting a familiar hairdo across the quad. Your eyes met and you made sure not to waste this opportunity—glaring at him, making sure he knew how much he had pissed you off. Shidou looked left and right, possibly trying to find a way out of it. But maybe the intensity in your eyes worked because before you knew it—he was making his way to you.

"Hey..."

"Really? That's all you have to say after ignoring the texts I sent last week?"

"Eh... must've missed them," he lied.

"What about the time you saw me near your building? You missed me standing a meter away from you?"

"Guess so," he lied again.

His nonchalance made you want to rip your hair out. This hot-and-cold treatment was driving you up the wall. It was clear with the exasperated look on your face.

Though, his eyes never left yours—those same damn eyes that stared at you for hours. It was like there was something he wanted to say, but couldn't.

"Why did you even walk over here?"

He sighed like he didn't gave a shit. "You looked like you were about to murder me."

"Shouldn't you be running away then?" you countered. Shidou simply shrugged. "I'm not sure either."

You were about to unleash your fury, but he sighed loudly before continuing. "Fuck... fine. I've been avoiding you."

"Yes. I can clearly see that. The question is—why?"

"Look. I've been getting the highest scores in class because I have the luxury to have an actual person model for me... while everyone else relies on references on the internet or whatever," he explains. "But now... it's..."

"Isn't that a good thing then?" you asked—confused by his reasoning, but even more confused by his change in demeanor.

He shook his head. "Nah... it's just... I won't be needing you anymore."

Your jaw dropped. He said it so casually like it didn't just left a gaping hole in your chest.

"I mean," he backtracked. "We're gonna start drawing nude figures soon, so either you're willing to strip for me or—"

You cut him off. "Are you gonna draw my face with it?"

"Eh, all I need to draw now is the body since we're done with portraits and—"

You cut him off again. "Then draw me."

"Wha—" Shidou was cut off once more. "You heard me. Draw me," you say, as if challenging him.

It earns a hearty laugh from him—one you haven't heard in a while. "You're saying you're gonna stand butt naked in front of me while I stare at you for an hour or two? You know how that sounds, right?"

"It sounds like you're gonna stare at me butt naked for an hour or two."

You were so shameless, he thought. But it was one of the many things he liked about you. He chuckled, amused by the way things turned. Well... what kind of artist would he be to turn down such an enticing muse?

Shidou let out a low whistle as soon as the last article of clothing met the floor. You used to do these drawing sessions in the library—when all he had to observe from you were innocent things like your eyes, your hands, your hair, and so on.

But now that you have to bare everything to him, you figured the only place to do it was at his dorm. It was like what you imagined: cluttered but artsy enough that you could let it pass.

You stood awkwardly in the middle, feeling a bit chilly with nothing to protect you. But you posed, placing a hand on your hip while looking off to the side. That way, there wouldn't be any awkward eye contact.

Shidou sat down on a stool and quickly got to drawing. He said nothing as his eyes constantly flitted between the paper and your body.

The first few minutes in—you became hyperaware of everything. The fact that he was seeing absolutely everything. The absurdity of this entire situation. But most of all, the way your body was reacting to his gaze.

From your peripheral, you could see his gaze linger a bit too long at times. He'd bite his lower lip every so often and it made you feel conscious. Was he doing that because he could see your nipples hardening due to the temperature? Maybe he noticed the way you'd subtly rub your thighs together?

Whatever it was—it had him clearing his throat and shifting in his seat, seemingly uncomfortable.

Around 15 minutes pass, until he finally spoke. "Feeling tired yet?" he asked without looking up from his paper. You figured he was applying the final touches at this point.

"Yeah. A bit."

He hummed in response. "Get comfortable on my bed then."

"What? On your bed? Now?"

Shidou looked up from his paper. At this point both of you were desensitized by your nakedness (or so you thought). "Yes. Now. I have to draw you in at least 3 poses."

Three?

You gulped. But, once more, pride creeps up. You can't just challenge him to draw you naked so boldly—only for you to back down now. You gathered yourself and sat on his bed which was only a few steps away.

"Go on. You can get comfortable," he encouraged.

So you did. You lied down on your side, propping your head up on your hand. The scene that had unfolded reminded you of that one Titanic scene: Rose sprawled out for Jack to draw.

Knowing that, the moment felt too intimate. But you sucked it up... even though there was an unwanted wetness forming at your core.

Shidou shifted in his seat again, lowering his paper on his lap. "Alright, keep that position," he said, a bit strained.

In this position, you couldn't look off to the side. Your only option for the next few minutes was the wall behind him or Shidou himself.

At some point, your eyes met. There was something in his eyes you've never seen before. It wasn't the usual focus he had; it was something else. Something more intense.

But the 2nd pose passes soon enough and you were down to your last.

"What should I do now?"

He sighed, looking over his current sketches. "Lemme think. I'm having a hard time getting the details right."

"Maybe it's because you're sitting so far away," you commented—not thinking about what it implied.

His eyes zeroed in on you again—caught by your words. You want him to come closer with you like that and him slowly losing his composure? You were playing a dangerous game and you had no idea yet.

Shidou finally stood up from his chair, walking over to the bed. You weren't sure if it was just your imagination, but he was hard. His length strained against his fitted pants. The sight had your mouth watering.

He sat down beside you, eyes never leaving yours. The atmosphere seemed charged with the way you two found yourselves slowly leaning into each other.

"You look great," he whispered. It was something he always said in these sessions. It was a rather simple compliment. But it held more weight now.

"Thanks," you meekly responded. Neither of you realized how fast he inched towards you. His lips were a breath away. You showed no signs of backing away, so he went in.

He pressed his lips on to yours. The kiss felt hungry—needy almost—like he was fighting off this urge for so long. Before you knew it, his weight pushed you down on the softness of his bed. His scent enveloped every sense, clouding your judgement.

Shidou pulled away, breathless. "Pose like this."

He sat upright, eyes raking over your body. This time, he didn't hide the way his gaze would linger on certain parts. His hands ran down your legs, admiring the softness of your skin.

Then, without warning, he pried your legs open. But you didn't stop him. His pink irises trailed down to your core, seeing how wet you've gotten. Shidou thought he was drooling.

"Fuck... I wish I could draw this."

You feel your chest tightening. "Why not?"

"And let everyone see this?" his fingers ghosted over the skin of your inner thigh. "No chance in hell. I want to be the only one to appreciate my muse."

He let his thumb swipe through your folds softly before pressing lightly into your clit, earning a mewl from you. He kept circling the sensitive nub as if in a trance.

"I know what I want the last pose to be," he says. You moan a little louder as he rubs your clit faster. "Want your last pose to be you all fucked out... think you can do that?"

Words got caught in your throat. But it hardly mattered. It didn't seem like he'd take 'no' for an answer anyway.

Things escalated quickly because you soon found his finger plunging in and out of your quivering hole. He made sure to curve it in a way—relentlessly hitting that gummy spot on your walls.

He added another finger, wanting to hear more of your breathless moans reverberating throughout his room. To hell with it if his neighbors heard. This was music—it was art in its purest form.

"Shit... might just cum in my pants from this." He almost did after you clenched down on his fingers, cumming for the first time today.

Even as you coat his digits with your essence, he keeps pushing his fingers in and out until the fluttering died down a bit. He pulled his sticky fingers out before having a taste, savoring every last bit.

He made quick work of his belt, pulling down his pants and letting his member out. Your eyes widened. Not only was his size impressive, but his tip was incredibly swollen and leaky—like he couldn't wait anymore.

Shidou exhaled deeply, feeling the chill of his room brush over the sensitive length. He locked eyes with you again. "Care to take care of me a bit? My hand hurts from all that drawing... and... well, you know what else."

Normally, you'd bite back at his teasing. But your mind was fuzzy. All you could do was wrap your fingers around his length, slowly tugging it at first. The pleasure he felt after being so hard for so long took the strength from him. He almost fell on top of you if it weren't for his thick arms supporting him from either side of you.

"C'mon... do it fucking faster," he ordered. You obeyed—jerking him off as fast as you can without hurting him. It wasn't long before his own hand wrapped around yours as he continued to fuck into your fist. Next thing you knew—hot ropes of cum painted your stomach.

Even he was in a daze as he observed a part of him stained you in such an intimate way. He slowly leaned in, his breath fanning your face. "Hey, can I paint you like this? You look even better with my cum all over you."

You let go of his semi-hard member, slowly tracing his muscles up until you cupped his cheek. Gently, you pulled him down for a searing kiss. It was more than enough for him to know that you too wanted more.

He became rougher—biting your lip and fighting your tongue for dominance. As you pulled away for air, Shidou moved quickly to straddle your upper body. He shamelessly took his cock and slapped it against your lips a couple of times.

"Gonna have to help me get hard again, sweets. Help me out, won't you?"

Though he didn't really give you time to respond as he invaded your mouth inch by inch. One hand held the headboard while the other supported your head. He rolled his hips slowly, gauging how much you can take in at a time.

But, clearly, he underestimated you when you gripped his hips and pulled him in yourself. You felt his cock spring back to life steadily. He pulled out his hardened shaft, letting you breathe. It was only now you realized the grin that crossed his face. He was enjoying this way too much.

He went back to hovering over you, his cock bouncing at every move he made. Your body was jelly at this point—not even a bit of resistance as he flipped you over so easily. He licked a long stripe from your lower back up until your nape. The fresh saliva combined with the chilly air made you shudder.

He carelessly lifted up your hips. With your cheek pressed into his pillows and your ass up in the air, he only got harder at the sight. He leaned down to be eye-to-eye with this so-called masterpiece, your cunt.

His nimble fingers toyed around with your soaked folds, chuckling to himself. "Man, I don't think I could ever capture something so damn beautiful."

He gave it a quick lick to test. "Well, unless you let me get familiar with her long enough." Another lick. "Maybe I can capture at least half of its beauty." Another lick. "Don't you think?"

A muffled sound was the only thing he got from you. "Yeah? You're gonna let me get to know her? As an artist, I'm overjoyed right now. Maybe I should show you."

And show he did.

He lapped up at your arousal, tongue licking long stripes each time. Your legs threatened to give out every time he flattened the pink muscle against your twitching hole. It didn't take long before he started darting in and out. Helpless groans filled his small dorm room.

Big calloused hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, making sure you stayed in place for him to enjoy. He was so messy... so so messy. Shidou suckled on your clit—really trying to coax another orgasm from you.

It didn't take much more for you to cum again, but this time all over his mouth. He happily took in everything, reaping the fruits of his labor.

He gave your ass one quick kiss as if to show his thanks. But he wasted no time lining up his painfully erect cock against your entrance. "Fuuuuck, I need to be inside you already or I'm actually going to explode," he muttered.

At first, it was just the tip. But it stretched you out so good already. The needy whine that escaped you was a testament to that. It only made him grip your hips tighter, surely leaving a mark for you to see tomorrow. Carefully, he pushed in more of his length, feeling every bump of your pussy engulf him.

"Shit. This is the stuff."

But he got impatient, shoving in the rest of his length without warning. It was so tight, so warm—too inviting for him to handle. His hands left your hips, opting to find support on the mattress instead. His thick arms caged you as his chest pressed against your back.

He continued to whisper the filthiest things in your ear, kissing your neck occasionally. But for as slow and sensual his voice may seem, his hips snapped with reckless abandon. He wasn't shy about giving you your third and, maybe, fourth orgasm of the day while chasing his own.

"You finally understand why I didn't want to ask you?"

"Yeah... I knew I was gonna end up fucking you real hard."

"But this is so much better than what I imagined."

His words brought you over the edge, cumming again. But the overstimulation rendered you thoughtless. The only thing on your mind was how good he was dicking you down.

"Fuck... Ryu!" you screamed. His grin only grew wider.

"That's it. Scream my fucking name. Let them hear it."

Your wanton moans encouraged him to go faster, mercilessly pistoning into you. It wouldn't be a surprise if you came another time on his cock.

Shidou harshly grabbed your tit, hoisting both of you up into a sitting position. This way, his cock reached even deeper into you. He kneaded your neglected breast while keeping you steady by the waist.

He showed no signs of slowing—even reaching down to play with your clit. A tear was rolling down your face from how sensitive he made you. But he quickly licked the salty tear off of the curve of your cheek.

He whispered softly, "Cum with me."

Just like the obedient muse that you were, you did. You clamped down on him as he shot rope after rope of gooey seed into you. Finally, he slowed down a bit, letting him empty himself in your pulsing cunt.

As you calmed down and he softened, he gently laid you back down on the soft mattress of his bed. He watched as his cum oozed out of you, smirking to himself.

"My best piece of work yet."

©miyukisu do not repost/reupload/translate any of my works on other platforms

╰ author's note WHAT THE FUCK DID I WRITE DAWG I WAS SO ON EDGE THE WHOLE TIME HELP WHY IS IT SO FILTHY

[gyaruhana]

Can u please write wlw smut for my glorious queen se-mi player 380

Se-mi/Player 380 - hatefucking

Synopsis: You and Se-mi can't stand each other so what better way to deal with that issue then fight for dominance?

A/N: i did combine this with another request for hatesex bc they both were wuh luh wuh so.. hope you don't mind!!

Warnings: smut content, choking, degradation, slight fight for dominance, fingering, it's hatesex..

If there was one thing you avoided, it was arguments. You preferred to avoid making enemies because; what was the point? It was far better to make friends than enemies who’d plot your death on the daily. Friends would be there to make you happy and comfort you when you're sad. Enemies would just laugh at you and pull you further down into the depths of sadness. That's why you always opted for only making friends and allies.

The only exception to this little rule was her. Se-mi.

Se-mi had been getting on your nerves from the moment you had both spared a glance at each other. There was something about her that reeked of over-confidence and judgement. The way she would look at you with that smirk on her face as if she thought she was better than you. It pisses you the fuck off and all you wanted to do was punch her face in so she could never smirk or scoff at you again.

Whether it was for good or bad, Se-mi felt the same way. You were always so nice to everyone, even to those who didn't deserve kindness whatsoever. It pissed her off that you'd try to be friends with everyone. Were you naive or just plain stupid? Whatever it was, she didn't like it. You were so happy-go-lucky as if you weren't trapped in this hell hole where people are being killed left and right. She didn't trust you at all because you seemed like the type who'd willingly stab someone in the back sooner or later.

In short, the feeling of hate was mutual between you two and, everytime you were near each other, there was a silent tension of unspoken dislike. Neither of you had actually communicated your dislike through speech, it was all just glares from across the room and the purposeful avoidance of each other.

Today, you unfortunately didn't have the opportunity to avoid each other like you two usually opted to do.

It was the third game and it was called ‘Mingle’. It wasn't a difficult game as long as you weren't one to crack under the pressure of a short time limit. All you had to do was form a group of whatever number was called out and then run into a room with them. The first four rounds went well for you since you were friends with practically everyone here and could always find a group to join.

When the fifth round came, the number two was called and chaos broke out quite quickly as people realized not everyone will be fortunate enough to get a room. As chaos broke out and lights flashed, you found it rather difficult to see who was on their lonesome and needed a pair. Luckily for you, you managed to spot the tall silhouette of someone who was on their own so you ran towards them and grabbed a hold of their wrist, dragging them into one of the last free rooms. You quickly shut it behind you as you let out a relieved sigh - glad you managed to find someone before it was too late.  

When you turned around, you were met with the unimpressed face of Se-mi. You almost let out a groan of annoyance at the sight of her. Maybe you should go back out there and just get shot. At least then she'd die as well and you could rest peacefully knowing she'd never plague anyone with her ugly personality again. 

“I'm not happy to see you either,” she says as she folds her arms across her chest and leans against the wall behind her. You let out a scoff of annoyance as the doors finally locked indicating the timer was up. Considering you'd probably be trapped in this room for a while until they clear out the bodies, maybe now would be a good time to confront her about her behavior.

“What's your problem? You're always such an asshole to me,” you say as you step closer to her. Your words may have been slightly aggressive but you couldn't help it when she was around. She just naturally got on every nerve in your body. In response to your words, she pushes off the wall and uncrosses her arms to step closer to you.

“My problem? You're the one with the problem,” Se-mi spoke as she looked at you with annoyance. The audacity you had to call her a bitch as if you were any better. Seeing you like this made her believe all your kindness really was an act for your own personal gain. That only fueled her hatred for you.

“You're the one who's been glaring at me since day one. You're a total fucking dickhead with your arrogant attitude,” you speak as you point an accusatory finger in her face. You were sick of how she'd act and the way she'd judge everyone silently. She needed a wake up call or something so she'd stop standing on her high horse. After all, she glared at you first. What were you supposed to do? Let her treat you like that? Hell no. You might be all for making friends but that doesn't mean you'll back down when someone chooses to be your enemy.

Then suddenly, out of the blue - her hand wrapped around your throat and she pushed you onto the wall. “I'd watch your mouth when you speak to me,” she says with anger bubbling inside her. Calling her arrogant? Who did you think you were? Someone needed to put you in your place.

You were taken aback by the sudden violence before grabbing her wrist tightly and glaring at her. “Or what? What are you going to do about it? Kill me?” you spoke sarcastically. You didn't fear her at all or the hand around your throat. It's not like she'd kill you. She couldn't have the guts to murder someone. You knew her type. Assholes on the outside, total pussies on the inside. They all just made enemies with people they assumed were weak so they could act tough.

She was quiet for a moment as she thought about your words. She couldn't kill you, no. You wouldn't learn anything that way (and she might get in trouble for that). She'd have to take a different approach if she wanted to make you learn a lesson about your bitchy behavior and, thankfully, she knew just how to make someone learn a lesson. She smirked for a moment before nodding her head.

“I won't kill you, no. I'll teach you a lesson,” she spoke before suddenly pressing her lips to yours. Her hand stayed wrapped around your throat, lightly squeezing to serve as a warning. You didn't expect her to kiss you of all things. It left you frozen in shock. Her kiss wasn't gentle either. It was rough as if its purpose was to silence you. There was nothing loving about it and, strangely enough, you found yourself actually being turned on by it. You didn't have feelings for her, no. You hated her but you were stuck in a place like this with no guarantee of a tomorrow so maybe a little hatefuck wouldn't be a terrible idea.

“Fuck, you're a shitty kisser,” you speak when she pulls away. She lets out a bitter chuckle at your words and shakes her head. “Thought I told you to watch your mouth?” She said as her free hand trailed down to the waistband of your pants. Oh, Se-mi was going to make sure you submit and watch your attitude towards her from now on.  “You think I'll listen to you?” You respond snarkily. 

“Oh, you will,” she says, her hand making it to your underwear as she gently traces the fabric of it. She moves her hand beneath the fabric and gently feels your entrance. “You're wet. You're just a whore, huh?” she spoke with a mocking smirk. She found it amusing that you were turned on by something like this. 

You were about to make a quick comment in response when she quickly slid her index finger into you making you let out a moan. God, you didn't expect her to do that so suddenly. She was full of surprises today. You quickly recovered from the initial shock as you noticed the smug look on her face. It drove you insane. If she thought she was teaching you a lesson like this, you'd have to teach her one too.

“Don't think you're in control,” you speak before grabbing the back of her head and pressing your lips to hers. Se-mi would be lying if she said she wasn't a little taken aback by the sudden kiss. She had assumed you'd fold immediately but apparently you were much more of a challenge. She smirked into the kiss before pulling her finger out slowly and then teasingly thrusting it back in. You let out a muffled moan at the feeling as you bring your free hand to the hem of her shirt. You lift it up slightly before putting your hand underneath and slowly trailing it upwards. 

“Might want to try harder to please me. You do a poor job at fingering a girl,” you speak after breaking from the kiss. She shakes her head with the smirk not leaving her face as she starts to thrust her fingers in and out of you quicker. “Oh really? Your body says otherwise,” she says, her hand tightening around your throat once more to serve as a silent warning. 

“I'm not even close to getting to cum. Can't you do any better?” You say as your hand that had earlier slipped under her shirt pinched her nipple. She tensed for a moment as her breath hitched, making you laugh. “What? That sensitive?” You tease and she sends a glare at you. She could try to dominate you as much as she wants but you weren't one to submit so easily.

She suddenly presses her thumb to your clit and starts to rub it roughly. The sensation makes you lean your head back against the wall as you moan. “Seems like you're the sensitive one,” she says as she watches your reactions carefully. As much as you wouldn't ever admit it, she was actually quite good with her fingers. She knew exactly how to move them and get someone to cum quite quickly. 

“if we weren't stuck here, I'd show you how good I could really fuck you,” you speak with a smirk as you look back at her again. “sure you could,” she responds sarcastically as she continues to thrust her fingers at a quick pace. She could tell you were close now as she felt you clench around her fingers.

“You're close, huh?” she says, clearly mocking you. You laugh breathlessly as you shake your head and look to the side. God, she was still such a cocky bitch. You looked at her before pulling on her hair and glaring at her. “When I cum, I'll make you lick your fingers clean, yeah?” you speak and the smirk on her face seems to grow bigger. Fuck, she really didn't think you'd still be acting so dominant. It was actually turning her on more - getting to fight for dominance like this.

With a few more thrusts of her fingers you came undone with a quiet moan. She slowly pulls her fingers out of you and you don't waste a second to grab her hand and pull it out of your pants. “C’mon, suck,” you say as you bring her hand to her mouth, her fingers wet with your cum. She looks at you for a moment before slowly putting her fingers into her mouth and sucking them clean of your cum. She pulls them out of her mouth after a few seconds and, as if on cue, the door unlocked meaning the guards had finished cleaning.

You both looked at the door before looking at each other again. “If you make it out alive of this place, I'll have to fuck you on my dildo next time,” she speaks as she steps back from you. “Looking forward to it- seeing you embarrass yourself, i mean,” you respond before walking out without another word and leaving her alone in the room. She watched you walk out before scoffing.

“She better make it out alive,”

[skiiyoomin]

Can you please please do a smutty nerdy gojo🤗, I love your work so much I can’t stop scrolling on your profile, THANK YOUUUU

ღNerd!Gojo "tutoring" you

ʚCont: SMUT, p in v, reader has female anatomy, smut with no plot ⤑Back to navigation

"What's the answer for this question?" He grunts lowly in your ear, a long finger pointing at a question you can barely read through your hazy fucked out gaze. It takes all the little willpower you have to focus on the words rather than Gojos thick cock sliding in and out of your aching pussy at an excruciatingly slow pace.

After a few long seconds, you finally manage to utter out a small whimpered answer "...B?"

"Wrong" He stops moving all together, making you whine loudly from the frustration of not getting enough stimulation. "C'mon sweetheart, you're smart, I know you know the answer" He coaxes softly through muttered praises while his hand runs up and down your curves. Taking a deep breath, you try to clear the haze from your mind to actually think about the question. "um..C?"

You would've squealed in delight but the brutal slam of his cock took all sounds out of your mouth. "Good girl" He praises in that low husky voice that has your gummy walls clenching around him so nicely. He doesn't slow down this time, not even while he points at another question.

"Think you can answer this one pretty girl?" All you're thinking about is how good his fat tip is hitting your cervix, and he knows it. But for the sake of "tutoring" you, he might as well keep up the facade. And besides, it feels good to have you underneath him completely fucked out. "A" You manage to say between breathless moans.

"That's right. If you answer 3 more correctly, I'll let you cum" The mere idea of finding your release and having his hot milky cum filling you to the brim makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. He doesn't wait for an answer, jumping straight into the next question. It's all a blur to you, the questions barely processing in your mind as you sputter barely coherent responses.

Alas, you manage to get through all questions without making a mistake, much to both of your pleasures. "I knew you could do it" He praises softly, a sharp contrast to the ruthless snap of his hips against the fat of your ass. Your poor pussy is aching by now, but you don't want him to stop, not when you feel so full of him. The obscene sound of skin slapping on skin overlaps with your high pitched moans and his grunts. "m' close!" You babble through tears that fall on the desk and sheets of homework. "Fuck, me too baby" His lean yet strong chest presses against your back, closing any remaining space that was left.

His touch is gentle yet assertive as he grabs your jaw to make you look back at him. You moan in his mouth as he closes the gap between your swollen lips, keeping up the same brutal pace. The rub of his fingers on your swollen clit sends you over the edge and into a mind blowing orgasm. The tight suffocating squeeze of your walls pushes Gojo into his own orgasm, his hot seed spilling into your womb until it overflows and drips out of your hole and down your thighs. You ride out your highs until the pleasure becomes borderline painful. The sudden emptiness in your pussy as he pulls out makes you whine needily.

You're a sight to behold, he thinks. Flushed cheeks, messy hair and a lazy fucked out smile on your kiss swollen lips. Maybe he should tutor you more often.

[burntoutdaydreamer]

Questions I Ask My Beta Readers

"Did you like it?" just doesn't cut it when you're trying to get useful feedback, so here's some questions that get your reader really thinking about your work:

What are your general impressions after reading? How did you feel when the book ended? 

(For fantasy/sci-fi) What did you find most confusing about the world? What did you find the most interesting? What do you want to know more about? 

Were there any scenes that broke your suspension of disbelief? Which ones? Why?

Which chapters were the hardest to get through? Did you find yourself skimming the text at any point in the story? 

Which character was your favorite? Which was your least favorite? Why? (Note that this question is best when asking multiple readers. If one person really dislikes a character, it could be personal preference. If multiple people can't stand a character for the same reason.... well, that's a problem you need to fix. Unless, of course, you want your readers to hate that character. Just make sure that their hatred enhances the reading experience instead of ruining it).

Did you get any characters confused or mixed up? If so, did this make the story hard to follow?

What was the most suspenseful moment in the book? What was your favorite moment of the story? What was your least favorite moment in the story? Why?

Which setting in the book was clearest to you as you were reading it? Which setting was the most difficult to envision?

Did you feel there was a lot of info dumping at any point? If so, where?

How do you feel about the plot? Were there any parts that confused you or seemed nonsensical/ illogical?

Did you feel any part of the story was predictable? Do you have any predictions for the next book(s)? If so, what are they? (Again, another question that's best when asking multiple readers. Be aware of your audience here. Some people, especially those who read a lot, are really good at predicting where stories are going to go. If those people are able to guess what happens next, that might actually be a good thing, because it could indicate that your story is progressing logically. Too much predictability is a problem, but a little isn't bad. This question is just to make sure the plot twists/progression aren't painfully obvious to most readers).

What plot holes did you find in the story so far? 

Were you invested in the story? If so, at what point did you become invested? Did you lose this interest at any point? (The second point here is really good for determining whether you have a slow beginning. Sometimes readers might really like your story overall, but would not have gotten past the first few chapters if they were reading it for fun instead of as a favor for you. This happened to me last time I asked someone to read my work, and it made it clear how much of the beginning I needed to rewrite entirely).

Any other questions or comments?