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mechaknight-98 · 17 days

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Na Matsuri Da, Na Matsuri Da (NSFW) FT Sakura Miyawaki

Authors note: if anyone gets the title reference they shall receive a cookie. Also my girl looks sexy as hell and continues to have me fall in love with her everyday. (I understand I am delusional, but it's fine for someone so fine.)

Getting to the airport was the easy part. Getting Le Sserafim out of LAX was a challenge. The fans were everywhere and I was barely able to get all the Fimmies in my car as I drove them to their hotel. Sakura rode in the front with me which was a large mistake as she spent the entire ride gripping my cock. She didn't do anything else to it, or try anything lewd just kept a possessive grip on me the whole ride, and it only served to fuel my fire for her right now. We would steal ravenous glances at the other. Each glance is a promise to devour the other at the first accessible chance.

She wore a bralette that emphasized her petite and perky breasts but also showed off plenty of skin made imagine a myriad of scenes consisting of of me glazing her. Her gaze also didn't help as when our eyes would meet the others the only visible emotion was lust and arousal which threatened to overwhelm us.

We could see it mirrored in each other's eyes. Before we could talk we needed to fuck, but we couldn't just pull over and fuck each other's brains out with her other members in the car. So we drove and continued our dangerous dance of just letting the tension and arousal build. I was able to focus on the road and drive them out of El Segundo where we stopped for food,

“What are you guys in the mood for,” I asked the Fimmies

“Burgers,” Eunchae responded before the rest of them quickly agreed. Lucky for me there was an In-n-Out nearby. So I pull in and let the Fimmies out giving them a chance to stretch their legs and somewhat accustom themselves to the Socal desert Chaparral heat. The girl group gasps as they exit the car as the hot air hits them.

“What the fuck,” Yunjin says as she breathes heavily,

“You live in this weather oppa,” Eunchae asks fatigued. I nod as

Sakura is eerily silent but I can feel her gaze bore into me. We get into the restaurant where The Fimmies take a deep breath of cold AC air.

“Woo that's better,” Chaewon said relieved as we ordered. After ordering I decided to go to the restroom. I enter to get a break from Sakura and clear my head a bit. As I splashed water on myself I felt an intense jolt travel up my spine as I felt something grab my cock. I turned back around to see Kkura her eyes contained an endless pool of lust. I go to slide my hands down her pants as I go in for a devouring kiss. Her lips taste like cherry. When Sakura feels my hands dip into her core she swats my hands away, before breaking the kiss.

“No not here. not yet,” she rasped trying to catch her breath. Our bodies try to resist the pull to breed fuck the other but we get tongue-tied into another kiss. As our tongues wrap around each other and naughty hands explore our bodies we get a text interrupting us. Our food is ready. We both groan before separating and going back to grab the food. As usual, In-n-Out delivers an enjoyable (and inexpensive) experience. While we eat Sakura cuddles next to me. Feeling better after eating and emboldened, I feel her free hand slip down my pants and she begins to stroke me. I look at her and she gives me her innocent confused doe eyes. “무어, “ she says while looking at me innocently as her strokes become more intense. I gathered my composure as we ate and texted Kura.

“If you make me cum here the damage I will do to you will be irreparable.”

“Is that a promise babe because I need my breeding Stud to fill my pussy until my stomach inflates,” Sakura whispered in my ear as she stopped stroking but kept a firm yet pleasant grip on my cock. The only thought in my mind is I need to fuck this Japanese vixen brainless, but we needed privacy. At least an hour or two.

A lifeline came in the form of a yawn from Yunjin after In-n-out.

“Woo, I'm tired. Hey Daigo can you drive us to the hotel,” Yunjin asks hopeful and I nod after everyone finishes eating. As we leave Sakura has me take some cute pictures of her but my mind is so cloudy by lust at this point the only thing I can think of is pinning her down and pummeling her pussy. This is only further exacerbated by how she goes back to gripping my cock the entire ride back.

When we reached the hotel I was surprised to hear that each Fimmie got their own rooms. Sakura invited me into hers and we lost control when the door shut.

We look at each other and the only thing I see in her eyes is a starved lust. My brain being bad decides the best course of action is to say this, “I think I'm going to have a good one but more than one.”

Sakura begins to laugh before ripping her bralette and sweatpants off. she's not wearing panties which only meant one thing. she moves closer to me fully naked. As she does she licks her lips her eyes heavily dilated with desire she begins to monologue like an evil witch, and honestly, I am so into it.

"I waited for 3 weeks: No touching myself, No watching porn, No relief because nothing satisfied me like my stud's cock." I gulped. I had never seen her this intense. she cornered me, then leaned into my ear. "it's okay babe relax it's still me your cherry blossom, your breeding bitch," she said before biting my ear. the flip switched and my timidness was gone. she left my ear and was brought into a fervent and lurid kiss initiated by me. As we kissed I began stripping. I needed my breeding bitch as much as she needed me. my cock was rock hard as I pulled my pants down and plunged into her. her tightness along with my sensitivity and both of our teasing of each other caused us to cum at the same time as soon as I bottomed out in her. Our first orgasms hit us like we had been mauled, but it wasn't enough. we needed more. I lifted Sakura and threw her onto the bed. She yelped in pleasure her big brown eyes only held lust and excitement. I took off my shirt leaving us now equally naked. I leaned above her and caressed her face.

"Please fill me I need it," Sakura whined. I smiled and said

"and why should I give it to you?"

"Please babe I…ooh," Sakura said as I plunged into her while she was distracted. As I thrust in and out of her I took her right nipple into my mouth. Sakura moaned in ecstasy as she drove me further into her breast.

"Yes suck on my sensitive tits," she yelled before I switched to the other one. Her perfect pussy fit me as if we always meant to fuck each other. her aroused scent filled my nostrils adding more fuel to the proverbial fire as I kept pumping in and out of her.

"Oh yes, this is my cock. the cock I have been missing," Sakura said.

"I'm glad you like it. your pussy is pleasant as always," I said to Sakura as she tightened around me. We looked at each other and smiled at each other. in addition to the euphoria we felt I could feel the mutual affection. It made me consider leaving everything behind and moving in with her.

"Hey. Hey. Hey earth to Daigo," Sakura said as my eyes focused on her.

"What's up babe," I ask

"you zoned out," Sakura said. "It's rude. I work so hard to look pretty for you and you have the nerve to have your mind wander. Hmph," Sakura said with a pout. I smiled at her and pulled out.

"Well, I was thinking about us, and this long-distance thing. I think I want to get rid of that distance," Sakura looked at me with surprise.

"Oh, that's big. Are you sure," She asked hesitantly. I nod

"Sakura I love you. I love your ambition. I love your drive to succeed. I love your eyes. I love your humor and willingness to be the butt of the joke. you're incredible, and being with you here now I feel at peace with you. I never want to leave you again," I replied. Sakura's eyes narrowed as she smiled with a combination of lust and joy. She hopped on top.

"I love you too Daigo, but I still need to feel your cum inside me," Sakura moaned as she began to ride me.

"Oh god, Kura. I'm close," I moaned as she ground her pussy into me. Kura smiles, and I cum inside her. she moans as she cums again as well. we fuck through another orgasm before our bodies come down. and we look at each other.

"Okay let's figure this out," Sakura says eyes and body still caught in the afterglow. I nod.

"Before we do this though there is something important I need to tell you. I am a ninja," Sakura said.

"Huh," Was my response.

#kpop fanfic #miyawaki sakura #lesserafim #le sserafim sakura #sakura smut #sakura miyawaki #izone sakura

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jadevine · 3 months

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Medieval Warhorses, Repost + additions!

Since people loved my "Preindustrial travel times" post so much, I decided to repost my "Realistic warhorses" info separately from the original link, where it was a response to "how to get the feel of realistic combat."

The original link is here.

The "Warhorse" post on my blog, plus a recent addition, is here.

And here's the text for people who want to go down my "grown up horse-girl" rabbit hole right away!

Medieval Warhorses:

First of all: DESTRIERS WERE NOT DRAFT HORSES. Horse/military historians are begging people to stop putting their fantasy knights on Shires, Belgians, and other massive, chunky farm-horses! The best known instance of “a knight needs to get lifted onto their 18-hand draft horse” is a SATIRE (A Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, if I remember right), but somehow laymen decided to take it seriously.

Hell, I think the film’s historians knew that this was extremely inaccurate and begged the director not to do it.

For the purposes of this post, I will not get into the different TYPES OF WARHORSES. That is a hyper-fixation for another day, lol.

—

First problem with “Draft horses as warhorses:”

The bulk of modern-day “breeds” are far too recent for a medieval or medieval-fantasy story. Modern horse “breeds” began around the 1700s-1800s, so that’s in the EXTREMELY late-medieval/early-modern period. Before that, most medieval horses were referred to by “TYPE/PURPOSE” and maybe a “Country/Region.” “Spanish/Iberian horses” (the ancestors of modern-day Andalusians, Carthusians, and Lusitanos) were overwhelmingly popular for combat, and other baroque horses were also esteemed.

Destriers are physically average-height at 15 hands high (about 5 feet tall at the shoulder/withers), but the important part is that they are STACKED at 1200-1300lbs when most 15-hand horses are only 900-1000lbs, so that’s a quarter to a third more weight in muscle.

And remember, muscle will not make a given horse look “chubby!” Good ways to get across a warhorse’s muscles in writing is 1) how ROCK SOLID they are when you touch them, 2) their chiseled shoulders, necks, and butts, and 2) when they get into motion, especially for a fight, their muscles will flex and get REALLY defined. The three regions I mentioned are usually the most visible if they’ve got horse tack or a rider on them.

Think of the difference between “regular horse” and “destrier” as “regular Tom Hardy, who looks fit but normal,” versus “Tom Hardy playing Bane, where he put on thirty pounds and his torso and arms look like a fucking tree-trunk.”

Warhorses had nerves of steel, and the best-trained warhorses used could sprint and turn on a dime–they’ve been called “the sports cars of the medieval world.” This is a far cry from huge, sweet, and lumbering draft horses.

Besides Spanish horses, modern-day candidates for destriers would be European cobs (heavier all-purpose horses, large Welsh cobs are the best-known modern breed), and Foundation Quarter Horses (working/stock horses that can herd cattle and race and actually USE their muscles, not the bloated halter-horses who are mostly bred to look “good” to judges).

—

But if the destrier was supposed to be the horse equivalent of “Tom Hardy as Bane” and not “The Mountain from Game of Thrones,” then how could they carry a knight’s armor as well as their own?

First of all, human combat armor is different from JOUSTING armor and it is easily half the weight for better mobility. Warhorses from proper medieval times aren’t shown wearing much horse-armor, even in jousting. The stuff you see in museums is also frequently the custom-made armor for wealthy nobles, who either 1) wore it once or twice a year for public celebrations, which is also why the armor’s in pristine condition instead of dented and bloody like combat armor would be, or 2) wore it because they were rich enough to not want themselves OR their expensive horses to die too soon in combat.

Assuming that all destriers needed to carry 150lbs for an adult armored man, PLUS another 150lbs of the horse’s riding tack and armor, is like people from the years 2500-3000 assuming that everyone with a “car” must have a Lamborghini or a Ferrari that takes up a lot of maintenance (if you want to keep it looking nice, at least) and can go 200 miles per hour.

So the vast majority of realistic warhorses/destriers didn’t get much if any armor, because 1) horse-armor is for princes and dukes, not Count Whoever’s third son or his nephew that he tossed out on adulthood with barely any money, and 2) horse-armor is going to weigh down your FAST and NIMBLE warhorse. (Remember: Knights wanted sports cars, not tanks!) Take a look at the horses and knights of the website called “Destrier!” Most horses there aren’t notably tall, and they mostly wear head-armor and fancy but not heavy horse-tack like capes, instead of full barding.

Another reason average/short warhorses were preferred is for medieval safety issues: You wanted to mount your horse from the ground without help. The famous knight Jean Le Maingre was so dedicated to fighting that he could VAULT onto his horse in armor, without touching the stirrups. His instructions are, essentially, “put on your armor, find your horse, put your hands on the horse’s back/saddle, and FUCKING JUMP.”

Unless you’re seven feet tall or a gymnast, you’re not jumping onto an 18-hand draft horse.

So all those Red Dead Redemption animations where you get to alley-oop your way onto your loyal steed? POSSIBLE, IF YOU ARE CRAZY/ANGRY ENOUGH.

Quick note: In ancient Ireland, they refer to a “steed-leap” that nobles, warriors, and other “people rich enough to own RIDING horses” were trained to use–with the important distinction that Gaelic nobles often took pride in either using saddles without stirrups, or NOT USING SADDLES TO PUT ANY STIRRUPS ON. So the bulk of Gaelic Irish nobles could theoretically go Red Dead Redemption on your ass.

—

And the third reason most combat-ready warhorses didn’t get armor is because infantry (the vast majority of most medieval armies) just had a low chance of hitting them in the first place.

First of all, most horses are already faster than people. Destriers were EXCEPTIONALLY fast as the cream of the crop. For the horse to need armor, someone needs a good chance of hitting the horse.

Second, most horses are hard to kill physically because horses don’t tend to like getting stabbed or shot at, so they will likely try to kill YOU, which means that a knight and his horse are TWO fighters who are both very angry and very protective of each other. Most people love their horses, and many combatants share intense bonds! IMAGINE IF YOUR HORSE IS ALSO YOUR SQUAD-MATE!

And last of all, most horses are hard to kill mentally because when you want to use cavalry, you ALSO want the other side’s infantry to get consumed by panic and bolt for their lives, away from their companions and AWAY FROM THE CHARGING HORSES. (Which routinely leads to a slaughter, often called a “rout” in period literature, or a “curb-stomp battle” on TV Tropes.) While most knights could dish out one-on-one duels against EACH OTHER, a knight against a foot-soldier is going to have a huge and explicitly unfair advantage if the soldier is not specifically trained and equipped to take them on.

See, when you get a herd of knights on their steeds, the noise and the wave of horseflesh charging at you is going to make your reptile-brain instincts scream “NOPE NOPE NOPE, WE GOTTA GO!!!”

That instinct is so strong that infantry ACTORS in movies–who know that this is not a real war, and the riders don’t actually want to kill them–still routinely break formation and run.

It was possible to stop cavalry with infantry and end up slaughtering them instead of getting routed–it was just extremely notable.

Also, unless you’re specifically going for blood: You don’t WANT to slaughter a whole formation of knights! That means you’ve just pissed away a WHOLE lot of money that the knights represent!

You killed the horses that you could have used for your own side, and possibly bred for more high-end horses! You ruined the armor that you could have used for your own side, or at least melted down for high-quality, already-mined metal! You killed the knights that you could have sweetened up and used for your own side–or more likely, told their families to pay you if they wanted them home intact.

Barely anyone remembers that knights were as good for HOSTAGES as they were for actually fighting. (Except for Game of Thrones, and it’s still only plot-relevant for Jaime Lannister and Theon Greyjoy, and they explicitly did NOT get the protection a noble hostage should have.) It’s noted that Agincourt was a GREAT ending for England because capturing all those French nobles earned them TWENTY YEARS’ WORTH of regular income in ransoms. If they hadn’t won and gotten all that sweet, sweet French money, they would have been bankrupted and depopulated instead.

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Two more strikes I’d feel are appropriate for “not wanting draft-type horses in combat:”

-Logistics 1: Too much food, too much hassle. Horses are already notorious for eating a lot, and a DRAFT horse that’s 2000lbs instead of 1200lbs will eat twice as much. No army wants to use their fodder for only half the number of horses they’d expect.

-Logistics 2: Too much hair, too much hassle. Shires and other British horses often have feathering on their legs, and anyone with long hair knows that loose hair/fur is a fucking PAIN. You can braid a horse’s mane and tail, but if you’re one of the many average/poor knights who DON’T have servants to take care of your horse for you, do you want to spend extra time cleaning and combing out your horse’s LEGS instead of necessary things? Like feeding them, grooming them, and checking for wounds? Nope, you’ll probably shave the feathering off or just pick a horse that doesn’t have it.

-Extra note on Friesian horses, who are RIDICULOUSLY common in “medieval” movies: Friesian horses are technically baroque horses in body form (Strong-boned! Big necks and butts!), but they’re also over-used in general, so most horse folks are sick of seeing them in movies. And if you don’t have the right kind of MODERN Friesian, you’ll probably be a laughingstock in addition to an eye-roll.

Some strains of modern Friesians are from carriage-horse lines, often referred to as “big movers.” This means “fun to LOOK AT, but terrible to RIDE.” Because, you know, those strains of Friesians weren’t meant for riding, but for PULLING CARRIAGES. Their movements are big, dramatic, and flashy… and their trot is notorious for bouncing people out of the saddle with every step. Not something you want for a knight who fills his opponents with terror.

A good riding horse’s movements are usually smooth and low to the ground, often described as “floating” and “effortless.”

—

A horse-note that I can’t figure out where to put: Many Western cultures love the idea of fiery stallions (intact male horses) for their noble knights and kings to ride into battle on, but realistically, stallions are only half of a given horse population. Many Western stallions are also gelded if they’re not the cream of the crop (which is probably at least the bottom half of the male horse population). So mares can be used by at least half of a realistic formation who just wants a warhorse, and doesn’t care about aesthetics or masculinity.

Also, mares can be ruthless and stallions can be nervous wrecks! Horses are living creatures, with personalities and feelings!

Horses also aren’t very sexually dimorphic, so a 1200lb war mare is DEFINITELY a match for a 1300lb war stallion. And remember how Loras Tyrell used a mare in heat to distract The Mountain’s stallion? That happens with a lot of stallions… almost like they’re living creatures, with instincts that they can’t always control! So if you know when your girl is ready to go every month, you can play dirty in a joust, too!

Just remember that you’re taking an equal risk, since your mare will possibly try to let a stallion mount her instead of fighting. You will either need to bail when she starts making googly-eyes, or you need to know you have ABSOLUTE loyalty from her, and she will listen to YOU instead of “the hot dude I just met five minutes ago!” HORSES ARE LIVING CREATURES, WITH INSTINCTS THAT THEY CAN’T ALWAYS CONTROL.

Then geldings will be used by at least another quarter of “the knights who cannot afford a horse good enough to keep his testicles,” so that leaves “a quarter or less” of knights who can realistically be mounted on stallions.

WORSE NEWS: If you geld a stallion too late (usually once they’re MOSTLY physically mature at 4-5 years old), that risk may never go away–so you’ve got a gelding who’s not breeding quality, but he’s still chasing mares in heat and fighting other stallions in turf battles, without understanding that he can no longer make babies!

On the other hand, some cultures don’t geld stallions because they view it as unnecessary or outright unnatural… but they also don’t want half the horse population distracted by pretty mares, or fighting with other stallions who walk by the pasture, so those cultures breed them to be sweet and easily managed (outside of battle, at least).

In short: ALL HORSES HAVE POTENTIAL TO BE WARHORSES, WHETHER THEY HAVE BALLS OR NOT.

—

Update, Feb 2 – Another day to expand on that “Different types of warhorses” mention!

Much like the common misconception of “all knights must be at least 6 feet tall and have 200 pounds of muscle” varied in real life due to genetics, cultural values, and logistics problems, the assumption that “all knights MUST have top-quality destriers that cost seven times the price of a normal horse” was not the case for the vast majority of “knights.”

Knights would have either “the best horse they could AFFORD” or “the best horse FOR THEIR SPECIALTY.”

A poor knight, or one of the early Middle Ages, would have “one horse that they’re with all the time;” that horse may not be pretty or come from fancy breeding lines, but they would get the job done and most definitely be taken care of. A wealthy knight of the later Middle Ages, when everything got more expensive and status more codified and finicky, would have two or three horses–one horse for warfare and one for regular riding, with the really wealthy knights having a third packhorse to carry all their stuff. (Moreover, they would have at least one servant to help take care of three horses.)

A muscled sprinter like a destrier is better in tight quarters and for short bursts of speed; to bring in the modern example of a classic/Foundation Quarter Horse, who are ideally “short-legged and low to the ground,” these dudes can literally hit the ground running and reach top speed in a few steps/seconds, so compare that to a sports-car going from zero to sixty miles. The tradeoffs?

1) You need to be able to hang the fuck on… and to avoid getting pitched into a wall/enemy WHEN THEY STOP.

2) That full-throttle gallop will really wear out your horse. A good commander will not bring out their heavy cavalry right away, because you also have to figure out how to get them back from the enemy’s side of the field.

In very simplistic terms, this is one of several problems that the battle of Agincourt had for the French; you had a bunch of hoity-toity noblemen with no proper battle experience who all wanted to do things their own way… and how do medieval noblemen usually want to fight a war? JUST FLOOR IT AND HIT THINGS AS HARD AS YOU CAN.

That went so badly that the recorded death-toll for the French side of Agincourt has been commented as “a roll call for French nobles.”

A destrier would not be suitable for a scout or light-cavalry; they’d need lighter and ground-covering horses to cover rough terrain, and to chase down the enemy for long stretches–akin to a modern-day Thoroughbred. For period pieces they might resemble an Akhal-Teke or “Turkmene” horse. A modern-day Thoroughbred horse can “only” reach forty miles per hour at a gallop, but they can keep that up for a whole mile or longer. So now your knight’s problem is “Hanging on for two or three whole minutes,” and anyone in performing or athletics will explain how long and agonizing a few minutes would feel on a rampaging horse. Have you seen how stacked a racing jockey is? The general consensus I’ve seen from equestrians is that barely anyone in any other horse-discipline is that built.

Meanwhile, an ideal light-cavalry horse would need longer legs for a ground-covering stride, and they may or may not be taller as well; as seen in the Akhal-Teke article, many endurance horses tend to show a lot more ribs and bones than other breeds, due to how lean they are. But think of them less as a dainty riding horse and more like a hunting greyhound/sighthound–all muscle, no fat!

The other type of light-cavalry horse would likely be a pony, used to going for miles on rough terrain, with little if any feed.

EDIT Feb 4, 2024: My post got cut off, so here's the rest of it!

The other type of light-cavalry horse would likely be a pony, used to going for miles on rough terrain, with little if any feed.

A period-accurate scout's horse was known as the Irish hobby, ridden by their eponymous hobelar troops. These little dudes were VERY little and about 12-14 hands high (48-54 inches, or 4 feet tall to bit under five feet tall). They were known to cover 60-70 miles a day in their raids, which my "preindustrial traveling" post notes is the EXTREME upper end of mounted distance travel. Their modern descendant is likely to be the Irish Connemara Pony.

Very wealthy and/or lucky European horsemen could probably manage to buy/steal an Arabian horse, as they remain exceptional endurance horses to this day. However, excessively cold/wet climates will need a lot of upkeep for a desert-bred horse to stay healthy.

While Arabians are known for their adorable "dished faces," this is not actually required! Many well-bred native lines have a regular face (ie, a "straight nose/profile") but they are from well-bred parents and have the capabilities of other Arabians. To the other extreme, you have some modern show/halter lines with REALLY exaggerated heads that hit a lot of people's "Uncanny valley" buttons, and they find it creepy/weird instead of refined. This kind of "seahorse face" would NOT be seen in a period piece.

Notice how the smaller a horse gets, the more ground it can cover? This is partly because size only matters TO AN EXTENT for "how long a horse goes," and partly because of physics! Less weight for a horse to drag around on its own body means more energy for putting miles behind them!

#writing #writing reference #medieval #preindustrial #horse riding #medieval warfare #horses

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ranbitteeth · 4 months

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More subby Mizu!! 👏👏

Had this idea for a while - I don’t imagine Mini being the type to go down on his wife, so what about soft!dom reader eating her out for the first time? Just gently talking her through it, taking the time to just make her feel good.

Pussy Eating, a Delicate Art...

A/N: OP you genius you. Not sure if this aligns well enough with your vision, but alas, viola!

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Tags: Pussy Eating, Ambiguously Gendered Reader, Uses of the word c*nt in reference to pussy, Fingering, Dirty Talk if you squint.

Fill my inbox! I have plenty more where this came from.

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“You think I could?”

The idea had been planted in your mind long before you made it known. When exactly, you couldn’t say. Maybe when you and Mizu first showered together and she shied away from spreading her legs. Maybe it was after a long day of work that you watched her come home, silently groaning to herself before she wordlessly nestled into the soft cushions of your bed. However, you could very much pinpoint when this desire evolved into an insatiable, soul-crushing *need.*

Every month, the two of you made it a point to spend time together. Be it inside the house, on a date, movies, park, with friends. You wanted Mizu to know you loved your wife. You crushed every doubt she could have.

The last month, about a week or so ago— the two of you had reserved a ravishing dinner in a wealthier part of town. It was fun to play dress-up with her, to act and look the part just for the night. You expected her to be wearing her usual slacks and blouse when she asked you “What do you think?”, as the answer was so ready to slip past your lips and sing her praises. It was only when you actually turned around and *looked* that you could see she surprised you with a rather short slip-on dress that reached just to the middle of her thighs. Her long, shapely legs were only accentuated by the heels she decided to match that night. You could've dropped the reservation just then and there to take the night entirely for yourself, but it’d be an embarrassing amount of money down the drain. You’d much rather enjoy the sight, let the world see what they couldn’t have. The delight you relished in seeing Mizu’s legs was short-lived, however, as in the middle of dinner, she had asked to borrow your coat and begrudgingly placed it over her lap. Oh, well. As long as she was comfortable.

You’d think back to that night nearly every day that followed. Of course you’d see her nude, that wasn’t the point. The point was that the sweet thing had conspired behind your back and planned to wear a dress to surprise *you*, and you had been rocked to your core. It was impossible not to imagine running your hands up her legs, spreading them apart and pushing her underwear aside. You wanted those thighs wrapped around your neck, you wanted to hear her voice break with want. Soon enough, you offered this— and Mizu only blinked at the ceiling before pinning you with a questioning stare. *Woof.* Her previous husband had only done the minimum, as was obvious by her aversion to anything besides missionary and the standards.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, toying with her hair as she visibly contemplated the thought. “And even then, we can stop whenever you feel like it. No one will get mad.” No, you couldn’t imagine resenting Mizu for anything. She realized this, it seemed, as she had finally relaxed after a tense moment, nervously looking between you and her lap.

“Do I..?” she began to wonder aloud, awkwardly spreading her knees apart before you huffed out a laugh.

“No, no, you gotta ease into it,” you say, leaning in to close the space between the two of you and languidly pressing your lips against hers. This, she knew, and responded back beautifully. Her lips parted, allowing you access into her mouth before her hands made their way over your face— your heart swells. You break the kiss before you decide to descend onto her neck, though not without a parting peck. Your mouth trails up and down her slender neck, delicately marking up the pale skin of her collarbones until you hear her breath hitch. You pull away to look up at, her hand in yours as your thumb caresses a knuckle.

“All good?” You ask, to which she nods in return.

“I’ll let you know…” she says lowly, pupils blown. You grin at this, relieved she wasn’t forcing herself before you continue. You gently raise the hem of her old tee over her chest, gently cupping one of her breasts in your hands before you take the bud in your mouth. She makes a noise at this, the one you're chasing. You can feel her muscles tense beneath you and take it as a sign to descend further down until your hands slide over her waist, holding it firmly as you begin to pepper innocent kisses everywhere your lips could touch skin. She seems embarrassed at this, averting her gaze while her expression grows into that of feigned boredom and irritation. You knew better. You always did— no way could she be mad now.

“Relax, I’ll get to you soon enough. What if I just want to kiss your tummy the whole night?” You tease, though you eagerly begin to adjust your positions now knowing Mizu’s eagerness to continue.

“Then I would’ve stayed in the dojo.” She responds gruffly. You make a feigned noise and motion of being shot in the chest, to which she only rolls her eyes and shoots you an unimpressed stare, though you smirk in response. You see her lips, her eyes— you know she’s fighting a smile with every muscle in her body.

Slowly, you begin to pull her underwear off her hips, pulling them down past her thighs and over her ankles, allowing her to kick them off herself as you take a place between her thighs. You make a noise in the back of your throat as you’re suddenly face to face with the object of your desires and fantasies for the past few days. Your warm breath fans and tickles over her core, but you can’t be bothered to start yet, too enraptured in the lovely quality about her. What pained you is that she didn’t even *realize* this, didn’t even realize how stunning she was.

“If I wanted to be stared at all night I would’ve—nngh-?!”

Her bratty little retort had been cut short by your tongue suddenly pushing its way past her folds and into the fleshy warmth inside. A strained, awkward noise was heard— though it was not discomfort. Far from it, by the way Mizu’s eyes went impossibly wide, hips jutting forward and greedily chasing the pleasure your mouth provided. One hand instinctively flew over her mouth while the other was entangled in your hair. Oh, now this just wouldn’t do.

Heartlessly, you pulled away from her, pinning her down with a quirked brow and a tilt of your head.

“If you want me to keep going, you’ll do me a kindness and take your hand away from your mouth.” You say evenly, squeezing the soft skin of her thighs as you spoke. “I need to hear you.”

Hesitantly, she obeys, her trembling palm now living away from her face and down to the sheets. You hummed in response, muttering a quick “good girl” that made her stomach flutter.

Slowly, you began to work your tongue around her cunt again, languidly rolling the slick, warm muscle against the insides of her folds before you found her clit— obvious by the startled, sexy little noise Mizu made, forced to air it out into your space. *There,* instead of mercilessly attacking the lovely little bundle of nerves and sensitivity, you grace circles in the surrounding area, massaging and pushing, *sucking* on her flesh and drinking up the arousal that began to coat your lips and chin. Mizu’s shy, strained, and awkward noises slowly began to bloom into unabashed, almost *girlish* moans and whimpers. Rarely did she ever sound this way, being so accustomed to lowering her voice and acting as an intimidator for most of her life. You soaked up these noises like the demon you were, taking it as a sign to continue to relentlessly flick your tongue over and inside of her. Mizu took this all beautifully, arching her back and moaning out your name in a way that awakened something primal in you.

“Mmf…fuck…” you groan into her pussy, enjoying the way she twitched against you. “You taste amazing…” you begin to babble, grabbing her by the hips and pushing her further against you in a way that made her openly gasp.

“(Name…!)” she grunts, fighting against every instinct in her body that urged her to hide her face and noises behind her palms.

Wordlessly, you bring one of your hands away from holding her hips and down to where your mouth met skin, easily pumping your digits inside of her thanks to the gushing quality of her pussy.

“God, Mizu, you’re soaking up the sheets..” you scold teasingly, making her face grow hotter than it was. You look up, noticing her eyes glazed with unshed tears as her body trembles. You coo at the sight, your fingers still relentless.

“Aw, you’re close, aren’t you?” You say, voice light and adoring. You’ve never seen her in such a wreck, but a cruel, primal side of you adored the sight and hungered for more, hungered to keep her desperate and begging for hours— to tear her apart…

But the saner, better side of you was reminded that Mizu could only take so much for her first time, and there would always be more time.

“I got you, baby..” you mutter before you begin to eat her out with far more conviction than before, now desperate to milk out an orgasm that would blind her with pleasure. Your finger massages her deeper, and Mizu’s breath hitches. *There.* At the same time as your tongue, your finger attacks Mizu’s most sensitive areas before you feel her thighs clench around your head as she arches her back and *cums,* voice breaking in all her desperation as she sobs out your name. Greedily, you drink up the arousal that was dripping out of her pussy like a person deprived of water. By the end, you’re both out of breath, bodies slack and lazy against each other. You made haste in readying a warm, damp towel as you cleaned up your wife, making her sigh in contentment. You’re both eventually back beneath the warm covers of your bed, but you’re staring, unashamed and adoring at Mizu’s giddy expression. It was a subtle thing, but everything with Mizu was subtle. The slight squint beneath her eyes, the upwards curve of her lips, the flush over her cheeks.

“I didn’t go too rough, did I?” You ask, now fidgeting with the cloth of her raggedy tee.

She chuckles at that, adjusting herself so that she could face you until your foreheads touched, a warm flush across her face.

“If that was rough, gentle wouldn’t be enough, now would it?” She says, pinning you down with those eyes that drew. you towards her in the first place.

“So I can go again?”

She pauses for a moment, eyes going wide for the slightest of seconds. You resist the urge to laugh.

“Tomorrow.”

#mizu x you #bes mizu #blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #mizu x y/n #fanfic #mizu fanfic #smutty fanfiction

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devildom-moss · 5 months

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I recently finished reading the third season of OG!OM and I had a miniature idea... How would Lucifer, Diavolo and Barbatos react if amab!MC told them that when the problems with the three worlds were resolved, he would like to marry them? (I may write with mistakes because I am using a translator, I apologize in advance ☆ｏ(＞＜；))

Thanks for the ask. I wrote based on the assumption that Lucifer, Diavolo, and Barbatos are already in an established relationship with MC where marriage is a possibility, (but honestly, it'd probably be fun to write a less serious version, too). I don't know if these are headcanons or just poorly constructed shorts in headcanon format (oops), but I hope you like it.

M!MC tells them he wants to marry them when the three realms are at peace (Lucifer, Diavolo, Barbatos)

(MC/reader referred to as "man" "husband/future husband" "boyfriend" "fiance") (Diavolo will only be in red for ease of reading in this post primary colors woo)

(Lucifer x m!MC) (Diavolo x m!MC) (Barbatos x m!MC)

(Suggestive in for some parts)

Word Count: +1,900

Lucifer

You told Lucifer you wanted to marry him during one of his softer, more vulnerable moments: when you woke him up after he fell asleep during a long night of paperwork, exhaustion widening his smile upon seeing your face; on one of those rare mornings when he allowed himself to laze around in bed, pulling you in close and savoring the feel and scent of your body; or one of those other long nights when Lucifer’s breath hitched and the sweetest noises left him – it was all for you.

“When things are peaceful –” “Things are never peaceful with my brothers around.” “– when the three realms are stable and at peace, then, we should get married.”

“Oh?” he asked you with a gentle chuckle.

He didn’t believe you at first – not because he had never thought about marriage before. Lucifer assumed it was more likely that you wanted to tease him than that you would beat him to a marriage proposal. His adorable, handsome, wonderful boyfriend would never surprise him by doing something so endearing and unexpected. It just wasn’t – shit! Is he really proposing to me?

Lucifer waited for a teasing “just kidding” or some kind of retreat on your part. When it doesn’t come, his eyes widen, and the heat rises visibly on his cheeks. You really want to be his husband? He already suspected as much, but to have you take the initiative and ask him to marry you was more than he expected.

When Lucifer falls, it’s hard and deep. He knows you so well. He’s so certain of his love that it doesn’t even cross his mind that it could be too early in the relationship to get married.

He glosses over the entire “when the three realms are at peace” thing, because he’s too pleased. Lucifer buries himself in the nearest part of your body he can get to – likely your chest or neck. In part, he’s trying to hide the grin on his face and the blush on his cheeks, but even with his face hidden, you can see the pink tint painting the tips of his ears.

“We already have a pact, and now you want my hand?” he murmured against your skin, sounding almost shy. “Yes. When things are –” “Why w–” “Would you stop fucking interrupting me when I’m in the middle of proposing?!” “Sorry. Do it again. I’ll behave.” His eyes softened seductively. “Asshole.” “Only when you top – and only if you’re being degrading. Usually, I’m your adoring partner.” “Do you want me to propose again or not?” “I do. Try again.”

“Lucifer, when the three realms are united, will you marry me?” Lucifer stared at you, patiently. “Well?” “Why wait?” “What do you mean?” “Why wait for peace and unity? It doesn’t matter what state the realms are in. I want to be with you. I want to be your husband, and I want you to be mine. Marry me now.”

Lucifer would be so earnest and make his argument sound so logical – but maybe it’s easier to justify something you want, too. “I’m serious. I have faith in us – in Diavolo’s plan – but if anything happens, if it takes a long time, I don’t want to wait. I want you to be my husband.”

He would kiss you tenderly and hold you close until you agree not to put off your wedding for some indefinite amount of time. He’ll be ready to go tomorrow morning if that means he can start calling you his husband sooner. How did your proposal to Lucifer turn into a proposal from him?

He’s so possessive and pompous, of course he would be excited to make you his in a more official setting.

Diavolo

You would tell him when he was already on cloud nine: after another successful event that had incorporated elements from all three worlds or after a business deal that would further entrench the Devildom in human-world culture. He had just furthered his goals. You were proud of him. You loved him, and you knew you were going to stand by his side as he achieved his dream for peace and unity, so you told him, “When you succeed – when the realms are united in peace, I want to marry you.”

“Hahaha. You’re full of surprises.”

Diavolo laughs, but it isn’t to mock you. He’s delighted by the proposal – well, admission. He’s gotten requests for marriage before, but he’s never been so happy to hear that someone wanted to marry him. It was unexpected, but he adores that you can surprise him.

It isn’t lost on him that you didn’t actually ask him to marry you or that you were willing to wait an indefinite amount of time. Who knew how long it would take him to realize his dream, but you believed in him enough to wait. The fact that you just told him what you wanted without asking him felt like you were giving him the space and time to think about it, come back, and meet you with his own feelings about marriage. Maybe he was reading into it too much, but he didn’t feel pressured, and that was a comfort. You made him feel so free, supported, and loved.

Of course, he would love to make you his – give you the whole grand royal ceremony, mark you as his partner for the whole world to see, and give you the title of “king” to match his own (because in this speculative future, the throne is his by then; he’ll have earned it.).

You both understand why it would be best to wait for his success. It can be difficult enough to get approval and ensure your safety when everyone just thinks the Demon Prince has taken a human man as his lover. Marriage might cause more instability.

Furthermore, although he doesn’t expect his workload to disappear once peace is achieved, Diavolo hopes that ensuring peace takes more effort than maintaining it. If he’s going to marry you, he wants plenty of down time to travel with his new husband after the wedding. He wants enough free time in his day to cherish you and remind you of the love he holds for you. He wants to make sure he can kiss you, and hold you, and make love to you to both of your hearts’ content. (In other words, if Diavolo commits to being your husband, he needs to meet his daily physical affection quota or he will pout for a week.)

After taking a minute to process your words, Diavolo would pull you against him and press his forehead to yours. It wouldn’t matter if you were in public, either (not to Diavolo, at least. Barbatos would scold him about it being “inappropriate” later.). With a soft, sweet smile, he would tell you, “I better work harder then. I don’t want to keep you waiting too long.” Even if everyone was staring in your direction, he would take that moment to lean in and kiss you tenderly.

Suddenly, Diavolo would feel his ambition renewed. He’d even feel motivated to get home and start on some important plans and initiatives – unless you wanted to go home with him; in which case, he would take you to bed and resume his work in the morning. Nothing could light a fire under him like his beloved partner.

After your proposal, he may occasionally flirt with you by calling you “my fiancé” or “my future husband,” but he’ll only do that in private.

Barbatos

There is no ideal time to drop the news on Barbatos that you want to marry him, which probably plays to your benefit when you tell him while he’s working. You were shadowing him – probably assisting in the kitchen or giving him a hand with some light chores (dusting, organizing, laundry, etc.). “When Lord Diavolo succeeds in uniting the three realms, do you think we could get married?”

Barbatos’s eyes would widen, and he would stop his work for a second. Even if he had used his powers, he never would have believed that this would be the path you would follow. Barbatos took in a deep breath and released it along with the tension in his body before he resumed his work. “No.”

It was your turn to pause. You hadn’t expected such a flat-out rejection, and it hurt. “Oh.” “I’m sorry, MC.” “No, it’s fine. . . but, do you mind if I ask you why not? Are we – do you not love me enough for marriage?”

Now, Barbatos felt hurt. It’s not that he didn’t love you deeply; in fact, Barbatos imagined his love for you was more eternal than most marriages claim to represent. He would vow his love to you under the moon and swear to that celestial body that his love would outlast it. The truth was much sadder.

Barbatos has a duty to serve Diavolo. It seems like the logical conclusion that he would never commit to marriage before Diavolo’s goals were achieved. You were willing to wait, but Barbatos knew that, and he was reluctant to let you.

Without using his powers, Barbatos has no idea how long it would take for that to happen. In the meantime, he wants you to enjoy life. He doesn’t want you waiting around for him for decades or centuries (because he has no intention of allowing you to limit your life to normal human lifespans). If you want to get married, and he doesn’t feel able to do that for you, Barbatos would rather see you marry someone else – certainly, you have no shortage of suitors. (We can all ignore that this is an idiotic reason, right?)

However, the main reason he turned you down is because he believes you deserve the world. Even after the realms are stable, Barbatos will still be bound to Diavolo. Maintaining that peace takes effort as well. Furthermore, Barbatos enjoys his work, and he would never give it up. His time for you would always be lacking. Surely, you would expect more from him after marriage. That wasn’t something Barbatos could give you.

He would tell you as much. “. . . That is why I must decline your proposal.” “Why? Because I’d have to wait, and you would still work for Diavolo?” “Those are not ideal conditions for a husband. You deserve more.” “First of all, we fuck under your boss’s roof. Second, we are different species from different realms. Nothing about our circumstance is ‘ideal.’ Third, I love you, and I love how our relationship works. I would never take you away from Lord Diavolo’s side. I just wanted to cement my love for you with a silly little ceremony – it’s not that important. I will stand by you, and I’ll love you then as I do now – regardless of marriage.”

Barbatos could feel his face flush with heat. He was overjoyed and overwhelmed. “We have yet to even form a pact.” “Yet? And we don’t have to have a pact if you don’t want one.” “Goodness, you are far too accommodating. May I make a proposal of my own?”

Barbatos would pull you into his arms (he had ceased working altogether after “your boss’s roof.”) and whisper into your ear. “I was wrong. I want all of you for myself. Wait for me. When success is in our grasp, I will mark you, and seal our pact. After that, I’ll make you my husband.”

He’ll sound so tender and seductive. So of course, it’s the perfect time to tease him by saying, “Then I can fuck my husband under his boss’s roof.” “Not if I take you out in the garden. After all, you look stunning in the moonlight.”

#requests #moonly-hides #lucifer #diavolo #barbatos #m!mc #ask #obey me headcanons #I think? I'm calling them headcanons okay #I hope that I wrote Lucifer as the most down-bad pathetic whimpering baby boy like he deserves #obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos

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starryylies · 3 months

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Hi !!! Idk if you've done this already but can you do my angel boy Gaz and Ghost with a girl who love scary movies ??? I feel like they'd totally have the mentality of "I gotta comfort her when she's scared" but Gaz specifically flinches and I think Si would like "brace" if that makes sense like wincing his eyes. I dunno if you've done something like that but your emo story reminded me of me and it made me so happy I'm a metalhead and I was gonna ask for more but it was already in there and that just mad emy day ilysm already okay bye -🫀

Simon n Gaz watching a horror movie with s/o

HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Again so sorry (I’m sorry for saying sorry sm) but like Omg I love this cuz I love horror smmmm!!! Insidious,suspiria,Bwp, conjuring you name it I love them omgggg.

So thank you so much for the awesome ask and I hope you enjoy it 🩷🩷🩷

Also I used the movies sinister and lights out for the references :))

SIMON-

♰ he thought watching the movie sinister will be fun cuz he thought he could protect you from the jumpscares

♰ he needs to be protected from the damn movie tho (okay this movie is fucked up tho and it’s totally normal to be scared)

♰in the beginning he thought it will be some poorly made movie with shit ass jumpscares but boy was he wrong

♰ when the scene of the family hanging themselves comes on he was taken aback and he lets out an audible wince shutting his eyes

♰ he genuinely finds the movie scary and gory, cannot help but find himself wince and shut his eyes whenever he thinks there will be a jumpscare

♰ as the movie progressed and the other tapes were revealed he just couldn’t take it anymore, his limit broke off when the mowing scene came

♰ but you seemed to be enjoying the movie, anticipating what the next scene will reveal

♰ he shut the tv before he could see further, it was too much for him

♰ “fuckin hell love this movie is a fuckin nightmare” he groans

♰ “noo It’s a well made film :( plus I enjoy a good scare ya know”

♰ god how could you be so chill with it, he can’t tell if he should admire you or keep his distance

♰dw he admires you :)

♰ keeps on ranting about how he’d never do such a stupid fucking thing

♰ says Ellison was a stupid fuckin idiot for getting his family there and curses him for the rest of the day

♰ asks you your opinion on the movie and who you think is recording the tapes

♰ ends up going on the net to see how the movie ends cuz he can’t let it go

♰when he finds out the ending he has an ‘aha’ moment.

♰ tries watching the movie again but ends up stopping in the beginning itself cuz he can’t handle it.

♰ probably doesn’t want kids after this movie

GAZ-

♰ Awh this poor guy just wanted to watch a scary movie with you to hold you when you’re scared but it kinda ends up being the opposite

♰ you both decide on watching lights out (I wanted to pick hereditary or mother but too much cuz I’m writing this at 3am)

♰ see lights out is a Pretty chill film but Diana is creepy as hell and sadly gaz became a victim to Diana’s jumpscares

♰ when she killed the dad gaz visibly flinched like on the edge of the sofa hoping the dad would survive

♰ but boom the bitch killed him :/

♰ felt really bad for the brother (Martin)

♰sympathised with him a lot by saying he’s a good kid and that he’s really strong.

♰ surprised on how you’re not getting scared or anything

♰ thinks that you have watched this film before

♰ gaz got shit scared during the scene where Rebecca and her boyfriend came and Diana creeped around them

♰ the end made him tear up just a lil :(

♰ you ended up comforting him holding him close cuz he felt bad about their mom

♰ thinks it’s adorable how you give lil facts about the movie from time to time though.

♰ cursed Diana for the rest of the day,

♰ if you take any medications, don’t worry you’ll never miss them now cuz gaz will make sure you eat yours on time

♰ keeps the bathroom and living room lights on that night

♰ will search for movies like lights out

♰ will never watch them though

♰ is proud that he got closer to you tho

♰ will definitely hold you the entirety of the movie

♰ will never have a horror movie date again tho

♰ but will watch a horror movie with you if you ask him cuz how can he say no to you :))

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meowsequence · 1 month

Text

The paradox of white chest plate is solved!

Warning: 1) Heavy spoilers 2) Lots of text 3) My point of view may change later

Let's recap some "Fake Ending" and "Continue Game" events:

Elster enters the Gates and goes through red desert. Red is the colour of bio-resonance and Ariane's wrath and suffering, or, in other words - Hell. Loops are also part of Hell.

She sees many corpses which are not (!) results of "Leave" ending - these don't look like they died with inner peace, they are far from Penrose-512 and, most importantly, they are still in Hell. These Elsters just never found the Ship or didn't dare to come closer. Remember Ariane's "come closer" call?

This time Elster finally made it to the ship! But then she got injured by invisible strike. Invisible means bio-resonance and there is only one bio-resonant in Hell - it's very creator Ariane. She didn't forgive Elster. Red part of Ariane feels betrayed and who can blame her?

Despite feeling Ariane's wrath, which hurts in many ways, Elster keep going. She puts her hand on the ship and awful noise stops. She climes up Penrose-512 and tries to open the hatch. "Ghost in the Shell" reference shows that Elster does not care of her body, she didn't forgive herself neither. And she fails. Again. And she falls down dying. Again.

She's actually dead, just look at her eye at main menu! The tragic story of Penrose-512 repeated.

We chose to continue and we see memories of Elster and Ariane being happy (interesting detail - back window is blue here)

We coming back to Elster's dead body and see how Ariane's figure appears next to it. Then we see how Ariane's face blends into bandaged version. I guess we can read it as Aline taking over Ariane or it is Ariane's other side kicks in as she looks at poor Elster? The side that is tired of suffering and wants it all to end - the White (sorry, white won't be visible) colour side, aka what's left of original Ariane. (Is it a proof that there are 2 long-haired Arianes in the line-up, so either one of them Aline or Ariane has 2 sides?) And then…

Elster's last memories are taken out of Red Hell (and therefore - out of loop) into White (snowing) Limbo. Just same way it was transferred from dead Elster on Penrose-512 to Hell in the beginning of the game.

Elster opens her eyes and climbing back. She does not use the hatch. Instead she appears in Ariane's room on the same place where original Elster-512 died. She has another dreadful injury now - her heart was brutally ripped out. That is the scary price for another try. It is hard to admit, but love was the reason of Elster's failures. And now she's desperate enough: she gave a promise and she'll do anything. We see exposed blue bones, blue is Elster's colour. And Ariane accepts Elster's hart as a sacrifice and… forgives her?

Finally, we are approaching the chest plate paradox that is announced in the title! But first, couple words about our sponsor… Do you like brain rot? Have you ever been going to bed and saying "man, I wish I had something to think about again and again instead of healthy sleep"? Try Signalis! Providing broken harts and sleepless nights from 2022! And if you are an artist, you are cursed for additional 50%! Okay-okay, now serious XD

Remember that we are still in White Limbo, outside loops of Red Hell. Another Elster's body we find by the cryo-pod is not a result of other in-Hell endings! It shows us WHERE and HOW we should have died! Arm/armour - is a sign of Ariane's forgiveness. We cover red chest plate and arm markings (the colour of Ariane's wrath) in white and blue - colours of Ariane and Elster. And that will protect us. Now she's ready to jump back to Hell. Now Red side of Ariane can't stop her anymore! What she's gonna do about it, huh? Except… hm… driving Adler mad and wake up Falke? >_>

#signalis #spoilers #ariane yeong #lstr 512 #signalis elster

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whateverisbeautiful · 3 months

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♥️ Ranking Richonne

#27: To Replace The One You Lost (S7E10)

Ok the Richonne content in 7.10 was a feast. I loved every moment Rick and Michonne were on screen together. So honestly, this #27 spot can kinda go to all their moments in the ep, but if I have to single out one…it’s gotta be the cat moment. 😍 It’s a great 'anniversary' gift after going canon in 6.10 and meaningful in so many ways...

(Side note: seeing Jadis again in this 7.10 ep 😒…I very much hope Jadis and Michonne’s katana have a reunion in TOWL. Especially because I've always believed that Jadis saving Rick in 9.05 was just a secondary outcome of Jadis saving Jadis. She needed someone to give the CRM and it worked out for her to give them Rick. Had that helicopter demanded she be alone for the pick-up, Jadis' track record shows she would have acted in self-interest and left Rick behind.

And for Rick, I believe he'd feel that cruelly keeping him from his family for years is worse than leaving him to die by that river - so this one time, plz let Richonne's wrath prevail over their mercy whenever they confront Rick's captor Jadis)

First, I adore Rick and Michonne's adorable hug after making a deal. I love how they get wrapped up in each other and seeing both their smiles. 🥰 Being in each other's arms is where they’re most meant to be, I’m just saying.

And then to make the hug even better, Rick kisses Michonne's forehead and it’s just the sweetest. I love how they stay in the embrace as they walk off too. Before they leave the frame, you can visibly see Michonne's relief that her man made it out of this wild day, even if not completely unscathed. And it'll always be a nice touch that Rick is still so thoughtful to embrace Michonne without getting his bloodied hand on her.

And then there’s the cat sculpture. 🤩

I will forever love how despite all the eventful stuff of the day, Rick still had the mindset to notice that cat in the junkyard and recall the rainbow cat from season 3, and want to gift this sculpture to Michonne.

So Rick and Michonne are standing by the trunk of the car - which reminds me of another scene by a trunk in Clear (that will certainly show up on this Top 30 list 😊) And their Richonne tones are so sweet as they lay out their plan together. Rick is so refreshingly hopeful saying how he doesn’t know where they’ll find guns but "that’s never stopped us before." And Michonne’s smile when he says that is precious.

And it hit me that while there’s a general sense of how things have never stopped them before, it also could be a specific reference to Clear because back then they were similarly going out to look for guns and then there weren’t any at the station like they hoped but that didn't stop them because they still managed to find a ton when discovering Morgan’s arsenal. While that might be a more subtle Clear reference, the next cat reference is very clear.

Rosita wants to go already but Rick says hold on and jogs over to the cat sculpture even despite his injury. As I’ve noted before, I’ll forever love this man turning the trash heap into Pottery Barn for his woman. The way Rick's romantic heart continuously courts her is perfection and I love that getting things for her and putting a smile on her face is always a priority. The cute way he walks over too - I know Michonne was appreciating that walk. 😋

I love the way he hands it to her and how she asks, "why are you…?" in an amused smitten way. And I just noticed that Rick has this little laugh when Michonne asks this. He’s so happy, and it’s sweet how often Rick's happiness is Michonne-related throughout the series.

It’s already so nice that Rick says he’s giving this to her "because we won." Like what a man to be like I don’t even want to leave this place before celebrating this win with my wife. And again, I have always felt that it’s the "we" moreso than the "won" that really has him on a high because they really defeated that Winslow walker as a team.

And then because they always top themselves, Rick takes this to maximum heights of perfection when he says, "and to replace the one you lost."

It's just beyond meaningful. I love that he and Michonne are sentimental people and that he reveals that he remembers that rainbow cat from such a foundational time in the building of Richonne. Clear is so special to me so I love that it was referenced and that that time is clearly special to them too.

Again, think about how much craziness they’ve gone through since Michonne took that 'too damn gorgeous' cat home back then, and yet it's still stored in Rick's memory. I love that this was written to imply Rick still remembers it. The rainbow cat had to do with her so it’s unforgettable.

And also just the line "to replace the one you lost" is powerful because those two lost so much but truly in finding each other Rick and Michonne replenished so much too.

Rick is man of the year every year to me. And I love that he says this knowing he just made his wife's day. It’s his proudest accomplishment of the day. 😊 And Michonne’s sweet little smile as she holds the cat statue is just heart-melting. I absolutely love seeing Michonne be loved on and courted and valued, and Rick is so good at doing that.

They’re both so good at loving each other cuz it’s what they’re made to do. And it’s great she gets this confirmation that she’s been important to Rick for a long time. Rick stays telling on himself, and I'm here for it.

I also love how content Rick is when he says, "let’s go" to the group before they leave the junkyard. Like only after this w with Michonne and most of all putting a smile on her face, that’s when Rick's officially like alright now we’ve done all the things we need to do. 😌

For Rick, this was an apocalyptic date basically. Like first a little wild walker game and then winning a carnival prize for his girl. I adore that it is that man’s mission to give Michonne whatever she likes and just restore anything she’s lost.

This cat moment is one of the sweetest and most couply moments between them, and I will forever be touched by it. All throughout this ep, it was so evident that a husband and wife were up in this place.

Rick and Michonne are so proud and honored to be together, and I appreciate that they expressed gratitude, adoration, and care for each other every chance they got. 😊

#richonne #top 30 #number 27 #reveling in richonne #rick x michonne #twd 7.10 #twd towl #the ones who live

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writefightandflightclub · 11 months

Text

Hanging by a thread (Part 2 of 3): Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader

Part one: here. Part three of three: coming soon.

Summary:

First there was you - and you were alone.

Then, there was Miguel - and you were still alone.

Next, there was you and Miguel.

And you were more alone than ever.

Genre: angst

Author's note: The Miguel brain rot continues! This is part 2 of 3, and I think maybe it even hurts more than that last?!

READ THE WARNINGS: Tell me if I missed anything - ask me if you'd like more detail <;3 arachnophobia folks maybe stay away, obvs; angst; loneliness; grief; suicidal ideation (not explicit); self-harm; blood / wounds mentioned (not explicit); smut references; angsty steam; reader experiences effects of (a non-toxic paralytic, not super explicit); vague dub-con themes (kissing in angsty situation where it's probably not appropriate and explicit consent isn't sought before initiating, to give you an idea of the type of scenario.); toxic relationship; yelling; reader hits Miguel in the chest - he's not physically harmed but still warning for physical aggression.

You punch the bag hard. Repeatedly. Punch it until your muscles burn and your knuckles scream in pain.

You’re done training agility. Sky-skills. Sick of being weightless; falling. You’re always falling.

Always

slipping

down

string.

Instead, you've come here -to the decommissioned gym- to feel something solid beneath your feet. To feel something push back. To resist you; perhaps to remind you that you’re there at all. That there is form to you. That you are anything more than a yawning black hole.

An absence.

A lack.

And so, you punch.

You punch the bag like you used to Before. Before you were this… creature. Before you’d lost everything. Before you were lost.

Before

you were

caught

in his

web;

tightly,

so tightly wound.

You work yourself hard. So hard that your breath grows ragged, the dull thud of fist against bag drowned out -almost- by the pulsing blood in your ears. Work so hard that you ache; sweat; drip.

It’s a rare feat these days. These days, Miguel is usually the only one who can make you:

ache;

sweat;

drip.

Ever since you became this creature nothing else seems to-

-No.

Stop that. Don’t think.

Not about him.

Not about him and the way he hits the spot.

The way he fills the empty space inside of you. Fills it all the way up.

Just hit.

Hit until your knuckles split.

Until they bleed. Bleed as red as Miguel’s fiery Mars gaze. Until you recall last night and the way his planets of war were intent on you. Furious. Angry. Furious with want and-

-Stop.

Just keep fucking going. Keep going until the bag is smeared with red.

Until you feel.

Until you stop feeling.

It doesn’t matter.

Just keep hurting until the buried pain can surface. Just keep hurting until the buried pain can surface. Just keep hurting, until all of that goddamn buried pain can come right up to the surface. Until you can see it. Until it's visible.

And so, you simply work. You push, and the bag pushes back. You work, until you don’t know if you’re sweating or sobbing. Until you don’t know if the feeling constricting your chest is exertion or despair.

You simply keep hurting. Keep hurting because he’s not here, so there’s nothing else left you could possibly feel anyway and-

“-Stop,” Miguel sounds out as he enters, his full, booming voice filling every corner of the empty gym. Trailing its web from corner to corner, until even the ropes in the ring feel like they belong to him. The tether this bag swings on: belongs to him. The

thread

you are

hanging by:

belongs to

him.

You: belong to him.

All is his. All spun by him, seems like.

You glance at him without seeing, your face smeared with wetness. A mess of salt and iron - and you wish you could be fragmented. Split back down. Parsed and segmented back into your constituent elements.

Wish that you could slip down the gullet of that gaping black hole you carry right inside your middle.

And so, you don’t stop.

Instead, you punch. You keep punching, until you can barely even lift up your fists, your arms, to apply the hit. Until you can barely stand. Until you can barely stand it. Can barely stand him.

“Stop,” Miguel scolds, but he’s closer now. His voice far less booming now - softer. “You’re bleeding.” His voice is... broken now. Split apart like your skin.

No; cracked open, like a door left ajar and suddenly he is the room. Miguel is the room that you are in and he’s the walls which are enclosing you and he’s your ceiling and your floor and most of all he’s your door. He’s your only damn way out of here, isn't he? Your only remaining portal to somewhere else - feels like. “Stop it,” he says precisely, the syllables of his command cradled carefully on the tip of his tongue. Approaching you like you’re a threat. Looking at you like you’re a collider about to burst.

You are - feels like.

Feels like you’re about to burst open from all of this nothing inside you.

Still, Miguel approaches you.

How fucking heroic.

“Please. Like you care,” you spit, all petty. Your fists snatched harshly from out of his grip when he reaches for you - because he doesn’t. He doesn’t fucking care. You’ve been bleeding out for so long already and he’s never fucking cared.

You’re not looking - purposefully not looking - into the vortex of his eyes. Not looking, but you see his face crumple in your periphery all the same.

His brows drawing down. Harsh, shadowed planes forming. Tension roping through his cultivated arms. Body primed.

You can taste his heartbeat on your tongue and it is louder than your own - feels like.

“I care,” he says solemnly, plainly, and yet, somehow, the assertion feels like danger. Exactly like danger, and you feel that urgent shiver slip down the back of your neck. Feel all your senses heighten further - a towering city skyline full of fucking feelings.

Does he? Care?

Would it make any damn difference if he did?

“Could've fooled me,” you bite, moving away from him. Moving, away from his stillness. Pacing like a caged animal - trapped, even if the door’s right there. Bouncing like electricity - like this room can’t contain you. Empty - and yet brimming so full of feeling. You are a chaos of contradictions.

Miguel is still, meanwhile. He is only one thing. He is still Miguel. Still and solid as a lightning rod in the centre of the room.

A stone.

A goddamn mountain.

Impenetrable - wall of muscle.

An inverse mountain.

Angular.

Triangular.

Climbable.

Mountable.

So... stiff; rigid; hard.

Meanwhile, you pace. You pace in circles. Nowhere else to go but around and around, counter-clockwise, counter-clockwise, orbiting your centre. Circling like you’re spinning a web but it’s funny, isn’t it - fucking hilarious - because it’s obvious you’re the one who’s snared in his.

Miguel is everything right now. Everything right now, as in, he possesses infinite, inter-dimensional possibility. Anything is possible for him, for Miguel, for the versions of him, isn’t it, across the millions of multiverses? And yet, there is only one possibility here, in this room, with this Miguel. Only one way this can go.

You wonder -briefly- if there is a single version of him anywhere that could love and not only fuck; but it doesn’t matter. This version of him doesn’t. Won’t. Can’t. Never will - and you feel so trapped by it. Trapped by the limits of what’s possible in a multiverse where strictly speaking, anything is.

The space around you feels tighter suddenly. Even more suffocating.

How could it not? How could it not when Miguel is the room. The very walls enclosing you. When he is the door, because there’s no way out of this which doesn’t involve him, is there? Not any longer.

“What the hell happened?” he asks, blood-brown eyes dancing with concern. Scanning for answers. For patterns, anomalies, events, and it’s funny.

Oh, Miguel.

It's so fucking funny.

You scoff darkly, drawing the back of your hand across your face to swipe away this wet. Smearing your face with blood. Tasting iron on your mouth as your tongue travels from one corner to the other in an aggravated swipe.

Of course. It makes sense in a way, you suppose. Makes sense for Miguel to think that something must have happened.

He’s looking for a villain, isn’t he? Always is looking for something else to blame so he doesn’t have to blame himself.

Oblivious.

So fucking oblivious.

Oblivious, and you’re shaking now; but it feels good. You’re shaking because you’re finally angry. Finally angry, like him, with him, and you round on him. Crowd him. Spit your raw words up at the peak of him. Plucking a grievance at random, like a ripened poison apple from the gnarled tree he’s planted inside you.

“Do you seriously never think about how shitty it is, Miguel?” He’s lost now. He’s lost and you can see it in his blank face and you could care less, stabbing your finger into the centre gulf of his broad expanse of chest. “How shitty you are?”

That does it. Provokes him. Thunder clouds rumbling down from the peak of the mountain of him. Drawing down to shroud his blood-moon eyes, and you’re so, very, incandescently angry.

So angry, that the words won't leave your mouth fast enough. That your tone is dripping venom, spit droplets firing into the tight space between you. “I do whatever I can to care for you, Mig. Comfort you. Tolerate your bullshit because I know how much you hurt. So, tell me something, Big Boy. Tell me. Don’t you think it’s so entirely fucked up that meanwhile - God. You.” You can barely get the words out fast enough now. Barely enough breath in your lungs. Can barely see him through the film of rageful tears glossing your eyes. “You’ve studied the fucking canon. Extensively.

You know

what

all

through.

So… Tell me. Don’t you think it’s especially shitty that you’ve

never

once

asked me

what

I lost?”

Your ears ring. Ring with the force. Of your own yelling. No breath left. In your lungs. All of it used. To stifle a sob. Lower lip trembling. Chest burning. Nostrils flaring. You’re angry. You're fuming.

But it’s about to get a whole lot worse.

You wait.

You wait for Miguel’s reaction; but he’s still a stone.

Doesn’t even lose it with you, like he does with everyone else. Doesn’t even scream that he’s had enough of you, like he does with everyone else. Can’t even do you the fucking courtesy of reacting - and you no longer even know why you’re surprised.

Nothing though? Nothing to say for himself?

You wait. Inwardly seething. Studying him. Giving him nowhere to hide.

You watch, as the muscles in his jaw writhe - tendons slipping over bone. You watch as his fists clench. You watch as his palms raise in the air and his lips form the shape of the words, and still you don’t believe what’s coming out of his mouth when you hear it.

“I didn’t come here for this shit.”

Oh.

Oh no.

That’s not good enough.

Not anymore.

“Tell me then, Miguel,” you sing-song. Words as barbed as his fangs as you scramble to unwind your hand wraps and toss them to the floor. Whole body shaking now. Legs nervy. Breath trembling. Tears spiking - even as you try to retain some semblance of composure. “What did you come here for?”

You know. You know already, but you want him to say it. Need him to say it. To admit it, out loud.

You want him to say precisely what he came for.

The only thing he ever wants of you.

You want to hear him say that he came here to fill you up and then leave you emptier than before.

But instead, he says nothing.

Instead, he swallows - you hear it. Knots his brows. Dips his head.

Fucking coward.

“Say it!” You punch him in the chest to punctuate your hoarse plea. Your voice is fragmented - pathetic. Your blows, too, are pathetic. Ineffectual. No true intent behind them. More irritating than harmful. Still, he grunts. Pissed off. Snarling. Lip curling back to reveal the tips of his fangs.

Even so, he stands and takes it.

Stands there like a fucking mountain as you deliver blow upon blow to the broad span of him. Beating his chest with your fists like you’re knocking on a door, begging him to open up. To let you in. To finally let you in.

You strike him like he’s your punchbag, only he has even more weight to him - feels like. Delivers far more resistance. Keeps pushing back. Always pushing back. Pushing back against you. Reminding you, that you’re more than a yawning black hole. Isn't that the point? “You’re a big dumb fuck, Miguel. You know that? You’re a fucking bastard.”

He lets you. Lets you do this. He takes it.

Doesn’t defend himself - verbally or physically. Doesn’t retreat. Doesn't try to stop you.

He simply lets you, your voice shredded in your throat now. “You only ever come to me so you can bury your pain in me, don’t you? Huh? Well for once, Miguel. For once, can’t you

fucking

take

some of

mine?!”

He still doesn’t speak. Continues to weather the barrage of you. Lets your harmless blows bounce off of him - feels like.

He takes it.

Eventually, opens up his arms as you dig both your screwed up fists into the expanse of his chest, wanting to bury yourself there. “Fucking… take it! Please!” you beg, a sob finally rising in your throat. Voice wet. “Please. Take it. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

You try to push him away. Try to push him away as he drops to his knees with you. As the fire in you burns through everything you had left to keep you standing. As it guts you until you can no longer maintain your structure, collapsing down to the floor - Miguel collapsing with you.

You try.

You try to push him away but he stays. Like a fucking mountain. Stays even as your fists turn to open palms against his chest, shoving him. Stays. Stays. Stays. Opens his arms to you.

He takes it. Takes your pain, like you’ve done for him for so long. Takes it until your striking blows become pawing palms. Until his arms are wrapping at your back, stroking up and down the length of you. “Hey. Hey, come on,” he soothes. “Tell me what you need.”

You need so many things.

Have needed them for so long that you don’t even know where to begin. You need so many things from him and it’s dangerous, because as soon as your anger crests and breaks, all you are left with is pain and then -hypocrite- all you need in this moment? All you need is... to bury it in him.

Meanwhile; Miguel's arms cradle you like a room. Like your walls. And, if Miguel is the room? You are the emptiness inside it. You are the emptiness inside it and in this moment you need to be reminded you are something more. Something more than a yawning black hole.

Your breaths are heaving now. Face wet. Your chests pressed up against one another’s as you kneel here and he holds you. The warmth of your bodies bleeding into one another’s. Strong arms are wrapped around you. His taloned finger is crooking under your chin. Drawing your gaze up to his. Searching your eyes with his - and there’s so much pain there too.

You look into Miguel's red eyes and they're cut deep with a wound. So deep it's as though the wound caused it - this redness- like he’s been bleeding-out for so long too that the colour is visibly seeping through.

There’s so much pain there. So much pain inside you too, and you look at his mouth. You look at his mouth and suddenly it is a door. It promises relief, and it is the only way out that you can see.

You kiss him.

Abruptly; lips crushing up against his and arms enclosing him in a desperate clinch, fingers disappearing into the black night of his hair.

Miguel groans as though the sound had been readied in his throat, opening-up freely for you as your tongue shoves desperately past his lips.

You deepen the kiss. Blood rushing. Desire throbbing. You deepen the kiss, before Miguel can gain the wherewithal to clamp his stupidly broad palms on to your shoulders. To drag you off of him. To tell you to stop.

Will he? Tell you to stop?

You pull back from him to ask the question - not with so many words. You pull back from him, tugging on his lower lip with your teeth until you leave it all kiss-bitten and plumped. Until you draw a breathy, pained sound from him because the last thing he wants from you is for you to stop.

You pull back to ask the question, and you see his eyes are fluttered closed. His face is contorted with need. You see the subtle gloss of spit on his plush lower lip. You see him, and you're still vibrating from the tortured, resonant moan he delivered against the cave of your mouth.

Even so - you wait. You ask the question.

You wait; but he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t stop you, and so you rise up further on your knees.

You rise up fully on your knees and you kiss him again, and its even more desperate than the last. Mouths slanting together. Warm breath and spit intermingling. Impossibly broad hands clawing at you back, the subtle bite of talons offering a sting of white-hot pain. Your tongue shoving wretchedly over his. Sloppy. Practically feral.

It’s humiliating, even. It’s shameful - the way you want him. It’s unhinged.

But you don’t stop.

Don’t stop even when you know you should.

Can’t stop - feels like. Can’t stop this urge to lose yourself. To wipe your pain clean. To feel. To stop feeling. You should stop - but you don’t, and instead, you kiss him hungrily. Kiss him like you’re trying to devour him and-

-No. You kiss him like you want him to devour you. To slip his venom into your veins and liquidise your insides and leave no trace.

You don’t stop; but instead, you run your writhing tongue over his semi-retracted fangs. You try desperately to lick the trace of venom from them. Searching out the point of them with your tongue and pressing harshly up against it so this can all be done. So that you can finally feel. So that you can finally stop feeling.

You should stop.

You wish it would stop.

He’s your open door. Your portal out of here; except-

“-Stop!” Miguel booms, strong hands on your shoulders, drawing you off of him when the tangy bloom of iron gushes over his tongue, just a drop all it takes for him to know what you’ve done. “You stupid girl!”

Oh.

Oh no.

You’ve never seen him look more angry.

You’ve never felt more ashamed,

the feeling

sinking

like a

stone

through

your stomach.

But it’s okay, actually. It's okay because the feeling doesn’t last for long. Not long at all before the effects of the venom set in. Before you're just a little less present and a little more numb. “It’s fine,” you slur, looking at him through the blur of tears. “It’s fine. I didn’t get all that much.” A single trail of salt spills down your cheek. It's fine, except - “Oh God. I’m sorry, Miguel. I’m so sorry.”

He could stay angry.

Could easily be angry. Should be - feels like.

But instead, mercifully, he looks at you some other way. Maybe even seeing you. Finally. Instead then, he sighs heavily. Carries you over - slung in his arms - to the boxing ring and sits you down on its edge, your back leaning up against the forgiving ropes. Slings his webbing around your middle for support to stop you from slumping, your muscles giving up.

Instead then, he tracks towards the First Aid kit on the wall. And, while you suffer the mild effects of his venom - that now familiar paralytic, your micro-dose coping mechanism - Miguel returns to you. Returns, even though by now he should surely have had enough.

Even so, he returns to you all the same, and he kneels before you. Begins to carefully patch your self-inflicted wounds. “You’re okay, do you hear me?” he says softly, gently jostling your chin to check you’re not too out of it. Checking that you’re not panicking. Not distressed. “Feeling alright? Just fuzzy?”

It's a buzz, actually, Always feels good - even though it shouldn't. You know it shouldn't. “Mmm hmm.”

You do actually feel fine, somehow. Fine with respect to the venom. Fine with respect to your scuffed hands. But it’s the stubborn black hole in your middle which still hurts. It’s the yearning in your chest which still aches. It's the grief. The grief is what's still killing you.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” Miguel promises, his broad palm cupping your face, his expression stern but his eyes - somehow- forgiving and steady on yours.

You study him. His face harsh - all sharp planes as he patches you; but his hands become entirely tender.

It’s careful. It’s so careful that his tenderness feels almost more painful than a wound. It’s tender enough that you can pretend. Pretend that he truly does care. That he really will take care of you, for longer than it takes for his venom - pulsing through you - to be half-lifed into oblivion. For longer than it takes for your body to flush him out after every encounter.

You watch, regardless. You study him. Study Miguel’s big, clumsy hands as they rifle through the First Aid box. For antiseptic. For band-aids. Watch him diligently attend to each split knuckle one by one. Wiping the red away.

You wish you could do the same for the red, angry wounds in his eyes. Wish you could wipe it all away.

Maybe in another multiverse. Maybe there’s another version of you that could, but Lord knows that -in this one - you’ve tried.

You watch him. Watch the steady rise and fall of his chest as he works. The notched groove between his brows. The contours of him, structured and shadowed. His thorned beauty, like a defensive rose.

He doesn’t even need to do this for you, you contemplate. You’ll heal. You’ll heal fast. Skin already sealing over, probably. Repairing. But, you sense that it’s not about these surface scathes for him either. You sense that - perhaps for the first time - he is acknowledging your real wound. The one within you. The one which -try as you might- simply won’t close. Won’t heal quickly like the rest. Which you can’t seem to heal at all - feels like.

You feel that he too is finally contemplating the wound he has ignored. Not caused; but angered by circling around the circumference of it, certainly.

The wound that Miguel has ignored, perhaps because it too closely mirrors his own.

As you watch him - as you think - Miguel’s vermillion eyes intermittently dart up to greet yours. He's stoic. He's stern; but he's softening.

Softening - and he stays.

He hasn’t had enough of you, like he has of everyone else.

“I do what I can, you know?” you say softly, barely above a whisper, when you finally feel you’ve returned to yourself. Right now, the black hole suddenly feels more like an eerie calm spinning in your centre. “To care for you, as much as you’ll let me and…” You sigh, though. Not even sure if it’s worth trying to explain anyway.

Miguel looks down again. Gaze intent on your hands. Brows knitting further. He smooths the curled corner of one band-aid down for the fifth time. Secures it carefully in place with the pad of his thumb.

“I know,” he concedes, nodding slowly. “And I can’t even manage to thank you for the empanadas, never mind anything-” He sets his mouth into a thin line. Can’t complete the thought. He’s solemn. Regretful. But still offering no apologies. No hope for change. "I know. I know I'm not... easy."

All you can muster in the face of that, is a gentle shrug. What does it matter anyway? Anymore? Did it ever even matter?

He chews on his lips for a moment, mustering a thought. Unable to meet your gaze now. “I just… I’m trying to hold it all together.”

Of course. You do understand.

The multiverse. HQ. The pressures he faces. You know it hasn’t been easy for him.

“And using me makes you feel a little better while you do?” Your words are unkind, but there’s far less venom in them now. Only resignation. Curiosity, almost.

He blinks, eyelashes fanning like delicate spider silks and, gingerly, Miguel flattens your palms between his. Still not looking at you - he can’t seem to look at you. “No.” Wow. It… doesn’t? God - if you make him feel shitty too; then why bother? If there is nothing good which can come from this, then maybe

you

should

simply

stop.

Maybe you are running out of thread.

“I mean…” He huffs a breath from the circle of his plush lips as he rearranges his thoughts. Finds the words. Sorts through the tangle. Buries that which he still isn't willing to share. “Yes - you do. It does. For a while.” His words aren’t beautiful. Not making anything better. But, you could cry from how softly he is holding your hands in his. Holding them like it is true after all. Like he cares. He blinks a few times, and although his eyes are downcast you see his eyelashes glisten with a smattering of tears - like pearls of dew clinging to a spider’s web.

“Miguel,” you encourage plainly, knowing there’s more. More than needs to be said.

He takes a deep breath then. Exhales it out at length, his broad shoulders rising, then falling. Runs his tongue self-consciously over one fang. “I don't mean the multiverse. I mean that… I’m trying so hard to hold myself together. And… you?” He finally looks up at you again, his eyes as soft and uncertain as you’ve ever seen them. “You...” A gulp saws down his throat. “You unravel me.”

Oh.

Oh right.

You look at him. Seeing him. Your heartbeat once again pounding in your ears, for wholly different reasons than before.

You have no doubt that he can hear your heartbeat in this moment. Maybe even taste it on his tongue. Most definitely, he can hear the pace of it race as his words find you, his eyes glowing softly now, like the shy, red-tinged light of a sinking sun.

Maybe he is.

Maybe this is the one version of Miguel who could love you.

Sure. Of course. In another life, maybe.

If things had been different, then maybe this could have been something.

You look at him now, and you no longer feel anything which resembles anger.

You shift, freeing yourself from his webbing. Lifting your band-aid smattered hand to cup his rough, sculpted cheek.

“You’re trying to hold yourself together,” you say softly. Voice calm and resigned now. Silly, oblivious man. “Guess what? I’d noticed.” You slide your palm down his face and he leans into your touch. “But you’re holding on so tight, Miguel. Everything is so tightly wound, and I can’t breathe.”

He looks regretful. Contrite, a flash of apology scurrying across his gaze. “I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m just…”

“Hurting? Angry?”

He nods. Looking ashamed.

You let your hand slip down his chest and meanwhile, he places both of his hands on top of your thighs.

He’s warm. Feels good.

But it doesn’t make up for how cold he’s been to you for so long. Not even close.

He doesn’t mean to hurt you, he says. You maybe even believe that to be true. On some level.

But not meaning to hurt you is not the same thing as:

he didn’t;

doesn’t;

won’t.

It's not the same thing as he doesn't know he's doing it when he does.

Fresh tears brim in your eyes, and your voice is cracked in two; ajar like a door. Cracked open like a door, and, mercifully, there is finally room for you to walk through. Somewhere else for you to go aside from running to him. Somewhere else for you to go besides trying to crawl into the cavern of his ample chest. But first, there is more for you to say.

“The anger might be a mask, Miguel. But you’ve worn it so much, that… it’s becoming the only face that ever looks back at me." You pause for moment before continuing. To let your words sink into him. Really sink in. "Do you understand that? The toll that it takes?”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say anything, and you watch his face twisting into a pained expression. Collapsing with regret.

His hands already on your thighs, he slides them up. Wraps them all the way around your hips and butt. Circling his grip around the rear of you. His forearms running the length of your thighs. And then, he leans forward, curling his broad form over like a waning stem until he buries his beautiful flowered, thorned face right into your lap.

It’s a rare display from him, and for a moment, you simply look down at the dense mass of his black hair. Noticing the few threads of grey running through it like silken spider strands. Eyes travelling across the curved bulk of his shoulders as he curls his impossibly broad form around you. Holding you, but mostly wanting to be held.

You settle your battered hands on to the meat of his back. Run your thumb between his shoulder blades, up into the nape of his neck, up into his hair, parsing his tension into segments. Offering him some modicum of comfort. Letting him take it, for a moment. Letting him melt into your lap. He moans as you touch him like that, his breath warm and his resonant vibrations blooming in the channel of your pressed together thighs. Moans like he’s touch-starved and has never known relief - not even once in his life.

You take a deep breath, knowing this next step will be hard to take. Your fingers carding through the length on his crown, disappearing into the black night of him. Like he is your black hole. Has been all along. “I know you didn’t ask me to care, Miguel. But I do. I care about you a lot, okay? I need you to know that first." Hearing this, his hands clutch at you just a little tighter. His breath heaves out of him. “You know that already though, right? You’re a smart guy. And… that’s why I find it hard to believe that you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

You ease him up, off you, with your battered hands, and he looks at you. Eyes glittering with feeling. Face taut with it. “What am I doing?”

“Well.” You pause. Take a moment to skim your gaze over the contours of his face. To gently comb the hair back from his forehead. “Giving me just enough tenderness, just often enough, to keep me hanging by a thread?” You stand. You stand and this time you don’t need to push him away from you. He rises too, and takes a perceptible step back. Almost as though, for him, your words might signal danger - a shiver snaking down his back. “I’m hanging by a fucking thread, Miguel. Have been hanging by a thread since long before I met you, and so I’m begging you.” You place your palm against his solid chest. Look directly into his eyes so he knows you mean it. “You’re holding yourself together. Fine. But if you can’t unravel even a little bit? If you don’t want to? If you can’t give me any fucking slack? Then please… cut me down. Cut me loose. Because I’m tired, you know? I’m so tired of being alone when I’m with you.”

For the first time, a single tear escapes from Miguel’s eye, gliding smoothly down his face like the silken drop of a spider.

He sucks in a shaky breath, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have anything else to say; at least, nothing else he's willing to.

You’re a little disappointed, though not at all surprised, and, in a way, it is a blessing. A blessing because you realise; you don’t have to wait for him to cut you loose. You realise that’s something you can do for yourself. That you don’t have to keep hurting yourself like this. That you’re not obligated to keep letting him hurt you, just because he’s in pain too.

A resolve settles over you, and Miguel must see it in your face. Miguel must see it for that is when he moves. That is when he becomes desperate, reaching out for your hand. Only as you finally turn away from him - as you pass him by.

“Just don’t. Please,” you say to him. Calmly. Clearly. With as little venom as you can manage. “Don’t touch me.”

You face each other now, and despite his size, Miguel -all slumped and despondent- actually looks small. Sounds small. It is no longer his room - because it is yours. “Where are you going?”

Despite yourself. Despite everything. Despite all the energy you have spent avoiding precisely this, it feels good to finally realise what you need to do. In this moment, the smallest hint of a small even crosses your face.

“I’m going home.”

Home.

Even the word visibly crushes him. The one place he can’t find. The one place he can’t go in a room full of doors.

Miguel takes a single step towards you, reaching out his taloned hand, but your palm raises confidently and so he treads no closer.

He nods. Licks his lips. Searches for what he wants to say, even as he already knows it will not be enough. After all, he’s a smart guy, isn't he? “I do care too, you know. I really do care.”

His eyes swim. His fists clench. Ropes of tension pop in his neck - and you can’t resist it. Don’t begrudge him this, and so, you step gingerly forward, craning up to press a chaste kiss to the swell of his sculpted cheek. You search his eyes, wanting to show him there is no malice left in you, not really. Not for him. “I know, Miguel. I know you’re not a monster," you say, before turning away.

“Will you come back?” he asks, voice cracked all the way open, just like the door you are about to walk through.

There was you, then Miguel, then you and Miguel - and all of those times, you were alone.

For now though? Being alone feels like exactly what you need.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Freeing yourself of his webbing. Disappearing into the black hole of the corridor. Moving forward, instead of being stuck in limbo -

and

this

time,

you

leave

him

hanging

thread.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #spider bastard #oscar isaac

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pearl484-blog · 8 months

Text

I've been reading a bunch of advice on writing accommodations for disabilities (Replay has a disabled character with mobility issues which I am not as familiar as I'd like with) and I have a question/complaint.

Where are the descriptions of the accommodations that are half-assing it or don't work all the time?

For reference, I have autism. One of the things that I need is a quiet area when I'm becoming over-stimulated.

Usually, I use bathrooms. They're almost always available, always seperate from social areas, often have small areas where you can put boundaries between yourself and others, and usually quiet. Take me somewhere and the first thing on my agenda is "where's the bathroom?"

However, at my psychiatric work facility, we have special quiet rooms where you can relax and chill out in the quiet away from people. These quiet rooms have a lot of variety, and I can tell from a 2 minute inspection which ones are terrible and which ones are ones I'd like.

Like yeah, the quiet room is nice, but the walls echo every sound, the floor is waaay too hard and unforgiving, and it always smells like bleach. That's not a good quiet room.

They are all technically accommodations though, and part of me wants to know what would make someone with other disabilities go: "I can see whst you're doing. I can see that you're TRYING to help, and that's....sweet, but in all actuality, your accommodation sucks."

Yet at the same time, I see all these posts about good accommodations and how they'd benefit tons of people and that feels me with joy so I feel like crap wanting to be like: "yeah, being accommodated is great, but what's one way people accommodate you that just irks you?" Because I can see the strength and hope that arises from these posts. I can feel that in myself.

Yet I can't help but crave not just stories or descriptions of good accommodations, but stories where people are trying, earnestly trying to be good and help. They put braille on things. They have elevators you can always get to. They allow written OR spoken communication, but they fuck up.

The braille never cleaned and somehow always sticky or covered in...stuff. You don't wanna know, and you'd rather just clean it up than find out. The elevators janky and always stops either RIGHT above or RIGHT below the floor it's stopping on, so you either have to drop down or fight to bounce over that edge EVERY SINGLE TIME. And yes, written is accepted, but while you're writing, the conversation always keeps going so you're forever either behind or forced to confine yourself to gestures and short sentences.

Yes, it's accomodated, but it's not a great accommodation. So, does the character suck it up and deal with it, or complain about the little things that suck but they can live with? Do they try to fix the accommodations? Is there a point where those tiny stressers make them snap?

Are they resentful of these accommodations because they're not what they're used to? Are they grateful because its better than what they had? Do others notice the issues with the accommodations? Who are they and why?

What happens when an accomodation fails? How does the character react? How do the people around him react? Is the failure clearly visible to those uneducated in this accommodation? If it's not, do they assume the character is making it up? If so, why?

#autism #disability #disabled #accommodation #disabilties #disability aids #disability accommodations #complaining

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babyrubysoho-maiden · 4 months

Note

Hello!

So, I watched the ovas, then read the manga and recently read the newly released version of the manga (I haven't read the doujinshis yet, maybe you can tell me if it was a mistake or not.) I'm torn regarding Taki and Klaus' relationship.

Do they have this game where Taki enjoys resisting, lusting over him and also along the same lines con non-con and obsession with Klaus and vice versa? The whole purity thing comes into play because of his status therefore having sex with Klaus defeats the purpose of it, yet Taki keeps doing it because is the only way the can be together now and in the aforementioned question? Also, Taki is shown to be very capable of defending himself (but with help? Like a mop, sword) The first few times Taki anf Klaus are seen to be intimate with each other, Taki had the choice to forbid Klaus to come near him but he doesn't and when Klaus takes Taki to his cabin it's explained how did they get there without nobody seeing them and in the manga of that scene Taki does say he can do whatever he wants in challenging way though he underestimates how serious Klaus takes it? Until Taki cries for Klaus to stop later on.

It would make sense for each of them to care for one another hence there are parts where Taki is shown to be concerned by Klaus' well-being, overall existence and tries very hard not to worry him despite what went down earlier and who's around them. Keeping his own bruised up and sore body a secret between him and his doctor.

Also, Klaus' hunger and demand for Taki's body and attention, ultimate time together, Klaus' disposition and usefulness and protection as a knight regardless the conditions. Klaus doesn't want to worry Taki either therefore he keeps popping pills but his new and old injuries never heal. Jumping from that point, I read somewhere in your blog I believe, that you mentioned that Klaus assaulted Taki because he was delirious; for context it was after Klaus was in the frontlines with the kid cadet. Did you mean because of those untreated injuries? Wouldn't that be too soon? And it doesn't start as an assault but it does end up like that. Taki asks for forgiveness for not fulfilling the promise or for not being properly together now? Taki later defends him from being tortured, let everybody know if Klaus did anything to offend him, he will take care of it himself and takes him away to his room. So, Taki says that he forgives him. Because maybe in his own way maybe he thought Klaus had no other choice? He thought he deserved it?

Later in the manga happens something similar where Klaus says his hunger for Taki is also filthy (Taki' status, Klaus' position, and their relationship?) and Taki slaps him, for a few panels more basically promising he wouldn't touch him again (and it's almost visible Taki' disappointment)Taki also makes sure that Klaus knows he belongs to him and he won't tolerate such behavior or disrespect (also referring to what happened earlier) But it doesn't last, I think chapters later, Klaus follows him into the showers, Taki tries to stop him but he retreats when he touches Klaus wounds then Klaus ties him up and feels him up and gives him chances for him to speak up (as Klaus has done in the past) and stop him, when Taki doesn't, he continues until Taki says 'no' and 'stop' but Klaus doesn't listen (he sees how turned on Taki is, as he had previously been but then again, the body reacts in one way but the mind/mouth does differently) Until he sees Taki's bruised body, a reminder of what he did to him, from when they were at his cabin, Taki's assault.

Maybe I answered my own question here but I also wanted to add it.

It's also curious that only then the bruises on his torso are visible but it might have been overlooked during editing and the timeline is confusing too (the manga jumps from toddler Taki, pubescent Taki, Academy Taki (18-19) to 20 year-old Taki)

Because that's how I interpreted it. Perhaps I missed something and trust me I really want to understand. If it's that way, I completely get it. I enjoy that kind of sexual chemistry/games/kinks (that can also go hand in hand with complex dynamics) in my personal life but if it's on a form of media, particularly queer media, I really would like clarification.

Then it also confirms my theory the fact that Taki goes to see Klaus, sees him tied up, banded up and unconscious, his doctor warns him not to untie him because he would be delirious and Klaus insisted it on Taki not see him for his own safety. Taki not only unties Klaus on his own free will but it seems to lock the door of the room and lays next to him fully knowing what could happen and when it does, he never shows any kind of distress, until it seems to be too much to handle and knows the doctor is outside but stops himself when Klaus asks him why. Why did he come? Why did he untie him? Then Taki fully lets go.

Later he sees all the blood and infection coming from Klaus injuries and of course he is worried and pissed because he never told him the truth and he is also mad at himself for never speaking up when he needed it. Alluding at the fact it wasn't about sex.

Can you see why I'm kinda all over the place?

So, first of all thank you for the ask! I can safely say it's the longest one I've ever had, and I don't know if I'm qualified to answer it🤣

I think a lot of your questions are entirely down to the interpretation of the reader, so any answers I give would be my personal opinion and general consensus reached in discussion with other fans.

First, I would say that the doujinshi are pretty much essential reading if you want a balanced view of their relationship. Because a lot of the doujin are stories of the two of them growing closer at Luckenwalde in a very sweet, natural and mutually respectful way. The development of their relationship that we see in the doujinshi serves two purposes: it makes their current dynamic even more painful to witness (because we know what a good relationship they're capable of having when they're outside the pressures of Taki's country), and I think precludes any idea that Taki might get pleasure in resisting. I don't think Taki gets anything from resisting but pain from guilt and remorse (because of what the two of them once were together, and because he feels he didn't try hard enough to explain what would be expected of Klaus once he became his knight). I don't think any of it is a game to Taki (although it might be a bit of a bitter and resentful game to Klaus sometimes).

As you said, Taki can defend himself perfectly well. I think maybe he doesn't because 1) Klaus is almost always injured when he attacks Taki, and Taki can't bear to hurt him, and 2) perhaps he subconsciously wants to send a message that he doesn't truly hate Klaus (just hates the circumstances that have brought them to this point). And yeah, to some extent I do think he thinks he deserves it. As Klaus comes to realise in the latest chapters chronologically, Taki is completely bound up with the idea of "sacrifice".

Klaus also feels huge amounts of guilt and remorse for what he does; problem is, it doesn't stop him doing it!

I don't have the bandwidth to answer all your questions about Klaus' mindset, but you asked:

"I read somewhere in your blog I believe, that you mentioned that Klaus assaulted Taki because he was delirious"

That is the assault we see in the more recent chapters (new Vols. 3 and 4), when Klaus has a very bad infection after being exploded in no man's land, and is also in serious withdrawal from morphine. The time he rapes Taki after the rescuing-the-cadet and getting injured in the arm (Vol.1), he wasn't delirious. He knew exactly what he was doing. Also, the bruises on Taki's body are from that more recent assault, not from the attack in the cabin. If you want a super simple timeline of these events, it goes like:

Klaus rescues cadet, gets injured in the arm

Takes Taki back to his cabin and assaults him

Takes Taki to Suguri for treatment, Suguri realises what's been happening

Klaus almost gets killed by Hasebe for being a "spy", injured arm is ripped up even more by his torture

Klaus is recovering with Taki looking after him when they get the news about the Eurotean train

Klaus and Azusa go to no man's land, Klaus is taking morphine to cope with the pain

Klaus gets blown up and drowned, which causes a bad infection

Klaus is being treated by Suguri and says he wants to give up the morphine because he knows he's reaching his limit (because Klaus has a history of drug addiction as well as Taki addiction)

Taki visits the hospital after his various other duties, sees Klaus' condition and orders Suguri to leave them

Suguri ignores Klaus' wish to keep Taki away because he can't say no to Taki, but injects Klaus with one more dose (this was a big mistake!)

Klaus does indeed reach his limit and attacks Taki while delirious

Suguri obviously realises what happened, and Taki tells him not to say anything to Klaus

A few days later (while Taki is still bruised), the Western Alliance attacks and they go out to intercept them

Klaus notices Taki has an injury on his wrist, follows him to the shower stalls, and forcibly strips him

Sees the injuries, and realises that the vague memories he has of the attack weren't a dream, he actually did it

Drugs Taki and takes him to Suguri, demands to know why Suguri broke his promise

Klaus and Suguri have a fight about sacrifice and how Taki is treated by his people

All the above happens in maximum a couple of weeks, probably less!

By the way don't try to figure out the chronology all in one go, you'd have to read the manga and doujins multiple times over to get it, cos she is deliberately all over the place🤣. It does actually all make sense, it just feels like it doesn't unless you reread. (One of the fans might have made a full timeline, though! I'll give you the Discord link and you can ask. The Discord is essential to me, haha.)

"Taki not only unties Klaus on his own free will but it seems to lock the door of the room and lays next to him fully knowing what could happen and when it does, he never shows any kind of distress, until it seems to be too much to handle and knows the doctor is outside but stops himself when Klaus asks him why. Why did he come? Why did he untie him?"

This is a very major point in the development of both Taki and Suguri (his doctor). I believe Taki came because he simply couldn't help himself. He loves Klaus and feels a huge amount of responsibility and guilt for the state Klaus has ended up in. Seeing him was both his wish and (what he perceives as) his duty as Klaus' master. Untying him was a foolish, emotional act, and then he refuses to call Suguri because he knows Klaus would be killed if he made a public scene about being attacked.

From this episode, in the (chronologically) following chapters we finally see Taki break down, then get his ass together and vow to actually do something to protect Klaus (we don't really know what he's planning to sacrifice yet, though). I think that's why Taki wouldn't tell Klaus what he had done while he was delirious: he was trying to protect Klaus from that knowledge.

From this episode, Suguri learns that obeying his master (as he has Taki's entire life) might not actually be what's best for Taki, because Taki can't be trusted to act in his own best interests. That's why in new Ch10 (it hasn't been published in a volume yet), Klaus rants at Suguri about Taki acting as a sacrifice for everybody, and says that if things get worse he'll take Taki far away from all of them. Then Suguri orders Klaus to do just that and keep him alive at all costs, even if Taki doesn't want him to, because he now knows Taki won't be able to take the steps to save his own life.

So in conclusion, I don't think the current dynamic these two have is really mean to be enjoyed as non-con kink (although obviously it can be!). I think it's meant to be shown as aesthetically beautiful (cos everything she draws is) but painful and bitter, to be contrasted with their past relationship in Luckenwalde (although this becomes much clearer when you read the doujinshi, including the nekomimi ones set in Luckenwalde). And as readers we're hoping like hell that they can get back to that loving and respectful relationship someday!

Anyway, feel free to join our MR Discord, it's much easier to ask questions there as they come, and there are a lot of knowledgeable fans on there!

#Epically long ask!

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thetrashbinseries · 4 months

Text

— Fahrenheit Part Three ( bangchan x reader )

rated - mature | minors dni

parts - one, two, three

warnings - idol universe, name changed idols (ones unrelated to skz), mature themes, drug use, alcohol use, sexual themes, mentions of mental illness, slight angst, internet bullying and harassment

x x x

The biting chill of New York City doesn't stop the crowd from forming outside the Mixer nightclub. Glittering dresses cling to shivering bodies, and the line snakes around the corner. Men with cross earrings, edgy tattoos, and silky updos chat, their breath visible in the frigid air. My Uber Black rolls up to the front, and I observe the scene.

Despite being a newcomer, I am now qualified to step into this world. Retrieving my phone from my black clutch, my coffin-shaped nails tap out a message to Jake.

outside now

As I glance out the window, I ponder if the Uber driver's patience stems from the luxury vehicle or my personality. People treat you differently when they think you have something they don't – that disingenuous feeling irks me. I haven't changed; I am still the same person without a record deal or viral singles. The driver doesn’t even likely care that far—if I’m paying for an Uber black, dressed the way I am, I must be somebody.

Rarely stepping out, recognition brings a wave of anxiety. Medication eases my nerves tonight. A text from Jake illuminates my screen.

out front?

yeah where else would I be?

private entrance in the back.

He double-texts.

ill get you from there

“Oh?” I voice my surprise. Leaning toward the driver, I request, “Can you take me to the back, please? This is the wrong entrance.”

With a nod, the driver obliges, and we pull away. Eyes follow the tinted windows, curious about the occupant. The relief washes over me; a private entrance awaits.

As we circle around, a black door with a colossal bouncer in a sleek black suit comes into view. Standing over six feet tall with broad shoulders and flowing black hair in a ponytail, he exudes an imposing presence. Stepping out of the truck, I smooth my little black dress. I hate dresses.

“Hi,” I greet the bouncer with a friendly smile and wave, but his stoic response hints at slim chances of entry. There’s no way he’s letting me in here.

Just as I am about to ask, the door swings open. Jake emerges, looking more expensive than the other night at my house. In a satin cream-colored outfit, he leaves the top unbuttoned over a black tank. Sunglasses push into his styled hair, makeup accentuating his eyes and flawless skin.

“What’s up, beautiful?” he greets, arms outstretched, a confident smile on his lips as he embraces me. I pull away, handing him his knitted hat from my clutch.

“You almost had me fucked,” I say, referring to the way he carelessly left it at my place, after being adamant about no evidence of another guy being there.

“Aww, sweetheart, if he didn't fuck you after flying across the country, I hope you're here to tell me you two broke up.” Jake chuckles, taking the hat.

“You know what I mean,” I reply through clenched teeth. “It’s freezing. Take me inside—”

“Jake?!” A girl's voice jolts me. “Jake Wong?!” Two girls emerge, probably aware of the private entrance and eager for a chance encounter. The bouncer moves to intervene, but Jake waves him off, effortlessly engaging the girls in conversation.

One of them jumps excitedly, phone in hand. “Oh my god, can we get a photo? Please? I'm obsessed with your new album!”

The other rambles on, “I went to see you on tour twice! In Dallas and in Jersey, do you remember me? We met afterwards at the hotpot restaurant!”

“Of course, I remember you, beautiful. How could I forget such a pretty face? Come on, let’s take a group shot.” Jake signals the bouncer to be their photographer, dropping his shades back over his eyes. He positions himself between the two girls, arms around their shoulders as they hug him closely, posing with big smiles and peace signs.

“It’s cold out tonight, you should keep yourself warm—here.” Jake hands one of the girls the knitted beanie, and she can barely contain her excitement as she steps in place.

Officially never have to worry about that again.

I slip into the club before anyone else notices me. Being photographed with Jake would only attract more attention, and I'm not a k-pop idol; it would only lead to unnecessary questions.

Chris would've advised against coming, but he's not my keeper. Jake is a good friend, guiding me through this lifestyle. Chris, who spends most of his time in Korea, can't offer the same advice as Jake, who's immersed in American media.

Speaking of which, I get a notification on my phone.

babydaddy: *2 attachments*

babydaddy: it rained last night and the streets looked like that painting in your bedroom

babydaddy: I know it's random, but it’s real artsy. Might try my hand at photography hahaha

Cool air rushes in as Jake returns. He pushes his glasses back up atop his head. “Sorry about that, you good?”

“Yeah, I just... these places give me anxiety. Too many people, you can hardly move, you know? I don’t really club anymore. It’s not as fun as it used to be.” I hold my phone close.

“You don’t have to worry about that with me. The VIP section here doesn’t get like that. Come on, you've been in that house too long.” Jake takes my wrist, and I follow him, glancing at my phone and opening the photo attachments from Chris.

Wherever Chris was when he took the photos, it’s empty, the dead silent of night. It looks like an alleyway, with neon signs and storefronts. Their glow reflects on the pavement like glittering lucky coins.

A small smile stretches my lips, and I lock the phone, almost tripping and ripping my wrist away from Jake, slapping his arm. “Careful, asshole!” I chide. He shoots back, “Get off your phone and maybe you can be careful too.” He’s not wrong.

Now, back in my environment, I notice a red rope blocking an open doorway. The music is louder, and I wonder how much louder it can get once we’re inside. Were clubs always this loud? I can hardly remember. I’m not that old, am I?

Ugh. This might totally be Jake’s thing, not mine.

Another bouncer. I know their job is to protect the wealthy and influential, but do they all have to be so massive? Where do they find these guys? He steps aside, unhooking the rope by its golden clasp, and I enter, this time voluntarily clutching onto Jake’s arm and pressing my body as close to his as possible.

Sure enough, the VIP section, and this club in general, is a dazzling spectacle. Talk about over-the-top—the mirrored ceilings above the booths reflect the money and gold bars encased in the clear flooring. Crystallized lighting sconces stand outside each booth, offering an option to be covered by a curtain, with lavish black velvet couches inside each. In the darkness, I can't discern individual colors; it's so dark that I'm surprised Jake can navigate us to his table. Even the sconces emit a barely-there, almost tea-light glow.

As I arrive, I see several other folks sitting around—some laughing and talking, others engrossed in their phones. Suddenly, a strange and familiar voice pierces the music, prompting me to let go of Jake as he greets another artist.

Oh, I know this guy. Well, I don’t know him, but I sure do recognize his wavy hair and tattooed arms and hands proudly displayed on the visible parts of his skin showing from his wifebeater top.

“What’s up, Jake?! Inju said you were here, I said—I gotta go say what’s up to my boy!”

It’s an infamously problematic former idol that runs in these circles parallel to Jake in America. Known for shameless and repeated counts of cultural appropriation from black American culture, amongst other questionable moral offenses. He was all but exiled from Korea years ago but seemed to have become even bigger on his own in America and internationally too.

“Good to see you, Ray,” Jake replies, confirming my suspicions.

Ray Park. I look around, but I see no flashes, no cameras, not even any phones directed in our direction. I’m still paranoid about being seen in any close proximity to Ray. I’m quite vain to believe anyone really cares that much about me, but because I’m new, I wanted to observe from the background more than anything else. See how things moved around these parts. I quietly step away while they converse, giving them privacy as I sit down on the couch. About an arm’s length away, there’s another girl. She’s beautiful, a girl with long black hair that falls into her lap. She’s on her phone, and I figure I might have a chance at talking to her to at least figure out where the alcohol is at. A little liquid courage could do me well right now; I feel way too uptight.

“Hey,” I say, raising my voice over the music as I lean over to her. She looks up with wide, glitter-lined eyes, her phone illuminating her blue dolly lenses. “You know where I can get any tequila?”

“Oh yeah! Gimmie a sec.” She jumps up, maybe a little too excitedly for the request, but I figure, that must be her personality. She seems cute. She tugs at the bottom of her silver dress to adjust it before she sidles over to the other side of the couch where a white guy in a fitted cap is sitting. I can see a tattoo going down the side of his neck, but otherwise, he’s pretty covered, including sunglasses. Something about him gives me stay away vibes. She whispers something in his ear, and he affirms her, standing up and nodding to Jake before leaving the section.

I'm confused; what does that mean?

She sits back down, smooths out her dress, and opens her clutch, pulling out what appears to be a very unusually tiny compact mirror. Maybe it’s the size of a quarter? No, that can’t be a compact mirror; it would be impossible to—

To my dismay, she dips the tip of her stiletto pinky nail into it once she flips the lid open and brings it to her nose, taking a big sniff and wriggling her nose after, sniffling a couple more times before dabbing her nose with the back of her hand delicately.

I immediately avert my gaze.

Oh, I’m in the trenches.

I start to feel uneasy. I pull my phone out and bring up my thread with Chris. I quickly type out a reply.

if you become a photographer, Hyunjin has some competition, those are gorgeous. I kinda wanna get them printed in canvas.

cute way to admit it was raining and you thought of me

I’m thinking of you too ;)

I tuck my phone away, feeling a bit more settled. Suddenly, there’s commotion on the opposite side of the VIP section. The DJ is playing air horn sound effects back to back, and then Jake’s newest single starts booming throughout the venue. He walks over to the balcony and begins waving, and I can hear all kinds of screams. I do love this song, and he’s certainly in his element, which I love to see. I stand up, unable to resist a good groove, and I inch my way out from the couch to have standing room.

More airhorns sound, and a bright flash emerges above the heads of everyone else. I'm confused for a split second until I notice they're sparklers.

“Oh shit?!” Jake exclaims, looking back at some members of his crew. “Which one of you?”

“Your girl!” a guy exclaims, pointing at me.

My eyes widen as I catch the error in his identification. Not only am I NOT Jake’s girl, but I am NOT responsible for the bottle girls making their way over here with what appears to be four bottles of…

Casamigos

Tequila. But I didn’t mean--

I immediately shoot a look at the girl from earlier, but she’s already hugged up on another guy on the couch, holding her finger under his nose as he takes a suspiciously long, hard sniff. Jake enthusiastically embraces me, and I already knew he had been drinking, but now? It’s going to get worse.

“Jake, this is—a lot of attention. I didn’t know you were a special fucking guest here tonight.” I say close to his ear so he can hear me and just how annoyed I am. “I told you me and Chris just made up!”

His arm is around my waist as he leans down to pick up one of the bottles, already fitted with a metal spout. “What? You're not allowed to party without asking your stray kid?” He laughs, throwing back what looked to me to be quite the lengthy pour. “I’m kidding, I’m sure he wants you to have fun too, or is he a controlling, abusive boyfriend?”

“It’s not that, it’s just—“

“Open up,” he says, tilting his chin up at me as he holds the bottle in front of me. “C’mon, girl, live a little!”

I do want to drink. In fact, I’m the reason why four bottles of fucking tequila came prancing into the section to begin with. It’s private up here anyway; I’m being paranoid. This is what I convince myself.

I’m not doing anything wrong.

This is what I keep telling myself whenever I’m doing questionable shit morally.

But why do I keep challenging my morals?

What the fuck even are my morals?

Shaking my head, I let my head fall back, I open my mouth, and I take in as much tequila as I can manage before it’s just completely gross. For some reason, this gets the other nearby people cheering, and they too, start passing the other bottles around and pouring shots into glasses and each other’s mouths.

“Look at you, fucking rockstar.” Jake says, his nose nuzzled into the hair by my ear. I’m not sure what gives me the chills, his words, or how he says them.

“Yeah yeah, I know.” I say with as much strength as I can muster, parting our bodies. “This place is pretty cool, the music’s hot. The people--” I don’t finish that sentiment as I look around at the questionable few that I’ve seen thus far.

Jake can’t stop moving; he’s not full-out dancing, but he’s moving around with an excellent sense of rhythm. It’s got me laughing and moving with him too, spinning me around and catching me just in time before I lose my footing. He leans to my ear again, “You should see the downstairs; it’s fucking huge.” He steps back, his eyes widening as he puts his hands out to show the growth in size. He then jerks his head to the balcony. “Here, let me show you.”

I join him at the balcony, feeling the buzz of top-shelf liquor in my loins. I’m not exactly thinking straight. People start cheering again, and I quickly have a knee-jerk reaction as if I’ve made a terrible mistake, but I don’t know why. Jake leans over the balcony, pouring out from the bottle onto expectant fans below. It’s probably not getting in anyone’s mouth; they’re all just collecting at the wall, clamoring to get a drop poured onto them. I try not to make it obvious as I back up into the safety of the darkness, out of the view of the general public below.

This celebrity shit is exhausting.

I just wanna get drunk and shake my ass.

I don’t even wanna do this part. Can’t I just make music?

“Hey beautiful, I don’t think I got your name?”

Once Ray Park approaches me, I know I’ve about had enough of this scene. I force a tight-lipped smile and nod at him. “Y/N.”

He mispronounces it for confirmation.

“No, Y/N” I say a little more clearly.

“Your name sounds familiar, what, you a singer or something?” Ray inquires.

“Yeah, kinda.” I say before I hurriedly add, “I gotta go to the bathroom. Nice meeting you, though!” And I beeline for the door that we came into earlier. Once I’m in the empty hallway, I feel like I can breathe, not even realizing I was holding my breath. I can feel the alcohol settling in more, and it’s getting a bit tough for me to fake sober. I can feel the inhibitions disappearing.

I should smoke. Yeah, I should smoke so I can think out my next moves. I step out the door and nod to the bouncer who steps aside, and I take out my pre-roll, cupping my hand to spark the flame that engulfs the thin paper twisted end of the joint before disappearing with a couple of light puffs from my lips.

I have to leave for LA in two days. Eli, and the rest of the band members are going to meet me out there, at the rental house. It’ll be nice to see Eli again, and get out to perform again, which is what we love doing the most. We’ll have a couple of meetings too, with the label. That’s the part that’s gnawin’ at me. Music reviews, suits with no rhythm telling me what to change, make it more palatable to everyone but me. I take another drag and my phone pulls me from my runaway thought train. I can feel my heart skip a beat, like I’m a child with a crush.

Stumbling slightly, I retrieve my phone from my clutch.

Damn, did I drink that much?

I blink away the drunken haze, opening my notifications and clicking on the message.

babydaddy: Oh, I don’t know about that, baby. Hyunjin's really good, but thanks lol.

babydaddy: yeah……you got me, I’m definitely thinking about you hehe.

babydaddy: I think about you when it rains.

babydaddy: It’s late over there, you’re still up???

I lock my screen, dropping my phone to my side as I take another puff. No immediate response; the right words elude me.

When a familair call breaks the silence. I roll my eyes and answer.

“If I lose you one more time tonight, I swear to God—”

“What? You swear to God what?” I kiss my teeth. “I told you, being the guest of the night, I can’t hang.” Glancing around, I lower my voice, “Shorty on the couch was doing coke off her acrylics. And Ray Park was there? I’m calling an Uber.”

“You for real right now?” Jake's voice struggles against the thumping music.

“I’m out, Jake. You know where to find me. Call me sober, and not a second sooner.”

I end the call, shaking my head with disappointment. Swiping to my Uber app, I call for a ride back to Jersey, the driver just four minutes away. Moving down the alley, I hold my coat tight, shielding myself from the icy wind that pricks my bare thighs.

My stomach grumbles, a mix of emptiness and a craving for something satisfyingly awful. The tap of my heels leads me to a corner where a man grills hot dogs and sausages. Only one person ahead of me, the tantalizing smells engulf me.

“One with everything, please.”

“Spicy or not?”

“Not spicy, please.” “You were at the club tonight?” he asks, looking up only for a second before returning to his task, arranging my hotdog. “It’s early to be going home, no?”

I chuckle, “It’s eleven at night! That’s late.”

“Ah well, not here. Usually, I have line way down the street at three...yes at three everybody is ready for sleep all day.” He gestures behind me.

“Your food must be good then.” I say, impressed with his narrative as he hands me my meal, wrapped neatly in foil. I give him cash, tell him to keep the change, and with the buzz of my Uber arriving, I bid the hot dog chef goodbye. Walking a few paces to a black Escalade, I disappear into the backseat.

Relaxing only when the door is closed, seatbelt secured, I sit back with a sigh.

“Y/N?” The driver confirms.

“Yes.”

The Escalade cruises through the city, leaving the club and its wild allure in my rearview. The smell of street food wafts through the air, and I feel the warmth of the hotdog in my lap. My FaceTime rings, and I glance at my updated contact photo of Chris—black and white, his bare back on full display as he sits on the opposite end of the bed on his phone, completely unaware of how beautiful parts of him can look candidly.

Something simple, but it was sexy to me. His goofy emojis make my dopamine surge, and I answer without hesitation. "Oop."

Changbin's face appears, eyes wide, hand covering his mouth. Another head pops into view and disappears too quickly to identify, accompanied by muffled exclamations of "Oop" and "Ope." Changbin, the apparent culprit, glances off-screen guiltily.

He begins in Korean, and my rusty language skills catch words like 'phone,' 'really,' and 'answered.' I respond in both English and Korean, demanding answers. "Yeah, I answered! Why do you have Chan’s phone? What did you do?" The chorus of surprised sounds echoes through the call.

"Your Korean is so good!" Changbin exclaims in English. The phone is snatched away, and I hear Chris' muffled voice through his hand covering the speaker. I can't comprehend the words, but Chris quickly switches back to English, apologizing for the chaotic background. "Oh my God, baby, I'm so sorry about that. They start drinking and turn into monkeys, all of them," Chris explains, his voice slightly higher and choppy with movement. The camera blurs as he paces, and suddenly, a door closes, casting the room into darkness. He flicks on a switch, revealing a studio in the JYPE building.

"It's early to be drinking over there, right?" I question.

"That's what I said!" Chris exclaims, finally settling on a black couch. He tilts the phone toward himself, leaning back. "What're you all done up for? You in a car right now?"

"Just went out with a friend, tried a club in New York. Wasn't my thing," I casually reply, avoiding details.

"Ah," he nods, bringing the phone closer. "What club was it?" Jesus fuck why is he asking me all these questions?!

Chris excels at conversation, delving into details with his myriad of questions. It's never intrusive, just genuine interest. "Club Mixer," I respond, watching his reaction through the screen.

"Hmm, sounds kinda familiar. Was it cool? Bump into anyone interesting?"

"Nah, no one mega-famous or anything." I glance out the window, shrugging. "Getting too old for this kinda thing."

"Same here."

I snort. "Come on, you're practically a baby. Your age talk kills me."

"'Cause I am old! I'm twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight. In Korea, I'm already twenty-eight!"

"I thought they ditched that system."

"They did, but I'm still pushing thirty." He's insistent. "I mean, in the real world, that's young. But in K-Pop, I'm..." He chuckles, envisioning younger idols. "I'm climbing up there." His gaze returns to me.

He's got makeup on, just enough to alter the look of his eyes. Dressed in a deep-cut sleeveless shirt, hair tufted above a designer sweatband, two small silver hoops in his ears.

"I'm a cougar then."

"I mean, cougars are hot."

I laugh, and a chuckle from the driver makes me more aware of my surroundings. Peering out, we pass willow trees lining the street near the grocery store minutes from my home.

"Almost home, beautiful babygirl?" He sings, unusually animated.

“Cap, cap.” I wave my hand.

“What?” he asks with a laugh.

“That’s cap, you’re overdoing it. Did you have something to drink too?” I lift a suspicious brow.

“Are you speaking Gen Z at me?” Chris’ laughter increases. “No I didn’t have anything to drink, someone’s gotta keep things under control around here. You do look gorgeous though, I mean that. Wish I was there with you.”

He holds back a smile, licking his lips. "Not a guarantee, but I might be in LA while you're there. How long are you staying?"

"A week. Leaving this Sunday."

A series of knocks startle Chris, and he yells back. Once he identifies the visitor, he turns to me, "Oh, it's Felix. He was out earlier. Wanna say hi?"

"Oh, sure!" I reply. Talking to Chris's members like this isn't my usual thing. Felix is the one I've chatted with the most, thanks to our shared mother tongues, but the others, well, we've had our interactions, even if they involved a lot of Papago (I'm looking at you, Minho). They were a bit awkward, understandably, knowing this wasn't the norm. Still, they supported their friend, their leader, their brother, and just kept to their business, willingly oblivious unless I was around. But I rarely went to Seoul, it's easier to fly under the radar here in America when we’re together.

"Felix? You can come in," Chris calls. The driver slows to a stop at my driveway, and I rush out to get into my home. Giving the driver five stars and a tip, I open my front door. "Hello!" Felix's voice comes through. He waves with a smile as he sits down next to Chris, running his hands through his blonde hair. "How have you been?"

"Good, good, just working on album three. Lots of extra steps now, now that the label’s involved and stuff." I say, matching his enthusiasm.

"Yeah? Chan showed me a little bit of uh—what was it called again?" Felix turns to Chris, nodding to a rhythm he's established from memory. "Gatekeeping the best parts of you from me." He sings, two octaves deeper than the actual song, but I laugh as Chris snaps his fingers, recognizing the tune.

"Constellations!" Chris exclaims.

"Yeah, that's it! Oh, it's so catchy. I'm excited to hear the new album," Felix says. "I still see your songs on TikTok all the time when I'm scrolling. I send them to Chan when I see a really good one."

Chan looks up thoughtfully as Felix talks. "You do send me some really good ones."

"Yeah, but the last few you didn't respond to."

"I didn't? Maybe I forgot. You send so much sometimes. I don't have enough time to go through it all."

Watching them banter keeps me entertained as I take my heels off and sit down on my bed. "You can always just send them to me, Felix. I'm chronically online too," I joke.

"That's not a bad idea. Y/N likes to game too."

"Yeah? What do you play?"

"Oh, he knows I barely have time these days, but I get lost in Stardew Valley, Pokemon, Apex—"

"You play Apex?"

"Occasionally, like I said, when I get a chance." I laugh.

"Who do you main?"

Chris interrupts, "Alright, alright. I'll give you her number, and you two can continue this conversation later. Felix, did you need me out there?"

Felix stands up, "I just brought home food. We're about to eat, if the others didn't already get to it all by now."

Chris lets out a pained groan and sigh. "What is it?"

"BaeBae's Kitchen." Felix rocks back and forth on his knee on the edge of the couch as he awaits Chris's decision.

"I'm not really hungry, but put some away for me?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem." Felix leans down to wave to me once more. "It was nice seeing you again! Enjoy your night!"

"You too, Felix!"

He leaves the studio, and Chris sits back, watching me for a bit on the camera. "Looks like you're back home."

"Mhm, finally." I rest my phone against my bedside lamp as I stand up and work on unzipping my dress. "Did you eat today yet?" I ask, my back turned as I peel out of my dress. I know Chris's appetite is as poor as mine. Sometimes, we just get so busy and stressed that we forget to eat altogether. Friends have had to physically pull me from my computer when I'm hyper-focused, so I'd go to the bathroom and eat something. Chris is no stranger to this method of work. He works similarly.

"No, not yet," Chris replies hesitantly.

"Then you should go eat with the others." I bring my arms to my bra, unclasping it. "You're not gonna eat the leftovers, be for real."

"You're giving me a strip tease and telling me to go eat. Is this a test? 'Cause I'm failing it. Bad."

I look over my shoulder, holding my bra to my chest now that it's undone, and I come over and pick the phone up, safely showing myself from the shoulders up.

"Go eat," I say, firmly. “Now.”

"Fine, Fine." He stands up, stretching his arm over his head with a sigh before he perks up again. "Alright, babygirl, I love you."

"I love you too."

the next day... I'm barely aware of my phone buzzing. Ignoring it, I turn my head, burying it under another pillow. A heavy, gross feeling engulfs me. How long have I been asleep?

The relentless buzzing continues, jolting me awake. My sleep mode has shut off, and notifications flood through at an alarming rate.

Now, my brain is too active for peaceful sleep. I sit up, blinking, rubbing the crust from my eyes, squinting in the darkness. Have I slept into the next evening? Holy shit.

I touch my bedside lamp, dimming it to let my vision adjust. Pulling back the thick comforter and sheets, I expose my bare legs to the cool air. Why did I leave the thermostat so low? I shuffle to the door, pressing the red button to raise the temperature. With a yawn, I pick up my phone to see what's happening.

Great. Did another song go viral? Instagram and TikTok have hit my icon notification limits. I have eighteen missed calls and 88 text messages.

Well, at least the messages aren't hugely overwhelming.

I open Twitter first, a bad habit. As soon as I'm in, I see myself massively tagged, far more than usual. Pulling up the tweets attached to my name, I feel like I could pass out.

"Omg, look, she's in the VIP too."

"So here's the tea: her name is Y/N, and she's the singer in a shitty garage band called Living to Die."

"Bffr Living To Die is not a garage band, Don't Go is a bop."

"She's fucking problematic as fuck?! She tried to break up Stray Kids! Now she's trying to ruin Jake Wong too?!"

"They do anything for clout lmfao, ugly fat bitch."

"How did she break up Stray Kids?"

"Stray Kids isn't broken up. That's a lie made up by cupcake stays who don't like Chan. Lee Know had to go to the military."

"It happened with BTS, and look at them now."

"Jungkook is hella successful, fym???"

"She's the reason why Lee Know went to his military service early."

"Ur making shit up atp Lee Know went in with everyone else."

"Look!!!! I knew I recognized her. Here she is outside JYPE building last yr, Channie got so much hate for it!!!! She doesn't even care, or she wouldn't keep following all these idols around!! She just wants fame for her band."

"Desperate hoe lmfao."

"#keepY/Nawayfromidols."

"If she is the reason why Chan isn't posting on Instagram anymore, I'm gonna fight her ong, he's going through enough :("

"She should kill herself before she fucks up Jake Wong too."

"She used to be a stay; she's just delulu. She's stalking Chan atp lol he doesnt want her or he would tell stays." “Channie tells us everything~~”

"shes fuckin a known sasaeng." “Channie deserves to be happy if he’s in a relationship let him be! He’s an adult???? Be SO fr yall” “whats a sasaeng?”

"Make it make sense u stupid bitch Chan was literally with her at the building; why would he be there if she's a fucking sasaeng?" “A sasaeng is a crazy idol stalker” “She fits the bill ngl lmao”

"Chan deserves better. I don't like Jake Wong, but he deserves better too." “GUYS STOP SPREADING RUMORS!!!! Chan doesnt have a girlfriend!!!! Stop being TOXIC STAYS! Ur giving us all bad names, vote stray kids for VMAs 2027!!”

"I think they were at the Billboard Music Awards together when Stray Kids performed two years ago. They could have met there."

"What an ugly disgusting bitch. I hope she dies lol." -

My hands are shaking so bad; I drop my phone to the floor. I can’t read anymore. I don’t even know how I’ve read this far. My skin is clammy, and I feel prickling all over. I rush to the bathroom and heave over the toilet. First, it's a little from last night's hot dog, then I'm dry heaving yellow bile from anxiety. My body breaks out in a vicious sweat. When I'm done, I drop my head back against the wall.

And I cry.

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antimony-medusa · 10 months

Note

Hi! To preface: I don't think there's any one right or wrong answer to my question necessarily, but I value your opinion as a level-headed adult in this fandom who can probably provide sensible input on the issue I'm having, so I thought I'd ask.

If a CC asks for their character not to be drawn (specifically referring to fanart, which they likely saw on Twitter) in a sexualised way, what does that mean for written fanwork content? Is it "wrong" (putting this in quotation marks since that's a loaded word, to say the least) to write nsfw content about said character and post it on Ao3, considering the differences in visibility/CC knowledge of those platforms, as well as the general consensus/expectation that CCs don't generally read fanfic anyway? Where is the line between "you should respect the CC's wishes" (avoiding the word "boundaries" since that's also very loaded in mcyt spaces) and "you can do whatever you want forever; fanworks are created by and for fans, not for the creators" drawn? Does "just don't put it where they can see unless they go looking" (i.e. correctly tagged on Ao3, not on a CC-frequented site like Twitter) apply? Would it be better not to do it at all, or only create and share said content in private spaces like Discord? Or is this all a "there is no single 'morally correct' answer, make your own personal judgement" thing?

(Sorry for the long-winded question but this is genuinely something I'm struggling with right now, lol. As I said I value and respect your opinion and views about these kinds of things in fandom, so if you have anything to say on the matter I'd appreciate your input!)

Alright so, obligatory warning for discourse on this one right at the top, and possibly also long post. These tend to be me rambling.

This is a situation that I think it's fair that a lot of people disagree. Your personal comfort level with making NSFW content in general is not where my comfort level is, we can come to totally different equilibriums. And then you add in creators expressing that they don't like seeing NSFW content of their characters, and people end up in a whole lot of different places, whether that's a complete no on shipping or NSFW, or people feeling fine to consume it but not create it, or only if it's archive locked, or only specific ships or smps, or whatever. I think it's fine that we don't all agree on this, creation is a fickle beast and we are in a weird place as a fandom of being not rpf but kinda cousins, and we can get *really* close to the creators with twitch and twitter, so people's comfort level in meshing all the parasociality and roleplay and real life of it all can end up in a lot of different places.

I just think that the most important thing for the fandom being a healthy place to spend time on the internet is that we don't go aroud sending hate/abuse to those we disagree with. a) i don't agree with internet mobs or suicide baiting or anon hate in general, b) the number of times I have seen internet games of telephone happen when it comes to this subject is unreal. To use an example from literally today, I saw someone saying that Pac of qsmp pacmike was uncomfortable with shipping art and fic and we all should stop shipping immediately, and once I tracked it back to its source, it turns out that what had happened was the creator said that he wasn't a fan that all the art was of him in the jumpsuit that used to be his skin, he has a new skin now, which turned into sexy jumpsuit art was the problem, which turned into pac hates all sexy fan art, which turned into "pac is being bombarded with nsfw art and shipping and he hates it". Now he might actually also not like NSFW art, but that's not actually what he was adressing, but it was certainly what was being circulated! So like, people warning me off of certain subjects— how do I know that they're actually accurate or if twitter just went twitter on a passing mention of something someone said on a twitch stream?

So I think it's way way way healthier for us as a fandom to sometimes disagree on the subject of "what we're drawing/writing about" and when that happens we implement Don't Like; Don't Read, and we just ignore that, or block if necessary. Don't Want To See it? Simply Don't See It. It's a bad idea to start hate campaigns for sinners, and half the time it's based on bad information anyways.

But in cases that you do know that the creator doesn't want to see that, you found an accurate clip? So this is a case where I think that there's no single moral answer to this that everyone is gonna agree on. We're all coming at it from too many different cultural backgrounds and different streamers in mind and comfort levels with NSFW in general. I don't think there is a firm answer that is gonna make you morally safe. But my personal feelings is that in cases where we know the creators doesn't want to see that, I think the important part there is that the creator never sees that, not that we stamp it off the internet entirely.

I do think, personally, ymmv, that you are not necessarily doing anything morally wrong with drawing or writing NSFW of someone's character, even if they think it's weird. There's a long history of creators saying "you can't do [this] with my characters," and it happens to be you can't [make them gay] enough to make me uncomfortable in general principle with saying creator of the character gets to call the shots in all settings forever. This happened with Anne Rice and with the supernatural fandom and like— it's the internet, we get to make the characters be gay together. This is the making sex jokes about fictional characters website, and Ao3 is the making porn about fictional characters website. I think it's fine if it exists on the internet, the question comes down to one of what we're forcing the creator to see, or what we're putting where they'll stumble upon it. Like, examples from real life— if you have a friend who's vegan, it's polite to not spend time rhapsodizing about how good meat is around them, and if you know that meat makes them sick, it's polite to do a meatless meal around them. That's a human person you want to be okay around you. But that's their boundary for their life, not yours, so even when you're being polite you have no obligation to go vegan when they're not around. And they have a politeness obligation to not walk into a steakhouse and freak out because there's meat there. They have a boundary for their life, and I'm going to respect it, but my life is a different story, and they need to take reasonable steps to protect their boundaries and not just expect everyone else to conform to them.

Or walking by someone on the street and waiting till they're out of earshot and then going "jesus christ that guy was hot" to your friends— that's fine. That's normal human behaviour. What becomes rude is when you make it hot guy's problem and yell at him. Being attracted to someone in your own space is not a problem. I'm aroace, I am not going to be in a relationship with anyone. I'm not going to ban having crushes on me, as long as you don't make it my business. Talking about an attractive person in your own space is not a problem. Being sexual in your own space— and again we are talking about fictional characters, the way I see it, these are lies we're telling about folks that are not real, who live in little minecraft worlds— that's fine. The problem is if we start catcalling people about it.

When you walk into fandom spaces you are walking into a space where we all like taking fictional guys and telling stories about them and a good portion of those stories are going to include kissing. That is not necessarily baseline normal for like, all of humanity, but people talk about tv shows they watch as one of the classic work small talk techniques. Fandom takes the "I hope ted gets together with jessica" "no he needs to work on himself first" discussion and writes stories, is all, to share with each other. Privately. On our special private website where there's a button you can click to hide your work from search engines and another one to hide it from logged-out users. If you log into the website and search things up, no tags blocked, what you find is on you for saying "I will see literally anything that exists on this subject in a space meant for literally anything". You will find gore. You will find kissing. You literally just opted in to seeing it. That's on you.

So like, there's my little defense of nsfw work existing in general, I think it existing is not a problem. I do think that we should keep it FAR AWAY from streamers. They get to set the rules for their spaces, and if someone doesn't want to see sexualized fan art, I do think we should make sure that in a reasonable way, they never have to see sexualized fan art/fic.

So like me personally, I'm going to hit that Ao3 button to hide my work from search engines, and anything NSFW (or shippy, depending on the person) is not going to go into the main tags on tumblr or twitter or anywhere I'm aware that the creators ever check that tag, and I'd probably archive lock it if the creator had publically mentioned being uncomfortable with it, and if I was regularly posting NSFW I'd block the creators on social media with any account I discuss NSFW with. I want to make sure that I am talking to my friends about the cubitos, not catcalling someone.

And I would probably err on the side of caution when it comes to social media sites that creators are on? Okay so the fandom has a habit of saying that NSFW and Shipping is BAD and can't exist, on the one hand, but on the other hand it says that anything that isn't Bad Wrong Shipping/Explicit NSFW is fine, which leads to like— extremely sexy thirst trap art being drawn and then the creators are tagged. People putting family dynamic fics that really pushes that envelope in the main tag. Gahhhhhh????? No? Don't do that?

I think it would be healthier in the fandom if we did a lot more going "this is for the fandom, not the creator" and we don't tag creators on twitter, and we took our little kissing fics, or gore, or kidfic, or neurodiverse headcanons, or anything else it might be not for the creator to see, and we kept it in fandom spaces and away from creators. But Ao3 is that fandom space that you have to opt into, it's literally archive of our Own, for fans, in that space as long as you tag it you're good.

So the TL;DR of this all is that my opinion is that if you tag it correctly on Ao3 you're fine. Maybe archive lock it. Keep it off twitter. Don't make it the streamer's problem, and you're good.

#discourse #fandom meta #ask #anon #long post

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smoooothoperator · 7 months

Text

Save Your Tears

04: Thinking Out Loud

Driver! Mick Schumacher x opera singer! OC (Ophelia Becker)

Strangers to friends to lovers, love at first sight, long plane flight, personal drama, opera references

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: Mick POV

a/n: Hey guys! sprry it took me too long to post, I hope everyone likes this part

Btw, do you want me to make a playlist? If that's so, what type of music do you want me to add?

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

Masterlist

previous part | next part

There were many things on his mind. Many questions.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to know why she's afraid of dying. He wanted to know why her eyes were red when he saw her for the first time.

He wanted to kiss her.

When she got inside the bathroom and sighed, messing his hair with his fingers. He nearly kissed her! He was just some centimeters away from her lips, he only needed to lean on her and his lips would be pressed on hers.

He sighed, leaning against the wall of the small corridor and waited for her to get out, looking at the floor.

What is it? Why did he stop thinking about Stephanie while she was next to him? Why is her perfume so addictive? Why is he feeling nauseous, but in a good way, thinking that she might fall asleep during the flight next to him?

He couldn't stop smiling, and somehow it made him feel more confused.

Where are the feelings he had for Stepahine? Where is that unconditional love he felt for her in secret?

"Hey, the bathroom is yours" he heard her say after she opened the door.

"Thanks" he smiled.

She walked in front of him and he had to fight his own body to not follow her and smell her scent. He would look like a creep.

So he walked inside the bathroom and groaned. God, what type of perfume she's using, why can he smell it?

"Control, Mick" he groaned, looking at himself in the mirror. "You met her some hours ago, you really can't be acting like a teen with a crush"

But… What if it's more than a crush? He wants to believe that it's only a crush, that once he gets out of the plane he will go back to those old feelings, forget about Ophelia.

But God, even thinking about her name, his heart can stop jumping of joy.

When she showed him her concert, he was hypnotized by her. How she moved around the stage, how she sang… she is a siren. Her voice bewitched him and he can't stop hearing it in his mind.

On the video, at the end of the concert, while the soloists went to the stage to bow at the audience and at the orchestra, he saw her smile. Her true smile, not like the one she gives him. It was a real smile that makes your cheeks hurt because of how happy you are.

Mick sighed, shaking his head and accepting the fact that his mind and heart won't stop thinking about her for what's left of flight.

"Fuck it" he whispered, washing his mouth with water and opening the door to go back to his seat.

He saw her, with a blanket on top of her and looking outside the window, he wanted to take a picture of her. He wanted to keep at least a picture of her little plane crush.

"Can you see anything?" he asked her, sitting comfortably next to her and smiled when she looked at him blushing.

"No, just… I wanted to see if I could watch the stars" she smiled, again weakly.

"Oh? Can you?" he asked, leaning on her to check if the stars were visible. "There are a lot of clouds"

"Y-yeah" she mumbled.

He didn't notice how close he was to her again, but when he went back to sit and saw her looking at her lap blushing, he understood that he was too close.

"Why do you want to see the stars?" He asked curiously, trying to change the mood between them, that seemed to be tense after what happened while waiting in the corridor.

"I like stars" she said, somehow not fully convinced of her answer.

"Mhm" he nodded. "Yeah, I get it. I travel a lot and when I miss home I always look up at the sky, knowing that my family would be somewhere looking at the same sky"

"That's… that's beautiful, Mick" she smiled, looking at him. "I never thought about it like that"

"You travel a lot, I guess?"

"Yeah" she sighed. "I barely see my mom, she's… an opera singer too"

"You only have your mom?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah, let's say my mom doesn't know who my dad is" she smiled weakly, swallowing thickly after saying that. "It has been always me and my mom"

"Oh…"

She smiled weakly again and sighed, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

He wants to ask her what's going on, why her smile is so sad. He's interested in her. He wants to know her. He wants to hold her, kiss her, be proud of her.

Wow, what?!

He caught himself looking at her lips again. He was looking at her hands, at the ring he touched minutes ago. He looked at the bracelets, at the small pearls and little diamonds that wrapped her wrist.

The outfit she's wearing doesn't match her accessories.

But he finds her gorgeous no matter what she's wearing.

"Are you going to sleep?" he asked her after she yawned.

"Yeah… today was a very tough day" she sighed. "Can you turn off the light?"

"Yeah, of course" he nodded, doing what she asked and watching by the side of his eye how she got comfortable on the seat, closing her eyes.

She's beautiful. Now that she closed her eyes he really can look at her without the fear of being caught.

He wonders if he ever saw her before. They are the same age and she said she's from Zurich. Maybe one day they ran into each other while doing groceries. Or crossed paths while walking on the street.

While he was absorbed in his thoughts, he felt a weight on his shoulder. Her head was resting on it, and it made him smile even wider. It was a simple movement that changed her position on the seat, but the sigh and the little wiggle she made to get more comfortable, made Mick realize that she was cuddling him.

He smiled, looking down at her and feeling his heart beat louder.

He has to ask for her phone number. He really can't leave the airport without her number on his phone.

"Sleep well, Ophelia" he whispered, resting carefully his head on top of hers and cuddling her to keep her warm.

He woke up when he heard the flight attendants walking around, waking up the passengers and offering them breakfast.

Mick felt her move next to him, and he was surprised by how they were seated. She was hugging his arm with her head resting on his shoulder. Ophelia was holding his hand. Holding hands!

"Mmmhhh… morning" she groaned, waking up slowly and letting go of his hand.

"How did you sleep?" he asked with his morning voice.

"Nice" she nodded. "I'm sorry I used your arm as a pillow…"

"Don't worry" he smiled.

He wouldn't mind if she did that again and again.

After they ate the breakfast the speakers of the plane announced about the landing, and they got ready for it.

When the turbulence before landing started, he held her hand, knowing that she would panic again. He stroked her hand softly and heard her take a deep breath.

"It will end soon" he whispered to her.

She nodded, closing her eyes tightly and holding his hand, making him look softly at her.

Their hands fit like two puzzle pieces. He's not ready to let her hand go.

When they got up after the plane landed he didn't want to be away from her. He waited until she was ready to walk out of the plane, going towards the gate behind her. There was a question on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the couple that was waiting for him at the exit.

"Mick! Hey!"

He took a deep breath and looked at his friends but he didn't want to lose Ophelia between the crowd.

"Ophelia" he called her and he smiled when she turned around. "Give me your phone"

"What?" she frowned, but it didn't stop her from searching her phone inside the pocket of her hoodie.

"Just… call me when you have free time" he smiled, typing his number on her phone and calling himself to have her phone saved.

"Yeah" she nodded, smiling weakly.

He saw her walk away, and somehow a little part of his heart left with her.

This is more than a crush, Mick. Deal with it.

He sighed and went towards his friends, letting them hug him, but when Stephanie hugged her he didn't feel the goosebumps.

"How was the race?" his friends asked. "And the flight?"

"Good, good" he nodded.

The flight… amazing.

The three of them walked together towards the couple's car. The soon to be married pair drove Mick to his house, dropping him there.

"Well… thank you for dropping me off" Mick smiled getting out of the car. "I'll see you on a few days"

"Remember that the rehearsal dinner will be on Wednesday" Stephanie smiled.

"Yeah, I'll be there" he nodded.

He saw the car driving away, making him sigh and grab all his things, opening the door of his house, smiling when he heard his dog running towards him.

"Hello beautiful" he smiled, petting his dog and leaving his things on the floor.

He went to the kitchen, followed my Angie, and smiled watching the little post it his mom left on the fridge after taking care of his dog for a few days.

'So proud of you, so close to the podium. You are doing amazing, love. Next race you'll have it xxx'

He sighed, reading the handwriting and smiled weakly. He was so close to being third, but Lando, Charles and Max were faster than him.

"Are you hungry, hm?" he smiled looking at Angie, who waved her tail softly after the mention of food.

Mick chuckled, feeding her and then looking at his phone with a smile. The missed call with her number was still on the lock screen as a notification, and the first thing he did was save her number.

He shouldn't text her immediately, right? He would look too desperate, which he's not. Maybe he'll wait a day or two… or maybe he should wait for her to text first? Maybe she's busy…

"God, what should I do?" he asked, sighing, looking at how his dog tilted her head confused by the question.

He chuckled softly, grabbing his phone and going to the living room to lay on the couch for a while, turning on the TV with the idea of watching something on it, maybe Netflix.

But what he saw when it turned on caught his attention. Maybe when his mom was here she watched the news, and thanks to that he saw the report.

"Yesterday, the famous opera singer Cordelia Becker, died of cardiac arrest" the reporter said. "The singer was on a break after some doing a European tour of recitals in big halls, her daughter and opera singer Ophelia Becker will be on the funeral today on the Opera Hall of Zurich, making her cancel all the concerts she had scheduled this month and the upcoming one"

He went pale. The images that formed the report were breaking his heart. Videos and pictures of her mother, then pictures of Ophelia with her mother, then the same video he saw of the opera.

That's why her smile was sad. That's why she was searching for the stars.

Because her mom just died.

taglist

@racinggirl @elisysd @lorarri @musingsbyshreya @vellicora

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thornsnvultures · 2 years

Text

la petite mort ♡

Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

Summary: French for "the little death", it is an expression that means "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness" and in modern usage refers specifically to "the sensation of post orgasm as likened to death."

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: bondage, overstimulation, squirting, degradation, pet name (mon chou, because Steve speaking French makes me wet), p in v sex, creampie, cmnf, reader calls Steve "sir", use of a Hitachi wand, ass slapping, choking

A/N: I can't find the video that inspired this, I'm so sad 😭 If I find it I'll add it here. [EDIT I found the video. Warning for ph link, don't click if you're under 18]

And mon chou translates directly to "my cabbage" but it's more like he's calling her cream puff like a choux pastry. Because Steve likes calling you something cute and full of cream 🥰

not beta'd, edited by me. so if you see any mistakes, no you didn't :)

18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI. IF YOU INTERACT AND YOU DON’T HAVE YOUR AGE VISIBLE ON YOUR BLOG YOU WILL BE BLOCKED. 18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI.

Steve says it's his favorite part of play time with you. When he works your body so well that your vision black and your body goes limp. Twisted pride grows inside him, relishes in the knowledge that he did this to you. He was the one who pushed you so far over the edge.

And he's working to get you there now. To bring you to the place where the pleasure becomes so strong your body can't stand it any longer.

As Steve sinks back in his wingback chair, he wonders if he should've made the ropes around your ankles tighter. Not that you could break free from where you're strapped to his black leather ottoman, but he loves the marks left behind by the braided hemp. The deeper the indents the better. He doesn't want you to feel your fucking toes.

Steve's pulled from watching your pretty toes curl when he sees your legs start to wobble and shake.

"That's it, mon chou. Need to see that pussy weep for me."

He slides to the front of his chair, elbows on his knees with his hands clasped under his chin.

Steve watches intently as you shudder in your restraints, held open wide on your knees by the ropes wrapped around your thick thighs. The Hitachi wand looped into the rope and held snug against your sopping cunt buzzes steadily even as you try to lean away, to run from your pleasure.

Steve takes note of that. He'll make sure to punish you for it later.

"Please! I can't!"

You've always been a bad liar and your messy cunt proves him right moments later.

Steve leans in closer when you suck in a breath, watches as your pussy flutters, clenches around nothing, begging for a cock you can't have. Your begs for release become more incoherent as you shake and with a scream you're gushing, nearly making a mess of Steve's blue button up. The ropes nearest to the apex of your thighs and the leather beneath you are soaked, your spend leaks around the head of the wand.

"Beautiful. So beautiful when you let go for me, mon chou."

The device doesn't stop, doesn't care that you're spent. Its master is the same as yours and he's decided that you're not done. He needs more.

Steve stands and reaches for the full globes of your ass, caressing a cheek with one hand.

"Color?"

He watches as you inhale and exhale a deep breath. You're still shaking but Steve can be patient. He may be persistent and demanding but he's not an asshole. And you know the rules.

"G-green, sir."

Steve nods and brings the hand on your ass down hard. You yelp in surprise but lean into his touch like he knew you would.

"Good girl."

With the wand still assaulting your poor cunt but you're almost numb to it at this point. Steve understands, you're been at this for a while. But he needs at least one more. And you will give it to him.

Steve's kept your cunt empty for the duration of your play time today for a reason. He wanted you to beg, wanted to see tears run down your pretty cheeks. And you've done so well. He can look past your little disobediences for now. You're crying for him to fill you as he caresses you now. He flips the switch on the wand before pulling it loose from your leg restraints. Steve's big, warm hands run the length of your spine and over the supple curves of you. Now that the constant tingling pressure is gone your body feels lighter, but still buzzing. The light caresses to your aching nipples are both not enough and too much under the rough pads of his fingers. Every touch makes you cry harder when he leans over you. Steve's bulge strains, fighting against crisp, pressed khaki and ghosting nearer to you with an energy that's palpable.

He's standing behind you with you spread and presenting before him when the sound of his zipper lowering echoes through the quiet room. Steve doesn't drop his pants, doesn't loosen the buttons of the shirt, doesn't bare his flesh to you in any way you crave. There is no intimacy in the way he moves to enter you now with his meaty cock. You're nothing more than a hole he can play with as he pleases. Even as he teases your sensitive skin with his touch, you know your place.

Steve grips your hip with one hand, pushing down on your lower back to arch you even higher as he rubs the head of his cock through your folds. You're still dripping, oozing over his tip when he pushes against your heat.

He's waiting patiently. You know what he wants you to say.

"Please, sir."

"Yes? Please, what?"

The slit on his tip slips past your clit and you both gasp in unison.

"Please," you sob, "fuck me, sir."

Steve slides into your needy cunt in one smooth motion. You're so wet he barely needs to wait for you to adjust to his size before he's drilling into you. The hand not digging bruises into your hip is holding you down by your neck. Steve loves watching your eyes roll back when he pushes with just the right amount of pressure. Your lips part with a silent scream, your body shaking already after a few powerful strokes. Steve lifts a foot off the floor to rest on the ottoman, pumping into you with even more force, bumping your cervix in the most delicious way.

"You love taking this fat cock, huh? Fucking love the way I fill you up."

He doesn't care if you answer, he knows you do. Of course you do. You were made to take his cock.

His strokes pick up speed, the ropes on your legs the only thing keeping you from launching off the ottoman.

The zipper of Steve's pants catches against the smooth skin of your ass in random intervals, a pinching pain that surprises you every time and makes your cunt clench around his cock harder in anticipation for the next bite of metal.

"You gonna come for me, mon chou? Or do I have to leave you here with just your little toy for the rest of the night."

You cry out, shaking your head "no" at the thought of him leaving you empty again. The heat in your core builds once more and you can barely stand it. Between the sting of the zipper and the hand around your throat it doesn't take long before you're coming again, your cunt pulsing, squirting all over him and making a mess of Steve's pants and the bottom of his shirt.

"Fuck, that's it. That's it, mon chou. Can't help but make a fucking mess, can you?"

The tight heat of your cunt has Steve's strokes going sloppy. He drops to his hands on both sides of your head, relishing in your mewling cries. Your eyelids droop closed, unable to stay open as your body goes slack underneath Steve's massive form.

His balls tighten and his legs shake when he comes with a shout, emptying his seed deep inside you.

Steve slides out slowly, watching your cunt clench and push out his thick cream after he's gone. He's gentle working his seed back in, not wanting a drop to go to waste.

"Still with me, mon chou?"

You nod your head slightly and Steve presses a kiss to your cheek.

He praises you as he unties the ropes that bind you, tells you how amazing you are as he frees you from their tight hold. His fingers run their course over the twisting pattern imprinted on your skin.

Steve hums in satisfaction, smiling to himself at the masterpiece he created.

Before you can collapse he's got you in his arms, carrying you to the bathroom and filling up the tub. Once it's warm and he's undressed himself, you're snoring softly.

Steve knows how exhausted you are and he's proud of you for holding on while being pushed to a new limit. He holds you to his chest as you snooze, already planning how he can push you even further next time.

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