#V; Way Your World Can Alter | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 2 months

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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog. Of course he's going to take a bite. He thinks you ought to have known this by now.

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His.

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts.

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him.

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain.

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it.

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious.

This is, and always has been, about yearning.

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go.

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity.

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it?

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either.

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool.

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way.

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm.

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners.

The rest, though? Spare parts.

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible.

It's why he isn't married.

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface.

But the real reason is because he knows better.

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all.

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes.

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face.

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child.

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy.

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge.

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction.

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet.

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head.

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber.

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you?

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating.

He let it. Encouraged it.

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you.

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment.

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead.

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth.

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you?

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?”

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.”

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?”

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement.

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps.

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape.

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants.

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills.

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled.

The little seed that started germinating blooms.

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black.

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being.

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance.

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy.

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two.

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.”

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.”

You smell it, and shiver.

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite.

And so, of course he does.

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up.

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy.

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips.

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title.

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander.

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills.

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing.

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him.

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection.

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct.

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs.

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants.

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind.

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you.

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash.

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white.

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped.

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed.

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath).

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in.

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat.

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood.

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective.

Seven pills in a row.

He files it away, lost in thought.

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath.

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper.

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down.

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.”

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish.

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether.

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off.

That, too, he files away.

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion.

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him.

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it.

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too.

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn.

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression.

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs.

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you.

That's all for him.

(Nasty old bastard.)

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him.

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it.

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't.

And that simply won't do.

So, he plots. Plans.

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it.

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No.

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way.

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up.

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb.

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through.

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.”

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty.

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb.

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this��the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence.

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust.

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent.

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue.

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick.

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after.

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease.

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape.

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace.

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.”

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed.

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot.

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed.

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin.

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.”

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep.

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill.

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.”

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.”

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat.

“Could stop taking it.”

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud.

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins.

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang.

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike.

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world.

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead.

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is.

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in.

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts.

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum.

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments.

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans.

He decides on a different route to the same end.

Damnation at your own hand.

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face.

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this.

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up.

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip.

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.”

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste.

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper.

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea.

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim.

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle.

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him.

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image.

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart.

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle.

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear.

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside.

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it.

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you.

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below.

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it.

The push-pull of this little game stretches on.

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual.

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—).

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing.

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all.

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break.

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar.

John notes it down. Tucks it away.

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it.

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now.

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic.

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?”

It's a tease. A test.

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him.

This will be your cacoëthes.

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this.

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining.

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour.

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat.

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess.

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb.

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper.

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart.

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick.

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for.

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing.

He can't wait to ruin it.

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs.

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new.

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it.

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt.

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls.

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it.

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent.

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva.

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation.

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh.

He tastes salt and sin on your skin.

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.”

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds.

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart.

Like this, though—you melt.

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it.

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more.

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last.

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down.

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape.

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you.

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat.

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout.

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone.

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead.

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach.

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape.

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.”

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk.

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does.

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more.

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat.

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound.

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs.

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.”

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing.

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today?

He just needs to wait things out.

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week.

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time.

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home.

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home.

His bones ache for it.

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan.

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual.

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.”

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop.

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff.

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this.

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown.

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet.

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank.

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call.

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him.

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in.

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you.

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie.

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank.

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used.

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars.

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next.

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt.

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew.

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks.

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular.

—a pregnancy test.

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning.

A pregnancy test.

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing.

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?”

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt.

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured.

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything.

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.”

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.”

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin.

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.”

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.”

Lucky him, indeed.

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog.

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.”

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't?

Oh, fuck—

You better not be.

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel.

This is happening, then.

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack.

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts.

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue.

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart.

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place.

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear.

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need.

Until it becomes too much.

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.”

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more.

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned.

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.”

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise.

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat.

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take.

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins.

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play.

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.”

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.”

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart.

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated.

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away.

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill.

#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited #Unhinged John Price is my roman empire #call of duty fics #cod fics #captain john price smut

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naeviskz · 2 months

Text

WHIRLWIND ๑‧˚₊ ─── HHJ

synopsis ; you overreact just a teensy bit when you see hyunjin talking to another girl, but when you find out the actual reason why … you try everything you can to make it up to him.

genre 숌 non-idol au, boyfriend!hyunjin x girlfriend!reader | established relationship

words - 3.6k tags/warnings 숌 fluff, (some) angst? pwp, smut, reader gets very jealous easily/has possessive tendencies, small mentions of insecurities, v v v clingy & needy gf, marking, dry humping, dirty talk, oral (m), lowkey daddy kink, hj has a big cawk, breeding kink cause that’s my fave tehe. i will preface that oc kinda has a toxic way of thinking and it’s def not healthy to act this way irl !!

now playing 🎧 : cool with you by newjeans, streets by doja cat

☆ 彡

[ this my first ever writing that has smut in it so bear w/ me pls ;-; i’m still learning how to do this right haha, but lmk if you enjoyed this at all <3 **not proofread btw ! ]

“Let’s go on that one next Jinnie!!” You squeal like a giddish teenager as you point to the ride up ahead, violently pulling on Hyunjin’s hand his entire arm might just fall off.

It’ll be your 1 year anniversary in approximately a week, and what better way to pre celebrate than going to the amusement park and watching fireworks at night? You haven’t been to one in years, reminiscing all those times you were a kid innocently frolicking around, not having a single care in the world. Since you’re a fully grown adult now it’s an altered experience, you’re able to pick up on social cues and no longer need parental supervision. You forgot just how thrilling it was to let loose and have fun, all while spending it with your lovely boyfriend.

The current ride you’re both getting on is essentially a giant wooden pirate ship that swings in a horizontal motion, elevating you high up in the air. You don’t do heights very well but Hyunjin’s a little daredevil who gets off on the adrenaline rush. He’s tried convincing you to do skydiving but that’s just something you refuse to compromise on. Before going on the pirate ship ride you went on the teacups, which was probably your favorite one of today. You couldn’t stop giggling and teasing Hyunjin over how incredibly fast he was spinning the turn-wheel, almost forgetting that you were also supposed to contribute. Spending quality time with your boyfriend like this means everything to you, he makes you feel like you’re floating on a pink cloud whenever you’re together. Like nothing else matters but you and him.

As the day progressed, what was once a milky, pale blue sky has now become a smoky dull atmosphere. Night was approaching any minute, making the temperature drop dramatically— you regret leaving the house in just shorts and a crop top. Your limbs shaking and trembling involuntarily from gusts of cool air the wind casually blows, Hyunjin seems to take note of this and takes action immediately.

“Want my hoodie babe?” Hyunjin asks out of concern, ready to yank it off the minute you agree.

You profusely nod at his offer, unable to withstand the frigid weather for another second. He pauses momentarily to grab the hem of his Versace sweatshirt with his free hand, swiftly drawing it over his head and handing it to you. Underneath he wore a thin plain white tee, now suffering from the cold— but any sacrifice is worthy of making for his precious babygirl.

Quickly putting it on, your body feels instantly warmer from his body heat still embedded into the soft fabric. “You saved me Jinnie, I almost turned into a human popsicle!” Were you exaggerating a bit? Maybe, but that’s beside the point. You’re all cozy now in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie, loving the fact that only you get to wear his clothes.

His eyes shape into crescents as he flashes an adoring smile, “my diet would only consist of peach flavored ___ popsicles for the rest of my life then.”

You swear he’s just the cutest, most adorable, sweetest thing to have ever walked this earth. Sometimes you wonder how you got so lucky to end up with a person as charming, and perfect as Hyunjin. He’d say the same about you too but there’s another layer to how you feel. You’re often very over protective and territorial over him, needing to know exactly where he is at all times and who he’s hanging out with. Most of the time he’s with you, either at your place or at his. There was a set routine you two had at this point, after he’s done with work he’ll call and let you know he’s on his way to yours. Hyunjin knows how paranoid you can get when he’s gone for too long so he makes sure to communicate with you as much as he can throughout the day. It’s hard to deal with someone as high maintenance as you but he makes it work, he likes that you’re always worried and concerned about him — he’d rather have a girlfriend like that than one who doesn’t care about him.

“Looks like the sun should be setting soon.. won’t be much longer ‘til the fireworks start!” You cheer out of excitement, part of the reason you wanted to come was to see them.

He nods in agreement, “you’re right, is there anything else you wanna ride before they start?”

As if your brain answered before you could even think, “You.”

His doe eyes widened at your bold reply, never quite getting used to your subtle dirty mind. “I’ll give you that in due time, don’t worry mamas.”

A little bit later on you challenged Hyunjin to try the ‘test your strength’ game and of course he couldn’t pass up a moment to impress you. He gets into a competitive sports stance, gripping the hammer tightly before he swung hard at the puck. The meter flew straight up and hit the bell on his first try, able to win whatever prize he wanted from the largest section. He lets you choose whichever plushy you wanted, a giant fluffy pink stuffed unicorn that you held in your other hand that wasn’t occupied with Hyunjin’s.

“Hyunjinnieee, ‘m getting kinda hungry,” you childishly whine in hopes of getting him to buy you both food.

Before he could even get a response out your eyes were already fixated on something. The glowing neon lights of a food stand selling mozzarella corn dogs, you’ve always wanted to try those as you see them all the time on TikTok. Without hesitation you make a mad dash for the line as you drag your innocent boyfriend along for the adventure. As you got closer you realize the lines pretty spread out, there was at least 20+ people waiting but you were willing to stay as you really wanted one.

Hyunjin detaches his hand from yours, making you question his sudden intentions, “be right back babe, m’gonna go to the restroom.” He politely excuses himself, “here’s my card just in case I don’t make it back in time.” Pulling his credit card from his wallet to hand you before venturing off.

“Don’t be gone for too long please, or else I’ll come find you myself.” You were dead serious too, honestly speaking you didn’t necessarily want him out of your sight but you trust that he’ll come back in a reasonable amount of time. Hopefully.

“I promise babe.” He reassures, giving a quick peck to your forehead before vanishing into the crowd.

After what seemed like an eternity, you manage to secure the corn dogs and pay for them with Hyunjin’s card. Realizing now that your boyfriend is still gone, it’s been a good 15-20 minutes and he promised that he’d be back. Now you have to go looking for him like a mother who’s just lost their child. Scanning every area of the park you came across, you begin to feel anxious when you don’t see him anywhere. A range of negative thoughts intrude your mind with possibilities of where he could’ve gone. What you weren’t expecting was for your intuition to be exactly spot on.

There he was standing in front a taco truck, talking and laughing with another girl. A girl you absolutely do not recognize and have no clue why or what she’s doing even having a conversation with your man. You couldn’t move at all, frozen in place as you watched the scene fold out in front of you, making you more livid as it continues. The mystery girl was pissing you off by the minute, the tiny skirt she wore barely left anything to the imagination and her body language was way too close for comfort for your liking. You had to put a stop to this immediately.

Slowly you make your way up to them, examining the situation further. The blonde girl tries to loom even closer to Hyunjin but he backs away a bit, a sheer look of fear and paranoia in his eyes. She keeps talking to him but he doesn’t really say much back, only half smiling and nodding. What makes you pick up your pace at lightning speed was when he pulls his phone out from his back pocket, as if he’s about to ask for her number.

You’ve seen enough, it’s time to intervene now.

Practically sprinting up to them you see the girl perk up when she sees you, giving a friendly wave and inviting smile as if she wasn’t just trying to steal your man a second ago. You’re ready to rip this bitches hair out and show her that she’s picked the wrong one to mess with today.

“Oh hi, you must be ___, it’s so good to finally meet you!” Her voice was so squeaky and high-pitched, not even in a cute way, just obnoxiously loud and annoying.

…How the fuck does this girl know who you are?

“Who the hell is this?” You snap at Hyunjin, completely ignoring the girl’s presence, “How does she know you?”

“I’m— ”

“I believe I asked my boyfriend, not you. Who is she?” You rudely cut her off to reiterate the question.

Hyunjin looks like he’s just witnessed a murder, his own murder to be exact. “This is Valerie, we went to high school together, I was just showing her your freelance work and all the cool designs you make ‘cause she’s looking for graphic designers and I think you’re really talented babe.”

Your heart just sank to the pit of your stomach. The balled up fist your right hand was clenching soon released itself, no longer in fight mode but flight mode from the sudden embarrassment you’re internally battling.

“Oh..”

“Uh, well it was nice talking to you Hyunjin! I’ll go find my husband now, but your graphics are incredible ___ and I’d love to hire you for a couple projects I have lined up. Here’s my business card!” She hands you the flimsy card stock and leaves in an instant.

Now you feel totally ridiculous for almost causing a scene and cursing out the girl and your boyfriend for just wanting to promote your work. You owe him an apology big time.

“I thought you were…”

“Flirting with another girl, seriously? You think I have a death wish or something? Of course I’d never try something like that. The first thing she saw was you as my lock screen when I checked the time. Plus she’s married, I don’t think she’d be that dumb.” Hyunjin further proves his case, making sure not to leave any details out.

“M’sorry baby, please forgive me.” You plead for forgiveness, regressing back to your softer, more gentle side “lemme make it up to you daddy.”

“Nngh! Hyunjin-” you keen into his ear as you rub your clothed heat against his toned thigh, holding onto him for stable support.

You seriously felt bad for acting out like that earlier, all you want to do now is make him feel so good he forgets all about your previous unhinged behavior. Lord knows what you’d do if you ever lose someone so important to you. You can’t think about that right now though. Right now was all about him and making him feel good, but you can’t help but get something out of it as well.

The backseat of his car was a bit cramped as he decided to take his smaller convertible instead of the SUV, not exactly bargaining that later on you’d be getting freaky in his vehicle. Nonetheless you enjoy each other’s company, not needing much space anyway — if anything you wanted to be as close to him as possible. If you could get inside his skin you probably would. You love Hyunjin more than yourself, often feeling like you aren’t good enough to be with him. Maybe the reason you’re so protective and jealous is because you fear he’ll leave you for someone better.

Lazily trailing your lips down further, placing small pecks here and there until you land on his neck, adorned with a dainty silver chain, nuzzling your face into the crook of it. He smells so good, the cologne he’s wearing along with his natural pheromones is an intoxicating concoction. You stick your tongue out, gliding the wet muscle over his bare skin, still feverishly rutting into him while listening to his ethereal moans.

“Mmm.. I love you.” He murmurs under his breath, slipping his hands underneath (his) your hoodie to feel you up. His hands travel upwards to find the valley of your breasts, still covered by the bra you’re wearing he slides underneath the cups to lightly squeeze them.

You nibble on his neck in response, harshly sucking on the flesh to leave visible love bites, you want to make it abundantly clear to the whole world Hwang Hyunjin belongs to you.

“I love you more Hyunjinnie,” you stop for a brief moment to say, “gonna prove it.” Which you will once you’re satisfied with marking his entire neck and chest with dozens of purple and red hickeys.

Even though he’s touching you, grinding his hard length into you and purring out your name, you need more. Craving to see and feel more of him, you tug at the hem of his t-shirt in hopes he catches your drift.

“Off. Now.” You demand sharply, getting more impatient by the second.

He obliges instantly, stripping the garment off his body to reveal the most gorgeous set of abs you’ve laid your eyes upon, he’s so unreal it makes you constantly question if you’re dreaming. You went from his neck to kissing his plump lips, his hand cupping the side of your face to deepen the kiss, both so desperate and horny for each other. Running your manicured hands down his beautiful body, just the tiniest flexing Hyunjin does with his muscles makes you go crazy. You need him to manhandle you, have you bent over and get fucked senselessly.

“Lie back Jinnie, m’gonna suck you off.” You command him to move, getting up from him so he can pivot into a more comfortable position.

He shuffles around, leaning into the leather seat before quickly undoing his pants and sliding them down his ankles. You get on your knees, disappearing between his legs to come in contact with his stiff erection. Tracing figure eights on his thighs, he hisses from your delicate touch. You couldn’t resist planting a chaste kiss to his stomach, leaving another wet kiss to his v-line. Any little touch makes Hyunjin’s heart beat out of his chest, he can’t get enough of you just as you can’t of him— high off each other like an addictive, psychoactive drug.

As you finally free his cock from the last barrier, his boxer briefs, you’re in awe from just how much precum he’s leaking already. His length stood straight up resting on his stomach, faint veins protruding around the shaft. You kiss his pretty pink tip while looking up at him with innocent eyes, grabbing the base of his cock, opening your mouth just a little to provide a few kitten licks. You’ve only just started but he feels like he’s going to come undone already.

“Shit-” he lowly grunts, feeling his cock pulsate in your tiny hand.

Taking him further in your mouth now, you manage to fit half of his length, bobbing your head up and down while keeping a tight suction on his cock. Hyunjin involuntarily rocks his hips into you, making you gag just a little from how big he is. You could never fit all of him (except for that one time you were super drunk and magically forgot what a gag reflex was) but you still try your best and that’s all that matters to him. He loves that you’re always willing to give him random blowjobs whenever and wherever, you both love public sex and the idea of possibly being caught. You take a short break to collect more saliva, spitting on his cock and spreading it with your hand to make it even messier. His mouth was permanently agape, staring down at you with lust filled eyes, not knowing how much longer he can last. When you start pumping his cock much faster along with swirling your tongue around it , he thinks he might just lose it. Panting heavily, he shifts underneath you in attempt to get you to stop but you keep sucking like the cock hungry slut you are for him. He’s seriously going to nut any minute if you continue at this rate.

“Babe.. you’re gonna make me cum if you keep this up…” he closes his eyes, almost giving in to what’s inevitably about to come.

“Isn’t that the goal?” You ask quickly before going back.

“No,” he says, slightly frustrated with you for not obeying, “fucking this tight little pussy is.”

You’re confused when he’s pulling you away from him, moving you from the floor and back onto his lap all in one swift action, manhandling you for real this time. “What’re you doing!” You raise your voice at him like a brat, to which he spanks your behind in response.

“Shh.. relax.” He shuts you up by pulling you in for a slow, sensual kiss.

You moan into his mouth, melting right into his touch like always. “Need you so bad please..” you whine for to feel more of him.

“Tell me what you need, I’ll give it to you baby.” He promises, lacing his fingers in your hair, looking at you with pure admiration.

“Your cock.. need your big fat cock inside me now,” you beg like a good girl, “please daddy, i’m literally soaking for you.” Shameless at this point with how you talk, but you know the dirtier you get the more Hyunjin likes it.

He can’t say no when you ask so polite that. “I’ll give it to you, I’ll give you whatever you want princess.”

And he does.

Once he rids you of your shorts and underwear, you’re back on top of him, lining yourself up with his thick cock that slides right in from you being so ready.

“Fuck you’re so wet baby.. you take this cock so well cutie,” he praises you in the hottest way possible. You’ll never get tired of hearing him talk like this to you, hence why you love to have sex so much.

“Only for you daddy.” You breathlessly spoke, getting used to his length for a moment before beginning to move. Slowly bouncing up and down his member at first until Hyunjin slams his cock into you, walls clenching as you feel every inch of him. You shifted from grinding on him in slow motion to picking up your speed, placing both hands around his neck. Hyunjin throws his head back in pleasure, wrapping his hand around your waist as the other grips the soft flesh of your ass.

“Mine… your cock is mine,” you’re going faster and faster, crying out as he matches your movements, thrusting back into you hard. “Only I get to ride this everyday.”

He doesn’t hesitate to agree, letting you know exactly who he belongs to. “I’m all yours babygirl, can have this cock as much as you want, use me to get yourself off..”

You feel like you’re about to come soon, legs shaking and spasming from his girth splitting you open. “Yes baby..” you couldn’t think straight anymore, “love your cock so much Jinnie..” You mewl from being so full and cockstuffed “mmph.. wanna have your babies.”

“Yeah? Want me to fill your little cunt with all my cum and get you pregnant, hmm ? That what you want pretty girl?” He sounded so pussy drunk he couldn’t even blame you for wanting to any of this.

One more thrust was all it took for the thread to unravel inside of you, seeing white, glowing stars as you get closer to your orgasm.

“Jinnie kiss me.”

He does as he’s told, grabbing your face to kiss you roughly, entering his tongue in your mouth to intertwine with yours. He’s so good at everything he does it’s insane. Maybe if the dick wasn’t so damn good you wouldn’t be half as crazy.

“I’m so close princess..” he announces, slipping one of his long, slender digits onto your clit, coaxing your release.

“Me too.”

Everything feels ultra sensitive to you as you approach your climax, whimpering as Hyunjin sucks on your perked nipples while you continue riding him. A sudden rambunctious crackling sound startles the both of you, but what you weren’t expecting to see outside were fireworks lighting up the night sky. You’d completely forgot how excited you were to see them, watching in amazement as all the vibrant colors morph together. Leaning in to tenderly kiss your boyfriend who was also momentarily distracted, you get back right to business, chasing after your highs. Hyunjin finishes inside you like you wanted, feeling his hot seed spill into your aching heat. You came undone shortly after, holding onto him while your bare chests collide. Fireworks detonate inside your body as they do outside.

As if the universe had orchestrated the perfect 1 year anniversary pre celebration just for the two of you; a perfect moment to seal your love with the glittering magic of romance and fireworks combined. Hyunjin’s so happy to have met someone like you, someone who loves him so passionately and so deeply. He may not understand why you think the way you do sometimes, or react with such brash methods, but he knows that you do it out of pure love. It’s a whirlwind of emotions dating you but he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world or have it any other way.

- 完 ♡︎

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crystaldivination · 5 months

Text

“𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠?”

Thιs ιs ᥲ ᥣᥱttᥱr/tᥱxt from ყoᥙr most dᥱsιrᥱd ρᥱrsoᥒ

Hᥱყ bᥲbᥱs! It’s bᥱᥱᥒ ᥲ ᥕhιᥣᥱ, ᥲ qᥙιtᥱ ᥣoᥒg ᥕhιᥣᥱ bᥙt ᥒoᥕ I’m hᥱrᥱ ᥕιth ᥲ ᥒᥱᥕ ριᥴk-ᥲ-ᥴᥲrd rᥱᥲdιᥒg. Todᥲყ I brιᥒg ყoᥙ ᥲᥒothᥱr romᥲᥒᥴᥱ toριᥴ. I oρtᥱd for somᥱthιᥒg I kᥒoᥕ ყoᥙ’d ᥣιkᥱ ᥲᥒd somᥱthιᥒg thᥲt’d rᥲdιᥲtᥱ ᥣovιᥒg ᥱᥒᥱrgყ to ᥱvᥱrყoᥒᥱ ᥕho fιᥒds thιs. I hoρᥱ ყoᥙ ᥲᥣᥣ fιᥒd ιt ᥱᥒjoყᥲbᥣᥱ! Lᥱt mᥱ kᥒoᥕ hoᥕ ιt rᥱsoᥒᥲtᥱs.

⣷ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⣷ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒 ⣷ 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓 & 𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄

Disclaimer: this is a general reading which may or may not resonate with you. Take what resonates and leave out anything that doesn't. Feel free to choose another pile if you'd like.

How to choose your pile? As always meditate or close your eyes before looking at each picture. Trust your intuition and pick out a picture you feel the most drawn to.

The piles

both rows from left -> right

1 🖤

—mყ oᥒᥱ

You! Yes, you. What are you doing? Letting your life passing by you like that… don’t make a habit of attempting to give up without even trying. Don’t you dare waste your precious time. It’s time to wake up my little honey bear. I don’t wanna see you like that. You got your passion to go after, a so amazing future ahead of you waiting for you to embrace.

Don’t you think you’re worth it? Worth your effort trying to make what you truly want happen even if you don’t know the outcome now? Because I think you are. I’m right here even if you can’t see me. You would know how frustrated I can be when you’re being so stubborn and fearful. That’s so not you, you know that *chuckle*. Where did the little fiery spirit go, hm? I get that, things are not that easy… everything used to be easier, dot dot dot but don’t you see that you’re just making it harder than it looks? What do you have to lose if you just make the first step, huh? Try it, right now! No one is standing in your way but yourself. I can speak from experience.

A not so good result? Chin up. Try it again! And again until you got the hang of it. It’s better than just living in dissatisfaction and getting by right? Master your bravery until you master your craft. Now take my hand and trust in the process. Believe in yourself and what you can. I’m always watching you from above. Don’t make me feel sad about not being able to guide you. I want you to enjoy yourself and your life. You got this! There’s nothing to worry about. Open your heart and your mind then you’ll see the magic happening right in front of you. Make a difference first and all will follow. I’m always beside you, loving and supporting you. We will find each other again. I’m the light at the end of the tunnel, always guiding you home. You’ve never lost me. You belong with me. If you miss me, look deep in your heart and you’ll see me there. Have hope my love.

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2 🖤

—sᥱᥲsoᥒ ᥴhᥲᥒgᥱ

It’s hard for me to say something or anything at all. I don’t know… I’m in pain right now. The darkest feelings from memories that I’ve always wanted to escape from are catching up to me. I can’t take this excruciating pain and agony anymore. People are cruel. Sometimes I ask myself if love really is out there, if it’s kind enough to wait for me to give me its sincere and beautiful magic like how they called it at all or if there’s nothing like that because if there is, would it betray me like this? What does it all mean? Is everything just love? What is love? Is it just a journey one must go to find themself again? It’s hard, it’s painful. I feel like losing myself. Why does one have to go through pain?

I can’t get these bitter feelings off of me. My world is falling apart with nothing to hold on to. You’re the one i want to avoid the most but at the end of the day I somehow always find myself holding on to you again. You’re the only one I can remember, the only one I can hold onto even if I don’t want it. The only thing I can do is to deny it so I won’t believe it but I know that’s not the truth. You’re keeping me from collapsing completely. I know it’s selfish if I say I want you to ease my pain, to take my pain away but right now you’re the only safe haven I have.

I want to be a sweet and friendly person for you but there’s all this anxiety. The horror and the fear from the past are holding me back. I’m scared. I’m scared to scare you. I’m triggered when I see your face. You need to stay out of my way. I don’t want to hurt you. I fear to make this mistake again. To trust and then being let down again. Loving you feel like a dream but I’m too unstable. What if I can’t ever get out of that dream although it’d be a beautiful thought but I’m scared to mess up. I used to have everything but you and now I have nothing but you to hold onto. Isn’t that sad or just a cliché? I do want to give you a love so pure and I want love you unconditionally but maybe love is not in it for me, maybe i just need to focus on myself. I’m just unlucky I guess, for a lack of a better word.

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3 🖤

—mooᥒᥣιght

I’ve been looking for you for way too long. We belong together, you and I. We're soulmates, I just know it. I know you’re right there. You’re just waiting for me like I am for you. It’s reassuring to know we both sit under the same sky looking at the same moon right? I can’t wait to meet you. I think we’re alike. You’re exactly what I’m looking for. Let me be the perfect missing puzzle to your picture and you can be the light that is shining on me. You’re my beautiful dream fever. You drive me wild and crazy.

Under the moonlight let me adore you. I can imagine your eyes sparkling when admiring the stars while I’m the one who’s admiring your beauty. Looking into your eyes must be magical. I don’t have to see through rose-colored glasses to recognize how you are the rosé world embellished with flower petals yourself that I seek. You’re a fascination to me. I can’t figure you out yet but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know you more. I don’t actually know you but I feel like I do regardless. I don’t need to know the truth. My heart knows you’re perfect either way.

Your skin, the softness that you carry in you. I want to inhale your scent like it's some kind of drug I can’t get used to with its intensity but won’t be able to stop. You speak and understand me with all your body and soul, I know you do, thus this is why day by day I dive into you with my soul. Although my mortal eyes show and tell me something else it doesn’t matter. As long as I have you in my heart I know you’re already here with me and always. They say you’re a rare diamond that I, as an ordinary human, have no chance to earn but let me, a humble one, find you and treat you the way you’ve always deserved because you’re worthy of all good. You can decide once you see and know me if I’m worthy of your attention and love. I want to claim you as mine but not out of fear, instead I want you to claim me as yours as well.

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4 🖤

—thᥱ soᥙᥒd of ყoᥙ

Why are you so ridiculously beautiful? You’re so stunningly beautiful. You can do whatever you want to me, and I’ll let you. I care for you so much. You’re the softest sound from the most perfect lullaby I’ve ever known of but can’t seem to believe actually exists. I dream of you. I want to see you smile and make you happy.

Come here. I’m right here, sweetheart. I need you to stop beating yourself up. You won’t hurt yourself. You won’t give up. You can overcome anything because you’re strong. You can do it for yourself and me. Be happy and live your life to the fullest. You deserve it my little darling. You don’t know how special you are so don’t you dare lose your light because of anything or anyone trying to dim that light. Stay positive and be brave. I know you can.

Most of the times I don’t even know why my heart is longing for you. It’s like there’s an invisible draw that is pulling me towards you. A call for my other half. An important half that I feel is missing in me. Is there a chance that I’ve known you before because I feel like knowing you without knowing you before. You open up memories in me that I’ve never seen before but they are telling me they exist deep in my mind and were forgotten for a very long time. Do you believe in destiny? I don’t but I might get convinced.

With me you don’t have to be tough all the time or pretend to be. I can love you for who you are with all your strengths and weaknesses. If you’re really the right one for me and that can only my heart tells, I’ll love you with all that my heart can offer. And I promise you, I will stick around as long as I can. I won’t let you down.

Now wait for you? I can do that. Even if the world ends tomorrow my will would stay strong. I want to be able to see and touch you. I’m confused but this is somehow a good feeling. What do you say? I think I’m not ready for our union yet but I might get surprised by the universe by what it is conspiring for us, I guess?

♡ PS. to my followers who participated in my latest game — due to personal matters i won’t be able to answer your asks any time soon but I’ll try to queue them whenever I can. I apologize for the delay.

— you’ve reached the end of this post, thanks for reading!

signed, crystal.

#crystaldivination #pac #pick a card #pick a card reading #pac reading #tarot community #tarotblr #tarot reading #intuitive readings #free readings #free intuitive readings #free tarot readings #pick a pile #Spotify #SoundCloud

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projectionistwrites · 1 year

Text

FOR SCIENCE | SUBJECT 1

In which the Moon Knight alter system presents a unique opportunity to settle the nature versus nurture debate, once and for all...

Steven Grant x afab!psychologist!reader (8.0k+)

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+, mdni) WARNINGS: fetishization of mental disorders (DID), psychoanalysis, potentially unethical scientific practices, SMUT (dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral (f! and m!receiving), unprotected p in v sex, creampie, intense overstimulation, non-ejaculatory orgasm, cumplay, cum eating, praise kink, dirty talk, use of the stoplight system) NOTES: steven is my baby. he deserves the world. i hope i did his character justice. DISCLAIMER: although i’m incredibly knowledgeable about psychology, i am NOT a professional. all psychoanalyses made throughout the course of this storyline are entirely my own, based on my own interpretations of the characters. in a similar vein, i am also not an expert on DID specifically (although i am well-read on mental disorders and diagnoses), so i apologize for any incorrect terminology or misrepresentation. don’t hesitate to call me out if i say something wrong!

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CASE STUDY: STEVEN GRANT

ROLE IN SYSTEM: Caretaker / Internal Self-Helper

ATTACHMENT STYLE: Preoccupied

CHARACTERISTICS: timid, introverted, sensitive, unassertive; inferiority complex; the epitome of a people pleaser.

SPLIT FROM HOST: assumedly a result of simultaneous emotional and physical abuse from mother.

TRAUMA RESPONSE: alter likely emerged as a way to maintain the childhood innocence of the host; a personification of the word 'hope'.

SEXUAL PRESENTATION: shy, reserved, submissive, responsive, doting; views relationship as transactional (i.e. his only value is derived from what he can provide to a partner, whether that be physically, fiscally, materially, or emotionally); incredibly receptive to praise and validation.

Silence.

It filled the room and weighed heavy in the air—only interrupted by the buzzing of the filter in Gus’ fish tank near the center of the apartment.

You swallowed.

Why did it have to be Steven first?

You knew why. You’d made the decision deliberately, carefully—Steven was the softest, most vulnerable and hesitant. The most emotionally mature, but also the most emotionally fragile. Sensitive, caring, empathetic, loving—he really, truly cared. That’s why he had to go first. This was more than just an excuse to have sex with you—this was intimacy, passion, a closeness he so desperately craved. And you knew, deep down, he’d be comparing himself to his other alters. Envying their confidence, their forwardness, their unapologetic sexual prowess. Steven had always felt inferior—you needed to prove to him that that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

But still. As much as you cared for him, as much as you were looking forward to getting to know him physically, in that moment, you desperately wished for a hint of Marc’s initiative, or even a sliver of Jake’s assertiveness.

Steven was sat on the couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Nervous energy pulsed from his body in waves—his clear stress wasn’t doing anything to help with your own trepidation.

You shuffled beside him, crossing one leg over the other at the ankles. You drew in a breath.

“Do you... do we need to go over anything again?”

He flinched at your intrusion on the silence—without sparing you a glance, he offered a brief shake of his head.

“Well, I think we should go over it one more time, just in case. So. Today is—is about you. Whatever you say goes. Obviously, I have my limits, but, I mean, I really don’t see that being much of a problem with any of you—except maybe Jake...”

You digressed, but the mention of his alters clearly ruffled Steven’s feathers, even if he hid it well. You continued.

“And—and you’ll be fronting the whole time. No co-consciousness, or interruption from the others. Right?”

Steven nodded again, more firmly this time.

“Okay. And lastly—well, I’ve thought about it, and—and I think we should be fine without condoms.”

That got Steven’s attention. His head turned to you, eyes wide with bewilderment.

“What?”

You looked away abashedly, a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“I just—I’ve got the implant, and well—Marc gave me documentation confirming that you’re negative for any STI’s, which—so am I. So I figure—unless you’re gonna be having sex with anyone else in the time this experiment is being conducted, then—then I think we should be fine... for now.”

“You told us we had to be abstinent in the week between each experimental window.”

You laughed at this, amused at the incredulity in his voice.

“Oh, so you were planning on seeing someone else in between, then?”

His face flushed with alarm as he attempted to backtrack.

“Wha—no! No, I didn’t mean—you just—you said we should refrain from doin’ anything, as in—anything. So I just—”

“Relax, Steven, I’m just teasing you.”

You giggled, reaching to grip his bicep reassuringly. Your fingers making contact with his body seemed to jostle him—he stared down at the place your fingers wrapped around his arm, electricity crackling from your fingers and lighting a fire in his belly. He swallowed.

His sudden attention to your presence grounded you back into reality as well. You felt the taut muscles of his bicep flex beneath your hand, the parting of Steven’s lips and fluttering of his lashes making your breath stumble.

When he looked up at you, finally, his eyes were dark—lustful, desirous. Still, there was a sense of restraint within him, his diffidence preventing him from moving unto you further. You realized that you would likely have to make the first move.

“Steven.”

You spoke softly, drawing him in.

“Are you—do you feel ready?”

For a moment, he looked terrified, like a deer caught in headlights. He glanced away from you for a moment, trying to reason with himself, to will the anxiety away. You squeezed his arm.

“You don’t have to do this, Steven, really. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“I want this.”

“But Steven, really, it’s alright—”

“No, you don’ understand—I really, really want this.”

His words were breathy, but certain, the desire in his tone undeniable. You felt your breath hitch at his confession, and before either of you had time to worry about it anymore, you closed the gap between you, pushing yourself up against his side and tilting your head so your lips met his. He whined into your mouth, his initial hesitance wearing off and making way for his insatiable hunger for your touch, your taste, you.

His hands reached to grip the back of your head, fingers threading in your hair as he pulled you closer, forcing your lips to meld against his deeply. You leaned into him, allowing yourself to shift into his lap, your thighs straddling his. As you settled your weight onto him, he audibly groaned as your core pressed against the hardening tent in his pants. Your hands traveled up his chest and along his shoulders as your tongue explored his mouth. He fought back with equal fervor, and you could sense that there was a hint of desperation in him—as if he was finally acting upon the months worth of repressed sexual tension between the two of you.

You pulled away with a gasp, coming up for air as you lifted your chin slightly, away from the chase of his lips. Instead, they began a sloppy assault on your throat, mouthing and teething at the supple flesh of your neck and down into your collarbone. You let out a breathy moan as Steven lavished your skin with attention, quickly gaining the confidence to suck a mark into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You keened.

“God, Steven.”

The sound of his name falling from your lips was heaven. He pulled you back down for another searing kiss, and you offered an experimental nip to the swell of his bottom lip. He groaned.

“Christ, you’re a minx.”

His voice was throaty, gravelly, and you giggled at his comment as he pressed kisses to the corners of your mouth and the surrounding flesh of your cheeks.

“Should we... do you want to move to the bed?”

You asked quietly, and the man stiffened, clearly enticed by the proposal.

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

You regretfully pulled yourself from his lap and he followed immediately after, reaching for your hand as you guided him back towards his bed. It was neatly made, the corners tucked in and the blankets pressed. For some reason, it made you want to cry. You’d been at his flat plenty of times before, but never had you once seen his bed made up so tidy. He did that for you.

As you reached the end of the bed, you hesitated. You had taken the lead, carefully easing Steven into the interaction, but now, you needed to see what he wanted. You looked to him.

“What—where do you want me?”

He swore he almost blacked out at the sheer compliance that your tone offered. He had to squeeze his eyes shut tight in an effort to slow the rapidly building arousal in his groin—you hadn’t even fucking touched him yet.

“Would you—could you just lay down f’me, love?”

You smiled at him gratefully, offering a small nod at you followed his careful instruction. You shuffled up towards the head of the bed, turning to lie flat on your back with your head propped against the pillows. You looked at Steven expectantly—he was just watching you, fists slowly clenching and unclenching at his sides. Christ, you were a sight to beheld.

Cautiously, Steven lowered onto his hands and knees and crawled up towards you, allowing himself to hover over your body with his own, his waist slotting between the parting of your legs. He rested on his elbows, forearms framing your head as he gazed down at you. The sheer reverence and devotion in his eyes was almost too much to bear.

“Bloody hell, you’re gorgeous.”

He mumbled, fingers moving to stroke your hairline, tracing the curvatures of your face. You smiled softly before tilting your head upwards to close the small space that remained between you. These kisses were softer—slow, gentle, repeated slides of his lips against yours. It made you feel lightheaded.

You reached for the hem of his jumper.

“I—can I?”

You questioned against his lips, and he nodded slowly, sitting upright to help you pull the top up and over his head. He flung it to the side carefully, and you spread your hands out against the warmth of his torso, the ring finger on your left hand just barely brushing his right nipple. He hissed as the feeling of your cold hands pressed into his abdomen, but at the same time, the sensation was intoxicating. You let your fingers slide up towards his chest, skating across both of his hardened nipples before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him back to you. He happily obliged, malleable under your touch, but you could feel his fingers twitching as if desperate to touch you. You pushed him back slowly, reaching to take off your own shirt.

“Wait.”

Steven panicked, and you froze, a flash of hurt cresting your face. But he just smiled gently.

“Can—let me.”

He offered, and you laid back, letting his fingers skim the flesh of your stomach as he gripped the hem and pulled the fabric away from you. You sat up briefly to allow him to pull it completely off, revealing your simple white lace bra beneath it. You watched him drink you in, completely infatuated. His hands skated up your sides, over the curve of your hip and across your ribs, but they halted before they reached any further. You nodded in encouragement.

“It’s okay, Steven. You can touch me.”

A whimper escaped his mouth as he slowly reached up the palm at your breast, still contained in the cup of your bra. He could feel the peak of your nipple through the fabric as he massaged the flesh carefully, kneading and squeezing. The sigh you let out spurred him on, and he reached behind you towards the clasp, eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort. Instead, he was met with a warm smile and nod, and his fingers worked to unclip the material beneath you. After a few brief seconds of his fumbling, his brows furrowed in frustration.

“What the—bollocks, why’s it so bloody hard to undo?”

Your saccharine giggle melted his annoyance as you offered him assistance, reaching behind you to unlatch the hooks. When it was finally unclasped, the cups loosening their hold on your breasts, he let out a shaky breath, gripping the straps and watching them glide down your arms until you were topless beneath him.

His movements were slow, deliberate, as he watched your body react to his touch. Tracing beneath the swell of your left breast, dancing across the valley between them, repeating the movement on the right side. Goosebumps trailed in his wake as he stared, utterly entranced at the softness of your skin and the rhythm of your breathing.

His eyes met yours once more, and stayed there as he slowly leaned down and pulled your right nipple into his mouth. You mewled at the action, back arching just slightly as his other hand came to cup your other tit, massaging it gently as he sucked at your flesh. He switched sides, lavishing your other nipple with equal attention, and even offering an experimental nip to the swollen bud, earning a cry from you—a mix between a sharp pain, quickly soothed with the swipe of his tongue.

You hardly noticed when his lips began pressing kisses lower across your chest, your breasts, across the expanse of your stomach, until his lips were skating over your navel, just above the button of your jeans. His dark eyes found yours, and he offered you a silent question, to which you immediately nodded. His trembling fingers reached to undo the button—with which he had much more success than your bra—and pulled the zipper down. As he slowly coaxed the fabric away from your skin, he pressed two hot kisses against each of your hip bones before pulling the pants completely off and discarding them nearby.

His hands roamed the newly exposed skin of your thighs, fingers creating divots in the soft flesh with his firm grip. He leaned down and pressed his lips against your calf, sliding them upwards until he reached your inner thigh. You whimpered at his proximity to where you needed him most, but he evaded you by switching to mirror the same path on your other side. Your toes curled in frustration.

“Steven.”

You huffed, head thrown back, and his head popped upwards, eyes wide with concern.

“Stop teasing.”

His gaze softened, and you felt his lips press right above your pubic bone, where the waistband of your panties was settled.

“Sorry, m’love, I couldn’t help it. I’ll make it better, I promise.”

His fingers gripped the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down your legs, successfully leaving you completely bare beneath him. You had half the mind to feel insecure at the exposure, but when you caught sight of the look on Steven's face, his eyes transfixed on the sopping folds of your cunt, any hesitance was thrown out the window.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He whispered, letting the pointer finger on his left hand just barely graze between your pussy lips to gather some of your wetness, causing your hips to jolt. He let out a short ‘ha’ sound at your reaction to his touch.

“Is this—s’this all f’me?”

He looked at you again, lips parted and eyes hooded. You nodded vigorously.

“Yes, Steven, yes—all for you.”

He rewarded you with a groan, his finger offering another, firmer swipe through your folds, easily sliding through with the slick of your arousal. The tip of his finger caught on the hood of your clit and your hips jumped again. Instead of removing his finger, he slid it back downwards, slowly circling the entrance of your pussy with careful ministrations. Before you could even ask, he pushed his middle finger deep inside you, curling forward, and almost instantly, the pad of his digit nudged at the most sensitive part of you. You cried out at the abrupt sensation, hips unconsciously grinding down against his hand. He smiled wickedly.

“Ah—there you are.”

He mumbled to himself, repeating the motion once more to ensure he had located the spot where your sensitivity peaked. Again, your body followed the movement of his hand, and he easily added a second finger, slowly beginning to pump them in and out of you, all while continuing the well-received come-hither motion. You squeezed your eyes shut, core muscles clenched as pleasure spread from your cunt upwards, and then his thumb found your clit and you were reeling.

“Oh, fuck, Steven, shit—oh God, I can’t, m’gonna—”

His free hand came up to stroke your hair tenderly, eyes peeling away from where they were watching where his fingers sank into you to ogle at the face you'd make as you climaxed.

“That’s it, love. Doin’ so well. C’mon, give it to me.”

Your orgasm reached its peak, toes curling and back arching as you let out a salacious, pornographic moan, thrusting in time with Steven’s diligent fingers as he coaxed every last drop of pleasure from your dripping folds. Your skin buzzed with sensitivity as the waves of stimulation rippled through you—your breathing was labored when you came down from your high, sinking back into the mattress and grounding yourself back in reality.

Steven pressed a kiss to your lips, which you accepted gratefully, although your energy was significantly less than his—he didn’t seem to mind. He pulled away, just barely, noses brushing together in a moment of intimacy. You felt dizzy.

“So good, Steven—make me feel so good.”

You rambled, hot breath fanning across his face. He glowed at your praise, pressing another soft kiss to your lips. Even after your first orgasm, your hunger for him was nowhere near sated. Your walls were clenching around nothing, desperate for the hot drag of his cock inside of you.

Something resembling a whimper came from the back of your throat, and Steven’s eyes found yours, softening.

“I know, darling, I know. S’alright, I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

Your fingers trailed down his stomach and covertly ghosted over the skin right atop the waistband of his jeans. Fuck, he still had his jeans on?

You reached for the button, and Steven took the hint, pulling them off of himself rather ungracefully and tossing them to the side. He was left in just his boxers, and when your hand stroked over the hard outline of his cock within them, he hissed, almost as if he were in pain. He recoiled from your touch just slightly, and you felt brief concern at the reaction. He squinted one eye open at you, wincing.

“Careful, please, love, I—don’t want this to end too quickly.”

“Whatever you want, Steven, I’m yours.”

You breathed, fingers caressing the side of his face and beneath his jawline. He grunted at your words, still fighting to maintain control of his body. It only served to turn you on more. When your fingers once more reached for the band of his boxers, he interrupted you with a kiss.

“Patience, love, s’alright.”

"Want you so bad."

You cried against his mouth, absolutely desperate, and you felt the stutter of his exhale as he pulled away.

“I know, I know, but I—Gods, ’m sorry, but I just have to taste you.”

You barely had time to process his words before his head was between your thighs, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the inner flesh between them. Your eyes fluttered closed just as he licked a long, experimental stripe between your folds, making you jerk up towards him involuntarily.

Your cunt was puffy and swollen from your previous orgasm, but Steven wasted no time diving in. He let the tip of his tongue dance around your bundle of nerves, suckling it into his mouth and humming at the taste. The vibrations traveled all the way through you, and you moaned, head thrown back in ecstasy. You tried to force your legs from caging him in, but when he noticed the strain in your muscles, he tucked his arms beneath your thighs and let your knees rest on his strong shoulders, allowing him an even better angle with which to pleasure you.

He changed course, tongue now prodding at your entrance, pushing in and out carefully and slowly. At the feeling of your walls clenching, Steven jostled just slightly, the bridge of his nose rubbing against your clit just right. You cried out, fingers flying to fist at his dark curls, pulling him back in against you.

“Fuck, do that again, Steven, please.”

Steven wasn’t one to deny you of what you wanted. He obliged, repeating the motion, his tongue penetrating you rhythmically and his nose pressed against your clit in a way that had you seeing stars. You thighs tightened around his head, and you felt more than you heard the groan that it pulled from him. You were suddenly teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

“God, Steven, gonna make me cum, don’t stop, please—”

Steven maintained his pace, smart enough to know not to speed up or slow down or change up his rhythm at all as your toes curled. You briefly opened your eyes, and the sight in front of you toppled you over the cliff—Steven’s dark eyes staring up at you, the lower half of his face buried in your cunt, his hips rutting up against the mattress unconsciously as he watched you come undone. You practically sobbed as the shockwaves overwhelmed you, your thighs squeezing Steven’s head and holding him in place as you tugged at his hair. He happily lapped up your arousal, the taste of you lingering on his tongue when he finally pulled away after you had stopped squirming.

You tasted yourself on his lips when he kissed you, and the sight of your slick coating his chin and smeared across his cheeks was one of the most attractive things you’d ever seen. You smiled at him with hooded eyes, still coming down from your high.

“Please, will you fuck me now, Steven?”

You pleaded, and Steven groaned, pressing his still-covered cock against the heat of your pussy.

“Oh, yes, please, can I?”

He asked for confirmation, because of course he did, he’s Steven, and you nodded feverishly, watching with lustful eyes as he pulled his boxers down, his length finally released from the confines of the fabric. It stood at full height, long and big but not too thick, and you practically felt yourself drooling at the sight. His head was flushed a deep reddish purple, sheened with precum that had accumulated there. There was a prominent vein that ran up the underside of his shaft, and all you wanted to do was run your tongue along it. Steven caught you staring and grimaced, moaning lowly.

“Christ, darling, you keep lookin’ at me like that and ’m not gonna be able to last.”

His hand reached down and gave a few strokes to his cock, pumping it as he moved in towards you. He leaned down over you once again, eyes finding yours, and you felt the tip rub up and down your folds a few times. Steven’s lips were parted in pleasure, his breathing ragged. You felt the head of his cock barely breach the entrance of your pussy.

“Is this—are you sure?”

He asked you one final time, fingers reaching to stroke your hair. Instead of answering, you pulled him in for a sloppy kiss, and slowly, slowly, he pushed into you.

The groan that escaped him was hellish, sinful, practically animalistic as he sheathed himself within you, pushing in to the hilt until he was buried completely in the warmth of your walls. Your eyes never left his face, absolutely living for his expressions of pleasure—his pinched brows, parted lips, heavy breaths. His eyes were squeezed shut as he held himself there for a moment, offering you time to get settled. You didn’t need time. He had opened you up plenty, and your wet channel practically swallowed him with need.

“Alright?”

He breathed, checking to see if you were experiencing any discomfort. You nodded at him and offered a roll of your hips upward, your clit rubbing up against his pubic bone deliciously. He whimpered, pulling his cock out just enough before rocking back into you. You mewled, pressing your face into his shoulder as he repeated the motion, pulling out a bit more each time as he gained confidence and momentum. Soon, he was thrusting into you steadily, each move punctuated by barely audible ‘uh, uh, uh’ sounds from his lips as he lost himself in the feeling of you.

“Yes, Steven, fuck. Fucking me so well, such a good boy.”

That awoke something in him, and his pace faltered just barely, hips stuttering as he let out a high-pitched whine.

“Shit, shit, don’t—you can’t just—I’m not gonna last, Y/N, fuck.”

The look on his face was pained, sweat sheened on his forehead from how hard he was restraining himself. You wanted—you needed to see him fall apart.

“Want you to cum for me, Steven.”

You hummed, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, and he whimpered, shaking his head as he continued pounding into you.

“No, please, not yet, want—want you to cum on my cock.”

He sounded desperate, frantic, but you could feel within yourself that you weren’t going to get there soon, and he couldn’t hold out much longer. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him into you as you cradled his face in your hands, forcing his eyes on yours.

“Need you to cum, Steven, please—please, please, need you to cum for me—”

You clenched your muscles, walls clamping down on him, and with a sharp cry of your name, his cum spilled deep inside you, cock fully nested in your cunt as his spend coated your walls and filled you with warmth. His hips kept thrusting into you, almost of their own volition, forcing his seed deeper and deeper into you as he grunted with each move, face contorted in a look of sheer bliss.

Your hands were stroking his back, fingers tracings patterns on the soft skin as he collapsed on top of you, burying his face in the crook on your neck, his cock still sheathed within you.

“Good boy.”

You whispered repeatedly, lips pressed to his temple as he caught his breath and tried to slow the rapid thumping of his heart.

“Such a good boy.”

He let out a sigh, nose pressed into the side of your neck as he closed his eyes, allowing himself a few moments to sit in the moment and really feel it. The softness of your body beneath him, the comforting swirl of your fingers on his back, the quiet hum of praise eliciting from your lips. He wanted to live in this moment forever.

You shifted, just slightly, from beneath him, and he immediately jumped into action. He pressed a chaste peck to your lips before pulling out of you slowly, taking a second to appreciate the view of his cum leaking out of you before he made his way to the bathroom, grabbing a warm wet washcloth to clean you up. When he came back, he just had his boxers on, but the toned taupe of his skin still made you blush. His eyes regarded you warmly, reverently, as he wiped away both of your combined arousals from your folds, touch gentle and careful. When he was done, he reached onto the floor to grab his jumper, sitting back up and offering it to you. You smiled graciously, holding your arms in the air like an expectant child as Steven slipped it over your head, pulling your arms through and straightening it down over your body.

God, you looked good in his clothes.

He crawled beside you, nestling in next to you, body curling to fit the curvature of your side. His head found its place in the crook of your neck, the smell of your skin sweet, and he hummed in contentment, relaxing into you. You smiled softly, reaching up to stroke his hair.

“Is... Is this what you’d normally do after sex?”

You asked carefully, hesitantly, afraid to lose the intimacy of the moment. Steven bristled at your words, just slightly, before he sank further into your embrace.

“I mean... in what little experience I have, yeah, I’d say so.”

He offered, voice laced with grogginess, his eyelids drooping. You giggled quietly at his sudden exhaustion, finding the sight quite endearing.

“So you want me to stay, then?”

He lifted his head at your question, worry reflecting in his big brown eyes.

“Did—do you not want to?”

He asked hurriedly, preparing himself for your rejection, but you shook your head defensively.

“No, no! I’m just—this is about you, and what you want out of sex. Do you... I mean, would you expect me to spend the night?”

Steven’s stare was reminiscent of a puppy as he looked up at you, seeming almost lost. Hesitantly, he nodded his head, confirming that he wanted you to stay with him. You smiled softly, pressing a kiss atop his forehead.

“Great—then I’ll stay.”

He relaxed back into you, eyes closing almost immediately, his breaths slowing. After a few minutes, you’d assumed he’d fallen asleep, but then his voice called out softly in the silence.

“M’sorry, by the way.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Sorry? For—for what?”

A long sigh. He buried his face further into your shoulder, hiding himself.

“I didn’t get to—I mean, you weren’t able to—I wanted you to, you know—before me.”

Oh.

His innocent avoidance of vulgarity melted your heart, as it was obviously something he struggled to speak about regularly. You pulled your head back, turning to face him, and he lifted his eyes, cheek smushed against your collarbone. You smiled at him, a hand coming to stroke his cheek.

“Don’t be sorry, Steven. It was perfect.”

You assured, and although he would normally never believe it, something in your eyes was genuine. His lips turned upward at the corners.

“Yeah?”

He asked, excited at the prospect of your validation, and you laughed shortly, smiling wide.

“Yeah.”

With that, Steven let his body meld against yours, finally allowing himself to relax completely and relish in the feeling of being so close to you.

Your mind was already racing with ideas for tomorrow’s trial.

POINTS OF CONTENTION:

- being open to unconditional care without obligation of reciprocation

- feeling adequate and worthy of affections

- accepting praise and compliments without denial or doubt

TREATMENT: - receive without giving - deserving of everything and anything (should not have guilt over being pleasured) - high praise and validation

Twelve hours, that was the deal. You needed at least twelve hours apart before you could begin the second phase of research. Partially to record the data you needed and begin developing a profile, but mostly because you knew that both the boys and you would need time to recuperate before going at it again.

Especially Steven.

Standing outside his apartment door, you were somehow more nervous this time around than you were yesterday. You’d spent the night with him, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you’d left early that morning, promising to return in the evening after the appropriate time had elapsed. You’d showered, eaten, relaxed, but mostly, you’d planned. The key to this study, you’d realized, wasn’t actually the sex at all—it was about challenging the alters, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Exposure therapy.

Sexual interactions are intimate. They are reflective of some of our deep-rooted, unconscious desires, and are significantly related to events that occurred in our childhood that shaped our attachments styles. Certain sexual preferences, turn-ons, fetishes, and kinks, are indicative of different cognitive dispositions. You were trying to figure the boys out—using what they wanted to get to what they needed.

You had predicted Steven’s diagnosis from the start.

When the door to his flat swung inward, his eyes were crinkled at the corners from his smile. He looked soft—rosy pink cheeks, mussed brunette curls, baggy sweats—almost as if he’d just woken up. You returned his grin, slipping past him and into the threshold of his flat.

The door slammed shut behind him, and you turned to him, surprised to be met with a slow, deep, passionate kiss, his lips lingering on yours for just a moment before he pulled away.

You blinked.

“Wow.”

You whispered, slightly reeling. You could feel heat rising to your cheeks. Steven looked down sheepishly.

“Oh, goodness, I don’t—m’sorry, love, I wasn’t really thinking, I just—missed you, s’all.”

He confessed, rubbing at the back of his neck bashfully. His words pulled at your heartstrings and you walked into him, wrapping your arms around his torso and resting your chin on his chest so you were looking up at him.

“No, don’t be sorry, just—took me by surprise.”

You smiled.

“Hell of a welcome, though.”

He smiled, letting out a nervous breath.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You nodded, tilting your head upwards to capture his mouth with your own again. He hummed against you, one hand coming to cup the side of your face and the other pulling you in closer by your waist. His tongue swiped at your bottom lip, and you immediately submitted, parting your lips to grant him full access. He started walking backwards towards the couch, but you pulled away to stop him.

“Bed.”

You whispered, your fuck-me eyes almost making him feel faint. He nodded obediently, kissing you again, and changed direction, guiding you to the other side of the flat. The back of Steven’s calves collided with the mattress and he fell backwards into a sitting position onto the bed, but you stayed standing between his parted legs.

“What’re you doin’, love?”

He asked, laughing almost nervously. You just smirked down at him, leaning over to capture his lips once more. You hands were on his shoulders, traveling down his back and around his neck. His found your hips, fingers digging into the flesh there as you continued your passionate making out. Finally, you pulled away, but stayed close, nose still brushing his. His eyes were closed.

“Steven.”

You whispered, and he hummed in acknowledgement, an expression of contentment on his face.

“Are you ready?”

His eyes fluttered open, his gaze focusing in on you. Your lip was pulled between your teeth, as if contemplating something.

“Ready? For... for what, exactly?”

You leaned a bit away from him, standing up to your full height. You looked down at him, stroking his hair comfortingly as you addressed him.

“We’re—I’m gonna try something, okay? But I need you to know that you can stop me at any time. Do you know the stoplight system?”

His big brown eyes looked up at you, and he shook his head.

“It’s a technique for safe words. So if I’m doing something and you want me to stop, you say red. If you need me to slow down, you say yellow, and if you’re doing okay and want me to keep going, you say...”

“Green.”

He finished for you, slightly breathless with anticipation. You nodded down at him proudly.

“Yeah, you’ve got it, good boy.”

You heard the way his breath caught in his throat at your praise, and you pressed a soft, quick kiss to his lips.

“So—are you ready?”

The way he looked at you—eyes filled with such wonder, such reverence, such infatuation—filled you with so much pride and confidence. God, you wanted to ruin this man.

“Gods, love, you’re makin’ me a bit nervous.”

He admitted sheepishly, but his breathing stuttered as you slowly lowered yourself to your knees in between his legs, placing one hand on each thigh and coaxing them farther apart. He was watching you intently.

“Don’t be nervous, sweetheart, it’s okay. But remember—you just tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

He slowly nodded, waiting earnestly for your next move. You reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it off of him and tossing it to the side. His pants followed shortly thereafter, leaving him only in his boxers. You could see just how hard he already was for you—excitement bubbled in your stomach.

He reached for your shirt, but you tutted at him condescendingly, gently guiding his hands away from you.

“No, sweetheart—this is about you.”

You whispered, returning to your position on your knees in between his legs. He was leaning back, his arms stretched out behind him as he held himself up, watching you. Your fingers were stroking at the skin of his upper thigh, where the leg of his boxers ended. Slowly, your fingers passed over his bulge with a barely-there touch, and he hissed at the ticklish sensation, the muscles of his thighs rippling with strain.

While his head was tilted back and his eyes were closed, you took advantage of his temporary distraction and leaned forward to place opened-mouth kisses on his cock through his boxers. The warm heat from your breath passed over him and he groaned, watching as you finally reached up to remove the final barrier between you.

He shifted his hips up to help, and you pulled his boxers down his legs and off of him completely—now, he was completely naked before you, and you were fully clothed.

Perfect.

You settled back in between his legs, fingers slowly creeping up his inner thigh and towards his weeping length. You looked up at him through your lashes, where he was waiting with bated breath.

“Listen to me—you’re gonna cum whenever you want to, whenever you’re ready, okay, Steven?”

He whimpered in response as your fingers skirted around his base. When he didn’t verbally answer, you stopped.

“Okay, Steven?”

“Yes, yeah, alright, yeah.”

He nodded frantically, acknowledging your instruction, and you rewarded him with a grin.

“Good boy.”

Your fingers finally wrapped around the base of his cock and he sighed, groaning as he watched you lean forward and allow a string of spit to dribble through your lips and down onto his awaiting length. You coated your hand with the slickness and started a slow, steady pace, pumping him with a slight twist of your wrist. He whimpered, particularly sensitive when your thumb stroked at the sensitive head at the end of your long up-and-down strokes.

“Shit, Y/N, oh, Gods...”

He whined, his hips slowly starting to react to your pace by thrusting upward into your fist.

“There you go, Steven, doing so well.”

You praised, speeding up the pace of your hand a bit. His lip was pulled between his teeth, as if focusing intently, and you let your other hand come up to cup at his heavy balls. This earned a low groan from him, his hips jolting with each twist of your wrist.

“Shit, shit, you’ve got to slow down, or else—oh, fuck—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I wanna see you let go. It’s okay.”

You whispered sweetly, maintaining your speed but tightening your grip just slightly. The muscles in his abdomen were visibly straining, and you could tell he was close.

“Come on, sweet boy. Cum for me.”

He let out a breathy whine, and you could feel the tightening of his balls as his stomach clenched.

“Oh, fuck, I’m cumming, Y/N, oh, mmmmh—”

You kept pumping him as thick spurts of white spilled from his tip, dripping down the sides of his pretty cock as he throbbed beneath your touch. You allowed his spend to drip over your fingers and knuckles as you continued stroking him, pace slowing just slightly, but not entirely.

His head was thrown back, still reeling with aftershocks, and—fuck.

He jolted when he felt the hot sting of your lips, tongue swirling over the head of his cock, cum still dripping over your hands as your wrist twisted around the base. He cried out, hips thrusting upwards, his legs spasming involuntarily as you began bobbing your head up and down repeatedly, eyes on his face as you watched his face scrunch up in pain.

“Oh, Gods, fuck, fuck, what are you—oh, Gods, s’too much, I can’t, stop, please—”

His hands were fisting at the blankets atop his bed, trying his best not to bury his fingers in your hair as you pulled off of him with a gasp, but your hand kept going.

“You gotta use your words, sweet boy.”

You reminded with a sympathetic tone.

“If you want me to stop, use your words.”

You leaned forward to clean up his release from the sides of his cock, tongue gliding at the same speed as your hand. He was hissing through his teeth, legs still kicking every once in awhile with overstimulation. He wasn’t responding, so maybe you should stop, maybe—

“Fuck, fuck—green! Green, I’m—it’s green.”

He cried, and you wrapped your lips back on his cock, starting to bounce your head once more. The cries that were escaping him were delicious—pathetic whines and whimpers, begging incomprehensibly as you tried to keep his cock hard beneath your touch. It was working, because you could see his abdomen clenching again, and each of his panted breaths was paired with a short grunt.

“Oh, fuck, I don’t—oh, gods, it’s—m’gonna cum again, oh, shit, oooh—”

You pushed down on his cock as far as you could take him, and the second he hit the back of your throat, he felt his orgasm rock through him. His legs curled around your back instinctually, holding you in place as his hips thrusted into your mouth. This was different, though, this—his muscles were contracting, balls tightening, but it wasn’t accompanied by his cum down your throat. You gagged on him and he practically yelped, one hand finally reaching up to grab at your hair. He pulled you off of him, and you gasped for air. Your face was red and there was spit smeared across your cheeks and down your chin. When you looked up at Steven, his eyes were red and there were tears in his eyes. Your hand was still on his cock, pumping slowly. His legs were still twitching.

You stood up, finally releasing him, and he collapsed backwards onto the bed, arms eagle-spread on either side of him, panting. But then he heard the sound of clothes hitting the floor, and when he looked up at you, you were undressing.

He stared at you incredulously, and you smirked at him, discarding your pants and panties simultaneously, leaving you completely bare. You approached the bed again, swinging your leg across Steven's waist to straddle him. You held yourself up just a bit so you were hovering over his cock.

“What, you think we’re done already?”

You teased, sinking down to rub your dripping folds over his still half-hard length. His hips jumped at the feeling.

“No, no, I can’t, not—”

He whimpered, and you leaned forward to shush him, giving him a quick kiss. His bottom lip quivered.

“Such a good boy, Steven—you can give me one more.”

You nodded encouragingly, and he whined, his head pressing back into the mattress with frustration. Your hand reached to stroke at his chest.

“Words, Steven. Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You offered, suddenly serious, and he took a few deep breaths, tears trailing down his cheeks. When he opened them again, he looked wrecked, but he met your gaze.

“Green.”

It was barely a whisper, but you heard it. You reached down to wrap your fingers around his slick length once more, stroking him to coax him back to full height. He was still mostly hard, as his second orgasm had occurred in the midst of his refractory period, so fairly soon, his tip was prodding at your awaiting entrance and you stifled a mewl.

“There we go, sweet boy. You ready?”

His brows were pinched, but he nodded, and you slowly, carefully sank down on him, burying him into you all the way to the hilt. He was crying now, sitting upright to wrap his arms around you and hold you close against him as you gave him a moment to adjust. His face was pressed into your shoulder.

“Doing so, so well, for me, Steven. Just give me one more, okay? Whenever you want, whenever you’re ready, give it to me.”

You encouraged, lips pressed against his ear, and you slowly lifted up your hips, sinking back down onto him as he whined into you.

“Oooh—oooh—”

“Shh, shh—I know, sweetheart, I know.”

You cooed, cupping the back of his head with one hand as you continued to roll your hips, grinding back and forth against his lap. You were entirely focused on Steven and helping him reach his peak, but still, the way the tip of his cock prodded at something deep inside you was addictive.

“Such a big cock, Steven, fills me up so good.”

He was panting, you could feel his thighs trembling beneath you as you bounced on him, picking up your speed.

“Being such a good boy. Can you give me one more, huh? Think you can?”

He was sobbing, hips jolting every time your weight came to settle back down onto his balls, skin sticky with sweat as you held him close to you.

“Oh, please, please, please, I’m so close, oh fuck—please, I can’t—”

You bounced on him harder, feeling the ripple of tension in his shoulder blades as his body was wracked with sobs.

“Oh, yes, gonna cum, gonna cum, Y/N, gonna—oh, oh, oh fuck, fuck, fuck fuck—”

His teeth sank into the flesh of your shoulder as his cock pulsed within you, and you granted him the kindness of stopping the roll of your hips so he could thrust into you, his seed painting your walls and filling you with warmth. You could feel the hot, wet tears from his eyes against the skin of your shoulder, and you held him close to you, cradling his head against you and rocking him gently.

“Good boy, Steven, so proud of you. Did so, so well for me. My sweet, sweet boy.”

You peppered kisses to the crown of his head, burying your face in his curls as he clung to you desperately, and you stayed there until you felt the drumming of his heart slow and his breathing even out. You slowly, carefully peeled yourself away from him, his softened and sensitive cock slipping out of you as you shakily got to your feet. He whined at the loss of contact, reaching for you, but you shushed him.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

You followed his lead from yesterday, cleaning yourself up in the bathroom before bringing a damp rag to wipe away the arousal that was drying against his thighs. He hissed at your touch, but you gently cleaned him up, returning to the bathroom again. You considered slipping his jumper on, but for some reason, you felt the need to be as close to Steven as possible. You’d pushed him to his limit, and you wanted to be there for him in every sense of the word.

When you came back to the bed, you gestured for him to crawl up towards the pillows. He obliged, albeit a bit shakily, and you pulled the covers back for him as he curled up beneath them. You joined him immediately after, fitting your body to the curve of his back and wrapping your arms around his warm abdomen. You pressed a few gentle kisses against the back of his neck, the top of his spine, across his shoulders. He hummed in response.

“You feel okay?”

You asked quietly, words muffled in his skin. He scooted away so he could turn to face you. His eyes were red, but there was a glimmer of calmness in them—the high-strung Steven looked truly relaxed.

“Feel floaty.”

You laughed at his drawled words, hands reaching up to cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs stroked against each of his cheeks gently, soothing.

“You really did so well, Steven. Thank you.”

Your eyes were soft, and you saw the way his lips quirked at the corners at your approval.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to—I mean, if you’d still like to—”

You sent him a glare, and he immediately silenced himself, gaze casting downward and away from you.

“No. This was about you, Steven, about you feeling good and that’s it. It was perfect. I loved it.”

His eyes brightened.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You assured, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. He sighed, shutting his eyes briefly as a warm, fuzzy feeling overtook him.

“S’just—wish I’d gotten the chance to—”

“Next time, Steven, okay?”

You regarded him carefully, tone gentle. His brows furrowed.

“But—my turn’s done. S’just—Marc and Jake, and then—”

“Next time.”

You reiterated, and when your words finally sank in, the smile that lit up his face was one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close to him, embracing you tightly like he never wanted to let go.

TAGS: @kezibear143 @gingermous

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sparring-spirals · 7 days

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OKAY. after some sleep. back on my bullshit lets go.

I think its so critical that F.C.G made that choice, that in their last moments they looked at their friends and felt that sense of purpose and calm. I think it is wildly meaningful of him to know what his last resort would be, what it would end in, and choose it willingly, buoyed by a sense of purpose and love.

I think it's pretty clear the options were bad and worse, and that F.C.G made a strategic call that they perhaps knew would hurt but really, truly believed was worth it, and that call probably did stop their friends from experiencing further losses. I think there is something uniquely beautiful into turning a thing of destruction- perhaps something F.C.G had always seen as a burden or a curse or a worry- into an expression of his love for his friends.

And I think F.C.G, constantly plagued by doubt, getting a sense of crystal clear surety. And F.C.G thinking to themself: they saved me, and now i can save them is.

deeply fucking important.

and also something that makes me. emotional 😭

That said i can still be mad at F.C.G, and I can still want to hunt down a robot afterlife just to grab his chassis and shake him a little. Self sacrifice plays always have a steeper cost than just the person making the sacrifice. Their purpose was never just to lay down their life for others, and I despise a world where F.C.G could think that and not have the thought soundly rebuffed by those that loved them. There was a danger in him, maybe, but there was danger in all of them! A party of running risks!

Its just v important to me that: I don't know how I feel about the idea of it being a foregone conclusion this would happen. That this was the only way it would have ended. F.C.G made a choice, in that moment, that he knew would change things. F.C.G made that choice.

After a campaign of doubt and flipping coins and wondering whether choosing destiny or altering fate was even- possible: F.C.G makes this choice, fueled by love and determination and understanding, and everything changes because of it.

You did it buddy. You did it.

im gonna kick your ass once i figure out how, though, F.C.G. ashton will probably help me.

#critical role #cr spoilers #c3e91 #spar speaks #fcg #character meta #???#hello im still here. still mulling through things.#i think it was an intentional and impactful move and i think matts ruling reflects that. and its so critical fcg chose it #im still going to be raging at this robot for a while though

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odesofmeddea · 1 month

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i find it tragic and fascinating how sam's narrative is so rife with representations of confinement. of failed or rejected attempts to actually get away. as much as there is a need for individuation there is concurrently an utter terror at being let loose, the terror that comes at once that the individuation is permit. in season i, the scarecrow, we glimpse a pageant of both dean and sam's agony because it's the first time that dean tells him to go if he wants so, and the focus here is on how sam concaves in situations of such release. he crawls back happily. then he invariably tells dean, again, that he has to let him go once this is over... but then sam stays. when dean, through all his miseries, manages to let him be at the beginning of season v, sam is instantly awestruck, near nonmotile, ‘i was expecting a fight’, because he is so used to being forced back in, to being loved like this - through forms of compulsion, coercion and captivity. he is also used to these conditions being the only plausible safety that preserves him via its isolating modi operandi. so whenever he walks away, he is still not exempt. leaving with ruby, he aches to reconcile with dean, after. he brings up his brother on a date with the coworker-girl telling about his regrets, he calls dean at night, asking to be taken back. and it is copacetic in a way that the narrative warps sam to the point where he is defensive and greedy for love that, having forced him to renege his sovereignty, monopolized itself in his life.

first sam can't go back to stanford - his life is a locus of ecumenical violence, his body a site of appropriation, and yet, in all his impurity (since he deems himself impure and abject), dean is still there, loving, preserving, persevering. then he can't go back to the normal world because the family business (secret) takes away sam's tongue to the point where he no longer can communicate himself nor his trauma into the ambiance he now is completely alienated from. he is confined. he gives up, he lets himself to get eaten. the only thing he has is his brother who can't talk, toward whom all ends of his life invariably resile; dean representing the only support constancy to sam is simultaneously a representation of willed stasis - he no longer evolves outside of his brother, he convolutes into and about him. when you center your life around someone that much, they become the crux of your sense of self, they become the fulcrum of your good or bad self-perception�� when lilith kills dean, the world ends. he is changed, ghastly, he is a man arage, a heathcliff bereft of his cathy - the personal transmutation is still a lot about brother, is still spurred by deanlessness. even the confirmation of sam's reality, later, gets centered around him - through the palm-wound dean sewed and reopened, unmade into the site of verity: if dean was here, in this wound, this is real. if dean trusts me, if i hadn't let him down again, then i'm whole, redeemable.

sam, now, is unwilling to leave. he long entered this limen of altered consciousness that is the result of the psychological duress he grew up in, along with the exacerbation of trauma that ensued once dean pulled him back into the vortex of the family loop. he gets domesticated - not that he wasn't by the fact of birth into this house - in the intergenerational mentality and trauma, many a time he goes through the identification with his father (prior: aggressor) whose obsessiveness he espouses. which is ourobóros because john could only execute and interpret love as an incarceration - dean tells lisa how he would cloister them when they were kids which is another form of perpetuated captivity resulting in complete dependency and disconnection from society. it is something you can't walk out and away from. when sam tells so to the hallucination of his child-self, while locked by dean in the cage: ‘we were never gonna get away’, he assumes his heritage and, too, cannot let go. gabriel tries to teach him the lesson on letting dean go but it is quite late for sam to either learn or want it. he just keeps pleading, like a homeless dog: please, please, bring him back, because homelessness is freedom and freedom means a world without dean. it happens to be a harrowing one.

in some episode when dean leaves with crowley but without him, sam gets drunk and cries about it to bobby. literally. when dean comes back, he locks him in the bathroom. it is also the same episode which crowley calls him dean's dog, the first time probably that he directly gets this canine title instead of dean, and it fits, it depicts. he is so insecure, so dependent. he loves dean to the point of self-annihilation. he always comes back. he, like any tamed dog, wants to prove himself, and to protect, and attack for. that might be why he is so scared when dean deliberately lets him out. if he let me out... does he no longer love me? and if he doesn't love me anymore, what else do i have in this world that i abjured for my cage completely?

#spn #sam winchester #wincest #samdean #my texts

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wutheringcaterpillar · 16 days

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I love love love your work so much!!! How about a soft!dark!Tommy fic where the reader cheats (she doesn’t love him) and he still wants her back

Warnings: Infidelity, p in v, smut, altered timeline/storyline, cheating, dark!tommy, a singular face slap, relationship problems, mental diagnosis

thank you for the request hope you enjoy!

In the beginning, there was admiration and love, in the end destruction and deceit claimed your lives.

When Oswald Mosley walked into your life, he was a married man as you were an engaged woman.

His wife was quite beautiful but the attitude and extravagant confidence was all too apparent and took over the room for you to want any friendship with her, to which Tommy respected.

His delicate facial structure swooned many women, similar to Tommy’s yet though he had lingering eyes from time to time, they always seemed to settle upon you instead of his wife.

He took an interest in your life, hobbies, dishing out flattering compliments here and there unlike your fiance whom just seemed consumed with business.

Months carried on, much like the seasons with many interactions involving the charming man but nothing but innocent, friendly banter occurred until the charity event you were attending tonight that Tommy was unable to join as he had a business meeting in downtown London.

Sitting at the bar, you’d run into one of your friends from college, sharing small talk and stories of the adventures you’d endured. Not a singular impure thought had crossed your mind, until an all too familiar voice spoke from behind you.

“Is that the sensational Ms. Y/L/N I see?” The seductive, yet charming voice pulled you away from your drink. Your subtle eyes turning to face the handsome, well complimented man.

Glancing around the room, to ensure none of Tommy’s men were around, you decided what was wrong indulging in an innocent conversation. After all the endless compliments he gave you made you feel good inside, something you hadn’t felt in awhile.

“Where’s Mr. Shelby tonight?”

“He’s um- out of town for business matters.” Pursing his lips together in disapproval, he signaled for the bartender, ordering drinks and somehow managing to place your favorite without even asking.

“A shame, a lovely lady like you. He shouldn’t trust other men to be able to control their arousal looking at such a dazzling woman. Especially with a figure like yours, you can’t find that often Y/N, you’re one of a kind if I’d say so myself.” Your cheeks blushed an amber shade of red, while he smiled slyly. There’s no harm in having a singular drink with a friend, right?

Taking his seat next to you, your friend whispered a word, ensuring that you’d call her if you were in danger as she had to leave due to an appointment early in the morning.

Motioning that you’d be alright, Mosely smiled widely, insisting on a cheers to the glorious happenings of life.

What was planned to be one drink turned into several as conversation carried on miraculously. He was quite an interesting character unlike his wife whom had left with another man.

“How does your marriage work? There’s no jealousy? Or hatred?” Mosley laughed coyly, simply intrigued by your question.

“Oh we both have the understanding of having a bit of scandalous fun, letting loose. Surely it gets boring looking at the same person all the time. Gives us a well needed break. I can assure you she won’t be telling Mr. Shelby. As shallow as it may sound she only cares about herself. As long as I give her attention when she desires it, then there is really no need to fret.” You clicked your tongue, attempting to wrap your head around that way of life. You had tried desperately to be intimate with Tommy, searching for his attention on a daily basis yet he seemed to not have a care in the world, simply setting you aside.

Maybe there was some truth to what Mosley was saying, but if Tommy really loved you like he claims to, you couldn’t possibly get bored of the person you’re in love with. Now here you were wondering if you ever truly were in love with him.

Reeling you from your thoughts, Mosley spoke confidently.

“It would probably be a tremendous stress relief for you. I have a room booked just down the avenue all to myself, since my lovely wife decided to spend the night elsewhere. What do you say in indulging in a bit of fun with one another. You always have been quite the spectacular interest to me.” Shaking your head and tracing the engagement ring, you thought back to the beginning. When Tommy put in the effort, was willing to do anything for you.

Surely you shouldn’t just throw it away due to relationship problems.

“We mustn’t. It wouldn’t be right.” Everything in you was fighting the urge to not go against the morally correct thing to do, yet you weren’t exactly saying no, and the liqour was encouraging the impure thoughts of what you’d like to do to this man.

It took you by surprise when he settled his hand upon your thigh beneath the bar.

“Y’know Y/N. Tommy would never have to know, and I must say. I’ve never seen your adoring smile as much before as I have tonight. You should indulge and aim for happiness in life. No regrets, so now I bid the fair question. Are you happy revoking yourself of such spontaneous pleasure and a night of fun or do you want to live in the ill construct of society?” He had caught you completely off guard, your mind was running a million miles a minute. You wanted to be a good fiance, you really did but the convincing, devilishly good looking man had a valid point.

Tommy barely paid any attention toward you, your sex life was nearly non existent, kids seemed to be out of the picture, not wanting to another one after Ruby passed.

If Tommy had taught you one thing, it was how to keep a secret, to move strategically.

Glancing down in curiosity, your eyes fell upon his semi hardened member in his pants, and the liquor was enough to convince you.

“So tell me in all of your beauty, and immaculate body, what’s it going to be Y/N?”

With questionable eyes, before you answered, you picked up the glass finishing off the sour amaretto, letting the liqour quench your thirst while excitement burned between your thighs.

The risk of getting caught and breaking the rules igniting a flame within your soul.

The next thing you knew Mosley’s hands were holding your ass up against the wall of an expensive hotel room, his lips pressed against yours in a heated frenzy of lust.

Your tongue delve into his mouth, battling for dominance, the sweet taste of rum and coke coating his tongue.

Shedding one another of clothing, you hands tangled with his belt, throwing the leather accessory on the carpeted floor, eager to retrieve his coveted member from his pants.

Oh how he made you want to commit terrible sins.

His cock sprang freely, needing desperately to be in between your soaked folds.

“My, my, what a treasure you are.” His voice was low, and flirtatious, one of his eyebrows peaking in interest at the sight of your breasts hanging freely, nipples already hardening from the sight of his nude body, imagining all the positions he could have you in.

“Take me, fuck me before I have the chance to feel any guilt.” He didn’t need another moment of convincing. Finally happy that he has you all to himself for no one to know, but he was sure of one thing. That this whole damn hotel was going to hear just how much he can pleasure you.

Thrusting inside you, you’d forgotten what it felt like to be so full. It had been months since Tommy had made love to you and being with another man felt terribly wrong but also phenomenally right.

“Oh fuck, how I’ve missed this!” Your fingers laced into his smooth, brown strands of hair as his cock infiltrated your blooming rose that was aching to be pollened.

He lifted you from the wall, repositioning you onto all fours on the bed.

He drilled into you relentlessly you ass richocheting with each combustive thrust, his balls merely slapping against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck! Don’t stop!” He smirked to himself, hands settling on your ass cheeks as he slammed into you over and over again relentlessly.

Pulling you back by your hair his lips connected to the warmth of your neck, leaving lavish kisses on your delicate, inviting skin.

You couldn’t help but grind back against him in a melodic rhythm, waves of undeniable pleasure coursing through your veins.

“My darling, we’ve only just begun.” Grabbing your sides and flipping you onto your back, you giggled like a school girl finally feeling happy after so long of being unsatisfied.

It wasn’t until nearly a year later until revelations came to life, a week before your wedding. Tommy had been switching sides unbenknowst to you, yet he allowed the “friendship” to continue on. That didn’t mean he wasn’t hesitant nor idiotic. He paid close attention from afar, deciding he had, had enough when the fourth night a week you hadn’t come home.

Mosley’s visits during the day to your house made him question what he was really there for. The longing stares, the playful insides jokes, the sudden shared interests helped him slowly piece matters together.

Noticing the way you smiled when he walked in the room, the way your eyes lit up like fireworks whenever he’d “accidentally” brush past you.

Tommy was hurt, hoping that this realization couldn’t be true, that he was over reacting. Yet Mosley’s marriage was far from devotion and true love, considering they each slept around as if it were nothing.

Sitting in the leather chair in the living room, he watched the clock tick. Hours on end passing by until you called at midnight, saying “the car had a flat tire and you’d get it looked at in the morning as you were tired”.

Has it really come to this point? The wedding was supposed to be in a week, yet Tommy hadn’t seen you plan for it one bit.

He began to question all the things that went wrong. He admitted he had put business before your relationship, always expecting you to watch Charlie, hardly having sex due to traveling so much for meetings. Could he blame you? There was only one thing for him to do to win back the love of his life.

Curled against Mosley’s chest, the fireplace was the only light in the room, tucked in the wall near the end of the bed.

He was spewing flirtatious jokes in your ear, making you giggle when suddenly the door flew open, causing you to jolt up, pulling the sheet over you breasts until you recognized who was at the door.

“Tommy?” Mosley rolled his eyes, scooting up from his laying position, reteriving a cigarette from the bedside table.

Tommy stood there as pale as a ghost, feeling guilt, knowing full well this was his fault. He should have been a better partner, he should have at the very least tried and now he was paying the price.

Looking at your nude body, entangled in the satin sheets with the enemy, his mouth was subtly agape, how did he not piece the puzzle together.

“What’s the matter Mr. Shelby? Surely this can’t come as a surprise to you. After all, a woman can only go unloved for so long, and a man can’t expect a woman’s love in return if he doesn’t work toward earning it.” Tommy didn’t know what to feel with both sets of your eyes on him. He was angry, upset, saddened, his heart felt like it was stuck in his throat, beating anxiously fast, as if it were a bomb waiting to burst through his skin.

Instead of speaking a word, Tommy simply exited the room, unable to blame either one of you.

Sighing and shoving the sheet off of you, you gathered your clothes, putting them on hastily in a disheveled manner before rushing out after your fiance.

“Oh let the blimey sap go Y/N, you’re better off without him!” Mosely shouted as you slammed the door behind you, smirking in his success that he had won you over, and had you to himself.

Reaching the stairwell, Tommy was sat on the top step, the smoke from his cigarette travelling into the thin air.

Frowning, you took a seat next to him, crossing your arms in shame and guilt.

“How did you know where I was?” He stared off into the distance, staring blankly at the wall.

“I have eyes everywhere Y/N. Rookie mistake only using this hotel and occasionally his house when the whore of a wife is gone rendezvousing with another man.” You thought you had been extremely articulate and careful, yet Tommy still found a way to outsmart you. Not once did you see any of his men in the same vicinity as you.

“So how long have you known?”

“I’ve had my suspicions for a few months now. Should’ve known sooner but I guess I’m not home enough or treat you well enough so you go and fuck the fascist.” Scoffing, he turned to you with a look of disapproval, but you weren’t intimidated anymore.

“I never promised you anything. I’ve given you everything for years on end, yet you can’t give me the one thing I’ve asked for.” In a quick, flash of a movement Tommy slapped his hand back against your cheek, grabbing your chin in an angered movement forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“You know I lost Ruby. You know damn well I’ve given you a house to live in. I’ve given you money, food. I’ve taken you off the streets. I’ll be damned if I don’t get a second chance. I wouldn’t be wasting my time here with you if I didn’t care Y/N.” Your eyes were wide in terror as he had never spoken to you in such a way, nor ever layed a hand on your skin.

Part of you wanted to scream for Mosley to come save you but the threatening look in Tommy’s eyes was daring you to do so. The once ocean blue eyes, now a venomous shade of sapphire.

“Tommy you’re scaring me.” He released your jaw, knowing that the impending, serious look on his face was enough that you would not run off.

Running your hand over the merely bruised skin, it was quite clear he held back force from the slap to your cheek, but you didn’t want to know what strength he was holding back. You felt as if you deserved it and wouldn’t deny him of that.

“Love is supposed to be scary isn’t it? You won’t find a man that will fight for you the way I am, not on the streets of Birmingham. I won’t allow you to make a fool of me any longer. Nor will I make a fool of you any longer. I will be there, I will show you affection, and mend my dishonarable traits to the best of my ability but you need to work with me Y/N. How am I supposed to know if you’re upset when you go silent, not voicing your concerns. Instead running to another man for a child.” He had a point but seeing his interactions with others made you believe he wasn’t one to negotiate unless it was on his terms, his way.

“Please, he doesn’t even know about that. I just wanted to feel loved, something I haven’t felt in quite a long time and frankly if this is your way of apologizing for always putting me second you can go fuck yourself because you are not the man that I agreed to marry anymore.” When you stood up to go back to the room, Tommy spoke up, dispelling the cigarette onto the lavish, patterned carpet.

“This ends here and now.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Tommy chuckled darkly, pulling an envelope from his coat.

“Read it.” Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, you opened the letter to find he had looked into you.

The paper held addresses of family members, formal documents of taxation, and the history of you medical records. How did he get this?

This was private, and completely out of reach from anyone other than yourself.

“What-what is this?” With shaking hands you skimmed the words, recognizing every piece of information to be true.

“I researched you, something I should’ve done when we first met. Or at the very least taken an interest in, like you’ve said. You’ve evaded paying taxes, you were in a mental health institution for nearly two years for attempting to kidnap your sister’s child because the voices in your head told you the child was yours. A diagnosed anxiety ridden schizophrenic. You were released on May 7, due to good behavior and proper medication. Your family disowned you, but you still check in on them, don’t you?” Tears pricked at your eyelids, feeling completely vulnerable and at his mercy. These were all things you should have told him yourself but failed to do so, and now it’s biting you in the ass

“Give me a second chance and I can make this all go away Y/N. Wipe your file clean, adjust the tax forms without anyone knowing and ensuring your family goes unharmed. If I didn’t give a flying fuck about you, I would’ve just left. Can’t you see I love you, and I am trying. I do care for you, and I want to learn more, be able to help you more. You have to let me in.” A loud bang caused you to jump up from the floor. Glancing down the hallway, there were two men holding Mosely whom contained a bloody nose and a black eye. A gun placed directly beneath his chin, while your hands flailed to cover your mouth in shock and worry. The tears flooding down your heated cheeks.

“He doesn’t care about you y’know? He’s a fascist, looking to take the world for his own, fucking the hard working citizens and low income families. So either you come with me, and see what a good husband I can be, or Mosley here gets a bullet to the skull. After all I still love you even after all of the secrets you’ve kept from me. I suppose we’re even now, eh?” The men lifted Mosley, releasing the safety on the gun, making you wince and coming to an abrupt decision.

“Fine! Fine! I’ll stay with you! Just don’t hurt him. Let him go and we can all move on, okay?! But I swear Tommy, things better be different or I will take the streets over you.” Being satisfied with your answer, Tommy’s men dropped him in the hallway while your fiancé held out his hand, escorting you back home with him where you belonged.

Mosley stayed away to your surprise. Tommy and you coming to an agreement to push the wedding to a further date, mending and working on your issues like you should have done very long ago.

Tommy agreed to give you a child on the condition, that you communicated your feelings to which you obliged once he agreed to be more intimate and loving, coming to the realization business is not always first.

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #oswald mosley #oswald mosley x reader #Peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #oswald mosley imagine #ranaewrites #request

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starsallalight · 9 months

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Open to ships, extended family, or friends

"My sister says I've a restless soul. Easy to catch, but I'm hard to hold; like a song on the wind that you caught one day. I get under your skin, then I slip away."

#➳ 𝑎𝑢𝑟𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑠 & 𝑠𝑎𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑒 ➳ ; 𝑙𝑢𝑐𝑦 ; ❨tales❩#V; Old Old Winds Blowing Back Round #V; Night Explodes In Laughter #V; Pale Morning Sings #V; A Children's Tale #V; Way Your World Can Alter #Open

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emeritusemeritus · 7 months

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Vulnera Sanentur [Weasley twins x Reader]

Part 2

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Title: Vulnera Sanentur

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader x George Weasley {established relationship}

Timeline: DH1- set during the battle of the seven potters. Canon and certain plot points have been altered for the needs of the story.

Summary: The battle of the seven Potters throws your world into chaos when one of your boyfriend’s is cursed. As Snape’s ex-potions assistant and previous protégée, you recognise the inflicted curse immediately and demand answers from your mentor.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of war and Voldy, descriptions of injury and blood, descriptive smut, p in v sex, shower sex, tension. None sexual nudity. Crying. Snape has a soft spot for reader. Arguments. Probably some cursing. Mentions of nightmares. Reader is part of the Order of the Phoenix. Mentions of death (Dumbledore). Mentions of Tonks’ pregnancy. Not spellchecked nor beta read, we die like Madeye.

"Harry! Hagrid!" Molly calls out as you all run outside to inspect the noise, wand already extended in your hand as you sense a disquiet, seeing just Harry and Hagrid stumbling towards the house, both looking defeated, drenched and downcast. You felt sick to your stomach at seeing only them return, with no sign of anyone else and no sign of your two boyfriends you were certain that something had gone wrong. "What happened? Where are the others?"

A tense silence falls between you all that seems to linger for hours, though in reality it was mere seconds. Harry's face tells you everything you need to know, his eyes wide and pained as he looks at Ginny in horror.

"Is no one else back?"

"They we're on us right from the start Molly," Hagrid says, clutching his driving goggles in his hand, wringing them instinctively out of nervous habit, "we didn't stand a chance."

You feel a sob rise up in your chest but you push it down, needing to keep yourself strong, not only for yourself but for Molly and Ginny too. Your eyes close on their own accord and you try your hardest to ground yourself, breathing deeply, knowing that Fred and George were strong and capable, though you were terrified regardless.

"Well, thank goodness you two are alright," Molly says in a way that only a mother could. You daren't cast a glance in her direction, already foreseeing the worry and pain that would no doubt be etched upon her face at the news.

"The Death Eaters were waiting for us, it was an ambush," he says trailing off as Molly guides him into the house. You understood that he needed to inform her of what happened but you couldn't help but frown at his uncharacteristic insensitivity. From your peripheral vision, you see Ginny and Harry make their way over to each other and you have to look away, suddenly feeling very out of place. You wrap your arms around yourself, the chill of the night air nipping at your bare arms as you were dressed in only a sundress as you walk back towards the house, needing to find something to keep you occupied to stop your mind from spiralling.

"Ron and Tonks should already be back now, dad and Fred too," she says quietly. You can feel her gaze linger on you for a moment as she says Fred's name and once again you feel something rising up into your chest as you pass the threshold of the house, though you were unsure if it was a sob or bile that threatened to escape.

You walk into the lounge and feel out of place once again, suddenly feeling like you were outside your own body with the worry that gnawed at you, consuming you entirely.

Just then you heard shouts from outside and barely had time to move when you saw a sight that would be ingrained into your mind for the rest of your life.

"Oh my boy," you hear Molly say, though it's distorted and grainy as you are frozen to the spot, dissociated from your own mind and body. You watch in utter horror as Lupin and Harry drag a blood covered, limp George through the door and carry him over to the sofa. Blood is pouring from the side of his head, his clothes already soaked in crimson liquid that makes your stomach lurch. He looks pale and tired, his eyes closed as they place him down onto the sofa. Molly immediately rushes over to him, stroking his hair out of his face as you stand there in complete horror, unable to move or react as you look at your injured boyfriend.

"Y/n," he says in a raspy, groggy voice that tugs at your heartstrings fiercely.

Suddenly, like you'd been snapped back to reality, you rush over to your boyfriends side and kneel down in front of him, delicately reaching out for his blood covered hand as you whisper his name. A sob escapes you as you feel him weakly squeeze your hand three times, acknowledging your words and presence. It was your way of secretly communicating, had been for years, the secret and silent way of saying 'I love you, I'm here for you', that only you and George would know. Tears build in your eyes as you look at him though you fight through them, knowing now is not the time. George needed you and you'd be there for him in anyway he needed.

You hear the shouts and arguing from the group beside you but you hardly even blink, not taking your focus off of George as you gently stroke your thumb over his hand. You immediately cast a summoning charm for the muggle first aid kit you'd packed and it rushes into your hands as you unlatch it and begin sifting through the contents with shaking hands. Finding a suitable gauze, you remove the wrapper and place it in your hand, keeping it ready.

"Georgie," you say quietly with a squeeze of his hand to get him to listen to you, "I'm going to try and numb the pain okay, I'll try everything I can but I need to stop the bleeding."

He squeezes your hand weakly just once, as if showing you that he was listening and giving you consent to try and help. Lifting your wand, you cast a strong numbing spell to the area and hold your breath for a tense moment, hoping that it had worked.

His ear was almost completely missing on that side, only a tiny bit of cartilage remained, framing a large hole that was pouring with blood. There was a large gash that looked to split the skin that looked familiar but you couldn't place how or what would have caused this.

"Georgie, can you feel that? Has it eased?" You ask nervously and finally exhale when he nods just once, the corners of his mouth raising a little as he clearly feels the relief.

"I'm going to hold this compress to the side okay, you'll feel the pressure but it shouldn't hurt anymore okay? I need to stop the bleeding."

"Okay nurse," he says groggily and you can't help but huff a laugh, tears welling once again in your eyes as he starts to become himself once again. You lean forward and press a kiss to his knuckles before reaching over and begin pressing the gauze to the side of his head with as much pressure as is needed, never breaking your gaze between the wound and his face, watching carefully for any sign of pain. He doesn't wince nor cry out which is a good sign that the strong numbing spell has worked and you keep yourself pressed to him, trying desperately to stop the blood flow, not caring that your own hands and clothes were already covered in blood. Molly never moves from the spot and continues stroking George's hair as you set to work.

You pull the gauze away a few minutes later, seeing in completely flooded with blood, though as you look at the affected area where George's ear used to be, you can see that the blood has stopped pouring out but had not fully stopped, falling to a slow trickle that you knew needed to be dealt with soon. You pull the gauze away and prepare another just incase but for now you let the wound breathe, trying to think of your next move.

You hear Remus calm down and pull away from Harry, only to rush off outside as soon as he hears the telltale sign of someone apparating.

You pray it's Fred and Arthur, feeling like half of your heart was still gone and very much in danger but right now George had to be the focus.

In the back of your mind you hear a few more apparitions and only when a familiar sight enters your peripheral vision do you look up.

Fred.

You couldn't bring yourself to fully smile at him, not with George in such a way but the relief you felt was all consuming, a single tear escaping your eyes as he looks at you and then turns his focus to George. He moves like he's being pulled by an invisible string as he makes his way to the couch, absently placing his wand onto the coffee table before kneeling down beside you, between yourself and Molly. His hand instinctively reaches out for you as he pulls you into his embrace, tucking your head into the spot between his chin and his chest that you so perfectly fit into. You don't have any words, but somehow you can wordlessly communicate everything you were both feeling through your eyes, the slight tremble in both of your hands are enough of a clue to work out exactly how the other was feeling. He never truly lets go of you even as you pull away, reaching out to hold onto your hip as he turns and looks at his pale, injured twin.

"How you feeling Georgie?" Fred says quietly, his emotions evident in his trembling voice.

"Saint-like," you hear George mumble and you can't help but look at him with a small smirk, seeing exactly where it was going.

"Come again?" Fred asks, completely bewildered.

"Saint-like. I'm holy. I'm holey Fred," he says, gingerly lifting his hand to point at the wound on the side of his head. "Get it?"

You and Molly share a look, a small but meaningful smile, both of you relieved that he was already making jokes.

Not missing a beat, Fred licks his lips and shakes his head slightly in disbelief. "The whole wide world of ear related humour and you go for 'I'm holy', that's pathetic," he smiles.

"Reckon I'm still better looking than you," George replies, opening his eyes just a little as they flick between Fred and yourself, "what'd'ya think Angel?" He smirks, looking at you. You laugh and reach out for his hand once again.

"I don't pick favourites," you say with a smile, calling back to your usual reply, "you're both perfect to me."

Fred drops his head onto your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck subtly at the very same time that George squeezes your hand three times once more, his eyes staying open just long enough for you to see a glimmer of happiness. It wasn't the outcome you were hoping for, not by a long shot, but you were so relieved that they were both alive, here with you.

"What gave you away?" Kingsley says to Harry.

"Hedwig, I think. She was trying to protect me," he says with a sigh.

"You know who joined the chase halfway but vanished pretty quickly. Remus he can-" Kingsley says, turning to Lupin.

"Fly," Harry says, filling in the blanks. An unease settled around you all as you listen to the conversation.

"Seems there's been another mass breakout the ministry are keeping hushed. Travers' hood fell when I cursed him, he's supposed to be inside."

"Not the only one that lost his hood then," Remus says sounding venomous, "wish I'd paid him back in kind for that nasty curse but it was all I could do to keep George on the broom, he was losing so much blood."

"Him?" You asked, finally speaking to the larger group at the conversation peaked your interest. If you knew what curse had befallen George, you'd have a greater ability to heal the wound. The words that fell from Remus' mouth were the very last words you expected, a paralysing anger overcoming you at the reveal.

"Snape."

Suddenly, the gash of George's head all made sense. It had looked familiar right away but you couldn't place the unique mark. Only when Remus had explained who has cast such a curse did it all add up in your mind. Snape. Sectumsempra. The very same curse you'd seen Malfoy slashed apart with.

Channelling your overwhelming anger into something temporarily productive, you immediately sprang into action, standing up with such force that you nearly knocked Fred to the ground. You leapt over to your bag and began rifling through it only to become frustrated after not finding what you wanted immediately, knowing that time was of the essence.

"Accio Dittany!" You said, pointing your wand at the bag as the vial shot straight to the top.

Knowing what curse had been used was crucial to the treatment needed, especially if the curse was particularly nasty or uncommon and thankfully you had witnessed an effective incantation that would counter the worst of the injury. The incantation itself was very old and powerful magic, which made you momentarily doubt your capabilities, but this had to work so there was no room for doubt nor time for hesitation.

You bounded over to George who was watching you with confused eyes, as no doubt everyone else was in the room as you knelt down beside him once again. You thrust the essence of dittany into Molly's hands, wordlessly explaining what she should do and with a feverish nod, she understood. You closed your eyes briefly, took a deep breath to steady yourself and began pointing your wand at George's wound, following the lines of the gash carefully, never breaking your concentration as you spoke clearly and evenly, the required song like incantation.

"Vulnera Sanentur, vulnera sanentur, vulnera Sanentur."

You'd observed Snape recite the incantation three times and had read later as you researched what had happened that it was most effective when recited thrice. The first incantation immediately stopped the blood flow before your eyes, the second cleaned and drew away a lot of the blood that littered his skin. Like a magical eraser, the lines you drew with your wand were extinguishing the blood exactly where you pointed, cleaning George of nearly all the blood, leaving only the indirect bloodstains on his clothes. You nodded once towards Molly, never breaking your deep concentration on George and she immediately began placing droplets of dittany over the lines you drew as you spoke out one last incantation.

The third time you had spoken the words in the song like incantation, the wound knitted before your eyes, sealing up the gashes and leaving George with only a singular hole where his ear had been, though it was clean and mostly healed. The dittany would help prevent scarring but there was nothing you could do to replace his ear, knowing that cursed limbs cannot be restored no matter how hard you tried.

With one last precise drag of your wand, you closed up the last inch, with Molly dripping one last droplet of dittany onto the newly knitted skin. As the last syllable fell from your mouth and the last invisible stitch ended, you broke your fixed gaze and fell back onto your haunches, exhausted and panting. You eyes closed instinctively, burning slightly as you’d not blinked the entire time, as you fought to regain the energy you'd emitted as you worked on the wound, having pulled something from inside you that you hadn't even realised was there.

"That, that was incredible," Remus says in amazement after a moments silence, clearly having observed the entire thing. You huffed out a tired laugh, eyes still closed as you took a moment longer to catch your breath.

"I've never seen," Kingsley says, though he doesn't finish his sentence, or perhaps he does and you no longer listen as the redhead beside you begins speaking.

"Princess, y/n, that was spectacular, you, I," Fred stammers, leaning into you as if to comfort you in your exhausted state. "You're a wonder."

You open your eyes and immediately see George looking at you with such a face of adoration that it makes a silent sob build up in your chest. His ear may be gone but the wound already looks as if it was weeks old, knitted and healed in all the right places with only a hint of redness that you were sure would fade.

"Madeye's dead," you hear Bill say behind you and you all turn to look at him with sorrowful eyes, the tone immediately dropping as you realise that you hadn't all made it back. "Mundungus took one look at Voldemort and disapparated."

You rested your head tiredly against George's thigh and never moved from your exact spot on the floor for what seemed to be hours, not even when everyone else was raising a glass of fire whiskey for Moody and then tucking into the feast that Molly had prepared, you stayed right by George's side as he rested.

Remus and Bill had helped move him into his and Fred's old bedroom and had set him up in bed so that he could rest properly. His equilibrium had been severely messed with from his injury and he was suffering with the effects of that. You'd given him a mild sleeping potion that would allow his body to rest as it continued to heal and you'd stayed with him the entire time, not once leaving his side.

"Princess, come get some food," Fred says, leaning against the doorframe, trying to get you to eat but you couldn't, you were sick to your stomach over the events that had transpired, not able to get the sight and smell of George's blood out of your mind. You shook your head and stroked your thumb gently against George's hand that was still entwined with your own as he slept. You feel the bed move as Fred joins you, placing his arm around you as you lean into him, both of you looking at a peaceful George.

"What you did back there," Fred says quietly, "I've never seen anything like that, that was insanely powerful magic, even Lupin said so, you saved him. But now you need to let me take care of you sweetheart, please."

His tone was enough for you to look at him, seeing his hazel green eyes imploring you. You eventually nodded, realising that he was right.

"I'll get mum to come sit with him, if it makes you feel better."

"No need, I'm already here," Molly says from the doorway and you huff out a small laugh as she shuffles into the room with a smile, waving both you and Fred away as she takes your place on the bed.

"Y/n," she says quietly as you begin to exit through the door, casting one last look at George. You pause and Fred instinctively drops your hand from his so that's you can have a minute with his mum as he sets off ahead of you.

"What you've done for my boy, for both of the them, there are no words that I can use to express my gratitude," she says with a sniff.

"Molly," you say, turning back towards her but she just gives you a smile and a little shake of her head.

"I love your sons, more than anything in the world and I'd give my life for them without a moments hesitation. I'd do the same for all of you."

You turn and walk away, preparing to descend the stairs but a hand reaches out for you before you can and you see Fred standing there, pulling you up the flight of stairs with only a wink.

He ushers you into the bathroom and closes the door behind you, swiftly locking it with a flick of his wand as you look at him confused.

"Sweetheart, I mean this with all the love I can muster: you're a mess," he says, eyes looking over at your blood soaked skin and clothes. "Let's get you cleaned up okay? Then we'll get something to eat and we can go and sit with Georgie again yeah?"

You nod, feeling too tired and weak to argue and you see Fred smile at you as he makes his way over to you before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly into his chest. "I've wanted this all night."

Guilt suddenly washes over you as you realise how much you'd prioritised George all night and had never truly greeted Fred.

"Don't do that," he says, no doubt picking up on your slight tensing and overall silence. "I more than understand, right? But now it's just you and me and I want to hold my future wife, shower together and wash away the day. That sound good to you princess?"

You nod into his chest and feel him press a kiss to your hair before pulling away to start the shower.

A little wiggle of shame fills you as you think about your shower with George just this morning and how uncomplicated everything was only a few hours ago.

"Can I?" Fred says, tugging at the little straps of your sundress and you nod in reply, allowing him to strip you out of the ruined fabric. This was unusual for Fred, usually he would tease and joke and wouldn't think twice about stripping you down as quickly as he could but not right now, he knew exactly what you both needed and he was being incredibly thoughtful and delicate. You stepped out of the dress as it pooled at your feet and Fred reached around delicately to undo the clasp on your bra, fingers lingering on your skin as he pulled your bra away from your body. There's nothing sexual to it, it's completely and utterly an act of compassion and solitude for you to be undressed together, metaphorically washing away the day.

You finally caught the sight of your reflection in the little mirror above the sink and we're shocked at what you saw. You were naked from the waist up and dried blood seemed to cover your hands, arms and your chest with splatter marks even creeping up onto your face. You looked like something from an awful budget slasher film and the very thought that this was George's blood only seemed to sicken you further.

Fred had gotten undressed as you zoned out looking at your reflection and led you by the hand into the shower, guiding you under the stream of warm water, both of you watching at the scarlet tint washed off your skin and culminated in the drain, spiralling with the waters flow as it washed away.

Your head drops as the emotions of the day overwhelm you, feeling no need nor desire to pretend any longer that you were okay, hidden away with Fred knowing that George was safe and looked after.

Tears brimmed in your eyes making your vision go blurry as the emotional weight of the day overcame you, from having to leave your loved ones this morning, the excruciating weight, the worry and then the pain at seeing George so injured. The tears fell and you were powerless to stop them. Fred immediately pulled you into him, taking the brunt of the shower stream as he cradled you, allowing you to cry in his arms. In the back of your mind you could feel his chest heaving as he let out his own emotions as both of you stood taking in everything that had happened and getting relief from your torment.

"I was so scared," he says a few minutes later as you both finally stop crying, the height of your emotions passing as you still cling to each other. You turn slightly in his arms to look up at his face, his eyes sad and a little red, hair stuck to his face as the water cascades around him. "All I could think of was you. They were all over us, they knew we were coming and all I could think of was that I'd never gotten the chance to propose or marry you like I've always wanted, that I might never get to spend my life with you. I thought of George and how we'd never been apart, and then he was hurt and I was scared again."

You placed your hand on his chest, trying to soothe him in any way you could as he opened up to you.

"We said earlier, spoke about what would happen if one of us didn't make it back, that we'd give you everything that you could ever want, for both of us. Stupid me didn't even realise how close we came to that. I must be the worst twin in the world, didn't even know he'd gotten hurt."

His tone was so sad and stricken that it made you pause for a moment as you looked up at him with sad eyes. Fred was very rarely serious and even in serious times he always tried to make a joke or tease, just to lighten the mood and diffuse the tension. Seeing him so broken and morose without a hint of laughter was almost physically painful for you and you cuddled into him stronger than before, wordlessly letting him know you were there and you were listening.

"You had every right to be scared, I'd have been terrified. Seeing George being carried in, covered in blood... I don't think I'll ever stop seeing it."

He strokes your back slowly as you both vent to one another and you cast your gaze downwards to see that the water is running clear again, no sign of blood left over.

"When you didn't come back," you began to say but trailed off quickly, not wanting to relive it. "I'm just so thankful you're both here with me."

"Can't get rid of me, remember?"

For the first time, you hear the smirk in his voice and it soothes something inside you to hear it once again, knowing that the worst was over and your jokester boyfriends would be back with you soon enough.

"I love you Freddie," you say, pulling out of his arms and looking up into his eyes, needing to feel the force of the connection. He smiles down at you and reaches up to stroke your cheek.

"Not as much as I love you princess," he says, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear. "Right, don't know about you sweetheart but I'm half starved, shall we get something to eat and go sit with Georgie?"

Later that night, the house was in total darkness as each family member and guest turned in early for the night, exhausted from the day. Snores bounced off the walls and blended like a symphony from the various people that littered the Burrow. You were wide awake, lay tightly beside Fred in his childhood single bed as George slept on the other, needing the space for his injury. After your shower with Fred you did feel noticeably better, the conversation had been incredibly cathartic and freeing, though you couldn't deny that something bitter and resentful lingered in your gut, swirling like a obscurus inside of you.

Betrayal and anger had been simmering under the surface for hours, ever since you learnt of the person who had cursed your boyfriend.

You knew what you needed to do.

Climbing deftly out of bed as not to rouse the two men occupying the room, you slipped out of the bed and into the hall, dropping down a staircase to avoid the creaky floorboards on Fred and George’s level, feigning a trip to the loo if anyone would be there to question you. Luckily for you, no one was and so you quickly dressed on the landing, preparing for your journey. You wrote a quick note to your boyfriends and with a flick of your wand, it transformed into a small origami bird that flew up the stairs and would enter their bedroom through the little crack in the door, ready for them to see if they should wake before you returned.

Slipping out of the house was not an easy feat as Hagrid lay sleeping on the floor of the lounge, too large to fit on the sofas and so you quietly uttered a silencing charm in a bubble around yourself and crept through the back door, walking carefully until you were well past the threshold of the house and then falling into a full blown sprint until you reached the tall grass where you could apparate from.

With a loud clack you were gone.

#emeritusemeritus #harry potter #emeritusemerituswrites #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist #george weasley #george weasley x you #weasley twins x reader #george weasley x reader x fred weasley #george weasley smut #george weasley x reader #weasley twins masterlist

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retrogradepermaculture · 8 months

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🎭 pluto placements and the arts

🗝 1st house a sense of darkness and mystery in their self image. may identify themselves as a tortured artist type or there may be an aura of the occult around their work but most importantly around their image. note this placement is about image as opposed to about reality. this can very much affect someone's aims as an artist and how they view themselves

🗝 2nd house pluto is never about wearing your heart on your sleeve, it's a very secret planet. However those with this placement may reveal unconsciously their feelings around others through their work

🗝 3rd house with this placement, the arts are a way to communicate unconsciously what cannot be communicated consciously. This is the realm of symbolism and imagery and for those with these placements a picture speaks a thousand words... or a song, poem, story, or play.

🗝 4th house it tends to be hidden events in this person's past that fuel their creativity. They can be good or bad but they are without a doubt formative and deep rooted. May also use the arts to work out unresolved trauma

🗝 5th house a deeper desire for sensuality and pleasure may be present for those with pluto in this house. Expect hidden or guilty pleasures with the arts as an acceptable outlet. This can point to personas and alter egos. It can also indicate nightlife or closeted sexuality, drag, or those who are very shy offstage who are able to use the arts as a medium to enable their voice to be heard.

🗝 6th house creativity is strongly connected to health for all but with pluto in this house hidden pain both mental and physical can fuel their crrative urge. different from the fourth house, this can be in the present day. here the arts are inexteicably intertwined with mental health and unconscious processing and healing.

v v v more below

🗝 7th house governing long term relationships a pluto placement here can indicate a clandestine affair or something as simply as hidden feelings, both of which are expressed through someone's creative work. suitable songs - Jolene // Dolly Parton; Back to Black // Amy Winehouse

🗝 8th house the famous house of sex, death, and taxes, this can indicate drug addiction, abuse, and a real tortured artist persona a opposed to an artist who maintains the image. there can be financial difficulties or blockages to do with the arts. a turbulent life is intertwined with the person's chosen creative career. the aura of mystery around them may attract a lot of attention from potential partners

🗝 9th house the hidden aspect of pluto manifests here as hidden ideas or an inner world that is only expressed through art. It may be cynical, nihilistic, or otherwise not socially acceptable. as the house of philosophy expect controversial work and hidden agendas.

🗝 10th house even more so than the 9th house expect a hidden motive to someone's creativity. It could be fame, money, power, or something else altogether. either way, as the house of social status this placement indicates either buried feelings or a deeper social network including involvement with clandestine organisations or whose social life is otherwise relatively secret. Archetypes - Oscar Wilde.

🗝 11th house house of Platonic friendships, a pluto placement here can indicate something to be hidden in someone's creative career. potential rebellion against parental figures or 'hanging out with the wrong crowd'. this kind of placement connects to subcultures and social movements too.

🗝 12th house lastly, with pluto in the house it governs, this connects to a synergy between the arts and the occult. expect an element of mysticism to be genuinely present in someone's work as opposed to just in their image. can be a sinister aspect but doesn't have to be. example - the art of Carl Jung, the Red Book

🎨 I am relatively new here but have studied astrology for a long time and now want to specialise in dark academia -adjacent topics.

Please HMU and fill my asks if this is your kind of thing and you want a personalised look at these themes and your chart, especially if you're studying or are a writer, artist, musician, or similar!

Starts at 5 USD for a small taster.

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msfcatlover · 2 months

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Moonbeam Dick

I probably had too much fun with this one, but Dick's had so many iterations & costumes over the years, so much cool lore, and is one of the heroes we can actually track real-world influence on his designs! (Whoever came up with the idea to take the Doyalist reasoning of superhero costumes being based on circus performers & wrestlers, and retconning it into Dick's backstory to make the Robin costume based on the Flying Graysons' performance outfits: I see you, and I love you.) So this has been a wild, whirlwind trip through the real-world evolution of gymnastics outfits, acrobatic costuming, and comic history (paying special attention to the different costumes we've actually seen in the various flashbacks/retellings of Dick's origin over the years,) while getting way too many design ideas along the way.)

Now here's a hurdle, because Dick's not going to start with a past Moonbeam costume as his base and alter it to reflect himself. Dick Grayson is going to start with his acrobat costume, and alter it to become Moonbeam. So we're starting with a bodysuit. Skin-tight, full-sleeve, the type that loops around your middle finger to stay in place. Neckline like this fucking fantastic redesign by mabychan.

(Gods, every time I see this picture, I need to stop & stare for like... at least 3min.)

Next: the colors. Dick likes bright colors & high contrast; you barely need to glance at even one of his costumes to realize that. I, personally, really love the version where the Robin suit was a tribute to his family, but red & green really aren't "Moonbeam" colors. Fortunately, the Flying Grayson's costumes have also been shown as potential inspiration for Dick's Nightwing suit, which seems to me like a great way to keep that tidbit in without defaulting to the Robin colors! So the new color scheme is sky blue, dark blue, and white-gold (which would probably be either more silver or gold, depending on the artist.)

So the suit is predominantly light blue, with a larger the dark blue triangle like his Lost Carnival costume on the upper chest, the shoulder-points of which partially run down his upper arms. While some artists might have them go all the way to his elbows or even the finger-loops on his hands personally I don't see them going further than about halfway down Dick's biceps (at first), where the very tips of them disappear behind golden arm-bands which can be used to store gadgets. Matching bands around his thighs, too, though those are larger, for bigger pockets.

(While I am trying to evoke how some people draw the 90s Nightwing gold stripe as separate bands lower down the arm, it's probably easiest to imagine Steph's leg-bands to explain this. Also, the bands on this absolutely delightful bedazzled Nightwing by rinpin that I cannot get out of my head are a good reference for placement.)

The triangle also does a great job of framing Dick's Moonbeam symbol: a crescent moon that covers most of his upper chest, filling the triangle from side to side.

(It's another subtle tribute to his parents. Also, the green & gold "All-Star Batman and Robin" costumes are the best look the Flying Graysons have ever worn, don't @ me.)

Like with Cass, I actually found my inspiration for this when I realized what Dick would use to hide his identity: a "colombina" masquerade mask.

(These two specifically inspired me while I was doing research.)

The legs are dark blue, cut at an angle where they meet Dick's torso to evoke Tim's original Robin costume (and, to a lesser extent, the Earth 2 grown-up Robin costume) and make the bodysuit look even more like a classic leotard. Dark blue or black gloves underneath the finger-loops to protect Dick's hands & keep his fingerprints off of things. Black boots with a lighter hem on top (either the light blue or white-gold, I don't really care which) with the V top we see on the Earth-2 Robin's boots, echoing the triangle on his chest. The soles of the boot are light blue.

(The boots will, almost certainly, end up being drawn as just part of the leg, colored the same dark blue as the legs and just having a lighter stripe around his shins as well as the band around his thighs. This is not at all the intended design, but I've been looking at comic costumes for months now, and I know how details get fudged.)

So. That's the acrobat angle with enough details to make it at least passable as Moonbeam. I feel like it needs some more armor. Looking at what I've got so far, how about something like these gauntlets I used as a reference for Shadow!Steph and some simple pauldrons, both in white-gold?

Finally, while Dick's "utility belt" is more of a waist sash with hidden pockets inside, I keep going back & forth on whether or not to give him a scale-mail skirt for the extra protection & flair. It makes sense, but I worry it might be a bit much...

(Styled much like the one on the left, but closer in length to the one on the right. Color could be either light blue to extend the line of his torso & keep the colors balanced or white-gold to keep all the metallic bits consistent.)

This one has been, despite how much fun I had brainstorming, the biggest pain pinning anything down on. I'm so glad I'm done with it now.

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moonlight-prose · 1 year

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for joel 😘

“Spread your legs wider.”

“Louder. Let me hear you.”

“Say my name.”

“You can do better than that.”

ARSONIST'S LULLABYE OF LOVE

➝ A HURT INTERLUDE

a/n: chapter three really took all of my brain power, but somehow i managed to churn this small piece of just filth out. you and i have talked extensively about this interlude, which has helped a ton. so thank you for the request babes and i hope you like it! this is the first joel smut i'm ever posting so this is both exciting and nerve wracking. also i know the request is full on filth, but i threw in so much angst as well so.....hence the gif.

summary: joel's inhibitions were gone when it came to you.

word count: 2.9k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, angst, cussing, masturbation, slight voyeurism, p in v sex, joel being horny with a capital H, fantasies.

series masterlist

Living through a world altering event would never cease to feel as if you’d died and fallen into the lands of hell. On accident no less. Enduring it as your body struggled to keep up, with a wound that remained on your side large enough to rip open at a moment’s notice, was worse. For days Joel had only allowed you to move at a slow pace. One that wouldn’t destroy the messy patching up job he was able to attempt.

You found it endearing though.

The car came in handy to move from place to place, but in the end you always came back to the house you were staying in. Joel never told you what he did with the bodies, never gave you any indication as to them being there in the first place. For that you were grateful. You weren’t sure how you could return to a house that still housed two people who tried to kill you—two people you watched Joel kill in return.

Never in your life had someone defended you so ruthlessly, risking everything to save your life, to make sure you were protected. The knowledge that Joel was willing to kill to keep you out harm's way, left a warmth in your chest that continued to spread day by day. The longer you spent time with him, the more you understood what he meant to you, and possibly…what you meant to him.

Which made the time spent with him recently so maddening. With each touch, look, and word spoken, you couldn’t stop your body from reacting in a way that should have embarrassed you. All you did was kiss and yet it felt like he had reached into your chest and caressed your soul. As if with that one simple action, he laid claim to what was already his. Your heart raced in his presence, mind becoming hazy with a lust you’d never experienced before with another person.

You couldn’t focus. Not with your imagination conjuring up images of him above you, thoughts of what he might feel like inside of you now running rampant in your head.

So you did what you continued to do flawlessly. You ignored every single emotion that begged you for release. Every time he got near, you pretended that the kiss never happened. That you still remained nothing but two partners attempting to fight for survival in a world that wanted to kill you.

“I’m going to clean up a bit,” he murmured, nodding his head towards the bathroom that used to work.

The both of you got lucky earlier in the week, finding a river that had relatively fresh water. You made the suggestion of filling up the empty gallons of gasoline tanks that Joel had found in the house’s garage, and he agreed. The people who used to live there must have bought them in case of an emergency, except when it finally came time to use them, they never got to. Thankfully the trip took less time with the car, and even if he didn’t allow you to help him, you still forced him to let you drive. Walking you couldn’t do, but driving you were an expert at.

“I’ll be here,” you said, laying on the couch, propped up by your bag and wrapped in his jacket.

The domesticity of the situation wasn’t lost on you now, just like it wasn’t before. Him cleaning up as you lounged on the couch awaiting his return. It felt too real. Too much like the life you could have had beforehand, and you felt your heart break at that notion. That eventually this would come to an end. You would both have to leave towards Boston, searching for another place to settle, and then…you might never get the imagined life you desperately wanted with him.

Joel glanced at you, your legs stretched out, body covered by his jacket, and he felt the same burn from before return. This time though, he couldn’t ignore it. As much as he wanted to move past what happened the other night, the facts stayed the same. He kissed you. He wasn’t sure if it was the kiss that caused his heart to twist and body to burn each time he looked your way, or if the feelings he tried so hard to shove down, were back with a newfound strength.

He turned away quickly, heading towards the bathroom before you could see the now evident bulge in his pants. These feelings would go away eventually, giving him reprieve from the knife that dug its way into his heart. Carving at what remained until he finally admitted what he was afraid of—what he couldn’t seem to let go of.

Nearly losing you terrified him.

No matter how much he thought about what would happen when you parted ways, how many scenarios he conjured up in his head, he knew the truth that was buried in the darkest parts of his heart. He wouldn’t let you go when you got to Boston. He couldn’t. You made this otherwise shitty world shine just a bit brighter, giving him enough light to see his future clearly.

“Fuck,” he rasped, the second the door shut behind him.

His heart continued to beat rapidly in his chest, his body aching in a way he hadn’t felt since before the outbreak. Joel wasn’t entirely abstinent afterwards either, he couldn’t deny that. But those people were a means to a release that would calm him long enough to make it on his own. You however…you were the one person who could lay claim to his body, his heart, and he’d give it over willingly without question.

Through the years, Joel never gave himself to anyone, knowing that to let someone in was to kill them. Except he never let you in.

You tore through his walls, took whatever broken parts he had left, and cared for them all the same.

Maybe that’s why he was currently standing with his hands gripping onto the dirty sink, eyes shut tight and chest heaving as he fought off going back out there. He couldn’t have you, because you weren’t his to have. So he settled for his imagination.

With a grunt, he undid the button of his jeans, the tight confine too much for him to take. If he were anywhere else, he’d allow himself the small pleasure of taking his time—something that the world no longer allowed. But you were in the other room, laying on the couch—looking utterly perfect—and Joel knew that if he thought about what he was about to do for too long, he wouldn’t do it. He also knew that if he allowed the feelings to fester, he’d lose it and somehow fuck up eventually.

So, he sucked in a sharp breath, pulled himself out and bit down on his left bicep to stifle the ragged groan that tore from him. It had been quite awhile since he gave himself this, since he even bothered to find release. Usually it was quick, a few strokes to get himself there, and then he continued on about his day. Now…his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Joel was too far gone to even realize what was happening—his cock practically leaking over his palm. Squeezing his eyes shut, his hips jerked forward at the first stroke of his hand—pleasure streaking down his spine so potent he felt dizzy. What he wouldn’t give for the feel of sinking into you, of watching your face go slack with pleasure because of him. Biting back another grunt, he spread his precum down his cock, his breaths coming out in short gasps that barely gave him enough oxygen.

“Oh—shit.” His words were strangled, face tingeing red with the exertion of the quick pumps of his hand that stung slightly. If anything the pain only amplified the pleasure that continued to fill his veins.

He lurched forward, his hand almost slapping against the wall, head tilting back and exposing the expanse of his strained neck. He imagined what you would do if you were here with him. Would your hand feel soft, gentle, compared to the rough calloused skin of his palm that he’d grown used to?

Gasping, he tried his best to keep quiet, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of you hearing him. But some sick twisted part of him hoped that his groans carried, that you would finally understand what exactly you did to him. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, hand tightening slightly with just the right amount of pressure to send heat pooling rapidly into his stomach. He wanted you to be here, wanted you to whisper soft words of encouragement in his ear. Yet the circumstances of life only allowed him to live through his mind.

The image of you beneath him forming rapidly the faster his release built.

“Joel,” you sighed, head tilted back and mouth dropping open as a moan worked its way up your throat. You bit down quickly on your bottom lip, eyes shut tightly in the hopes of staving off the inevitable pleasure that threatened to consume you.

His fingers gripped at your chin, dark eyes swallowing you whole as he watched you finally let loose the sound he wanted to hear. “Louder. Let me hear you,” he rasped, his other hand dropping to grip at your thigh.

“Oh—” He sank in deeper, his cock brushing a part of you that made your legs shake and eyes roll back. You couldn’t stop the cry that tore from you, your breath going with it.

“That’s it,” he murmured, head dipping to kiss at the glistening skin of your neck. “My good fucking girl.”

Your walls fluttered, slick gushing around his cock and gathering in the coarse hairs at the base of him. Normally you’d be embarrassed about how wet you were, but the shame washed away with every slow rock of his hips. How could you be ashamed when it was all for him? All because of him. Gasping, you dug your nails into his back in the hopes of dragging him closer. He was pressed up against you, hot skin against yours, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted to sink into him, to exist for him.

He pulled back much to your disappointment, pressing his knees into the mattress and pulling you closer. “Spread your legs wider for me darlin’,” he breathed, and you followed his request without question.

His thumb connected with your clit sending a jolt through your body that nearly had your back bowing off the bed. Joel overwhelmed you. He took and took, but gave just as much back—if not more. You sobbed an incoherent version of his name, nails scraping along his shoulder blades when he shifted the angle of his thrusts. The head of his cock striking against something eviscerating inside of you.

“Fuck, Joel!” Hot tears streamed down the sides of your temple, falling into your hair.

He felt it, the tight clamp of your cunt that nearly sent him over the edge earlier than he wanted. Grunting, he tried to stop the tightening that began in his stomach, but it was too much. His mind was hazy with pleasure, thoughts of you consuming him until nothing was left. If he wasn’t careful, Joel would lose himself to you—you and all your beautiful demons.

Yanking your leg up higher on his waist, he doubled his efforts. Driving his cock into you until you grew more incoherent with each thrust. His name was a prayer on your lips and Joel wanted to hear it louder; he wanted to drown in your reverence until all the bad washed out of his veins. Falling forward, his hand dug into the sheets beneath you, eyebrows pulling tight as you chased the growing release that would shatter you.

“Say my name,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against yours. “C’mon baby say it for me.”

“J-Joel,” you gasped, hips rolling to meet his thrusts the best you could, but he practically had you pinned to the bed. Each shove of his cock into your wet dripping cunt, nearly sent you higher up on the bed.

His lips pulled up into a smirk, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “You can do better than that.” His hand dropped down to your clit, thumb circling it with enough pressure to cut off the words that sat on the tip of your tongue.

He felt it before he could stop it. His balls drew up until it was almost painful, eyes screwing shut as he panted into your open mouth. Pressing down further on your clit, he managed to wrench his eyes open to see your roll back in your head. You sobbed his name, your back arching—chest pressing into his—as your cunt clamped down on his cock and took everything he had left to give.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His moan was raspy and broken, and a soft breathy echo of your name slipped free.

Joel curled in on himself, his mouth dropping open in a breathless grunt as he spilled over his hand and into the sink. Still, he kept going. Pumping his hand in quick strokes, he did what he could to prolong the pleasure that filled his body, until eventually it gave way to pain. Sucking in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth, he finally let go of himself, running his thumb along the head of his cock and pushing what remained out.

He opened his eyes, the image of you disappearing from his mind as he was met with the cold emptiness of the bathroom.

Even though his body hummed with bliss, a calm finally returning to his veins, he felt the shame twist in his gut. He shouldn’t have allowed it to get that far. Shouldn’t have given into his depravity, but the thought of it one day coming true was too enticing to forgo.

He sighed, grabbing the shirt he meant to clean tonight and fixed up the mess that took another part of his soul.

What he didn’t know was that you heard the echo of his hand hitting the wall, heard his pained grunt as he came over his hand. Originally you thought he was hurt, that he might need your help. So you got up, stifled the scream of pain that your body let out, and managed to get to the bathroom door. Until you heard it. The soft moan of your name that had you freezing in your spot, eyes going wide and heart hammering in your chest.

Joel wasn’t in pain. Far from it.

You knew you should have given him privacy, walked away and pretended like nothing happened, but it was your name you heard. The same raging fire that you fought against for weeks finally broke free, spreading its way down your body. Consuming you whole. Your hands were clenched at your sides, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He wanted you. Joel—the man you refused to be attracted to, lest it get in the way of your trip—wanted you the same way you longed for him.

Before you could move back to the couch, the door swung open to reveal that very man. Joel’s face went slack with shock as he caught you standing there, his hand gripping onto the door handle so tight that his knuckles turned white. Any words he could have said died in his throat at the sight of your wide eyes and parted lips. The very same lips he had kissed not too long ago. His spent cock twitched in his pants, the flush of heat once again going through his body.

He wondered if you heard him and felt the guilt crush his heart. “Boston?” he asked, breaking the silence.

That seemed to shake you from your shocked state. “I um…” You couldn’t stop the way your eyes dropped to his lips for a brief moment. “Just wanted to know if I could get in there. To clean up and…such.”

In all honesty you wanted him to touch you, wanted to know what he sounded like as he finally gave into the heady pleasure that coursed through both of your veins. But you saw the hesitancy in his eyes. You knew he was retreating from something he wanted, because of the fear that nearly losing you already caused him. Joel understood that when it came to you, if he finally gave into that feeling of want, he’d never be able to give it up.

“Go ahead,” he said softly, shifting to move past you, his hand brushing yours for a brief second.

You wanted to reach for him, to tell him that everything he probably felt…you felt too. Except the grief you watched him go through that night still weighed on your shoulders. He nearly lost you and you knew that if he hadn’t managed to save you in the end, the Joel you knew would have been gone forever. So you entered the bathroom, shut the door, and wiped away the stray tear that fell down your cheek.

It didn’t matter how much either of you were desperate for the other's touch. The truth still stared you in the face. No matter how much you longed for the pleasure, for him to finally fill that empty spot in your heart, it would never outweigh the pain you would feel if you lost him for good.

That alone was enough for you to shut your emotions away, reminding yourself that you were not here to fall in love.

You were here to survive.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #the last of us fic #hurt #my writing

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familyabolisher · 1 year

Note

Hi! I just wanted to say your deep readings of TLT are so smart! I've been thinking about all the genderfuckery in Nona the Ninth for ages trying to peel apart the layers behind it (the tower princes especially) and I was wondering if you have any thoughts on it?

I do! I did a post that kind of gestured towards my broad thoughts on what Nona does with gender/how it develops the groundwork around gendered relations that Gideon and Harrow lay out a couple of weeks or so ago, but I doubt I’ll be able to find it so this is a good excuse for going into more detail with the sorts of ideas I’m bouncing around.

What I was trying to get at in my earlier post about sexual violence in Nona is that Nona represents a sea change in the narrative terms; that is, the ‘rules’ determining which parts of the whole we are allowed to see at any given time are very rapidly altered such that we're pulled away from this wholly internal imperial perspective into a space which carries its consequences. Where Gideon is about crafting a narrative around a set of sociocultural paradigms, and Harrow is about digging further into both the purpose and internal consequence of those paradigms, Nona is about absconding from the limitations that those paradigms impose. Something of an autopsy of the inner world of the imperial core has taken place in the previous two books; we are presented with the dictates, expectations, and purpose of the necromancer/cavalier subject positions, and the bedrock upon which those positions are built (ie. the particular logics of power and imperialist consolidation and sexual violence), such that (almost) everything we meet with in the first two books ultimately circles back to asserting a particular form of internal/diegetic normativity. The difference in Nona is that, outside of the space where this normativity is the governing social currency and also necessarily socially enforced, the way in which social modes are articulated now begins to fall away from the anchoring of internal imperial logics.

What this has to do with gender is that the kind of centrifugal force determining how gender & sexuality alike are received within the empire is one of what we might term homonationalism in contemporary parlance, wherein queerness becomes reconstituted within a nationalist imaginary such that queer people willing to meet with the state on the state’s terms can be incorporated into the fold of such a national articulation. As a result, we see eg. butchness (or broader strokes of masculinity expressed by women) as something legible to us as readers who bring our contemporary understanding of lesbian gender formations as counter-hegemonic (or at least, non-normative) to the table (and are expected to do so – the text v much expects us to read Gideon as a butch or functionally equivalent, Cytherea as a femme, etc etc, and proceeds from the assumption that we have picked up on such a signification), but diegetically that masculinity is hegemonically articulable. In other words, the reason we never get a sense of Gideon registering an internal conflict between her traditionally masculine gender markers (name, appearance, relationships, just about everything that’s used in-text to signal her as a butch to the audience) and her being a (presumably cisgender) woman is because those two things are not textually in-conflict, as there exists a normative articulation of womanhood that easily accounts for them. She reads to us as ‘gender nonconforming’ (imperfect term but you get the idea), but in-universe very much does ‘conform’ to the articulation(s) of gender available to her; to call her diegetically gender nonconforming (or even diegetically butch) would be meaningless. This is largely down to the “no-homophobia” premise (which is, ofc, a deliberately homonationalist premise in itself), but gets interesting when we start to see that masculinity articulated through the paradigms of cavalierhood, a subject position constituted around the conditions necessary to sustain imperialism.

My point is—across Gideon and Harrow, everything we receive in relation to gender, contemporary gender nonconformity, allusions to transness (as with eg. the androgynous Canaan House priest, the they/them in Doctor Sex, quiet suggestions that transness is an extant concept at some level), etc., has been presented to us in a format that circles back to the normative state of gender in the Nine Houses, specifically to the purpose of demonstrating the relationship that the subject holds to the imperial body. Gideon as a butch/as a woman/as a cavalier are three states that each make sense of one another and are able to exist harmoniously, and that harmonious existence is designed to tell us something about the internal imperial condition. That Nona is the text which divests from that wholly internal perspective and takes us into the social world of the imperial periphery + operates on a logic external to that of the imperial core is, I think, the reason that gender felt a lot more … like it was being played around with, or like it held less of a cohesive loyalty to particular background strictures that were shaping how it appeared on the page. Even with characters whose gender bears a relationship to that same imperial logic (Tower Princes, ofc; also Paul, Pyrrha, Palamedes), their presence in the text is altered somewhat by the fact that the text is no longer putting itself to the purpose of, like, demonstrating those internal strictures.

And like, this narrative slippage—from something tightly delineated from which deviation is restricted into something more animate and buoyant and malleable—isn't limited to gender at all, but is happening all over. I flagged in the linked post how part of Nona hinges on the breakdown of John's constructed 'utopia' (his word!) such that things which worked to sustain it in the past no longer hold water in the present. You could even look at, like, the shift in presentation of the Dramatis Personae between the three; from Gideon, which offered this very … precise account of names, titles, ranks, with little diegetic narrative bearing, to Harrow, which mimics the style of its predecessor but manages a level of storytelling and diegetic presence in eg. the substitution of Gideon for Ortus, the establishing of Anastasia/Samael as outliers, and Gideon's name being entirely crossed out, to Nona, where it's … a birthday party invite list being transcribed in-universe. Like, even these minute changes are demonstrative of a shift away from a hierarchy that must be dissected into something of a far more humane texture. These aren't articulations of new gendered hierarchies, they're just … particular gendered modes, playing out with relative reference to a multiplicity of active norms.

It’s interesting that a lot of the characters who we meet as, like, hotspots of textual gender-weirdness in Nona are failstates for genders that are made legible through the condition of empire as John arranges it. I think it’s fair to read Pyrrha as a trans woman in the same way it’s fair to read Gideon as a butch (in that these are not terms/subjectivities which would make diegetic sense to either, but they are subjectivities that are signaled for the sake of the audience, with the expectation that each will be read with that subjectivity in mind), but Pyrrha is also at once both a ‘failed’ cavalier and a ‘failed’ Lyctor. (A secret third thing, if you will.) So where Gideon’s butchness as we received it in the first two books has an anchor in empire, Pyrrha’s is more like the failure of an imperial gender configuration to fully realise itself, and where her gender becomes interesting & textured is through the production of dissonance (diegetically, her as an incomplete/failed Lyctor and by extension a failed cavalier; to us, as a woman inhabiting a body that we know to have belonged to a man but which is v clearly now being considered hers.) Similarly, the Camilla-Palamedes bodyshare (and then Paul, though I really don’t have a confident reading of Paul yet considering how little time they’ve had in the narrative so I’m going to gloss over them for now) is simultaneously a reversal of the Lyctorhood process (in that the disembodied necromancer inhabits the living body of the cavalier) and its reification (in that it relies on a portion of the process of the Eightfold Word, and you might even make a case for its being another form of instrumentalising and potentially exploiting the body of the cavalier); on either end, it’s definitely not what’s supposed to have happened, and it reflects something oppositional to the ethos with which the original construction was imbued.

Past that, like, on Lemuria itself we see a multiplicity of gendered/familial arrangements that we can presume emerge as a result of the multiplicity of colonised cultures living in close quarters with one another; like, that multiplicity makes for a narrative expansiveness that I don’t think the tightness and discursive constriction of the previous two books would have allowed for.

& the Tower Princes, similarly, are like … articulations of gender within empire, yes, but they’re specifically an articulation that can only take place once the old order (ie. Lyctors) is near enough gone, and we receive them through an external observer (ie. Nona) such that moments like Ianthe’s first introduction when we slowly realise that we’re seeing her possessing Babs’ corpse become a lot more fun. There’s a layer of ambiguity going into how Nona receives gender—from her switching between they/he/she pronouns for Ianthe-in-Babs to her they/themming a lot of characters before their gender is made explicit in-narrative, ie. not having a heavy reliance on visual cues to determine gender at a glance to the application of traditionally masculine descriptors to women (Cam, Pash, and Corona each get described as ‘handsome’ at some point)—that was nowhere near as present in the other two (as I explained above: there’s no dissonance in Gideon’s gender, there’s no sense that she’s anything other than a woman and no sense that her form of womanhood has ever been anything other than completely normal and legible in the social world she occupies). I think the Tower Princes would have made sense in any of the three so far, but they just feel a lot more fun in Nona thrown in amidst a book where gender is, in general, being treated somewhat playfully—with a lot of plasticity and malleability that I appreciated & that feels incredibly close to contemporary lesbian gender articulations.

(I keep returning, for example, to the implication that Pyrrha is passing herself off as a man in at least some contexts on Lemuria and the circles of identification and shared experience that that manages to draw between trans women closeting themselves in particular contexts and so-termed ‘passing women’ ie. butches who passed(/continue to pass) themselves off as men for safety. Like, I think it’s fair to say we can read Pyrrha as a butch or similar, and that we can read her as a trans woman, and that particular dimension is subtle but v compelling to me.)

(It’s also interesting how much we see the fixities of the imperial core echoed in the periphery in new contexts that kind of seem to extricate those behaviours from the violence they denote. John playing with Barbies as a child becomes the basis for the creation of Alecto, which of course is the inciting action towards the establishment of his empire & the social paradigms that sustain it; Kevin, too, is a boy who plays with dolls. Ianthe & Kiriona are women referred to with masculinised titles—ie. the Tower Princes—and both Pash and the Angel are women referred to as ‘sir,’ or like, Corona takes on a similarly masculinised title in BOE; you could even add an extra layer here about Kiriona and Pash and Corona and Ianthe each being related as cousins/sisters respectively, idk. EVEN something about Kiriona and Pash as, like, nepo babies to John/Wake respectively, except that the nepotism in question garnered them like vastly different levels of social rank/social currency. I don’t know that I can develop this take all that far, but like—interesting? The sense that like, queerness, gendered ambiguities, whatever else, can and should have a presence outside of an allegiance to imperialism, maybe?)

Anyway, like! These are very scattered thoughts, but hopefully they're of some use. I don’t know that I have an overarching argument besides just like, the changes present in Nona have a lot to do with how Nona moves our perspective out of the imperial core for the first time in the series and that includes how gender functions in the narrative, but hopefully you can see the arguments I’m gesturing towards at least lmao

#ask #nona the ninth spoilers #also god sorry for how long i left this lmao scrolling back through my inbox to find this ask was so mortifying

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